She was on Rancho Alto Road, coming up on the strip mall where Goodbody’s was. Without thinking, she swerved into the parking lot. No matter how hard she tried, the fact that Stephanie had planned her horse’s death felt like a jigsaw piece that just didn’t want to fit. She parked in front of the store and went inside.
The place was empty. Only a few patrons were sweating in the gym next door.
But instead of Jim at the counter, she recognized a tall muscular girl with two French braids down her back that she always wanted to call Heidi, but her name was actually Hannah. She and Rebecca played softball together when they were little and Deirdre was coaching.
They greeted each other with a hug.
“Why aren’t you in school Hannah?”
“I do work study, three days a week,” Hannah explained as she went back behind the counter. “I’m here Monday, Wednesday and Friday.”
“That’s good.” She wondered how educational working in a vitamin store could possibly be. “Hey, I was hoping Jimmy was here. Little Jimmy.”
“He doesn’t work on Mondays. Why’d you want to talk to him?” Hannah asked.
“I wanted to ask him about a client of mine who made purchases here.” She was only slightly lying. “He said it was Mrs. Bartley, but could he have been mistaken? I mean, do you start to recognize customers like that Heid—I mean Hannah?
“I haven’t worked here long enough. But maybe he does. He’s been working here since he was ten.”
“He also said the purchase was made on the first of the month, but I wanted to make absolutely sure of that. Can you pull it up on the computer?” She had to be certain it was Stephanie who bought the selenium. Then she could let it rest for good.
Hannah eyed her somewhat skeptically. “I don’t think I’m allowed to.” Her eyes flashed to a woman that had just come into the store through the gym entrance. She greeted her, and when the woman started shopping up and down the aisles, Hannah lowered her voice, “But as for the date, there’s a bug in the system. If we enter a customer rewards card by hand, it doesn’t put the right date. It always puts the first of the month. Do you know if it was entered by hand? We do that a lot because we have this point system as salespeople.” She whispered, “Jimmy cheats on it all the time."
“Then you’re saying it could’ve been bought any day in October.”
“Yep.” Hannah folded her arms on the counter and puffed her cheeks. “I tried to tell Mr. Peabody,” (that was Jim’s last name, believe it or not), “that I could fix that bug for him, but I don’t think he believes me. He’d rather pay some lazy programmer thousands of dollars to not do it right. He didn’t even notice the bug, I did. See, I’m keeping a log.” She pulled out a notebook with dates, times, and symptoms.
Deirdre was impressed. “Jim can be a bit of a chauvinist.”
“A what?”
“I’ll talk to him for you Hannah. You’re a smart girl.”
“Thanks Coach.”
The customer walked up then and placed a big jar of LipoCrush on the counter. Hannah began to ring it up and Deirdre turned to go, somewhat relieved. At least now there was a shadow of a doubt about Stephanie’s guilt. Even if there were no shadows in this weird yellow light outside.
But if Stephanie was innocent, who killed Swift Justice? As she pushed out the door into the smoke-scented air, Hannah called out, “Say hi to Rebecca for me. She never talks to me anymore.”
You and me both Hannah. You and me both. Deirdre turned to wave one last time.
But then her eyes popped. Hannah was sliding the woman’s purchase into a slick black plastic bag, with ‘GB’ in big gold letters on it.
The same bag the woman at the Bartley house was carrying.
She had to get to High Living.
Sharon watched as she sifted through the magazine’s file photos, while Deirdre told her what was going on with Brian Bartley. “Bastard slapped a restraining order on me. He’s not right in the head. You should do an exposé on him.”
“That’s not what we do here Dee,” Sharon balanced elegantly on her desk while half-heartedly filing one of her nails with a gold nail file. She looked up with a sly grin. “But you could always do a freelance piece for the Tribune if you’re serious.”
“Okay, maybe I will.” Deirdre continued flipping through the manila folders in the musty old file boxes labeled ‘Society Pics’. “How many wives has he had?”
“I don’t remember, but they should all be in there. There’s about five folders just for him.”
Deirdre found them and snatched them all out of the box. “What about girlfriends? Does he have a reputation as a womanizer? I saw him with some skanky bitch at his house—not his wife—maybe you should put that in your article.”
“Oh now it’s my article?” Sharon laughed. “No, I wouldn’t say that. He’s had his share of marriages, but haven’t we all? He seems more focused on land grabs than anything else.” She twirled the antique nail file.
Deirdre searched through the folder labeled Bartley 2001—. There were plenty of photos of Stephanie with Bartley, just like she had pictured them. Long shining hair, little black dress, Mona Lisa smile.
She opened the previous folder, labeled 1990-2000.
And there it was. In glossy color, in younger and better times, standing next to Bartley in a ruffled purple cocktail dress, a glass of bubbly in her hand. Mouth wide open, head thrown back, laughing.
It hit her like an anvil. That wasn’t Brian’s mistress.
“That was his ex! That’s the Mrs. Bartley that Little Jimmy knows!” she said, looking at a slightly puzzled Sharon and back at the photo. That day at the Bartley house, when the woman had waved at her, looking so mischievous, calling out “Adios!” She’d had those freckles, that scrunched up nose, the same…
Her phone rang, and she flipped a whole pile of 8x10 photos off the desk, to Sharon’s dismay.
“Hello?”
A robotic female voice spoke. “Hello. This is a message from San Amaro Hills Elementary School. School has been let out early today due to…” a different voice, less robotic: “…natural disaster…” Robot voice again: “Please arrange for immediate pick up of your child.”
“Shit!” She snapped the phone shut.
Sharon stood up from gathering the photos and piled them willy-nilly on the desk. She jangled her office keys. “I’m going home to pack. Go get those kids out of school and get home yourself.”
“Okay, but I’m taking this.” She shook the photo in her hand.
The photo was undated, but it was from the 1990-2000 folder. Brian Jr. would’ve been born about the same year as Justin, 1995. So there was a possibility.
At Clara’s elementary school, the principal was outside explaining to the upset parents that they’d closed the school partly due to air quality and partly because, even though the fires weren’t close yet, they were erratic and fast moving.
“Does Peter need a ride too?” she asked Clara as they got in the car.
“No Mommy.”
She pulled away from the curb, and headed towards home. “Who’s class is he in, if he’s not in yours?” Just then her phone rang and she answered as she drove, to much scolding from Clara, who hated when she did that. It was Stanton Academy. A much nicer recording, but the same message. She flipped a U-turn and sped the opposite direction. On the drive, she got another call from the high school, then another from Rebecca asking for a ride home.
As they pulled into the madhouse of the circular driveway at Stanton Academy, she spotted Brian Jr. standing in the quad. This could be her only chance. She got out of the car, the 8x10 photo clutched in her hand, and marched toward him. “Brian!”
He turned. “Hi Mrs. Boyd.” The same chipper greeting. Almost. There was hesitation, a lack of warmth, something that had poisoned his sunshiny demeanor.
She heard Justin’s voice behind her. “Mom, hi, what are you doing? I was over there waiting for you.”
She unrolled the photo
and held it in front of Brian’s face. Maybe a little too close, because he stepped back. “Is this your mother?” she asked.
He stepped back further, looked around.
“Brian, tell me. Is this your mother?”
Justin pulled her sleeve. “Mom!” he protested.
“It’s okay Justin,” Brian Jr. said. A heavy blanket of seriousness came over him. “Yes. My biological mother.”
“But you call Stephanie Mom.”
He nodded. “I don’t speak to her, my real mom. She has…substance abuse issues.”
Stephanie’s words from her hospital bed echoed through her head now. I can’t leave, I can’t just walk away. I love Brian too much. She was talking about Brian Jr., not her husband. She couldn’t walk away because she would have no legal standing to be in his life, no hope of custody or visitation.
And that kind of love between a step-mom and step-son was sure to inspire jealousy in the biological mom that got ditched. Maybe enough jealousy to kill. You don’t go through all that labor just to give it away, for someone else to reap the rewards.
She sensed Justin backing away, distancing himself from her. But right now, she and Brian were the only two people in the world. “How is Stephanie? Is she okay?”
“I think so.” He looked forlorn for a microsecond, and she had the irrational desire to take him home with her.
“Are you okay?” she asked, searching his face, but then she was vaguely aware of legs in her periphery, approaching with a short-man speedwalk that would put Tom Cruise to shame. Brian Bartley Sr. pulled his son away by the arm. “Leave my family alone!” he growled.
The principal scurried their way. Both Brians retreated to the black Mercedes at the curb. Brian Sr. walked around to get in the driver’s side. In that split second she ran to Brian Jr., grabbed his hand, hugged him, and before he could pull away whispered, “If you or Stephanie need me, I’m there.”
Brian Sr. barreled around the car. She stood to make her getaway but it was too late. He shoved himself between her and his son, pressing his bulk against her.
“You’re violating your restraining order,” he said, louder than he had to.
She belly-bumped him right back. They were the same height after all. “Bite me,” she growled through clenched teeth. She noticed with detached interest that her fists were balled up.
“Break it up!” The school security guard was running towards them now. She turned and fled.
Back in the car, as they drove away to a chorus of honking horns of the parents she cut off, Justin wailed, “Oh my god,” putting his hands over his head, his ears, his face. “My mother almost started a fight, at school! I can’t believe it. I mean, I’ve never even gotten in a fight. You raised me not to!”
“I don’t wanna hear it Justin.”
“What did Mr. Bartley mean about a restraining order?”
“Not now!” she barked.
Clara started crying in the backseat.
Just leave Deirdre. Get out of here. The cold look in Stephanie’s eyes. The way she trembled. She had thought it was anger, or drugs. But was she actually scared for her life? Was Stephanie trying to protect her by telling her to leave while she could?
She picked up Rebecca, dropped the kids at home and left again for Mrs. Fey’s house, unable to stand being with them—or herself. The sky was overcast brown, the sun a pink disc behind the thick smoke.
When she arrived, she was surprised to see the old woman standing at the gate, smiling at her as she slowed and parked the Bronco. They hugged.
“Is Peter home?” she asked. “I came to check on you both and see if you have an evacuation plan. You both could come stay at our house, wait it out…?”
“Well!” Mrs. Fey put her hand over her heart and the fingers fluttered a bit. “Thank you. It’s so kind of you. But no. You might want to think about sheltering here instead. Bring your horses. This part of the valley never burns.”
“There’s always a first time,” Deirdre said sternly. A sick feeling hit her. Was Kathleen one of those stubborn people who would stay with her house till the end? She didn’t even own a car, or a phone. Well, she could commit suicide if she wanted to, but Peter was another matter. “What if Peter comes and stays with us? Clara would love it, and it would be one less thing for you to worry about.”
Mrs. Fey thought for a bit while Cotchee threaded around her skirts, purring so loudly the air around him vibrated, shaking his glossy black hide. “No, his mother will look after him,” she said finally.
“His mother? I’m sorry, I never asked about her. I just assumed his mother was,” she searched for a diplomatic word, “out of the picture.” Once again, she’d gotten a family all wrong. “I’m such an idiot.”
That was the real reason she’d come here. She had humiliated Justin. Rebecca had told her to mind her own business. She didn’t know how to help Stephanie, or Lina, or Vivian, who she realized just now was probably trying to drink herself to death. Now even Mrs. Fey didn’t want her help, and she didn’t know what to do.
Kathleen took Deirdre’s hand, and looked up into her eyes. “Sometimes you can’t help people.” She paused, her eyes darting to the side. “But then again, other times, you absolutely must help them,” she said under her breath.
“But, how do you know the difference?”
“I’m sorry dear, but I have something urgent I need to take care of. Could you excuse me?” Mrs. Fey let go of her hand and looked around for the cat.
She felt ashamed. She’d always assumed that Mrs. Fey had all the time in the world. “Okay, but if the firemen come, please please please be ready to go, and don’t put up a fight.”
Kathleen’s eyes sparkled inside their crescent-shaped sockets, but she said, “Yes ma’am,” and did a little fake salute.
Deirdre shot her one more eyebrow-raised look, making sure the old lady knew she meant business. As she drove away, in the rear-view mirror she saw Mrs. Fey pick up the gigantic cat, walk towards the trees at the end of the road, and disappear into them.
Now Deirdre was alone with her decision. By the time she got to the end of Old Dairy Road she’d made up her mind. She couldn’t just do nothing. It was her duty to act. She pulled over, dialed Deputy Harvey’s number and told him everything—what she knew about the horse, the fall at the jump, Brian Bartley and his meeting with his ex-wife, the poison, and what she knew for sure: Stephanie was definitely not okay.
* * *
HECTOR PULLED OFF AT the decrepit old gates, sliding the Dodge under an overhang of wild blackberry bushes, out of sight of the road. Better to make an approach on foot first and scope out the situation, even though this was going to be one of the easiest grabs he’d ever done. He had the roll of duct tape around one wrist and zip ties in his back pocket.
The mid-afternoon sky was yellow and acrid. He took his handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed his forehead, then his upper lip.
He tried to be quiet, just for the sake of it, as he pushed through the gate, not crunching the dead leaves underfoot. Down the pathway, between two big maples, he stuck close to the edge of the trail. At a break in the bushes, he looked across the creek, through the willows and maples, and he could see her. She was lying half inside the tent, half out. Her upper body was on the concrete slab, eyes staring at the sky. Her whole body bounced to an unheard rhythm. She took a drag from her cigarette.
He crossed the ruins of the old bridge. It was cracked, big concrete chunks had fallen into the water, rebar sticking out of it. Closer now, he saw inside the tent. Her legs were crossed and the foot that dangled was doing a jiggly little dance. A few yards closer and he saw that her earphones rendered his silence unnecessary.
Humming along no doubt to some stupid pop song, she twisted her long dirty blond hair into tangled strands. She wore ripped jeans and a purple tank top with scrawled silver writing across the chest. It was a hot day, and a few beads of sweat glistened at her hairline. His gaze lingered on her unformed body. She
was so cocky, like her brothers, so sure that she was beautiful, wanted, had a place in the world.
The orange car was nowhere. The small bike lay against the tree.
Before he could make his move, her eyes tracked something in the sky, a bird’s shadow sliding across the concrete slab toward where he stood as still as the oak tree behind him. Her eyes met his.
She gasped. Twisting around, she jumped to a crouch on all fours.
He sprung into action, following as she darted into the tent, then cursed as something heavy clunked against his skull. She flitted past his legs like a fish in a stream. He recovered and charged out of the tent after her.
He spotted her running flat out, long arms and legs pumping, up the wide trail to the south. She was penned in on both sides by dense manzanita thicket. It took more than a few strides to catch up with her, but when he did, it only took a kick to the ankle to drop her. Wild eyed, she pulled herself away from him using her arms and one good leg.
He reached down and removed the phone from her clenched hand. The tinny beat of music flung around as the earphones flailed.
“What do you want?” she snarled.
He didn’t feel like talking, so he just shook his head. Taking a zip tie from his pocket, he dropped the phone and stepped closer, grasping her arms.
“Holy shit.” The girl’s voice had changed. He ignored her, but she wriggled farther away and pointed up the trail. “What the fuck is that?”
He grabbed her wrists again and zip-tied them together. He wasn’t going to fall for the oldest trick in the book from some born-yesterday bimbo. He yanked her to her feet. Both of them faced up the trail now.
“Oldest trick,” he allowed himself, and turned back to her, pulling a strip of duct tape off the roll on his wrist.
“Dude, you don’t see her?” her eyes widened until the white was visible at the top and bottom of her irises. He watched her pupils adjust. She was definitely looking at something. He looked behind him again. Nothing.
October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1) Page 29
