by Judy Alter
It wasn’t a flash. It was more like two hours, with Brandon, Liz and Megan helping, Mom fluttering in the kitchen, Otto dozing in his favorite chair, and Terrell doing whatever he could to be helpful. Keisha and José were told they could not help, but they did. When all was done, there was a mountain of trash and few leftovers—always the sign of a successful party.
Mike came home just as the cleanup wound down, and Keisha gave him a plate of leftovers that he ate ravenously. But we all hung on his words, and soon we were clamoring to hear the story.
“Keisha should tell the first part,” he said. “What do you remember about Friday night?”
Keisha herself was beginning to show the strain of what she’d been through. The high that carried her through the day was wearing off, and she sank down on the couch next to me. “I hadn’t been home long…maybe an hour…when the doorbell to our apartment rang. I don’t know who I expected, but it wasn’t Mrs. Buxton. There she was, with a story about being so worried about the Balcomb girls. Did I know anything more? I said no, but my mama raised me right….”
I was glad her mama had left with the crowd and wasn’t hearing this story.
“So I invited her in. She really seemed upset, and I felt sorry for her. She said a little wine would calm her nerves. Did I have any and would I join her. So I was puzzled but couldn’t see any trouble in that, so I got out a bottle of red and served us both. Then I went back to the kitchen to find some cheese and crackers, and we sat and talked about Sandra and what could that awful boy have done with her, and she said Janice was so upset she was cross in the office these days.
“After that things go a little fuzzy. I remember feeling really hot and fanning myself…and I couldn’t really understand what she was saying. My own answers didn’t seem to come out sensible, but she kept talking. First thing I know she takes the glasses to the kitchen and fills them again. I told her I really didn’t think I needed anymore, but she said it would make me feel better. I think what she said was, ‘You look a little pale.’ Hah! If I’d had my wits about me, I’d have known I never look pale.
“I guess I passed out but I do remember her and someone else kind of half carrying me, half walking me down the steps and helping me into a car. I woke up…must have been the middle of the night, maybe even on towards morning, tied to a chair in someone’s old-fashioned dining room with a lace tablecloth on a big, long table and heavy drapes at the window. My head hurt like it’s never hurt before. I don’t think I’ll ever drink wine again.”
“Did they talk to you once you were awake?” Mike asked.
“Nope. I pretended to still be asleep. Scared ‘em. They talked maybe they’d given me too much and killed me, but that old Buxton woman swore she knew what she was doing. Then they sent that Sandra in to give me sips of coffee—awful coffee! And she fed me one of those breakfast bar things, tasted like cardboard.
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“Sure I can, Mike. I got real good ears. They were in the kitchen, but they were yelling at each other—some about what to do with me, now they got me. That Davis boy kept telling Buxton she wasn’t going to get her hands on that money, and she said she just needed time to think. She kept calling someone—Jo Ellen, I’m sure—who told her to off me. She had no qualms but Greg Davis kept saying he didn’t sign on for murder. Sandra kept quiet as a mouse. I think she’s like those abused women you hear about—she could have escaped but Davis bullied her until she was too scared to do anything. So she just tried to stay invisible. Maybe she was afraid they’d kill her too.”
“She’s been reunited with her family,” Mike said. “More tears than I’ve seen in a while. That’s one problem child who may now be on the right path, but she’ll need lots of counseling. We’ll talk to her again next week, but for now I thought it best for her to be with her family. Keisha, I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone your honeymoon until we get this all cleared up.”
Keisha sighed. “I ain’t surprised.”
Mike told us that Mrs. Buxton was the brains behind this whole scheme. She was Mr. Martin’s nurse for years, so Jo Ellen knew her. “Davis is just a petty criminal who happens to be her nephew. And Charles Sanford is her brother—she bullied him into doing her so-called legal work. Quite a family.
“Anyway, Jo Ellen set the whole thing in motion, promising them a huge reward if they could get you to turn down your share of the inheritance. She must have had a disposable cell phone she used to call Mrs. Buxton. The thing she didn’t tell them was that she won’t have access to the money—she couldn’t give them any if she wanted to. And they weren’t smart enough to figure that out. “
“Such greed,” Claire said.
“I don’t think it’s greed, Claire. I think she has an unreasonable hate for me. I don’t know that I’ll ever feel completely safe from her scheming,” I said. “Keisha, I’m so sorry this happened to you, but I’m so glad they didn’t touch Maggie.”
“Can I go to the mall with friends now?” Maggie asked.
I didn’t think she realized the enormity of what she escaped. Maybe there was no sense in scaring her to death. “Negotiable,” I said.
“The reason they got Keisha instead is because we kept such a close watch on Maggie. They knew Keisha would matter to you too,” Mike said. “But they sure underestimated you.”
“In a way, they didn’t, Mike,” Keisha said. “That Buxton thing talked about how Jo Ellen wanted them to kill you too, Kelly….”
I shivered.
“And once she said you don’t scare easy. She’d tried with that blood pressure business, trying to scare you with the possibility of eclampsia but you didn’t panic. She was real disappointed in that.”
“Keisha, you sure heard an earful while you were drugged,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Trouble is,” Keisha said, “I think I gave her too much information while we were having our drinks and I was beginning to feel…uh, loose. I know I told her all about the wedding, where and when it would be, how excited I was.”
Mike still had his detective demeanor on. “Keisha, had you ever met her? If not, why did you let her in the door?”
She thought about it. “No, but I talked to her a couple of times when she called and Kelly was out. And Kelly told me how worried she was about Janice Balcomb. I just assumed she’d come to talk about Sandra Balcomb and what we could do together. Guess I’m gullible and always believe the best of people.”
And that, I thought, was one of the reasons I loved Keisha.
It was after five when everyone left but the house was clean and the food put away. I headed for a nap. We still had a wedding coming up.
****
I sort of intended that nap to be the end of my day, but it was far from over. I had totally forgotten that Keisha was spending the night in the apartment so that she and José wouldn’t see each other the next day. It tickled me that she was so invested in the wedding superstitions of an earlier day.
She and José arrived in a large bit of drama about eight, just as we finished breakfast for dinner—mostly leftovers supplemented by scrambled eggs and bacon, all either one of us felt like doing, though Maggie did say, “We’ve had a lot of breakfast today.”
Keisha bustled in carrying a dress wrapped in a dark plastic thing that stores put expensive dresses in—no chance that anyone could see it before. José carried a suitcase—no, not an overnighter but one that looked like she would be traveling for a week. He took it out to the apartment, but she wouldn’t let him near the dress. I guess she thought he’d peek. José actually looked a little tired—but then, it had been a long day, from kidnapping and rescue through bridal shower. We were all a little worn—except Keisha who was lit up like a light bulb.
She poured herself a glass of red wine and asked José if he wanted a beer, which he declined. Apparently she’d already forgotten her vow never to drink wine again. Then she sat and went through the plans for tomorrow, essentially giving each of us our orders
. The wedding was scheduled for four in the afternoon, so we had the morning free—if she could be contained—but we were to have her and the girls at the Grill, fully dressed by three-thirty. They would hide in the small anteroom between the ladies room and Peter’s office. José was to get there, with his family, no later than three-forty-five—not one minute later. Mike and I, I supposed, were to deliver her and the girls and stay there.
The band and the minister would also arrive at three-forty-five, with Keisha’s family, and Mona would set up her stand outside about four. That worried me more than a bit—it was in the forties tonight, with strong winds predicted for the next day and a high of fifty. I crept away to call Mona but she said not to worry—she and Peter had worked out a kitchen arrangement. What blessed friends we had!
Finally, close to ten, José said, “Babe, I have to go. Got to get some sleep.” He turned to Mike. “No more surprises tonight, okay?”
“I hope not,” Mike said fervently.
Keisha threw her arms around him and said, “Tomorrow, baby, tomorrow!”
He kissed her and made a hasty exit. We shepherded Keisha out to the apartment, not that she was tired, but we were.
“Mom, can I sleep in the apartment with Keisha tonight?” Maggie had an earnest look, and I wondered a bit about the motivation behind this. Was she curious about a bride’s thoughts on her wedding night?
Em chimed in. “Me, too. Please?”
I looked at Keisha, who said. “I’m not ready to go to sleep. I’d be pleased to have them for company.”
So once more, we carried pallets out to the apartment. The girls got into pajamas and brushed their teeth in the house, and, kissing us goodnight, headed out to the apartment. Mike and I watched until they were safely inside and then stood enveloped in a big hug.
“Let’s go to sleep,” he said, and we did. Asleep instantly, both exhausted.
We were still asleep at daylight, which comes late in January, when Mike’s phone rattled us both to consciousness. I heard him mumble, “Shandy,” and then explode, “What the hell? How did that happen?”
Every muscle in my body tensed with foreboding, though I didn’t know of what. Davis and Buxton were in jail, Sanford was not but was too milquetoast to try anything, Jo Ellen was safely institutionalized.
“When?” Mike asked tersely. Then, “Oh dear God, I’ll be there right away. I assume there’s an APB out. Put a guard on my house, the Balcombs, and get José in there—he’ll be safer there than in his apartment. Oh, and stake out the Old Neighborhood Grill. Should be empty at this point but keep watch.”
My heart sank. It wasn’t over, though I couldn’t imagine what had happened. Mike leaned back into the bed and wrapped his arms around me. “Jo Ellen escaped from the facility in Vernon. Sometime in the night. No telling where she is. You heard me. There’ll be a guard on the house. Get Keisha and the girls…and all of Keisha’s stuff…inside.”
“Will there be a wedding?” I asked with a quaver in my voice. I didn’t think I could bear Keisha’s disappointment if the ceremony had to be postponed.
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that there is,” he said. He dressed quickly—full uniform—and said he’d get the girls and Keisha in on his way out.
I lay in bed, contemplating the last few minutes of peace that I had and yet not comfortable. Fear was back to haunt me.
The girls fussed, didn’t want to eat, didn’t know what they wanted, but they were irritable…and scared. We saw the police car in front and the officer patrolling the house, yard and apartment. It was reassuring but not completely. The girls asked over and over if they could still go to the wedding.
Keisha was the only one of us upbeat. “Sure you can, sweeties. Ain’t nothin’ or nobody gonna stop this wedding.”
Mike called about ten to report a body had been found on 287, the highway from Vernon through Wichita Falls to Fort Worth. A man, dressed in work clothes, shot once in the head. Identification had apparently been quick and easy—he was a Vernon businessman headed to Fort Worth for Monday appointments, wallet still in his pocket. The shocked family finally managed to say he’d been driving a 2012 silver Camry, and they even gave license plates.
Mike had no doubt that it would all be over quickly and that the poor gentleman had just picked up the wrong hitchhiker, Jo Ellen North, who was now driving a silver Camry. Patrol cars and helicopters were watching not only 287 but back roads into Fort Worth. She’d never make it, he assured me.
Somewhat reassured, I hung up the phone, repeated Mike’s optimistic report, and announced we were having breakfast. Keisha made omelets—darn! Why could she do all those things I can’t?—while I roasted bacon in the oven, made toast, and set out butter and jam. Wouldn’t you know? I burned the bacon. But not too badly. Nobody said anything.
By almost one o’clock, we still hadn’t heard anything. Mike called just before one to report they simply hadn’t found her. She’d disappeared down back roads no one could find in spite of a multi-county alert—state troopers, county sheriffs, everyone was on the lookout for her. It was, I decided, time to pray.
At two-thirty, Mike told us to proceed with our plans, so Keisha went out to get her dress and suitcase, and we began dressing in the house, with me glancing out the window every so often. Two police officers were now marching around the house.
About three, Keisha emerged from the girls’ bathroom, resplendent in the wedding gown none of us had seen. It was yards and yards of white chiffon billowing everywhere with great random patches of color, principally the turquoise of Maggie’s dress and the pink of Em’s. Keisha herself was radiant; she and the girls together were a symphony of color. I insisted they pose for a photo, wondering to myself just a bit if this was the last photo I’d ever take of them. Stop it, Kelly!
My dress paled in comparison. It was a soft rosy beige, loose enough to hide my belly bump, with a full-length matching cardigan over it. The girls exclaimed about how pretty, and I pretended to believe them. I did put on a bit of extra makeup, especially a bolder lipstick than I usually wore. We were all dressed up for a party and nowhere to go.
Mike called again. The patrol at the house would escort us to the Grill, and another car with one officer would replace them at the house, just to be sure. So, when every instinct was to duck, I boldly led my entourage to the driveway and into the police car—one officer got left behind because we wouldn’t all fit.
We set off for what I hoped would be a festive and safe occasion.
Chapter Nineteen
When we drove into the Grill parking lot, the officer suddenly said, “Ladies, get on the floor of the car, please. Now!”
The urgency in his voice needed no more emphasis, and we all dove for the floor though not before I, sitting in the front seat, saw a silver Camry parked across the lot from the Grill. The officer—why I had never learned his name?—talked softly but urgently on his two-way whatever and I thought I heard Mike on the other end, saying, “Blast and damn!”
“Stay down, ladies. Help will be here in a minute.”
And it was. Four police cars, sirens blaring, lights blazing, roared into the parking lot.
We crouched on that floor for hours—or so it seemed. Keisha, in the back seat between the girls and no doubt wrinkling her gorgeous dress, muttered, “Some wedding day.” My right thigh began to cramp until I thought I’d cry out in pain, and Em whimpered, drawing closer to Keisha. Maggie reached an arm around to comfort her but remained stoic herself.
The police officer driving the car neither ducked nor cringed but kept us informed—“Police checking all cars in parking lot and across the street.” Then, “Police going into café….” A short time later we all heard the sirens as an ambulance pulled up to the door of the Grill. “Medics going inside,” our informer said, and my heart pounded in my chest. Peter. Please God, not Peter!
The medics came out a short time later, leading a dazed but walking Peter. They checked him thoroughly and allowed him b
ack in the building. But the ambulance pulled around the building and parked at the side.
“Ladies, we have the high sign. You may go into the restaurant, but I’m to drive you to the door and escort you in.”
Painfully, we crept back to our seats and stretched cramped muscles as he drove the few feet to the door. A police officer was on either side of the door, looking not at us but scanning the surroundings with an intensity that was frightening. We hustled inside, to find Peter sitting forlornly at one of the front tables, holding his head.
“Are you all right?” I asked, rushing toward him.
“Barely. She really hit me hard, and my headache is fierce.”
Without another word, Keisha began to massage his scalp and neck. “Get some hot tea,” she snapped at me.
I knew the restaurant well enough to find the tea bags and a cup and get hot water out of the spigot on the coffee pot. Peter sipped, and I could see him relax even as I watched his every move and expression.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She caught me in my office, hit me with the butt end of a pistol. Hard. I’m not sure after that, but I think when the officers arrived she ran out my secret back door.”
Completely irrelevantly, I asked, “You have a secret back door?”
He nodded. “I never let anyone in my office, so no one knows. Don’t you ladies tell.” And a bit of the old Peter smile came back.
Just then we heard gunshots—three quick ones, a pause, and then just one. We froze, but it wasn’t too long before Mike came in.
“Jo Ellen North is dead,” he announced.
Cheering wasn’t appropriate, nor was rejoicing in a death, any death. But I felt a great sense of relief. “What happened?”
“She ran for the railroad tracks, but when she saw how close we were, she turned and fired. Shots went wild except she nicked one of our guys in the shoulder. Another took her out with one well-placed bullet. She never knew what hit her. And I guess she never knew she’d lost.”
