Deception in Strange Places (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Judy Alter

  “Nope, not even the next morning.”

  Gus, our mutt, sidled up to Mike, who boosted him up in his lap and kept talking. “Bruce Hollister is another matter. I did a little research today, called San Antonio. He’s pretty popular, and his wife is frequently right up there on the stage with him. I asked them if they could run down clips for us. He has an almost squeaky clean record.”

  “Almost?”

  “I was looking for a record of domestic violence reports and didn’t find it. But he was once accused of embezzling ministry funds. He was cleared, but that may be just because he has a clever lawyer or accountant—or both. Are you close enough to her to ask about abuse?”

  I stood and stretched. “I can probably ask sometime soon, but Mike, she told me he raped her just before she left him. I’ve met him, and I don’t like him one bit. When he’s not being smarmy charmy, he’s downright mean and ugly. And if—I know it’s a big if—he was behind the hit-and-run attack, I don’t think he’ll stop.”

  “In spite of the ongoing investigation, we can’t keep up the full-time police protection. Even from a distance, I know the district budget can’t handle it, and the powers that be will come down on us.”

  “She should be safe in the apartment. We just haven’t told her about that part of our plan. Do you know where your medical alert system thing is?”

  “Somewhere in the closet,” he said. At my insistence, Mike wore a medical alert bracelet after his accident, when he was out of rehab, back home, and alone most of the day.

  “I’ll dig it out.”

  I could tell he saw trouble ahead. “Let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day for both of us.”

  I lay awake much of the night, thinking about what fun it would be to take Sheila her new clothes and planning what to say to her about moving to our house and meeting her mother. A crucial scene would play out tomorrow.

  ****

  Keisha and I appeared at the hospital around ten in the morning. To my dismay, there was no policeman at the door of Sheila’s room. When I asked the nurse, she said, “The police withdrew the protection, but we have our security people alerted.” She shrugged her hands hopelessly and said, “It’s the best I can do. They come be every thirty minutes or so, and I have a panic button to call them if needed.”

  “Thank you. It sounds like you have everything in place. Will Mrs. Hollister’s doctor be on the floor this morning? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He should be, and I’ll alert him. She’ll have to give permission for you to talk to him.”

  I murmured, “Of course,” and with another thanks, I pulled Keisha into Sheila’s room. We were both laden down with plastic bags of clothes from Academy.

  “What do you have?” Sheila asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “Clothes,” we said and proceeded to parade the T-shirts and sweats and pants before her, holding each one up for her inspection. She giggled and said, “Perfect” with each new purchase we showed her.

  “We forgot about shoe size,” I said, handing her the size six moccasins.

  She took them in her hand and then, with her good left arm, reached down and slipped one on her foot. “It fits!”

  We were triumphant, seeing the joy these plain clothes bought her. “We bought big shirts,” Keisha explained, “because your right arm will have to be inside them. You get rid of that binding, and we’ll get some smaller.”

  She lay back in bed and said, “I think angels have visited me.”

  “Naw,” Keisha replied, “just a couple of crabby women who don’t like mean men.”

  She laughed like a teen-ager, and I decided having Sheila around was going to be fun. But for now, we had to get down to serious business.

  “Sheila, we have to talk about serious things. The police have withdrawn their protection. They had to because of budget constraints, but the hospital has good security, and I think you’re safe from your husband and whoever his henchman is….”

  “That little man? Skinny and short?”

  “That’s him,” Keisha said. “We call him the rat man, ‘cause he looks like a rat.”

  She laughed again. “He is a rat, but he’ll do whatever Bruce tells him to do, no matter how nasty. His name’s Ralphie…I think his last name is Coleman.”

  “He’s the one who ran you down,” I said bluntly.

  “Ralphie? Really?” She was silent a minute and then said, “If Bruce told him to kill me, he’d do it. And I’m fairly sure that’s what Bruce told him. That’s why I can’t meet my mother. Bruce would tell Ralphie to kill her.”

  It was my turn. “We think Ralphie has long since left Fort Worth. There’s an AP out on him, and he doesn’t dare show his face. The car he was driving when he hit you was found, but we have no idea where he is. I doubt he’s in Fort Worth.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” she said. “There are other versions of Ralphie.”

  My thoughts went to the panhandler, but I didn’t say anything.

  Keisha moved toward her and began stroking her back in a reassuring, comforting gesture, while I pushed on with the discussion. “We don’t think you will be safe at the rehab facility. With your permission, I’d like to ask your doctor about discharging you to our guesthouse and having a rehab therapist visit you there. It has a security system, we could arrange for frequent police drive bys, and at night we’d be there. I think you’d be safe.” I realized as I spoke she lived in a world where she could trust no one, so why would she trust us on such slim acquaintance?

  She sat straight up and looked at me. “Why would you do that? You don’t know me, except for that brief encounter in your office.” Instead of fear, there was real puzzlement in her voice—and in her eyes.

  “Because you’re a victim, and I don’t like to see women treated that way. And because I care about the woman I think is your mother. Tell me, what day exactly were you born?”

  “July 22, 1970.” It was a fast response, no figuring, no thinking it through.

  “Great answer.” I couldn’t help but grin. “I think we can arrange for you to meet your mother in a few days. Meantime, are you okay with our plan to move you to our guesthouse? It will cost money for the move. Of course, we won’t charge you for room and board. And we’ll feed you—you can’t cook much for yourself with that arm.”

  She sat and thought, and I was glad she didn’t jump to an answer. “You won’t find me a bother?”

  “Not at all.” I cleared my throat. “We’ve had other people stay there temporarily when they ran into a patch of trouble. You’ll be welcome at our dinner table.”

  “I could bring danger to you and your family. Do you have a family?”

  Keisha coughed, covering a chuckle, and I told her, “I have two daughters and a husband who is a police officer.”

  Sheila threw up her hands and said, “Where could I be safer? Yes, if you’re sure, I like your plan. Rehab sounded so drab and dreary.”

  When I talked to the doctor, he said rehab didn’t amount to a lot at this stage—just being sure Sheila (he called her Mrs. Hollister) kept the ability to move her hand and didn’t let her elbow freeze. A therapist could easily give her instructions in another setting and, in the long run, it would be cheaper than a rehab facility. He expected to release her the next day.

  I reported all this jubilantly to Keisha and Sheila and then said we had to leave to run a real estate business and clean a guesthouse.

  “Oh, don’t clean for me,” Sheila said. “I can do that.” And then she looked ruefully at her right arm and said, “I guess I really can’t, can I?”

  Chapter Eight

  Mike called the office that afternoon. “I think we found your rat man.” His tone was his police officer’s blunt, matter-of-fact tone.

  “Where?” I held my breath, stunned by the news. I thought Ralphie was safely back in San Antonio, and the police would put out a statewide APB. The thought that he was still in Fort Worth petrified me, especially after what Sheila told us ab
out him following her husband’s orders, no matter what. But I was unprepared for Mike’s next words.

  “In the Trinity River. Some guy fishing near that dam, south of downtown, saw something strange. Called our guys. We’re pretty sure it’s him, though hard to tell after a body’s been in the water for a while. José is the only one who ever saw him, and they called him in. He said he thought so, but with bloat….”

  My lunch threatened to come up, and I stopped him. “No more details,” I said. I didn’t want to think about anyone, dead or alive, floating helplessly in the Trinity River. “His name is…was…Ralphie Coleman.” I didn’t tell him Keisha and Sheila both could probably identify him, Sheila for sure, and I had seen him once. I wasn’t going to put any of us through that.

  “Great. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted. We may be able to run DNA on the car and the body—and if we track down a Ralphie Coleman in San Antonio, we can sure test some of his belongings.”

  “Ask Bruce Hollister if he knows him,” I said bitterly.

  “Kelly, don’t tell me how to do my job. We’re on it. We’ve talked to Hollister.”

  “You have? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Police business, Kelly,” he said gently.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  On the other end, Mike sighed, and I could almost see the exasperation on his face. “He painted himself as a worried husband. Nothing we could do, nothing we can charge him with. After this morning, someone will go back and ask about his relationship to the body we found. Satisfied?”

  I wasn’t, and he knew it. We said goodbye and hung up, and I sat staring at nothing. Someone really bad was involved in all this—if it really was Ralphie Coleman. Why would they kill him? Just because he didn’t get the job done with the hit-and-run? All I could think was someone was that desperate to keep Sheila in her role as a televangelist’s wife…and to keep the secret of her mother hidden. Was the panhandler that someone? Scary stuff.

  When I told Keisha about Mike’s call, all she said was, “Here it comes.”

  “Here what comes?”

  “You-know-what hittin’ the fan.”

  On that encouraging note, too distracted to pay attention to business, I turned to making a shopping list for Sunday night’s potluck supper. “Keisha, is Ms. Lorna joining us Sunday night?”

  “Oh, my, yes. I asked her when I took her groceries by, and she said she’s looking forward to it. Ask me, I think she expects you to have some news.”

  “What if Sheila’s out in the apartment by then. We can hardly introduce them to each other in the midst of all those people. Not fair.” I envisioned one of them fainting or backing off or I don’t know what. I just knew privacy was best.

  “Nope, not fair at all. We’ll make a plan when we know when she’s getting’ out of the hospital.”

  As

  if on cue, the phone rang. It was Sheila with the news that she was being dismissed that afternoon. She would take a cab to my house or office, depending on what time it was.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “Either Keisha or I will come get you. Just call here. I have to pick up my daughters at three, but Keisha will be here until five. If by chance it’s after that”—I know too well about waiting for a doctor to sign a dismissal order—”just call my cell.”

  “I don’t want to bother….”

  “Sheila, it’s no bother, and we don’t want you riding around in a cab. What if your husband disguised himself as a cab driver?” Far-fetched, but I wanted her to see what was at stake.

  “Oh,” she said in a subdued voice. “It really is that serious, isn’t it? I thought he was just mad.”

  I took a deep breath. “The police think they recovered Ralphie Coleman’s body from the river this morning. Yes, it’s serious. You’re to take every precaution.”

  I heard a gasp. I doubt she grieved much for Ralphie, but death made things much more real. After a minute, she said, “I’ll have to go by the motel.”

  “We’ll go get your things and check you out tomorrow,” I said.

  Now she was firm. “There’s something I have to get today.”

  I knew what it was—a gun. All I could do was pray she’d never have to use it. I told her to call and turned to Keisha. “Problem. She’s being dismissed this afternoon. You heard me tell her one of us would pick her up. She insists she has to get something from her hotel room, and we have to figure out when and how to tell her for sure that Lorna is her mother. Then we have to tell Lorna and arrange for them to meet. What are we going to do?”

  “Go to Lili’s for lunch, so we can have wine with our lunch,” Keisha said calmly. “Call Mike to meet us if he can.”

  Mike met us at 11:30. My lunch of chardonnay and the house salad made my nervous stomach roll around uncomfortably. Oblivious, Mike and Keisha both had the house burger, with blue cheese. Edgy as I was, I couldn’t imagine eating anything heavy.

  We did make a plan. I’d go home and make supper, and Keisha would take Sheila to the motel and then bring her to the house. Mike suggested I get a couple of marinated pork tenderloins from Central Market so he could grill. My afternoon was cut out—finish the shopping list, make a quick grocery run, and pick up the girls. Supper, I decided, would all be on the grill. I’d get eggplant and corn and toss a salad. I didn’t stop to wonder if the girls would eat eggplant, which I didn’t think they’d ever had before. Mike’s grill skills made them fairly open-minded.

  ****

  Keisha and Sheila arrived at the house about six. The girls were in the living room, anticipating meeting our new guest. Both had, without asking, cleaned up and combed their hair, though they still wore clothes rumpled from a day at school. They would be polite, though both had reservations about Mom bringing danger home again. Maggie reported that when she told Jenny about Sheila, Jenny said, “Your mom got in so much trouble trying to help us. I hope she doesn’t get in trouble again.” Maggie recounted this with a reproachful look at me. I simply hugged her and said Sheila was a lady who needed help, and we were going to help her.

  “Does she have a cat?” Em asked. When Claire stayed in the apartment, she brought her cat, and Em fell in love.

  “No, darling. But if she stays awhile, maybe we’ll see if she’d like one.” Gus would not be happy if we brought a cat into the household. Or maybe Gus would be ecstatic, and the cat would be miserable.

  When Keisha let herself in the front door, the girls rushed to hug her and then held polite hands out to Sheila. “Hi, I’m Maggie.”

  Followed by, “And I’m Em. Do you like cats?”

  Maggie elbowed her in the ribs, and Em yelled, “Ouch!”

  “Girl, let Ms. Sheila get in and sit down.”

  When everyone was settled, I asked about wine, and Sheila said she’d welcome a glass of white wine. Keisha and I both went to fix an appetizer and pour the wine, but I could hear Sheila’s soft voice, complimenting Maggie on her jeans—Maggie had grown careless about her dress but this year she was trying to fashion up for school. Maggie thanked her and told her they came from Target, which left me thinking, Too much information, Mags.

  Sheila turned to Em. “Yes, Em, I do like cats. I have one at home, and I miss him.”

  Em was in awe. “A him cat?” she asked, sending her sister into giggles. Keisha and I laughed silently.

  We sipped wine, making small talk, waiting for Mike to come in. He was only about twenty minutes behind. Mike had a way of making people feel welcome in our home, and he turned it on full blast for Sheila, dismissing her comments about being a bother.

  “I’ll take your bag out and get myself a beer,” he said.

  Dinner was good—the pork and vegetables a nice combination and grilled to perfection as Mike always did. Conversation was light, and the girls took part. Maggie even proposed a toast to Sheila’s recovery, and we all raised our glasses. Nobody mentioned Bruce Hollister or Ralphie Coleman or Lorna McDavid until we sat at the table after supper, lingering over our w
ine.

  Sheila said softly, “You have something to tell me, don’t you, Kelly?”

  I nodded. “And you know what it is, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Lorna McDavid is my mother. Does she know?”

  “Not yet.” I explained about timing and the party Sunday night and proposed that Keisha and I go see Ms. Lorna the next morning and see if she’d like to join us for supper that night for a private meeting. “Would that be all right with you?”

  Sheila nodded. “I think I’d like all of you to be present when we meet. We can visit privately later.”

  Mike spoke for the first time. “I think that’s a good idea. We’ll be here. Keisha, does Ms. Lorna have any favorite foods?”

  She sighed. “I buy a lot of sliced turkey and sliced ham.”

  Maggie didn’t hesitate a minute. “Mike, will you make poor boy sandwiches?” Classic girls’ favorite—French bread, bacon, lettuce, tomato, cheese, sliced turkey, mayo—served with pickles.

  He grinned. “Sure. If you’ll help me. Keisha, will she eat that?”

  “She ate that spicy hot dog, didn’t she?” she retorted.

  Sheila laughed. “I’m sitting here a bundle of nerves because I’m about to meet my mother for the first time, and you all are talking about food. Have I wandered into hamburger heaven?”

  “No,” Em piped up, “McShandy’s hamburger shack.”

  We all laughed and what could have been a tense time passed. Keisha went off to settle Sheila in her new quarters and help her get changed; the girls went to their rooms to do whatever it is girls that age do in their rooms—I hoped it was reading, but they could have been watching the small TV in Maggie’s room. Mike and I were left alone to tidy up from supper and make plans.

  “Busy weekend,” he said. “Guess our grocery bill is going to skyrocket.”

  “At least this weekend. Will you take the girls shopping for sandwich supplies, while Keisha and I are at Ms. Lorna’s?”