The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

Stacy eyed her now, a little annoyed that Nyla had spoken out of turn, but a little warmed by the knowledge that everything she’d done had been worth the effort. “Yeah, well—don’t go telling anyone else. People are gonna start thinking I’m going soft.”

  She reached for the door with her heart rising into her throat. This could be the last time she’d ever see Curta. She bit down on her lip, glanced back at her old friend, nodded once, and left without saying goodbye.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DAY ONE: 6:12 PM—ELIZABETH

  Elizabeth remembered Cissy Pettameyer as soon as she was escorted into the room. Sure enough, Cissy had made it to the final cut, but to Elizabeth, something about her demeanor didn’t feel right. The woman was too sweet by half, as though every minute she was angling for something. There was nothing Elizabeth could put her finger on, but every interview with Cissy had left Elizabeth feeling as though she’d been duped in some way. That didn’t matter now. What she needed was information.

  Somewhere in her late twenties, Cissy had a picture-perfect complexion, dark, smoothly arched brows, and shoulder-length blonde hair that looked as if it had just been styled into a neat bob, with a little tortoiseshell barrette holding one side back off her face.

  She sashayed in like a model on a runway, hips swaying, little smile on her face as she swung around to thank the prison officer who’d accompanied her. As the door closed and Officer Tomes turned to lean her back against it, again staring at the opposite wall as though she wasn’t there, Cissy slipped into the seat opposite, a wide smile on her face, ankles crossed to one side under the chair, hands loosely clasped on the table in front of her.

  “Oh my, it is so nice to see you again, Mrs. McClaine. I’m so sorry about the circumstances, though. I wish they were better.”

  “It’s very nice to see you, too, Cissy. And thank you for agreeing to speak to me,” she added while she rummaged through her briefcase and brought out her notepad, placing it on the table for something to do while she grounded herself.

  “Oh, believe me, it is no problem, Mrs. McClaine. Anything at all that I can do to help is my pleasure.”

  “I won’t take up too much of your time—”

  Cissy interrupted, saying, “Well, as you know, time is something I have plenty of, Mrs. McClaine. So don’t you worry about that.” The smile had lost something of its wattage, leaving Elizabeth to suspect it was some kind of underhanded sarcasm.

  She ignored it and came straight to the point. “Do you know of any reason Stacy might have broken her parole and run? I mean, do you remember anything, any incident that might have happened before she was released?”

  Cissy leaned forward, dropping her voice. “Well, I do remember some months back, something did happen, and I just didn’t think too much of it until now,” she replied with a slight crinkling of her brow.

  “And what was that?”

  She took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to the ceiling while she thought. “Let me see, now. I was in the bathroom, just outside the dining hall in B Block. It must have been about six o’clock in the morning. Those of us who have earned our place on a work detail, we all get up at 5:30 every morning without fail,” she explained. “Heaven help anyone that lays around in the mornings in this place when you have a work program to get to. Not that I would, anyway, but—”

  Sensing Cissy would ramble on endlessly, Elizabeth interrupted her, saying, “Cissy. I’m sorry, but can we get to what happened?”

  Cissy pressed her hand to the chest of her jumpsuit and dropped her head briefly. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m just running off at the mouth here. Anyways, I was in the bathroom stall, you know, just sitting there, when all at once I heard the bathroom door open and Stacy May and Amy came in—I knew it was them because I could hear them talking. There was only one other person there. I didn’t know who, because she was in the next stall. Next thing, I heard the you-know-what flush, and Nyla’s outside my stall saying something like, ‘What are you looking at?’ or something. And then Amy said, ‘Nothing,’ like she was scared—which she had every right to be. That Nyla is not to be trusted. So anyway, then Stacy told Nyla it was ‘nothing to worry about,’ or some such, like she might tell her later on, although I doubt it because Stacy never let out a word about anything to anyone. Everybody knew that.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “When was this?”

  Cissy placed a forefinger to her lips, eyes narrowed while she thought. “I think that was the day before Amy overdosed. Or it could have been the day before that. But I have the impression it was the exact day before, because we had a big shipment due out, and I remembered them talking.”

  This flew in the face of what Elizabeth had been led to believe. “So you’re saying that Nyla and Stacy were on reasonable terms?”

  The snort Cissy let out was almost out of character. “Reasonable terms?” she said with another wide smile. “They were like that,” she said and held up her crossed fingers. “Always together whenever they could be, heads almost touching, whispering away. Ask me, there was more to it than just being friends, if you get my meaning. But that would be nothing new in this place,” she added, brushing something from the table in front of her onto the floor.

  Struggling now to fit this new information with what she knew, Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “I thought Stacy and Nyla had a fight. Stacy wound up with broken ribs, and they were separated into different dormitories and work details.”

  A knowing smile tweaked back the side of Cissy’s mouth. “Yeah, that’s what everybody said—big fight, terrible bust-up. But I heard something different. I heard it was all a big act. They were friends before, friends after.”

  “Why would they stage a fight? I believe it was Nyla that requested they be separated.”

  “That’s right. Worked on some. Not me,” she said, and tilted her head to one side.

  “So what did Stacy and Amy talk about in the bathroom?”

  “I have no idea. Stacy told me to get out. I assumed that’s because she and Amy wanted to talk. Well, I have every right to be in that bathroom as much as anyone, so I just took my sweet time. But to my way of thinking, it must have been something important because Stacy threatened me, that if I didn’t get out, she’d do something terrible.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “She threatened you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was so afraid, I left quick as I could.”

  “And you didn’t hear any of what they were saying?”

  “No, ma’am. You have a threat on your life in this place, you take it seriously. I left. Stacy peeked out after me to make sure I was gone. I thought about sneaking back and listening, but honestly, it was just not worth it.”

  To Elizabeth, she didn’t look afraid. Then again, it had been four months ago.

  “Thank you, Cissy. I think this has been of enormous help,” Elizabeth said, although, in fact, she didn’t know what to think.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying, I think this program is a wonderful opportunity for young women with children to make amends for their crimes, and take all due care of the children they’ve left behind. I hope Stacy’s foolishness doesn’t jeopardize it. For your sake,” she added with a wan smile.

  “Thank you, I’m sure it won’t.”

  Elizabeth made a point of lifting her briefcase and placing the notepad back into it, signifying their meeting had come to an end.

  But Cissy went on. “I am such an admirer of the governor. You know, most politicians are too busy trying to lock more people up instead of trying to help them get their lives back again. Hardly a one of them ever wants to address the problems in the community that gets people locked up in the first place, let alone how to get them out.”

  Rising to her feet, Elizabeth locked her briefcase and lifted it to her side. “It was nice meeting you again, Cissy. Thank you for your help.”

  Just as Elizabeth turned, Cissy reached across the table to place a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. They both looked down at the hand, a
nd Cissy removed it.

  “Mrs. McClaine, I’d like to reapply for this program, and I’d like you to know how much it would mean to me.” Cissy was on her feet now, words tumbling out, desperate to get her point across. “I got to the final cut and I’d be an excellent candidate for it. And I wouldn’t run. You could count on me—”

  Elizabeth cut across her, saying, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do now. You’ll have to reapply through the appropriate channels, Cissy. Goodbye.”

  As she went to move off, Cissy grabbed her again, this time wrenching her around to face her.

  “That should have been me out there. I wouldn’t have run off—”

  Elizabeth stiffened. “Get your hands off me.”

  Trish Tomes was already moving towards Cissy, baton in hand, shouting, “Siddown, Cissy.”

  Trish took Cissy around the shoulders, pulling her back in a headlock. “I said get back, Cissy. Right now.”

  Cissy tried to slither out of the headlock, but Trish adjusted the hold. “You bitch!” Cissy shrieked at Elizabeth. “You use people up and then spit ’em out when you’re done with them. You can go screw yourself, Elizabeth McClaine. I hope you never see Stacy May Charms again. And I hope you all rot in hell.”

  The door flew open and Officer Kathy Reynolds crossed quickly to assist Officer Tomes, who now had wrestled Cissy to the floor, one knee in her back as she writhed and kicked out, shouting obscenities.

  “Mrs. McClaine, would you please exit the room?” Officer Reynolds said as they pinned Cissy to the floor, one on either side of her.

  Elizabeth didn’t need telling twice. She slipped out the door, hand on her heart, and leaned on the wall outside, waiting for her blood to stop pounding in her ears and her breath to return to normal.

  She lifted her phone—no reception. Cursing under her breath, she started back in the direction she’d come from, only to realize when she got to the first door that she was just as much a prisoner in this place as the inmates. Behind her the two officers wrestled Cissy out through the door and dragged her backwards along the hallway with Cissy pedaling against the floor and spitting expletives and threats at anyone within range.

  “Wait right here, Mrs. McClaine,” Officer Tomes called over her shoulder. “You’ll be safe here and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “No hurry,” Elizabeth called weakly. Then she reentered the room she’d just been sitting in and lowered herself back down onto the plastic chair, staring at the bars on the windows while she calmed herself. Despite the well-lit corridors, the distant sounds of chatter and footsteps echoing down nearby hallways, regardless of the security systems, the prison officers or the steel doors surrounding her, even in her darkest days, Elizabeth had never felt so vulnerable.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DAY ONE: 6:27 PM—STACY

  Stacy had exited Curta’s building to find one police car parked in front of Gayleen’s car, a second right behind. One of the officers was on his radio, obviously calling it in while another was bent down, looking first through the passenger’s window into the front and then the back seats of the car.

  Stacy ducked back into the lobby and waited, wondering how she was going to get out, when a woman appeared from the stairway with a trash bag, rounding the bottom banister and disappearing down a short hallway. Stacy followed to an alley with trash cans lined up, waiting for collection.

  She slipped past the woman who was depositing her trash into one of the cans, then followed the back alley into the next street.

  Curta’s car was parked in a slot three blocks down—an older model Corolla with a dented passenger’s door and four parking tickets stuck under the windshield wiper. Stacy plucked the tickets off, unlocked the car, and after a quick scan up and down the streets, slipped in behind the wheel.

  First attempt, the car’s engine sounded like the battery was on its last legs. It groaned over a couple of times, like an old dog woken for work. Stacy held her breath and tried again, gently turning the key and pressing her foot to the accelerator, just like Wayne had showed her all those years ago.

  The car spluttered once and died. She turned the key once more, easing her foot to the floor so she wouldn’t flood the engine, and this time the engine cranked over twice and burst into life.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered as she put it in gear, released the parking brake, and pulled out.

  Rainbow Drive sounded as though it would be in an up-market neighborhood, but Stacy knew better. It ran east from Euclid and cut through an area that had once been voted the worst neighborhood in Cleveland. She checked the door locks and drove the back streets. Fifteen minutes later, she slowed and turned into Rainbow Drive, ducking her head to look over the two-family frame homes on either side of the street until she found the place. She did a U-turn, then pulled over, and looked the place over.

  “Here we go again,” she said as she checked the wig in the rearview mirror, slipped the key from the ignition, and got out of the car.

  She waited for a couple of cars to pass, then trotted across the street, up to the front door, and knocked.

  This was more like it. Same kind of structure as the one she’d just left, only here the paintwork was peeling and the gardens overgrown with weeds. In the corner of the porch was a kid’s bike with a rusting pink frame, a buckled rear wheel, and handlebars with a Cinderella motif that was barely recognizable under the dirt. Why Wayne would have a kid’s bike there was anyone’s guess. Maybe one of his friends’ kid’s—which would fit. They’d all be the age where they were getting hitched and having families by now.

  From somewhere inside she could hear a kid wailing. She checked up and down the street, dropped her head, and knocked again.

  “I’m coming, for chrissakes,” Wayne yelled from the other side of the door.

  A smile caught the side of Stacy’s mouth. What on earth had he gotten himself into?

  The door opened and Wayne stepped into the doorway, his face unshaven and gaunt, hairline a little farther back from when she’d last seen him. He looked like he’d lost weight.

  A scowl puckered one side of his face. “What are you doing here?” he said and looked over her shoulder, then up and down the street before coming back to her.

  Behind him, the child let out another unearthly howl from somewhere inside the house. Wayne glanced back, yelling, “Shut up, will ya?”

  The kid let out a few sobs and Wayne turned his attention back to Stacy, leaning one forearm on the doorframe like he was barring her from entering. He looked worn out.

  Tough, she thought.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  Feeling like the whole street was watching, she drove her hands in her jacket pockets, hunched her shoulders briefly, and said, “Ah, can I come in?”

  Wayne gave the neighborhood another quick scan, said, “No, you can’t. What are you doing here?”

  “I got out on a release program.”

  His face registered disgust. “I heard. So what are you doing here?”

  “I need to find Tyler. Can you let me in?”

  Behind him the kid started screaming again.

  He glanced back and huffed in irritation. “No, I can’t. I gotta go.” He went to close the door but she slammed her hand against it, fingers splayed, and one foot in the doorway, stopping him. He opened it again, his face coloring in anger. “What!”

  “Can’t you even tell me where he is? I gotta find him.”

  “How would I know?”

  “You’re his father. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Wayne did a dismissive palm up. “I dunno. Two years back, maybe.”

  “Two years?” she said, aghast. “What have you been doing you can’t see your own son for two years?”

  “Why would I want to see him? He’s retarded. He doesn’t know me from a stick of butter.”

  “He’s your son,” she began, but the sound of a car pulling into the driveway cut her off. They both looked over t
o see a beaten-up silver sedan pull up.

  “Oh, shit.” Wayne pressed his finger and thumb to his eyes. “Why don’t you just go?”

  The young woman driving got out: sharp features, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail showing a strip of darker hair where the dye was growing out. She slammed the car door and looked up, regarding Stacy and Wayne with a sour expression while she went to the rear passenger door, opened it and unfastened a baby from the car seat. Setting the child on one hip, she grabbed her purse and slammed the door shut before heading for the house.

  She climbed to the top step, wiping a trail of snot from the baby’s nose with a balled-up tissue, and stopped next to Wayne, looking Stacy over. The kid had scarlet cheeks and red, puffy eyes. Didn’t take a genius to see he had a fever.

  “Who’s this?” the woman asked Wayne, tipping her head in Stacy’s direction, like she’d just come home to find the trash spilled out all over the porch.

  “It’s nothin’, Cher. Why’n’t you take Justin inside? I’ll deal with this,” he told her.

  “Like hell,” she said. “I wanna know what’s going on.”

  Wayne looked away briefly, obviously irritated, then gestured dismissively in Stacy’s direction, saying, “This is Stacy May.” He folded his arms and looked away down the street.

  Cher gave her another once-over, scowling at Stacy while she hiked the kid on her hip, adjusting his position. “So what do you want? Better not be money.”

  Stacy gave Cher a sullen up and down in response. Noting the ring on her third left finger, her mouth dropped open and she swung around on Wayne. “You’re married? When were you planning on telling me you got married?”

  Cher leaned in. “I’m not married to him. Yet,” she added and cut Wayne an accusing look.

  “So whose are the kids?”

  “Me and Wayne’s, whose do you think they are?” Cher told her. “And don’t think you’re coming in. Just because of you and your stinkin’ kid, we can’t even afford a decent place to live. Now if you don’t mind, I want you offa my porch, and offa my property.” She pushed past Wayne, taking the child inside. They could hear her moving down the hallway, hushing the other child and telling him, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Mommy’s home now.”