by Judy Alter
When Elisabeth Smedley arrived, she matched the self-confidence I’d heard in her voice. She was young, maybe twenty, long brown hair pulled back and gathered low at the neck with an attractive scarf around it, with carefully discreet make-up. She wore a colorful print tunic over grey leggings and was, I thought, a younger version of my good friend Claire—stylish, dressed for her age, and bursting with ambition. In place of the student backpack one might have expected, she carried a leather zipper case, which she opened to reveal a legal pad, ready to take notes. I was almost surprised she didn’t whip out an iPhone and ask if she could record our talk. She held out a firm hand in greeting.
I motioned to my visitor’s chair and said, “Let’s talk. What can I do for you? What kind of class wants a paper on Craftsman houses?”
She settled in her chair with an expectant look and said, “Creative writing.”
“You’re going to write about Craftsman houses for a creative writing class?” I was missing something here, but it wasn’t the first time this day. I was beginning to wonder if I was befuddled.
“Oh, no. That was just a white lie so you’d see me. I want to be a novelist, and I want to write mysteries. I’ve heard stories about you. Megan Jackson is one of my roommates, and she’s told me about all the murders you’ve been involved in, and…well…I sort of wondered if I could follow you around, take notes, you know. Gather some material.”
Now I was really flabbergasted. Megan Jackson was the older of Claire’s two daughters. I knew Megan and a couple other girls rented a small house, but Megan was only a junior at TCU. I thought there was a great gap between undergraduate and graduate, and this girl identified herself as a grad student.
I glanced at Keisha, who had her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, but I could see her eyes dancing. I turned back to the young girl.
“Elisabeth…may I call you that?”
She nodded.
“Good. Call me Kelly. But, Elisabeth, I don’t go around looking for murders to solve. I just happen to have accidentally become involved in some neighborhood affairs.” I was downplaying as fast as I knew how.
“Yeah,” she said, “like a skeleton, and a serial killer, drug dealers, and a big box store that was a front for drugs. Not many people get involved in things like that accidentally.”
I thought for a moment. How much had Megan told this girl? “No, they don’t. But I’ve promised my daughters there’d be no more danger in my life. Those were unusual cases…I felt strongly the skeleton needed a proper burial and somewhere a family needed to grieve, and in the other cases I was looking out for my neighborhood…and my livelihood. It’s not easy to sell real estate in a neighborhood terrified of a serial killer or full of drugs. And the big box store…I just fought that because it didn’t fit in our historic neighborhood. If I’m to sell houses and fix them up, I have to preserve the historic nature of our neighborhood. But I don’t deliberately set out looking for danger…and the next time it comes my way, I’m going to turn the other direction.”
Keisha rolled her eyes, and Elisabeth looked at me and said, “I totally understand. Is it all right if I just check in with you from time to time? Like, what are you working on now?”
“Real estate,” I said. “You’d find it boring.”
“Maybe, maybe not. And I’d like to find out more about the things you’ve been involved in. You see, I really want to write mysteries.”
“Read the newspaper,” I told her. “It has lots of stories perfect for building a mystery.”
She rose, and I had to keep myself from breathing a huge sigh of relief. “Okay, but I’ll be calling you…or maybe just dropping by your office.”
“Uh, okay. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” That was said with my fingers crossed. I was going to have to have a heart-to-heart discussion with Megan or maybe her mother.
Once the girl was out the door, Keisha gave way to her laughter. “Kelly, why didn’t you tell her you were searching for Ms. Lorna’s daughter? She’d have loved that story.”
“Because I’m not sure I am, and either way I won’t betray Lorna McDavid’s privacy.”
Keisha sobered immediately. “Good point. Okay, I’m going to start searching for the mysterious Sheila O’Gara.”
“Do that. I’m going to get my girls, go home, fix supper, and be an ordinary housewife and mother. I’ve had quite enough for one day.” I left in somewhat of a huff.
****
That night, after helping Maggie and Em with homework, I enlarged my rather limited cooking repertoire by making chicken tetrazzini, a standard for many cooks. I cheated and used a roast chicken from Central Market. After that it was easy—spaghetti, mushroom soup, white wine, some diced carrot, onion, and celery, and diced chicken (I did have a problem boning the chicken, something I’d not done a lot of in my non-cooking life). I topped the whole thing with grated cheddar. It smelled heavenly when it went in the oven, and Mike and the girls raved about it.
“I sort of made it up as I went along,” I said proudly.
“You’ll make a cook yet, Kelly,” my long-suffering husband said. He was the real cook in the family. It would have helped me if he weren’t such a darn good cook.
The girls both asked for seconds—the ultimate compliment.
As usual, Mike and I asked the girls about their day. Em just shrugged and said it was school, but Maggie startled me by saying she wasn’t sure she and I had gotten her algebra homework right and would Mike check it. Swell, now I wasn’t smart enough to do her homework with her. Actually I was on shaky ground when it came to algebra.
When it was my turn, there was no way in heaven I was telling the girls about Lorna McDavid’s long-lost daughter. I’d save that for Mike’s ears only after they’d gone to sleep.
So I regaled them with the story of Elisabeth Smedley, who wanted to be a mystery writer.
“Smedley?” Maggie echoed. “Is that really her last name? I’m so glad it isn’t mine.”
Em calmly said, “That’s mean, Maggie. I hope you never meet her,” which earned her a dirty look from her older sister.
“Do you want to hear the story or not?” I asked.
They did, and so I told them about her wanting to follow me because she was sure I’d run into a murder or a dangerous situation sooner or later.
“Mom,” Maggie said in a severe tone, “you promised no more danger.”
“I know, Mag, and I told this Elisabeth that. I mean to keep my promise. She can come follow me occasionally but she’ll find it pretty dull.”
Mike just stared at me.
Chapter Two
Later, after the girls were in bed, I told him about Ms. Lorna’s daughter and her request that I find the girl. “I think Keisha’s going to take this on as a project, not me.”
“I hope so, Kelly. I want you to stay out of everything except our family life and your real estate business. But I can’t see that this has much danger…or much chance of success. And I do feel sorry for the old lady, difficult as she can be.”
“Yeah,” I agreed dreamily, “I’d like to find her daughter for her.” I was picturing a sentimental reunion in my head, a foolish dream if I made myself think about Ms. Lorna’s character.
Mike’s cell phone rang, interrupting our conversation, which I couldn’t decide was a good thing or not. At least, he wasn’t angry that I might get involved in another “situation.”
Listening to an overheard phone conversation was hard, because you wondered what the person on the other end could possibly be saying. I heard Mike say, “Yeah, José,” and “Really?” “What’d he say?” “Well, don’t worry about it, but maybe you should be driving by a couple of times tonight.” “Okay.” And he hung up.
“What was that about?” I asked.
He sighed. “Police business, Kelly.”
“But José is the neighborhood officer and you’re narcotics, so why is he calling you?”
“Persistent. I always knew that w
as the word for you.” He wadded up the napkin he’d used as a coaster for his beer and threw it at me. “José found some guy sitting in a car across from Ms. Lorna’s house. Said he’s seen the guy several times but didn’t believe dire stories that Keisha told him about the guy wanting to kill Ms. Lorna. Tonight, though, he stopped and asked if there was a problem, and the guy said no, he was just trying to figure out where he was supposed to go. Gave an address on Hemphill. Showed José a driver’s license, but when José ran it, nothing came up. So José cautioned him about not lingering on the streets and watched while the guy went away. Probably nothing.”
“Probably not,” I said. “Keisha told me someone’s trying to kill Ms. Lorna. All Keisha and Ms. Lorna know for sure is that someone is stalking Ms. Lorna.”
Mike grinned. “Hard to stalk someone who never comes out of her house.” He shrugged and went back to his book with a mumbled, “You two are imagining things again.”
Although I hadn’t taken it seriously at first, now I wanted him to do so. Maybe it was the thought of something happening to Ms. Lorna before she met her daughter. “Well, they’ve both seen him watching the house, although Ms. Lorna didn’t mention it at all today. Just talked about her daughter. Really, Mike, it was touching…moving. I don’t know what to say.”
“Didn’t she talk about anything else?”
I took a sip of my wine and thought about that. “No, except some things she said made me think she was a lady who didn’t think she had long to live. Now that’s creepy.” I was remembering her words about wanting to see her daughter before she died.
“Yeah, it is, but I don’t know what we can do about it tonight. Let’s go to bed.” He held out his hand to help me up, and I put my wine glass next to his beer bottle and went with him willingly. I’d get the glass and the bottle in the morning—before the girls had a chance to comment.
As we lay in bed, Mike asked, “Kelly, do you think someone’s after Ms. Lorna? I mean, do you really think that?”
“I don’t know. Keisha’s sixth sense is hard to ignore, and if Ms. Lorna didn’t think there was some kind of threat, why would she suddenly want to find her daughter?”
“Maybe because she’s sick and not telling even Keisha,” he suggested. After a minute’s thought, he asked, “You’re sure this has nothing to do with you wanting that house?” Mike knew me too well, but this time my conscience was clear.
I punched him. “Mike, I don’t even know if I want that house. I asked Anthony to draw up plans for adding a master bedroom to this one. I love our house.”
“Me, too,” he said, and rolled over and went to sleep. So much for romance!
My dreams that night were full of a young, slim, blond child holding out her arms and crying, “Mama, Mama,” and of Ms. Lorna reaching toward the child, but they never could get together. And then they were in a park, and a dark shadow loomed over them like a huge cloud. Not a person, just a cloud that seemed to foreshadow disaster.
Mike woke me, stroking my forehead and saying, “Shhh, shhh. You had a bad dream. You’ll wake the girls. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
And then he showed me just how okay it was.
After that, I slept soundly.
****
The next morning I asked Keisha if she’d heard from Ms. Lorna. The answer was a negative, so I said, “Why don’t you call her? Mike said José called because that man was outside her house again last night.”
“I know,” Keisha said calmly. “José told me this morning. Miss Lorna don’t answer her phone, so there’s no sense calling.” She went back to work.
“Aren’t you concerned?”
“Nope. I turned it over to you.”
Swell. I had no idea what I was expected to do, but when I ran errands that morning—a house to do a street appraisal on, a bid to deliver—I drove by Ms. Lorna’s house not once, but three times. Nothing seemed amiss—no parked car, no lurking man. Maybe we were all making a mountain out of a molehill.
Back in the office, when I suggested that to Keisha, she said, “No, ma’am. It’s a real threat.”
And that night Mike, who always pooh-poohs my instincts, decided he was worried about Ms. Lorna and asked if I had heard any more. I said no and dismissed the matter.
Over the next few days, life went along as usual. Keisha went grocery shopping for Ms. Lorna but didn’t mention the stalker, and I settled into a comfortable routine with no worries. The girls were enjoying these early weeks of school, and my days were filled with houses, people looking for houses, and people wanting to sell property. The market was definitely looking up. Then in the afternoon, homework consumed my time until I had to get supper ready. Mike had no emergencies, and we ate together as a family every night. I improved my cooking—chicken divan, King Ranch casserole, hamburger steak au poivre—that one made Mike raise an eyebrow and the girls complain there was too much pepper and the meat wasn’t cooked. It was just the way I liked it.
Claire and I managed lunch not once but twice, going the first time for wonderful mid-Eastern food at King Tut and the second time to the Cat City Grill, where I indulged in lobster bites. We talked about our girls—hers grown, with one in college and one in high school, mine growing too fast with one in middle school and one nearing the end of elementary school. We talked about men—well, not Mike, but the men in Claire’s life, who were, she lamented, few and far between. I suggested she was too fussy, and she laughed outright. “You’re probably right, twice burned, very cautious.”
At the Cat City Grill, I finally mentioned Elisabeth Smedley, but before I had a chance to tell my story, Claire said, “Strange girl. I don’t know what to make of her, but Megan seems to like her.”
When I told her the story of Elisabeth’s visit to my office, she laughed out loud. “You’ve got your own groupie. Wonder what Megan told her?”
“Everything,” I muttered, annoyed that Claire thought it was a joke. “Ask her not to tell anybody else. I’m horrified that I’m the subject of gossip. Besides, I promised Mike and the girls—no more involvement.”
Claire laughed again, “Yeah, sure.”
So nice to have the support of your friends.
****
Elisabeth Smedley came into the office a couple of days after my visit with Claire, once again dressed as a young version of stylish Claire and carrying her leather-bound legal pad. “Hi,” she said, still self-confident. “Anything interesting going on here?”
“Not a thing,” I said. “I’m about to go appraise a property, a Craftsman house in sore need of repair. That’s about as exciting as it gets.”
She fingered the legal pad and asked, “No mysterious things happening.”
By now, Ms. Lorna’s stalker had moved to the back burner of my mind, and Keisha was busy tracing Sheila O’Gara. I had dismissed both items from my mind, at least temporarily, and I wasn’t about to tell this young woman about any of it anyway.
“May I go with you to look at the house? I’d just like to see what you do.”
“Well, there’s certainly no novel in it, but sure, come along.”
As we left, Keisha gave me an oddly amused look.
At the house, a classic Craftsman with built-in cupboards, arches, dark wood paneling, many of the features of my house, she was intrigued. “I love it!” I didn’t point out that the interior wood hadn’t been waxed or polished in years and would need treatment or that the linoleum kitchen floor was not authentic. Paint was peeling in some places, and uneven flooring gave me some concern about the foundation. I talked to the homeowner, who had lived in the house forty years, and said I’d get back to her. And then we left, me baffled about why some people live in a house for forty years and think it needs no attention.
“I like that house,” Elisabeth said. “It’s charming.”
So I decided the least I could do was give her a lesson in architecture. I drove her by our house, pointing out the detail, the use of wood and brick on the exterior, the curving stone walkway
, the free garden as opposed to one that was manicured. Then we went by Ms. Lorna’s house, and I talked about four-square houses and shirtwaist detailing. Before I was done I had practically explained the entire Industrial Revolution and Craftsman revolt against it.
She listened wide-eyed, scribbled notes, and then asked, “Who is that man sitting on the curb there?
And there he was—the rat man. Just sitting and staring at the house.
“I have no idea,” I said with a shrug. My mind was taking in every details of his appearance—and Keisha was right, he did look like a rat. I still wasn’t going to tell Smedley about Ms. Lorna’s stalker and my doubts. Instead, I said, “Let’s have lunch at the Neighborhood Grill. My treat.”
So we went to the Grill, where Peter greeted me like an old friend. I ordered the chef’s salad—hold the olives—and Elisabeth had a cheeseburger with curly fries. I resisted the temptation to talk to her about healthy diets.
Once we were seated, she said, “Gosh, everyone here knows you. It’s like you’re a celebrity.”
“No, they treat all regular customers that way. They’re good people here.”
“I guess.” She sighed. “Now tell me how you got involved in some of your adventures. I mean, I’ve looked up newspaper records, and I know about the house with the skeleton, and the serial killer, and the guy that wanted to deal drugs out of a grocery. But how did you get involved in all those things?”
It was my turn to sigh. “Too much for one lunch,” I said. “Let me tell you about the serial killer. It was natural for me to be concerned when two older ladies were killed in our neighborhood. That’s not good for real estate business. Besides, my own mother had just moved down here from the Chicago area, and I was concerned for her.”
She was taking notes as fast as she could, but just then Sheryl brought our lunches, and she put her notes aside to dig happily into her burger. Between mouthfuls, though she kept firing questions.
