UNAWARE: A Suspense Novel

by Susan P. Baker

  She had tucked the box and file folder away in her closet, with things she rarely disturbed but couldn’t bear to get rid of, a scrapbook from the first years of their marriage, an old stamp collection of her father’s, her bronzed baby shoes.

  Laying the dusty folder and box on an old towel on top of the duvet, Dena surveyed her find, her palms sweating. The risk that she’d discover something she’d be better off not knowing had already passed with Old Lady Heslep letting the secret out. Now it was just a matter of the details.

  She sat cross-legged on the bed, sewing scissors in hand. Why she hesitated, she didn’t know. Was she afraid her few memories of her mother would be tarnished? Once the contents were revealed, she’d be unable to return to her childish view of her parents as two people whose lives orbited around her, their only child. She would have to see them as individuals with separate lives and examine their relationship to each other, and their relationship to her, albeit posthumously. It was time for her to do that, time for her to put away her childlike ideals and assume the role of the adult in her relationship with her parents.

  Drawing a deep breath, Dena attacked the box almost viciously. She cut and tore the duct tape away and balled it up, pitching it at a wastebasket across the room. Her heart palpitated when she lifted the top from the box and set it aside. There were several nine-by-twelve envelopes. Dena laid them on the bed and tossed the box to the floor. Opening the file folder, she found a tissue copy of the will, the type lawyers used before copiers. There were also a few notes in her father’s handwriting on a faded yellow legal pad. Funny, she had never thought to check with the county clerk’s office to see if her mother’s will had been filed. It never mattered before.

  Dena read through the will first. It was a simple document and of no real consequence. Her mother had left everything to her father. If her father predeceased her, then to Dena, in trust. In that event, it appointed Dena’s now-deceased uncle, James Barlow, as guardian of Dena’s person and estate, in other words, to raise her. That was something Dena had not known, but it came as no real surprise.

  The first envelope contained yellowed, brittle newspaper clippings folded into waxed paper. The top one read:

  GALVESTON-An unidentified person died a fiery death when a blue Mustang convertible slammed into the barricade at the East End of the seawall Saturday night. Witnesses reported that rather than braking on the approach, the lone occupant accelerated and could have been driving as fast as 80 mph. Two nearby fishermen said debris landed adjacent to their car on Boddecker Drive. The fireball could be seen as far away as the 14th Street rock groin.

  No wonder her father hadn’t wanted her to know how her mother died. The next clipping bore a large headline, “Prominent Attorney’s Wife Apparent Suicide.” It gave details of Rebecca Barlow’s fiery death, her social activities since her marriage to Dena’s father, information about the Barlow and Barlow law firm, and the surviving two-year-old Dena. The obituary followed and contained a photograph of Dena’s mother that Dena had never seen before, her hair long, thick, and wavy, wide-eyed, and a modest smile. What a stranger that person in the obituary was to her. Her mother appeared younger in that photograph than Dena’s present age.

  The next envelope contained mental health commitment documents listing Rebecca Barlow as the patient. Stunned, she thumbed through the papers. The terms “danger to himself or others” jumped off the form pleadings. There was a commitment to the psychiatric ward of the hospital in Galveston, which back then, Dena knew, was the Graves Building. The second month Dena had been a licensed attorney, the probate judge had appointed her to represent mental health patients who had been involuntarily committed to the hospital. She had heard horror stories about the shock treatments of patients in the years gone by. Had her own mother been subjected to them?

  Why had her mother been committed to a mental hospital? What was wrong with her? Rebecca Jean Lowell had been a number of years younger than Horace Benjamin Barlow, who, as an already established attorney, had a lot more to lose by marrying someone with a mental illness than she did, him. What could have been so bad that her mother felt she had to take her own life? A little piece of Dena wasn’t sure she really wanted to know, but she had come this far, and she wasn’t about to stop until she had concrete answers.

  She steeled herself and turned to the third and last envelope. Inside she found another envelope, one about the size of a standard thank-you note, addressed to her in unfamiliar handwriting. A small cry escaped Dena and tears erupted down her face. She pulled out a folded sheet, the letterhead bore the engraved initials RJB.

  My darling daughter,

  Forgive me for leaving you. I know I will never be a good mother and you will be better off with your father as both father and mother to you than with me in your life. With any luck, he will remarry a wonderful woman, which he deserves.

  I love you with all my heart. Please know that. I would not be leaving you otherwise. Please forgive me.

  I hope your father will honor my request and give you this letter when you are grown. There is so much I want to tell you, so much that I know he will keep from you, to protect you as he protected me, saved me, and is still trying to protect me.

  If a man ever comes to you and claims he is your brother, you must believe him. I had a baby by another man before I married your father and gave birth to you. I lost all rights to my baby after I tried to escape from my husband and flee Houston with my son. Your father saved my life.

  I will always love you, no matter what, and pray you have a wonderful life.

  Love always,

  Your Mama, Becky Barlow

  Dena dropped the letter onto the bed and stared into space, horrified at the thought she had an older brother she’d never known about. She had thought Lucas and his family were her only living relatives, besides her own children, of course.

  A slow burn built in her at her father. How could he have kept those awful things from her? Had he been worried she would commit suicide, too? Preposterous. He’d gone to his grave without ever even telling her that her own flesh and blood was out there somewhere. He had known her mother left a letter for her but had concealed it. What paternalistic gall.

  She scanned her mother’s letter until she came to the part about fleeing Houston. Fleeing, why? Fleeing whom? Fleeing what? She entertained the idea of going to Houston and trying to find some answers but realized the impossibility of her situation. Zack would think she was nuts. Lucas would really discourage her. Ellen might lend some moral support, but wouldn’t be of any help with her search. Where would she begin?

  Grabbing her purse off the floor beside the bed, Dena dug around inside until she came to the information she had been searching for. She punched numbers into her cell and waited through five long rings. She began having wild thoughts about the man who was her brother. What if his father was a criminal, a gang member like Mafia, and had raised him to be a criminal? What if her brother was deformed or mentally retarded? He could be African-American or Asian or a Latino, but why would that matter? About the time she was ready to hang up, Martin Richardson answered.

  “This is Dena Armstrong. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  The deep voice at the other end of the line said, “Anything for you, Dena. How can I help?”

  He sounded self-assured, something she wasn’t feeling too much of at that moment. “I need to get into contact with someone who can do some confidential research for me, probably mostly in Houston, no questions asked.” She added, “And money is not a problem.”

  “Is it something I could do for you, Ma’am?”

  “No, I’d rather not. I hope you don’t mind. It’s very personal.”

  “You would tell me if it involved your safety.”

  “Yes. And no, it doesn’t. I just didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “I understand. Got a pen handy?”

  “Yes.” Dena nodded, as if he could see her. She wrote down the
information he gave her. “Thanks a million. This will be strictly between us, won’t it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. No problem there.”

  “Goodbye.” As soon as she hung up, she scrambled off the bed and scooped everything back into the box. She didn’t want to share any of it with Zack right then and maybe ever. After she put it away, Dena made the phone call to the person Martin had suggested. Now she had to wait until the answers came back. She hoped it wouldn’t be more than a few days.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ALAN SELLERS

  “Hello, Dena? This is Alan Sellers. When is Ginny coming to get her stuff?” He lay on the sofa with “Law And Order” reruns turned down very low on the television. Ready to put his plan into action, the first step was to line up the return of Ginny’s property. He hoped she’d be lulled into a false sense of security when he gave everything he still had back. She couldn’t think too badly of him if some of the stuff he’d said was damaged really wasn’t. He’d just say he’d told her that because he was angry. Which was no lie.

  “Okay, Mr. Sellers, which stuff are you speaking of?”

  “Anything she wants, Dena. She can have it all. She just needs to call me and tell me when she’s coming.”

  “I’ll certainly try to get that message to her.”

  “Could you do that soon, Dena? Could you do it maybe this week? Her stuff is in my way. I’d like her to get it right away.”

  “I said I would try to get a message to her. That’s about all I can do.”

  “You want to give me her work number? I could call her at work myself and make arrangements with her.” That would get her goat.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Aw, gee, Dena, see I’m not calling her on her cell, right?” Ginny didn’t answer the phone anymore, but he wasn’t going to tell Dena that. “You could give me her work number. I’m not going to hurt her or anything. I’m under a protective order, right?”

  “I’m glad you aren’t going to hurt her, but I’m still not giving you her work number. I’ll call her today, though, and ask her to call you and make arrangements to get over there as soon as possible and get her stuff.”

  “You think I’m still sore at her, don’t you, Dena? You think I’m still mad enough that I would do something to her. All I want is for her to come get her stuff, and then we could get the divorce. By the way, when can we get the divorce, Dena? You think we could get it this week?”

  “There’ll be no divorce until Ginny gets her personal property, and then I still have to draw up the decree and get you both to look it over and sign it and then we have to go to court. Just as a point of information, let’s say I do get the decree drawn up this week, when could you come sign it?”

  He almost laughed out loud. She sounded so uptight. He must make her nervous. She sure had acted like it when they were in court. He liked it that way. If she was nervous now, what would she be like when he showed up at her house? He cleared his throat. “Well, I think I could probably come sign the papers any day this week. You just let me know, Dena, and I’ll be right over. By the way, is your office still at the same place you put on them papers from a couple of months ago?”

  “Yes. Okay, so I’ll call Ginny and get back to you about the decree.”

  “All righty, Dena. I look forward to hearing from you. By the way, did I tell you I have a new girlfriend? Her name is Wendy. As soon as I get divorced, we’re going to Las Vegas for the weekend. I might even marry her. Won’t that be great?”

  When she sighed really loud into the phone, he knew he was getting to her.

  “I’m sure that will be very nice. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Okey-dokey, Dena. Talk to you later.” He pressed the end button and burst out laughing. He wished he could see that lady’s face about now. She was probably having a fit.

  At eleven, Sellers was dressed and out the door. Instead of the Cadillac, he drove the Firebird to Armstrong’s office where he parked and played his waiting game again. He was getting good at parking and waiting. Maybe he should be a private dick, with the amount of time he spent spying on people. Too bad he never heard of one who got paid what the husband had offered him to do his wife. Too bad, because he could get used to it even though when he first started sitting around waiting he couldn’t stand it. Now he kind of liked it. It was better to sit and think all day than have to mess with a bunch of stupid people who yammered at you all the time. If he had to spend all day doing something, he’d rather be by himself. The worst thing about it was the heat.

  Lunchtime came at the husband’s office. A dozen people poured outside, climbed into cars, and drove away. Armstrong was not one of them. Sellers choked down a cheese sandwich and a Coke. Thirty minutes later, two more men came down the stairs. Neither of them was the husband either. He wasn’t about to give up. During the hottest part of the day, he ran his tank of gas down considerably by running his engine so he could have air-conditioning. He didn’t care. His wanted to find out who the husband was screwing and what made her so special he’d be willing to risk everything for her. He was sure that was what was going on.

  In the middle of the afternoon, the husband arrived at his office in his Lexus. The man walked so quickly, he practically ran inside. About thirty minutes later, the husband left the building and instead of getting into his Lexus, he drove away in a recent model black convertible Corvette with darkly tinted windows. Sellers took a swig from his bottle of water and set it in the console before he followed. There was more to this man than he thought.

  He cruised a couple of car lengths behind the husband. The man headed east toward the ferry to the Bolivar Peninsula when he veered off Harborside Drive headed toward the Yacht Basin. Sellers sped up, drove past the guard at the entrance to the condos like he knew where he was going, and barely made it in time to see the Corvette park inside a garage beside another Lexus, a silver sedan. The garage door descended behind it.

  Circling, Sellers parked in a visitor lot and ambled to the front of the condo unit to get a number and see if whoever was inside was dumb enough to display their name. No such luck. The mailboxes were by number, not names. He’d just have to play the waiting game again. At least the temperature was dropping as the day wound down.

  Ninety minutes later, he was still waiting. He didn’t have to guess what they were doing. He knew. He could leave, but he wanted to catch a look at the woman and maybe get her license number. Couldn’t the husband have gone for a quickie so Alan could get back home into his air-conditioned apartment? Asshole.

  At dusk, the man finally came out. How did guys like him get away with it? How could they get off work so much? And how could he afford a Corvette on top of the Lexus? Sellers had thought it was the wife who had the money, not the husband. Maybe that was the real key to the thing. Maybe he needed her money for something. Maybe the husband had his wife heavily insured. He needed to cash in to pay for that car, the other woman, and God knew what else. Just like in the movies.

  He should have known. The stupid jerk getting himself in a fix like that in the first place.

  As the husband backed out of the garage, his headlights lit the rear of the Lexus just long enough for Sellers to see a partial number. What’s more, before the garage door started down, Sellers caught sight of a slender, black-headed woman backing through a doorway as she waved goodbye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DENA

  Dena didn’t like bringing work home with her, but if she didn’t discuss Alan Sellers with someone, she would wake up in the middle of the night worrying about everything and not be able to get back to sleep. Since that phone call earlier in the day, she just couldn’t stop thinking about him. There was something decidedly strange about a person who would act so weird.

  Zack disturbed her reverie when he moved into the chair next to her after dinner and shook her arm. “You haven’t been with us all night. What’s on your mind?”

  Her shoulders hun
ched up around her neck. “It’s just that Sellers divorce case. Sorry.”

  “More threats?”

  “No.” She wiped at her face and balled up her napkin. “I just can’t figure out what’s going on in his mind. He acts so weird.”

  “Like what?”

  “One day he’s screaming angry, and the next he’s as sweet as pie. It’s strange. But never mind.” She rose from the table and picked up her plate.

  “You’re not still worried about him attacking you, are you?”

  “Not really. I think he just likes to annoy people.”

  Zack nodded and squeezed her arm. “I’ll be in the den.”

  After she had cleaned up the kitchen and put the children to bed, she walked into the den, where Zack watched television.

  “I got my ticket to Japan today,” he said when she sat on the other end of the sofa.

  “So you know definitely when you’re leaving and when you’re coming back?”

  “Yes. Leaving on Friday and returning the following Friday night.” He turned sideways to face her. “It’s a little bit longer than I thought, but if Henry gets there earlier, I can always change my reservations.”

  “Don’t worry about us. You go and stay as long as you want. You won’t even get to see what the place is like if you’re just there for a couple of days.”

  “It’s okay. I really don’t mind. The way I figure it, it takes a day to a day-and-a-half just to get there, depending on connecting flights. The reason I’m leaving so early on Friday is that if I left any later, I wouldn’t get there until after the welcoming cocktail party Sunday night. Don’t forget there’s a big time difference. With all the stopovers, it can take twenty to thirty hours just to get there.”

  “You have to do the preparations, too, don’t you? You’re going to be so pressed for time.”

  “I’ve made allowances for that.”

  “I’ve forgotten. Is it next weekend you’re leaving?”