“I’m guessing you’ll want to check out the bedrooms mainly?” Bob says.
“I’d like to see Dad’s office first,” Rebecca says, nodding down a hallway off the living room.
Bob gives Ruth a questioning look, silently asking if she agrees with this plan and is still okay to be here. Ruth swallows hard but nods.
Bob heads down the hallway with Rebecca hot on his heels. At the end of the hall is the entrance to the kitchen, taped off from the rest of the house, and I watch as Rebecca peeks at it, curiosity getting the better of her. If the sight bothers her, it doesn’t show. She doesn’t miss a step as she follows Bob into the small room on the left, a room I assume is Fletcher’s home office, though I never got to see any part of the house beyond the kitchen.
Ruth is still standing in the middle of the living room and she cups a hand over her nose and mouth. Her eyes close, but she opens them seconds later and with a straightening of her shoulders, heads down the hallway. I can’t tell if she looks into the kitchen at all, but I gather from the somewhat serpentine path she takes down the hall, and the way one hand is extended out at her side like a feeler, that her eyes are closed.
The room Arthur Fletcher used as a home office is small. It wouldn’t comfortably work as a bedroom with anything bigger than a twin-size bed, and I’m not sure what it was meant to be originally. There is already a separate dining room on this floor, and given the office’s proximity to the kitchen, I wonder if it was once a butler’s pantry that was converted into a separate room. It has a single window that looks out onto the side yard, a pair of dingy, lacy sheers hanging from an overhead rod. I suspect the curtains are a remnant from Mrs. Fletcher; they give off a distinctively feminine vibe. There is no closet in the room and a worn denim jacket is hanging from a hook screwed into the back wall.
The desk is a battered and dented metal piece that looks like old military issue, and the chair behind it is a basic wooden one with a ladder back. On top of the desk is a blotter, its surface stained with coffee rings, and while there is no computer, there is an obvious void in the dust where it appears a laptop had been. I assume the feds have it now. An old mug is doing double duty as a pen and pencil holder, and there is a small dish filled with a dozen Werther hard candies beside it.
There is a three-drawer, gunmetal gray filing cabinet in one corner, its drawers open and empty, most likely courtesy of the feds, and in another corner by the window there is an old, wooden rocker. The rocking chair seems out of place somehow, and I wonder why it’s there. Had Fletcher’s wife spent time in here with him, sitting in the rocker, perhaps crocheting the afghan I saw draped over the back of the living room couch?
I watch the two women, curious about their reactions. Rebecca, not surprisingly given her behavior so far, looks miffed about something. Ruth just looks sad.
“Where is his computer?” Rebecca asks. “And his papers? How are we supposed to figure out his estate? And our inheritance?”
“Oh, for cripes sake, Becca!” Ruth says, nearly in tears. “He isn’t even buried yet!”
“My bills aren’t going to wait for him to be buried,” Rebecca snaps.
“Well, maybe if you got a real job you...” And they’re at it again. I tune them out, thinking it’s probably time for me to go home and go to bed. There is a framed picture of the family hanging on the wall beside me: Arthur and his wife, young and healthy, the two girls, around the age of five or six I’d guess, smiling as they stand in front of them. In the background is the barn, but many of the other outbuildings aren’t there. They must have come later, back when the farm was in its heyday. It’s the only picture in the room, save a framed ten-dollar bill hanging on the wall next to the window.
The two girls are shouting back and forth at one another, and I feel my stress level rising. This sort of thing may be part of what my new job is about, but I don’t want to deal with these two any longer. I look again at the family picture, which is hanging slightly crooked. It’s an offense to my OCD sense of order and with my rising stress level, I feel compelled to straighten it. Maybe if I can draw the women’s attention to this picture of a happier time, they’ll stop their endless bickering.
I reach up and nudge the lower corner slightly to straighten it up. It falls to the floor with a crash, tiny shards of glass flinging out in all directions. A gasp escapes me when I realize I may have just ruined the only family picture the Fletcher women have when I hear Rebecca say, “Well, look at that, would you.”
At first, I think she’s referencing the result of my stupidity, but then I hear Bob say, “Son of a gun,” under his breath and I look at him, intending to plead forgiveness and blame my clumsiness on my exhaustion. Except he isn’t looking at me or the picture. He’s staring at the wall where the picture was hung. So are the women. I look there, too, and mutter an “Oh, my,” in surprise.
There on the wall is a safe. Or at least the door to a safe. It is set into the wall so that its face is flush with the plaster and it has a number pad lock on it.
Rebecca looks over at her sister. “Did you know Dad had a safe?”
Ruth shakes her head.
“I wonder what’s in it,” Rebecca says, her voice blooming with hopeful expectation. “There might be cash in there, lots of it. If he was selling marijuana, he might have kept some money aside and not put it in the bank.”
“Ooh, do you think so?” Ruth says, her eyes growing big.
It’s obvious from their tones that the women are assuming any cash we find inside the safe would be theirs to keep. I glance at Bob and he gives me a subtle shake of his head.
“I don’t suppose either of you knows the combination?” Bob says.
“Heck no, we didn’t even know he had a safe,” Rebecca says. But then she and Ruth exchange a look, one that tells me they have an idea about it.
“What?” I say. “You’ve thought of something. Was there something your father used regularly for a passcode or PIN?”
Rebecca looks down at her feet. Ruth looks over at the window.
Bob doesn’t miss their evasive behaviors. “You know,” he says, “now that we’ve discovered the safe, the feds are going to want to take it, and who knows how long it will be before they can get it open. And anything they find in there will get tied up as evidence for months, maybe years.”
Faced with the loss of a potential windfall that hasn’t yet been realized, Ruth caves. “Try the serial number,” she says, pointing to the framed ten-dollar bill on the wall by the window. “That ten dollars is from the first bundle of tobacco my father ever sold from this farm, back in the early eighties. Most people frame a dollar bill, but Dad said he wasn’t like most people and using the bigger bill was a sign of the prosperity to come.”
Bob walks over to the framed money and lifts it from the wall.
Ruth says, “In later years, when Dad needed a password for computer stuff, he started using the serial number on that bill. He had it memorized, but if he ever forgot it, or if one of us ever needed his password because something happened to him, we knew it was there.”
Bob stands in front of the wall safe, holding the framed bill in one hand. “There are eight numbers here,” he says. “And a letter at the beginning and the end. Not sure how that works on this keypad.”
“Ignore the letters since there aren’t any on the keypad,” I say.
Bob does as I suggest but punching the numbers in doesn’t work. “Try it backwards,” I suggest. He does and six numbers into the combination there is a click and a green light comes on. Rebecca claps her hands excitedly while Ruth starts chewing at her thumbnail. Bob grabs the small handle and pulls the door open.
There is cash in the safe, all right. Lots of it. Bundles of fifty-dollar bills are stacked in there, along with several stacks of hundreds. It seems my fortune cookie fortune was right when it predicted lots of money coming into my life. Unfortunately, it failed to mention that none of it would be mine.
Rebecca tries to push past Bob
and grab some of the money, but he stops her with his arm. “Sorry, but no one touches this money until we can process it as evidence,” he says. “There might be fingerprints on it, or even DNA. Some of these bills look new, which means they may not have circulated yet.”
“But you said—” Rebecca starts.
We’ve reached the point where the sisters are going to learn that the money won’t be theirs, either.
“I know what I said,” Bob grumbles. “Perhaps I misled you. None of this money is going to come to you. It’s going to be taken in as evidence and then, by law, it’s going to be confiscated by the DEA.”
“What?” Rebecca screeches. For a moment I think she’s going to smack Bob, she looks so pent up with anger. But she reins herself in at the last minute and lets forth with a string of cuss words instead.
Ruth just stands there and smiles.
“You people are rotten to the core,” Rebecca says, and then she spins on her heel and storms out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door.
Ruth looks at Bob and sighs. “She won’t go too far since I have the keys to the rental car. But I suppose we should go. There isn’t much point in trying to scavenge the remains here until the cop agencies are done with what they need to do.”
Ruth is clearly the voice of reason when it comes to these two. And in my own moment of clarity, I decide I’m done with this mess for now. I need my bed and some sleep. After Ruth follows her sister out of the house, I look at Bob and say, “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“What?” he asks irritably. “That one of his kids couldn’t care less that her father is dead? That no one will get any of the money he hid away? Or that Fletcher’s secret garden might be part of a bigger, scarier plan?”
“All of it,” I say with a tired smile. “So many lives ruined.”
“Yeah,” he agrees in a sad, tired voice. He looks at me and smiles. “I don’t want to ruin your life, so go home and get some sleep. Thanks for sticking with me as long as you did.”
“You’re welcome.” I whip off a snappy salute for reasons I don’t understand and then head for my car.
I’m glad the drive home is a short one because my eyelids feel like they weigh a ton. When I enter the house, Roscoe greets me with his usual tail-wagging enthusiasm and then looks disappointed when I make a beeline for my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I strip out of my clothes, tossing them toward the hamper, though all the items fall short. When I toss my slacks, something falls out of the pocket onto the floor. It’s a Werther’s hard candy.
I pick it up, toss it in the trash can, and curse to myself. Then I slip between my sheets totally naked, replacing the real world with a mindless, dreamless one mere moments later.
Chapter 21
When I awaken at a few minutes past five, I roll out of bed surprised to see that I have no clothes on. I head for the bathroom to pee, and then grab my robe off the hook on the back of the door. Seeing it there brings to mind the sight of that worn coat hanging on a hook in Arthur Fletcher’s office and that whole scene replays in my head.
I go to the sink to brush my teeth and I’m taken aback when I look in the mirror. Mascara and eyeliner are smeared around my eyes and on my upper cheeks, making me look like a ghoul. I grab a washcloth and some face cream and remove the stuff, then I brush my teeth. Feeling a bit more human, I head back to my bedroom, where I see that remnants of the makeup P.J. so artfully applied last evening is also smeared all over my pillowcase. Note to self: remember to take makeup off before dropping dead into bed.
I stumble out to the kitchen and fix myself a cup of coffee. There is no sign of Roscoe in the house, so I assume he’s out with P.J. That means he, and she, could arrive back at any minute. A reminder pops up on my cell phone, which is almost dead because I forgot to plug it in again when I got home this morning, regarding Tamela’s visit. I’d momentarily forgotten about it, and I curse under my breath when I realize I have less than an hour before she’s due to arrive.
I plug my phone in, grab my cup of coffee, and head for the shower. I scrub, dry off, dress, blow my hair into some semblance of docility as fast as I can, and then return to the kitchen. To my surprise, I find P.J. and Tamela sitting at my kitchen island counter, Roscoe stretched out on the floor behind them.
“Hildy!” Tamela says, hopping off her stool and coming to give me a hug. I embrace her, delighted, as always, to see her. “You’re looking good,” she says when we finally pull apart. She eyes me from head to toe and back again.
“Yeah, right,” I say. “Remember, I, unlike most other people, can tell when you’re lying.” Tamela smiles guiltily. “I take it you two have met,” I say, looking over at P.J.
“We have,” Tamela says.
“She says she’s your sister,” P.J. says, a scowl on her face.
“Yes, she is.”
I’m about to explain further when P.J. says, “How come she’s black and you’re white? Did your mother adopt her before she died?”
Tamela arches her eyebrows at me, a wry grin on her face.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I tell P.J. “I told you that I grew up in the foster system after my mother died. Some of the other kids who were in the system became good friends with me. And some, like Tamela, became like a sister to me. Tamela and I lived in the same group home for three years when we were in high school, and we got to be very close to one another. I could talk to her about anything and she understood me and where I came from. So, I refer to her as my sister because she’s the closest thing to family that I have.”
P.J. digests this for a few seconds as Tamela and I wait. Then P.J. says, “Can I be your sister, too?”
Tamela gives me an “Aw,” look replete with puppy-dog eyes.
“I don’t know, P.J.,” I say. “Tamela, what do you think? Should we make P.J. an honorary sister? She doesn’t have any siblings at home.”
Tamela looks at P.J., puts a finger to the side of her chin, and takes on a contemplative expression. The eager anticipation I see on P.J.’s face nearly breaks my heart.
“Yeah, okay,” Tamela says and P.J.’s face breaks into a huge smile. It’s the most emotion I think I’ve ever seen from her.
“I think we should celebrate the addition of our new family member over breakfast,” I suggest. Both Tamela and P.J. look at me like I’m crazy. “Oh, right. It’s not breakfast time for you guys. Still, I can whip up some hellacious ham and cheese omelets. How does that sound for dinner?”
“You know me; I’m not a picky eater,” Tamela says with a shrug.
With perfect mimicry, P.J. says, “You know me; I’m not a picky eater,” and she shrugs.
I try to hold it back, but laughter bursts out of me. Fortunately, P.J. takes it in stride.
* * *
The three of us spend a pleasant three hours eating our omelets and toast, and chatting about all manner of things. Tamela brings me up to date on the status of our other “sister,” Sarah, whose picture sits on my fireplace mantel, while we watch the self-professed non-picky eater P.J. sort out every single piece of ham in her omelet. She pushes them to one side and, when she thinks we aren’t watching, she feeds them to Roscoe. I’m not sure if she does this because she doesn’t like ham, or just because she wants to give Roscoe some treats.
When we’re done eating, I try on all the clothing items Tamela has brought along with her, items I bought a week or so ago and had her take for alterations. The girl is a whiz with needle and thread, and everything fits me perfectly. I opt to wear the last pair of slacks I try on to work for the night.
I make P.J. go home knowing she has to be up early in the morning for school. P.J. tries to stall by claiming she needs to take Roscoe for one more walk, but I insist that she go, and tell her I’ll walk Roscoe on my own. “I need the exercise,” I say, tugging at the waist of my newly altered slacks.
Once P.J. is gone, I invite Tamela to come with me and Roscoe, and she happily tags along. It’s a walk down memory lan
e as the two of us recall some of our times together—both good and bad—in the group home. When she finally gets into her car to head home, I feel a sense of loss. I wish she lived closer.
My loneliness sparks a reminder that I need to call Dr. Maggie Baldwin. Her advice and counsel will aid me in figuring out my role and responsibilities regarding both Danny Hildebrand and Marla Riley. I get her voice mail and leave a message, letting her know that I’ll be up all night should she decide to call back later, and that no hour tonight would be too late. With that done, I decide to go into the station a little early, hoping I might catch Bob Richmond there and get an update on the Fletcher case. I’m dying to know if he had any more interactions with the Fletcher women.
I park in the gated back lot, badge myself into the station, and send Roscoe over to his doggie bed, telling him to stay. Then I make my way to Bob’s office to see if he’s in. He is, sort of. I find him sitting in his chair, arms folded on top of his desk, head resting on his arms. He is sound asleep, snoring lightly. I turn to leave him as he is, not wanting to wake him as I suspect he’s been up all day. But before I take two steps, Brenda Joiner pokes her head into the office and says, “There you are. I knew you were here somewhere because I saw Roscoe in his bed.”
Bob sits bolt upright, blinking his eyes several times.
“Oh, sorry,” Brenda says, grimacing. “I didn’t know you were sleeping.”
“I wasn’t sleeping. Just resting my eyes for a few minutes,” Bob says.
I snort a laugh. “You were snoring.” He scowls at that. “Not a bad snore,” I add. “Very light, in fact.”
Giving up any pretense of not sleeping, Bob rubs his eyes and asks, “What time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven,” Brenda says. “I’ll go put on a pot of coffee.” She heads back toward the break room, leaving me with Bob.
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