Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  I wondered briefly why Sally wasn’t spending the holiday in Lake City, but then I remembered McQuaid’s saying that the sisters had never gotten along, even when they were growing up. Anyway, whatever the reason, it was none of my affair. Sally’s business—the check she had cashed, the phone call about the car, her relationship with Leslie—all that stuff was her business, not mine. I wasn’t going to meddle.

  Sally still hadn’t reached her sister by the time the kids finished popcorn and hot chocolate and settled down to their homework. Or by the time I shut myself in the bathroom for a long, steamy, lavender-scented bath and a phone conversation (also pleasantly steamy) with McQuaid, who had checked into his motel and was going through the background material Charlie had given him.

  I don’t know how you feel about this, but to me, a hot bath is the perfect way to end a good day, and this day had been better than most. The kids had had an enjoyable evening (Caitie had smiled a lot), we had bagged a stunning Christmas tree, and McQuaid had tracked down his quarry within a couple of hours after arriving in Omaha. Assuming that tomorrow’s interview went well and a few other things checked out, he might even be able to take an earlier plane on Friday.

  Feeling warm and cozy in my old blue terry robe and slippers, I padded downstairs to fill the coffeemaker and set it on autopilot for the next morning. The kids had gone to bed, but Sally was still in the kitchen, hunched over a sandwich and a mug of mint tea. Howard Cosell crouched at her feet, watching her enviously. He turned toward me, and I could read the urgent question in his mournful eyes. Is this person really going to eat that whole sandwich and not offer me a single bite?

  “How about a cookie, Howard?” I asked, taking pity on him. He scrambled to his feet and followed me to the stoneware jar where I keep his dog cookies—healthy homemade treats. I gave him two, and he carried them back to his place beside Sally’s chair, where he ate one and dropped the other one on the floor, putting his paw over it so it couldn’t escape. As you may know, bassets have very large paws. The cookie didn’t have a chance.

  At the stove, I hefted the teakettle. Finding enough hot water, I made mint tea for myself and sat down across from Sally. “Did you connect with Leslie?” I asked, spooning honey into my mug.

  She shook her head, clearly worried. “I know she planned to be home tonight. There are things we . . . need to talk about.”

  I sipped my tea, appreciating the sharp, minty fragrance and the warmth of the mug in my hands. The tea was like a tonic. “Well, I’m sure you can reach her in the morning, before school.”

  “I hope,” she muttered. She finished her sandwich in silence. Howard Cosell, who had clearly been hoping for a bite, heaved a heavy sigh, lifted his paw, and nabbed his cookie as a consolation prize. Sally didn’t even notice this little drama. She pushed back her chair and stood up.

  “Time for bed, I guess.” She sounded dispirited.

  “I’m glad you and Caitie are getting along so well,” I said, trying to lighten her mood. “That finger-lickin’ alpaca was a huge hit. And when I said good night to her just now, she told me she was looking forward to going shopping with you tomorrow afternoon.”

  Sally managed a small smile. “She’s a very sweet girl. I’m sure we’ll have fun together.” Then, unexpectedly, she bent and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for being such a good mom to Brian, China. I’ve missed too many years. Which is nobody’s fault but my own,” she added ruefully. “It’s easy to see how happy he is here, with his father and you. I couldn’t have given him anything like this—not even close. I appreciate all you’ve done for him, a lot more than I can say.”

  I reached for her hand, deeply moved. “I know it’s been hard for you, Sally. But I’m glad you and Brian are spending the holiday together.” This wasn’t something I’d ever expected to hear myself say, but I found myself meaning it. There was no point in letting the past poison the future, if only for Brian’s sake. “I hope we can put all that old stuff behind us and be friends.”

  “I do, too,” Sally said fervently. “I—”

  The telephone caught her in midsentence. “Probably McQuaid,” I said, as I got up to answer. “He’s thought of something he needs.”

  But it wasn’t McQuaid. “Put Sally on, please,” a man said. His tone was mild, ingratiating, almost smarmy. “I need to talk to her.”

  Startled, I covered the receiver with my hand and turned to Sally. “It’s the same guy who called about the car.”

  “The same—” Sally’s eyes grew large, and her face paled. “I—I don’t want to talk to him. Tell him I’m not here.”

  I turned back to the phone. “You’ve missed her.” My voice sharpened. “Who is this? How did you get this number?” After McQuaid opened his detective agency, we decided it would be a good idea to unlist our residential telephone number, which we now give out only to our friends. McQuaid gave it to Sally so she could reach Brian. She must have given it to—

  “Oh, please, China Bayles. Let’s be straight with each other.” The caller’s voice did not lose its mildness, but it had a darkly ominous edge that made me shiver. “I know Sally is there, and I’m sorry she doesn’t want to talk to me. Just tell her—” He paused, chuckling. “Tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her again. Soon, I expect. Very soon.” The connection broke.

  I hung up the phone and turned. “He says he knows you’re here, Sally. He’s looking forward to seeing you again. Soon.”

  “Oh, god.” Trembling, Sally sank into the nearest chair, propped her elbows on the table, and covered her face with her hands.

  The nighttime dark on the other side of the kitchen windows seemed suddenly blacker and more threatening. I closed the blinds and snapped the dead bolt on the back door. If this guy was lurking out there, that’s where he was going to stay. Then I pulled a chair up next to Sally’s and put my hand on her shaking shoulder. I was about to do something I find deeply offensive. I was about to pry into Sally’s private affairs.

  If you know me, you know that personal privacy has always been one of my major hot-button issues. In general, I believe that government should stay out of the private lives of ordinary citizens—I am opposed to most of the provisions of the Patriot Act—and I don’t believe that people ought to meddle in other people’s lives. I vigorously resist attempted invasions of my own personal privacy. I wouldn’t invade Sally’s—except that she had clearly gotten herself into some sort of serious trouble and needed help.

  But this was no longer just Sally’s business. I was being dragged into the mess, whatever it was. A strange man had called our private, unlisted number late at night, refused to identify himself, and addressed me by name and in a tone that sent cold chills up my spine. It was an unwelcome reminder of the kind of life I lived before I left the law firm, when the occasional colleague was ambushed by the occasional bad guy in a fit of pique over something untoward that had happened in court that day. Back then, stranger calls to my unlisted number made me exceedingly nervous. They still do.

  But I kept that apprehension to myself. “Okay, Sally,” I said in a voice that was meant to convey mild amusement (although this was not exactly what I felt). “Time to ’fess up. Who is this jerk? A boyfriend? A former boyfriend?”

  Sally’s past is littered with the wreckage of relationships with men of questionable character, like the stockbroker who gave her so much grief in San Antonio and the wannabe lawyer who peddled pot when he should have been studying for the bar. While some of these guys might have been more involved with Juanita than Sally, it was reasonable to assume—

  Sally sighed and dropped her hands. “Not exactly a boyfriend. I mean—” She raised her eyes to mine. There was fear in them. No, not fear, panic. Sheer, unadulterated panic. “He’s beyond creepy, China. I don’t want to talk to him. Ever.”

  “Somehow, I got that idea,” I said drily. “Then why did you give him our number?”

  “I didn’t!” she burst out wildly. “My son lives here, China! I would never put B
rian in danger.”

  “In danger?” I frowned. “In danger of what?” This was beginning to sound even more threatening. Who was this guy, anyway? Some petty criminal she’d gotten herself involved with? Worse?

  She chewed on her lip, thinking it over, then tried to dial down the panic. “That was a silly thing to say. There’s no danger. Not really.” She tried to laugh. “You know me. I’m always dramatizing things.”

  Not convincing. But I left it. “The phone number?” I repeated.

  She looked away. “I totally don’t know, China. Honestly.”

  “Then how did he know where to find you? Did you tell him?”

  “Absolutely not!” she cried angrily. “I haven’t spoken to him since—” A gulp. “I have no idea how he knew I was here, China. Maybe he followed us. Maybe—” She glanced fearfully toward the window. “Maybe he’s out there, watching.”

  I didn’t want to say so, but I was wondering that very thing. Instead, I said, “I don’t think so, Sally. We would have seen his headlights if he’d driven down the drive.”

  “Not if he turned them off.”

  I’d thought of that, too. I got up. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check the other doors. Just to make sure.”

  Everything was securely locked, but Sally’s fear was infectious. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I drew the living room and dining room draperies. Two women, two kids, alone in a remote house at the end of a long country lane, the nearest neighbors nearly a mile away. Howard Cosell would raise the alarm if somebody tried to break and enter, but he was too elderly to be of much help if it should come to apprehending anybody. I thought fleetingly of the Beretta, locked away in the top drawer of my bureau. My father had given me the gun years before and made sure that I knew how to use it. And McQuaid, who believes in being prepared for anything, made sure that I kept in practice. But I didn’t think the situation had come to that point. At least, I hoped it hadn’t.

  Back in the kitchen, I sat down again. “Look, Sally. I make it a point not to get involved in other people’s business. Whoever this guy is, he’s your problem. But he has my business phone number and our unlisted residential number. He knows my name, and presumably, he knows where I live. So now he’s my problem, too.” I was speaking in my lawyer’s voice, in the tone I reserved for recalcitrant clients who expected me to help them without giving me all the facts. “I want to know who he is and just how you’re connected to him.”

  She was silent for a moment, staring down at her clenched hands. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not—I’m not being fair.” She looked up at me. “You guessed right. He’s a former boyfriend, that’s all, and he doesn’t . . . want it to end. His name is—” She broke off, adding in a whimper, “I wanted to talk to McQuaid about him, but I never got the chance.”

  “His name,” I prompted. “He knows mine, remember? Which gives me the right to know his.”

  She swiped her sleeve across her eyes. “Jess. Jess Myers.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Near . . . near Kansas City, on the Kansas side. In a small town. Sanders.”

  With much coaxing and prompting and in breathless fragments, the story came out. Sally had dated this guy—whom she described as “sort of a nothing-looking person”—a long time ago. “I only saw him a few times,” she said, shivering. “He was . . . creepy.”

  I agreed with that already, but when I pressed her for more details, such as what “creepy” looked like, she could only say that he was dark-haired, with dark-rimmed glasses. Medium height. How old? Forty, forty-one. He had a mole under his right eye. She was vague about how long she had known him or where she had met him. When I asked why she stopped seeing him, she shrugged and looked away.

  “I . . . I didn’t trust him,” she said. “There were things—” She stopped, lacing and unlacing her fingers. “I did a little digging. I found out some things that bothered me.” A deep breath, an exhale. “I just didn’t trust him, that’s all. Okay?”

  I watched her for a moment. “Has he been stalking you?”

  “Stalking?” she asked tentatively, trying the word on for size. Then she seized on it quickly, as if that was the word she’d been looking for. “Yes. Yes, stalking. That’s exactly what he’s been doing, China. He’s been stalking me.”

  “And that’s why you’ve come here? To Pecan Springs?”

  “Well, I wanted to see Brian. Really. And Mike—I needed to talk to him. And it was Christmas and—”

  “Forget Christmas,” I said impatiently. “You came here to get away from this guy, this ex-boyfriend. Right?”

  “Not entirely, but—” She swallowed, then nodded mutely. “Yes,” she whispered. “I had to . . . to get away. I was scared, China.”

  “And the business about your house getting flooded, and your job—”

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s not true?”

  “I had to have something to tell you. It’s all I could come up with.” Her eyes were brimmed with tears, and they were trickling down her cheeks. “I know it was totally stupid to lie. But I thought maybe you’d be more likely to let me stay here if you felt sorry for me. If I’d told you I was hiding out, you wouldn’t have—”

  “You damn betcha, I wouldn’t have,” I muttered. McQuaid had been right—about this part, anyway. I hate being lied to. Worse, I hate being taken in by a lie. It makes me feel stupid. “The car?” I asked. “What about the car? Was it really repo’d?”

  Her gaze skittered away. “Well . . .”

  “How did he get the car, Sally? Did you give it to him?” My voice was rough with anger.

  She threw up her hands wildly. “How the hell should I know how he got the freakin’ car? Why are you asking me all these questions? Why can’t you just—” She broke down and began to sob violently.

  Yes, I was angry, but I put my arms around her, anyway. I wish she hadn’t lied to me. I wish I’d been smarter, less willing to be taken in. But she was being stalked, and it’s not fair to blame the victim. I softened my tone.

  “I’m sorry this has happened, Sally. And it’s not your fault, so please don’t beat up on yourself. But stalking is serious business. It’s a crime. The kids are here with us, and we can’t take any chances. I think we ought to call the police.”

  “No!” She wrenched herself away from me. “I don’t want the police involved! I can’t—” She gulped and tried to get control of herself. “I mean, this guy, Jess, he’s not that bad, really. He just sounds . . . on the phone, I mean. He sounds kind of scary. But I’m sure he wouldn’t—” She faltered. “Honest. I’m sure.”

  I wasn’t convinced. Her fear—the panic I had seen in her eyes—had been genuine. And now I knew, or thought I knew, what she had wanted to talk to McQuaid about.

  “It’s stupid to want to protect this jerk, Sally. Maybe you still care for the guy, or think you do. But a man who goes to the trouble of acquiring your car, follows you all the way to Texas, and makes threatening phone calls—” I frowned. “Okay, tell you what. Tomorrow morning, let’s stop at the police department and talk to Sheila Dawson. You remember Sheila, our chief of police?” They had met, although they hadn’t exactly hit it off. But that didn’t matter, not in this case. “She’ll know what to do. You won’t even have to be involved.”

  Sally jumped up, knocking her chair over backward. “No! I don’t want Sheila Dawson involved—do you hear? And stop trying to tell me how to manage my business, China! If you keep after me about it, I’ll . . . I’ll leave. Then you can stop worrying.”

  Leave how? I wanted to ask. Was she planning to steal Brian’s car, or what?

  “But I can’t stop worrying, Sally,” I said in a reasonable tone. “Stalkers are dangerous. You don’t just ignore somebody who—”

  But I was talking to myself, for she was already out the kitchen door and halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  I sat for a moment after she had gone, thinking. Then I got up and we
nt to the phone. I hadn’t promised not to talk to Sheila, but we lived outside of Pecan Springs, beyond her bailiwick. And anyway, Sally didn’t want her involved. But as far as law enforcement was concerned, I had another ace up my sleeve.

  I punched in Sheriff Blackwell’s home number. It was the fourth ring before he picked up.

  “Blackwell here,” he said gruffly.

  “Sorry if I woke you up,” I said. “It’s China.”

  “Not a problem.” There was a chuckle in his voice. “I wasn’t asleep—quite. What’s up?”

  I told him about the stalker’s phone call and Sally’s response. “I’m not sure there’s anything to be seriously concerned about,” I added. “But McQuaid is out of town and we’re here by ourselves tonight. If any of your deputies happen to be out this way on patrol, could you ask them to keep their eyes open? I don’t like the idea of this guy hanging around out there in the dark.”

  His response was immediate and comforting. “Sure thing, China. When’s McQuaid getting back?”

  “Day after tomorrow.” I paused. “I hope I’m overreacting, Blackie. This is probably nothing.”

  “Doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me,” he replied. “Get some sleep. And don’t worry. One of our guys will be around to check. I’ll have him blink his lights when he pulls up to the house, so if you happen to be awake, you’ll know who it is.”

  I hung up the phone, feeling better. It helps when the county sheriff is a family friend.

  Chapter Six

  Since early times holly has been regarded as a plant of good omen, for its evergreen qualities make it appear invulnerable to the passage of time as the seasons change. It therefore symbolizes the tenacity of life even when surrounded by death . . .