Unscripted

by J. S. Marlo

  Riley had no idea what kind of drug the tenants grew, but it didn’t smell legal.

  “No cops.” A ghastly shade of white replaced the rosy tinge on the woman’s face. “I’ll get you the key, but no cops. I don’t want trouble.”

  “Nice place,” Blythe whispered in her ear after the landlord’s wife disappeared inside to fetch the key. “I wonder if she’s on the tenant’s payroll.”

  The landlord’s wife returned with a key before Riley ventured an answer. “Make sure you empty the apartment and clean up before you leave.”

  Riley snatched the key and smiled. “Don’t count on it.”

  As she and Blythe climbed the stairs to the third floor, her cell phone rang. She pulled it from the back pocket of her jeans, looked at the number, and shoved it right back where it came from. Dealing with the coroner could wait indefinitely. She didn’t want her mother-in-law’s body, dead or alive.

  “She could have rented a nicer place, but she didn’t want to spend her pension on something as trivial as lodging.” Twice in the last few years her mother-in-law had hinted, in front of Ollie, that she wanted to come and live with them, and twice Riley had put her foot down and told her husband it’d be over her dead body. “The kids dreaded coming here.”

  She unlocked the door and entered. The smell of bleach wafted inside the apartment. Ollie’s mom disinfected everything twice, and when they were little, Rowan and Hunter weren’t allowed to touch anything. Memories of the insufferable visits resurfaced, and anger and resentment pervaded her mind. When Ollie insisted they bring the children, she should have refused, sparing them the misery.

  “I hate this place.” From where she stood in the vestibule, the kitchen was on the right, the living room straight ahead, and the bathroom and bedroom on the left. Nothing had changed. “Why are we here again?”

  Blythe walked into the living room, pausing between a lone bookcase containing cheap novels and a coffee table overflowing with old magazines. Slowly he turned on his heels, and his gaze skimmed through the room. “We’re looking for insight into your mother-in-law’s behavior. You go into the bedroom and look for personal items, like pictures or letters. I’ll search the living room and kitchen.”

  Any personal items found in a bedroom might not be the kind Riley wanted to see, but unable to say no to Blythe, she entered the bedroom and walked around.

  A handmade quilt, stained with brown blotches, covered the single bed, and on each side of the headboard was a full dresser. No nightstand. On the left dresser was an alarm clock and on the right, a lone picture of Ollie.

  She searched all the drawers and found shirts, blouses, nightgowns, underwear, and more underwear. Two dozen bras were stuffed into the second drawer alone. How many bras did Ollie’s mom need? One for every day of the month?

  Done with the dressers, she knelt and looked under the bed. Dust bunnies played with a pair of fuzzy red slippers and an underwire black bra.

  Having seen enough bras for the day, Riley moved to the closet. Shoes and boots lined the floor. Dresses, skirts, and pants were hung on fancy coat hangers. On the upper shelf, three shoeboxes were stacked over some scrapbooks. She stood on tiptoes to get the boxes, placing them on the bed where she opened the first one.

  A gasp of admiration escaped her mouth at the sight of the beautiful christening gown wrapped in silk paper, and she couldn’t help but caress the yellow ribbons. It could only have belonged to Ollie, and it would have made a lovely gown for Rowan, but his mother had kept it hidden all those years. The woman was dead, but it didn’t stop the pain of rejection from sweeping through Riley.

  As lovely as it was, the gown didn’t belong to her children or future grandchildren. She tossed the gown aside and opened the second box.

  “Hockey cards?” Hundreds of hockey cards were stacked inside.

  “My nephews would think that’s a treasure box.” Blythe had joined her and was peeking over her right shoulder. “You should give them to Hunter.”

  “I have a better idea.” Upset over the content, she replaced the lid, turned around, and offered him the box. “You give them to your nephews.”

  “No, Shamrock.” Arms crossed over his chest, he refused to take the gift. “They belonged to your husband, and now they belong to his son. If Hunter doesn’t want them, he can sell them online. They could be worth lots of money.”

  “It isn’t about money, Blythe.” She set the box back on the bed and sighed. “When he was little, Hunter collected hockey cards. He always had some in his pockets, even when we came here. If Ollie had known his mother kept his cards, he would have given them to Hunter himself, but she never mentioned them.” Ollie’s mom had made certain the cards were never passed down to Hunter. “She was supposed to be their grandmother, but she rejected them. I know Hunter is a young man, but how do you think the small child inside him would feel knowing there were all those hockey cards hidden in the closet while he was here? I’d rather the cards bring joy to the eyes of two young boys than resentment to the eyes of my son.”

  Unsure if she’d made sense or not, she turned her attention to the third box. That one was filled with letters. All sported the same name and return address: Steven Durham–Carleton Penitentiary, and were postdated back to when Ollie was a child.

  “Is he Oliver’s father?”

  “It’s the right name, but I always thought he abandoned his family when Ollie was a baby.” Standing by the bed, Riley listed the content of the letters aloud as she flipped through the pages, scanning the text. “He was sent to prison for drug trafficking. He’s sorry he missed Ollie’s first birthday. More sorry letters. Drugs were found in his cell. He blames his cellmate. Time is added to his sentence. He was in a brawl. A guard was injured. He’s accused of assault. The list goes on.” Ollie hadn’t missed much by not knowing his father.

  “That could explain why your mother-in-law was bitter.”

  “But not why she hated me and my children.” Tired and frustrated, Riley dumped the rest of the letters back into the box and closed it. “There were scrapbooks on the top shelf in the closet. Would you get them, please?”

  Moments later, he returned with the scrapbooks, handing her the first one, labeled Recipes. “By the way, all I found in the kitchen were recipes. And the living room didn’t contain anything of interest, not even family pictures.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Except for Ollie’s picture, the bedroom was also bare of personal items. “Recipes, and more recipes.” She discarded the scrapbook onto the bed. “Next one, please?”

  “That’s the last one. There were only two on the shelf.”

  Eager to call it a day, she took it from his hand. It was titled My Life. Riley opened it, only to stare in shock at the prom picture on the first page. “It’s my father…with Ollie’s mom.” The caption at the bottom read

  The best night of my life.

  Blythe moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Shamrock. If at one time she was involved with your father, she may have hated your mother for stealing him away from her.”

  Thunderstruck by the discovery, she flipped to the next page were Ollie’s mother had taped a newspaper clipping of Riley’s parents’ wedding announcement. The words man-stealer and other less-than-flattering terms were scribbled over the clipping with a red pen. “You’re right. She hated my mom.”

  On the third page was a yellowed picture of Ollie’s parents the day of their wedding. The physical resemblance between Ollie and his father was uncanny.

  “Look.” Blythe’s fingers brushed down her arm as he lowered his right hand in front of her and traced the wedding gown on the picture. “She was pregnant.”

  The bump was unmistakable, and while Riley didn’t care much about the timing of the pregnancy, she hoped they’d married out of love, not obligation.

  Under the picture, she’d scribbled

  My biggest mistake.

  “What mistake?” The baby or
the wedding?

  “Her husband landed in prison, Shamrock. Probably not the life she’d dreamed of.”

  “But how dare she write such a thing? What if Ollie had found the scrapbook when he was little?” Infuriated over her mother-in-law’s selfishness and insensitivity, she wanted to blacken the words with a permanent marker.

  A ring originating from her back pocket resonated in the room. She pulled her phone out and glanced at the screen. To her despair, the number had fast become embedded into her memory. The coroner was relentless, but so was she. Without answering, she chucked the phone onto the bed before returning her attention to the scrapbook.

  The next dozen pages or so featured pictures and school articles of Ollie as he grew up. His mother had been proud of him, that much was comforting. But then, Riley spotted a newspaper article that didn’t belong there, and a wave of exhaustion assailed her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  With the tip of her finger, she touched the bold title. Deadly Accident–Two dead. “My parents’ accident.”

  On a cold and snowy February, her mother had lost control of her car, killing herself and her husband. The recollection didn’t hurt as much as the spiteful rant scrawled in red.

  You killed him. He was everything to me. He should have been my son’s father. You didn’t deserve to have his daughter. His blood shouldn’t run through her veins. She should have died instead of him.

  Blythe took the scrapbook from her hands and thrust it on the floor before turning her around and wrapping her in his arms. Seeking refuge from the pain her mother-in-law had caused, she leaned her head against his chest and found comfort in his tender embrace.

  “This isn’t the work of a sane woman, Shamrock. No one in their right mind wishes death on a child.”

  Maybe not, but it explained her mother-in-law’s behavior. The blood of the man she’d once loved ran through Riley and her children. Rancor and bitterness had outlasted her broken heart, and to add insult to injury, Riley had married her only son and never given him children. “Can you do me a favor—two favors?”

  His lips grazed her forehead. “Anything, Shamrock.”

  Anything? Every touch and every hug from Blythe reminded her of what she’d lost, stirring feelings reserved for her husbands, but her heart was too fragile to distinguish between genuine affection and replacement therapy. She needed time alone, time to bury the past, time to heal, and time to figure things out.

  “Would you take the hockey cards to your nephews? Please?” As much as she hurt, she wanted something good to come out of this trip. “And would you take me home?”

  “Yes.” Barely above a whisper, his voice caressed her like the breeze on a lazy spring morning. “I’m sorry for insisting we come here.”

  As he released her, she looked into his eyes and forced a valiant smile. “I wanted answers, Blythe, and I got answers. At least now I can stop wondering what I’d done to deserve her hostility and resentment. I want to burn the scrapbook. The rest can go in the trash.”

  A cell phone rang. She scanned the room before she remembered what she’d done with hers. It rang again, and Blythe reached for it. To her stupefaction, he flipped it open and raised it to his ear. “Riley Kendrick’s personal assistant. How may I help you?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Two fingers pressed against her mouth, silencing her protests and mystifying her heart further.

  “Yes, I understand—yes, we’ll stop by later today. Thank you.” He hung up then spared her an earnest look. “Sooner or later, you needed to deal with the coroner.”

  “Fine. Since she didn’t leave a will, her corpse can burn with the scrapbook.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Compared to many vehicles Blythe had driven over the years, Riley’s small SUV was surprisingly roomy. Seated behind the wheel, he had plenty of legroom, and the top of his head didn’t hit the roof. Seeing how exhausted she looked after they paid a visit to the coroner, he’d insisted on driving, and when she didn’t argue, she confirmed his assessment.

  Within fifteen minutes of leaving the coroner’s office, she’d fallen asleep against the window. The autopsy report had slipped from her hand and landed between the seat and the middle console.

  Riley’s quest for answers consisted of such emotional upheaval, that had he not witnessed them, Blythe might have believed them to be the figments of someone’s overactive imagination.

  “Blythe?” Vestiges of sleep permeated her voice. “Where are we?”

  He glanced at her and smiled. “On the road somewhere.”

  “Is that your way of telling me we’re lost?” The light teasing tone made her sound like her old self, and he was glad and relieved to have her back.

  “I’m not lost. I’m taking the scenic route.”

  “Really?”

  Her soft chuckles mixed with the chime of his cell phone. He reached for the middle console where he’d stowed it for easy access and grazed her hand as she grabbed it.

  “No talking on the phone while driving my SUV. It’s illegal.”

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her. The handset was against her ear, and impish defiance burned in her green eyes. “Blythe Huxley’s personal assistant. How may I help you?”

  As she exacted her revenge for his earlier transgression, he concealed his amusement.

  “Blythe? It’s your realtor. He wants to talk to you, and it sounds urgent.”

  He pulled alongside the road, and they switched seats.

  ***

  Ready to leave the police station, Jackson gathered his notes on a deadly robbery at a convenient store. The teenage employee was at the morgue, and the suspect was in the hospital. The case was important, but with the suspect under police guard, writing his report could wait until morning. His wife had tickets for a concert tonight, and he’d been instructed to come home early.

  A knock on his office door resonated as he placed his notes in a file. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you’ll want to see this.” Macpherson, a veteran police officer, advanced into the office and handed him an evidence bag.

  The file set aside, Jackson accepted the clear plastic bag. Inside was a handgun with a silencer attached to it. “Looks like a forty-five-caliber.” The gun was small and light in the palm of his hand, and the unusual shape of the dull gray silencer puzzled him. It looked more like a pear than a tube. “Where did it come from?”

  “A boy fished it out of the pond near where the Kendrick woman was gunned down. His father turned it in. I took his statement. He’s waiting at my desk in case you want to talk to him.”

  Seated at the edge of his chair, Jackson stretched his neck to look out the door. A man in dark dress pants and a striped polo shirt paced the officer’s workspace. “Tell him to go home. We’ll contact him if we need more information. And get the gun to the lab.” He stood. “Come to think of it, I’ll take it there myself. I’m on my way out.”

  “There’s something else, sir.”

  “What?” If Macpherson stalled him any longer, Jackson’s wife would send him to the proverbial doghouse for being late.

  “Way back when I was a rookie, there was a blacksmith who built custom-made weapons. He liked to give his silencers unusual forms and to brand his bullets with a distinctive mark. If that gun shot the bullet with the silver star, it could be his handiwork.”

  It sounded like a lead worth pursuing. “If that blacksmith is still breathing, I want to talk to him. If not, look for associates or apprentices.”

  ***

  While she drove, Riley tried not to pay attention to the transaction occurring within earshot, but she couldn’t help overhearing the major points. The potential buyer had upped the price in exchange for the furniture, but he wanted to move in by the end of the month. Blythe attempted to negotiate for a different date, but in the end, he agreed to the buyer’s conditions.

  The ranch came within view as the sun slid into the well created by the crests of
two mountains. In the distance, Hunter’s silhouette paced the veranda.

  Beside her, Blythe flipped his phone closed. “Do you know Hunter wants to stay on the ranch instead of going back to school?”

  “Yes, but it’ll be over my dead body.” Unlike a few days ago, she was ready for the fight. “Tomorrow morning, I’m kicking him out.”

  “I see. And how do you propose to do that?”

  By introducing him to his brothers. “Trust me on this one, but if it fails, you can help me bind him and throw him in the back of his car.”

  Deep laughter coming from her passenger filled the SUV, and she basked in the lively sound.

  “It sounds illegal, Shamrock, but I like desperate plans.”

  She parked near the barn, stepped out, and with one hand on the door, she looked over the roof in Blythe’s direction as he exited. “If you’re caught, I promise to visit you in jail and bring you homemade, chocolate-chip cookies,” she teased.

  “Mom?” With lengthy strides, Hunter rushed to meet them. “Where have you been? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. It is.” The scrapbook and the coroner’s report had shed a light on her mother-in-law’s behavior, and her ghost no longer haunted Riley. Now the time had come for her to restore the natural order of things and retake her place as head of the family. “Hunt, go saddle two horses. You and I are going for a ride. Blythe, I trust you know your way around a kitchen. You can fix yourself something to eat.”

  Cornered between Hunter and Blythe’s dubious looks, she ignored both and headed for the stable. She expected them to obey her directives. Hurried steps behind her indicated someone followed.

  “Mom? Wait. We have less than an hour of sunlight. Can’t it wait till morning?”