The Three Beths

by Jeff Abbott

  “And the startup company mattered more to Jake than Bethany mattered to him.”

  “Yes. It did. Maybe that’s why she was unhappy. Maybe that’s why she self-destructed. Ugh, that was a choice she made.”

  “Sharon thinks Jake killed her.”

  Now Julie gazed directly at her. “I’ve never bought into the whole Jake did it thing. She had been drunk and on pills and violent; he could have divorced her easily. But he was still in love with her, and they were about to become rich. That’s exactly when you don’t kill your spouse.”

  Or maybe that’s when you’re starting the exciting new chapter in your life and that’s when you shed the druggie spouse, Mariah thought. What if she wouldn’t go quietly? What if they argued and he got violent and then he shoved her and she fell and hit her head or he closed his hands around her throat…She pushed the thought away, nausea roiling her gut for a moment. How horrible that would be.

  “But Jake’s the easiest person to blame, so she does. I mean, she doesn’t go around saying this to newspapers. Just to her friends. And to me and Andy. I can see why she’d fault a husband.” She glanced down. “Sharon’s husband…he killed himself. Bethany was fifteen.”

  “Why did he…?”

  “Her dad was an alcoholic, and I guess that was a secret. Growing up, I never saw him drinking in the house. Not once. Then one day Beth’s at school, Sharon at her job, and Mr. Blevins stays home sick from work and he downs a fifth of whiskey and a ton of pills and he’s dead. Bethany and Andy found him, sitting in his recliner. He had a good job as an account manager for an ad agency. People always say it’s a shock, but really, it was.”

  “Why did he?”

  “Andy said there was a note, but it just said that he was sorry. Bethany said later her mom told her he’d been a drunk years ago when Bethany was little, and he’d gone back to it. So, he hadn’t been drinking but he’d started again. Depression, I guess. Did you notice there’s not a picture of him in that house? Not a single one?”

  “I did notice.”

  “Yes, suicide is awful. But they erased him from the family, in a way, don’t you think? And he left them some money, too. Oh, boy, the computer’s going to make us climb. Don’t worry if you can’t keep up with me.” Julie steadied her breathing. “I always think, blood will tell. There’s all sorts of great stuff and bad stuff in our genes. Maybe Bethany had too much of her father in her. Is any of this helpful to you with your mom’s case? Because otherwise, it feels like gossiping about my dead friend, and I’m not about that.”

  “You think Bethany’s dead.”

  “She wouldn’t let her mom worry. So, yes.”

  “You never know what people will do,” Mariah said. “Maybe she was tired of you all. No offense.”

  Now Julie looked at her, surprised at the bite in her comment. “Well, maybe she was. That cuts both ways.”

  “You said the night she claimed her drink got spiked, she was out with a new friend. Who?”

  Julie made a face. “She had a new friend named Lizbeth.”

  Lizbeth. Another Beth name. Mariah stopped pedaling. “Lizbeth who?”

  “I never knew her last name. Bethany had an interest in writing, you know, like writing a book, and she started going to some critique group at one of the libraries where they had authors come speak and had lectures on how to get started in writing, and they’d bring work to get it critiqued. I think Lizbeth also joined. I didn’t like her. I felt she was one of those types who latches on to a person and doesn’t let go. But they were writing buddies and would go off in the evenings to bars together. I guess it filled the empty hours with Jake working on his company so much. Once Bethany couldn’t go to lunch with me because she had to work on her pages to take to the critique group.”

  Lizbeth. “Sharon didn’t mention Lizbeth. Or an interest in writing.”

  “I don’t think Sharon knew about that friendship. Because I don’t think Sharon wanted Bethany writing. You know, drawing on family stuff for inspiration. My goodness, look at that guy over in the weight room. I might have to ride an extra few miles just to keep the view.”

  Mariah didn’t look because she didn’t care. She was silent, thinking, sweating. “How could I reach Lizbeth?”

  Now Julie gave her a long look. “What for? They didn’t know each other that long, and Lizbeth didn’t even come to the service honoring Bethany. We didn’t want to call it a memorial, because what if she wasn’t dead, so Sharon called it a gathering, which just sounds so odd to me. But some of the writing group members were there. They call themselves the Pen Pushers or something like that.” She shrugged, mopped at her forehead with her towel, watched the guy in the weight room.

  Julie was bored now. Mariah had seen it before. Bethany was from the past, and Julie was all about the future. People would ask Mariah how she was coping, how she was doing, and five seconds later their eyes were leaving her face, glancing elsewhere, waiting for her to be done. No one really wanted to know. They just wanted you to say, “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “So, you didn’t hang out with her and Lizbeth together?”

  “No. I only met her once or twice, running into them at Starbucks or the wine bar near our house, and it was clear that Lizbeth felt three was a crowd. You know how some women can be about their friends.”

  “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. I really appreciate it.” Mariah got off the bicycle, feeling like she’d stumbled into a dark room. Now she had more questions than answers.

  “I can comp this workout, but if you’ll fill out the survey, I’ll get some extra points,” Julie said as Mariah walked away. “And you have to get your guest pass stamped when you leave!” Julie called to her back.

  Another Beth name, Mariah thought, heading toward the door. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Just when she’d decided there could be no connection…this. This oddity.

  She glanced back at Julie, who wasn’t watching her but was now chatting with the weight room guy. It just seemed like Julie had abandoned a friend quickly when things went wrong. Mariah knew what that was like, to be abandoned by friends because they didn’t feel comfortable around her grief, or they didn’t know what to say to her and, worse, wouldn’t try to learn, or they thought her dad was guilty and didn’t want to be around him.

  Who was this Lizbeth?

  15

  CHAD—ER, REVEAL—WAS SWEATING. He was glad he was alone. He had the speaker on his smartphone, running his damp hands along his jeans.

  He had not tried so hard to be cool since middle school.

  “So, Chad,” the television producer said through the speakerphone, “we really adore the podcast, we embrace your energy, we love your voice. Very distinct. So distinct. Charmingly distinct.”

  Distinct, Chad decided, was good. “Thank you.”

  “We did decide, you know, just to be sure, to bring in some other hosting candidates…”

  His hands froze on his jeans mid-swipe. “I thought I was it.”

  “Oh, sure, absolutely, you’re in our top three. Along with Brian from Crimeathon and Louisa from CrimeCentral. But we think you’re just so great.”

  He knew Brian and Louisa both; they did excellent work and probably had more followers than he did. And Louisa had a book deal, just announced last week, so she’d have all the heat. That was unfair. Who still read books? He had felt on top of the world ten minutes ago, now his stomach was wrenching in panic. He’d thought in the earlier conversation that this was a lock, a done deal. Even if the producer hadn’t said this is a done deal. It had been all in his tone of voice: Chad was their guy. “I see. All right. What do I need to do to seal the deal with you, Freddy?” He hated begging, asking for this, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  “Well, I think we have to look at how in depth you go into cases. How far you’re willing to push.”

  He swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat. “I have an active case now. It’s incredible. I’ve been followed by a suspic
ious car after meeting with a crime victim.” Silence greeted this announcement, so he upped the stakes. “And I’ve been contacted by someone involved in the case who wants to meet with me and only me.” Well, that was technically one way to describe Mariah. “So I think I’m really on to something distinctively hot.”

  “Chad, er, Reveal, that’s great. Tell me more.”

  “I’ll save it for our meeting,” Chad said. “I think you’ll be impressed. This is a family crime, and there’s a key family member who’ll only talk to me. Because of who I am. Because I am trusted. Because I get results.” Sweat poured down his back as he counted off these bullet points. Please, he thought, please. He could get Mariah to tell him what she’d discovered. She kept hinting. He could tease them enough even if there wasn’t a real tie between the Beths. Maybe even get Mariah to come to California with him. He’d ask his parents to fly her out. He would guess the other candidates weren’t bringing a crime victim with them as an actual prop. Contributor, he mentally amended. “This case has everything. Gorgeous girl”—well, some people thought Mariah was pretty—“family tragedy, money, prestige, a town turning against a suspect, and an unexpected twist.” That was if the crimes against the Beths were connected. He’d convinced Mariah with a casual blog post; think what he could sell when he put his mind to the problem.

  “I’ll look forward to our meeting, then, Reveal.”

  Chad thought it was a good sign the producer hadn’t stumbled over his adopted name. He thanked him and hung up. Now he had to just get Mariah to share everything she knew.

  He’d helped her by pointing out one possible solution to her mother’s case—that it was tied to Bethany Curtis’s, the wife of a famous software mogul.

  He had all the elements for a great television show pitch; now it was Mariah’s turn to help him.

  16

  M​ARIAH, SITTING BEHIND the wheel of her car, searched on her phone for writers groups in Austin. Not surprisingly for a creative city, she found several that met at local coffee shops or public library branches. There wasn’t a group called Pen Pushers and Mariah’s heart sank: either Julie misremembered the name, or they’d disbanded in the time since Bethany’s disappearance.

  Like Pen Pushers, but not quite? Mariah searched again, found one called Pushy Pens: We WILL Get Published! which met weekly at…an undisclosed location.

  Seriously? she thought. One had to apply to join, with sample work of three chapters. Every member was expected to bring ten new pages, each week, for critique. They had done this to keep the group’s membership “serious, small, and focused.” There was a contact Gmail account for Yvette Suarez, the club’s current chair.

  On her phone, Mariah wrote Suarez an email, slightly bending the truth that she was helping the Blevins family on leads connected to the Bethany Curtis disappearance and was trying to reach a member of the group, Lizbeth, who had been a friend of Bethany’s. She included her number and asked Suarez to call her back.

  After her workout, she needed a shower. Then she’d see this Andy, both school friend and coworker, at Ahoy Transportation.

  Her phone rang. The Lakehaven Police Department on the screen. She answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mariah. This is Dennis Broussard. We finished processing your car. Would you like to pick up your gear? Your father’s having your car towed to a body shop.”

  “All right. I can come by now.”

  “Great, because I want to show you something that we found.”

  * * *

  Mariah stared at the DVD in its case, with her mother’s name written on it in black ink.

  “Have you seen this before?” Broussard asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “It was in your glove compartment. You didn’t put it there?”

  Her gaze met Broussard’s. “No, I’ve not seen it before. Is it music?”

  “We don’t think it’s just music, Mariah. It asks for a password. Do you know why your mom would have a password-protected DVD?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what the password might be?”

  She shook her head.

  “Think, Mariah. You might have seen this before but not remembered.”

  She bit at her lip. “Unless it came from her work. But I never saw her carting around DVDs. I really don’t remember having seen this one.”

  “Why would it be in your car?”

  “I don’t know. Do I need a lawyer here?”

  “If you want one, of course, but I’m not arresting you and you’re not under suspicion of interfering with an investigation. But this was in your car, and it has to be there for a reason.”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice rose slightly.

  “Did your mother ever use your car?”

  “I had my car at UT. Well, at my apartment.”

  “Did your parents have a spare set of keys?”

  “Yes,” she said after a moment.

  “Could your mother have hidden this here so no one, like your father, would find it. Probably he wouldn’t think to look there.”

  She said nothing to this.

  “Your mom’s car was a red Mercedes, yes?” Broussard asked.

  “Yes. She called it Baby. She bought it with commissions. She was very proud of it. Can you break the password?”

  “We’ll try.”

  “If it’s in my car, it’s my property…I could try and break it. I have a degree in computer science.”

  “I understand that, but with your mom’s name on it, it could be evidence.”

  “She loved showtunes,” Mariah said. “It’s probably just a CD full of cheesy showtunes.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

  “You miss her.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “It must be so hard, living with your dad,” Broussard said. “You love him. You want to be loyal to him.”

  “He didn’t hurt my mom.”

  “Have there been any women in his life, Mariah, since she vanished? Maybe a woman you thought he knew before? It’s not disloyal to say. Be loyal to your mom.”

  “I’m loyal to both of them,” she said, her voice rising. “He didn’t have an affair. And if he did, he still would never hurt her.”

  “When you saw her, it means you think she could be out there. Letting you wonder if she’s alive or not.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe there’s a whole other explanation.”

  “You say that like you mean something. Your father said you weren’t really trying to”—he did air quotes—“investigate her case.”

  She bit at her lip again. “You wouldn’t listen anyway.”

  “All I want is to find your mom and bring whoever…took…her to justice. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “When I have some proof. Because then I can go to the press, too, and then you can’t ignore me or try to make it about my dad again.”

  “Mariah…”

  “You can think I’m crazy, but as long as I’m not breaking the law, you can’t stop me.”

  “Has Craig told you that someone has threatened him? Trying to get him to move out of Lakehaven?”

  She absorbed this. “No.”

  “He might not want you to know. He might try to shield you. But you’re an adult, and I’m telling you.”

  “Are you going to give me back my stuff now?”

  “Yes. It’s boxed up for you. Except the DVD. That’s part of our investigation.”

  Mariah studied his calm expression. “I know what you think of me. I’m not crazy.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re deeply traumatized.”

  She didn’t answer him, she stared at the table.

  “I don’t think that day is a haze to you because of medications and fever. Did you see your father kill her? Did you block it out? Is that why you’re protecting him?” His whisper was like a knife. “You don’t have to live like this, Mariah. Tell me what happened and free yourself.”

  She stood. “When I prove to you m
y father is innocent,” Mariah said, “I hope you’ll remember our conversation and be embarrassed.” She left with as much dignity as she could muster.

  * * *

  She put the four guns, the Taser, the laptop, and the telescoping baton into the trunk of her father’s car. She was trembling. Someone threatening Dad. She was going to go home and see if he mentioned this to her. Maybe she should take one of the guns into the house and load it and have it ready in case someone was after her father.

  But she was wondering, Why didn’t Dad tell me about the threat?

  17

  M​ARIAH HAD GONE home, showered, and changed into fresh clothes. Craig was in his office; she could hear the quiet sound of Miles Davis playing on his stereo; that meant he was working. Today the Miles album was Sketches of Spain, warm, soothing, playful.

  She knocked on the door. “Come in,” he said.

  She stepped inside. His computer screen was between her and the door, so she couldn’t see what he was working on. He was dressed though, in jeans and a nice shirt, which was unusual when he didn’t leave the house. He silenced the music.

  “I got my gear back from Broussard. He said someone has threatened us.”

  “Just me. You weren’t threatened. It’s nothing.”

  “Dad. Of course it’s not nothing.”

  “This happens every few months,” he said. “It comes and it goes and I wait it out.”

  “You can’t keep this from me.”

  “There’s nothing to keep. How did your sales calls go?”

  It sounded at first like something he would have said to Mom, when she came back home from a long day. Dad was often fixing dinner when Mom got home, a glass of wine already poured for her. He joked that she’d had to deal with people all day and he’d had to deal with spreadsheets, so he’d had it easier. “I like people,” Mom would say. “More than you do.” And Dad would say, “Well, I like you, though,” and Mom would laugh and say, “Oh yes you do.”