by Maris Soule
Wade slipped an arm around my shoulders and drew me closer. “I’m sorry, Honey.”
For a minute—maybe two—he said nothing, and I appreciated his support as I tried to control my emotions. But then he stood and said, “So what’s for dinner?”
“What’s for dinner?” I glared up at him. He evidently thought he’d answered all of my questions. Well, he hadn’t. I also stood and faced him. “What about the driver of the car that hit her? Have they found him? Found—”
Wade stopped me. “P.J., your friend was hit within the city limits. That’s the Kalamazoo Department of Public Safety’s jurisdiction, not mine.”
“I know. But as you said, they think it was just an accident. They don’t know that she died less than an hour after I heard her telling someone she was afraid she’d been followed, killed by someone driving a car that no one seems able to find.”
“Actually, they found the car,” Wade said. “Detective Ferrell said it was abandoned in a wooded area outside of town.”
I raised my eyebrows and waited for him to go on.
He worked his upper lip for a moment, then went over and grabbed the paper he’d taken notes on. Finally, he looked at me. “It had been stolen. There were no fingerprints.”
That was all I needed to hear. “Don’t you think Detective Ferrell should know what I overheard?”
He sighed. “Okay, I’ll check into it, but you stay out of it. I do not want you getting involved.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Please,” he added softly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Since I didn’t want anything to happen to me, or our baby, either, I nodded my agreement and headed for the kitchen.
Chapter Ten
March is always an unpredictable month in Michigan. One day it might be warm and sunny, giving everyone hope that spring is on the way; the next day might take us right back into winter. Sunday the weather was beautiful, not a cloud in the sky and the weatherman predicted the temperature would reach the mid-sixties. Even the air smelled like spring.
After so many cold, cloudy days, I wasn’t about to argue when Wade suggested I forget about doing taxes, and, instead, the three of us go to Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids to see the butterfly exhibit. I remembered my dad taking me there once when I was a child. It had been an amazing experience, stepping into the conservatory and seeing thousands of free flying tropical butterflies with different colors and patterns on their wings.
We were just about to leave the house when I received a call from Detective Ferrell on the land line. Wade had called the detective back yesterday, given him the number, and said I might have some information regarding the Brenda Cox case. Now that Ferrell had called, I didn’t want to put him off, so I motioned for Wade to take Jason to the car while I gave Ferrell the information I had.
I still felt guilty that I hadn’t done anything to help Brenda on Friday, but by the time I finished telling Detective Ferrell what I’d overheard in the bathroom, I didn’t feel I’d done much to help her this time, either. His response was simply, “Thank you.”
That was it, just, “Thank you.”
Well, that wasn’t enough for me, so I started asking him questions. I got the feeling he didn’t like that, but he answered a couple simple ones. I might have kept going, but I heard the sound of the Jeep’s horn. My men were getting antsy. “Thank you, Detective Farrell,” I finally said and ended the call.
Again, the Jeep’s horn summoned me. I grabbed my purse, gave Baraka a quick pat on the head, and told him, “You be good.”
I left through the kitchen door, waddled down the cement steps, and hurried around to the passenger’s side of the car. Jason was snuggly strapped into his booster seat in the back. The way he was growing, he wouldn’t need that much longer.
“Happy now?” Wade asked once I was in the Jeep and had my seatbelt fastened.
“I don’t know. He didn’t sound very impressed with what I had to say, but he did answer a couple questions. Not that his answers cleared anything up.”
“What did you ask him?” Wade started the Jeep and backed out of the yard.
“If they’d found her car. They have. It was parked at the McDonalds by the train station. Why would she park there? That’s several blocks from the church.”
“Did he have an answer?”
“No. He also didn’t know why his officers didn’t find Brenda’s purse Friday, but found it Saturday, in a spot they swore they’d searched Friday.”
“Someone at the scene of the accident probably took it,” Wade said, his attention on the road ahead. “You said there was a homeless man outside of the church when the accident occurred.”
“Okay, then explain why her purse shows up the next day.”
“Was her wallet still in it? Money and credit cards?”
“Credit cards yes. Money no.”
“Makes sense. Credit cards can be traced. You know that church isn’t in the best neighborhood.” He slowed the Jeep and glanced my way as we passed the speed limit sign outside of Zenith. “Which is why I wasn’t wild when you said you’d be going there for those meetings.”
“We haven’t had any problems.”
“Which I am glad to hear.” Wade stopped at Zenith’s one and only blinking stop light and looked at me. “Anything else you learned?”
“No, not really.”
“Then let Ferrell do his job. He’ll find out what happened.” Pulling forward, he said, “Anyone ready to see some butterflies?”
“Yeah!” Jason shouted from the back seat. “Butterflies!”
“Butterflies,” I repeated and smiled. Time to put thoughts of Brenda aside. We were off for the hour and a half drive to Grand Rapids. Off for a family outing.
* * *
We arrived back home late in the afternoon, all three of us exhausted. Nevertheless, the trip had been worth it. Jason seemed to have as much fun with his dad as I’d had with mine years before. Most of all, I loved spending the day as a family.
“What a perfect day,” I said as we pulled into our driveway.
And then I saw Baraka sitting by the back door.
“How’d he get out?” I looked at Wade.
“Don’t ask me, you were the last one out.”
“I pulled the door closed behind me.” I was sure I had. “I wouldn’t have left it open.” Wade knew how I worried about Baraka getting out the back and going around to the road. Cars and trucks went by too fast. Soon after I inherited my grandparents’ house, I’d had the front yard fenced in to keep my dog safe. That was his free zone. The only time he was allowed out the back door was if he was with Wade or me.
When Baraka didn’t come bounding down the cement steps to greet us, I knew something really was wrong. “Wade?” I said, opening my car door as my dog limped over to the car. “He’s hurt.”
“Close your car door, P.J.,” Wade ordered, cracking his own door open. “Stay in the car.” He glanced toward the back seat. “And Jason, you stay in, too.”
“Why?” Jason asked.
“Just do as I say.”
I couldn’t close my door, not with Baraka’s head now blocking me from shutting it, and I wasn’t about to push my injured dog away, but I kept my hand on the handle as I watched Wade ease out from the driver’s side. He touched the side of his jacket beneath which I knew his ever-present Glock was holstered. Slowly he worked his way toward the steps.
A chill ran through me as I watched his progress.
“What’s wrong?” Jason asked from the back seat.
“I don’t know.” One handed, I dug in my purse for my cell phone.
My stomach in a knot, I watched Wade hesitate outside the kitchen door, listening. He reached over and turned the knob, gave the door a slight push, waited, and then pushed it all the way open.
My breathing stopped when he disappeared inside. I wanted to get out of the car so I could hear better, so I would know if there was any yelling, so I could call for help.
I also wanted to check Baraka, see why he was limping, look for wounds.
I clutched my phone but didn’t move.
My baby pushed against my sides. Jason grumbled. I could feel my heartbeat, and let out my breath, and then held it again. Waiting.
The crows in the trees around the house loudly cawed their warnings, telling others that we were home, or maybe something more. I wished they could tell me what was going on. The moment reminded me of last spring when my house was repeatedly broken into. Back then, Wade had accused me of imagining things, had questioned my assertion that someone had broken in. Less than a year ago, I’d feared for my life. Today, I feared for Wade’s.
That fear didn’t go away until Wade stepped back outside and waved us in. Jason raced up the steps and past his dad. I took my time, first checking Baraka’s body and paws. He moved away from my hand when I pressed against his left side, and the pad of his left forepaw had a cut. It looked like there was something in it, but I couldn’t pull it out.
He limped by my side to the back door, and I saw spots of blood on the steps. I immediately felt responsible for Baraka’s cut paw. I still hadn’t cleared out all of the junk my grandfather had dumped behind the house and in the woods. Running loose, Baraka could have stepped on broken glass or a ragged piece of metal. “Poor baby,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at me with those big brown eyes of his, his injured paw raised, and I gave him an awkward hug.
Before I entered the house, I checked to see if the lock had been jimmied. As far as I could tell, there were no chisel or pry bar marks. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember locking the door.
When I lived in Kalamazoo, with my grandmother and on my own, I always locked my doors. It was second habit. A necessity. But when I moved into my grandparents’ house, neighbors told me, “You don’t need to. This isn’t like the city.”
And, in a way, it wasn’t. Locking my doors didn’t stop the break-ins last spring, and during the summer not having anyone living close by allowed a burglar to gain entrance by breaking a window. Maybe I didn’t lock the back door, but did I rush out of the house without making sure the door was fully closed?
If so, Baraka could have nudged it open. We hadn’t replaced the storm door from when the sheriff’s department took it last April. One more item put off until after the baby was born.
As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I stopped Baraka from moving forward. I didn’t need blood tracked from room to room. “Wade, could you get me some tweezers, cotton balls, and antiseptic?” I called.
It took him a couple minutes to find the tweezers, and he was the one who removed a piece of glass lodged in Baraka’s pad while I kept petting my dog, telling him what a good boy he was for not going out on the road and getting killed. “He does seem a little touchy on his left side,” I said as Wade applied an antiseptic to the wound. “Do you think he could have been hit by a car?”
“As fast as those cars fly by here, he would be more than touchy if he was hit by one.” Wade pressed against Baraka’s side, then shook his head when Baraka merely licked his cheek. “I don’t think there’s any internal damage. We’ll probably never know what he got into while we were gone.”
“I should have put him in his crate.” But I hadn’t been crating him for months. Hadn’t needed to.
Once Baraka’s paw was medicated and wrapped, I tried to remember exactly what I’d done after I finished talking with Detective Ferrell. “I am sure I closed the door,” I told Wade, “but I don’t think I locked it.”
“My fault for honking the horn and urging you to hurry,” Wade said. “All’s well that ends well, or something like that.”
I wished I could pass it off at that, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. I wandered into the dining area. Earlier, when Wade suggested we go see the butterflies, I’d been gathering the tax papers for Sporbach’s Nursery so they’d be ready to take into Kalamazoo on Monday. I’d left those papers in a neat stack on the table, next to the envelope with their name on it. Once more checking to make sure I had everything and they would go into the envelope. Now those papers were fanned out.
“Did you do that?” I asked Wade, and then Jason.
“Nope,” each said.
“Dog must have bumped the table and dislodged them,” Wade said.
I didn’t think so. The position the papers were in was too neat.
Room by room I went through the house. Nothing was obviously out of place, yet several things didn’t seem quite right. An upholstered chair in the living room was at a different angle. A picture on my dresser had been knocked over. The door to the office at the end of the living room was half open.
Standing in the living room, I stared at that door. Had someone been in the house or was I simply suffering from “baby brain?” Connie had mentioned the term during one of our sessions. She’d said it referred to a proven relationship between pregnancy and brain changes and that four out of five pregnant women reported increased forgetfulness and mental fogginess. Both Anna and Maria had laughed and confessed to having it. As tired as I was, maybe I was making too much over a few things that seemed out of place. Did I fan out those pages? Move the chair? Not completely close my office door?
Wade had turned on the TV and stretched out in his favorite easy chair. “You okay?” he asked, looking up at me.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It’s just that something doesn’t feel right.”
He pushed himself up, out of the chair and came over to my side. “Not right like?”
“Like not right.” I couldn’t explain and wandered into our bedroom, pulling dresser drawers open and pushing the underwear and tops aside.
“Are you missing anything?”
On top of the dresser, the birthing kit bag Connie had told me to purchase was open. I couldn’t remember if I’d left it unzipped or not, but as far as I could tell everything was there. Not that I could imagine a burglar wanting to steal plastic backed paper sheets, OB pads, or a peritoneal bottle. Next to the kit I had a loose change jar. It was three-fourths full; about what I remembered.
I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing’s missing.”
“So . . .?”
“So, it must be my imagination,” I admitted and went over and gave him a hug. “Thanks for being my hero and checking the place out when we first arrived. I was scared for you. And thanks for taking care of Baraka’s paw.”
“No problem, he said, and for a moment we just stood there, our arms around each other.
* * *
Later that night I discovered what wasn’t right. While Wade was watching TV and Jason was in bed, I did the final check of Sporbach’s tax papers, gathered them in a neat stack, and slipped them into the prepared envelope. Friday, when I had called and told them I would have their taxes done over the weekend and would just need their signatures to electronically file, they’d asked if I could drive into town. They said they had something they wanted to show me. Curious, I’d agreed. At the time I’d figured it would give me a chance to visit with Grandma Carter without Jason around. Now the trip was going to work out because of Anna.
Envelope in hand, I went to my office to check my email and do my nightly backup. That was when I discovered the problem. I couldn’t do a backup.
No thumb drive.
Not in the USB port or on the desk next to my computer. Not in the plastic cup filled with pens and pencils off to the side of my computer. No thumb drive in my desk drawers, on the floor, or in the waste basket. No thumb drive anywhere in my office area or around the dining room table, where I often did paperwork, but never took the thumb drive.
Wade stopped me on my fifth time walking between him and the television set. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for the thumb drive I back my files up on.”
“It’s not where you usually keep it?”
“I usually keep it plugged into my computer.”
“And?”
“No, it�
��s not there. It’s not anywhere.” I plopped down on the couch next to his chair. “I don’t understand. I don’t remember pulling it out of the computer or putting it anywhere. I wouldn’t do that. Not until tax season was over. Then I’d put it in the safe.”
“Have you checked your purse?”
“I did.” I’d dumped everything out on the bed, found a lipstick I’d forgotten I had, a pen I don’t even remember picking up, but no thumb drive.
“You don’t have any other thumb drives?”
“I have personal ones, but when I’m doing taxes, to make sure I don’t forget and mix my clients files with my personal files, I put those backup thumb drives in a box in the file cabinet.”
“And none of those are missing?”
“No.” I had looked. “They’re all there.”
“So, it’s just the one with your clients’ files that you can’t find. Does that mean you’ve lost all of that information?”
“No, I still have everything on my hard drive. The missing thumb drive is a backup, in case something happens to my hard drive.”
And this was a good lesson on why I should have signed up and paid the money to save files in the cloud. I’d thought about it, looked into the idea, but I hadn’t made a decision. After tax season I’d told myself. After the baby was born.
“Maybe Jason has it.” Wade moved over from his chair to the couch and snuggled me close. “We can ask him in the morning. Meanwhile, relax. As long as you have everything you need on your computer, you can buy another thumb drive when you’re in town.”
“I can, but . . .”
“But nothing.” He brushed a kiss against my forehead. “It’s after ten. We’ve had a busy day. You’ve got to be beat.”
I was tired. My back ached and my feet were sore from all of the walking at Meijer’s Gardens. I leaned my head against Wade’s shoulder, half-closed my eyes, and listened to the science program he was watching.