by Judy Alter
I had no answer to that, and I certainly didn’t understand that girl—love of family didn’t go with living with a scumbag like Davis/Sanford or whatever we were calling him. I decided she was more mixed up in her head than I was. When he fled, she must have known he was in trouble. Why didn’t she go home?
I was sure Charles/Greg wasn’t through with me. I was waiting for the next incident, large or small. Little things startled me—movement caught out of the corner of my eye, a tree branch falling as I walked down the driveway, a car that followed too close or so I thought.
“Kelly, you’re turnin’ into a pack of nerves,” Keisha observed one day.
“You’d be nervous too, wouldn’t you?”
“Shoot, I’m already nervous for you. Yes, I’d be nervous, but I know I can handle whatever that twerp does next. I admit it’s a bit strange for him to be quiet so long, but I think that’s part of it. Waiting makes you nervous. Remember, you’ve handled a lot of stuff, and you can handle this. You already have a couple of times.”
That bolstered me a lot, and I resolved to walk with my head held high instead of creeping around corners.
Chapter Nine
By mid-morning Thanksgiving, I had the situation under control—buffet set with plates, silverware, wine glasses, etc. Serving dishes out on the dining table with little notes in them about what was to go in each. Mike had started smoking the turkey in the early hours, and I had put the roast turkey—a large one—in so that it would come out about two in the afternoon, which was when guests were scheduled to arrive. I had my list of who was bringing what—Keisha, sweet potato casserole; Claire, mashed potatoes; Joe and Theresa, Mexican salsas and chips; Anthony, store-bought rolls; Mom, her famous Italian cream cake, two of them; and Keisha’s mom, her wonderful pumpkin chiffon pie. The girls were busy making the green-bean casserole—I cautioned them that we wouldn’t put the traditional fried onion rings on until the last minute.
I heard Mike’s cell ring but paid no attention. I was sorting through the cupboard where I knew there must be cocktail napkins and plates but darned if I could find them.
Mike burst into the kitchen. “Gotta go, Kelly. I’m so sorry. No idea when I’ll be back.”
“What’s so important on Thanksgiving morning?”
“You know that girl that Greg Davis was beating? Her parents finally filed a missing persons report—still haven’t heard from her. And so far, we haven’t found him, let alone her.”
My heart sank down to my toes, and I looked at Maggie, so calmly draining canned green beans, for once working in harmony with her sister who was pulling out casserole dishes.
“What about the turkey?” I nodded my head toward the backyard.
“Should be okay. Ask Joe if he can come check it about noon and then again at two when he gets here. Thermometer is out there. Smells divine.”
I could agree with that, but I hated, just purely hated, the thought of that girl missing on a family holiday. And I wasn’t much more thrilled with Mike being gone during the flurry of last-minute preparations.
He wasn’t gone five minutes when Keisha called. “I’m comin’ over to help you. Mike rousted José out even though he worked last night. It’s apparently an all-hands search for that poor child.”
“I think we’re all right,” I said, without much assurance in my voice. “I’m going to call Joe to check the turkey on the smoker.”
“You don’t need Joe,” she scoffed. “I know how to smoke a turkey. I’ll just have to leave to get Momma when the time comes.”
And so she arrived, dressed to the nines, in a navy—I don’t know what you’d call it, but it was loose and flowing and looked wonderful on her, and it had silver sparkles all over it. Silver sparkled in her hair and on her fingernails, and even Em was overwhelmed.
“Keisha, you look…you look like a princess!”
“That’s me, sweetie,” she said, planting a kiss of her forehead. Then she reached for Maggie, who, as she often did these days, instinctively drew away, then remembered herself and let Keisha wrap her arms around her.
“Precious baby,” Keisha said, her voice anything but gentle, “we’re going to keep you safe.”
Maggie gave her a strange look, because she didn’t know a thing about the missing girl, and I wasn’t about to tell her.
The girls finally finished the casserole and put it into the space I’d cleared on top of the fridge in the stoop. As cold as it was outside, it would be fine without actual refrigeration. Keisha plugged in her Crock Pot with its sweet potato casserole and dumped a bag of veggies on the counter. “I’m making a vegetable tray,” she announced and began slicing celery, radishes, opening cans of olives, and the like.
I had kind of frozen in mid-action, unsure of what I was doing or why, my mind so totally focused on the missing girl. “Why can’t they find that Greg Davis?”
I started toward my cell phone that lay on the kitchen table, but she stopped me. “You don’t go bothering Mike. He’ll call when he can. He knows you’re upset, we’re all upset.” Then with an abrupt swing to efficiency, she said, “I got to go check that turkey.”
She was back in a few minutes to report that it was doing just fine. I was glad I’d done so much preparation in advance, because I simply couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t go from one task to another. Keisha almost directed me, as I got soft drinks, beer and bottled water into two large coolers. Then she went off to get ice, muttering, “I sure will be glad when Maggie’s old enough to drive and do errands like this.”
My heart clutched. Today I didn’t want Maggie out of my sight. Keisha saw the look and said, “Oh, not today. I wouldn’t let her go today, but by the time she’s sixteen, it will be safe.”
I prayed she was right. I thought fleetingly about that child with no immunity who was raised in a bubble. I wanted to put my girls in a bubble.
Mike finally called at one-thirty. “I won’t be home for dinner. You’ll have to manage without me.”
A corner of my mind registered that he thought I was capable of that, and I was pleased, because I knew I was. But the rest of me was crying out to learn about the girl. He was terse but as thorough as he could be. He said he had nothing new, and then my heart nearly stopped when he said, “I sure hope we don’t find a murder/suicide deal.”
I thought back to the Charles Sanford who’d tried to kill me and said, “I don’t think so, but I’m terrified for the girl.” Charles Sanford, or Greg Davis, wasn’t the kind to do away with himself. Nor was he the kind to be that lovesick. No, the girl was in trouble.
****
By two it was cloudy and raining, as Keisha, the girls and I waited for our guests to arrive. Keisha put on Mike’s raincoat to go get the smoked turkey, and I sent Maggie with an umbrella to shield the bird, not either of them. So far it was a gentle rain, the much-needed soaking kind, but rumbling thunder and occasional bolts of lightning threatened something more severe to come.
With everyone confined to the house, it was a bit crowded, and I could tell by the spirit of my guests that they all missed Mike and were aware that something big was keeping him away. Their inquiries were subtle, but I vowed to myself not to say anything. So comments like, “Hate for Mike to be missing this,” or, “I hope he’s not out in this weather,” simply got a nod from me.
Maggie pulled me aside and whispered, “Tell me the truth. Where is Mike?” She was the last one I was going to tell about a missing teenage girl.
“Not now,” I whispered back. “Later.” I hoped she’d forget but I knew that was a vain hope.
Without Mike, there was a squabble about who would carve. Anthony was a good carpenter, but I had no idea what he knew about turkey, and I was quite sure Otto knew nothing. Claire stepped in. “I can carve a turkey. Give me the knife and the sharpener.” And she cut it like a pro—cutting each half of the breast off in one large piece and then slicing it into nice pieces. While she carved, Keisha made gravy. As usual, the turkey was cold by the time
we served it but the side dishes were hot, and everyone piled plates high. Then we sat around the living room, eating quietly without much conversation. Too quietly I thought.
My thoughts were on Sandra whatever her name was…and her family. They must be frantic, and I looked around the room thinking how blessed I was to be enjoying a turkey dinner with these people. It dawned on me that if Greg Davis/Charles Sanford had his way, I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight—or was he just trying to scare me?
Stop it, Kelly. This is not about you! It’s about a missing teenage girl. That thought made me turn to Maggie, who was politely carrying on a conversation with her grandmother and Otto, though I imagined not much about the conversation intrigued Maggie. Still I was grateful she was safely in our midst.
“Kelly, when do we find out if the baby is a boy or a girl?”
Pulled back to reality, I patted my swelling belly and said, “At least another month. They tell me sonograms hurt the baby’s ears, so I don’t want any more than necessary. They’ll do one to check the baby’s growth and make sure all is well. That’s enough for me.”
My mother sniffed. “In my day, we never knew until the baby arrived. You were supposed to be a boy, Kelly. I had a blue nursery all ready.”
“Maybe that’s why I like blue,” I said gently.
Somehow the evening passed, though I think guests left more quickly than usual. They sensed the tension in the air. Keisha and Claire stayed to clean up, but Claire left when we were almost through. “You two can handle this. Got to go.” With an air kiss, she was out the door.
We finished the kitchen—it looked like no one had eaten, except for the dishes in the draining basket—but I had a refrigerator full of leftovers. I’d sent some with Claire and had some ready for Keisha.
“Put them outside,” she said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere until Mike comes home.”
“Keisha! That might be three in the morning. You can’t do that…and I can’t stay awake that long.”
“No matter. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Em stuck her head around the corner. “I’ll sleep on a pallet, Keisha. You can have my bed.”
Keisha held out her arms. “Now aren’t you the sweetest baby. Thanks, darlin’. I’ll take you up on that.”
So we fixed Em a pallet and got her a blanket. When we enlarged the house, I thought I was through fixing pallets, but I guess not.
Maggie was silent as we got out blankets and pillows, but finally she asked, “Keisha, why are you staying? Are you worried about Mom or are you worried about that girl?”
“What girl?” I asked. I hadn’t yet explained the situation to her.
“I told her,” Keisha said. “She needs to know what happens out there in the world.” Then, turning to Maggie, she said simply, “Both. I’ll feel better if I’m here.”
I felt like I failed in my motherly duties. “Her name is Sandra, and I can only imagine how frightened her family is.”
I held out my arms to welcome her into a hug, but Maggie shrugged and said, “They shouldn’t have let her live with that guy. I’d never do that.”
I guess that was a relief, but the rebuff of my hug stung. Instead, I got a hug from Keisha who whispered, “Hang in there, Kelly. It’s gonna be all right.”
“With the Sandra girl?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. I got a bad feeling about that. But it’s gonna be all right with Maggie.”
I wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry.
Mike came in about three—wet, cold, and weary. He peeled off his clothes, kissed me gently, and muttered, “I need a hot shower.”
How romantic was that? By the time he was back, I had drifted off and was only barely aware that he wrapped his arms around me and fell asleep. I hadn’t even gotten to ask any more about the murder/suicide theory.
Next morning, the girls hovered and listened to our every word, so it was not the time to talk about more than what to do with the long empty day. Maggie of course suggested mall shopping, but Mike and I both ignored her idea. I hated the mall any day of the year, but particularly the day after Thanksgiving. Keisha left early to go home and meet José, though the Grill would be closed and who knew where they would eat lunch.
Mike said he was going to work briefly but would be home for turkey sandwiches and would call if he couldn’t make it.
****
At lunch, we sat around the table, with the girls listening to our every word. Once again, we had decided to hide nothing from them. Sandra Balcomb was one of two daughters of a couple who lived in neighboring Frisco Heights. “Nice people, modest house, but they work hard. Dad’s a mail carrier, mom teaches school. Probably in their early fifties. They’re torn up about this.”
I wanted to ask why, then, did they let her live with her boyfriend, which seemed unconscionable to me. Mike must have seen the question in my eyes.
“They said she’s always been headstrong, threatened to run away if they didn’t let her stay with him. They don’t like Greg—that’s how they know him—one bit. Say she may be headstrong but she’s a good girl, gone to church all her life, and on and on.”
“Is she an only child?”
“No. And here’s what’s weird—in fact, I’m puzzling, trying to piece this together. Her older sister, Janice, still lives at home. She’s twenty-four, but she’s the receptionist at Dr. Goodwin’s clinic. That young girl I thought was so pretty and charming. She stayed home today, and she sure didn’t look as pretty and chipper as she did at the clinic.”
“How did they know Sandra’s missing? You knew days ago she wasn’t at the apartment, and they were used to not hearing from her. So why the big panic all of a sudden?”
“A phone call. She tried to call and wish them a happy Thanksgiving, said she was sorry not to be there….when someone grabbed the phone and disconnected the call. Janice was the one who talked to her, but she’s pretty tight-lipped, says she erased it from her call listing because she’s afraid for her sister.”
“And that set off the mass search yesterday?” I asked.
“Yeah. They were afraid for her life, and frankly so was I.”
“You mean,” Maggie asked, “you thought she might have been killed.”
Em grabbed her sister’s arm and held on tight.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Mags. Her parents called, left messages, for several days. Say she usually comes by in the afternoon after school on her way to her after-school job at a yogurt place and always comes on holidays. Finally the dad did what we did. He went to Greg’s place and found it empty. Found just what we did—he’d moved out, no clue where he went.”
“What can you do?”
“We put out an Amber Alert on Sandra—at seventeen, she’s barely eligible. But we can’t do a thing about finding Greg, except pray for a break, and that worries me. He’s loose, out there, and for some reason he has this big grudge or something against you. When we find Greg, I suspect we’ll find Sandra. I only hope she’s safe and unharmed.”
The girls were silent, but Em’s eyes were wild. A fleeting thought went through my mind that this was a tough but good lesson about growing up in a world with lots of dangers.
“And Greg now has a loose tie to my doctor’s office. Somehow this all has to fit together—Greg Davis, whoever he is, Dr. Goodwin’s office, my pregnancy, maybe the inheritance from Robert Martin.”
“If the inheritance were part of it, I’d zero in on Jo Ellen North. But nothing I hear about her sounds promising. She’s apparently a model prisoner.”
I sighed. Memories of Jo Ellen holding a gun on me and trying to choke me came flooding back. “She’s conniving. We know that. Maybe she’s just biding her time, and the inheritance pushed her over the edge.”
“Sweetheart, I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Remember our deal—you handle the personal stuff, the emotional side of things. I’ll take care of detective work. And I will keep you safe.”
Mike’s cell
indicated a text message. He read it and said, “Got to go. See you tonight.”
I sat and stewed. He’d as much as patted me on the head and told me to be a good girl. I had been treated condescendingly, and I was properly indignant. But then something he said about taking care of the people part struck me. I got out the phone book and located the Balcombs on Frazier, close to the high school. Then I called Mona and asked if the girls could both stay at Bun Appetit while I ran an errand. Of course, she agreed, and the girls were ecstatic. I delivered them and headed for the grocery store where I bought a sliced meat tray, a fruit tray, and a Bundt cake. Then I headed for Frazier Avenue.
The Balcomb home was a small frame cottage, probably two bedrooms and one bath. It had been painted not too many years ago, off white with a medium blue trim and shutters. A picket fence marked the edges of the property, and a concrete walk led to the porch where bright yellow mums added a nice touch of color. The people who lived here cared for their house.
As I walked to the porch, carrying my grocery sack, I thought I saw a sheer curtain in one front window move a bit. Almost as soon as I rang the bell, the door opened a crack and a woman said, “I’m sorry. This is not a good time.”
I used Mike’s technique and put my foot out so she couldn’t close the door, trusting she wouldn’t be forceful. At the same time, I said, “Please. I know about Sandra. I’m here to help.”
She opened the door a little more, and I saw a face haggard with worry and fear. “Help? I don’t know how anyone can help.” She wiped away a tear.
In a minute, she’d have me bawling. “Please, Mrs. Balcomb. I’m Kelly O’Connell. My husband is Officer Mike Shandy. I know you’ve talked to him yesterday and today.”
She perked up just a bit. “He’s a kind man, a good man. I just hope he can find Sandra in time.”
I didn’t ask in time for what? “May I come in? I brought some food because I was sure you wouldn’t feel like cooking.” I thrust the grocery bag toward her.
“How kind of you, a total stranger. The neighbors haven’t even been over to see what we need.” She opened the door wider and said, “Please do come in. I’m sure you understand we’re not at our best.”
