Back Against the Wall

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “You wonder if Alan might have been sleeping with her.”

  “He’s only one of many possibilities.”

  “I want to tell you he wouldn’t have slept with a married woman—one I considered a friend—but I can’t. Killing a woman, though? No. Killing anyone, really. He’s a doctor who truly does care about his patients, I think. Sleeping with her, that’s different. Pretending to be concerned about my health, he gave me frequent lectures because I’d ‘let myself go.’” The quotation marks could be heard. “I put on weight. I didn’t torture myself at a health club to uphold his standards. I had a wheel and kiln in the garage—and wasn’t that a battle—and was even selling some of my work. I couldn’t have cared less that I was getting a few gray hairs. He did.”

  “Did you suspect he might be seeing another woman?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “Eventually—a couple years after Christine’s disappearance—I hired a private investigator. He supplied me with photos that helped me get a generous settlement in the divorce. Enough to allow me to open my gallery.”

  How could a man quit loving a woman because she got a little plump, went gray, developed wrinkles on her face? That was life. A betrayal like that was unimaginable to Tony. If Beth—

  He gave his head a hard shake.

  “Ms. Inman, did you ever have reason to suspect he and Christine might have been involved?”

  “No, but, in retrospect, I have to say I wouldn’t be totally surprised.”

  “One other question. Did your husband have any artistic ability?”

  “Artistic?” She laughed, a rich sound. “Not that I ever saw. He let me choose the art for our home, as long as he deemed it attractive. Nothing experimental. He had to be able to tell what he was looking at. Otherwise, he had zilch interest in gallery showings, art fairs or my pottery.” Sadness infused her voice now. “Not the kind of thing you think will come to matter.”

  “Most people marry someone they don’t know anywhere near as well as they thought they did,” he agreed.

  “With luck, they’ll both work at bridging their differences,” she said. “If not...well. I’m happy with my life now.”

  “I’m glad. And thank you for your time.”

  Tony put down the phone, braced his elbows on his desk and dug his fingers into his hair. It was hard to imagine how Dr. Alan Schuh could have been a skilled artist without his wife—an artist herself—knowing. Did that mean he could now eliminate Schuh as a suspect?

  Maybe. Probably.

  Which left him with any number of faceless, nameless men the victim would have met at work, at PTA meetings, in the stands at her son’s baseball games. Hell, at the grocery store, or in the waiting room at the dentist’s or the pediatrician’s.

  And then there was Keith Reistad, who didn’t have an ex-wife willing to talk about his flaws. Without more reason to suspect the guy, Tony couldn’t approach his wife.

  Back to the people at the accounting firm, he decided. If he was artistic, wouldn’t you think he’d have showed off one of his drawings at some point? Even displayed his work?

  Tony had an uneasy recollection of the empty walls in Reistad’s office. What if he’d taken down some of his own work after hearing through the grapevine about the discovery of the body? Or even just because Christine’s body had been found? He’d have known investigators would dig through her stuff. Whoever had drawn that portrait must have worried for years that someone in the family would come across it. It had been long enough he might have relaxed. But no longer.

  Tony sometimes paired with a fellow detective in his unit, but most often they handled investigations on their own. As Frenchman Lake had expanded, the department funding hadn’t kept pace. He could talk this over with one of the others, most of whom he liked and respected. But laying out what he did know would take too long, when they were all overworked. And the truth was...he wanted to talk to Beth. He shouldn’t have shared as much as he had with her, but he’d trusted her, found she had a way of arrowing straight to the point.

  He missed her.

  No—ridiculous. Although he would miss the best sex of his life. Her family, not at all.

  He did still care enough to feel a driving obsession to find her mother’s killer. He’d have hated to have to put the murder investigation on the back burner. Pursuing it after Beth was attacked was a given, though. Which made the assault the act of a fool—unless the killer knew for a fact that Beth had seen something he’d drawn.

  Was she even trying to remember? Frustrated, he began a search for Andrea Vanbeek in neighboring states. Nothing new about this—he spent most of his days on the computer or the phone. In fact, he jotted a reminder to himself to call the medical examiner’s office to find out what the holdup was.

  * * *

  BETH SMILED AT the middle-aged woman who sat across the desk from her. Kim Brubaker had dyed blond hair that needed a touch-up, huge bags under her eyes and twitchy hands.

  “I hate the idea of putting Mom into a nursing home,” she exclaimed, for at least the third time. “But I just don’t know what to do.”

  Beth gently extracted more information. Kim had two teenagers at home, one heavily involved in sports, the other in community theater as well as the high school plays. The oldest had a driver’s license but was too busy to chauffeur his sister. Kim’s husband was a long-haul truck driver, a willing helper when he was home, but gone for days at a time. They’d taken her mother in to live with them a year ago, after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She had inevitably deteriorated, and Kim was afraid to leave her alone.

  “I’ve always been involved in my kids’ lives,” she said. “Having responsibility for Mom limits the time I can give them.”

  Her mother did have nursing home insurance. Beth suggested checking to find out whether it would also cover in-home care.

  Finally, she said, “First, let me say that the likelihood is high that you’ll eventually find caring for her beyond your ability. When that time comes, I encourage you to look at memory-care facilities instead of nursing homes. There are two here in town.” They went on to discuss the possibility of taking advantage of an adult daycare that wasn’t a mile from her home. “That can be full or half day, or even for a couple hours. You’d have some time each day to do errands or just relax. But they close at five, I believe, so I don’t know if that would still free you to drive your kids to after-school activities.”

  The hope on the other woman’s face warmed Beth. She loved her job, despite the sadness inherent in helping people make these decisions. Dementia was the worst, she thought.

  She also gave Kim numbers for the two agencies that sent workers into people’s homes to care for elderly or disabled patients. “Setting up a regular schedule works best but, by planning ahead, you might be able to arrange for someone to come on an evening when you want to go see your daughter in her play. If you choose to keep your mom at home long term, you can have help twenty-four hours a day, if that’s needed. Of course, your decision almost has to be weighted by whether her insurance coverage supports that, or only a nursing facility.”

  It was after five when she ushered Kim out, sending her off supplied with a pile of reading material and inviting her to call with any questions.

  Beth flipped the sign on the front door to Closed. Ramona, the receptionist, was already turning off her computer, her purse on the counter.

  “Thank goodness you’re back,” she said. “We’ve been scrambling to get by without you. Barbara decided we should ban vacations, except then she felt awful when she heard the real reason you’d taken time off.”

  Barbara had already told Beth the same. Virtually every tidbit of information about the Marshall family and the investigation had made its way to the offices of the Council for the Aging. People had been clucking over her all day. She’d rolled her eyes and joked about being clumsy for the benefit
of clients who exclaimed over the cast.

  Worn out and hurting, she couldn’t decide if returning to work so soon had been a good idea or an awful one. It kept her busy, kept her from thinking about her own problems, but she was more wiped out physically than she’d expected.

  And, of course, she now had to go home to an empty house. She was being stubborn, not wanting to be a guest at Matt and Ashley’s place for who knew how long.

  Beth walked out to her car with Ramona, the others having already left. Really, she could have gone out safely on her own, since the nearly empty parking lot didn’t offer many places to hide, especially in daylight.

  She’d intended to stop at the grocery store on her way home but decided she was too tired. Surely she could find something to eat. Or she could pick up a pizza—but that only reminded her of the last few times she’d had pizza, when she wasn’t alone.

  Home. Scrape up some dinner, find something mindless to watch on TV, take a pain pill to knock herself out in hopes of sleeping better than she had last night. Oh, and pile dishes in front of windows and doors, so she’d at least hear a warning crash if an intruder broke in.

  This could go on for weeks, months. She couldn’t hide out 24/7. Being careful, however, that she could do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  TONY DIDN’T WANT to call what he felt loneliness, but it was close enough. Wednesday evening he found himself reaching for his phone. When had he last talked to Ross, the cop who’d saved him when he’d been a rebellious teenager? Still in uniform then, Officer Ross Taylor had even come to Tony’s graduation from the police academy.

  Time had gotten away from Tony, but that was no excuse. He’d suggest they plan to get together.

  Ross picked up right away. “Well, if it isn’t Detective Navarro himself.”

  Sprawling on his couch, Tony grinned. “Hey, just checking up on you. Heard rumors you’re in a wheelchair, decrepit old man that you are.”

  Ross snorted. “I played a full-court game of hoops at the Boys and Girls Club today. Did you ever heave yourself out of your desk chair?”

  Barely.

  “Actually, I was thinking we should get together, shoot some baskets. Have dinner.”

  “Sure. Any time. Not like my social calendar is booked. Old man that I am.” His tone changed. “Given your age, yours should be.”

  “Off and on.” Tony grimaced. “It’s off right now.”

  “Tony, Tony,” Ross scolded amiably. “Why aren’t you married and thinking about starting a family?”

  “Family is a sore subject with me right now,” he admitted. “You know how overwhelmed with family I am. Count your blessings.”

  Pause, followed by a quiet, “No, son, I won’t be doing that.”

  Tony closed his eyes. Damn, that had been tactless. “I’m sorry.” He drew a deep breath. “Have you ever thought of remarrying?”

  “Never met the right woman. I have a lady friend now, I guess you could call her, but it’s not the same. We don’t spend the night together. You know how that is.”

  He did. In fact, Tony made a point of not staying after sex. A few times, he’d made the mistake of bringing a woman home. It would have been crass to suggest she head out in the middle of the night. He slept restlessly, and each time had changed the sheets once she was gone in the morning.

  He’d tried living with a girlfriend when he worked in Portland, but that hadn’t lasted more than a few months. He didn’t talk about his job, she cut hair for a living, and that didn’t leave them with a lot to talk about or really anything in common except sex.

  This thing with Beth had been different.

  “Rumor has it the dead-woman-in-the-wall investigation is yours,” Ross said.

  “It is.” They talked about it for a few minutes, but with Ross retired now, Tony didn’t feel as if he could name names, and there was a lot he didn’t want to say about Beth and her family, so the conversation wasn’t productive. They made plans to get together, and Tony hung up feeling strangely hollow.

  Frowning, he went to the kitchen to pour himself a second cup of coffee while he tried to decide what this odd mood meant.

  Beth. Of course, it was all about Beth.

  He was beginning to think he’d screwed up, big-time. No, he knew he’d screwed up. He shouldn’t be able to miss someone he’d known such a short time, but he’d figured out that they had spent more time together in those eight days than dating couples did in months. For him, she’d clicked immediately. Everything about her.

  Because they were too much alike, he reminded himself. Somehow, though, the ache beneath his breastbone didn’t show any signs of going away. Imagine Beth not committed to her family. Could he really care about a woman who went home for holidays only because she felt she had to and wouldn’t inconvenience herself if someone in her family needed help? As irritated as he’d been at his mother lately, Tony still saw his family as bedrock. What could matter more?

  Shame, he discovered, twined tendrils around the ache in his chest. If the call Sunday morning had come for him instead, if Beatrix, say, had been sobbing, he’d have made the same choice Beth had. Of course he would have. And she’d have understood. Kissed him and said, “We can go next weekend.”

  Tony wished he didn’t understand why he’d been such a prick, but no such luck. Panic was easy to diagnose. Panic because his mother had been pushing him hard, until it seemed as if he had no free time. And panic because what he felt for Beth was new and in opposition to his life plan. He hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but something close to that had hit him, and he’d run scared from that moment on, even as he pursued her in defiance of both departmental policy and common sense.

  His mother had been perplexed by his talk of never marrying. She’d thrown up her hands and exclaimed, “Está loco!”

  Yeah, Mamá, he thought, you’re right; that was crazy talk.

  Tony poured the coffee down the sink, rinsed the mug and put it in the dishwasher. Another cup now would just keep him awake. More awake. He hadn’t been sleeping well.

  He wandered to the living room, picked up the remote then tossed it aside without even looking to see what was on. Was this really what he wanted? A house to himself? No one waiting at home for him? A lifetime of nothing but “lady friends,” a necessity so he could scratch an itch? Remembering lovemaking with Beth, even just sleeping with her warm, soft body draped over his, he shook his head.

  The conversation with Ross, that single, pain-filled pause, gave Tony an insight.

  Had he envied his mentor because he seemed so free?

  Yeah, probably, considering that when they’d met, he’d been at his wildest and most resentful. Tony rubbed his jaw, thinking about it. He hadn’t been a teenager for a long time. Why hadn’t it ever occurred to him that when Ross bailed kids out of trouble, encouraged them, befriended them, he’d been filling an emptiness in his own life?

  There were people who liked living alone, having few obligations to other people. That wasn’t Ross—and it wasn’t Tony, either.

  As long ago as Ross had lost his wife, he still missed her. He’d never said as much, but Tony knew he would till the day he died.

  Tony gave a humorless laugh. Yes, he was an idiot. He’d run like a jackrabbit when he should have been holding on tight. He could be with Beth right now instead of being home alone, restless—and worried because she was also home alone.

  The family stuff—it was something they’d have to work on. Tony couldn’t believe he’d simmered so long instead of sitting down with his mother and saying, “I love you all, but I need to set some boundaries.” Why had he had to mow Eloisa’s half-brown lawn, when Carlos was due home in only a day or two? Most of his sisters had husbands. Except in rare circumstances, they shouldn’t need him as anything but a brother. Tony suspected that, half the time, Mamá had used him to make those men feel in
adequate, and he’d let her. For that matter, having him showing up the second any of his sisters expressed the slightest need kept them from finding solutions themselves. Tony doubted that had been his mother’s intention, but he couldn’t be positive. She was a controlling woman. With so many children, she’d probably had to become one, but somehow she hadn’t gotten the memo about backing off when your children became adults. Nudging Mamá that way wouldn’t be a bad thing, not for any of them. Eloisa, for sure, would appreciate it.

  The fact that he’d let his resentment build instead of talking to her suggested he hadn’t been thinking like an adult himself. He wasn’t proud to know he’d reverted to a defiant sixteen-year-old without realizing that’s what he was doing. There was nothing like coming home.

  He finally checked the locks, turned out the lights and went to his bedroom. Stripping, he took his second shower for the day, keeping the water tepid. He stayed under the stream for a long time, thinking about Beth. Knowing he had to talk to her, apologize, beg if he had to, but feeling uncertain about the outcome. He remembered her accepting his invitation to dinner even after he’d chickened out once. He could hear what she said, word for word, see the seriousness in her hazel eyes.

  But, Tony? If this is some kind of trick, or you back off again, that’s it.

  He brushed his teeth and padded to bed, where sleep was slow to come.

  * * *

  THURSDAY, WHEN EMILY hadn’t called, Beth tried her. Of course, she didn’t answer. No point in leaving another message.

  Between appointments, Beth kept trying. She even phoned the chiropractor’s office, where Emily worked.

  “I’m sorry,” she was told. “Ms. Marshall books appointments three days a week—Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten which days she worked.”

  Emily also filled in at several other places, which Beth called, but nobody was sure where she was today.

  What if her threat to kill herself had been real? Oh, dear God, what if she had?