by Judy Alter
“You guys sure do make my life interesting,” Terrell said.
But what Mike and I both knew from previous experience was that Terrell was very good on his feet and could handle anything that came his way. I wasn’t one bit worried about the probate court, beyond that it might be unpleasant, but nagging worries about the wedding continued to bother me. I thought they had to do with Maggie. In my wild, sleepless moments at three in the morning, I imagined her missing on the day of the wedding.
Maggie, meanwhile had adjusted to our new routine and even said one day, “Mom, I’m glad you’re always there on cold days, so I don’t have to sit and shiver.”
I touched her hand. “I’m glad too, Mags.” She just didn’t know how glad.
****
I went to see the Balcombs the weekend before the wedding, in spite of all that I had to do. I hoped for a clue whether Sandra was held against her will or if she was an active participant in whatever the hell was going on. She could have been the one watching Maggie at the mall or after school. The Balcombs pretty much cancelled that idea for me.
After I was seated and politely declined offers of coffee or tea, Alma could barely get out what she wanted to say. “She called….” and then the mother broke down in tears. After a moment, she wiped her eyes and went on in a quavering voice. “She was whispering, said she didn’t know how long she could talk.”
“So she found a phone without the knowledge of whoever’s with her. Did she say anything important?”
Sticking to facts seemed to give Alma some strength. “She’s in a big but dingy old house, and Greg is there along with a woman my age and another man. She’s afraid of them, says they’re planning something big. She doesn’t know what, but she’s afraid of what they’ll do to her when they pull it off—her words, not mine.’
“Did you ask if she tried to escape?”
“I did, but just then someone shouted, ‘You bitch!’ and just before the phone went dead I heard the sound of a slap, and Sandra crying aloud. I’ve been heartsick with worry ever since.”
I tried to be patient. “Why didn’t you call my husband?”
She studied her knotted hands. “A woman called back right away, but her voice sounded funny…disguised somehow, squeaky and high-pitched and, well, weird.”
The same voice disguiser that had been used on the calls to me. “What did she say?” I prompted gently.
“That if I called the police, I’d never see my daughter again. I’m terrified, Miss Kelly. Terrified for Sandra and for all of us.”
No need to tell her that I too was terrified for my own daughter.
Joe had sat quietly through this recitation, but now he said, “I told her she should call, that they were just trying to scare her. I can’t figure out though if Greg has feelings for our daughter or if somehow she’s useful to them. But I think the police should know about the call.”
Janice had apparently been listening outside the living room, because she burst into the room, wild-eyed, and almost shouted, “No! You can’t tell anyone! You’ll ruin everything, and we’ll never see Sandra again.” Her tone was desperate, pleading, scared.
“Janice, calm yourself,” Joe said. “We’ll decide what’s best in this family.”
“But you don’t know,” she sobbed and ran from the room.
Mike was going to have to find out what Janice was keeping secret.
There was nothing I could do to distract them. I surely didn’t want to talk about threats against Maggie, and I doubted they would be interested in the wedding details that occupied my mind. But just for things to say, I prattled on about the upcoming wedding and the brunch planned for the next Saturday.
“That’s the kind of thing we’d hoped for Sandra,” Alma said sadly, and I wanted to kick myself.
“I’m sure you’ll get to plan such things for both your girls. We just have to get through this trial.” If I’d been more religious, I might have said God was in charge and holding us in his hands—you see that all the time on Facebook—but I didn’t say it. All I could mumble was that Mike would be in touch. As I headed toward the door, I glanced behind me and saw Janice lurking in the dining room.
I headed home in a hurry. Mike was at work on his computer but I didn’t even ask if he minded an interruption. I just spit the whole story out in pieces and bits, talking so fast that he held up a hand and said, “Whoa, Kelly. Slow down and start from the beginning.”
I tried, told him that my compassionate call had veered into police business, and tried to summarize what seemed important from Sandra’s call—the big house, her fear, the voice and the slap. Then I told him about the call Alma got immediately afterward and, finally, about Janice’s reaction. “She knows something, Mike. You have to find out what she’s so terrified of.”
“I’m sure she’s terrified for her sister,” he said calmly. “But before I go rushing over to the Balcombs, let me try to think this through.” Then he winked and said, “I could think better with some lunch. Got any bacon and tomatoes?”
“Sure.” I was the little woman being sent to make lunch while the important cop figured things out. Get over yourself, Kelly!
The girls clamored to go to Hallmark to buy plates, napkins, and cups for the brunch, all of course with a wedding theme. I promised we’d go after lunch, though I longed for a nap.
A BLT sounded good to me too, and we all enjoyed lunch. The girls were ready to go before I even got the dishes done, but they pitched in and helped. Mike said he was going to the Balcombs’ and we’d talk when he got back. Of course, that made me want to rush through the Hallmark trip but that wasn’t to be. Do you have any idea how elaborate Hallmark can get—photo albums, guest books, invitations? I explained it was too late for those and Keisha had emailed people. Candles, picture frames, coffee cups, even a Christmas tree ornament with the names of the bride and groom. I had to rein in my daughters big-time, and I vetoed picture frames and Christmas tree ornaments. Even so, it cost a small fortune to get napkins, a guest book, and Styrofoam cups that would be stamped with Keisha and José’s name (and I could pick up later—add that to my list).
We went to the liquor store for the clear plastic plates—much more elegant and substantial than the paper wedding-themed ones. While at the liquor store I got champagne for mimosas, Bloody Mary mix, and vodka—not things we ordinarily stocked in our kitchen. I scribbled a note to add orange juice, celery, green onions, to my growing grocery list.
We arrived home laden with bags that made Mike exclaim, “Did you buy out the store?”
“Yes, and there’s a case from the liquor store in my car waiting for you to carry it in.”
“Mom, you forgot kid wine!” Em was stern.
“I want champagne,” Maggie said with dogged determination.
“We’ll see, girls. Em, I can get kid wine at the grocery.”
Maggie announced that we forgot to get a pretty tablecloth, but I told her our wood table was pretty enough, and Claire was working on flower arrangements. Little dollar signs were spinning in front of my eyes.
Mike unpacked the liquor store purchases, while the girls stashed all the paper goods on the sideboard in the dining room. “If you girls let me talk to your mom for a minute or so and then let her have a nap, we’ll go to Chadra for supper!”
That met with a cheer, so the girls disappeared into their rooms, and Mike and I climbed the staircase to ours. I stretched out on the bed, while he perched on a hassock he’d pulled close to the bed.
“I didn’t learn much more from the Balcombs than what you told me, but I do have a trace on their phone. Once again the calls came from the near west side.”
“That’s a pretty big territory.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “but the phone company thinks between Hulen and Montgomery, and the freeway and White Settlement. Doesn’t exactly give us a lead but it helps some. I got nothing from Janice Balcomb except what you did. She’s terrified, and somehow she feels responsible for her sist
er’s well-being. I told her I could subpoena her, and she almost got hysterical, said if she said anything, her sister is dead. I’m not sure forcing her is the right answer.”
I chewed on all this, knowing I’d never be able to quiet my mind enough to nap.
“Kelly, there’s just no connection to us and this Greg Davis who has Sandra Balcomb. The only long shot I can think of is Dr. Goodwin’s office. Can you call her first thing Monday ask her what she knows about Janice, how Janice has been behaving in the office, and so on. And while you’re at it, ask about Mrs. Buxton.”
“Why her?” In truth, I wasn’t surprised about his tagging Mrs. Buxton, but I wondered how he knew that I had my doubts about her and my high blood pressure readings, along with her recent frequent absences.
He grinned wickedly. “Just my sixth sense. Go to sleep now so you’ll be rested for that dinner I promised the girls.”
As if I could sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
I called Sherrie Goodwin’s office before eight, hoping to get an emergency number and avoid going through Janice. Luck was with me, and I got Sherrie’s cell phone. She answered immediately.
“Kelly, what’s the matter? Are you all right? It’s not like you to call this number.”
“I had a reason. Do you have time for a quick cup of coffee at the Old Neighborhood Grill? It’s not about my health or my pregnancy. I…I need some information for Mike and a case.”
Sherrie was no dummy. “It has to do with Janice’s missing sister, doesn’t it?”
“Yes…and it’s a long shot but you may be able to help us.”
“Us?” she echoed.
“Yeah. My family is unfortunately involved.”
“Kelly, I’ve got a full schedule this morning—patients booked from 8:30 to 11:30, but I left a big window for lunch so I could catch up on records. How about if we meet for lunch, and I do my records this evening?”
“I’d be ever so grateful, Dr. Goodwin. If you don’t mind, let me serve lunch at my house. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”
“Now I’m really curious. I can be there by 12:30 at the latest, maybe a bit earlier. And Kelly, call me Sherrie. None of this doctor stuff, please.”
I laughed. Later I’d tell her that had been a dilemma for me. Meantime I gave her the address and said, “See you whenever you can get there.”
Mid-morning I told Keisha what was happening and set off to get chicken salad sandwiches and salad from Central Market. Then I whipped home to make sure the house looked decent. I called Mike, told him the plan, and then spent the time waiting for Sherrie by outlining what I wanted to say to her.
When she arrived, I had the table set, plates arranged with sandwiches and salad, along with fresh fruit, and ice water in the glasses. She declined the wine I offered, saying she knew I couldn’t drink and she would have to work that afternoon.
She ate and listened; I talked. I began with Janice and the fact that she seemed to know some terrible secret that if she told would put her sister’s life in danger. I recounted Sandra’s desperate call to her family and Janice’s out-of-control reaction to my visit over the weekend.
Sherrie simply commented, “Janice has not been herself ever since the kidnapping. She’s edgy, sharp with patients, even difficult with Mrs. Buxton. I’ve almost mentioned it to her a time or two when she double-booked patients or forgot to register an appointment, but I’m a softie, and I figure she’s really hurting.”
“I think she is,” I said, “but she’s not helping us.” Then I launched into the story of Greg Davis/Charles Sanford, the inheritance, the threats to my family. “The thing is this Greg Davis seems to know things he shouldn’t. Obviously there’s a leak somewhere.”
“You think there’s a mole in my office? Isn’t that the term?” She was smiling just a bit, and I smiled back.
“Mike and I think it’s a possibility. The other question I have is about Mrs. Buxton. How much do you know about her?”
“I think we talked about this. She came from home health care, was with one elderly man for several years before he died. Said she wanted a change of pace. Recommendations were excellent.”
“Do you know the elderly man’s name?”
“I suppose I have it in my records but not offhand, no.”
“I’m hoping it was Robert Martin, the man who left me the bequest.”
She shook her head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“I hope her attendance record has improved,” I ventured.
She shook her head. “No, and I’m going to have to do something about it. I can’t operate an office this way, with my nurse practitioner out more than she is in and my receptionist as jumpy as I’ve ever seen anyone.”
I had more questions, and I’d barely touched my sandwich. “Do you know where Mrs. Buxton lives?” I was hoping of course for an address in that wide area the telephone company called west side. I took a bite of my sandwich and waited.
“No. I’d have to look it up, but I can do that, after they’re all gone this evening.”
My mouth was now full of chicken salad, but I held up one finger. As soon as I could politely talk again, I said, “One more thing. What’s the relationship between Janice and Mrs. Buxton?”
She stared off into space. “Funny you should ask. At first, they were good friends, even lunched together, laughed a lot. Now, they’re frosty with each other. Mrs. Buxton tries to boss Janice around, and I catch Janice glaring at her, but she never confronts. Since you’ve told me all this, I’ve got a lot to think about.”
I too had a lot to think about.
****
Sherrie Goodwin called back just after supper. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I have no record of who Mrs. Buxton cared for. All I have is her references. And her address—she lives on the south side.”
My hopes deflated. She wasn’t the one making the calls. Nor had she cared for Robert Martin.
“There’s one thing that might interest you. One of her references was Charles Sanford, a lawyer. Didn’t you mention that name?”
“I did.” All kinds of light bulbs went off in my head. “And I’ll see Mr. Sanford tomorrow morning in probate court. He’s representing Robert Martin’s daughter. So, somehow, Mrs. Buxton is tied into the inheritance business. Maybe Mike will know how we find out where she fits into this puzzle of revenge.”
So there it was—Janice, Mrs. Buxton, and Greg Davis/Charles Sanford, all tied into the inheritance business and somehow communicating with Jo Ellen North. But how? And who were they? What were their parts?
I grabbed a beer for Mike and headed for the living room, but just as I walked through the archway from the dining area there was an enormous explosion and shattered glass flew into the room. Thinking gunfire, I yelled “Girls, on the floor, flat.” They had done this before and obeyed without question, throwing themselves under the table where minutes before they had been peacefully doing homework.
Despite my own warning I stood frozen, staring at a shattered side window, its wooden mullions which once provided a diamond pattern now broken and bent into awkward shapes. Shards and slivers of old-fashioned wavy glass littered the floor. So stunned, I didn’t have the sense to get down in case another gunshot came.
Mike meanwhile leapt to his feet, clutching the back of his neck, and went not toward safety but right to the untouched center window—in time to hear a car peel away. I saw blood on the back of his neck, which was enough to unfreeze me and move me toward him.
“Call 911. This will keep.”
I did, even while telling Maggie to get a clean cold cloth for Mike. The 911 operator was exasperatingly slow or so it seemed to me. She asked questions and ordered me to stay on the line, over my protests that I needed to tend to my husband.
“How badly is he hurt?”
“His neck is bleeding. I don’t know if it’s a bullet or flying glass.”
Standing near my now, Mike muttered, “No bullet. There’s a piece of
glass in my neck.”
While I tried to remember any major arteries in the back of the neck and couldn’t, the operator asked if I heard sirens. I think I would have lied to get off the phone, but I did faintly. She then commanded me to “secure my pets”—secure Gus? He was probably hiding under the bed.
“Maggie, open the front door. Em, go find Gus and lock him in our room.” Gus was the most peaceful dog in the world, but I’d heard stories of police shooting first and asking questions later when there was a dog.
Still holding his neck, with a rag against it now, Mike bent down and looked at the floor. “That stupid old rock through a window trick, with a note tied to it.”
“What does it say?”
“I’m not picking it up until someone with evidence gloves gets here.” He stood when the EMT guys came through the door, carrying their bag. “Glad to see you guys, but no rush. I’ll live. Got some glass in my neck when the window broke.”
They led him into the kitchen, where they might make less of a mess, and José came through the open door, asking, “What the hell happened here? Who’s hurt?”
I explained about Mike and the glass—I seemed to be telling this story a lot—and asked if he could pick up the rock and read the note.
“Sure thing. Be back in a second,” and he ran to his patrol car, returned with gloves and the requisite baggie. “Want to place bets?” he asked.
“It’s a threat.”
He laughed. “Not fair. No way it’s a love note.” He carefully untied the string and spread the note out on a clean sheet of white paper. The note read:
Last chance to renounce the inheritance. You won’t like the consequences by Saturday.
Mike came in, his neck sporting a small bandage, and leaned over José’s shoulder. “They won’t like the consequences when we catch them.” He stared at the note. “It’s disguised handwriting but obviously feminine. A new player.”
“Not so new,” I said. “It’s either Sandra or Mrs. Buxton. Sherri Goodwin just called. She didn’t find much in her files that was helpful except that a lawyer named Charles Sanford was one of Mrs. Buxton’s references. I’d swear that the Charles Sanford I met was neither old enough nor smart enough to be a lawyer. There are two people using that name.”
