by Judy Alter
Mrs. Buxton was her usual concerned self, asking “How are we feeling?” and declaring my weight and vital signs all perfect, except for my blood pressure, which was high enough to worry her. She asked about depression, and I answered with a firm denial. Why bother her with worry about Greg Davis and the inheritance and even the missing girl, though I’m sure she worried enough about that herself, with daily contact with Janice Balcomb. To distract her, I prattled on about the upcoming wedding while she brusquely tried to concentrate on measurements and heart rate and all those other things she had to check. Both the baby and I proved to be in great shape, and the ultrasound showed that we would have another baby girl. I decided I’d save that bit of news for Christmas morning with Mike and the girls, and I held it close to me like a precious gift. I knew there would be much clamoring over the name, but I already began to think of names I liked.
The blood pressure bothered me enough that I stopped at a drugstore and bought one of those gadgets that lets you take it at home. I did, and it was 118/70. Why was it always higher when Mrs. Buxton took it? I’d be taking it at home once a week from now on.
****
My hope that Greg Davis would release Sandra Balcomb before Christmas was false, though I was still sure he held her. Mike kept telling me no body was a positive sign, a bit of comfort I never repeated to the Balcombs.
But neither did Greg leave us alone for a peaceful Christmas. The letter arrived in the office mail on December 23, addressed to Kelly O’Connell. Plain white envelope, address typed in the old Courier font that nobody uses these days. The uneven inking of the letters suggested to me that it had actually been typed on a very old manual typewriter with an almost worn-out ribbon. I was hesitating when Keisha peered over my shoulder and commanded, “Don’t open that!”
I dropped the letter and looked at her.
“And don’t touch it again. Call Mike.”
“Oh, really. Isn’t that a big fuss over nothing?”
“That letter strike you as strange? You see a return address on it?”
I sat staring at it and then lifted the phone to call Mike. He backed up Keisha’s instinct, though he would have said it was police training that led him to say, “Don’t touch it again. For all you know, Kelly, it could have anthrax in it.”
Oh, good. Give me a new something to worry about that I hadn’t thought of yet! Without touching the letter I looked for traces of white powder around it but saw none. It seemed to take Mike forever to get there, and I supposed as long as I followed orders there was no rush. But I couldn’t do any work with that letter square in the middle of my desk. Besides, my mind wouldn’t concentrate.
Keisha tried to distract me. “You got everything done for Christmas? Where you all gonna be tomorrow night?”
I had to think about what tomorrow night was. But then I said, “My mom wants to host a small gathering—just us and Otto.” I wasn’t really too thrilled at the idea, and I bet Mom would serve oyster stew, a tradition she and my dad enjoyed and I hated. I could just see my girls reacting to oyster stew. Out of politeness and to keep my mind busy, I asked Keisha, “What are you and José going to do?”
“My mom and his folks are coming to us. I’m going to serve an enchilada casserole, rice and beans, nachos, the whole nine Mexican yards.” She laughed heartily. “Mom Thornberry is going to help me fix it, and my momma is making pecan pie—close as I could get her to come to pralines.”
That left me speechless, but fortunately Mike arrived with a hazmat guy, all suited in white protective gear, in tow. “You surely don’t expect it to blow up, do you?” I asked in disbelief.
Mike was patient. “No, but we don’t know what’s in it. Did you touch it?”
I nodded. “I was not sure about opening it, but Keisha made me stop and put it down.”
“Thanks, Keisha,” he said. “I’m always glad you’re here to take care of Kelly. Even if you operate on instinct.” He was grinning now.
“Mike Shandy, you best be careful with me.” Keisha tried to frown at him, but she smiled enough to give herself away.
The hazmat guy, who Mike introduced as Weldon, was fingering the lettering. “Where’s the parking lot?” he asked. “I’ll take it out there to open it, but I don’t think there’s anything suspicious in there.” Mike showed him the way, and they disappeared but were back within minutes.
“Nothing but a threat,” Mike said, holding the letter by one corner with his gloved hand.
I moved to snatch it from him. “It’s mine. Let me read it.”
He whirled away, with an almost ballerina-like grace. “No gloves, Kelly. I’ll read it.”
Weldon put a white sheet of paper on the empty desk in the office, and Mike carefully laid the letter on it, while I fidgeted with curiosity.
Finally, he read, slowly, “Ms. O’Connell, Sandra will be returned to her home and you will not be bothered if you simply refuse to accept the inheritance. Those are my terms.”
“No signature,” Mike said, but there is a postscript. “You’re not going to like this, Kelly.”
“I already don’t like it.”
“It says, ‘I noticed how attractive your older daughter is. I know you want her to be safe.’”
For a moment I thought I’d faint. Keisha was quicker than Mike and was at my side instantly, her strong arms easing me back into my chair. My breath was coming in great gulps, and my whole body shook.
Mike crossed the room in one great stride and instead of hugging me, did the unexpected—he slapped my face sharply. Kelly, get a grip. This is simply meant to scare you. Don’t let it do that.”
I began to babble. “I don’t want that money. Never did. Tell him he can have it. Just let Sandra go and leave us alone. Oh, what if he took Maggie. I…I couldn’t bear it, Mike. You’ve got to do something.”
His hands were now steady on my shoulders. “Come on, Kelly. You know that’s not the solution. He’s kidnapped someone, threatened you, committed more than one act of vandalism. We don’t just lie down and say, ‘Have it your way.’ At least I as a police officer don’t, and I don’t expect you to either. I promise,” and he looked me straight in the eyes, “I will keep Maggie safe.”
I sat frozen like a stone, horror holding me in its grasp.
Mike turned to Weldon. “Take that downtown for analysis, would you? And thanks. Tell them I want a copy of it as soon as possible.”
Keisha was like the calm voice of practicality. “You can’t trace a typewriter like that, can you? Must be older than God.”
Mike seemed glad to fix his mind on details. “We might trace it if we ever found a machine that old, but that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I have no idea where to begin. The postmark was Waco.”
Neither Keisha nor I had noticed that. “Waco?” I echoed.
“If I was going to send a threat like that, I sure wouldn’t use a post office anywhere near Fort Worth,” Mike said. “This guy is cunning. And that scares me.”
I wished he hadn’t said that. It was only eleven thirty but suddenly I was in a yank to get Maggie, right away! The girls’ schools were both to be dismissed at noon that day. I asked Keisha to get Em and said I was heading for the middle school.
Mike watched me, bit his tongue—I saw him do it—and kissed me. “She’ll be fine, sweetheart. Let’s not let this ruin Christmas.”
No, but I’m keeping her by me every minute.
Obsessed, I was ten minutes early to get Maggie. She was used to having to wait for me, and she knows me too well. When she saw me sitting in the car, at the very head of the line of waiting parents, she did a bit of panic herself.
“Mom? What’s wrong? Why are you here so early?” She threw herself and her backpack into the car and looked at me anxiously.
I tried to be casual. “Nothing’s wrong, Mag. Calm down. I just decided Keisha could get Em and I’d get you and we’ll have a celebration lunch. It is the last day of school before Christmas vacation.”
&nb
sp; “Well, of course I know that.” Her voice had that “duh” tone in it, so typical of teenagers.
“Where do you want to go to lunch?”
“Bun Appetit,” she replied without hesitation.
So I asked her to use my phone to call Keisha—number two on speed dial of course—and tell her to meet us, with Em, at Mona’s hot dog stand.
We had hot dogs and root beer floats (shades of my childhood) and a wonderful, giggly time in anticipation of Christmas, though I never thought I would giggle again. It was way too cold to eat outside, so I was somewhat more at ease with the girls inside with me, and I was able, briefly, to put Greg Davis out of my mind. I wished Keisha would stop giving me sideways looks every so often.
****
That night, when the girls were sleep, Mike told me he was going to Gatesville on Monday. This was only Thursday, and Christmas was Saturday, so we’d be past the holiday. But it still seemed awfully soon to me. “Monday?”
“I think I’ve known for some time I’d have to go talk to Jo Ellen, and now that we know it’s the inheritance behind all this, I have no choice. I’ll call down there tomorrow. Are you working?”
“No. I closed the office.” I didn’t add that I was going to stay home and keep both girls with me, preferably in the same room.
“Okay. I’ll be off early, and we can have a quiet family Christmas Eve at your mom’s.”
I nodded but said, “I wish we could stay home. I don’t want Maggie out of this house at all, and I feel safer here. But I don’t want to tell Mom about the threats.” I honestly thought I was going to cry.
“I’ll talk to Cynthia,” he said and left the room, cell phone in hand. Pretty soon, he returned. “I explained that girls wanted Christmas Eve at home and really didn’t want that oyster stew you told me about. She seemed okay with that, but when I asked if she and Otto would join us here, she said they were looking forward to oyster stew. They’re coming for dessert, and she’s bringing old-fashioned plum pudding—already made. Even has the hard sauce.”
“Mike, did I ever tell you I love you?”
“Tell me again. Then I’m going shopping.”
He brought home a beef tenderloin that he roasted to a perfect medium rare. We had oven-roasted rosemary potatoes and fresh spinach (which the girls had recently learned to love). Sparkling grape juice for the girls, Perrier for me, red wine for Mike. Cynthia and Otto arrived about eight with plum pudding which to my surprise, the girls liked. It had been liberally soaked in bourbon, and I think the girls liked the hard sauce as much as the pudding. I could barely finish one small slice. An elegant meal with no mention of any troubles looming over us. They didn’t stay long, and we all hugged and kissed as they left and said we’d see them tomorrow at Claire’s.
In spite of their sophisticated knowledge that Santa didn’t exist, the girls made a great show of hanging their stockings and putting out cookies, milk, and a note for Santa.
It was a perfect evening, and I basked in the glow of the wonder of my life…until Mike and I went upstairs and were getting ready for bed. As I brushed my teeth and couldn’t really talk, he said, “I called the prison at Gatesville today.”
I managed a mumbled “Ummm.”
“Jo Ellen had a complete meltdown two days ago. Really went off her rocker, throwing things, threatening, cursing. Not the model prisoner they knew. But the Jo Ellen we knew. The warden was completely baffled, until I said we’d seen that behavior before. They’re transferring Jo Ellen North to the psychiatric unit at Vernon next week. Promised to hold her through Monday so I can talk to her though I don’t know which is closer, Gatesville or Vernon. Might be a close tie. Anyway I’ll go to Gatesville early Monday.”
I spit out my toothpaste and turned on him. “Psychiatric unit? She’s no more psycho than you and I are. But she’s cunning. She’s conned them.”
He was calm. “I thought of that, and I think you’re probably right. She may well be doing whatever she’s doing to avoid further prosecution if this scheme of hers goes wrong.”
“You think it’s her scheme? How can she do that?”
“A hundred ways, but offhand I’d say someone on the inside is giving her access to disposable cell phones. So she plots with this Greg Davis, but the calls can’t be traced. And as far as prison authorities know, she has no contact with the outside world.”
I simply sputtered. How could this happen? What was wrong with our prison system that she could get away with this and then convince people she was psycho? Okay, I thought she was psycho all the time, but…and then I stopped.
“What happens if she’s sent to a psychiatric facility?” I asked. “Can she still inherit if I bow out?”
“I’m not sure of the law, Kelly, but I think by terms of the will the money goes into a trust same as it would now. Martin may well have stipulated that in the revised will. But she could probably have a miraculous recovery. I think she’s doing whatever she’s doing through this Greg guy partly out of greed and partly out of revenge. I’m sure she thinks you’ve ruined her life.”
There’s no sense in arguing when logic doesn’t apply, and it did me no good to suggest she ruined her own life when she killed my ex-husband and tried to kill me.
Mike pulled me down onto the bed. “Let’s make a pact not to talk about Jo Ellen or Greg Davis or any of it until Monday when I go to Gatesville. When I come home, I’ll tell you everything. Meantime, Merry Christmas.”
What else could a girl do except sink into his arms?
****
Christmas was a lot more fun than I anticipated, though I still always felt in the back of my mind that I was anticipating, jumping bridges that weren’t there yet. We had a quiet gift exchange. The girls got the things girls that age want—a guitar for Maggie, a drafting table for Em, clothes, books, and iTunes certificates, though I hate giving gift cards. I like to pick things out personally. Mike watched in amusement as I unwrapped a cookbook that promised to tell me how to cook 365 simple and quick meals—was that a hint? And then a lovely silk scarf—except he knows I just can’t do scarves. They look terrific on other women, silly on me. But then, slyly, he brought out a small box. It held a simple diamond drop necklace set in white gold that curved around the stone in a sensuous design. Perfect for me since I wore little jewelry and all of it plain. I don’t go in for fancy, but I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this perfect and lovely. I gave him a rare book on Fort Worth history that I’d found at a library sale and a smashing shirt and tie combination, if I do say so.
When everyone thought we were through with presents, I pretended to just notice a card on the tree. Mike got up to retrieve it, saw his name on it, and gave me a quizzical look. Then he opened it, read for a minute and then literally jumped in the air, yelling “Yahoo!” Of course the girls demanded to know what was in it, and he showed them: “Your newest daughter will arrive in May.”
We had a group hug, with Em demanding, “What’s her name?”
“Not yet,” I said. “We’ve a long time to decide.” Actually, I was thinking Claire Elisabeth sounded good.
“I suppose we can’t call her Keisha the second,” Em said, while Maggie hooted.
Even Mike laughed. “Nope, sweetie, Keisha is one of a kind.”
Christmas dinner was a happy event, and as I looked around I realized most of my extended family didn’t know what was going on in our lives—they’d read about the missing girl and shaken their heads in sadness, but they didn’t know it had anything to do with us. Keisha and José of course knew the whole story, and Claire knew just a bit. But Anthony and his boys didn’t, nor did his daughter Theresa and her husband Joe, nor Mona and Jenny, although I suspected Maggie had told Jenny the whole story. I wondered if she’d told Mona. If so, Mona showed no sign. They’d certainly had enough trauma in their lives, they didn’t need any more. My mom was so occupied with Otto and his needs—a beer, a stool for his feet, some more of that marvelous pâté—that she was oblivious to everythin
g else. I caught Claire glancing at me every once in a while, so I ratcheted up my happy act. A glass of wine would have helped, but I couldn’t do that.
As if to join the party, the baby in my belly made her presence known by kicking, those gentle, butterfly-like feelings, not the strong kicks that would soon follow. I would have pulled Mike aside in privacy so he could feel, but I knew the kicks weren’t strong enough. Still that buoyed me through the long dinner hour.
The big event of the evening was Keisha’s announcement of their stepped-up wedding date. “Y’all be getting an invitation, so read your email.”
I saw my mom frown in disapproval at that and poke Otto until he nodded in agreement.
“And I’ll have an assignment for every one of you,” Keisha went on. “This is going to be the wildest wedding you ever saw.”
Everyone cried, “Where?” but they were silenced when she replied, “The Grill.” Mom frowned again, and José blushed—you could see the red creep slowly across his tan face.
And then, almost anticlimactically, Christmas was over. We all helped Claire clear and clean until she finally shoved us out the door, nearly screaming that she wanted to be left in peace and quiet to do the dishes. I knew Megan and Liz would help her, so I didn’t feel too badly about leaving.
Once home, we were at loose ends, a feeling I often have after a big holiday. But this time other thoughts kept creeping in. Monday, Mike would go to see Jo Ellen North. And Greg Davis had left us alone—but why, when Christmas was a perfect time to harass someone by ruining the holiday? Had he some major surprise in mind next? I looked at Maggie, absorbed in one of her Christmas books, and fear clutched at my heart.
And then I thought of the Balcombs and could only imagine how their Christmas had been. It was too late to call, and somehow a sympathy call on Christmas night didn’t seem appropriate. Or maybe that was when they most needed support. I’d go see them tomorrow.
Maybe the best part of the whole day came late that night. Mike was propped up in bed reading, and I was lying next to him, my mind full of thoughts of the day and of the week to come and the problems and uncertainty it would bring.
