The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  Elizabeth checked the rearview mirror, then swung the car into the dedicated road built for traffic to and from the prison. The rain that had been threatening all the way here had cleared by the time she pulled to a halt at the barrier in front the prison entrance. The guard exited the gate house at the side of the roadway and rounded the car. He bent at the driver’s side, one hand on the roof as she lowered her window.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Elizabeth McClaine. I’m here to see Jennifer Glassy,” she told him.

  “She’s expecting you. Drive straight through and park in the private parking area around the south side of the administration building,” he said, pointing.

  She raised the window, and as soon as the barrier lifted, she drove through the gates she’d driven through not six hours previously, under entirely different circumstances.

  Jennifer Glassy looked up as Elizabeth was escorted into her office. Despite looking tired and ill-tempered, she gestured Elizabeth to the visitor’s chair opposite and gave her a brief smile. No doubt Elizabeth’s close ties with the governor were the reason Glassy had agreed to Elizabeth questioning some of the women. Under the circumstances, that agreement could be withdrawn at any minute. Elizabeth had to make the most of the opportunity while she had it.

  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” Elizabeth said and lowered herself into the chair, waiting until the prison officer who’d accompanied her had withdrawn and closed the door before adding, “and I appreciate your assistance.”

  Jennifer Glassy leaned back in her leather chair and folded her arms. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find. Even if any of these women know anything, I very much doubt they’ll tell you.”

  “To be honest, I didn’t know where else to start. I’m hoping Stacy might have confided in someone about what she had in mind. I find it hard to believe she’d spend six months planning all this without telling another soul.”

  Glassy let out a cynical chuckle. “If we were talking about anyone else, I’d agree. There are very few secrets in prison. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. Information is currency. You know something, you can trade on it. One thing I’ll say for Stacy May Charms, she knew how to keep her mouth shut. Which is why she earned a reputation for being trusted.”

  “Yes, and I understand that. But what if one of her friends figured it out—guessed what she was up to? You said yourself, gossip is rife here. If I can convince one person to open up and cooperate, it might give me a place to start.”

  Jennifer Glassy tilted her head briefly, her expression skeptical as she reached for a file folder sitting off to one side of her desk. She drew it across in front of her and opened it, saying, “You can try. I don’t like your chances. I made a list of inmates who have agreed to speak to you, but by the time she was released, she didn’t have too many friends.”

  “Is that because of the program?”

  Glassy plucked a sheet of paper from the file, passed it to Elizabeth and closed the file again. “As she progressed through the various stages and passed the academic and program requirements, resentments arose. We expected that. The successful applicant was never going to win the title of Miss Popularity. But that just seemed to make her all the more determined. Personally, I didn’t think Stacy would last the distance.” She shrugged in resignation. “To her credit, she did. I’ll give her that much.”

  “Do you know if she had any particular disagreements or rivalries that might have aggravated tensions with the other inmates?”

  The warden leaned forward to square up the file on her desk, avoiding eye contact. She let the question hang for a moment, maybe debating the best way to answer it. “About four months ago, we had a … an incident, during which we discovered drugs were being smuggled into the prison. We carried out a thorough investigation, and with some fast thinking by some of our officers, we found the culprit and dealt with the situation swiftly, and surely.” The expression in her eyes hardened along with her tone. “The following day, a friend of Stacy May’s—Amy Dixon—died as a result of a drug overdose. Amy had gotten clean, she was doing well. Then, all of a sudden, she OD’d. Stacy was…” Jennifer Glassy looked away to her left and drew a breath while she searched for a word. “…furious, devastated. She was only two months into the program at the time. Up until that point, she’d been doing okay, but something about Amy’s death seemed to cross a line for her, made her even more determined to turn her life around. After that, she put everything she had into acing all the required programs. And as you know, the work paid off. I guess you could say that was the story of Stacy May’s life.”

  “And what happened to the person who was smuggling the drugs in?”

  Again, her eyes dropped to her desktop. When she hesitated, Elizabeth thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she said, “The supplier turned out to be one of our own contractors—a physical therapist working for a company called Cavalier Health and Wellness. Not one of their proudest moments. Or ours,” she added in a low voice as she shifted the file back to its original spot.

  “You have a physical therapist on site?” The surprise in Elizabeth’s voice rang clear.

  “Right now, we have three inmates in wheelchairs. By law, we’re required to meet their needs.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I see,” she said, wondering where this slotted into the picture.

  Jennifer Glassy lifted her head and folded her hands in her lap, clearly discomfited by the subject. “Naturally, her services were immediately suspended and Cavalier fired her. Once we knew where to look, the evidence against her was overwhelming. She’s currently spending time at the taxpayers’ expense in the Ohio Women’s Reformatory Prison.”

  “Is there any chance she could have been in contact with Stacy? Maybe threatened her if she thought Stacy was the reason she got caught?”

  The warden lifted her chin with a look of steely determination. “No way. Last I heard, she’d taken quite a beating from a couple of the inmates. Now she spends most of her time in protective custody. There’s no way she could have had any communications with Stacy. Or anyone else,” she added in a firm voice.

  “I imagine the incident must have put a lot of pressure on you.”

  Another tight silence. Then she said, “You could say that.”

  It seemed the conversation was freezing up, so Elizabeth turned her questioning back to Stacy. “So what if Stacy was afraid for her life? Is there anyone she might have confided in?”

  Jennifer Glassy let out another skeptical chuckle. “I’d be surprised. Like I said, she knew how to keep secrets—including her own. But if you check the list, you might like to speak to Cissy Pettameyer. She was in the same work detail as Stacy. Cissy keeps an ear to the ground and she just may have heard something.”

  Elizabeth found Cissy’s name fourth on the list. “The name sounds familiar. I think I remember interviewing her.” Elizabeth made a mark next to the name.

  “You did. Cissy was one of three women who made it through to the final cut. Cissy and Stacy weren’t close, but Cissy has an ear for gossip. She’s cautious, but she might tell you what she’s heard with the right amount of prompting. You never know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also added Nyla Guthrie to the list. You haven’t met her. She didn’t apply for the program, but she requested the opportunity to speak to you.”

  Elizabeth looked up. “That sounds promising.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. She and Stacy came to blows. They had to be separated. Stacy wound up in the hospital with a couple of broken ribs. Nyla could be just playing games. She’s cunning and manipulative—likes to think she’s in control. But she was adamant she wanted to talk to you.”

  “You think she could know something important?”

  “Let’s say Nyla has a lot of influence within a certain crowd. Stacy inadvertently stepped across the line when she first got here. Nyla put her in her place. Nothing serious. It’s what happens. Things seemed to si
mmer down; in fact, they seemed quite close for a while—hanging together, in the same work detail, always with their heads together. But something happened between them four months ago after Amy died, and for Stacy’s safety, we placed her into a different dormitory and a separate work group. I never found out what the disagreement was about. But that’s not surprising.”

  “Stacy was already in the program by that time. Why wasn’t this flagged to me?”

  “No reason to. Stacy didn’t fight back. Just stood there and took the beating, by all accounts. Yes, she wound up with a couple of broken ribs, but nothing you’d have noticed. And she begged me not to let it affect her application.” She lifted one shoulder in concession. “I didn’t think it should count against her.”

  “Would anybody else know what the disagreement was about?”

  “No idea. You can try Nyla, but I wouldn’t bank on her saying anything. It could have been because one of them used the other one’s soap on the wrong day, or someone spoke to someone else they shouldn’t have—who knows? There’s always friction in this place. Two thousand women all locked up together, it comes with the territory.”

  “Do you think Nyla was involved in this drug ring?”

  Glassy leaned forward on her elbows. “Mrs. McClaine, when I say we did a very thorough investigation, we carried out cell inspections, personal strip searches, drug dog inspections, we tore the place apart. If there had been anyone else involved, believe me, I’d have found the evidence.”

  Elizabeth nodded, acknowledging the unintended implication that Jennifer Glassy didn’t know her job. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No offense taken,” she replied, although clearly there was. “But believe me, Nyla’s influence stretches a long way. She’s been here a long time, and she knows all the ins and outs of the place. If Stacy had crossed her badly enough, it wouldn’t matter if they were in separate dormitories, separate work details—separate continents—Stacy wouldn’t have lasted two minutes. Nyla would have found a way to get to her.”

  “She has that much control?”

  “Not control, Mrs. McClaine—determination and time. You wouldn’t believe the lengths these women go to, the detailed planning they put in to get what they want. If they’d used the same initiative to carry out the crime they were in for, they’d never have been caught in the first place.”

  Elizabeth consulted the list again. “Who’s Eileen Caston? Sixth on the list?”

  Glassy lifted a pen and leaned back, rolling it back and forth in her fingers. “Eileen didn’t apply for the program, but she has requested the opportunity to speak with you.”

  “May I ask why she didn’t apply?”

  “She would have failed the application criteria.”

  That was obviously all the warden was prepared to say.

  “I see Eileen was in Stacy’s work detail.”

  “Only for the last four months. They worked two benches away from each other, but they seemed on good terms. I got the impression that since the bust-up with Nyla, Stacy deliberately cut herself off from her usual circle, but she seemed to get along with Eileen. But then, Eileen doesn’t involve herself in the tittle-tattle that most of the women do.”

  “May I ask what the work program entailed?”

  “Sewing. We have a contract for low-cost industrial garments and a little fashion wear. Each of the women is paid for their work, and they can use that money as they wish. Unless they have expenses or outstanding fines they haven’t paid. Then it gets channeled to pay those.

  “I can tell you this much, Mrs. McClaine: Stacy May Charms is a lot of things, but she’s nobody’s fool. She’s a survivor. She knew who to get along with, who not to cross, how to work the system. A lot of women trusted her with personal information. I think you’ll find that what you’re searching for isn’t what Stacy was told—it’s what she wasn’t.”

  The prison officer who escorted Elizabeth to the interview room was introduced as Trish Tomes. She was somewhere in her early forties, short dark hair brushed harshly back from a face devoid of all makeup apart from a smear of lip gloss. She wore the standard gray prison uniform—a cotton jacket with her name embroidered on the left lapel, plain gray pants, nightstick and cuffs on a leather belt, black leather shoes—and walked with her shoulders military square, hands clasped behind her back.

  They entered Cell Block C and walked for some minutes in silence. When they paused in front of a solid steel door, waiting for the remote security mechanism to activate, Elizabeth grabbed the opportunity while she had it, saying, “How well did you know Stacy May?”

  They stepped through the doorway between metal detectors, and Trish Tomes signaled the security camera above the door. The door slid closed with a faint click as the lock engaged, and they turned and walked on.

  “Well as I know any of ’em. I oversaw the work detail she was assigned to.” She gestured for Elizabeth to turn down the next corridor.

  “The warden told me she was a seamstress in one of the work programs.”

  Trish nodded. “Yes, she was our best sewer—fast and very precise, which is what you need. Got through twice the work some did, but then, they’re all pretty good now.”

  “She learned to sew in here?”

  They stopped at another door. Trish made the same gesture at the camera, and the door clicked and slid open. As they stepped through, she said, “She had no idea of how to sew before she got here. She did some classes and took to it like a duck to water. A lot don’t. No matter how hard they try, they just can’t sew a straight line.”

  Elizabeth’s heels echoed off the sterile gray walls as they walked on together. How women could be locked up years in here without going insane, she had no idea. The few hours she’d spent doing interviews here had been more than enough for her. Which brought her to another question.

  “Warden Glassy said Stacy had a friend, Amy Dixon, who died. She said Stacy was very upset.”

  A burst of air escaped Trish’s lips. “That’s one way of putting it. Amy was a good kid. She’d worked hard to get clean. I don’t think she’d have made it without Stacy. Then when those drugs were around, she must have gotten hold of some, and overdosed. Hell of a thing to happen. She was only two months from release.”

  “Warden Glassy also tells me Stacy was friendly with Eileen Caston and that they worked together.”

  Trish let out a bemused chuckle. “I wouldn’t say they were exactly friends. Eileen doesn’t make friends. She likes to think they’re more like admirers. You’ll see what I mean. But, yeah, Stacy got on okay with her.”

  They paused at a door and Trish looked up to nod at yet another camera. Again, a click of a lock.

  “In here,” Trish said as she reached for the handle. Before she opened it, she leaned her shoulder to the door and turned, dropping her voice. “First on your interview list is Nyla Guthrie. Take anything she tells you with a grain of salt. She’s got a real way with words, but believe me, she’s a troublemaker.”

  Then she pushed the door open and they stepped in.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DAY ONE: 5:14 PM—ELIZABETH

  Elizabeth would have picked Nyla Guthrie to be in her early thirties. Heavyset through the shoulders and neck, she bore a pale scar that cut a crease in her left cheek, giving her an unintentional lopsided smirk.

  Her shoulder-length brown hair had been pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and three teardrops had been tattooed beneath her left eye, a permanent testimony to her time in prison.

  Nyla sat in a plastic chair, arms folded across her chest, ankles crossed under a Formica table, smug look on her face, while a second guard leaned against the back wall, watching her. Trish ran through a flat round of introductions, then gestured Elizabeth to a green plastic chair opposite Nyla.

  “Officer Reynolds is on C-Block duty today,” Trish said, indicating the uniformed woman on the other side of the room. “Thanks, Kathy. We’re good from here.”

  Kathy Reynolds straigh
tened, nodded at Elizabeth, then jerked her head toward the corner of the room, an unspoken request for Trish’s ear. The two turned away, whispering in brief conversation. When they broke, they shared a knowing look. Trish nodded, then Officer Reynolds bid Elizabeth a brief goodbye and withdrew, closing the door behind her. The door locked, and Trish Tomes turned her back to it, hands behind her back, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Elizabeth took the seat, sliding it up to the table and depositing her briefcase next to her. She could feel Nyla Guthrie’s eyes on her. The intensity of the glare made her skin crawl. Heeding Trish’s caution, she avoided any eye contact until she was ready. She wanted to make sure she got the upper hand, if possible. Finally, confident she was in control, she leaned both elbows on the table, hands clasped under her chin, and met the woman’s gaze. “Thank you for seeing me, Nyla.”

  A snide smile hooked back one side of Nyla’s mouth while she ran her eyes from Elizabeth’s elbows to the top of her head and back before speaking. She tipped her head. “Breaks up the day.”

  Elizabeth folded one arm over the other on the table. “I believe you and Stacy May Charms were friends for a while.”

  One eyebrow went up and she snorted out a bitter laugh. “Is that what you heard?”

  Irritation blazed down Elizabeth’s spine. She steadied her tone and looked the woman directly in the eye. “I also heard you and Stacy May had a disagreement. Or did I get that wrong?”

  Nyla tilted her head, her dark eyes studying Elizabeth. “Not everybody gets on in here. I don’t believe not getting on with people is in breach of the penal code. Or maybe it is now. I been here so long I wouldn’t know.”

  Elizabeth refused to react. “I assume you know Stacy has broken her parole and disappeared. We’re very keen to find her.”

  Nyla scratched at the side of her mouth and folded her arms again. Elizabeth went on. “This program was a lifeline for Stacy. She was already released. She was supposed to be seeing her son on Monday. She had everything going for her. Do you have any idea why she’d risk all that by running?”