by Judy Alter
He clapped his hand to his white hair. “No, but I get it. I finish cleaning after I board up. You go home now, Miss Kelly. You need rest. You take care of yourself and that little one.”
He didn’t know how right he was.
Mike called. “Kelly, what’s going on up there? You okay? They called me about a bomb threat.”
I explained about the faux Molotov cocktail and said Anthony was boarding up and would be back to finish cleaning and lock up. I was going home. Mike said he’d had an interesting but not productive interview with Jo Ellen and would tell me went he got home. I picked up my purse, told Anthony thanks and goodbye, ignored the flashing message light. It could wait until tomorrow or at least later tonight. I never wanted to get out of a place so fast.
As I left the building, I apologized to the accountant’s staff profusely, probably too many times.
****
Poor Mike came home about six to confusion and a hungry family, including Keisha who had stayed after she returned the girls from shopping, and Claire who came for a glass of wine on her way home and stayed to hear the story. There wasn’t much to tell Mike that he didn’t already know—someone had thrown a fake Molotov cocktail through my office window, scared the living daylights out of me, and thoroughly smashed the window.
“Next time,” I said, “we’re getting shatterproof glass. What if someone had been sitting close to that window?”
“Like me,” Keisha chimed in. “My desk is up front and personal to that door…and that window.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. “We better check your desk for glass in the morning. Sorry. I took my frustration out sweeping the floor and picking up the largest pieces of glass.”
She shrugged.
“I herded the whole building—the accountant and all his staff—out into the parking lot and then felt foolish. I guess the phone rang while we were out there because the message light flashed but I never did listen. I just didn’t care.”
Mike picked up my cell phone, handed it to me, and said, “Call right now and listen to that message but don’t erase it.”
I dialed obediently, knowing I should have done that earlier. When I heard the message, such a chill went through me that I visibly shuddered and handed the phone to Mike. He listened intently, pressed two to save, and looked at all of us.
“Essentially it was a double threat—next time the Molotov cocktail will be real and he knows the girls, particularly Maggie, were at the mall today.”
“How can a fugitive be so many places?” I asked. “And for goodness sake, how would he know to follow the girls to the mall?”
“It’s more than one person,” Mike said with certainty. “Has to be. And I guess Greg Davis has changed his appearance again—dramatically. Or he wouldn’t be walking the streets. My guess is he threw the cocktail, so who was at the mall?”
Em sidled up to me and held tight, her thin body quivering. I soothed her hair with one hand and whispered, “Mike won’t let anything happen to any of us.” She just closed her eyes.
Maggie sat on the couch, or rather slouched, arms across her chest in a belligerent pose. “I suppose now I can’t go anywhere, even with Keisha.” Anger glittered in her eyes.
Mike sat down next to her. “Maggie, would you rather be careful and safe for a little while, so you can do all the things girls in high school do. This won’t go on forever. I give you my word.”
She looked at him without comment, though I thought her body relaxed a little. Finally, she muttered, “I guess so,” and got up to go to her room. No doubt to call Jenny.
Mike’s next order of business was practical. He sent Claire to the new Italian restaurant to get spaghetti, meatballs, and salad for all of us. While she was gone, he opened a bottle of red wine to share with Claire, poured kid wine for Em and me, and offered Keisha beer.
“Naw,” she said, “with spaghetti, I think I’ll join you for the red wine.”
The thought of food turned my stomach. “I can’t eat.”
Keisha calmly said, “You’ll eat if I have to spoon feed you.”
And that’s practically what happened, though I found I was hungrier than I thought. Mike knew what he was doing—we all needed food so we could think clearly. I picked at my dinner, with an occasional nudge from Keisha, but the others ate heartily. Claire and Keisha cleared the dishes, recycling what they could, and stored leftovers in the fridge, while Mike made small talk with the girls about what they’d seen at the mall. I knew he didn’t want to talk about his visit with Jo Ellen, and since nobody knew where he’d been, it didn’t come up. Much as I longed to find out all about it, I kept quiet.
Talk turned to Keisha’s wedding, and even Maggie got her enthusiasm back about the wedding dress, which roused my curiosity. But all three of them remained mum on the details, though the girls trotted out their bridesmaids gowns. I gasped. Keisha had said Em’s dress would be pink but I wasn’t expecting the yards of almost fluorescent pink that encased my youngest child. As she twirled, the dress moved around her with a life of its own. The neckline was sufficiently demure, but oh, the color!
Then Maggie appeared wearing equally bright turquoise but totally different in style—almost severe, a miniskirt on a dress that clung to her slim body. I wanted to cry out “No!” because that dress, more than anything else, made me realize Maggie was turning from girl to young lady.
Keisha stood silently watching my reaction, and I’m sure my thought flashed visibly across my face. “You like them?” she finally asked. “I gave them color guidelines and said they could each pick their own dress.” Then a bit defensively, she added, “Bridesmaids’ dresses don’t have to match each other.”
Claire chimed in before I could say something tactless. “They certainly don’t. Having everything match is a bit passé these days. Why, even your dining chairs don’t have to match.”
Almost inadvertently I turned my head to the perfectly matched oak dining table and chairs Mrs. Hunt had left in the house. At the same time, Keisha said, “Mine don’t. But then I only have three. That’s why we don’t entertain.” And she laughed heartily at her own joke.
The best I could do was to say, “I’m speechless. They…they’re not what I would have chosen.”
“Me either,” Keisha said, “though I like them. These dresses are who they are.”
I glanced at Mike, but he just reached out and squeezed my hand. I looked at my two girls, standing side by side, one still young and trusting, the other rapidly moving into the teen years and cynicism and a bit of independence—well, more than a bit. No wonder she thought my troubles hemmed her in. My heart really went out to Maggie. Greg Davis was complicating an important time in her life…and so was I.
“Okay,” I said, my voice once again strong and cheerful. “Trot out the wedding dress.”
Keisha shook her head. “Nope, that’s a surprise. And it’s not even here. We took it to my momma’s so José wouldn’t see it. You’ll see it January twenty-sixth and not before.”
I tried imagining. Would she wear white, even though a tad inappropriate? Surely not a muumuu or a tunic with pants, though I knew who would wear the pants in that marriage. Finally I settled on an image I could see in my mind—Keisha swathed in yards of white gauze over satin, studied with rhinestone beads. The effect was entirely different from Em’s gauzy dress. What bridal gallery carried such a gown, in a size to fit Keisha? I had too much on my mind to spend more time worrying about it.
Gradually our guests left for home, still shaking and mumbling over the explosion at my office. The wedding talk and fashion show hadn’t really distracted them.
Chapter Fourteen
Maggie went into her room and closed the door, but Em announced she was sleeping with us. “I’ll bring a pallet.”
Mike pulled her onto his lap, though she was getting a bit gangly and ungainly for lap sitting. “Em, that’s fine. But would you go read or watch TV with Maggie, so your mom and I can have some private tim
e.”
She looked a little skeptical. Probably she suspected private time would mean talk about something she wanted to hear. But Em was a trooper, “If it’s okay with Mag. You go ask her.”
Mike knocked and stuck his head in Maggie’s room. The words I heard sounded less like a request than a strong suggestion, but Maggie apparently agreed, and Em grabbed a book—“I don’t always like her TV programs”—and marched into the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
Once we were upstairs, Mike kicked off his shoes and threw himself on the bed, lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. I sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
“Well?”
He knew exactly what I meant. “She’s crazy. Bat-shit crazy. What scares me is that her one mission in life is to hurt you, even kill you.”
That surprised me, even as much as I knew about Joe Ellen. For someone to have no purpose in life except my death was an immense and scary thought. “Kill me?” People had wanted to kill me before, but it was never as deliberate as this sounded. “She can’t kill me if she’s locked up, can she?”
“She’s pulling the strings for whatever’s going on here. What I can’t figure is this transfer to the state mental prison at Vernon. She’s got the authorities in Gatesville convinced she’s gone over the edge, and I believed it myself today. Remember how difficult she was to control when she was arrested? Kept threatening the cops, fought like a tiger. And in the courtroom, where the judge finally had her shackled and gagged. Today was worse if possible—foul language, frightening images of what she’d like to do to you, threats that she had friends on the outside.”
“I thought you said she had no visitors, no mail, no communication with the outside world.”
He sighed. “Once again, I was wrong as I suspected all along. The warden and I talked it over. She’s apparently using someone else at the prison to convey her messages. We’re not sure if she asks them to tell visitors or she uses their cell phones. Inmates aren’t supposed to have phones, but in a population like that, some get away with it. Jo Ellen has enough discretionary cash to do some pretty impressive bribery.”
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. “But if she’s crazy enough to be institutionalized how can she be doing that?”
Mike looked straight at me. “I’m no psychologist, but Jo Ellen has always had that uncontrollable temper, and I think she’s learned to put it to her own good, or bad, use. So now she’s using it to go from Gatesville to Vernon. Almost the same distance from Fort Worth and she loses her contacts, cohorts, whatever at Gatesville. Maybe, though, she thinks security is less tight there. Somehow she thinks it works to her advantage.”
“But aren’t the criminally insane locked up securely?”
“Supposed to be. But you were right days ago when you said she’s crazy like a fox.”
“When does she go to Vernon?”
“End of the week. I’m going to call and make contact with the warden up there, ask for reports on visitors, all that stuff. I’ve no idea how much good it will do.” He stared at the ceiling again. “Meantime, if Greg Davis threw that fake bomb this afternoon, who saw Maggie at the mall? Threats to Maggie take this to a whole different level. I can’t arm a thirteen-year-old girl. And only a scumbag threatens a child. How low can you sink?”
A thought had been flitting around in the back of my mind. “Sandra? Maybe she’s a willing accomplice, not a kidnap victim. But why would she put her family through that misery?”
Mike sat straight up. “Kelly, you may be right. She doesn’t want her family to know how…what’s the word? Misguided she’s become….”
I almost laughed. “If it’s true, misguided is a mild term.”
“But she sees a reward, either monetary or the love of this Greg Davis, though why she’d want him I can’t imagine. Or both.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“We don’t, Kelly. I do, as a police officer. Remember, criminal investigator and humanitarian. We’re separating them and sharing different responsibilities. You keep in touch with the Balcombs. You may just have hit on what Janice Balcomb knows and is so terrified we’ll find out.”
I wasn’t happy but I’d agreed to this bargain.
Both girls were sound asleep in Maggie’s room, Mag in her bed and Em on her pallet. I voted we leave them, and we did. But in the wee hours, Em padded upstairs, Gus at her heels, and said, “I told you guys I needed to sleep up here tonight.”
We simply moved over and made room for her.
My dreams that night were of prison bars and Jo Ellen shaking them and screaming obscenities, shopping malls and someone following Maggie, and Alma and Joe Balcomb on their knees in front of me begging, while Greg Davis laughed in the background.
****
Already mid-January, the girls were back in school after what seemed an endless, boring vacation, and it was time for my monthly check-up with Mrs. Buxton in Dr. Goodwin’s office. To my surprise, this time I saw the doctor herself.
“Mrs. Buxton is not feeling well today.”
I expressed my regrets and said how solicitous she always was, how concerned about my general health and any stress I was feeling. I wasn’t going to tell even Sherrie Goodwin about the stress in my life.
“Are you stressed?” Sherrie Goodwin asked.
“Not really,” I said. “Just the usual stresses of balancing work and family life and trying to figure out a problem with an inheritance settlement.”
She laughed. “I’m sure the latter can be stressful.”
I wanted to say not nearly as stressful as knowing there’s a professional hit man out there with a high-powered rifle and a bull’s eye on my back.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, flipping through the chart.
“Fine,” I said. “No morning sickness, good appetite. I’ve been eating fairly healthily”—maybe a stretch on my part.
“Exercising?”
“Not as much as I should,” I confessed. “Always too busy.”
She frowned. “Mrs. Buxton’s notes record a high level of stress. Also high blood pressure…we don’t want you going into pre-eclampsia. You peeing a lot?”
“No more than usual for a pregnant woman,” I said. After all, I’d had experience with this.
She took my blood pressure to confirm the reading the nurse had found. “118/70. I wouldn’t call that high.” She went back to flipping through the charts. “Funny, every time you’ve come in, the nurse assistant has found normal range, but then Mrs. Buxton confirmed she got a high rating, as high as 145/105, which is dangerous. I wonder why she didn’t bring this to my attention before.” She checked my lungs, listened to the baby’s heart rate, all the usual things. Then she said, “Sit here a few minutes—are you in a rush?”
I shook my head.
“Usually if a patient has high blood pressure, it’s when she comes in—nerves about a doctor appointment, rushing to get here, that kind of thing. Your pattern is just the opposite. Let me come back in after my next patient and check it again.” And she was gone.
Luckily I had my cell phone, so I called Keisha, told her I’d be delayed at the doctor’s office, and pondered the puzzle of Mrs. Buxton and my high blood pressure. When I took it at home, it was normal; Dr. Goodwin always got normal. I had no way to check what Mrs. Buxton saw, so was she bluffing? Trying to scare me? Another of the scare tactics that seemed to be all around me? My earlier suspicion about the techniques of stalking surfaced again—this might just be a new form of rattling my cage. But why Mrs. Buxton?
Dr. Goodwin came in, took my blood pressure again and reported 120/70. Laughing, she said, “I suppose it went up two points because I gave you something to worry about. You’re just fine, Kelly, but let me give you the name of a yoga studio that has classes for moms-to-be. Gentle workout and yet it will get you stretching, moving those muscles, getting ready for childbirth. Also if you could walk, even ten minutes a day, that would be helpful.”
I didn’t want to explain why Mike didn’t want me walking alone, but maybe he’d go with me evenings when he could—and when January and February didn’t hit too hard. I thanked Sherrie Goodwin—should I call her Sherrie or Dr. Goodwin?—and said I hoped Mrs. Buxton would be fine soon and return to work.
“I do too,” she said ruefully. “She’s been a great help to me, and I can’t tell you how I miss her when she’s out.”
Without even thinking, I asked, “So this isn’t the first time she’s been out?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Lord no! Almost more often than not the last several weeks. And yet, I’m reluctant to let her go. Invaluable employees like her are hard to find.”
I thought of Keisha and mumbled, “I know.” Then I asked, “How were you fortunate enough to find her?”
“I listed an opening with a professional agency, and she came highly recommended. She’d worked for a home care service, caring for an elderly gentleman with no family. He was highly pleased, but when he died, she said she’d gotten too attached to him. Didn’t want that kind of one-on-one relationship anymore.” Sherrie ran her hand through her hair. “She’d be perfect if her attendance hadn’t gotten so irregular.”
“It wasn’t always?”
“Nope. Started, oh, about Thanksgiving.” She rose, and I knew she had to get back to other patients.
I thanked her, made my next appointment, and left the office. Mrs. Buxton stayed in my thoughts, especially her irregular absences, which began about the time Sandra Balcomb disappeared. I wondered, way in the back of my mind, if Sandra Balcomb kept her from work. The next time I went to the Balcombs, I’d make it a point to ask Janice what she knew.
I went back to the office where Keisha was still waiting for details of Mike’s visit with Jo Ellen at Gatesville. “Not good,” I said.
“What did you expect?” Keisha asked. “She’s sly, that one.”
It occurred to me to wonder if Jo Ellen, being in a mental hospital, could contest a will in court. Would she be considered competent? I decided to call Benjamin Cruze.
