by Joanna Wayne
Once at the gate, Cassie found a seat where she could see all the approaching passengers. She took a sip of the coffee, then opened the Vogue, though she never moved past the first advertisement. She was far too intent on watching people show up at Gate 10.
The first hour dragged by with Cassie’s anxiety intensifying with each click of the airport clock. Arriving a mere hour before flight time wasn’t her mother’s style, but then her mother was clearly changing her style, so maybe this was part of the new Rhonda Havelin.
Twenty minutes later, her anxiety had reached the panic stage. If her mother wasn’t on this flight, then no one had any idea where she was or what she was doing—or who she was doing it with.
“In just a few minutes, we’ll start boarding those people traveling with small children or needing extra assistance. Those holding first-class tickets or who have platinum memberships are also welcome to board then or at any time during the boarding process.”
Cassie jumped up and went to stand near the crowds who were pushing toward the loading ramp. Her mother was here somewhere. She’d missed her somehow, but she was here. She had to be.
Cassie walked to the desk. “I’m traveling with my mother, but I haven’t seen her yet. Can you tell me if Rhonda Havelin has checked in?”
“Spell that last name for me.”
She spelled it, scanning the crowd as she waited.
“She hasn’t checked in, but if she only has carry-on luggage, she could be here and waiting to board.”
No way she was carrying six weeks of luggage. “Could you page her for me?”
“If you’ll give me a minute. I need to give the next boarding call, but I’ll page her right after that.”
“Thank you.”
Cassie walked away from the desk. She had her ticket, but she wasn’t boarding unless she located her mother. She scanned the crowd again, making sure she missed no one.
The page was made requesting that Rhonda Havelin report to the check-in desk at Gate 10. Cassie watched the desk. Her mother did not respond to the call.
The first group of coach travelers were boarding now. Rhonda would never be this late unless… Maybe she was caught in traffic.
Cassie dropped into a chair by the boarding area and watched every person who walked by. Once the plane was loaded, the airline sent another page, this time for Rhonda Havelin and Cassie Pierson. Cassie went up and told them she wouldn’t be flying since her mother had not shown up for her flight.
“Excuse me. Are you Rhonda Havelin’s daughter?”
She turned and stared at the man who’d spoken. He was in his mid-forties, slim with sandy-colored hair and deep blue eyes. Nothing about him made him seem suspicious, but Cassie was rattled all the same. “I’m Rhonda’s daughter. Who are you?”
“Brady Cates. I’m a detective. Your dad hired me to look for your mother.”
Cassie exhaled slowly. “Then I guess you know she’s a no-show for her flight back to Houston.”
He nodded. “Mind if I sit down with you a minute?”
“Please do.”
“I’m sure you’re upset about this,” he said.
“I’m a little more than upset. No one’s heard from my mother in six weeks except for postcards that she probably didn’t send. And pretty much everything she told us about the trip she’s on was a lie.”
“She may have had her reasons for leaving.”
“Tell me, Mr. Cates. Do women her age do this often—just make up a bunch of lies and walk away without telling their own children where they’re going?”
“Not often, but it happens.”
“For what reasons?”
“All kinds of reasons, just like there are all kinds of reasons people stay. A bad marriage. Mental problems. Another man—or woman. She took fifty-thousand dollars with her so she must have planned to be gone awhile.”
“I can understand her leaving. Well, actually I can’t, but I could deal with that if she’d told us how to get in touch with her. But if something had happened to my dad or to me, we—”
The words stuck in Cassie’s throat and echoed in her mind. She’d been shot at the other night and the bullet had barely missed her head. If she’d been killed or was lying in the hospital dying, her mother wouldn’t be there. She wouldn’t even know.
The dread came to life, something that had seeped into the lining of Cassie’s chest and was twisting itself into painful knots, and for the first time she felt as if she might never see her mother again.
“Are you okay, Miss Pierson? You look pale.”
“What do we do now?”
“I keep on trying to find Rhonda Havelin. If she’s in the New Orleans area, I’ll find a lead.”
“What if she’s been kidnapped or—I don’t know. Shouldn’t we contact the police and fill out a missing person’s report?”
“That’s an option. You and Mr. Havelin have to decide that. I wouldn’t expect much help from the cops with this, though, since your mother basically cleaned out her checking account and told you she was leaving the country. That doesn’t add up to kidnapping.”
“The six weeks are up.”
“Not quite.”
“This was the day she said she was returning.”
“She still might. It’s not that far from New Orleans to Houston. She may have decided to rent a car and drive home. She has money and credit, she may have bought a car.” Brady lay a hand on her shoulder. “I know this is tough, but hang in there. Your mother left of her own accord and she’ll likely come back the same way.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” But the dread didn’t evaporate. It held on and dug in.
Cassie called her father’s office on the way to her car. This time Dottie put her straight through.
“Mom didn’t show.”
“I know. I heard from the detective a few minutes before takeoff.”
“I met him.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s nice enough. I don’t know anything about his credentials.”
“He came highly recommended.”
“I want to file a missing person’s report with the NOPD.”
“That’s a little extreme.”
“I don’t think so, Dad. We don’t know where she is and we haven’t heard from her except through fake postcards. She is missing.”
“The postcards aren’t fake. They have Greek postmarks. For all we know your mother’s in Greece and flying back today just like she said. The airlines get things screwed up all the time.”
“If she’s been in Greece, it wasn’t with Patsy David.”
“It could be Patsy someone else. Or some Greek guy she met and went traipsing halfway around the world with to look for excitement and fulfillment.”
“Mother? C’mon, Dad. At least be realistic.” And not so exasperating.
“Let’s give it another day or two, Cassie. Then, if Brady Cates doesn’t have any leads or she hasn’t shown up, we’ll talk about this again. Why don’t you fly home for the weekend?”
“I am home, Dad, but you can fly here if you want.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Call me if you decide to.”
“Will you be in New Orleans or in Beau Pierre this weekend?”
“I’m not sure, but if you fly to New Orleans, I’ll make it a point to be here.”
“Thanks, Cassie.”
But right now, she’d give anything to be in John’s arms. Not to make love or to thrill to his kisses. She just needed strong arms around her to help hold back the fear. Logical or not, she was certain now that her mother was in serious trouble. Or else…
She couldn’t form the word, not even in her thoughts, but it loomed there all the same. By the time she reached her car, she was crying.
BUTCH WALKED INTO the house at 5:10 in the afternoon. He had a million things to take care of at the office, but he couldn’t concentrate, so he had left about forty-five minutes after talking to Cassie. He vacillated between
worry and downright anger that Rhonda could have pulled this kind of ridiculous stunt at this time in their lives.
If she’d wanted out, she could have just said so. If she’d found someone new, he could have lived with that, too. But if she’d found out about him and Babs and was doing this to punish him, she’d gone too far.
If she didn’t care what this was doing to him and his ability to stay on task at work, she should at least think of their daughter. Cassie was sick with worry, wanting to call the police in on this.
The company would love having their CEO involved in a police investigation for a wife who’d disappeared and gone to all this trouble to hide her tracks.
He guessed Rhonda would be happy then. Instead of spending his evenings in the city, he’d spend them hanging around here being bored out of his skull.
He pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and held it for a couple of minutes, not dialing, just cradling it in his hand as if the vibrations of past conversations with Babs were still hanging around and could give him some kind of comfort.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t call her until this mess with Rhonda was settled. If they did have to go to the police and anything about his affair with Babs came out, there would really be hell to pay with Conner-Marsh.
But he didn’t really see how one phone call would change any of that. He hit the fast-dial key for her cell phone. If nothing else he could hear her voice. She was always upbeat, always supportive. He could use that tonight.
“Hi, Butch,” she answered, obviously having checked her caller ID before answering. “I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”
“I hadn’t planned to call.”
“You sound down. What happened?”
“Nothing. Rhonda wasn’t on the flight.”
“Oh, no. This isn’t good, Butch.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Cassie must be frantic.”
“She is. She wants to go to the police and report Rhonda as missing.”
“You have to, Butch. The circumstances surrounding the trip are too bizarre. They’re giving me cold chills and I barely know Rhonda.”
He exhaled sharply. This was not what he needed from Babs. “Rhonda said she was going to Greece for six weeks. I have postcards that say she’s been there all this time. Now I’m supposed to go to the police and tell them she’s missing because she’s a day late returning. And that’s based on what Cassie remembers. We don’t even have an itinerary.”
“I still think you should talk to the police.”
“I hired a detective. They’re far more effective at finding people than the New Orleans Police Department.”
“I guess.”
She sounded as down as he felt and just as upset. He shouldn’t have called her tonight. It wasn’t fair to pull her into his problems. “I miss you,” he said, not able to keep the words off his lips.
“Miss you, too, Butch, but you have to take care of this and it’s probably not smart for us to be seen together now.”
“Do you have plans tonight?”
“I’m going to dinner with friends. You?”
“I’ll stick around here.”
“Take care, Butch, and give some more thought to reporting this to the authorities.”
“I will. Sweet dreams, but have them alone.” He hated that he’d added that last. It sounded juvenile and possessive. He was neither, at least not under normal circumstances.
He broke the connection but took the phone with him and walked out to the backyard pool. The day was still warm and Butch shed his clothes and tossed them onto a lounge chair. He’d put up a privacy fence when Cassie had left for college, just so he and Rhonda could swim their evening laps in the nude.
Rhonda never had. She’d said that someone might still shinny up a tree and see over the fence. As if anyone young and agile enough to shinny up a tree was interested in seeing people their age in their wrinkled altogether.
He dived in and swam laps until his body was as weary as his mind, then climbed from the pool and grabbed a beach towel from the basket by the door. He felt a little more like tackling the Rhonda issue now.
Rhonda never did anything spontaneous. If she’d gone to Greece, she’d made plans. If she’d done something else, she’d still have made plans, and there had to be some sign of them somewhere in the house.
It might take him a while, but he’d have to locate those plans. He tied the towel around his waist and went to the bedroom to begin the search, one drawer at a time.
Two hours later, he struck gold in the bottom drawer of a cabinet in her sewing room. The treasure was in the form of a blue journal that had been meticulously kept since January 12, two years ago.
He carried the journal to the family room and tossed it on the sofa. He’d make a ham-and-egg sandwich and a drink—a double—and then he’d find out what had been going on in his wife’s head.
CASSIE TOOK the elevator to her condo. She’d driven by the lakefront before she’d come home. She’d walked the jogging path and shed a few tears, but mostly she’d searched her brain for some logical explanation for her mother’s lies and disappearance.
She was as clueless now as she’d been when she first realized that Patsy David did not exist. She felt exhausted, like she’d run a marathon instead of sitting in the airport for hours and taking a slow walk, and still she dreaded going into the empty condo and spending the rest of the night alone.
She’d hoped John would volunteer to come into town and spend the night with her tonight, but he hadn’t, and she hadn’t asked.
The elevator door opened and she stepped off, then stopped. There was someone sitting on the floor slumped against her door.
John. He was sound asleep, even snoring a little.
It was an omen. There could be no more bad news tonight. She didn’t really believe that, but it was a nice thought, she decided as she collapsed beside John right there in the hall floor.
“Am I dreaming or did some gorgeous sex goddess just kiss me?” he asked, opening his eyes and slipping his arm around her shoulder.
“It was a gorgeous sex goddess.”
“I see that now.” He cradled her in his arms. “How did it go?”
“Mom was a no-show.”
“I’m sorry. Anything I can do to help?”
“Hold me. Hold me tight and for a long time.”
“Will all night do?”
“For a start.”
It felt terrific to just sit there in his arms, but still the dread returned, crept right back in and clutched at her stomach like a buzzard’s claws.
She’d run out of optimism and halfway logical explanations. Her mother had disappeared, and whether she’d done it by choice or through no control of her own, neither Cassie or her father had any idea how to find her.
She’d simply vanished without a trace.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BUTCH SKIMMED the first few pages of Rhonda’s journal. Entries were sporadic. At times she wrote almost daily. At other times, she went weeks without penning a word. The topics ranged from an outline of her day to details surrounding a specific event, but for the most part, they dealt with how things affected her emotionally.
Butch didn’t give much time to thinking about feelings. He liked things he could tackle, needed tangible results for his efforts. But apparently Rhonda spent an excessive amount of time examining her emotional state.
He was mentioned a few times in the journal, though not so often as he’d expected. She’d been irritated when he’d missed a church picnic, liked the way he looked in blue, and thought he should involve himself more in charitable projects. The jewelry he’d splurged on her last birthday had been a big hit—a necklace that Babs had helped him pick out in the Atlanta airport during a long layover.
Her forty-fifth high school reunion had earned several journal pages. The late Patsy David got a half page. Apparently the reunion committee had put together a special memorial for the homecoming queen who’
d never lived to collect her diploma. Butch guessed that’s where Rhonda had come up with the idea to reincarnate Patsy as part of her fabricated trip to Greece.
The rest of the reunion entries concerned women who’d married real jerks, or those who’d married well. Someone named Betty who’d been mousy in high school had married a Georgia senator. Mary Louise had had a face-lift and looked fab and Evelyn had gotten smashed and told somebody off. Good old Evelyn. Butch liked her without even meeting her.
He searched for men’s names, a hint that Rhonda might have reconnected with someone at the reunion, but he didn’t see anything that vaguely resembled a romantic tryst. Truth was there was little mention of any men except him and the gardener who didn’t weed to suit her and a couple of male movie stars. She still had the hots for Robert Redford and Sean Connery.
After a half hour of reading running commentary that had no plot and little action, Butch skipped to the back of the journal. The last entry was dated April 20, approximately three weeks before Rhonda had left on her so-called vacation and about the time she’d started talking about the trip.
A name jumped out at him as if it had been written in bold caps. Babs Michaels.
Bingo. This is where he should have started reading.
He stopped skimming and read every word.
Yesterday started out like any other, but before it was over it ranked as the worst day of my life. Butch called just after lunch and said he’d have to work late and would be staying in his apartment in town—again. I actually felt sorry for him—gullible me—and decided to surprise him with my company.
I took advantage of being in the city to do some shopping at the Galleria before driving to the apartment about eight. I didn’t realize until I took the keys from the ignition that the apartment key I usually kept on my key ring was missing.
I waited in the car, trying to call Butch approximately every fifteen minutes. There was no answer at the office or on his cell phone. After an hour of waiting, I decided the surprise was a bad idea and was ready to drive home. Butch picked that precise moment to make his appearance—with Babs Michaels.
