by Judy Alter
I had two questions, and I began with the easiest. “She told us your name was Sheila.”
Diane smiled ruefully. “I am…or was…Sheila. Bruce thought Sheila sounded too Irish. He said a more sedate name would look better. I’m going back to using Sheila. It’s the name I grew up with, and I like it. And I plan to leave Bruce…if I live long enough.”
A death premonition? Her comment prompted my next question. “What can we do to help you?
“Protect my mother.” This answer was quick and sure, but Diane was tiring. Fatigue showed in her eyes and in her restless movements, now slower and less frantic.
She also gave us her room key and asked us to go look for a small black purse. It had the insurance papers she needed—we exchanged knowing looks and never said a word except that we would do it and bring whatever else she wanted such as gowns, cosmetics, etc.
She gave a slight wave with her left hand and said listlessly, “Whatever.”
Seeing how tired she was, we each gave a gentle hug on her good side, assured her we’d be back with her things and we’d be waiting to hear about the surgery, and then we left.
Outside her room, Keisha and I almost sighed in chorus.
“Whew!” Keisha said. “You have got us into it again.”
“Me?” I squeaked. “I think you dug this one up all by yourself, but I don’t see any danger. Do you?”
Her look was dark. “Yeah, Miss Naïve. I see lots of danger—to Sheila, to Lorna, and to us if we keep messing with things.
We left the hospital in silence.
****
At the first stoplight after we made our way out of the dreaded parking garage, I activated my cell phone, which I had naturally turned off in the hospital. Mike had called, not once but four times. I started to punch the speed dial for him, but Keisha held out a restraining hand.
“Wait. Before we go any further, let’s agree. Neither of us will ever tell Ms. Lorna what Sheila said about her not really being an actress.”
Eyes straight ahead, I said, “I bet she was an aspiring actress, just one of those who ended up too often on a producer’s couch instead of in his production. I bet that ‘other calling’ story was something that Hollister character told his wife, and she believed it. But, agreed, we’ll never mention it.”
And then, completely out of character, Keisha chuckled. “I bet she’s got some stories to tell. And I think she really did fall for this O’Gara character.”
Probably so, but we’re all hopeless romantics. I called Mike.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“On the way to Bun Appetit for a hot dog.” I glanced at Keisha for an okay, and she nodded. “Want to meet us?”
“Okay, if we can talk outside with some privacy. That place is too small inside. Everyone can hear every word you say.”
It was a pleasant October day, in the seventies, and I saw no reason to disagree. “Outside it is,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Ice tea and a chili dog,” he said without hesitation.
Bun Appetit was a small haute cuisine hot dog stand, operated by a friend we’d met through strange circumstances having to do with a neglected child and drugs. But that was over a year ago, and we had encouraged Mona to open the shop of her dreams. Her daughter and Maggie had become best friends, and Mona and Jenny now were both part of our extended family. It was too bad it took the murder of her drug-dealing husband to allow mother and child to flourish, but they really had.
Mona greeted us with hugs and took our orders. I wanted the German dog, with kraut and cheese, while Keisha went all the way with a Chicago dog. I never could understand how she relished all those condiments on one hot dog. Mona waved us away when we started to pay.
“Never,” she said firmly. “This is your café as much as mine, and I delight in seeing you all. Shhh. Don’t tell Peter.” She was referring to the owner of the Old Neighborhood Grill, where we had most of the meals we didn’t eat at home.
I smiled, thanked her too profusely, and said we’d sit outside at one of the picnic tables shaded with huge umbrellas.
“I’ve had a bit of trouble with a panhandler lately,” she said. “Don’t let him bother you.”
“I’m sure when Mike pulls his badge, the panhandler won’t be a problem.”
Mike was in a bit of a snit, which wasn’t unusual for him when he thought I was getting involved where I shouldn’t. “Where were you two all morning? I called the office and left four messages on your cell.”
“We were at the hospital with Diane Smith, and I turned my cell phone off. Hospital courtesy, you know.” Yes, that was a bit of a jab at him.
“Hospital courtesy, my foot! She’s not allowed visitors, and there’s a policeman at the door.”
“She asked to see us,” I said, trying to calm him down. “A nurse called this morning and said she specifically asked.”
“Did you know there was a scene there about a guy who wanted to see her? Claimed to be her husband.”
“He was.” I took a bite of my dog—delicious—and after chewing it down, said, “Calm down, Mike, and we’ll tell you the whole story.”
Keisha and I alternated in telling him about Sheila/Diane Hollister and Bruce Hollister and Sheila’s plea that we keep Lorna safe. By our earlier agreement, we left out Sheila’s confession that her mom was less actress than call girl. I didn’t believe it anyway.
Mike had devoured half of his hot dog and all of his iced tea. When Keisha went to refill his tea glass, he asked, “Okay, Kelly. What’s next?”
“We’ll go get some things for her out of her motel room and take them to the hospital tomorrow. Mike, she’s in Fort Worth to stay, and she can’t live at the Residence Inn forever.”
“Is money a problem?”
“Doesn’t seem to be, but I think she’s staying there because it has kitchen facilities. She can’t cook or care for herself with her shoulder in a cast or a wrap. She’s having surgery this afternoon, and I think the nurse said they’d bind it. They’ll send her to rehab in a couple of days, but she wouldn’t have any protection there.”
Keisha came back just then and set the tea in front of Mike. “Why you looking so solemn, Mike? We haven’t gotten in trouble yet.”
“Nope, but I know we’re all about to. Kelly’s working toward telling me Diane or Sheila or whatever her name is will be moving into our guest apartment.”
I couldn’t help grinning. Mike was a sixth-sense skeptic, almost never believed in it except for Keisha. But here he was, anticipating what would come next. “How did you know?”
“How could I not know? I’ve lived with you for how long now?”
I didn’t bother trying to figure it out.
Keisha jumped in. “Kelly, you figure Ms. Cynthia would like some company? She loves taking care of people….”
Mike interrupted with a firm, “No! Whoever takes this woman in is courting a bit of danger, and I won’t have Kelly’s mom in danger. I can protect my family, but I can’t protect Cynthia several blocks away.”
“I don’t think Otto wants to share her,” I added. Otto was Mom’s “companion.” She swore it was platonic, not that I cared, but they were together all the time and made an unlikely couple. Mom was tall and in pretty good shape for a woman in her late sixties; Otto was probably in his seventies, short and round. And where Mom had loosened up and become more social after moving from Chicago to Fort Worth, Otto just wanted to sit in Mom’s house and have her cater to him. Nope, that wasn’t the place for Diane/Sheila.
And I wasn’t even worried about my girls. I couldn’t believe anyone would seriously try to hurt us…or Di—Sheila if she was on our property, whereas at the Residence Inn she’d be fair game. Nope, putting her in the apartment was the solution.
And for starters, we all had to learn to call this mystery lady Sheila, not Diane. I made a mental note to introduce her to the girls as Sheila.
Mike resigned himself more easily than I expected. “Okay, yo
u two do what you need to do and call me when you need me. You will need me, I can tell you that.” With those words, he finished his hot dog, washing it down with the last of his tea, kissed my nose, and left.
Keisha and I just looked at each other. Without another word, we finished our lunch, but before we could leave, a panhandler approached us. He was tall, his hair dark and neatly combed, and he wore aviator sunglasses. He simply wasn’t as shabby as most panhandlers. In short, I was suspicious, when he said, “Help me buy lunch, ladies? What you ate looks so good.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Not today.” Now that I thought of it, I’d seen him lurking around the restaurant, watching, not bothering other customers who came and went. And he didn’t come up to us until Mike was gone. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Was this someone who was looking specifically for us? And if so, what was his purpose. He wasn’t going to get violent in the middle of Magnolia Avenue; at least I hoped he wasn’t.
I went back inside to tell Mona her panhandler was back, and she said, “I never saw that guy before in my life. And did you notice he didn’t bother anyone but you two? And after Mike had left? Kelly, are you getting into something again?”
“I hope not,” I muttered and headed for my car. Keisha followed me, and I didn’t ask her—I just headed for the Residence Inn and drove straight to Room 110, as though I lived there. I had a key, didn’t I?
But in the car Keisha said, “That guy was giving us a warning, Kelly. I’m watching, but he isn’t following us. Probably already knows where she’s been staying.”
A great sense of unease settled over me.
Chapter Five
Sure enough, Sheila’s room had been searched. Dresser drawers opened, clothes dumped on the floor, the bed torn apart. At least the panhandler, whoever he was, hadn’t gone so far as to split couch cushions or damage any of the furnishings. It made me uneasy to go through Sheila’s things, because I sensed that man’s presence, as though he were still watching us. I wished I had looked around the parking lot more carefully. And though I’d never tell Mike, I wished I had my gun.
We picked up clothes dumped on the floor and went through a few left in drawers. What we found was mostly not a surprise after her appearance in my office—lots of expensive clothes, coordinating outfits with high-end labels and an amazing array of shoes. There were a couple of workout or jogging outfits that looked more for show than actual working out. No plain sweats or jeans.
“Shoot,” Keisha exclaimed. “Don’t this woman ever wear jeans and a T-shirt?”
“Apparently not,” I said. “I couldn’t relax in clothes like these. I need my sloppy clothes to be comfortable.”
“We know,” she said drily.
I started through a couple of piles of lingerie that had been thrown on the floor—silky, lacy stuff that I’d never wear, thong panties for which I thought Sheila was a bit old, and lacy bras. Wonder if the televangelist has a kinky side? “None of this is appropriate to take to a hospital,” I said aloud, as I dug deeper. A few things were still in the drawer, and as I reached for them my hand hit something hard and metal, and I jumped. Underneath the lingerie was a.38 handgun, sort of like the one Mike had made me get. Wonder how the panhandler missed this? Or wasn’t it what he was looking for. In fact, what was he looking for?
Keisha was staring at me. “You look like you just found a snake.”
“Not a snake. A gun. Why would Diane Hollister have a gun?”
“Call her Sheila,” she said automatically, “and she’d have a gun to protect herself from her husband and the rat man and maybe the guy we, uh, met today.” She paused for a minute, her hand on her forehead. “Why didn’t the guy take the gun? You know what, I think this trashed room is just another warning.”
“Mike will have to know that she has a permit to carry if she stays in the guest apartment.”
“Don’t go jumping your bridges. We have to find out what she wants first. And, no, we’re not taking clothes to your apartment today. Leave the gun alone—you get your fingerprints on it? Not good, Kelly.”
“I didn’t touch it. I felt it through all this silky, sexy stuff.”
“That’s good. We got to tell Mike about the panhandler and the room too.”
“Leave that that to me. What will room service do when they see this?”
“They won’t see it. You and I are going to straighten it up right now. We can’t bring that poor child back here, whenever, to a mess like this.”
We actually made short work of rehanging clothes and returning lingerie to drawers. I left the bed for the maid, but made sure the pictures were hanging straight, the kitchen neat. It just looked like a room where someone had slept. For extra measure, I wet some towels and threw them on the bathroom floor, so it would look like someone had showered there.
Keisha watched me with a skeptical eye.
On the way back to the office, she asked, “You got a plan?”
“Yes,” I said decisively. “We’ll go to the hospital tomorrow morning and ask her what she wants us to bring or buy for her while she’s there. And, if she’s not too medicated, we’ll ask her about the apartment.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
When we got back to the office, Lorna McDavid had left a crisp message. “Keisha, it’s my grocery day.”
Clapping a hand to her face, Keisha said, “I forgot. We got too much goin’ on. What am I going to tell her about your search for her daughter?”
“My search has become our search,” I said archly. “Tell her we’re working on a lead and ask if she’s seen the rat man.” I settled down to answer phone calls and go through the mail, though my mind was barely on what I was doing and kept going back to the rat man and the panhandler. What a pair to have for suspicious characters!
When she came back, Keisha reported Lorna hadn’t seen the rat man since the day before yesterday. That would fit. After he ran down Sheila, he went undercover. My bet was he went back to San Antonio with Bruce Hollister—if the Reverend Mr. Hollister did indeed go back to his headquarters.
“Keisha, why don’t you check a few of the bigger hotels and asked if Bruce Hollister is registered?”
“Good idea, boss. I’m on it.”
While she began calling, I looked up Bruce Hollister on Google and came up with a clear picture. He was indeed a good-looking man, though a bit too suave for me. His hair, blondish-brown, waved back from his forehead, and I was fairly sure a stylist had combed it for a photo shoot. In fact he probably had on a bit of makeup to accent the way his deep blue eyes seemed to pierce right through the viewer. Although he was smiling, I thought it was posed. He didn’t look like a kind man to me, and I disliked him without ever seeing the real man. Come on, Kelly. You’re biased because of Sheila/Diane. What if she’s lying and he’s really a good guy?
I checked him out on Facebook and discovered he called his church The Church of San Antonio, which struck me as a bit arrogant. I suspected his Facebook page was a way of enlisting followers, so I “liked” it, intending to get news any time he posted it
I printed out the picture and tucked it in my purse, just as Keisha announced, “He’s at the Worthington.”
I considered a minute. “Don’t suppose you’d like to go have a happy hour at the Worthington, would you? My treat.”
She looked down at her jeans and her bright turquoise tunic in some kind of purposely wrinkled fabric, with a wild design printed on it that seemed to flow and change as she moved. “Uh, I don’t think so. You go. I’ll watch the girls and fix supper.”
So I called Claire, who was delighted. “Pick you up about five,” I said. Then I went off to get the girls, having arranged with Keisha for her to be at the house by 4:45. I’d defrost something for dinner. “Make enough to stay yourself and include Claire,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Boss Lady,” she said with an exaggerated accent and a laugh. Then she asked, “What am I going to tell Mike? He won’t like the truth at all.”
“Just don’t tell him where I went and why. Say Claire and I wanted a drink for a little girl talk. It’s not that big a stretch of the truth.”
Keisha rolled her eyes. “With all that’s goin’ on, he’s not gonna believe that for one second.”
I just hoped he wouldn’t call and demand to know where I was and what I was doing while we were sipping wine—I hoped in the company of one Bruce Hollister.
****
It was almost five-thirty when we got off the elevator and headed for the balcony cocktail lounge at the hotel. The lounge area, suspended between the first and second levels of the hotel lobby, was just beginning to fill up, and piano music floated across from the adjacent second floor. Bruce Hollister was nowhere in sight.
We settled ourselves on a couch by one of the small tables and ordered wine and the artichoke/cheese appetizer. Taking a sip, Claire asked, “So tell me exactly why we’re here.”
Since I wanted her to carry the major part of this little theatrical production, I poured out the whole story, all the while looking around to make sure Hollister hadn’t come in and overheard me.
“If you don’t stop looking around and acting so guilty, you’ll give yourself away. I’m supposed to do what?”
“Just kind of saunter over and introduce yourself as a follower, maybe asks what brings him to Fort Worth.”
“You can’t do that?”
“You’ll do it better. You’re sexier and more poised. I’m wondering if I should disappear if he buys you a drink.”
She shook her head. “Take your drink up by the bar. I don’t particularly want to be left at the Worthington. And if I turn and give you a signal, that means for you to come join us.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Maybe this is all a waste, and he won’t show up.” I added the latter a bit hopefully because I was beginning to get cold feet.
“Out of luck, sister. There he is.”
Sure enough, Bruce Hollister strolled down the half flight of steps as if he owned the world, immaculately dressed in a well-cut suit, blue with a faint pinstripe, a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and a pink tie. I would never suggest to Mike that he wear a pink tie, but on this guy, it looked good. He stood at the bar, sort of like a lord surveying his kingdom, ordered a martini, and took a seat that gave us a direct line of sight to him and him to us.
