Desperate for Death (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery Book 6)

by Judy Alter

  “Let’s talk about your wedding,” I said brightly.

  “How’d you know José proposed?” she demanded.

  Chapter Seven

  My subterfuge worked, and I was able to distract Keisha from the stalker to weddings. “When did he propose?” I asked.

  She looked almost coy. “Well, I had to tell him it was time. But then he did just what his momma told him. First—and I didn’t know about this—he went to my momma’s house and asked for her blessing. ‘Course she likes José but she wouldn’t have said anything if she didn’t. She knows she can’t stop me when I’m determined…and I am determined about this. So then José went and got a ring”—she flashed it in the air and then said sheepishly, “It’s zircon but he’s saving for a real one, and I get to pick it out.”

  “I hope you’ll be modest in your choice,” I said as tactfully as I could. Keisha was given to the flamboyant, and I didn’t want to see them in hock for the next ten years for a ring.

  Her expression was odd, a little bit defensive. “‘Course I will. I got plans for us, and a house is more important than a ring. But anyway, he took me to Lili’s and they had a bouquet on the table and everything. All the wait staff was in on it, and they was grinning. José started to get down on one knee, but I told him he was blocking traffic and he better sit down in his seat.”

  By this time, tears of laughter were rolling down my cheeks. “So he proposed?”

  “Naw, he didn’t actually say anything. He just pulled out this ring, and I put my finger out, and he put it on. Then everyone cheered, and we got a bottle of champagne on the house. I don’t think it was the best they had, but it was pretty good.”

  My mind was reeling with pictures of the surprised patrons in the restaurant that night. “And?” I asked.

  “And nothing. We had dinner—steak for him and scallops for me—and then we went home. And here I am today like nothin’s changed. But it has. I’m moving ahead with my life plan.”

  I knew her life plan included a real estate license, and it was on my mind, but I put it aside for a bit. “When’s the wedding? Still City Hall?”

  She stalled. Got herself another cup of coffee and waved the pot toward me, but one cup was almost too much for me these days. Then she paced, while I watched, my lips twitching as I hid a smile.

  Finally. “You think Peter would let me have it in the back room of the Grill?”

  I was flabbergasted. “What night?”

  “I don’t know. They’re closed Sundays, and I know they can’t turn their regular weekend customers away. Maybe a Tuesday night?”

  Tuesday seemed an odd day for a wedding, but it wasn’t mine so I said, “All you can do is ask him.”

  The usually bold Keisha turned timid. “Would you…we could have lunch there…my treat.”

  I smiled at the chink in her usual bravado. “Of course, meantime, let’s get some work done. What have you found out about real estate classes?”

  She was suddenly all business. “I’m confused,” she admitted. “There’s online courses, and a private institute, and a course from the state university in Arlington. That sounds best to me but it’s expensive. I can’t afford that, Kelly. Not and marry José too.”

  I wasn’t about to force her to make that choice. “Why don’t you investigate scholarships and loans from UTA and then we’ll talk about it. The beauty of an online course is you could do it and keep things running here in the office when I’m out.” My first venture toward the subject of a four-day workweek for me.

  She just looked at me and then turned to her computer, where I could tell she was rapidly checking scholarships. All you ever had to do with Keisha was throw her a challenge.

  We went to lunch at the Grill early to beat the crowd. Settled in a booth with our turkey burgers, I began to munch but I noticed Keisha looking around nervously.

  “Why don’t you just ask Peter to stop by when he has time?

  She looked at me. “What? You got the sixth sense too?”

  “I can tell you’re nervous about asking him. Best get it over with.”

  Peter, so charming, so willing to help, came over almost as soon as she talked to him. When she suggested her plan, he said, “You ladies mind if I sit down for a minute?”

  Peter never sat with customers, which he considered an intrusion into his diners’ time. Obviously he was breaking precedent which meant this floored him.

  Finally, he echoed, “A wedding?” and took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his forehead. “Do I get to give the bride away?”

  I swear Keisha blushed, though it was hard to tell with her complexion. “Maybe so,” she said. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

  She thought of everything else, why not this?

  Peter smiled. “Just joking. Maybe Mike should give you away. I’ll throw rose petals or whatever.”

  “No rice. It’s not safe,” she said.

  Peter agreed. “I hear it can explode in birds’ stomachs.”

  Keisha favored him with a disdainful look. “Nope, but it makes floors slippery and people can fall. And it would be an unholy mess to clean up.”

  That sort of silenced the discussion, and Peter finally said, “Let me think about this. When you have more specific details, come see me. Like what time, exactly what date, what food you want to serve.”

  Keisha nodded and thanked him, but her mind had obviously already moved on.

  “I think almost thirty people, don’t you, Kelly? All the people at our Sunday dinners, plus my momma and José’s folks.”

  José’s real name is Joe Thornberry. His mom’s Hispanic, and his dad Anglo, I guess. But when Keisha dragged him into our family circle, we already had a Joe—who was full Hispanic and was Theresa’s husband. Keisha unofficially re-christened her Joe as José; he never complained, and it stuck. These days almost everyone but his folks called him José.

  “Your sister,” I suggested.

  “Nah, she’d just bring that baby what cries all the time.”

  We finished our lunch without deciding on much more detail. Keisha wanted to have it well before my baby arrived so that made us look at late March or early April. But I stressed that José had to be consulted, and she promised. She went off to look again at the Craftsman and talk terms with the owners—I was letting her handle this since it was a rental and didn’t really require a license, yet it was good experience for her. I found myself anxious for her to get a license.

  Just before I left the office to get the girls, the phone rang and a woman’s voice said, “I’m interested in the house you have for sale on Washington.”

  “I’ll be glad to help you. Would you like to see it?” All the while I was wondering why she was interested. It was smallish, unpretentious house in need of redoing but not interesting enough for me to put Anthony on the project.

  “I thought I’d send my assistant. His name’s Sanford. Would nine in the morning suit?”

  This was growing stranger by the minute. If she could afford an assistant, why was she interested in this property? Rental? Even I had discarded that idea. “Nine-fifteen would be better. I have to get my girls to school.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Quickly before she hung up, I asked, “Could I have your name and a phone number? I’m sure your assistant will report back, but I’d like to be able to call.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll contact you after he’s reported to me. Thank you for your help.”

  A decisive silence told me she’d clicked off. I looked at caller ID and scribbled down a number that was clearly for a cell phone. Something about this call disturbed me—in fact, several somethings. Whoever this woman was, she didn’t know much about the way to do business or else she was deliberately steamrolling me. Something about her voice—tone, inflection?—sounded familiar and yet I couldn’t place it. It was fuzzy, almost distorted…and it dawned on me you can buy devices that disguise your voice. Why would she bother? And her assistant? If he was
handling things, why didn’t he call? Puzzling all this over, I went to get the girls. Keisha had still not returned.

  That afternoon the girls were working diligently at their homework, and I was sitting with them, my thoughts a mile away.

  “Mom!” Maggie’s tone was impatient to say the least. “I’ve asked you this three times. Who was the first member of the Catholic Church to run for president?”

  My mind struggled both to come back to reality and to come up with the right answer. Finally, I grasped it. “Al Smith. Late 1920s. He was defeated.”

  She gave me another disgusted look. “I know that.”

  “Why didn’t you just google it?”

  “Because you’re sitting right here, and I knew you’d know the answer.”

  Mixed feelings. I was flattered she thought I’d know the answer, but then again I couldn’t be doing her homework for her. “Is it in your American history book?”

  “We don’t have a book. We have a syllabus, and we’re supposed to use the internet.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “So why didn’t you?” Education was changing too much for me.

  In truth, I’d been thinking about my strange appointment in the morning. I’d left an explicit note for Keisha telling her what time, what house, but I was still wondering about telling Mike. I knew his answer. He’d forbid me to go. Flat. Period. No argument.

  Except there were several things wrong with that. I couldn’t run a business if my husband could tell me when and what I could and could not do. Nor was I agreeable to that kind of relationship. And I was so tired of people treating me like an endangered species. Part of it was the pregnancy, but shoot! I’d been pregnant twice before, survived nicely, and produced two pretty fine products. No reason this should be any different.

  The big thing, though, was most pregnant women, in their so-called delicate situation, weren’t being stalked by a person with unknown intentions. So far, except for the fire, whoever it was couldn’t be charged with anything serious—maybe misdemeanor mischief for the sugar in the gas tank episode, and criminal assault for the attack in the driveway. But the incidents were all so different. They didn’t fit a pattern…and now this house inspection didn’t fit into the pattern that wasn’t there. I wasn’t convinced that the same person was behind the things that had happened or that he or she had anything to do with tomorrow’s appointment. But then another side of my brain admitted that something was off about this appointment. A big something.

  I decided not to tell Mike. I was a capable career woman, I’d taken care of myself in some other scary situations, and I intended to do just that in this one. Silently, I promised Mike I’d take my gun and keep it handy. If it turned out to be just what my anonymous caller had said—a woman with an assistant who managed rental property—no big deal. If it turned out to be anything more—well, that was a major problem, but I’d face it when I had to. Only I knew it would be a lot harder to tell Mike afterward and he’d want—no, demand—to know why I didn’t tell him before.

  “Mom!” Em’s voice this time.

  “I’m through with my homework. Will you check it?”

  I turned to fifth-grade math, which baffled me almost as much as the problem of who was out there with a grudge against me.

  I guess I hid my tension well because Mike never once asked what was bothering me, and we had an ordinary evening at home, reading, talking, and—oh, my—making love. After that, I thought I could face a bear the next morning.

  Chapter Eight

  I’ve faced situations that put a tight knot in my stomach hours before, but I was quite calm when I dropped the girls off. They, too, were oblivious to any tension, which I told myself was a good sign. I wasn’t tense or all of my family would have noticed.

  My client—or rather her assistant—kept me waiting fifteen minutes, time I spent rocking in a wooden swing on the porch, which like the rest of the house needed fresh paint. I opened the house—doors and windows—even on this chilly day, hoping the fresh air would blow some of the mustiness out of the house that had been unoccupied for several months. Then I pulled my jacket tightly around me and sat on that swing answering emails.

  Charles Sanford, when he appeared, was a slight, young, blond man with polish on his fingernails and a chip on his shoulder. His apologies for being late were perfunctory so I skipped the pleasantries and said brusquely, “Shall we explore the inside?”

  He barged through the door, furthering my initial impression of him. As we proceeded from room to room in the three-bedroom, one-bath house, he made derogatory comments such as “Needs a lot of work, doesn’t it?” to which I replied, “That’s why it’s priced the way it is. If your boss wants to buy and rent it, she’ll have to put some money in it.”

  “Why don’t you do that yourself?” A question I thought impertinent and to which I only replied that it didn’t fit into my plans.

  “I know you’re interested in starting a rental business. So I’m curious why not this property?”

  I could hardly say I didn’t think it was worth fixing and should be a teardown, so I simply said again it didn’t fit into my plans right now.

  Of the one bath, he said, “Who builds a three-bedroom house with one bathroom?”

  “People a century ago,” I replied.

  As we proceeded through the house, I noticed instead of barging ahead of me, he now kept trying to get behind me. I fingered the gun in my jacket pocket and found it comforting. So far, I’d been able to keep him in sight, but I was disconcerted by the way he watched me. When I pointed out various features—a built-in kitchen cabinet with leaded glass doors, for instance—he muttered, “Nice,” but never took his eyes off me.

  When he began to ask details of my business that I thought were too personal, I backed off and simply answered by pointing out new features, even places that needed work. A bedroom ceiling that showed a leak, a rotten floorboard. Good going, Kelly! Who sells a house by showing its flaws?

  I was discussing the plumbing, which thankfully seemed to be in pretty good shape, while he stood against the sink, arms crossed in a belligerent manner. I turned from gesturing to the gas stove—old, but a plus in any house—and noticed his stance.

  “Ms. O’Connell, I’m not interested in this house. I’m interested in you.” His hand reached, none too subtly, into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

  I’d like to tell you he had the steely blue eyes of a killer, but he didn’t. His eyes were brown and at this moment looked a little uncertain. I was not at all uncertain. With one swift gesture I pulled out my handgun, aimed it at him, and said, “I know how to use this.”

  He was startled, and his protestations of, “Wait a minute! You misunderstand,” fell apart when a wicked-looking knife clattered to the floor. He took one look, glanced at me holding the gun steady on him, and bolted out the front door. By the time I followed, he was down the steps and in his car, racing off. I got the last three numbers of his license plate, for what good that would do.

  I called Mike. Law officer’s wife’s privilege—anyone else would call 911. Mike was my 911. To my relief, neither my hands nor my voice were shaking, and I was able to tell him quite calmly what happened.

  His terse reply was, “We’ll be right there.”

  A squad car, obviously out on patrol in the neighborhood, beat Mike to the house but not by much. As the young officer began, “Now, Ms. O’Connell, can you tell me what happened?” Mike jumped up the steps to that swing where I once again sat.

  “I’ll take over,” he said too harshly to the officer. “Why didn’t you tell me you were showing a house alone today?”

  In front of the officer was not the time to ask sarcastically, “Why? Would you have come with me?” A district chief can hardly accompany his wife on her business rounds. I repeated my story that it didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary—a woman who said she managed several properties wanted to send her assistant to look at this property.

 
He looked around and asked “This house?” Clearly he thought it wasn’t worth looking at. “You should have known.” It was an outright accusation.

  The young officer had walked back down to his car, not quite dismissed but neither sure he was needed. He stood staring out at the street—his attempt, I’m sure, to be discreet.

  So I spoke my mind. “Mike, you can’t make business decisions for me. Neither can you protect me every minute. You have a job. I have a job. And I think I did pretty well today both doing my job and protecting myself.”

  I could see his jaw clench and tighten. “Tell me every detail of what happened.”

  Just as I stated to describe the young man, the knife and all that, my cell rang. I glanced and said, “Keisha.” Then I pushed the button and said, “Hello.”

  “You all right? I got that terrible feelin’ again. Should have gone with you.”

  “I’m fine. Mike’s here. I’ll tell you about it when I get back to the office.”

  “Keisha?” Mike asked. “Did she know you were in danger?”

  I nodded, and he said, “I wish you had her sixth sense. Okay, go on.”

  I told him everything, described the young man, told him about my eerie feeling that he was less interested in the house than me, ending with his admission that was true and my pulling my gun, the knife clattering to the floor. “I even got the last three numbers of his license plate, for what good that will do.”

  “It will help. What kind of car?”

  “Silver. Lexus I think. Nice car. Smooth and fast, from the way he took off when he left.”

  Mike called to the officer, who promptly trotted back up the steps. “Should be a knife in the kitchen on the floor. Bag it, with gloves. Then run a license plate with these last three numbers. Silver Lexus. Fairly new. See if you can get anything.”

  “Yessir,” and the man, a boy really, trotted down the stairs to get an evidence collection kit.