The House Across The Street

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  Gently easing into the parking lot, I drove to the front row, looking for a spot close to the entrance so Mrs. Jenkins didn’t have far to walk.

  “You’ve passed three empty spots, Rachel,” Mrs. Tuttle pointed out.

  “I wonder if we should get extra chicken for the book club meeting. It would make a nice snack,” Mrs. Jenkins mused.

  “Here we go,” I said, wheeling into a front-row Joe parking space, thinking the short fifteen-minute trip felt like hours.

  The place was amazing. It felt more like a country club or a day spa, rather than a nursing and rehabilitation center. It had me, once again, questioning Logan’s incentives. If he were trying to knock off his grandmother, why spend so much money on her monthly care? It seemed counter-productive to getting his hands on her estate.

  Crossing the marble-floored entrance, we signed in at the registration desk. At the end of the counter there was a refreshment center, offering an assortment of beverages and snacks.

  “I’ll get us some cookies,” Mrs. Jenkins suggested. “That’ll hold us until we get the chicken.”

  Entering a round room, we strolled to the left of a mahogany table filled with Easter lilies, the large white blossoms giving off a wonderful scent. Making our way down a corridor marked as Number One, we arrived at Mrs. Foster’s room.

  “Imogene,” Mrs. Tuttle yelled from the closed side. “We’re coming in, whether you’re decent or not.” Mrs. Tuttle pushed on the door and barged her way in, while we made up the rear.

  “Oh goody, goody,” Mrs. Foster commented the moment she saw our faces. “I was so disappointed yesterday when you guys didn’t take the time to talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster, I went to get the car for Mrs. Jenkins and didn’t want to block the exit.” I smiled at the small-framed, gray-haired lady with arthritic hands. “But we’re here today,” I followed up cheerily.

  “I brought us some cookies,” Mrs. Jenkins said, pushing Mrs. Tuttle aside to get to Mrs. Foster’s bed.

  “Chocolate chip?” Mrs. Foster asked.

  “Is there any other kind?” Mrs. Jenkins posed, emitting a small chuckle.

  Mrs. Foster had a table in her room accommodating two. She had another similar chair beside her bed, and we borrowed a fourth from next door. As soon as we gathered around the table and divided the cookies, the older women began gossiping as fast as they could, mostly about the disappearance of Eugene Smith, which happened one week ago today.

  “And they still haven’t found him,” Mrs. Tuttle concluded.

  “Or his car,” Mrs. Jenkins added.

  “How awful,” Mrs. Foster softly said.

  “Mrs. Foster, I know you fell down the steps from your back porch. Do you remember what happened?” I interjected.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she sharply responded. “I’m probably going to have to stay here for the rest of my life anyway … so what does it matter?” Her eyes darted to the door, like she was suddenly afraid.

  “I’m just curious, do you remember tripping on anything?”

  Her soft blue eyes shifted back to me. “Rachel, I’m just a clumsy old woman. Let’s just go with that.”

  “You don’t sound very convincing, Mrs. Foster,” I pushed.

  Her lips clamped together like a steel trap. I had asked her before, and she’d said the same thing about being old and clumsy. At the time, I had thought she was old and clumsy.

  “What do you know about Logan’s friend, David Hutchins?” I asked, slightly changing the conversation.

  “I don’t like him one bit,” she snipped. “I’ve told Logan to get him the heck out of my house.”

  “So, you know, David?” I asked, trying to remember when David came to stay with Logan.

  “Yes, I know him. Last Christmas Logan went to visit his parents out in San Diego. Logan met him while he was there. Shortly after my grandson returned, he moved in with me. I asked him to,” she quickly added, her eyes darting between the three of us. “Anyway, not long afterward, David came for a short visit, according to Logan.” She furrowed her thin brows. “And to this day, he’s still there.”

  “Were they both at home when you fell?” I boldly asked, remembering several cars being over at her house, but didn’t know if they were there before or after her fall.

  “David was,” she answered in a clipped tone. “My grandson had gone to get us lunch.”

  “Where were you going?” I pried, wondering why she was leaving out the backdoor if lunch was on its way.

  “David thought it would be nice if we ate outside on the patio. He wanted to get things set up before Logan returned. We went out to brush off the chairs and wipe down the table.”

  “This would’ve been in January … wasn’t it too cold?” Mrs. Tuttle remarked.

  “Yes, I thought so,” Mrs. Foster responded, giving an agreeable nod toward Mrs. Tuttle. “But David said the house was hot.”

  “Was he with you when you went down the steps?” Mrs. Jenkins questioned.

  Mrs. Foster’s gaze went between us. “This feels like an interrogation,” she summed up.

  “Please, Mrs. Foster, I’d really like to know,” I begged, my eyes beseeching hers.

  “Fine all right, whatever,” she barked in exasperation. “David was with me. I didn’t think I tripped. I thought he pushed me.” She gasped as if a swallow had hung in the back of her throat. “I can’t be certain. It all happened so fast. There’s no way to really know for sure.” Her eyes took on a pleading look. “Please, don’t say anything. I’d hate to accuse him of doing something unsavory, when it was just me losing my footing.”

  “We won’t,” Mrs. Jenkins wholeheartedly promised.

  Mrs. Tuttle and I both kept our mouths closed. Mrs. Tuttle would probably blab all about it at the book club tonight. And I couldn’t wait to tell Jackson and Rob.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Jackson

  As I leave Rachel today, my first agenda is to research her divorce case and the lawsuit filed against Richard. Rachel has yet to convince me she shouldn’t press charges against Richard for attempted murder. Scumbag. I will protect Rachel with every fiber of my being. And if he shows his face anywhere near her again, I will make sure the petitioner’s side is made aware of a disappearing x-ray showing a sponge. It makes me wonder about Damien Williams, Richard’s friend. Was he the one who missed seeing the sponge in the x-ray, or the one who destroyed the medical records, or both? Maybe I will have Damien brought to the police station for questioning and see if he squeals. For now, I will do nothing as requested by Rachel. But just the same, I want to see what is in those court records.

  My review of the divorce files turns out to be a bust. Rachel’s attorney filed a standard petition for a divorce and Richard’s attorney filed a general denial. Later Richard’s attorney filed a blanket gag order. That’s it. There are not even temporary orders, temporary injunctions, or other pleadings filed in the case. There is nothing about the fall down the stairs, the slaps to the face, or Richard’s involvement in the hospital suit. Brenna will not be persuaded when she reviews these documents.

  The hospital suit alleges medical malpractice and wrongful death, citing an unaccounted-for sponge remaining lodged in Mr. Martin’s heart, which later became infected and was the ultimate cause for Mr. Martin’s demise. From the petitioner’s standpoint, they claim Richard should have conducted an x-ray, realized the sponge remained and removal should have been forthcoming. Under those prudent-person standards, the procedure would have most likely saved Mr. Martin’s life. Dr. Anderson’s alleged gross negligence in not following reasonable protocol was asserted to be the direct result for Mr. Martin’s death.

  Richard’s defense attorney filed a response pointing all blame at Elena Johnson, the surgical nurse, claiming it was her duty to keep a proper count of the sponges and her failure, and her failure alone, was directly attributable to Mr. Martin’s death.

  After reading the allegations, I am more an
d more concerned about Rachel. She knows there was an x-ray. She knows Richard chose to ignore the presence of a remaining sponge in Mr. Martin. And, she knows Richard destroyed the evidence. Richard’s entire future depends on Rachel keeping her mouth closed. It is no wonder he wants to permanently silence her. A sick feeling grows in the pit of my stomach and I worry about her life.

  Right now, I am thankful she has agreed for Rob to watch the Foster house from her dining room. With him there guarding her, I feel a sense of relief. After poring over the file, I now realize the increased need for Rob’s help in keeping Rachel safe. Though Rob has put in for reassignment to the Foster/Hutchins’ case, I know pushing for it is crucial. My next stop will be the police station where I will argue for backup undercover, which will ultimately add protection for Rachel.

  “I can’t watch both men at the same time,” I argue to my captain. “Twice, they have left independently of one another and in opposing directions. If we want to catch these guys in the act, I need another man.”

  “Bring me up to speed on what’s happening with the case,” my captain presses.

  “We’re getting close,” I assure him. “Yesterday, both men were at Wilbur Cox’s doing fence repairs. Late last night, both men left their home. Foster ran a decoy operation to the pharmacy and a drive thru. But Hutchins went to scope out Mr. Cox’s house. For sure Hutchins is up to something. But like I said, Foster may only have led us on a wild goose chase. So, you see, it’s a two-man operation.” I pause watching him give a slight nod. “Rob Brown was there to help me on his night off. But I need him. Vice squad has him on prostitution right now. Surely the public would rather see us catching a murderer, as opposed to arresting another john.”

  “Fine, consider it done,” my captain yells at me in his dismissive tone, but I’m not ready to leave yet.

  “One other thing,” I get out before he puts a sour look on his face.

  “What now?” he demands in an authoritative tone.

  “I’d like a full background check on Jarrod Dawson. He lives in a middle-unit townhome to the south of the Foster house.”

  “What’s he got to do with anything?” he grumbles.

  I can’t say anything about Dawson demanding a late-night heater repair. How ridiculous. I can’t even mention Rachel seeing him on the phone last night, and shortly thereafter Hutchins returning home. Dawson could have been talking to anyone. I don’t have anything concrete or even suggestive. “It’s only a gut instinct,” I finally say. “I believe he may be a part of the Foster/Hutchins’ case.” I sound stupid right now. If he tells me no, I’ll be forced to approach Sutton or Andrews and prevail upon them to run the background. My hope is to go through my captain, because it will help with my promotion, provided it turns out to be a good lead. Also, I won’t have to worry about Sutton or Andrews taking credit where credit isn’t due. Then again, I’m going off Rachel’s instincts, though I honestly believe she is on to something. She even has me believing Foster isn’t involved. But I must act like he is right now. Otherwise, my captain will tell me to tail Hutchins and forget about Foster. But at this point, I’m not one hundred percent sure Foster isn’t involved. So, I’m covering my bases.

  “What information do you have right now?” he asks, and I feel a happy dance coming on.

  I pull out a slip of paper and hand it to him. “This is his address, his car vehicle plate, his date of birth and his insurance license number.” Before I came to my captain’s office, I performed a statewide search. I need to go wider on a nationwide search because it seems our Mr. Dawson only came to Texas after the first of the year. I remember Rachel telling me he moved in only a few months before. “I can’t find anything before then and need help tracking him down.”

  “Any idea where he was before Texas?” he poses.

  I think it about for only a moment and then I say, “Try California … particularly in the San Diego area.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Rachel

  On the way back from the nursing home, we stopped off and grabbed a huge supply of chicken and several side dishes, enough for tonight’s meals and some extra for the book club.

  Relief overwhelmed me when I turned the corner and saw Jackson’s car back in place. As soon as I dropped Mrs. Tuttle and Mrs. Jenkins back at their homes, I pulled into my own driveway, and hurried inside with delicious smelling food.

  “Food delivery,” I announced, waving the bags around. The delicious aroma instantly engulfed the house.

  “Mmm, chicken,” Rob cooed.

  “Thank goodness. I didn’t get lunch and I’m starving,” Jackson uttered. “Let me help.” He grabbed a sack and began sorting food onto plates. “I was worried to death when I came home and found you weren’t here. What if Richard was following you?”

  I gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t think he’d follow me with two other people in the car. It’d be too risky.”

  “You’re probably right. But you shouldn’t be out alone. I read the court files today, Rachel. I’m not at all convinced you shouldn’t file attempted murder charges against him.”

  “Jackson, he’ll get out on bond and then he really will come after me. Right now, it’s better for me to keep my mouth shut and hope for the best.”

  “Don’t kid yourself Rachel. You’re the key to Richard’s salvation. You always need to be watching your back. Desperate people do desperate things. And right now, Richard is desperate.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised with an unconvincing nod. “How was your day?” I asked, changing the subject as I headed into the dining room, carrying the food to the table where Rob was anxiously waiting, thanking me again for bringing food.

  “My day was really good,” Jackson answered. “Rob is officially reassigned to the Foster/Hutchins matter.” He bit into a chicken tender and swallowed it down. “Oh, I did a statewide search on Jarrod Dawson. Unfortunately, he’s only been in Texas since around the first of the year. I’ve put in for a nationwide inquiry, requesting the first look be in San Diego.”

  My mouth gaped open and I stared at the table. “San Diego,” I repeated with a bitter taste in my mouth. “Of course,” I muttered, suddenly putting two and two together.

  “Rach, what’s wrong?” Jackson asked.

  “Remember who else moved down here around the first of the year?” I challenged the two undercover officers.

  “Hutchins … obviously,” Jackson completed.

  “Yes, David Hutchins … the handyman for the guy who slipped by the pool,” I reminded them. “Well get this … I spoke with Imogene Foster today and she thinks David pushed her down those steps. She can’t be sure, but what do you think?” I gazed between the two men.

  “My God,” Rob answered in a gasp. “There must be a connection.”

  “But what would it be?” Jackson queried. “We know Dawson sells insurance … but how would any of them benefit from his selling someone a life insurance policy. No one in their right mind would pay premiums on policies naming Foster, Hutchins or Dawson as the beneficiary.”

  “True,” Rob agreed. “What would their motivation be?”

  Jackson chomped on a few pieces of fried okra. “What if Dawson was getting a cut on the insurance policy. For example, Eugene Smith’s daughter might have taken out a policy on her father. Foster and Hutchins could speed up Mr. Smith’s demise and when the daughter collected, she could give a cutback to Dawson, Foster and Hutchins.”

  “No, that would involve too many people,” I surmised. “And, as far as we know, there weren’t any insurance policies … at least not on Norma Ramsey or Martha Hilliard. And Julia Foster was adamant about her father not having taken out a policy.”

  “No one ever admits to insurance policies if they killed someone. Later when a contract is discovered, they act surprised,” Jackson assured me.

  “We need to run a check,” Rob concluded. “If Dawson only recently wrote policies on Ramsey and Hilliard, it may not be logged into the main system yet
. Let’s start with the guy from California that died. What was his name?”

  “Arnold Wilson,” I provided.

  “My gut says you’re right,” Jackson told me. “There’s something rotten going on and I can feel we’re getting close.”

  ****

  “It’s just a book club,” I argued with Jackson after announcing I was going out after dark. “Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Tuttle will be with me. And we’ll only be a few blocks away at Betty Crandall’s house.” On a sticky note I wrote her address and stuck it to his shirt pocket, my hand delaying momentarily across his solid chest.

  “It’s just … well, I worry about you.”

  We were in my bedroom where I was gathering my jacket and putting on a silk scarf in an attempt at hiding the bruises Richard had left on my neck. There was no way I wanted Mrs. Tuttle, the neighborhood gossip, knowing what Richard did to me.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  He was leaning against the doorframe between my bedroom and the back room. As I adjusted the scarf into place, he drew me into his arms and pulled me close. “I’m scared for you. My gut is telling me to keep you in my sights.”

  “Are you sure it’s only your gut talking?” I questioned feeling a noticeable jerk coming from his pants.

  “I’m sorry Rachel,” he apologized, letting go of me immediately. Instantly I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. It felt good being next to him. I must really need to get laid, I reminded myself. He’d been here long enough that he probably needed a release too.

  “Well, I need to get going,” I said, gathering my iPad so I had access to the book.

  “Text me when you get there and text me when you leave. Hell, Rachel, text me all the time so I know you’re okay.”

  “I will,” I agreed. Passing through the front part of the house, I nodded at Rob. “You guys behave yourselves while I’m gone.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he answered as I left.

  Mrs. Tuttle was watching through her window as I backed across the street. She was at my car by the time I came along the curb in front of Mrs. Jenkins’ house. “I’ll be right back,” I told her, unlocking my doors so she could get inside out of the chilly night air.