Trouble in a Big Box (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Alter, Judy

  “A whole week? Boss lady, you’re gettin’ soft. But I like it!”

  So that afternoon, we ploughed through paperwork, and I made phone calls to people with pending deals telling them we were closing for a week. I also called John Henry to ask about the Landmark Commission.

  “I think I’ve got the votes,” he said. “Never can be sure, but I think it’s wrapped up. We announce tomorrow.”

  I felt pretty smug about all we’d accomplished and thought probably we’d get away by noon the next day. I could get a lot done before the girls got out of school Thursday afternoon for the holidays.

  Everything changed Tuesday—or Monday night. Mike’s phone rang in the night. He muttered a few things and said, “Yeah, see you in the morning.” Then he shook me gently and said, “Conroy. Tom Lattimore’s office was bombed last night.”

  “Another smoke bomb?”

  “No, Kelly. A firebomb. Like a homemade Molotov cocktail. Office and all his records completely destroyed. Fireman saved the other two offices in the building—a dentist and a lawyer. Conroy’s keeping me in the loop even though officially it’s none of my business.” After a minute, he added. “Nor your business.”

  Even Mike, who could always sleep, lay awake. After a while he went to put on a pot of coffee, even though it was four-thirty in the morning.

  I lay figuring, or trying to. Was this to scare Tom or was there something in his records someone wanted destroyed? I guess we’d never know unless Tom himself told us, and that wasn’t likely.

  I refused to get up at four-thirty. It was against my principles. I heard Maggie go into the kitchen and then soft murmurings as Mike led her back to bed. I lay there. Mike came back to bed but didn’t sleep. When the alarm went off at six-thirty, we were both awake but exhausted and a bit cranky.

  I threw on jeans and a big shirt and started bacon and eggs for the girls, while Mike oversaw their teeth brushing and dressing. Em dressed with her own definite style but Mike wasn’t sure it was appropriate for an ordinary school day and urged her to save the tiered skirt and sparkly top for the last day of school and put on her jeans. She refused, and I arbitrated with a cross, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Let her wear what she wants.” There was talk of citywide uniforms for public school next year, and I’d be glad if they were adopted.

  The girls picked at their food. Maggie wanted to know details of what had happened last night, and Em pouted because no one woke her up. I told them both we didn’t know any more than we’d told them, and we’d let them know when we did. Such an education my girls were getting!

  “Mom, will somebody bomb your office next?” Em asked seriously.

  “No, darling. Why would they?” But the thought had occurred to me. Except Tom and I were on different sides of this issue, so, logically, if someone bombed his office, they’d want to support me. Logic doesn’t work in this case.

  Tom called the house just as I was getting the girls into the car. “Can’t talk, Tom. Late for school, but I’m devastated about what happened to your office. I’ll call your cell in about fifteen minutes.”

  “As soon as you can,” he said, “I need help.”

  Help? What kind of help could he need from me?

  I dropped the girls off first and then took Mike to the substation. “Call me right away and let me know what Lattimore wants,” he said.

  The shoe, I thought, was on the other foot. I was the one with information—or would be—and he wanted it from me. If it weren’t so serious, I’d have laughed. Between the substation and the office, I picked up Bella. I drove by Tom’s office and sure enough, it was gutted and still smoldering. That the fire department had been able to protect the other part of the building was amazing. When I got to my office, I made a u-turn in a nearby parking lot and then parked in front of the office. Bella parked across the street, and when I waved, she almost waved back.

  Keisha made no pretense about minding her own business, quizzing me the minute I walked in the door.

  “How did you know?”

  “José,” she said. “He called first thing this morning, before I met him for breakfast.”

  “I have to call Tom first. He said it was urgent.”

  She scooted right into my visitor’s chair, eyes as alert as her ears.

  Tom answered immediately. “Kelly, thanks for calling right back. I need help. I’m scared.”

  “Is your office a total loss?”

  “That’s almost inconsequential. I don’t even care about my business. I’m worried about my life.”

  I drew in a sharp breath. “Your life? Is it unraveling?”

  “Yeah, but more than that. I think it may end. Kelly, I’m scared. After last night I think something might happen to me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Do I have to spell it out?” He was irritated, edgy, about to come unglued. “I think someone’s trying to kill me—or will be.”

  Lord help us…or him. “Tom, are you over-reacting to last night? If someone wanted to kill you, they’d have bombed the office with you in it.”

  “Not in the daytime. I’m scared, Kelly. I’m asking you for help.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But I’m safe…for now.”

  “Will you talk to Buck Conroy?”

  “He scares me.”

  “Tom, you’re going to have to talk to someone about it, someone who can do something. I can’t. Please. I can have Mike arrange a meeting someplace you think is safe. Just not under a bridge at midnight with just the two of you.”

  “Not funny. I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  “Sorry. It was only half a joke. It’s got to be someplace safe for Mike—or else you’ve got to include Conroy.”

  “I can’t come to your house even late. Bella would see me.”

  So Bella’s now the enemy. Interesting.

  “You name the time and place.”

  “I…I can’t think right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Before I could say I’d be home and not at the office, he hung up.

  “Wish you had speaker phone,” Keisha said. “Tell me what he said. I gather he’s scared…and well he should be.”

  “I’ve got to call Mike. You listen. Take notes if you want.”

  She went to her desk for a legal pad and returned, pen poised in the air.

  I repeated my conversation with Tom word for word, or as close as I could come. Keisha scribbled furiously. When I finally wound down, he said, “Kelly, I think his life probably is in danger. Trouble is we don’t know from whom. Not Bella.”

  “She’s parked outside,” I said, “or was when I came in.”

  “Yeah, and he mentioned Bella would know if he came to the house. I read into his words that Bella would tell someone, and I suspect the last thing he needs now is for that someone to know he’s talking to police.” He was silent for a while. “Wait a few hours and call his cell again. See if you can find out where he is. I’m worried about him, not that I like the guy. But he’s our clue to what’s going on. Wish we could identify the powers behind North Side Properties—I think the key is there.”

  “Me too,” I said. So much for working a half day.

  John Henry called, his voice low and confidential. “Kelly, I couldn’t swing it. The commission voted to approve the new plan—adaptive re-use instead of demolition—and send it back to the zoning board. I guess you’ll have to live with it.”

  Sigh. “I’m disappointed, John Henry, but thanks for doing what you could. Guess we’ll have to put up a fight again with the zoning board.”

  “Don’t know that you’ll win this time, Kelly. Sometimes you got to take your licks.”

  Not for a big-box store on Magnolia, no matter how innovative it is.

  “One more thing, Kelly. Lattimore will be notified through official channels, but that’s slow. Why don’t you give him a call?”

  “You know his office was bombed last night, don’t you?”

 
“Read it in the paper. I’m sorry as preservationists we have a fringe element that would go that far. I know you know him, so be a good girl and call him with good news.”

  I didn’t particularly feel like being a “good girl” for John Henry but I was worried about Tom, and I agreed.

  Keisha, of course, was bursting with curiosity, and when I told her the commission decision, she turned indignant and angry, exploding with “How can they? Somebody’s got them in his pocket.”

  “I don’t think Tom’s pockets are that deep,” I said, dialing his cell phone. He didn’t answer, and I left as upbeat a message as I could manage, telling him I had good news. Then I called Mike.

  He was disappointed, but he said philosophically, “Win some, lose some, Kelly. Just like you can’t save the whole world, you can’t win all your preservation battles.”

  I did not want the philosophical acceptance of Mike or John Henry. I wanted Keisha’s indignation. How could they, indeed!

  We talked about what O’Connell and Spencer Realty could do to help Tom—if that wasn’t extending the olive branch, I’ll never eat another olive! Finally, reluctantly, we both decided to offer Tim’s old desk, long vacant, to Tom to start rebuilding his work. He’d have a base, a desk, a phone, and not much privacy.

  I tried to call him again, but still no answer. This time my message was actually a little more upbeat. I told him I had a plan.

  When it was time to get the girls, I hadn’t heard from Tom and I was worn out emotionally. Bella followed me to the school then, when I had the girls in tow, to our house, but I was too exhausted to worry about her.

  I fixed a lackluster hamburger casserole for supper by dumping in mushroom soup, browned hamburger, cooked noodles, a can of tomatoes, and whatever spices struck my fancy. Then I topped it with cheese, which all ran down into it because the mixture was so soupy. It wasn’t my best effort, and Maggie asked, “Is it stew or casserole?” Mike suggested maybe he was strong enough to take over cooking again, but he was joking and gentle. He knew I was upset.

  In truth, I didn’t know which bothered me more—the commission or Tom’s silence. Finally about eight, I said it aloud. “Mike, I’m worried about Tom.”

  Calm as always, he said, “I am too, Kelly. If he’s as upset as you thought and looking to you for help, he should have called. Maybe he’s holed up somewhere drinking himself to oblivion.”

  “He drinks, sure, but I never saw him drunk. I don’t think he likes to lose control.”

  “We can’t count him as a missing person—no one’s reported him, and he did say he was hiding. I’ll talk to Conroy in the morning.”

  Morning might be too late! Kelly, stop dramatizing!

  Chapter Eighteen

  Next morning I had great plans for using all that free time with the office closed, the girls at school, and Mike at the substation. Instead, I decided to go back to bed.

  “Kelly, I don’t like leaving you alone in the house,” Mike said as we neared the substation. “Things are too uncertain right now. Especially with Lattimore missing.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mike. I’ll be fine. I just need quiet time alone—and a bit more sleep. Then I’ll start on Christmas.”

  “I’m not being silly,” he said stubbornly. “Promise me you’ll take precautions.”

  “Okay. I’ll lock the doors, turn on the alarm, keep my phone by the bed.”

  “And your handgun.”

  Bother! I’m not going to shoot anyone. “And my handgun.”

  “Check and be sure it’s loaded.”

  He almost managed to scare me. I began to wonder if he had Keisha’s sixth sense, but I decided he was just worried. If I’d been in danger, Keisha would have called.

  Going back to bed in the morning—a rare occurrence—never produced sleep for me, more dozing. Half of my mind actively made plans, figured things out, organized my life. This morning, I was thinking about Christmas and all I had to do. The other half of my mind was thinking how cozy and comfortable I was, even without Mike in the bed. Gus was curled at my feet, something Mike never allowed, and was sleeping soundly.

  At first, I heard just a light scratching, so faint I wasn’t sure what it was. Gus slept on, so nothing alarmed him. But then I heard a few more, slightly louder noises that I couldn’t identify. I could tell the noises came from the front door. Without even realizing I did it, I picked up the gun and crept to the bedroom door. I had a perfect view of the hall and the door into it from the living room. Anyone who approached my bedroom would have to come through that door.

  Within seconds, I heard that squeak—I never had used WD40 on the front door, in spite of good intentions, and now I was grateful. A whispered oath—whoever it was must have barked a shin on the heavy Craftsman furniture. A whispered, “Shhh,” followed. Two people!

  I was sure my heartbeat had slowed to zero and I was about to go into cardiac arrest from fear. My hands trembled—could I shoot the gun if I had to? My knees felt weak and I leaned against the doorframe, listening with maybe the greatest concentration I’d ever given anything. I heard them going through the house, quietly but with an occasional mis-step. If I’d been sound asleep, I never would have heard it. Gus still didn’t budge, except to twitch his ears as he dreamt.

  The house was dark, and they surely would figure that I was sleeping. They’d head for the bedroom, and I’d have one chance—only one. I straightened up and in so doing strengthened my resolve and my steadiness. I was in total dark whereas whoever came through that door would be backlit by the winter daylight streaming into the living room. I assumed that ridiculous pose Mike had taught me and waited. What in the hell are they doing that’s taking so long?

  In truth, they probably hadn’t been in the house three minutes when a tall, bulky figure stood in the doorway from the living room, probably fifteen feet from me. No hesitation. I fired, and he clutched his belly and crumpled.

  Behind him, Bella screamed, “Bitch! You shot him. You shot my brother!”

  “Stop right there, Bella, or I’ll shoot you too.” It was, I told myself, like target practice though there was a lot more at stake.

  Bella moved a step toward me, and for a surreal moment it reminded me of the moving targets Mike had used. I shot, and she screamed in pain and staggered into the doorframe.

  “My shoulder! Damn! You bitch!”

  I held the gun on her, wondering how I was going to control her and retrieve my phone from the bedroom. Bella solved that problem for me—lurching and clutching her right shoulder with her left hand, she fled out the door. In her haste, she dropped a wicked looking knife.

  Her brother hadn’t moved, but he moaned, so I knew he was alive. Thank the Lord!

  I kept my wits about me long enough to call 911, give the operator the address, tell her two people were shot, one fled. She kept talking, but I put the phone down, grabbed Gus who had wakened finally, and sobbed into his coat while he licked my face.

  That’s how Conroy found us. He ran down the hall shouting my name.

  “In here,” I said. Behind him I heard the clump of the walker, a muttered “Damn!” and then, “Conroy, I need help. Come get me. She’s my wife, dammit!”

  I looked down the hall and saw that Mike’s way was blocked by Ben’s inert form. Conroy must have jumped over him. I ran to Mike, who threw the walker away and held me in his arms. Once in that wonderful comforting place I began to cry all over again. Mike stroked my hair, murmured reassurances, and let me sob.

  Conroy was not so patient. “Okay, everyone. In the living room. We got business.”

  The paramedics arrived and went straight to Ben. I couldn’t bear to look while they worked over him, and I put my hands to my ears to block what they were saying to each other. Gently, Mike took my hands down.

  “It’s okay, Kelly. He’ll most likely live. You were a little wide on your shot”—he tried to grin—“and didn’t hit any vital organs.”

  I slumped against him. “Bella?”


  Conroy had stepped outside and now came back in. “They found her in her car about a block away, about to pass out from loss of blood. She’ll be okay, but her shoulder never will be any good. High and wide, Kelly.”

  “The gun kicked on the second shot,” I said defensively. It was probably the first sensible thing I said, and I have no idea where it came from, but I remembered feeling the gun kick up as I fired that second shot. Thank goodness, or I might have killed her.

  Mike pulled me to the couch and sat with me, while Conroy wandered into the kitchen. “You got anything stronger than wine?” he called.

  “Bourbon,” Mike answered. “Top shelf, cupboard over the sink.”

  Conroy brought me two fingers neat, with an order to sip. I did, but the warmth did little to cure the cold feeling that had come over me. I had shot two people. What would I tell the girls? How could I ever live with this? If either of them died—I put that thought aside. Mike said they wouldn’t.

  Conroy waited patiently for maybe two minutes and then said, “Tell me what happened, minute by minute.”

  I tried, my voice halting, and he interrupted with questions. My mind swam with little things I couldn’t remember. What was the first sound I heard? How long between the time they entered the house and the time Ben stepped into the hall?

  “An eternity,” I said. And then for no reason added, “Mike, I think Gus is deaf. He didn’t bark, didn’t budge.”

  He relaxed just a bit for the first time. “We’ll get his hearing checked, but not right now.”

  “Forget the dog,” Conroy said harshly. “Do you realize these two punks meant to kill you?”

  I stared at him. “The thought went through my mind. That’s why I shot.” I looked at Mike. “You were right about Bella all along. She’s beyond hope.”

  He put his finger to my lips. “She won’t threaten you again. She’ll be gone for a long time.”