by Adrianne Lee
“Marshall, tell him he can’t do this,” Joy protested.
“Why, I ought to.” Elvis stepped toward Chad, tension issuing like smog from his huge body.
“Don’t, El,” Marshall warned.
Elvis backed down. “You’re right. No need to lose our heads over this. The law’s on our side.”
“Exactly.” Marshall glanced at Barbara again. His expression was that of the one thing he wasn’t—a kindly country doctor. “What would you consider a ‘reasonable’ time to prepare Missy for this change?”
Forever! Barbara’s mind screamed. But she knew that was out of the question. She clutched the locket. “I’m not sure.”
Marshall arched a brow at her. “I won’t allow this to linger on indefinitely.”
“I realize that.” But what kind of time frame could she give herself for losing her daughter?
“I’m a fair man. Make me a fair offer.”
She swallowed hard. “Two weeks?”
“I see.” He studied her for a moment, then withdrew a business card from his pants pocket and handed it to her. “I’ll expect you to bring Missy to this address.” He paused. “In two days.”
Barbara stared at the card as if it were the worst bit of garbage she had ever had the misfortune of touching.
Chapter Thirteen
The old brick building loomed out of the darkness. Barbara stood still, silent, the ground beneath her feet solid. The sounds of heavy traffic along the viaduct filled her ears. The air reeked of harbor smells, creosote and salt water. It was a place she knew: the homeless shelter on the Seattle waterfront.
The door of the building opened, beckoning her. Fear sliced through Barbara. This time she knew what awaited her inside. Her pulse skittered and her eyes blurred. She wanted to run in the opposite direction, but her legs disobeyed her pleas, propelling her forward and across the threshold.
A thick haze enveloped the interior. She could see nothing. The rank odors of unwashed bodies and soiled clothing rushed her. Repulsed, she stumbled back. The haze lightened and through the semi-fog, she saw the room was filled with cots, lined up like headstones in a graveyard. Every cot was occupied. Even though she now knew these people were not dead, only needy, she shrank farther back into the doorway. Was she frightened by their collective neediness?
Or by the neediness of only one of them?
With growing horror, she watched a lone figure rise from a cot and step toward her. The woman’s ripe smell burned Barbara’s nasal passages. She moved ever closer. Her tattered coat of indiscriminate color hung open over a stained, garish-pink sweater and orange-striped wool skirt. Grungy men’s slacks peeked from beneath the skirt like cuffed bloomers, grazing the tops of her army boots.
Barbara knew her as Saucy Sue, a homeless woman who had earned her nickname from her penchant for foraging in Italian-restaurant Dumpsters for any sauce-smeared scraps of food.
She stretched a bony finger toward Barbara and spoke in an eerie voice. “I can’t rest, BJ. Help me. Only you can help me.”
Barbara shook her head, her heart clambering against her chest, bile climbing into her throat. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”
“You do.” Saucy Sue’s toothless mouth twisted and she clasped a skeletal hand around Barbara’s wrist. “You know he killed me.”
Barbara let out a startled scream and jerked awake. The room was shadowed in filtered light and it took her a pulsesputtering moment to realize she was in her own bedroom. Her chest heaved. Her breath came in taut spurts. How long had she been asleep?
Emotionally drained, she’d lain down in her room shortly after the Emersons and Edie had left. Chad, anxious to initiate his investigation into Marshall’s college days, had remained at her apartment, spending most of the time on the telephone, calling and receiving calls from his assistant.
“Barbara?” His knock rattled her door.
“Come in.”
“Are you okay?” His handsome face showed lines of stress around his firm mouth and his wonderful eyes. His tawny hair was rumpled. “I thought I heard a scream.”
She blushed. She’d never been a screamer, but then she’d never had bad dreams until the interstate accident, either. This, however, was different. And confusing.
“I had a nightmare.” She hunkered against the headboard and hugged her knees. “Where’s Missy?”
“Still at Mrs. Ferguson’s. She said she’d keep her busy. She’s a pretty neat old gal.”
“Yes.” Barbara nodded. Her insides trembled. “We’ve been lucky to have good people surrounding us…these five years.”
Chad moved to the bed and pulled her close. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It was just a bad dream.”
It seemed as if her whole life had become an endless bad dream. Starting with Marshall and his two-day deadline. Even the warmth of Chad’s embrace couldn’t ease the chill this time. “I’ve had this nightmare before. This woman from the homeless shelter keeps asking me for help. She insists only I can help her.”
And she’d said something else that lingered at the edges of awareness, something that Barbara could not quite grasp.
Chad leaned back and gazed down at her. “Maybe it’s some residual confusion from your save-the-world phase.”
She considered that, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. Her plea is…compelling. Haunting. She said something that scared me awake, but when I woke, it snapped out of my mind.”
He lifted her hair from her cheek. “Maybe you can visit the shelter when you’re in Seattle. Talk to the woman.”
“No.” She shook her head, and a shiver shuddered through her. “Sh-she’s dead.”
“What’s the matter?” Chad traced his knuckles along the side of her face, his touch as gentle as the compassion in his eyes. “Did her death somehow involve your volunteering at the shelter?”
She rocked back against the headboard, frowning as the fragment of her dream flickered through her mind, then vanished. “No.” What had the woman said to her? “She caught a cold and died…of complications.”
Chad frowned, his tawny brows furrowing intriguingly. “Then why are you dreaming about her?”
“It feels like more than a dream. It’s frightening. And somehow very real. If only I could remember what she said to me in my dream.”
“Tell me about her.”
Barbara closed her eyes and conjured the long-ago memory with such ease it seemed impossible that she couldn’t have done so last week.
She opened her eyes, lifted her gaze to Chad’s. “It was a bleak December day, early evening, actually. I had collected some flannel shirts and cast-off coats from classmates and some of my mom’s neighbors, and was anxious to deliver them to the shelter. On the way, thoughts plagued me of those poor souls who would spend the night outside without enough protection against the falling temperatures.
“People were beginning to filter into the shelter as I arrived. I carried my load to the director, Empala Jones, a large African American woman with a no-nonsense haircut—much like mine.” She grinned, remembering the short, platinum buzz cut she’d favored in those rebellious days. She lifted her long mahogany hair away from her face, and saw Chad’s eyes darken with desire.
She tamped down her own sensuous response. “Empala was thrilled by my donation. I told her I’d take some of those poor folks home with me.if I could. Giving them cast-off clothing seemed like too small a thing to do, you know?”
“Yeah.”
Barbara heaved a sigh. “Anyway, Empala laughed and said I had more heart than sense. But her bleak expression disquieted me. I insisted she tell me why she looked so worried.”
“And?”
“Her concern was for the woman in my dream. Saucy Sue.” Barbara explained how Sue had acquired her nickname. “Empala said Sue was ill with a bad chest cold. Apparently the county nurse had advised Sue to go to Harborview’s emergency room and Sue had started screaming something about hospitals, then run off. Ritzy, another homeless woman and con
stant companion of Sue’s, went after her, but Empala hadn’t seen either of them since.”
Chad tipped his head to the side. “Did she die on the street?”
“No. As we were handing out the clothes I’d brought, Ritzy staggered in, all but carrying Sue. Empala and I got Sue settled on a cot, but she was burning up. I offered to drive her to the emergency room, but she grasped my hand and croaked, ‘No, no hospitals.’“
Barbara shuddered. “I can still feel the clammy touch of her bony hand, still hear the heat of hysteria in her voice. I promised her no hospitals, but knew she needed a doctor. I decided to call Marshall.
“I wasn’t sure he’d lower himself to come to the shelter and help a person he considered the dregs of the earth. But I was young and idealistic. I believed I could talk anyone into anything if I was determined enough. And I was determined about this. I caught him at home and pleaded my case. It took some doing, but eventually I wore him down. He probably just wanted to shut me up, but he agreed to come and that was all that mattered.”
“Real dedicated doctor.” Chad’s voice rang with sarcasm. “The man might be Missy’s father, but from what I’ve seen of him, he’s a first-class jerk.”
“I think you’re prejudiced.” She offered a weak smile. “Marshall showed up an hour later. He seemed so out of place in his designer sweats, and he made no bones about being bothered by the smell, the general lack of hygiene among the people in the shelter—especially Sue and her friend Ritzy, who hovered nearby. He shooed Ritzy to one side, but she stood like a sentinel, watching him with something like wild-eyed distrust.
“Marshall donned rubber gloves, then, as gingerly as possible, began his examination of Sue, acting as though he could barely stand to touch her. And suddenly, Saucy opened her eyes and stared at him.” Barbara sat straighter. “Then she did the oddest thing.”
“What?”
“She said, ‘Hello, Marshmallow.”‘
“‘Marshmallow?”‘
“Yes. I just figured she’d heard me call him Marsh and had concluded, in her childlike mind, that it was short for marshmallow. But Marshall drew a sharp breath and his face went as pale as…well—” she grinned “—as a marshmallow.”
Chad lovingly flicked her nose. “Why did he react so sharply?”
“That’s what I wondered. I mentioned it to Kayleen later and she said Marshall’s nickname as a child had been—”
“Marshmallow,” Chad concluded.
“Bingo.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing.” She frowned. “I mean, Marsh gave Saucy a shot of some antibiotic or other, then promised he’d be back in the morning before rounds to check on her again.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
“His distaste for the chore, for one thing.”
“Good point.”
“Did he come back?”
“Empala told me he did. I wasn’t there. I had classes that next morning.”
“And was Saucy Sue dead when he arrived?”
“No, Empala thought she was better. Marshall gave her another shot. But it didn’t work. She died that night of complications.”
Chad frowned, and they both grew quiet. Barbara asked, “Why do I keep dreaming about her? Why does she keep asking for help—if she’s dead?” Suddenly, she remembered the lost snatch of dream. “Oh, my God. Sue said, ‘He killed me.’ Do you suppose.?”
“Who killed her?” Chad’s eyes widened. “Marshall?”
“Who else could she have meant?”
Chad’s chest rose and fell and his vision turned inward. She could almost hear the cogs of his mind spinning. “Do you think Marshall knew the woman—in some previous existence?”
“You mean the way she said, ‘Hello, Marshmallow?”‘ She pictured his reaction anew. “His whole attitude took a ninety-degree turn right afterward.”
Chad rubbed his crooked pinkie over his jaw. “Was an autopsy done on Saucy Sue’s body?”
“No, she was under Marshall’s care. He signed the death certificate, listing the cause of death as pneumonia.” Barbara blew out a weighty breath. “Chad, what difference would it make if he had known this woman? Why would he kill her? What kind of threat could she be to him?”
“Maybe not a threat. Maybe Saucy Sue was something more to him than a stranger who lived on the street. Maybe she was one of the people who’d called him Marshmallow as a child. Maybe Sue was the Emersons’ missing cousin, Suzanne.”
A startled cry climbed her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth. “If you’re right—”
“Then Marshall killed her for the inheritance.”
They stared at each other for several seconds, letting this idea take root. Barbara drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “Do you suppose that was what he’d written about in the journal that could land him in jail for the rest of his life?”
“It would explain Kayleen’s conviction that he’d commit murder to keep the journal pages from reaching the police.”
“Somehow, we have to find out whether or not Saucy Sue was the missing Suzanne Emerson.”
“And we have to do it before the courts give Marshall custody of Missy.” Chad stood, pulling her to her feet with him. “We need to go to Seattle and dig into this.”
“When?” Anxiety heated her blood.
“Now.” He kissed her, delicately. “As soon as you get Missy and yourself packed.”
“But we can’t drag Missy all over that area of Seattle investigating this.”
“No, but she does have to go to Seattle with us and she can stay with my dad and stepmom while we’re checking into the Saucy Sue/Suzanne Emerson theory. We’re also going to get a lawyer or two involved in your rights versus Marshall’s.”
Barbara stepped into his arms. “Oh, Chad. I haven’t been this frightened since we left Seattle five years ago.”
AS THE LAST OF THE snowy landscape gave way to solid green and driving rain, Barbara’s nerves tightened. She hadn’t ventured west across Snoqualmie Pass since the day she’d boarded that fated eastbound bus five years earlier. She wouldn’t be here now, if it weren’t for Missy.
Missy, safely buckled in the back seat, had fallen asleep. Barbara and Chad had refrained from talking about the subject that she knew had to be consuming his every thought as it was hers. Were Suzanne Emerson and Saucy Sue one and the same? Would they be able to prove it? Prove that Marshall killed her?
The sluice of the tires on the wet pavement echoed inside the car, punctuating the silence between them. Barbara twisted her hands in her lap. Dusk was rapidly darkening the sky, obscuring the passing terrain, blackening her mood. She made out myriad lights, their bright colors blurry through the wet windshield. “I can’t believe how this area has grown.”
“Five years can make a big difference.” Chad glanced at her and then back at the road, his face illuminated by the light of passing cars.
“But we only have two days, Chad. Is it enough time?”
“It’s going to have to be.”
“Where will we start? The shelter?”
“Yes. According to Bonze it’s still in operation and still run by one Empala Jones.”
Barbara felt the first stirring of hope. “It saddens me that I feel glad the shelter is still operating. I hate that there’s a need for such places. But maybe Empala will know something that can help us.”
“Would you be able to tell from a photograph whether or not Saucy Sue was Suzanne Emerson?”
Barbara considered. Saucy Sue’s face sprang clearly into her mind. “You know, I think I’ve just discovered the only benefit to having amnesia. Things that happened five years ago are as fresh as if they happened last week. I recall Saucy Sue quite clearly.”
But she’d never met Suzanne before she’d disappeared. What if she couldn’t be certain they were one and the same by looking at a photograph or two? At the time of her disappearance, Suzanne would have been a refined young woman, but the
ravages of street life and her mental illness would have taken their toll. The identification might prove impossible. “All I can do is try.”
“I have Bonze checking the Courier morgue for photographs that accompanied any articles written at the time of her disappearance.”
Barbara leaned back against the seat. Exhaustion settled over her. It had been a long day of questions and explanations. Edie, who’d been the rock in her life, had all but fallen apart after Marshall and company had left that morning. Mrs. Ferguson, the one she could count on to react to distress with smothering compassion, had been stoic and supportive after hearing the whole story.
Barbara hadn’t had time to explain everything to Vesta, but her kindhearted boss offered to cover her shifts until she returned. Would she be returning without Missy? Clutching the locket, she closed her eyes on the pain. If only they could find some solid proof of Marshall’s guilt. She glanced at Chad. “I wonder who Kayleen gave those journal pages to.”
He blew out a slow breath, then glanced at her. “Can’t you remember any of her friends?”
Barbara considered for a long moment. “She was tight with one or two women during her nurse’s training. But I didn’t pay much attention to the names. Losing my dad put me into a real tailspin. And like most teenagers, I was pretty self-involved. But I do remember one woman. Believe it or not, she thought Joy Jamison, Marshall’s new wife, was her friend.”
Chad’s head jerked toward her. “You’re kidding.”
“No. Joy and she took courses together at the U, and after Kayleen married Marsh and gave up her position as his clinic nurse, she recommended Joy for the job.”
“Did Joy have designs on Marsh from the start?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but I know Kayleen still considered her a friend at the time we left Seattle.”
“Well, if Joy ever had those journal pages, we can bet she destroyed them.”
Barbara fell silent as he left 1-90 and drove onto Highway 18. “What about Kayleen’s copy?”
“Burned in the crash,” Chad said with conviction. “Otherwise she would have used those pages sometime in the ensuing years, would have offered them to me when she called.”