by Norma Lehr
Abby groaned. “No more talk right now, please. I’ve got to get to someplace important. If I luck out, I might find new information that could lead to my mother’s whereabouts.”
Dorie waved her hand. “All the information we need can be obtained from my ancient goddess, Calliope.” She nodded knowingly toward the guestroom.
Okay. Okay. Time to placate the new minister. “You may be right, but I need to leave now.” She raised her voice. “Please!”
Dorie stepped aside. “Take this herb with you for protection.” She placed a small paper packet in Abby’s hand. “Do this for me?” She lowered her eyes in prayer. “And for our goddess?”
“What’s going on down there?” Ginny called from the other end of the hallway.
Abby pushed past Dorie. She grabbed her purse from the coffee table and stuffed the small packet inside. When she reached the front door, she rushed outside and headed for the GEM.
“Hey, Good-lookin’.” Blade’s deep voice stopped her in her tracks. “Decided to sleep in, did ya?”
CHAPTER 10
Abby stopped but didn’t turn around. In an instant Blade was at her side. He held the folder she’d given him the night before. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? If you’re not careful, I’ll conclude you’re ignoring me.”
Abby didn’t reply.
He moved around to face her. “What’s up, gal?”
Abby hesitated and flashed him a fake smile. “What possible reason would I have to ignore you? Can’t think of one. Can you?”
Blade studied her eyes. “No. No reason. But I can tell something’s bugging you. Let it out so we can get on with the search for Trish. That’s our goal.” He raised an eyebrow. “Right?”
“You’re right. Everything else takes a backseat.” She desperately tried not to purse her lips but she could feel them tighten. “I’m leaving now. Got important business to take care of.” She slid into the GEM.
“Suddenly you can’t tell me what? Or where?”
Abby leaned back and braced her arms stiffly against the steering wheel. “Now, Blade ….” She knew she was coming across as condescending. “We don’t tell each other everything, do we?”
Blade slumped a bit. “You know there are things about this case I’m on that I’m not in a position to reveal. I thought you understood.” He frowned. “Is that what this is about? You want more info about Heath?”
Abby shook her head and let out a long sigh. “No. No, Blade. Please. I’m sure you have things to take care of, and so do I. It’s going to be one busy day. Gotta go.” She stepped on the gas and tooled out to the road.
He called after her, shaking the folder. “When will I see you?”
She didn’t reply.
Before she hit the highway, her cell buzzed. She held it up. It was him. She turned the phone off.
The information from Heath worked like a charm. At the villa gate entrance, Abby called his client from her smartphone. The dancer seemed more than happy to give her the code and asked Abby to tell Heath to give her a call. “Tell him I’ll be home all day,” she added in a sultry voice. “And most of the night.”
Abby smiled. The guy was a looker. Had lots of charm. Obviously he needed no help in finding female partners. But from their discussion last night at the Caliente, she came away feeling he still cared for Trish more than he could admit. She chalked it up to his tough guy persona.
However, she couldn’t help thinking perhaps Heath wasn’t telling all he knew. After the poker party, had he followed Trish? Had the two of them staged Trish’s car scene at the mall because some danger threatened her? Had he swept her away to a safe place? His place on the coast? If he had her there for protection then Abby might consider his move somewhat comforting. She made a mental note to locate Michael Heath and have another talk.
That meant getting in touch with Blade to obtain Heath’s number. She wouldn’t be able to avoid Blade much longer. He could be persistent.
Winding her way along Reynolds’ cul de sac, she drove slowly past his address and noted the yellow tape still spread across the front door. There must be a back or side door out of the neighbors’ sight. If the other doors were locked, she’d use Blade’s picks. She drove on past his place and parked around the corner, next to the tennis court where two teams of couples were playing a vigorous game. Abby sat for a few minutes and watched them swat the ball back and forth. She hoped neither couple had noticed her. She slid from the GEM and stood on the sidewalk. The four players seemed focused on their game. Without a glance back, she picked up her pace.
The street ahead looked deserted. Still early. Didn’t anyone get out and jog at this place? The thought crossed her mind too soon. A stocky man in shorts and a tank top raced around the corner with a water bottle gripped in one hand. He huffed as he passed without so much as a glance. Everyone in his or her own world. Worked out fine for her. If the cops came around asking questions, hopefully these early birds wouldn’t recall seeing her in the area. She glanced back at Ginny’s red vehicle and sighed. Hopefully no one would, but then again ….
As she rounded the corner she spotted Reynolds’ empty carport. At the end of the driveway stood a tall fence. Looking both ways, she hoped neighbors weren’t spying as she made her way down the driveway. She was eventually stopped by an eight-foot gate with a lock.
Abby pulled Blade’s picks from her bag and fumbled at first before she got the feel of the pick turns. After eight tries the lock gave. She prayed the gate wouldn’t open with a squeak. Her prayers paid off. After a last look down the driveway, she slipped through to the backyard and clicked the gate closed behind her. On the left, two short steps led up to a wooden deck where a chrome barbecue grill with hanging utensils gleamed in the morning sun. She passed the grill and hesitated by the green back door.
What about the backyard neighbors? Could they see? Would they wonder who she was? What she was up to? Someone might get suspicious and call the police. A quick scan of the area reassured her. Fortunately Reynolds’ place was built on the curve of the corner for more privacy. Windows from neighboring villas in the back had views in the opposite directions.
Abby went to work on the locked door. More experienced now after working the gate, she gave a sigh of relief when the door opened with ease. One step inside and she held her breath. No loud shriek of an alarm. Until this minute she hadn’t thought about a security system. Sloppy of her. Could have been a real disaster.
First stop, the kitchen. Immaculate appliances. They appeared never to have been used, except maybe for a layout in Home Makeover magazine.
Next Abby entered the dining area. Chairs evenly placed around the table. Nothing appeared out of place. She inspected the mahogany tabletop before checking under the table. No clue Trish had been there. Next she passed through an arch into a living room furnished with massive brown and tan man-furniture. The room was obviously the product of a professional interior designer. Across from the living room was a library with built-in bookshelves.
Both bathrooms down the hall proved to be disappointments. Not so much as a stray hair in either of the sinks. Spotless. Same story in the two bedrooms. A search under the beds proved fruitless. Either the police had already been here and picked this place clean, or Dr. Reynolds was some kind of a neat freak. Any hope she might have had for finding anything—any tiny little thing Trish might have left behind—vanished.
Back in the living room, she dropped into a comfortable sofa chair and took in the large area. If Thomas Levine’s death wasn’t from natural causes and someone from the poker party did him in, did Trish know something? Something incriminating a player didn’t want her to reveal? Had she been followed Friday night and warned to keep quiet? Been paid or threatened to get out of Palm Springs? Or had something worse happened? If Heath’s story about Thomas doing face reconstruction for the mob was true, did her mother know more than she should? Abby shook the last thought from her mind.
Time to concentrate on something else
. She leaned back on the plush burgundy headrest of the mammoth chair. The beautiful desert rock fireplace to the right held framed pictures on the mantle. Curious, she crossed to take a look, taking care not to touch the frames. Two identical twin girls, side by side, in various stages of growing up, smiled for the photographer. No pictures of a wife or mother. Perhaps Reynolds was divorced. Or the girls might not be his daughters. Could be his granddaughters. Adjacent to the fireplace, a tall, wide bookcase spanned the wall with a volume of books neatly placed on the shelves. Some reader, this dentist. She crossed to take a look. History, science, and political volumes were on the middle shelf, along with two thick medical books. All of them in alphabetical order. The top shelf held dental textbooks as well as more current editions. All related to his profession.
Hello! What’s this? A shelf for fiction. The old boy is a mystery reader. Right up Abby’s alley. She’d been a mystery buff since junior high. Could explain why in her middle years she was writing her own mystery novel and often found herself thrown into mysterious situations. Like Tahoe. And now.
Reynolds’ collection consisted of current mysteries by bestselling authors as well as classics dating back to the fifties and sixties. Most of the current books she had read. Police procedurals and legal novels. But the vintage books got her attention.
Eight Black Horses. Would it make a difference to the police investigation if she removed this one paperback? She hesitated, but only for a moment, before she pulled it out. No time to read it here. She squinted. Borrow it? Better not. She put it back in its place on the shelf next to the other two black covers and decided it was time to leave. On the way to the back door, in the dining area, she hesitated. Making one last perusal of the room, she left the way she entered.
She scurried across the deck and down to the fence gate, which she carefully closed and locked. With her back to the road, she heard a man’s voice. “Hey, Abby.” She froze.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour. Is your cell turned off?”
Logan Stamm strode up the driveway.
“Hey, Logan.” She caught her breath. “What’re you doing here?”
“Probably the same thing you are. Trying to find Reynolds. Find out if he’s heard from your mother.”
Abby fought to control the shakiness she felt inside. This was too close. “How did you get in here? You have the gate code?”
“I do. My dad, Sterling, had an old friend who lives one street over. When I’m in the Palms, I try to visit him. Find out how he’s doing. How about you? You got a friend here?”
Abby looked down. “Friend of a friend. Anyhow, the dentist isn’t here.” She pointed to the yellow tape. “Don’t know where he’s staying. His receptionist wouldn’t give out any info.”
“Well, that’s that, isn’t it?” He moved closer. “What are you doing the rest of the morning? Can we join forces?”
“Not really. Not today. I’ve got an appointment before noon.” Not exactly a put-off. Her plan when she left here was to drive to the station to talk to Dawson. She needed to go there alone.
“That’ll work. We can have breakfast.” He glanced at his Rolex then scanned the street. “Where’s your aunt’s little red bug? Or did you get dropped off here?”
Awkward time for questions. “Parked around the corner by the tennis court. Got interested watching them play.” Abby touched Logan’s arm. “What happened when you were at the station with Dawson? Any news of Trish?”
“No. But while I was there, Dawson excused himself to take a call. His assistant told him it was the coroner.”
She felt a growing excitement. The coroner’s call. “Sorry, Logan. I really can’t do breakfast. But thanks for the offer. No time. Some important business has come up. Personal. Needs my attention.” She moved to pass him.
He didn’t budge. “It’s because I told you the story of Trish and my father. You can’t deal with it and so you’ve been avoiding me. That’s it, right?”
Abby turned and faced him. Did she detect a genuine disappointment in those gorgeous blue eyes? “Partly right. I haven’t been purposely avoiding you. Might look that way, but I can’t deal with anything other than finding my mother. Too much on my plate right now. Your dad’s relationship with Trish is at the bottom of my to-do list.” She smiled. “Just give me some space and we’ll handle it all soon.”
Logan nodded. “All right. I get it.” He turned to leave. “I won’t bother you.”
Abby caught up with him. “Wait. Don’t leave angry. We’ll have our discussion time. My Aunt flew in from Branson. Dorie’s a minister now.” She rolled her eyes. “I think you’ll find her interesting. Before she returns to Branson, we’ll have you over for dinner and sort out all this sibling confusion.”
“You’re serious, right?”
“Count on it.” Another pat on his arm. “You’ll hear from me. Can’t tell you when, but you have my word.” Abby started to leave, then stopped. “Can we just take a minute to once again go over the last time you saw Trish?”
Logan nodded. “Sure. Running down this driveway to her car. The rest of us stood on the front steps and called after her, but she didn’t stop or turn around. Like I told you before, she was hysterical and screamed that one of us killed the doctor.”
“Why would she think that?”
“Got me.”
“What did Dawson make of her accusation? You told him, right?”
“Of course. When Dawson called Heath into the station, he told Dawson too.”
“When my mother made the accusation, did it cause you men to maybe suspect each other?”
“At the time I didn’t suspect anyone. Looked like a heart attack to me. But I can’t speak for the others.” Logan frowned. “Why are you grilling me?”
Abby shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just doesn’t make sense for Trish to run off. Unless she knew something and got scared.”
Logan nodded. “Anything’s possible. If she is scared, I hope she’s hiding out in a safe place.”
Abby wasn’t quite finished with her grilling yet. “So. Did all you guys leave here at the same time?”
“Pretty much. We had to wait for the doctor’s body to be taken away. Had to answer a few questions from the officers, but since his death looked like an obvious heart attack, we were free to leave.”
His death, heart attack. The mental image of Thomas Levine in the morgue—the dear man from her childhood, the man she’d always hoped was her real father—nearly brought her to tears.
Across the street, a gold metallic Cadillac pulled out of the garage. The woman driver lowered her dark glasses and gave them both the once-over as she drove slowly past.
Abby waited until the car was out of sight. “Time to leave. I’m not in any mood to deal with suspicious neighbors.”
Logan picked up his pace and followed her to the end of the driveway. “Hold it! Forgot to tell you. Dawson got the license number of the car that tried to run you down.”
CHAPTER 11
Abby parked the GEM at the curb and quickly made her way up the walk to the police station, eager to hear about the coroner’s call to Dawson. She prayed the sheriff would share his information with her. Her heart pounded as she neared the sliding door. If Thomas hadn’t died of natural causes, would Trish be a suspect?
Although it was still early morning here in the desert, the rays of the rising sun already brought a shimmer of perspiration to her forehead. Dampness from the heat, nerves, or a hot flash? She reached for a hanky and patted her face.
Close call, meeting up with Logan back at Reynolds’ villa. Kind of a strange coincidence, him showing up so early. Had he followed her into the Villa? His story about visiting his dead father’s friend sounded valid …. Had he really gone there looking for something else?
What if he had been watching her from outside while she snooped around inside? When they both left the Villa, she’d felt confident he didn’t suspect anything. Now, looking back, she wasn’t so sur
e. If he had suspected something, he hadn’t let on. He might, however, mention their impromptu meeting as being suspicious to someone else. But who? Surely he wouldn’t accuse her of house-breaking to Dawson. Or would he?
She mentally filed away that uneasy thought and proceeded toward the entrance. The automatic doors hummed open. A tall, deeply tanned older man, probably in his late sixties, faced her on his way out. He wore an open collar, green knit shirt and knee-length tan shorts: popular attire around the Palms for a senior golfer. After adjusting the peak of his silver cap, a cap that matched his sideburns, he made no move to come out or pass her by. Instead he stood firm, blocking her way in.
“Excuse me.” Abby raised her brows. “I need to get past.”
The man gave what sounded like a nervous cough. “So sorry. Suppose I’m standing here staring.” He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers on his elbow. “Am I being presumptuous in asking? Could you possibly be Trish Malone’s daughter?”
Abby’s heart gave a couple of guilty thumps. Oh! The dentist? After a few seconds she found her voice. “And you are …?”
He came through the door and held out his hand. “Preston Reynolds, here. A long-time friend of Trish Malone.”
Abby forced a smile and dotted her forehead again with a corner of the hanky. She worked at innocently brightening her eyes. “You’re right. I’m Abby Rollins. Trish is my mother. And of course, you must be the dentist.”
“I am.” He gazed at her mouth. “I must say you have your mother’s smile. And her healthy looking teeth.” He looked up. “Most important, you know.”
“Thank you. Nice of you to notice.” Guilty over her morning break-in, she attempted to sidestep Reynolds. “Sheriff Dawson is expecting me,” she fibbed. “Suppose I better get in there.”
Reynolds stayed put. “Please. Before you go inside, do you bring news of your mother? Is that why you’re here?”