Since it was on a corner lot, I turned onto the next street, where that side of the house had no windows, just a brick chimney. A U-turn allowed me to park in view of the garage, from which I hoped Dr. Rush would emerge. If he and his wife left separately, I realized, I wouldn’t know which one to follow.
I glanced at the clock (8:24 a.m.) and the houses around me. They were small with big yards, so I hoped the distance between us provided some cover, but in case it didn’t, I put the navigation system in the glove compartment and pulled out a Virginia map. If anyone got suspicious, I’d say I was lost—again. It had worked last time. Then I turned off the car, left the radio on softly, and sat watch until the last remnants of air conditioning seeped away.
I’d just cracked my window for fresh air when I heard the unmistakable noise of a garage door rising. Using the sound as cover, I started the van and saw a black sedan back out of the Rush’s garage. A balding man was at the wheel with a gray-haired, female passenger, who was looking down. Neither seemed to notice me.
After they pulled onto the street and took a right, I followed, reminding myself if I lost them, I’d simply go to Dr. Rush’s office. I had the address and the navigation system. I was set.
That didn’t turn out to be necessary, since his office was only a few miles away, and there weren’t many turns en route. Apparently the woman, who I guessed was Mrs. Rush, was coming along, because they parked in front of a four-story cement building and got out together. I drove by, noting their clothes for future reference, and parked a block away at a coffee shop. In my rearview mirror, I could see the couple entering the building, so I headed into the shop, where I used the bathroom, changed into my brown shirt, and ordered an herbal tea to go.
Still not feeling “gathered,” I returned to the car to deliberate. I could follow them into the office and ask creative questions, such as, “I was here seeing a [dermatologist/podiatrist/psychiatrist/whatever], and I saw your sign. Are you taking new patients?” If the answer was yes, I’d give a sob story about being new in town with a pregnant daughter. Or maybe I should use this opportunity, when Dr. and Mrs. were out of the house, to investigate. What if Beth was there, and I was missing a chance to see her? Oh my gosh.
But here I was, and both ideas seemed important, so I stepped out of the car.
The sidewalk was wet, not from rain, but from being washed with a hose, which was coiled and dripping by the coffee shop. It created a “fresh start” feeling I needed.
I left my too-hot-to-sip tea in the car and strode purposefully toward the office building. Something helpful was going to happen. It had to. Kenna’s image filled my mind and, corny as it sounds, my heart. Yearning for a child was primal, and she’d felt it for so long. Too long.
A well-dressed, gold-accessorized older woman—the kind who offers hope for aging gracefully—swished out the door and held it for me. I thanked her and spotted a directory of suites. Dr. Graham Rush, OB-GYN, was in 404. An open elevator stood waiting, its lighted arrow pointed up.
“Going up?” said a woman in scrubs as she stepped in ahead of me.
“I am.”
I pressed 4 and was glad to see she was stopping on 3, since I didn’t want company on this mission.
We rode in silence and smiled politely when she exited. On the fourth floor, I walked around a bit, familiarizing myself with the building’s occupants. Which one had I been “visiting”? The vein clinic? (I had plenty I’d love to zap.) The dentist? (Unappealing, but I did want that teeth whitening.) A hypnotist? (Sounded interesting.) I chose the dentist...Maria Brown, DDS.
Now it was time for action. I pretended to stare at a tacky, wannabe impressionist print while I rehearsed a mental script. Then I told myself You can do this three times unconvincingly. Sweat was forming in parts of my body I didn’t know could perspire. I swallowed hard.
The glass window of suite 404 revealed Mrs. Rush, or the woman I assumed to be her, since she arrived with Dr. Rush, sorting through a stack of files at the front desk.
She glanced up and smiled, so I opened the door and dove right in, thankful I was the only “patient” around.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m new in town. I was seeing someone else on this floor, but I need an OB-GYN. Is...” I paused as if double checking his name on the office sign-in log. “...Dr. Rush taking new patients?”
“Of course,” she said. I’m happy to schedule an appointment for you. Welcome! Where are you from?”
“Northern Virginia.”
“Oh? We have family there.”
“Whereabouts?”
“King County.”
“Well, that’s not too far from here. Do you get to see them often?”
“Oh, not as much as we’d like.” She was looking at her computer monitor. Her tone and expression gave away nothing. “Now let’s get you set up here.” She turned to me. “What kind of insurance do you have?”
“Well actually, the appointment is for my daughter.” I lowered my voice. “She really needs to come in, because she just found out she’s pregnant.”
“Oh. How old is she?”
“Eighteen.” That was a big enough lie to leave stretch marks, since that would make me eighteen when I had her. I kept my voice low. “I’m really worried. The baby’s father left her, and I’m all she’s got.”
Something flickered across her face. Judgment? Concern? Empathy? I couldn’t tell.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Her voice was soft. “We’ll take good care of her. I promise.”
If I’d been telling the truth, her kindness would have lightened my heart, but instead I felt heavy. Rotten.
“Thank you so much. By the way, can you tell me anything about Dr. Rush?”
“What would you like to know?”
A woman in her twenties walked in and added her name to the sign-in sheet. We nodded at each other.
“Just a little about his personality—his bedside manner. And how long he’s been in practice. And where he went to school. Sorry! That’s a lot of questions.”
The young woman, whose medium-size bulge under her T-shirt indicated she was pregnant, chimed in while she sat down. “Dr. Rush is so smart. You’ll be impressed.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” called Mrs. Rush. “I’m biased, because we’re family. But he’s been in practice a long time—more than thirty years now—and he went to school right here in West Virginia. He’s a bit of a community fixture at this point.”
“He sounds wonderful,” I said. “Are you his wife?”
“I sure am.”
I thanked the patient and smiled at Mrs. Rush. “Let’s set up an appointment.”
She booked my “daughter,” whom I dubbed Melanie Smith, for the first available appointment, Monday at 10:30 a.m. I took the slot with a sinking feeling. My “daughter” wouldn’t see Dr. Rush, and unless I found Beth before Monday, I’d probably be there instead.
Thirteen
Since Beth’s grandparents were stuck at work, I felt more relaxed than expected about sneaking around their house—the outside of it, that is. I wanted to take a good, hard look, and based on my limited PI knowledge, I needed to stop at an office supply store first.
I tinkered with the navigation system until it listed several nearby shopping centers. It led me to an office superstore, where I parked and took a moment to make a shopping list: clipboard, invoices, pens, ruler, cold drink, big magnet.
Inside, I found everything but the magnet.
“Do you make those big, magnetic decals you can stick on cars?” I asked the copy center attendant. What would look more official than a huge sign on the van, prominently displaying the name of a fake business—a pest control company, I thought, since that would legitimize inspecting homes inside and out.
“Magnets are a special order. Did you bring art?”
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“No,” I answered. “I could use stock art, if you have any, but I need the magnet today.”
“No can do.”
I didn’t want to place an order, and I didn’t love his personality, so I moved on, contemplating my non-company’s name. Something generic and forgettable, such as Smith Pest Control, was preferable to anything creative like Bug Out.
I’d have to make do with poking around the house with a ruler and a clipboard, pretending to inspect for termites and launching into an absurd sales pitch if anyone interfered. That gave me an idea. Maybe one of the store computers had Internet access. I could look up termite inspections so I’d appear semi-knowledgeable. All the display laptops rejected my attempts to go online. Finally I spotted a desktop clearly used by employees. After convincing myself someone could mistake it for a floor model, I typed and clicked as quickly as possible, settling on an article aptly titled, Does Your House Have Termites? I scanned and summarized its advice, committing it to memory. (“Look for termites and their piles of excrement anywhere wood touches the ground. Don’t store wood near your house.”) Then I walked away nonchalantly, ready to inspect the Rush home, and my own later.
I took my items to the counter and added lemonade, which I’d need if I was outside much. It was already sticky out, and my brown T-shirt absorbed heat like a solar panel. Maybe I’d change back into Sophie’s handmade creation. Not exactly professional attire, but it would do, and really, how much trouble could someone in a preschooler’s handprint T-shirt get in?
I parked in front of the Rush home and walked straight to the front door, hair in a ponytail, clipboard in hand, handprint shirt and all. I doubted anyone would answer the bell, although I couldn’t help wishing for a miracle, so I pressed it anyway. Maybe Beth would open it herself.
All business, I filled out an invoice on the clipboard while I listened for a few minutes. No noise from inside, no barking dog, no meowing cat, and worst of all, no crying baby. I’d never have the guts to enter, but for the heck of it, I blocked anyone’s view of the doorknob and gently tested it. Locked. I was disappointed and immensely relieved.
Next I walked around the house, actually inspecting the ground (I couldn’t help looking for termites!), while also peering in every window, longing for a glimpse of anything that would suggest Beth was here, safe and sound. I saw nothing but mustard-colored curtains, brocade furniture that might have been elegant in the ’60s, and dark wood paneling. Once in a while I made pointless entries on the invoice, put my hands on my hips, and glanced around, surveying for curious neighbors who might question my presence.
Then it struck me that maybe I should be questioning them. They’d have noticed recent changes, particularly the arrival of a pregnant teen. But what excuse could I use to talk with them? I thought about PI class but came up with nothing. We’d studied common investigations, such as workers’ comp cases, but even then, investigators didn’t want to tip off neighbors who might inform the subject. A terrible thought occurred to me. What if Beth was in her grandparents’ house, and my investigation spooked her, sending her on the run again? Or what if she or a neighbor got concerned and alerted the Rushes, who zoomed home to check things out? What would I say when Mrs. Rush recognized me? (“Good news! It appears you don’t have termites.”)
Stomach churning, I returned to the van, where I put the key in the ignition for a fast getaway and nervously fiddled with the navigation system. It listed several things nearby, including a hospital, a post office and a convenience store. I should call the hospital, I thought, and ask for Beth Myers’ room—just to see if she’s there. I could also see if the convenience store was in walking distance, in case Beth still took walks. Finally, I’d keep an eye out for delivery trucks. Maybe an employee had noticed a pregnant teen around.
I tried the hospital first. No Beth. Next I drove by the convenience store, which was a mile and a half away, too difficult for her to reach by foot with busy roads and no sidewalks. But I asked about her anyway. Same result. Then I pulled into the post office and gave myself a pep talk about what I was doing for Kenna, Beth, and an unborn baby. I’d come all this way, and I couldn’t wimp out now.
“Hi,” I said to the woman at the counter, who was my age and overweight. “I have kind of a funny question for you.”
“No problem. I’ve answered a lot of those.”
“Great. I’m wondering what time of day the mail gets delivered to a certain neighborhood. Can I find that out?”
“Sure. Let me get a manager. Can you write down the address for me? He can check the schedule.” She handed me a scrap of paper, and I jotted down the Rushes’ street. She walked off and returned a minute later, alone. “He says it’s a morning delivery, and the driver, Rob, is working on it now.”
“Great!” I said. “That’s so helpful. Thank you.”
Maybe the hardest part of investigation, for me, wouldn’t be getting answers. It would be mustering the courage to ask questions.
I headed out the door and back to the Rushes’ in search of someone new. Rob.
I chose a parking spot where I could see the front of the house from a distance, leaving plenty of room for Rob to work, but not so far off that I’d have to chase him down. Plus, sitting here would allow me to relax a little. There was no way I’d miss a mail truck maneuvering around me.
I hoped Rob would show up quickly because it was hot, I was sweaty, and my lemonade was running low. The flags on several mailboxes were turned up, which suggested he hadn’t arrived yet. I turned on the AC for a while, but then thought of the kids’ environmentalism, turned off the car, opened my window, and listened to the radio on low.
Leaning my elbow on the car door, I rested my head on my hand and closed my eyes momentarily. It was so rare to get a moment of peace. The street was quiet, and the heat was draining. Even the remaining lemonade, which was positioned between my thighs like an ice pack, was sweating, leaving visible marks on my capris. I opened one eye and saw the time: 11:50. If Rob had a morning run, he was about to be late. I closed my eye for what felt like a second and then was jarred awake by the sounds of a motorcycle roaring by.
Jerk! I thought, heart racing. Why did motorcycles have to be so loud? Were all riders immature and selfish?
My cell phone indicated a new text message from Dean, and the current time, 11:58, which revealed I’d been dozing. Whoops.
I was about to read the message when the bike roared back in my direction, coming toward me this time, and parked across the street. Oh, brother. Honestly, motorcyclists intimidated me. Was I prejudiced? Or was intimidation their goal?
I put up my window, started the car, and aimed a vent my way to cool off. Before pulling forward to put some distance between me and motorcycle dude, I used my peripheral vision to ensure he wasn’t walking my way.
That tiny glance caused a huge problem. The guy wore jeans, utility boots, a shaded helmet, and a white tank top that revealed muscular arms and a shoulder tattoo. I’d never seen the tattoo before, but the body was familiar. I’d appreciated it night after night in PI class. Shizzle.
I wanted to drive away in ignorance. Dean could not be in West Virginia, and if he was, I didn’t want to know. Even more, I didn’t want him to know this sweaty mess with melting eyeliner was me. I gently pressed the gas until I saw his undeniable wave in my rearview mirror. Shizzle again!
Instead of backing up, I took a left, as if to turn around. While I was out of view, however, I pulled into someone’s driveway to mop my face with a baby wipe.
I stuck gum in my mouth and checked the text he’d sent: “Had some business in West VA and thought I’d see how you’re doing. What’s your location?”
Apparently he didn’t need an answer. This spoke well of his investigative abilities.
I shifted into reverse and reluctantly turned back toward Dean, hoping we’d get closer to Beth
, believing progress on any other front was impossible.
I plastered on a smile and pulled up behind the bike, simultaneously noticing Rob, the mailman, heading up the street, house by house.
“Dean?” I said as I got out of the car. “What are you doing here?”
He rested his helmet on his hip and squinted in the noonday sun, eyes sparkling like aquamarines.
“Where’d you go?” he asked.
“I was taking a break,” I said. “But when you waved, I knew it was you, so I turned around. I can’t believe you’re here. How did you know where I was?”
“I called your house this morning to tell you I had business out here, and I could do some checking around. But your mom said you were already here.”
“You talked to my mom?” That scared me. What else had she told him? So much for “private” investigation. I didn’t remember mentioning Dean, but if I had, she’d probably seized the chance to “help” my stagnant love life.
“Yup. And I had the information about the Rushes, so when you didn’t answer your cell or respond to my text, I figured out where they lived and swung by.”
“Oh.” I was distracted by the mail truck, now only two stops away. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”
“Sure.”
Despite what I’ve told my kids, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, so I don’t know if he watched me jog away, but it felt like lasers were burning holes in my handprint shirt and sagging capris as I waved at the dark-haired, bearded mailman and held up a “hold-on-a-second” finger.
“Help ya?” Rob called.
“I hope so,” I said breathlessly. “I’ll spare you the details because I know you’re busy, but have you seen a young, pregnant teenager around here lately?”
“Why do you ask?” he said.
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 16