by Sara Rosett
“I think there are professional cleaning crews you can hire to help with that type of cleaning,” I said as I fiddled with the water bottle lid.
“No. I’d rather do it myself. It helps. Gives me something to do with my hands.” She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. I thought she might cry, but she replaced her glasses and squared her shoulders. “Ellie, I need you to do something for me.” Her voice sounded more like her usual self-confident tone. “The police had some very pointed questions for me yesterday and today. I’m their favorite suspect.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “They’ve got to be looking at all kinds of possibilities at this point.”
“They did ask if anyone had anything against Lewis, any grudges, but it’s all so insignificant. There’s nothing for them to pursue. There’s always a couple of people upset about something in the squadron. Sour grapes, nothing more.” She sipped her water, glanced at me, then focused her gaze on the green leaves bobbing outside the kitchen window. “I think Lewis was having an affair.”
I froze, my water bottle poised in the air. “What? Why?”
“I need you to help me find out if it’s true.”
I put the bottle on the table and leaned forward. “But he wouldn’t—” The idea of Colonel Pershall having an affair was such a stretch for me that I had a hard time forming a coherent sentence. I tried again. “I mean, that doesn’t seem like him. You were so close.”
Denise switched her gaze to me. “We were, but we weren’t always like that. We had our share of hard times.” She shifted and sighed. “Lately, he’s worked late quite a bit and he acted…secretive, that’s the only way I can describe it. I asked him a few times how things were at work and he’d give these vague answers. Normally, it wouldn’t have bothered me. There’s all sorts of stuff he can’t talk about, but this time something seemed off.”
She tipped the water bottle up for a drink, then sat silent for a moment before saying, “Last week, he called me as I was on my way out the door to the commissary at about six-thirty. He said he wouldn’t make it home for another hour or two.” She took another quick swallow of water. “I drove by the squadron on my way home and glanced at the parking lot. I wasn’t checking up on him.” She half-laughed and shrugged. “It was kind of an automatic thing, looking for his car in his parking space.”
I nodded. As squadron commander, Colonel Pershall had his own parking space and it would be easy to see if he was parked there, since the parking lot emptied at four-thirty, the time the military closed up shop. Colonel Pershall’s restored red 300ZX didn’t exactly blend in with the shrubbery either, so it would be easy to see.
“It wasn’t there, so I expected him to be here when I got home. He wasn’t. I phoned him and asked him if he was on his way home, but he said he was still at the office. Then when he finally got home, I could smell perfume on his clothes, a musky scent.”
“And you didn’t ask him about it?” Even as I asked the question, I wondered what I would have done in her place. Would I have confronted Mitch? Look at my reaction to the news that Mitch had dated Felicity. I’d been surprised but hadn’t asked Mitch any more questions.
Denise looked miserable. “No. I was so astonished and then I wasn’t sure what to do.” She reached across the table and gripped my hand. “Please help me with this, Ellie. I thought he really loved me. Now I’ll never know, unless I pursue this.”
“You don’t have to pursue anything. Let the police look into it. Did you tell them about it?”
She released my hand, grabbed her empty water bottle, and stood up. “If he was having an affair, then I’ll have an even better motive, at least in their eyes.” She paced to the other end of the kitchen. “Their line of questioning was already going in that direction. I don’t want to give them any more ammunition.”
“They’ll probably find out on their own. It would be better for them to hear your suspicions from you. And it may not be—probably isn’t—true.”
“No.” She punctuated her sentence with an effortless toss of her water bottle. It arced and landed dead center of the recycling bin. “You’re the one to help me out.”
I recognized that look. Every squadron commander’s wife had to either have or develop quickly the skill of drafting help. Denise had never been shy about recruiting volunteers to help with various programs. Of course, she went about it in a revolutionary way: she asked what the wives wanted the squadron spouse club to do, then focused our goals on those things. That’s why we had a book club and a supper club now and no bake sales. Usually, she was savvy enough to match a person’s interests with projects they had genuine enthusiasm for. She’d asked Abby and me to coordinate the summer playgroup and we’d loved the idea.
I wasn’t nearly as excited about this task. Since I obviously wasn’t going to talk her into going to the police, I tried another approach. “Why call me? Sounds like you need a private investigator.” A pile of mail tilted on the table. I stacked it, squaring the edges.
She put her hands on her hips and fixed a level gaze on me. “You’re the only one I know who’s got experience with the police.”
“Thanks a lot. You make me sound like a hardened criminal.”
She grinned faintly. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. But you have dealt with Detective Waraday, right?”
Reluctantly, I nodded. I was sure if he found out Denise was asking me to help her, Waraday would be less than thrilled. He’d found my involvement in the last case odd and slightly suspicious.
“Has anyone from the OSI been in touch with you?” I asked.
“Honey, I’m pretty good with acronyms, but during these last few hours, I couldn’t tell you if someone from NASA had been here.”
“The Office of Special Investigation,” I explained. “They investigate crimes on military bases and I think they’d be involved in something like this.”
Denise pulled a stack of business cards out of the pocket of her jeans. “Yeah, here’s someone from the OSI. Special Agent Kelly Montigue. I remember her now. She said they would coordinate their investigation with the sheriff’s office. I did get the feeling that Detective Waraday was taking the lead. He asked most of the questions. That other time, you found several things he missed, didn’t you?” Denise persisted.
Now it was my turn to shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, technically it was the crime scene investigators who missed those things and they were searching an immense area—”
Denise interrupted me. “But you did find stuff they’d missed. And I trust you. I don’t know any private detectives and I’m not going to pick one off a Google search or out of the phone book. This is Lewis’s reputation.”
She sat down again and pulled the stack of mail and a small, flat package toward her. “Yesterday’s mail,” she said with a beleaguered tone. “Do you mind if I open these while we talk? I’m so scattered right now, I’m afraid I’ll put this somewhere and forget about it for weeks.”
“Of course not.”
She pulled the tab on the package. When she tilted it, a large coin fell into her hand. I could tell it was a squadron coin from the coloring. About the size of a fifty cent piece, the coin had the squadron patch, a brown hawk on a blue and yellow shield, on one side and an engraving of the squadron’s refueling jet on the other side. Mitch had one just like it. In fact, everyone in the squadron had one.
Coin checks were a military tradition that Mitch had to explain to me when I became a military spouse. He had to keep his coin “on his person” at all times because anyone in the squadron could call for a “coin check” at any time. If you couldn’t produce your coin, you had to buy drinks for everyone who produced their coin. Mitch had quite a collection of squadron coins now because he got a new one at each squadron he’d been assigned to and after all our moves, that added up to many coins. Sometimes people had them made for special occasions, like retirement, or to give away as a thank you. Mitch received one when he found a general’s lost bag a
fter a flight.
Denise handed me the coin and flexed the package open. There was nothing else inside. “Lewis must have lost his coin somewhere around base,” Denise said, checking the postmark. “Yep, it was mailed from the post office on base.”
I turned the heavy coin over in my hand. “That was nice of someone.”
Denise said, “He probably slapped it down on the bar at the O Club, then walked off and left it. That would be just like him. He never was good at picking things up.” She blinked, then seemed to mentally shake herself. She tossed the package in the trash, then attacked the stack of envelopes. She slit each one, then began pulling out the bills and credit card offers and handing them to me so quickly I could hardly keep up. “Help me sort these, will you?” she asked. I set the coin down on the table and grabbed at the papers she was shoving at me. I’d become her secretary, but I didn’t mind. If sorting papers helped her out, then that’s what I’d do.
She stopped abruptly when she opened a sheet of plain white paper. “No.” She quickly folded it back into thirds, then crumpled it in her fist and tossed it across the room. “I cannot deal with her today,” she said, her voice shaky.
“Denise, what’s wrong?” I asked. Her mercurial change frightened me.
“Those letters are vile. I can’t—not today—” she broke off as her eyes watered. She pushed her glasses up onto her head and covered her eyes with one hand.
I moved slowly across the kitchen, watching her, but she remained seated with her hand over her eyes, her mouth working as she tried not to give in to tears. I picked up the ball of paper, then grabbed a few paper towels and handed them to her as I sat back down. She nodded her thanks and went to work dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose while I smoothed out the crinkles in the paper. It was a handwritten note.
Forty days.
Almost six weeks without my husband and it’s your fault. I’m going to make sure you never forget what you did to Ryan. He’s dead because of you. Dead! You’re the reason I don’t have a husband. I hate you. You’ll never have any peace. I’ll make sure of it. You don’t deserve to live in your perfect little house with your perfect lawn and edged sidewalks. Do you know who cut the lawn and edged the sidewalks at my house this week?
Me. Because Ryan’s dead. Because you sent him to his death. You deserve to be dead, too.
I dropped the letter on the table, not wanting to touch it. “Whoa.” It was so full of vitriol that I wondered how my hands hadn’t been scorched from touching it.
Back under control, Denise balled up the paper towel and said, “She’s sent a letter each week. They get angrier every week.”
It wasn’t signed, but I knew the name Ryan. I sat back in my chair, stunned. “Carrie Kohl wrote this?”
Denise nodded, then executed another flawless throw. Her wadded paper towel landed in the trash, no rim.
Carrie’s husband, Ryan, had been on the last Mideast deployment when he’d been in a wreck. It hadn’t been a case of insurgent violence. Only bad weather and bad driving were to blame. Ryan had died two days later at a hospital in Germany. Mitch hadn’t been on that deployment, but he’d heard that the truck ran off the road and flipped. Ryan’s death had rocked the squadron and the community. The air force was a fairly safe assignment, at least compared to some of the other branches of service. Although, it seemed the front lines had shifted and anyone, anywhere, could be a target. But, overall, the types of jobs airmen did were usually lower risk than the jobs of marines or army members. To have someone die on deployment was fairly rare in the air force and the outpouring of support for Carrie from the squadron and the community was intense. There had been a huge memorial service attended by hundreds of people who didn’t know Ryan. Food, cards, and letters poured in. People set up Web sites for family and friends to post memories and express support.
“Fragile little Carrie Kohl wrote this? Wow, I’d never have thought she’d write something like this. I mean, she cried nonstop for what was it? About three weeks?”
She’d sobbed throughout the memorial service and seemed as delicate as a wilted flower. She was always leaning on someone, her mom or dad or one of the other squadron spouses, her big brown eyes red and puffy behind the wispy hair that was constantly falling over her face.
Denise shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like her, I know, but she’s been mailing them to Lewis. She’s disconnected herself from us. I haven’t seen her since she began sending the letters about a month ago. I’ve called her. She never picks up. Same story when I’ve stopped by her house.”
“I haven’t seen her either. I called her and offered to help out with anything—food, hanging out with her, whatever she needed, but she said she’d call me if she needed anything. I haven’t heard from her since.” Looking at Denise’s ravaged face, I felt a spark of anger at Carrie for her brutal words. “Why would she do this to you and Colonel Pershall? The whole squadron, practically the whole town, stood by her and offered to do anything to help her. We know it’s terrible and want to help. Why would she lash out like this? There are plenty of people who’d mow her grass for her or whatever she needs.”
“Lewis said to let her be angry, that she needed someone to be angry at. ‘I can absorb it,’ he said.”
“Maybe he couldn’t.” I thought about what had happened to Colonel Pershall. A cold feeling of dread replaced that flare of anger I’d felt at Carrie’s harsh words. “You have to show this to Detective Waraday. Do you have the other letters?”
Carrie was a small woman, but if she caught Colonel Pershall by surprise…My thoughts immediately skittered away from that conclusion because I didn’t want to think that someone I knew would do something so terrible. But the letter indicated that she wasn’t quite as weak and helpless as I’d thought.
Denise shifted in her chair, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Lewis threw them away, said they were nothing but her working through her grief.” She looked away at the spotless white linoleum. “I pulled them out of the trash.”
“So you’ve got them. That’s good. That will give Waraday another avenue to pursue.”
“I shouldn’t.” She looked almost guilty.
“What? Why not?”
Denise fiddled with the empty envelopes, then said, “Because she is—was—a spouse in our squadron. I’m supposed to be looking out for her, helping her. That’s the basic principle of the spouse club.”
I knew Denise took her duties as the commanding officer’s wife seriously. To her, the spouse club was more than a social club or a way to wield influence. She wanted the spouse club to be something that supported the wives, not something they dreaded or avoided. “Carrie’s a spouse, but that doesn’t mean she’s not responsible for her actions,” I said. “Your job isn’t to protect her. The spouse club is here so we can help and support each other, you said that yourself in the first meeting. This isn’t helping or supporting you and you’re not helping Carrie by keeping it a secret. Obviously, she’s got a massive amount of rage and anger inside and she needs to deal with that. You have to give this to Waraday. These are threats.”
“You’re right, of course,” she said grudgingly. “It still feels very wrong.” With a sigh, Denise got up and opened a drawer. She removed several white sheets of paper from under the phone book, then dropped back into her chair and reached for the phone.
I put a hand on her arm. “Before you do that—can you think of anyone else who’d want to…harm Colonel Pershall? I know they probably asked you this before, right?”
“Yes, they did, and I couldn’t really think of anyone besides Carrie and I didn’t want to tell them about her. Everything else is so insignificant.”
“I heard Henry Fleet was pretty upset with him.”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “Promotion squabbles, nothing more.” Her face went still and she said, thoughtfully, “Rich Barnes. He’s always been jealous of Lewis.” She shook herself and sat up straight. “This is absurd.”
I�
��d picked up a notepad she kept by the phone and jotted down the three names—Carrie Kohl, Captain Henry Fleet, and Colonel Rich Barnes. I underlined the last name.
“Colonel Barnes knew Colonel Pershall for a long time, right?” I asked.
“Yes, they went to flight school together. Same class at the Academy. Rich always looks at everything like it’s a competition. He hated it that Lewis made colonel before him. He’d never say it to my face, but he thinks General Crabtree played favorites when he recommended Lewis for the squadron commander billet. What Rich doesn’t want to admit is that Lewis worked his butt off and Rich is lazy. So, you see, nothing. There’s really nothing out there except for Carrie and the…other woman.”
“Possible other woman. You don’t know for sure,” I said. “Right?”
“No, I don’t know for sure, but it’s the only thing I didn’t know about his life.”
A humming sound came from her purse on the kitchen counter. She replaced her glasses, found her cell phone, and looked at the screen. “It’s from his phone.” She pressed a few buttons, her face a mixture of dread and anxiety. “I had his cell phone calls forwarded to my phone. It’s a text message. From her.”
Tips for Busy, Budget-Minded Moms
Morning Rush Hour—Advanced Maneuvers
A little time on Sunday afternoon or evening can take prepping for the work/school week to the next level and give you even more free time during the week.
Prepare snacks/side items/desserts for the entire week. Grab a box of plastic zip-top bags and a variety of snack items like animal crackers, pretzels, and chips. Put a serving of the items in the bags and store them in a large basket or bin. When it’s snack time or time to pack lunches, you’ll already have individual portions ready. And, you’ll have the bonus of knowing you’re saving money because you’re buying the cheaper, larger size of the snack items and repacking them individually yourself.