I sat up straight. “Phillip, in my house?” I’d walked in while there were two intruders?
“Oh yeah. He wanted something of yours. Something in particular. He searched downstairs while I went upstairs.” Patsy narrowed her eyes and glared. “You came home.”
She returned her attention to the wall and shrugged her shoulders. “He got away. I was too slow.” Patsy’s features began to sag and then crumpled into a picture of profound sadness.
“What did Phillip want?” I received no response. “Patsy?”
Rarity reached to clasp Patsy’s hand but seemed to think better of it. “Is there anything I can bring you, to make you more comfortable?”
Patsy stared at the wall.
Rarity tried again, this time in a whisper, but received no reaction. She turned to me. “I think we’d better go.”
“I think you’re right.” I whispered goodbye to Patsy, and Rarity assured her she would visit again. Patsy gave no indication of having heard.
~
We pushed through the heavy door and stepped into the sunshine. I took a deep cleansing breath. It felt like my first breath since we entered that dismal gray room.
Rarity murmured. “Patsy will be better off if Philip Townsend never comes back.”
“I doubt he ever planned to take her with him. I’ve heard that name before.”
Rarity’s red curls flew as her head swiveled toward me. “You have?”
“My friend Clair dated him. She said he was very attentive but then dropped her suddenly. That must have been about the time he found Patsy—someone easier to influence.”
“Your friend and then your coworker. And your house. Why did he want in your house? What do you think he was looking for?”
“I don’t have a clue, but if he found anything, he can have it. In any event, I’ve learned to keep my doors locked and my gun handy.”
Rarity put her hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh dear. Well, they know his identity, and they’ll catch him. And Wallace is right next door. I know Wallace will keep an eye on you.”
When we reached the car, Rarity leaned on the roof. “Poor Patsy. I should’ve seen it. I knew she was unhappy but never thought it could go this far. I hadn’t realized how much she depended on a man for self-esteem.”
“Phillip Townsend found an easy mark.”
We climbed into the car and as she fastened her seat belt, Rarity shook her head. “Can’t believe I missed the signs. I feel as if I failed her. I’ll visit as often as they let me. She needs to know there is forgiveness, no matter what she’s done. She needs to understand how special she is in God’s eyes.”
Rarity shifted the car into gear and steered it into traffic.
I gazed out the window, watching the trees go by, and considered the possibility of a true crime novel based on the crimes of this very disturbed woman. Would I be able to understand Patsy’s reasoning? When had her mental illness begun? Something in her childhood? Was it the mental or verbal abuse of her husband? How did everyone, especially those of us who worked with her, miss her desperate need for recognition? Was everyone, like me, too concerned with their own problems? Yet, Philip Townsend so easily identified her as his target.
No. I couldn’t write about Patsy. I couldn’t profit from her sadness. If anything, I’ll go along with Rarity to encourage her.
Chapter Thirty-seven
R arity pulled her VW to the curb in front of my house. Her eyes rimmed in red, I’d never seen her so weary. “I’ll see you at work next week. I’ll be so relieved when everything is back to normal at the salon.”
I climbed out of the car and leaned down to speak through the window. “Me too. It would great if life could be routine for a change.”
I took my time walking across the yard. How long had it been since I appreciated the cool shade of the maple tree? The bird songs seemed particularly melodious and sweet.
As I climbed the steps, my cell rang and I fished it out of my bag.
“Hi girlfriend, it’s Clair.”
“Nice to hear your cheerful voice. It’s been a long day. Rarity and I. . . ”
“Guess what, I just got a new listing.”
I should have known I wouldn’t get through a complete thought.
“Paul Cooper’s house. He and Missy are moving to her hometown in Iowa. They made a snap decision over the weekend and have already called a moving company.” Clair erupted in giggles. “Guess you’ll never solve the case of the impostor classmate.”
“Stop. You won’t let me live that one down, will you?” The truth bubbled up inside my brain but I reminded myself it would help no one. “I’m sure Missy will enjoy being back in her hometown.”
“I was surprised Paul didn’t want to sell the house himself, or at least list with Perry, but. . . . Hold on, someone’s at the door.”
A moment later, Clair whispered through the phone. “Whoa. This is my lucky day. It’s Mr. Beautiful himself, Agent Spencer. Talk to you later, bye.”
A beep signaled the broken connection, so I put my phone back in my bag and proceeded inside. Agent Spencer? I thought he left town this morning.
The cat waited for me in the kitchen. “Mason, time to get into an orderly existence. I’m going to sweep up the cat food you left scattered around your dish, and wash the kitchen floor. You go chase butterflies, and later we’ll watch a movie.”
~
Mason and I settled on the sofa. I cradled a bowl of popcorn and flipped channels in search of an afternoon flick. Rapping on the door infringed on the tranquility.
“Oh please. I’d hoped for a quiet, peaceful afternoon.” I set aside the bowl and plodded to the door.
Clair stood on the porch with her hands on her hips and cheeks pinker than I’d ever seen them.
She strode in as soon as the door swung open and proceeded to pace around the living room, hands in constant motion. “Girl, you won’t believe it. I sure can’t.”
Mason trotted behind her and made two circuits before he leapt to the coffee table, to track her with his eyes.
The story of Philip Townsend came in bits and pieces. I’d retreated to the sofa, and remained mute while Clair circled the room spending pent-up anger and spouting her hurt and frustration.
“I can’t believe I fell for Philip’s line. Jack, that’s Agent Spencer, trailed him to Evelynton. Said something about Philip being a witness in a murder case in Florida. It’s weird because that crime was committed five years ago.”
“A murder? Did Agent Spencer say where in Florida?”
“Umm. Tampa, I think. Isn’t that where you lived?”
Clair’s voice rose a few decibels. “And, listen to this. Philip had even served four years in prison, for larceny. Who would have thought, me with an ex-con? When he got out, Philip told the police he’d heard a cellmate admit to a shooting. He’d testify, but he wanted witness protection. But then the fool got scared and left the state.”
Clair groaned and continued. “What a loser. Jack called him a sociopath and said he’s adept at taking advantage of women. I guess I have first-hand knowledge of that.”
Clair stopped and put her fists on her hips. “Would you believe I blamed myself when he dropped me? Thought it was something I’d done, or I was working too many hours, when in reality, he’d found an easier mark—Patsy Clooney. She became his partner and gathered all kinds of information for his criminal pursuits.” Clair glanced at the boarded window. “Too bad you were one of the victims.”
My throat closed around the questions popping into my head.
Clair stomped to the door and clutched the knob. “Jack said he was sure the jerk wouldn’t be back this way. His contacts say Philip’s been seen driving back south. Mark my words, this is the last time you’ll ever hear me speak the name, Philip Townsend. I’m better than that and I’m moving on.”
Clair paused and an innocent smile transformed her face. “I’m hoping Agent Spencer will be back. I think he has ties to someone
here in town.”
“Right now, I’m off to sell a house.” She opened the door and made her exit, shutting it firmly behind her.
Hitchcock’s Rear Window played on the TV, but I pulled Mason into my lap and turned my attention to the door of the now empty closet beneath the staircase.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I opened my eyes to the last beams of afternoon sunlight filtering through the dining room windows. The boarded window in the living room dimmed the light enough to accommodate peaceful napping, my new pastime. I’d always referred to the need for naps as a small town habit. Now it was mine, not intentional, but comforting. I was beginning to see the benefits. Mason appreciated a good nap, too, seldom letting me sleep alone.
His body was draped over my stomach. Nudging him as gently as possible, I lifted him to the floor and wondered what was in the kitchen for supper.
The sound of crunching gravel in my driveway, and a slamming car door alerted me to the approaching visitor. The thud of leather soles on the porch and the knock brought me to my feet.
The narrow window in the door revealed Jack Spencer leaning against the railing, eyes focused down the street. I took a moment to admire his strong arms folded across his chest, then ran my fingers through my hair and attempted to smooth wrinkles from my shirt, before pulling the door open.
“Hello, Agent Spencer. This is a surprise. I thought you would’ve been out of the state by this time.”
Deep brown eyes ignited a fluttering in my stomach. His smile was warm but held a strange tentative glimmer. I doubted this was a social call.
“Um. Please come in.”
“I’d planned to be out of here, but got a phone call, from the jail, before I reached the city limits. It kept me in town a bit longer than expected.” Jack took a seat on the sofa, rested his elbows on his knees, and waited for me to sit.
The fluttering in my stomach turned to queasiness. Could this drama please be over?
I sat in the side chair, mute, waiting for the show to begin again.
He cleared his throat and began to recant the story Clair related earlier.
“Agent Spencer, allow me to interrupt, to save time. Clair Lane came over after you talked to her, and told me about Philip Townsend.”
“Good, that does save time. But I’m afraid she didn’t have the whole story. I questioned Ms. Lane about Townsend and related everything that pertained to her situation. Townsend has fled the state. My sources tell me he’s probably in Georgia at the moment.”
Jack continued. “Ms. Halloren, I understand your late husband was a professional photographer?”
Marc?
“Photo Journalist.” I nodded and waited for the bomb to drop.
“How much do you know about your husband’s pursuits?”
“I don’t know what you mean by pursuits, but I know everything about him. He had a great job. Travel, excitement. His assignments took him out of the country a lot. I went with him most of the time. We traveled to some exotic places, beautiful mountains, sunny beaches. Some of his assignments were dangerous—war zones or dictatorships. Then, of course, I’d stay home.”
“Did he show you his work—his photographs?”
“Sure. Well, not always. He’d mainly share the great scenery, landscapes, some of famous people. He was protective, didn’t want to expose me to the atrocities. Sometimes I’d wait for the magazine to come out and sneak out to buy it. Other times, he wouldn’t even tell me what magazine he’d worked for.”
Agent Spencer’s eyes grew intense. He gazed at me while I spoke, seeming to sift through and weigh my words.
I took a deep breath and blew it out. “What is this about? What has my husband to do with you?”
“Let’s go back to the beginning. Ms. Lane told you about Philip Townsend. He’d been in witness protection. I had charge of him until he could testify. We think the local drug lord found him, and he made a deal. He ran and I lost track of him until he turned up here in Evelynton.”
“You lost him? Must have been embarrassing for you, but what’s the point of all this?” I wished I would have worded that a little nicer. But it had been a long day and I wanted it to be over.
A half-smile lifted his face. “Yes. It was embarrassing, to say the least. The point is we think Townsend followed you here in hopes of finding some incriminating photos your husband may have had in his possession. They would have been of drug activity. If that’s the case, we need to take possession of them, and know why Halloren didn’t report what he saw.”
“Excuse me?”
“The crime Townsend offered information on was a drug-related murder. Marc Halloren’s shooting death.”
The bomb, I knew was coming, exploded and I saw stars.
“Halloren witnessed and photographed the transfer of drugs, off the coast of Florida. Again, we wonder why it wasn’t reported.”
“No, you’ve got the wrong man. Marc died in a drive-by shooting. Random, like a gang initiation.” I enunciated each word carefully, willing them to be heard and understood. “That’s what the police said and the investigation proved. The case is closed.”
Jack remained calm. His voice soothing, as he gazed into my eyes. “I understand that’s what you were told, from the information they had at that time, their best guess. The case was never closed. But with the information Townsend gave us—”
I clenched my hands in my lap and noticed they were wet. Hadn’t even realized tears streamed down my face.
I struggled to get words out. There was barely enough breath in my lungs to make myself heard. “No, that’s wrong. It was random. Marc was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. This can’t be true.” I wrapped my arms around myself to still the shaking.
Jack stood and pulled me out of the chair, and into his arms. I leaned into his chest and let my tears seep into his shirt.
“I’m sorry, Lauren. Probably a misunderstanding. Maybe he photographed something else, and never saw the transfer taking place in the background.”
I nodded, my face still buried in his shirt. That was it. All a misunderstanding.
“What we do need is any files of his or photographs you may have.”
I pushed away and ran my hands over my face. “I don’t have any of Marc’s files. That Townsend guy may have found something. The boxes had been ripped open. It was all a mess that night, and Wallace offered to take it to the trash. I told him to go ahead. I wanted it out of my house.”
“To the trash? Wallace threw them out? When was this? Where did he take them?” Jack still held my shoulders. His eyes had widened and locked into mine.
Pulling my eyes away, I jerked free of his grasp and backed up, putting a chair between us. “Right after the break-in, the night they caught Patsy Clooney. Everything’s gone. The garbage truck has come since then.”
“So you’re saying any evidence there might have been, is gone? All the files? You must have something. What else do you have belonging to your husband?”
I squeezed my hands into fists, and shrieked, “Yes, all his files are gone, ask Wallace. Wait, I have Marc’s favorite mug. I suppose that’s evidence. Do you want to take his coffee cup? It’s cleverly hidden on the windowsill in the kitchen.” I regretted the outburst and misplaced sense of humor, as soon as it left my big mouth.
Jack raised his hands in surrender. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. “Well, no. Sorry Lauren. Not your fault. I’m confident you didn’t purposely dispose of evidence.”
“Of course, I didn’t purposely dispose of evidence. This is crazy. There wasn’t any evidence. Marc had nothing to do with drugs.”
Agent Spencer acted as if he hadn’t heard.
“Chances are Townsend found what he was looking for and is delivering it back to his contact in Florida, or he’s destroyed it. I’ll be on his trail as soon as I leave here.”
Sorry didn’t get it. I felt flames licking the inside of my chest, and the blaze was building. I stretched myself up to my
full height, lifted my chin to glare into his brown eyes, and raised my sweaty fists in defiance. “My husband was an honest man and had nothing to do with any drug transfer. This is all a lie.”
Agent Spencer backed toward the door, his hands still raised—maybe in defense. “Calm down. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll catch up with Townsend. And when I do, this will all be cleared up. I promise.”
He side-stepped off the porch, eyes darting between me and the steps. Once he’d retreated to the SUV, he turned to face me. Lines etched his forehead. “Look, I‘m sorry. Don’t worry about it. We’ll discover the truth, and I’ll contact you.” He paused. “Lauren, I’ll see you again.”
I grabbed the doorknob and flung the door closed with all my strength. The sound of slamming echoed like a gunshot.
~
The cat food box slipped from my hand and kibble spilled onto the counter when I heard the news anchor. He seemed to be shouting. The old T.V. did that sometimes. The volume would increase for no reason. Other times I could hardly hear it.
This morning the words rushed in to the kitchen from the living room, loud and clear. He said Fort De Soto Park on St. Joan Key. It was the name that caught my attention. Marc and I had spent many happy hours walking that beach. Miles of white sand, blue skies and clear water.
I walked to the living room to watch. The newsman reported of the body of a man found washed up on the beach. This wasn’t an overly odd occurrence for the national news. No reason to concern me. I wouldn’t have listened if it hadn’t been on that beach.
The badly decomposed body was thought to have been in the warm water of Tampa bay for several days, possibly longer. Police determined the deceased to be Philip Townsend. The manner of death was not immediately apparent. But, hopefully, this would be determined by the autopsy.
I was still processing this news later in the afternoon, and answered the phone without checking for caller ID.
The warm, manly voice stunned me. “Lauren, it’s Jack Spencer. I assume you heard the news report this morning. Philip Townsend’s dead.”
Heart Strings Page 15