by Judy Alter
I relayed the information I’d just learned in a monotone.
“Not very exciting for a mystery,” our young uninvited companion complained, “except the part about no identification. I like that.”
I swear she almost licked her lips in satisfaction. “Plenty exciting for the victim,” I said in exasperation.
Smedley had indeed parked illegally and left us at the door, after asking where we were going. I didn’t want to tell her we were going to my house, so I pretended not to hear and then, of course, I felt guilty. I waved goodbye to her, muttered, “See you later,” hoping it would be much later, and followed Keisha to the parking lot. Behind us Smedley peeled away from the curb in her Acura.
It was still light, still daylight saving time, but dusk was coming on any minute, and the stairway in the garage, which held awful memories for me, was dark. I grabbed Keisha’s hand, glad we only had to go to the second level.
As we emerged from the enclosed stairwell and started up the ramp toward my car, I thought I saw a flash of movement between two cars to my right. But then I decided I was so tired I was seeing things. We got in the car, and I started the motor.
“Wait!” Keisha was peering out the window, eyes searching the garage.
I did and asked why.
“Someone was up here, watching us. He hid, but I’m pretty sure it was that rat of a man who’s been watching Ms. Lorna’s house.”
I shivered with a moment of cold fear. “Are you serious?”
“Serious.”
“You want to come home with me? I won’t share my meatloaf, but there’s probably something else you can eat,” I said, without the least bit of apology for my lack of graciousness. After all, she ate that hamburger in front of me, didn’t she? “I’ll have to explain all this to Mike.”
“And I want to suggest that someone put a watch on Diane in the hospital.”
“Keisha! You’re turning this into something really frightening.”
“It is frightening. I’m just being practical. Besides, I want to watch Mike Shandy go through the roof.”
As I turned onto our street, I felt a heavy load of dread in my belly.
Chapter Four
Mike didn’t exactly go through the roof. We all settled at the kitchen table, while I ate my belated supper and got the story of Diane Smith out between bites. Mike and the girls listened without expression as I told about Diane’s visit, the accident, and the mystery of her identity.
Finally, with a disapproving look that was powerful from a teen, Maggie said, “Mom, you’re doing it again.”
While Em asked, “Doing what?” Mike said, “You’re going to feel obligated to find out who she is, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question.
I considered my answer carefully, looking from one face to another. “I just feel like she needs help…and a friend. So Keisha and I will go back to the hospital when we can visit with her.”
Keisha had been leaning back in her char, sipping a glass of wine, and watching all this with amusement. “You know who she is, Kelly.”
Caught! I jumped in alarm. “Well, I do have a vague idea.”
Mike stood up impatiently. “Okay, what and who are you talking about.”
Keisha still sat calmly but the twinkle was gone from her eyes as she spoke. “She’s the daughter Ms. Lorna is looking for. What do they call that? Synchronicity? Coincidence?”
Mike threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “Keisha, what are you talking about?”
Sheepishly, I said, “I forgot one little detail about Diane Smith. She specifically wanted to see Ms. Lorna’s house, didn’t want to hear about any others.”
Sitting back down, Mike said, “Let me see if I got this.”
Maggie interrupted, which she knows better than to do. “I got it, Mike. Ms. Lorna and her daughter are both looking for each other, and the daughter’s close to finding her mother, but then someone runs her down.”
“I’m sure that was an accident,” Mike said, with a note of hope in his voice. He was as much in denial as I had been when Keisha said someone was trying to kill Ms. Lorna.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I said with conviction, setting my wine glass down so hard it spilled. “People who saw it said the man aimed for Diane deliberately.”
“So what you really want,” Mike said, “is to find out is not so much her identity but why and who wanted to stop her.”
“Same person that’s been stalking Ms. Lorna,” Keisha said. “I bet she doesn’t see him for a while, ‘cause he’s lying low. He was in the parking garage when we left the hospital, so I think he either followed us or the ambulance. But you might want to call the hospital and have them beef up security on her.”
Mike frowned. He never took kindly to suggestions about police work from either Keisha or me. “Not my territory, but I’ll call the district station and see who’s in charge this evening.” He retaliated against Keisha by saying, in an authoritative voice, “Call José and tell him to be on the lookout for that guy.”
He punched a number into his cell phone, and as he walked away, I heard him say, “Dan, I know this sounds wacky, but Kelly’s at it again, and she may be right.”
Indignantly I got up and poured myself a second glass of wine. Two sets of young eyes followed me reproachfully.
****
The next morning in the office I called the hospital, only to be told Ms. Smith could not have visitors. So much for Keisha’s security suggestion. I considered telling whomever that we meant to keep away a man who looked like a rat and not us, but I decided that wouldn’t fly. I inquired about Diane’s condition, explaining I was a family friend—that wasn’t too big a stretch, if we were right about who she was. The voice said she was stable and conscious and would be having surgery to repair her shoulder, probably later in the day.
“Surgery?” I echoed.
“Don’t be alarmed. They have to get displaced bone pieces back in line, may have to use pins. But then they’ll put it in a tight wrap, not a cast, and she’ll have a sling.”
“How long will she be in the hospital?”
“Probably just a day or two, but then I suspect they’ll send her to a rehab facility where she can be taught exercises to keep flexibility in the arm while keeping her shoulder immobile so it can heal.”
“How long does that take?” My mind was running a mile a minutes.
“Usually about a month,” the nurse said. Then, with what was meant to be a reassuring tone, she added, “She won’t be playing tennis any time soon.”
I thanked her and hung up, thinking about my next step. If Diane was in danger, she didn’t need to be in either a rehab facility or the Residence Inn. Suddenly I knew what I had to do next.
I called the Residence Inn and asked what room Diane Smith was staying in. They of course, wouldn’t tell me, and I banged the phone down in frustration, remembering as I did that Diane had scribbled contact information on a card and given it to me.
Deliberately I took a twenty-dollar bill and my driver’s license from my wallet and stuffed them in a pocket. Grabbed my phone, my keys and headed for the door.
“And you’re going where?” Keisha asked.
“Just a short errand.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Leaving your purse behind?”
“Don’t want to have to carry it. I have money, my phone, and my driver’s license, all I need.”
She turned back to her computer, as though ignoring me, but said, “Use that phone to call me when you get in trouble.”
Keisha always knew when I was doing something I shouldn’t be…and sometimes she told Mike. Giving her a dirty look, I headed for my car. The Lexus was still in our parking lot.
Five minutes later, I drove into the parking area of the Residence Inn, bypassing the office. I was afraid if I spoke to anyone they’d say, “You’re the lady who hung up on us so rudely.” Instead, I headed for Room 110. Fortunately I had visited people at the motel before and knew how the rooms wer
e laid out.
Good luck was with me. The maid was working just a few doors down. I stuck my head into that room, knocked and got her attention.
Okay, Kelly, use your acting skill if you have any.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “I was having a drink with Diane in 110 last night, and I left my purse. She’s not in, so could you let me in to get it?”
“I got work to do,” she said. “I’ll look when I clean that room.”
No sense telling her the room wouldn’t need cleaning because Diane didn’t sleep in it last night. “It’s worth a lot to me to get it, and I’m late for an appointment,” I said, pulling out the twenty and handing it to her.
She looked dubious but took the bill and fingered her keys. “I have to go with you.”
Covering my disappointment, I said, “That’s fine. I bet it’s right on the coffee table where I left it.”
I followed her stolid walk as she headed for the room, opened the door, and stood aside to let me in. Then, arms folded, she stood in the doorway and watched.
Of course there was no purse on the coffee table. “I’ll just look in the kitchenette,” I said. The counters were bare, so I came out and made a show of surveying the room without, of course, finding it. “Maybe she tucked it a drawer for safekeeping,” I said, pulling out first one drawer and then another.
Luck was still with me. There was a slim, black bag in one drawer. “Here it is,” I said triumphantly, waving it in the air. “Thank you so much.” I hurried past her, relieved that she didn’t ask me to identify the contents of the purse, and almost ran out the door, while she stalked back to the room she was cleaning.
I was about to jump in my car when a voice called, “Kelly!” I looked and saw the silver Acura parked next to me.
“Hi,” Elisabeth Smedley said.
For a moment I couldn’t do anything but stare at her. She always seemed to materialize out of thin air at the least appropriate time. After a second I managed to ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you. Parked just down from the lot behind your office and waited for you to leave. It’s part of learning about mysteries.”
“Don’t you have classes and studying?” Kelly, why are you leading her on? Because your mother taught you to be polite in all situations, that’s why.
“Not this morning,” she said cheerfully. “This is part of my creative writing project. Shall I just follow you to the office and see what you found out in there?” She gave a nod of her head toward the room I’d just left.
I itched to know what I found, but I wasn’t sharing it with Smedley. “No. Not today. I have to take this someplace, and I’m really rushed. If it turns out to be anything, I’ll call you.”
She looked so crestfallen that I felt guilty. “Use your imagination—you know there’s a Jane Doe. Why would I be at a motel room? See if you can work it into the plot of your novel.”
My words were apparently what she needed, because she brightened immediately. “I’ll do that and check back with you tomorrow.” She put the car in gear and drove off.
I couldn’t sit in my car in the parking lot and look through the purse. The housekeeper might really get suspicious. I drove out of the property as sedately as I could, and then raced along the twenty-mile-per-hour road by the zoo, praying there were no police watching from the bushes. I didn’t stop until I was parked behind my office again, and then I looked.
The purse held driver’s license, insurance and social security cards, and several papers I didn’t stop to examine. Diane Smith was Diane O’Gara Hollister. We’d found Ms. Lorna’s daughter, but now what? How could I confront her? Why had she hidden her identity? What or who was she hiding from? On a more practical note, she needed the insurance information, but I could hardly say I’d taken her purse. “Here’s your insurance card.” Nope. Subtle, that would be me.
Of course I spread it all out on my desk and called Keisha to look. The driver’s license was clearly the woman who had been in our office, but why was the first name Diane and not Sheila? We were arguing about whether or not to tell Ms. Lorna, with Keisha firmly opposed saying it was too soon, when the phone rang.
In her most businesslike tone, Keisha said “O’Connell and Spencer Real Estate.” After a second, “One minute, please,” and she handed me the phone while she began to study the papers I hadn’t looked at. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a faded newspaper clipping, perhaps more than one.
But my attention was quickly drawn to the person on the other end of the line. “Ms. O’Connell, my name is Janelle Davis. I’m a charge nurse at JPS, and we’ve had an incident here this morning.”
“An incident?” I echoed, immediately catching Keisha’s attention. It could only be about Diane Smith. But why was the nurse calling me?
“Yes. A man tried to bully his way into Ms. Smith’s room—because of the security problems, we have her in a private room. I told him no visitors, and he grew loud and belligerent. Security escorted him from the building, and I called the police. They’re temporarily putting a twenty-four hour guard on the room.”
“Was it a short, skinny man, looks like a rat?”
She chortled—so much for professional demeanor. “Not at all. Handsome as the devil and just about as ugly in attitude.”
We have a new player in the game. Completely puzzled now, I asked, “How can I help?”
“She wants to see you before she has surgery.”
Oh boy, do I want to see her. “I’ll be right there,” I said, grabbing my purse as I hung up.
“Right where?” Keisha asked. “Don’t forget the stuff in your pocket.”
“JPS. Diane Smith has asked to see me. There was an incident at the hospital this morning.”
Keisha slammed over to lock the front door and grab her purse. “Missy, there’s no way you’re leaving me behind. I’ll wait in the hall if she doesn’t want me in the room.” In a swift move, she gathered up the papers I’d found and put them in a large manila envelope. “Let’s go. You can tell me about it on the way.”
So once again we found ourselves in that awful parking garage. This time I was running on adrenaline and didn’t feel the fear I usually did in that place. Maybe fear would have been smarter.
****
Diane Smith had her bed rolled to a semi-sitting position, her right arm in some sort of sling affair, an IV going into her left arm. Above the bed, various monitors flashed alarmingly but with regularity, which I guessed was good.
She held out her left hand and mumbled, “Thank you for coming.” Her soft voice and slightly blurred words indicated medication, but she seemed to know what she was saying. “I have a confession.” She paused and then asked, “Is the other woman with you?”
“Keisha? Yes, she’s outside.” I didn’t add that she was impatiently pacing.
“Ask her to come in, please.” The words came just a bit haltingly.
Keisha of course exclaimed over her. “You poor baby!” Never mind that Diane was almost twice Keisha’s age.
“I misled you yesterday—was it just yesterday? Seems like a lifetime ago.” Her eyes wandered off, then returned to focus on us. “And now I need your help. I’m fairly certain Lorna McDavid is my mother….”
“We guessed,” I interrupted gently. “She’s asked us to find you.”
She moved restlessly in alarm, her left hand clutching the sheet, but her eyes brightened at my words. “She did? She really wants to see me?” Before I could tell her yes, she went on, “You mustn’t tell her. I hope I can see her eventually, but you mustn’t tell her yet. She’ll be in danger.”
I looked at Keisha, and we silently agreed not to tell her Lorna was already in danger. Instead, I asked, “Why?”
“The nurse told you a man tried to see me this morning and threw a fit. That was my husband—Bruce Hollister.”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I decided it was because I knew her name was Hollister.
“You didn’t want to see him?”
Keisha asked, stroking Diane’s left arm gently.
She shook her head vehemently. “No. I was hoping he wouldn’t find me in Fort Worth, but I think he hired a detective he knows.”
The story tumbled out slowly. Bruce Hollister was a well-known televangelist in San Antonio. He may have been well known, but it was no surprise neither Keisha nor I had heard of him.
“I told him a couple of weeks ago I’d found my mother. I used one of those search services. He already knew who and where she was. Told me he’d known for a long time but didn’t want me to find out.”
She put her face in her good hand, and I suspected she was crying silently. When she raised her face to look at us, she said, “He knew how much it meant to me. But he knew and he didn’t tell me. I told him I was leaving him, and he yelled that I could never leave him, he wouldn’t allow it. He threw things, full of rage, and capped off his performance by taking me against my will.” She shook her head. “Classic male dominance.”
I was trying to digest all this horror. He knew about his wife’s Hollywood mother and hadn’t told her? And then he threw a temper tantrum and raped her? My dislike for this man knew no bounds. “Why was his reaction to strong?” I asked.
“He was adamantly opposed to making any connection. It would, he claimed, tarnish his ministry. He was, well, fanatical about it, blowing it way out of proportion. No one in his ministry would care who his wife’s mother was. But he does.”
She paused and stared into space again.
“It seems,” Diane hesitated, faltered, looked away, and finally stammered. “Lorna McDavid had another name. And she wasn’t a starlet. She, uh, had another calling.”
The words fell into a void of silence. Neither of us knew what to say until Keisha said, “Honey, that don’t matter. We love your mom for who she is, not what she was.”
Love is too strong a word for what I sometimes felt toward Lorna McDavid, but this wasn’t the time to quibble.
“Thank you. It doesn’t matter to me either, and from what my dad said, they really were in love. He just couldn’t ruin his career by marrying her. I’m not sure I forgive him for that, but it’s too late. He was a good dad.”
