Sandie James Mysteries Box Set

by Tessa Kelly

  I sighed. “I told him I’d look into it. I will. I just don’t know what I can do that the police can’t.”

  She snorted. “Are you kidding me? We’ve all seen how you solved your dad’s case. You’ve got natural talent, Sandie. That’s why Josh came to you for help. You should trust yourself more. You can totally do it! Besides, you’ve got to. What if he goes to prison? How will you feel knowing you could’ve prevented it and you didn’t?”

  Josh. In prison.

  The stark image rose in my mind, coupled with a cold sinking in my stomach. It was enough to convince me, more than pleading or reasoning could. No way would I let Josh go to prison.

  “I’ll do everything I can to help him,” I said, unable to keep my voice from trembling. “You know that.”

  “Good.” Felisha came over and gave me a tight hug, then yawned wider than Hemingway. “I’m so tired... I’m going to bed.” Turning, she headed into her room. She didn’t take her phone or mention that Tyrone still hadn’t called her back.

  Good. If talking about Josh’s problems made her forget about her own, then it was the silver lining I’d been hoping for.

  I went to bed uneasy, thinking about Josh. I’d promised to do everything I could for him, and I would. But what if it wasn’t enough?

  Tomorrow was Saturday, and Mrs. O’Hara and I were going to the homeless shelter to visit the man with no memory whose identity I’d been unable to find out for the past two months.

  I had solved Dad’s case and kept him from going to prison, but that didn’t mean I could do it again.

  They were all counting on me: Josh, Felisha, Mrs. O’Hara.

  What if their trust was misplaced?

  Chapter 6

  The subway into the City took twenty minutes and spewed me out onto a busy street three blocks from Times Square. Towering office buildings, honking traffic, and the ever-present throngs of people surrounded me. Hurrying, rushing, the crowd pressed in on me as I weaved my way down the block. It was with a sigh of relief that I reached the corner and turned onto a quieter street.

  I shook myself like a duck after a fight. To think, I’d spent three years in the city while studying for my Master’s degree. I even enjoyed it for a while.

  These days, I was finished with the fast lane. Since graduating and moving back to my childhood burrow, its quaint and cozy neighborhoods held infinitely more appeal.

  The homeless shelter, tucked away in the middle of the block, was easy to spot by the small crowd of men hanging out on the sidewalk and ignoring the “do not loiter” sign that glared down at them from above the entrance. The loiterers could be found there at any time of day or night, smoking cigarettes and yelling crude remarks to the women residents who came and went. Occasionally, a fight would break out, but the police stayed close to break it up.

  Mrs. O’Hara waited for me when I got there, keeping a few feet away from the men. Seeing me, she smiled and the fine crinkles around her eyes grew deeper, only adding to her charm. Mrs. O’Hara had one of those infectious smiles that lit up her whole face and usually brought out a similar response in others.

  I smiled back as I hurried over to her. I’d spent half the night worrying about Alexa’s murder and Will’s reaction when I told him I wanted in on his investigation. It was time to put all that aside for now.

  “Sorry I made you wait,” I said as we hugged.

  Mrs. O’Hara gave my arm a warm squeeze. “No need to apologize, dear. I’m just early, as always. Now, why don’t we go in and see if Jeremiah is ready?”

  Adjusting her shoulder bag, she marched toward the double doors, past the loiterers who threw her suspicious glances. I stuck my hands into the pockets of my short trench coat and did my best to look inconspicuous as I followed her into the shabby reception hall.

  A heady mixture of odors hit my nostrils. Fried foods, disinfectant, dirty laundry. I'd only been here twice before but already learned to associate the smells with the place.

  A man and a woman in security guard uniforms sat behind a desk facing the entrance. Behind them, plastic chairs against the walls resembled a row of seats in a rundown theater destined for demolition. New arrivals occupied four of the seats. Hunched over their admission papers, they sat surrounded by bags and suitcases which probably contained all their possessions. Beyond the entrance hall, an equally shabby narrow corridor led into the depth of the building.

  Mrs. O’Hara marched up to the desk and smiled at the man in a guard’s uniform. “Good morning, Mr. Andrews. Hope you're doing well today?”

  For once, her smile didn’t elicit a positive response. The man leaned back from the desk, balancing his chair on two legs, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “You here for your volunteer shift?”

  Mrs. O’Hara’s volunteer work consisted mostly of helping residents build their resumes and coaching them for job interviews. She shook her head.

  “Not today, I’m afraid. Sandie and I came to see Mr. Jeremiah Copeland. Would you be so kind as to let him know we’re here?”

  The guard’s face remained impassive as he rose and walked across the entrance hall, just as a tall guy in low-hanging jeans ambled out of the corridor. The guy had a relaxed look of a vacationer strolling through the hotel lobby. An old-timer, probably.

  “Yo, sup man?” He gave the guard a lopsided grin and the two bumped fists as the guard continued on down the corridor.

  One of the new arrivals looked up from her paperwork and met my gaze. She seemed young, probably in her early twenties, but already with traces of hardness in her features that squeezed something in my chest.

  How many across the country lived like this? Half-lives on the fringes of society. Who was helping them?

  The guard came back, followed by Jeremiah. He was tall and lean, and in his late sixties, so the doctors thought. Though his hair was gray, he retained a youthful vigor and his face had very few wrinkles.

  His features weren't striking, not a face that stood out in the crowd. But I was struck by a peculiar feeling that something about him suddenly looked familiar in the way it hadn’t before.

  Mrs. O’Hara beamed. “Hello, Jeremiah. I hope our visit isn’t interfering with anything you’ve got going on today?”

  Jeremiah smiled back with obvious gladness as he joined us at the security desk and opened the large sign-out book. Apart from having to observe a tight curfew, shelter regulations mandated all residents sign in and out each time they left or came back.

  Jeremiah wrote down his name and room number and turned to Mrs. O’Hara. With a polite gesture, he invited her to walk out ahead of him.

  “Your visits are never an interference, Geraldine,” he said in a lowered voice. “They’re about the only thing I have to look forward to in this place.”

  Mrs. O’Hara patted his arm in consolation.

  I followed them out, wondering why it was that Jeremiah suddenly seemed familiar. There was no reason for it, except for the vague sense of recognition I couldn’t shake.

  If only we could learn his real identity. He might have an apartment or a house somewhere. Perhaps, even a wife and kids. Or grandkids.

  Missing him, sick with worry about what happened to him and whether he was still alive.

  Then again, maybe not.

  His picture hadn’t appeared in any of the missing person’s reports we’d searched. His fingerprints had been run through the system but found no match.

  As for Jeremiah, all he could tell us was that his memories started from the morning he came to in a ditch by the side of the road, just outside the city. The extensive bruises all over his body told him he must’ve been attacked and beaten into unconsciousness in the night.

  The driver of a passing car stopped and called 911, and the paramedics took Jeremiah to the nearest hospital where the doctors asked for his name. When he couldn’t give it, a nurse brought in an old and battered phone book and told him to open it at random and point to the first name he saw. She wrote it down in
the form as a place holder, until his memory came back. It never did. That was how he became Jeremiah Copeland, the man with no memory.

  He had retained scattered recollections, like swimming in a large lake as a child, or flying over mountains in a small plane. But nothing that would give us a clue, a trace back to his former life.

  After many tests and a brain scan, the doctors diagnosed Jeremiah with a rare form of amnesia which must’ve resulted from the trauma to the head he received. They told him he was unlikely to ever regain his memory.

  From the hospital, Jeremiah ended up at the homeless shelter where he met Mrs. O’Hara. She refused to listen to the doctors’ diagnosis and worked tirelessly to help him find his past. After hearing about how I’d solved Sonny’s murder, she asked if I would help her. I agreed to try, though I wasn't sure what I could do.

  Two months later, and I still didn’t know. The lack of progress was starting to weigh on me, made me feel useless. What if my mind was playing tricks on me then, convincing me Jeremiah looked familiar? Was I inventing clues to feel better about myself? My best bet was to keep these thoughts to myself and quietly observe Jeremiah without raising false hopes.

  “So what have we got on the agenda today?” Jeremiah asked as we ambled down the street.

  “I thought we could take you to lunch at the usual place,” Mrs. O’Hara said. “Seeing how it’s almost noon. Then we’ll see. I’m free all day but I think Sandie will have to get back.”

  “Oh? Are you working today, or have you got a young man waiting to sweep you off your feet?” Jeremiah’s eyes sparkled with good-natured humor. It amazed me he still retained it, despite everything that happened to him.

  “The only men waiting for me at home are Asimov and Hemingway, my dad’s cats.”

  And an unsolved murder. But if Murder was anything like Death in the English language, it would be female.

  “You’ll have a real man in your life soon,” Mrs. O’Hara said in a tone that allowed no arguments. “A young woman with your looks and your talents can’t fail to make a good match. You just arm yourself with patience, and it’ll happen when the time is right.”

  I smiled. No point in telling her a match was the furthest thing from my mind. Not when Josh needed my help, and Jeremiah’s identity remained a mystery, and my book was still only halfway finished. With so much going on, who had time for dating?

  We walked down the block, heading away from Times Square, and crossed the street at the light to a small diner on the corner. Mrs. O’Hara and Jeremiah’s “usual place”.

  The hostess, a small dark woman with raven-black hair in a tight bun, came to greet us holding three hard-bound menus.

  “A booth?” she asked Mrs. O’Hara, probably remembering her from the Sunday before.

  “We’d like one by the window, if it won’t trouble you,” Mrs. O’Hara said.

  I doubted it would trouble her. At this time of day, the place was half-empty, and it would remain that way for at least another hour.

  We took our seats and a surly waiter came over with our waters and a small paper pad to write down our order. We made it a big one—three coffees, pancakes, French toast, salads, and a Philly Cheese Steak with an extra plate of home fries for Jeremiah, to make up for the shelter food he ate during the week. Jeremiah looked embarrassed when it was all brought over a few minutes later.

  “I hope I’ll be able to repay you for all your kindness, Geraldine,” he said quietly.

  She clicked her tongue as she ripped open a packet of sugar and emptied it into her coffee. “Isn’t it time you stopped saying that? You don’t owe me anything. What I do, I do because I want to. Now, dig in before it gets cold.”

  We dug in. Jeremiah ate slowly, sitting up straight and keeping his elbows off the table. He used his knife and fork with the kind of elegance that suggested he was familiar with good table manners. Which indicated a good upbringing, possibly in an upper-class family. I added these observations to what I already knew about the man.

  For instance, that he spoke five languages and enjoyed reading historical novels. I’d brought him a stack of books from Dad’s store for which he was exceedingly grateful. He was reliable and punctual, and his clothes, though understandably shabby, always looked impeccable and clean.

  Unfortunately, none of these facts helped us establish his identity.

  Mrs. O’Hara cleared her throat. “Jeremiah, I meant to tell you, I have an extra ticket to Rigoletto at the Metropolitan Opera House this coming weekend. Would you like to join me? Jeremiah thinks he has a vague recollection of attending Rigoletto at the Met,” she explained, turning to me.

  “Then you should absolutely go,” I said. “It could help jog your memory. At the very least, you’ll have an amazing time.”

  Jeremiah's eyes lit up like a child’s at Christmas. “With pleasure, Geraldine. Though...” He looked down at his faded shirt. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to the opera.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I still have some of my late husband’s suits. I’ll come up tomorrow and bring them over. He was the same height as you, but if they don’t fit, there’s still time to have them taken in.”

  They smiled at each other.

  It was easy to picture them enjoying classical music together. Not to mention Jeremiah deserved an evening out, away from the drudgery of the shelter life. And if it helped him remember something more of his past...

  I blinked. The fact that Jeremiah retained memories of the opera could mean something. Perhaps, it wasn't his only time there. I made a mental note to check the Metropolitan Opera’s list of patrons for anyone who might fit his description. A long shot, but worth a try.

  The waiter brought over the bill. I reached for it, but Mrs. O’Hara snatched it before I could.

  “You paid the last time,” I protested.

  “And I enjoy paying. What else have I got to spend my money on? Besides, I know you’re saving up for rent, dear.” She got out her wallet.

  I took out mine, too. “I’m doing okay on the rent front this month. We’re splitting it.”

  She shook her head in admonition but didn’t argue as I put down a twenty.

  As we got up, Jeremiah lifted Mrs. O’Hara’s jacket off the back of the seat and helped her into it, then got mine for me.

  Old school manners. They must’ve been drilled into him from childhood until they became a habit, a second nature. Though the memories of that childhood were gone, the habit lingered on. Like a perfume trace. I filed this away into my mental store of notes.

  Outside, the air was crisp but the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky. Mrs. O’Hara turned to Jeremiah.

  “How about a walk through the park? We could look at the leaves turning.”

  He readily agreed and asked if I would join them.

  I shook my head. “Afraid I can’t. But I’ll come visit you again soon. That’s a promise.”

  We said goodbye and they walked side by side towards Central Park. The way they were so comfortable with each other, one would think they had been together for years. I almost envied them.

  With a sigh, I turned and headed back to the train station. As I went down the stairs, my phone vibrated.

  Will.

  I stopped and stared at his name, forcing the hurrying passengers to move around me with disgruntled looks. Then I took a deep breath and answered.

  “Hey, sis!” He sounded cheerful. “Bad timing?”

  “I’m just on my way back from visiting Jeremiah.” I tried to sound breezy while I worked my way up, salmon-style, against the stream of descending people.

  At the top of the stairs, I edged sideways to the nearest building, determined not to be carried away by the throngs. Clinging to the once-brown wall, now grungy with dust and time, I strained to hear over the noise of traffic.

  “Thought I’d let you know it was a good call with that tree sculpture last night,” Will said. “The one that was off center.”

  My f
ingers squeezed the phone hard enough to break it. “Why? What did you find?”

  “No fingerprints. But there are traces of blood on the edge of the base. It’s being analyzed to see if it matches the victim’s. So is the hair. But it’s a pretty good guess they’re going to come back positive. The sculpture is definitely our murder weapon.”

  “Are you allowed to pass on this info?” I asked.

  Will was silent for a beat, and I could almost see him rub his knuckles against his chin.

  “I just wanted to square things off,” he said finally. “I was a little brusque with you last night, and I feel bad about that. You promised not to go near this case, and I know you’ll keep your word. So, I’m sorry. Are we okay?”

  It was my turn to be silent.

  “Sandie?” His voice came a little louder. “Are you still there?”

  I opened my mouth. At the same moment, a Ford Sedan nearby emitted a long, frustrated honk as it tried to pass a double-parked SUV. The driver of the Ford rolled down his window and let loose a string of obscenities at the offending car.

  Perhaps, the street wasn’t my best ally in coming clean. I’d have to tell Will about Josh’s visit soon, but not here.

  Definitely not here.

  “I wonder why the killer would wipe off his fingerprints, but not bother to remove the hair,” I said to change the subject.

  “You think he wanted us to find the murder weapon?” Will asked. “That occurred to me, too. I’ve got some ideas but... you know.”

  “Confidential.” I finished for him. “I understand.”

  He went silent again for a moment. “Well, that was all. I better go for now. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  I swallowed hard. “Absolutely. See you soon?”

  “You bet.”

  I stared at the phone, guilt raging in my brain. The phone pinged again. An email from Josh this time.

  He attached a photo of the list of the guests who had been invited to the private viewing and highlighted the names of the absentees.

  Only four didn't make an appearance. The first two, Jenson Ray and Fabian Morris, I’d never heard of before. The third surprised me. Kenneth Sheppard, Marcel Bright’s agent. Why wasn't he there? Him, of all people?