by Lois Winston
“Okay.” I hung up the phone and turned toward Keisha, but she was on the phone again. “Theresa,” she said, pushing the button that sent the call to me.
I managed a cheerful attitude, though I felt anything but. “Hi, Theresa.”
“Miss Kelly, I have good news. Joe got the job. We want to celebrate. I’ll pick the girls up this afternoon, so you can work, and about six or so, I’ll take them with me to get pizza and then pick up Joe. Then we’ll come back to the house and we’ll all celebrate.”
Relief washed over me. There was my solution to the problem Buck Conroy presented. Sometimes I think the Lord really does look after me. “That’ll work great. I have a four o’clock appointment and wasn’t sure what to do about it. I should be home by five.”
“Perfect,” she said. “I have my key. And I’ll come get the car seat.”
“Theresa, if we’re celebrating, do you want to ask your dad to join us and bring the boys? I’ll buy the pizza.”
She hesitated. “No, not yet. One night soon, though. I have to take it slow with Dad.”
I could understand that. “Okay, I’ll see you when I get home. And thanks. Oh, I’ll still pay for the pizza.”
It was not a good day. I fiddled, and I paced, and I twirled my hair—a habit that irritated Keisha. “Did you ever hear that poem by Gwendolyn Brooks about ‘White girls be always fiddlin’ with their hair’? That’s what you be doin’ right now.”
“Well,” I snapped, “I could sit on my hands.”
“Maybe you should,” she said blandly and turned back to whatever she was doing. Trust Keisha to keep me in balance—or at least try.
Theresa called about 3:30 to report that she and the girls were at the house and baking cookies. “For dessert,” she explained. I thanked her, but I couldn’t think about cookies at that moment.
By four o’clock, I had built a hundred stories in my mind, all of them bad and Jo Ellen North the villain in all. When Buck Conroy breezed in, I was ready to jump at him. The minute he hit the door, Keisha said, “Kelly, I got to leave a little early. That okay with you?”
I nodded. “See you tomorrow.”
Buck sprawled in the visitor’s chair by my desk. “Okay, what’s this big news?”
Just as it had in the morning when I called Mike, the story tumbled out of my lips too fast, but I managed to get him to understand that Jo Ellen North was Robert Martin’s daughter, she was so insistent on buying the house because she wanted to hide her father’s secret, and she had threatened me. As close as I could, I quoted the threatening phone calls.
He squinted at me. Then he lit a cigarette—I normally didn’t allow people to smoke in my office, and I sure didn’t have an ashtray. I pushed the wastebasket toward him, hoping he wouldn’t start a fire.
“You may be right. She may be dangerous. Mike’s right. Don’t make any appointments with her. And watch yourself and your girls. I’ll go talk to Mrs. North tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. I wanted him out the door in hot pursuit of her now. “Okay,” I gulped.
He must have seen the look on my face, because he said, “Anything frightens you, call 911. I’ll get the call, and so will Mike.” And with that he was gone, cigarette still dangling from his mouth. How could Joanie kiss someone who smelled of cigarettes all the time?
I closed up the office and headed home, feeling somehow defeated, and, more than that, vulnerable.
Theresa’s car was on the street. I parked in the driveway and used my key in the front door, so as not to disturb them. When I pushed open the front door, Jo Ellen North confronted me—holding a small blue revolver.
My stomach rose to my throat, my heart pounded, and my knees shook so that I was sure that they would buckle and I’d end up face down on the floor. But I gathered myself by thinking of the girls. “Mrs. North, I didn’t see your car.” Why was I trying to be pleasant, as though this was a social call?
“That’s because I didn’t park it near your house” Her voice was stone-cold.
“Where are my girls?”
“In the back with the sitter. I told them to stay there.”
I’d have told her she had a lot of nerve telling my girls what to do, but then, she had the gun, and I figured that changed the balance of power, even in my own home. I was sure she could hear my heart pounding against my ribs from where she sat, which, to my mind, wasn’t near far enough away.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, making a real effort to keep my voice strong.
“I want Marie Winton’s diary,” she said. “Beyond that, you can’t undo the trouble you’ve caused. My father will be charged with murder, and it’s your fault. We’re going for a ride. Just you and me.”
I remembered the conventional wisdom that said if you ever get in a car with a kidnapper, you’re dead. I vowed she’d have to shoot me right on the streets of Fairmount before I’d get in her car. Of course, it was winter, and the late afternoon light was fading fast. If she didn’t hurry, she’d have the cover of darkness. Still, I wasn’t about to hurry her.
“Where?” I asked, ignoring the question about the diary. I’d bring it up again if I still could stall for time. I wondered if Theresa would think to call 911, but she had no way of knowing I was being held at gunpoint. And I couldn’t quite call out to her.
She shrugged. “Trinity Park. You might as well die where your ex-husband did.”
I think the word “die” didn’t register. I didn’t believe or my mind couldn’t process that I might die that day—but my body reacted, and I thought I might throw up. “Tim? You killed Tim? Why?” And I thought he’d been shot over a deal gone wrong, gambling debts, something to do with lowlifes from Jacksboro Highway. Instead, this sophisticated—or supposedly so—country-club type killed him.
“He knew about my father and Marie, and he was blackmailing me.”
“You shouldn’t have paid,” I said. Seemed a sensible reply to me, but it infuriated her.
“Don’t you tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done. I should have killed you too about two weeks ago. Then the cops would never have found my father. And I should have found that diary. I sent someone to look for it.”
That last break-in to the house on Fairmount. And her intense interest in the fireplace—she thought it was hidden behind one of the tiles. Stalling for time, I said, “The diary wouldn’t help you. Marie had a locket with the initials M.W.M. on it, she told her family about Marty who was going to marry her, and the house belonged to Martin Properties. How hard is that to put together? The police would have discovered that your father killed her sooner or later. I just pushed them into sooner.”
Her face turned purple with rage, and it occurred to me she might have apoplexy—whatever that was—or a stroke or something before she could try to force me into the car. “My father did not kill that woman,” she screamed.
Keeping my voice soft, I asked, “No? Then who did?”
She was out of control—a frightening thought. “My mother,’ she screamed. “She found out he planned to leave her, and she killed the bitch. I was there. Six years old, and I saw the whole thing. I helped put her in that box. It’s haunted me all my life.” She took a deep breath and calmed down. “Now, it’s time for us to go.”
I was searching in my mind for another stall, something, anything. Just as I was about to say, “Wait. Let me get the diary for you,” Em appeared in the archway that led to the bedrooms. Before I could scream, she said, “Mommy, is that bad woman yelling at you?”
It was just enough. Jo Ellen North turned, distracted, and I lunged and kicked, maybe given strength by desperation to protect my child. I don’t know where the strength came from, but in that fleeting moment I wished I’d studied tae kwon do. The gun flew from Jo Ellen’s hand, as I screamed for Theresa. Jo Ellen lunged for the gun, but another kick that caught her in the face prevented that. She went down on her knees, and I was on top of her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Theresa take in the situat
ion and grab the gun. Meantime, Jo Ellen and I were embroiled in a macabre wrestling match, first one of us on top, then the other. I fought desperately, for myself and for my girls. Even though I was fueled by rage and anger, she too was strong and she too was filled with rage. If I’d had time to think about it, I’d have realized we were like two primitive animals, not a sight for my girls to see. But I had no time to think, only to fight back with what strength I had. For a moment the world around us didn’t exist. I felt her fingernails rake across my face. I grabbed her hair and pulled back hard, so that she was forced off me, and I rolled to sit on top of her. But her weight—she did outweigh me, which was slim consolation at that point—threw me off balance, and she was soon on top of me again, this time with her hands around my throat, squeezing—hard. I couldn’t breathe.
How long is it before unconsciousness came from cutting off breath? And now death seemed all too real to me. I fought back with more strength than I knew I had, bringing my arms up under hers and forcing hers apart with all my might—and desperation. Her hands flew apart, but she was too quick for me, or I was too weak by then. She had me by the throat again. I fought to get a breath. Spots danced before my eyes, against a backdrop of black. The more I struggled, the harder Jo Ellen squeezed. I just didn’t have the strength left to fight back.
Suddenly, Jo Ellen North went limp, sprawling on top of me. I lay still for a moment, breathing hard. Then I pushed her off and saw Theresa standing over us, holding the gun by the handle.
“I hit her,” she said. “Did I kill her?”
Rubbing my throat, I whispered, “I don’t know, and I don’t care. But give me the gun, and go get the cord from my bathrobe—it’s in the bathroom.” I saw my girls, standing wide-eyed and pale in the doorway. Maggie was sobbing and Em just stared in amazement.
Jo Ellen was out but who knew for how long—as I rolled her onto her stomach and pulled her arms behind her—convenient for a hammerlock, if needed. She began to stir and moan. “Maggie,” I said, “call 911. Right away. Give them the address. Tell them whatever they ask.” I had no idea how I could think that rationally, and I knew the minute that a cop came through that door, I’d turn into a blithering idiot. But until then, I hung on. “Em, go unlock the front door and open it.”
Theresa returned with the cord—it was silk, like the bathrobe, and I knew I’d never wear it again, but it would be strong and wouldn’t stretch. We tied Jo Ellen’s hands behind her back, just as she began to stir and move about and threaten—loud and long. “You can’t do this. I’ll kill you and your children. Let me up this instant.”
“Jo Ellen,” I said, “feel this? It’s your gun, and it’s pointing at the back of your head. I were you, I’d lie still.”
She collapsed in a heap. Of course, she had no way of knowing I didn’t know from square one about guns. Did I have to cock it or whatever, or could I have just shot her? I didn’t want to do that, and I prayed she would stay still.
She did. She began to sob, great wracking sobs from deep within. When she managed to speak, she cried, “My father…he’s everything to me. My mother has Alzheimer’s, and Dad’s protecting her. But I can’t let him go to jail. He’s too old and too frail. Damn you.” She began to get her grit back, and I nudged the gun against the back of her head, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t go off by accident.
“I never had a happy family life. My parents hated each other after that, and I blamed everything on that woman. I know she kept a diary. She taunted Mom with it, just before Mom shot her. I…I had to find it. Protect my father.”
The girls still stood in the doorway. It wasn’t a scene I wanted them to see or hear—their mother holding a gun on another woman who was confessing to all sorts of horrid things—but I couldn’t put down the gun and go to comfort them. “Girls, go to the front door and watch for the police. Maybe Mike will come.”
It seemed an eternity that I sat there, listening to Jo Ellen North sob on and on about how Marie Winton ruined her childhood, how she’d resented her mother and loved her father. Was I a therapist? I didn’t want to hear this. Although it seemed hours, it wasn’t more than five minutes before I heard sirens.
Mike was not the cop that burst through the front door. It was Buck Conroy. “Okay, Kelly,” he said. “You can get up. And give me that gun, handle first.” His gun was trained on Jo Ellen, but she lay still.
Other cops stormed in, got Jo Ellen to her feet, removed the cord (I saw one of them grin), and cuffed her.
Then Mike burst through the door, made beeline for me, and enveloped me in a huge bear hug. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. I sort of sank into his hug and would have fallen to the floor, if he hadn’t held me up. He led me to one of the huge chairs, sat in it, and pulled me onto his lap, oblivious of the looks he was getting from his fellow officers.
“Tell me about it.” His voice was ever so gentle.
And it all spilled out, how frightened I’d been, her confession, how enraged I became when I thought Em was in danger. I looked for the girls. They stood a few feet away, staring at us.
I held out my arms. “Come here,” I said. “You are both the heroes of the day. I am so proud of you.”
Maggie was still sobbing, though softly now. “Is it okay? Is the bad lady going away?”
“Yes, she is. We don’t have to worry any more. Nothing’s going to happen to us, our house, the house on Fairmount. It’s all over.” I felt the relief wash over me, and then the tears came. My sobs were as wrenching as Jo Ellen’s.
“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Em said solemnly. “You were very brave too.”
I thought about it for a minute and then, through tears, said, “Yeah, Em, I was, wasn’t I?” I didn’t know that I could ever do it again, but I’d been brave. I was alive, and my girls were alright.
Buck Conroy came into my line of vision. “Gun’s a .38,” he said. “I’m betting it’s the same gun that killed Tim Spencer.”
“She told me it was,” I said.
He looked at me. “I should have listened to you this afternoon,” he said. “Sorry.”
That was all? I was astounded.
“I’ll question her at headquarters and let you know what we find. Oh, and I’ll call Joanie and tell her what happened.”
You do that. Not high on my priority list right now.
The police took Jo Ellen away, though by then she’d recovered her usual spirit and was trying to order them around, threatening them for manhandling her, swearing her lawyer would have each of them kicked off the force.
“I’m calling in to take the rest of the shift off,” Mike said. “What’s for dinner?”
Theresa yelped. “Pizza. I forgot. And Joe will be waiting at the Y.”
“Find my purse for me, Theresa, can you? I’ll give you money for pizza.” I did, and she left, with no mention of taking the girls with her.
I sat in the chair with Mike, and the girls clustered about us, but none of us said much. We were content to be safe and quiet. Mike ran his hand through my hair and softly touched the scratches on my face. I found that comforting. The girls clung to me, each holding a hand tightly. I forecast nightmares for some nights to come, but I couldn’t worry about that.
Joe and Theresa came back in about forty-five minutes. Joe was full of bluster about what he’d have done if he’d been here, but Mike quieted him with, “I’m glad you weren’t. It wouldn’t have sat well with your probation officer. And Kelly proved very capable.”
We ate pizza almost in silence. There just wasn’t much to say.
EPILOGUE
Jo Ellen North confessed to killing Tim Spencer and attempting to kidnap me. After a long trial, she was sentenced to twenty-five years to life for first degree murder—she still didn’t seem to realize she could have gotten the death penalty—and to ten years for the attempted kidnapping, served concurrently. If she lived that long, she’d be in her eighties when she got out, I figured, at the least.
Her mother, Eliz
abeth Martin, was beyond confession or charging. The court decreed that she be put into an Alzheimer’s facility, and she went to the best, most expensive facility in Fort Worth.
Robert Martin was a broken man. Frail to begin with, his health went downhill during the court proceedings. By the time his daughter was sentenced, he needed full-time health care in his home. I knew the past would haunt him for whatever days he had left.
Marie Winton’s family did not come to the trial. Phyllis Winton served as spokesman and told me the family was content that justice was served. They saw no need to put themselves through a trial, and I applauded them for that. I sent them Marie’s diary, along with a note explaining that I hid it because I felt it was too personal to turn over to the authorities and contained nothing that would benefit the investigation. To my surprise, Phyllis wrote me a gracious note, thanking me for my consideration.
~*~
The rest of us went on with our lives. Maggie and Em did have nightmares, and they slept in my bed more nights than not. Mike was around the house a lot more, seeming to sense that he almost lost someone he valued. Whether he too wanted to spend the night in my bed was not discussed, but I knew it would come up eventually.
Theresa began to invite Anthony and the boys to dinner with Joe and my family, and Anthony, after some bluster and a lecture from me, began to accept Joe. Anthony finished the house on Fairmount, and it was a beauty. When I put it on the market, Barbara Wright was one of the first to see it and to make an offer. But that is another story.
Keep reading for an excerpt from No Neighborhood for Old Women, Judy Alter’s next Kelly O’Connell Mystery.
No Neighborhood for Old Women
A Kelly O’Connell Mystery, Book Two
ONE
Florence Dodson was murdered the same night Claire Guthrie shot her husband. For me, the story began with Claire, but Mrs. Dodson soon got most of my attention. After all, Claire was alive, and knowing her, I was sure she’d sail out of her trouble. Florence Dodson was quite dead and nothing could change that.
