Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5

by Renee Pawlish

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  And it was. My parents had been slow to warm up to the idea of my being a private investigator, but now that I had been in the business for several years, they were coming around. Brenda interrupted my thoughts.

  “But she does say that she worries about your getting into dangerous situations.”

  There it is, I thought. That was the one thing with my mother that wouldn’t go away. She always assumed that when I was working on a case, somehow I would end up getting hurt. I’m sure she was sitting on the balcony of her Florida condo right now, wondering what kind of precarious situation I was in.

  Brenda smiled. “I assure you, there’s nothing dangerous in what I’m asking you to do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What do you need?”

  “I want you to get a message to my daughter.”

  I watched her twist a gold ring on a bony finger. The waiter returned with my Coke and asked if I wanted anything to eat. Brenda wasn’t eating, so I declined.

  “We – my husband, Joel, and I,” she continued after the waiter left, “haven’t had contact with her in months. She barely talks to us.” Sadness spread across her pale face.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Sally. I don’t think you ever met her.”

  I couldn’t recall if I had. “Tell me about her.” I drank some Coke and waited.

  She gazed past me, a faraway look in tired brown eyes. “She was a good kid, overall, didn’t cause us a lot of trouble. Not like her older brother, Wayne – he was a holy terror. Thank goodness he got things straightened out. He’s a lawyer now, lives in San Francisco.”

  I prodded her back to the original subject. “But Sally?”

  “She graduated high school and went to college for a couple of years at Princeton – that’s where Joel and Wayne went – but she dropped out and came back to Denver. She wanted to pursue a singing career.” She frowned. “So that’s what she did. We let her take a year off, thinking it was just a passing fancy, that she’d realize how tough it is to break into that kind of career. We also thought she’d realize…” She glanced away.

  “What?”

  She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Sally’s not a very good singer. I hate to say that, but she doesn’t have what it takes. She doesn’t have the right kind of voice. But she thought she did, and she wouldn’t think of going back to college. That led to problems.”

  “What happened?”

  Now she met my gaze. “One night we had an argument about it. Joel and I told her that we didn’t think she had the talent to make it in the music industry, and that she needed to think about a real career. And we said in no uncertain terms that if she was going to live under our roof, and have us help pay for her expenses, she needed to drop the singing nonsense and go back to school. Otherwise, she would need to pay rent or move out.” She stopped.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “She chose to move out.”

  Her lips trembled, and she took a tissue from a small purse on the table and dabbed at her eyes. Then she clutched it in her hand. “Yes. Joel and I were so certain she wouldn’t want to strike out on her own at twenty, and that she’d decide to go back to school. But she didn’t. A week later, when Joel was at work, I came home and she’d moved all her belongings out while I was gone. We called her friends, and their parents, and we finally found out she’d rented a tiny attic apartment on Capitol Hill. We went to talk to her, and she said that she’d made her choice, and she wasn’t going to take a penny from us, that she was going to live her own life. And to her credit, she has, although I think it’s been a struggle for her.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Any issues with drugs or alcohol?”

  She shrugged. “She’s never said anything, but I think so. I’m not naïve.”

  “And the singing career?”

  She sipped some coffee, then put her cup down. “It never really went anywhere. We didn’t talk to her much.” She shrugged. “She didn’t want to see us; she was angry at us. She worked in some clubs around town, and we heard that she went out to LA for a year or so, and that things might’ve been going somewhere. But I think things fell apart out there, so she came back to Denver. I don’t even know if she plays in clubs anymore. From what I’ve heard, her old friends don’t talk to her now. She periodically calls Wayne, and the last she told him, she was mostly waiting tables.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does Wayne think about the … situation?”

  She sighed. “When she moved out, he thought we were too hard on her. Now he thinks she needs to let go of her anger toward us. He told her that, and that didn’t make her happy. None of us have seen or heard from her in over six months, and even when we did, we didn’t really talk about anything. She’s so angry with Joel and me, but I want her to know that he and I are sorry for what we said and did. We should’ve been behind her dreams, instead of being critical of her.” She drew in a burdened breath, then choked out, “I want her to know that now. It’s time to put everything behind us, before it’s too late.”

  She scratched carefully at a spot on her head, and the action seemed to move an entire portion of her hair. Then it dawned on me that she was wearing a wig. Things fell into place.

  “I hope this isn’t too forward of me,” I said gently, “but may I ask, are you having some health issues, and is this why you want to talk to your daughter as soon as you can?”

  Her face remained impassive, and then she nodded slowly.

  “I have cancer,” she finally whispered. “It doesn’t look good.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  She composed herself and shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m a fighter, so we’ll see. But I don’t want to leave things this way with Sally. That’s a burden I can’t bear.”

  “Why do you want me to tell her all this instead of you?”

  “I don’t, but she won’t talk to me. I’ve tried calling her, but her cell phone’s disconnected, and I can’t find a listing for a new one. I’m sure she has a new number, but I don’t know what it is. Both Joel and I have been over to her apartment on separate occasions and she doesn’t answer. When I was there, I wondered if she was home because I thought I heard her behind the door. I think she knew it was me and wouldn’t answer.” She pointed at me. “But you could go over. Since she doesn’t know you, she’ll probably answer the door, and you can tell her what I’ve told you.”

  I thought for a moment. “What exactly would you want me to say to her?”

  “You’ve got to impress upon her that her father and I are sorry, and we’re desperate to talk to her. You can let her know I’m having some health issues, if that would help, but don’t tell her how serious my condition is. I’d rather do that myself.”

  I’d rather you do it, too, I thought but didn’t say.

  “I’m happy to pay you for your time.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not necessary. I don’t mind helping out.”

  “Your mother said you’d say that. It’s very kind of you.” She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue again. “I just want to clear things up with Sally before it’s too late.”

  “I understand.”

  She pushed a piece of paper across the table. “This is my contact information, and her address and the only phone number I have for her.”

  I glanced at it. Brenda lived in Castle Pines, a very nice area south of Denver, and Sally lived in an apartment northeast of downtown, near Bruce Randolph Avenue and York Street. Not the best part of town.

  “Does she still live there?”

  She arched her eyebrows, surprised. “I think so. I suppose it’s possible she moved, but if so, she didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Just checking. One other thing. What does Sally look like?”

  She let out a small laugh. “Oh, that would be helpful, huh.” She pulled out her phone, swiped at the screen, then handed it to
me. “This was taken about a year ago at our house.”

  Sally Evans was sitting at a picnic table, holding a beer and smiling mischievously. She had shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes that sparkled the way I’m sure her mother’s once did, and the same high cheekbones.

  “Wayne was there as well, and she was telling some jokes.” She smiled. “She can make you laugh, and Wayne could get her going.”

  “I can see the resemblance between you two,” I said.

  She nodded. “Please let me know as soon as you talk to her.”

  “I will.” I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. “Can I pay you for my drink?” I didn’t think she’d let me, but I had to ask.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  I stood up. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  She smiled wanly, and I walked toward the entryway, then glanced back.

  Brenda was staring out the window, the same sad expression on her face.

  Chapter Two

  This should be easy, I thought as I walked out to my car.

  I had just wrapped up a case where I’d helped a coworker of my wife Willie – real name Willimena – find her mother, whom she’d never met. I’d never admit this to my mother, but that case had had a bit of danger involved, and in truth, I was looking for something rather mundane to do now. Helping Brenda Evans seemed to fill the bill.

  I got in my 4-Runner and headed north on University Boulevard, and while I drove, I called a familiar number.

  “Well, Reed, dear, isn’t this a surprise,” my mother said in her high-pitched voice. I could tell by her tone that she wasn’t surprised that I’d called. After all, she’d known I was going to meet with her friend, and she’d assumed I’d be calling her about it. “You met with Mrs. Evans?”

  “I just did,” I said.

  “How is she? She didn’t sound very well on the phone. Did she tell you about her … condition?”

  “She has cancer.”

  “Yes. It’s so sad. I think she’s putting on a brave face, but it doesn’t look good. And so young, too. I just can’t believe it. How did she look? Oh, I hate to think.” When my mother gets going, she sometimes forgets to breathe.

  “She’s pretty frail right now.”

  “Oh, cancer is such an awful thing! Just terrible! It has to be so hard on her. And when she brought up this situation with Sally, I thought you might be able to help her so she won’t worry. The worrying can’t be good for her health.”

  “I understand. I’m headed to Sally’s apartment now to deliver a message from Brenda.”

  “That’s nice, dear. I knew I could count on you.”

  I moved into private-eye mode. “How well do you know the Evans?”

  “Mostly socializing at the club, and we talk on the phone sometimes. Why do you ask?”

  “Just trying to get a feel for Sally before I meet her face to face. I’d like to know what she’s like.”

  “Hmm, let me think. I remember seeing her a time or two at the club, with Brenda. She was maybe eighteen at the time. She was quite the stinker, if you ask me – a bit spoiled – but please don’t tell Brenda I said that.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Thank you, dear. Anyway, Sally was a bit standoffish, but very pretty. I thought at one time – if she’d been a bit older – the two of you might’ve made a nice couple. But then Brenda would hint at how they were having some problems with Sally, and I was glad dating you wasn’t an option. And then we’d never have met Willie. She’s so sweet.”

  “Yes, she is,” I concurred, knowing that there wasn’t any woman but Willie for me. “Did Brenda ever talk about Sally’s singing career?”

  “Just in general terms, that it was Sally’s dream, but they didn’t think she had the talent to go anywhere with it, that sort of thing.”

  “Did they talk about Sally doing drugs or alcohol?”

  “Hmm, I don’t recall that. But Brenda did say Sally had been dating a guy they weren’t too fond of.”

  “When was this?”

  “About six months ago. That was the last time they saw Sally. The boyfriend was there, and he didn’t impress Brenda. She said he was aloof, and a bit mean to Sally. She couldn’t see what Sally saw in the guy.”

  “Brenda didn’t mention that.”

  “I assume she was embarrassed by it.”

  “That’s probably it,” I said, even though, as the ace detective, it made me suspicious. Never assume anything.

  “What was the boyfriend’s name?”

  “I don’t recall her mentioning that.”

  I moved on. “What’s your impression of Joel Evans?”

  “He’s a lawyer, but I don’t know much beyond that. When I saw him at the club, he was maybe a bit cold at times. I mostly socialized with Brenda. Why?”

  “Just curious.” I thought for a moment. “Well, hopefully Sally is around, and she’ll give me a few minutes of her time.”

  “I hope so. You’ll let Brenda know the minute you find out anything, right?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I knew Brenda could count on you. And for once, it doesn’t sound dangerous.”

  “No, Mother, it doesn’t.”

  I chatted with her for a few minutes longer, then talked to my father for a bit. He caught me up on his golf game, and the weather. Then I heard my mother calling him, and I ended the call. I turned on the stereo and listened to The Smiths, my favorite ’80s alternative band, while I continued north. It was a straight shot up University, which turned into Josephine, and then York. I finally turned on Bruce Randolph and went east.

  The address Brenda Evans had provided me was a two-building apartment complex on Columbine Street. Each building was three stories, built with a haphazard mix of tan and brown brick. The rest of the neighborhood consisted of tiny houses that were better kept than the apartment complex. I was struck by the lack of trees, shrubs, or any other foliage in the complex. It gave the buildings a stark, isolated feel.

  I parked down the block, and the late summer sun was hot as I crossed the street. Farther up the block, some kids were walking home from school, but otherwise it was quiet. I went up a walkway between the buildings. Two of the downstairs units had doors that opened into the common area. Sally lived in the north building in unit 102, toward the back. I walked up a short sidewalk to her door and knocked. No one answered. A scrawny black kitten dashed up near me and then ran off. I smiled, then knocked on the door again. Still no answer. I stepped back and gave the building a once-over. I didn’t see anyone looking out any windows, and no one was in the common area, so I moved over to a window next to the door and peeked in.

  Cheap curtains were open, and I could see what appeared to be an old couch against a wall, and a TV across from it, sitting on a cheap stand. At the back was a kitchen. But no people. I went back to the door and knocked, not expecting any answer. When none came, I went to the center of the north building where there was a door that led into a small foyer.

  It wasn’t as quiet in here. Down a hallway, rock music blared from behind a door. Up a set of stairs, a woman yelled and a door slammed shut. I glanced around, and found a bank of mailboxes. I checked them, but they weren’t labeled except for the manager’s, who lived in 103. Then a loud voice from upstairs said, “I don’t need you. I’ll take all of it and you got nothing.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a young guy in torn jeans, a black T-shirt, and tattoos on his arms appeared. He muttered, “I got the material. I’ll do it myself.” He scowled as he lit a cigarette.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  He almost didn’t stop, but started to push through the door. He glared at me, then tossed his head so that his long bangs were out of his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Does Sally Evans still lives in 102?”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Who?”

  “Sally Evans. She’s about five-five, l
ong brown hair.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, man.”

  He swore at me and went out the door.

  “So much for that,” I muttered.

  Before the door shut, the black kitten dashed in.

  “You lost, buddy?” I asked him. Or maybe it was a her. I wasn’t sure.

  It meowed at me and walked around between my legs.

  “Hey, come here.” I reached down to pick it up, but it dashed up the stairs and disappeared.

  I shrugged, walked down the hall, and checked 103 – the manager’s apartment – without success, then went to 104 and banged on the door where the rock music was coming from. The music stayed at its intense volume, and no one answered. I knocked a few more times before giving up. I stood for a moment, wondering why the manager didn’t do anything about the music. Then I went to the second floor and started rapping on doors. I had success at the second apartment. The door flew open to reveal a short woman with kinky blond hair and dark eye shadow.

  “Gary, I told you to beat it or I’ll – oh.” She stared at me with her mouth open, then glanced to another stairwell opposite the one I’d used. “Waddaya want?”

  “I’m hoping you might be able to help me,” I said. “Do you know if Sally Evans still live in 102?”

  “Is that the woman downstairs on the end? That Sally?”

  I nodded.

  “I haven’t seen her around in a while.”

  “How long?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. A month or so.”

  “She moved out?”

  “I don’t think so, I just haven’t seen her.”

  “Do you know where she works?”

  She gnawed at her lip. “She was waiting tables at the Rat, but I haven’t seen her in there in a while, either.”

  “The Rat?”

  “The Rat Tavern, near Forty-second and Steele.”

  “Was she still singing?”

  “Singing?” She was completely puzzled by the question.

  “She used to sing at some clubs.”

  “That’s news to me. Listen, I gotta go.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, but the door had already slammed in my face.