Behind the Mask (MIRA)

by Metsy Hingle

  “You want me to freshen up that coffee for you?” Susie asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Sure.” He shoved his cup toward the waitress and allowed the woman to pour him the coffee that he neither wanted nor needed. “Did Beth happen to mention what the family emergency was?”

  “She claimed her grandmother was sick.”

  Michael added sugar and milk to the coffee. “You didn’t believe her?” he prompted.

  The gum-smacking redhead looked around then lowered her voice conspiratorially and said, “Let’s just say, I don’t think it was a sick grandmother that made her pack up and leave here quick like she did.”

  “Then why do you think she left?” Michael asked.

  “I think she was hiding from someone, and she took off when she thought they were getting too close.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because she was scared.”

  “She told you she was scared?” Michael asked.

  “Didn’t have to. I could tell.” When he arched his eyebrow in question, Susie continued, “First off, Beth was real quiet. Most women with looks like hers do everything they can to play up their good looks and draw attention to themselves. But not Beth. She didn’t seem to like people noticing her. Of course, they did notice her and that only seemed to make her more uncomfortable.”

  “Maybe she was shy,” Michael offered, wanting to get back to the point of the discussion—which was why this young woman had believed Elisabeth Webster was afraid.

  “I know shy when I see it. My cousin Penny is shy. The girl gets tongue-tied and blushes six shades of red when a man gets within ten feet of her. Beth wasn’t shy. She was scared. You could see it in her eyes.”

  “See what?”

  “Fear. I saw that same look in the eyes of a stray kitten I once rescued when a neighbor’s dog cornered it under a porch. After I ran the dog off, I tried to coax the kitten out, but the little thing spit and hissed and clawed at me for all it was worth. The poor thing was starving, but for the longest time it wouldn’t come out to eat the food I brought. When it finally came out to eat, it watched me the whole time like it expected me to turn on it at any minute. Beth had that same look. Like she wanted to trust you, but she was afraid to let her guard down even for a second.”

  Michael frowned, disliking this image of a frightened Elisabeth Webster. He didn’t want to feel sorry for the woman. The last thing he needed was to see her as some damsel in distress instead of a meal ticket. Hardening his resolve, he recalled the data he’d collected on her. She was a young woman who had married a man more than twice her age. And when she’d grown unhappy in her marriage, she’d probably asked for a divorce. Only Webster, being the macho prick he was, had most likely tightened the leash on his wife. So she’d drugged him, stole his money and took off with the kid. If anyone was frightened in the whole mess, it was probably the little boy. “What about her son? Did you ever meet him?”

  “I saw him a couple of times. A cute kid. But Beth was real protective of him—didn’t let anyone get too close. Except for Miss Margie, of course.”

  “Miss Margie?” Michael prompted, suddenly alert.

  “Margie Schubert. She owns the boardinghouse where Beth stayed while she was here in El Dorado. Miss Margie watched the little boy for Beth when she was at work. As far as I know, she was the only person Beth trusted him with.”

  “Thanks, Susie. You’ve been a big help,” Michael told her, leaving a generous tip on the counter before going in search of Margie Schubert.

  Finding Margie Schubert proved to be easy. Getting the lady to talk was a different story. Unlike the people at Perkins’s Drugstore, Margie Schubert was far less forthcoming about the woman who had resided in her boardinghouse. Finally, after nearly an hour, during which time Michael had done his best to convince the woman that he meant dear Beth and her baby no harm, the woman finally relented and agreed to answer a few questions.

  “Let me see that ID of yours again,” Ms. Schubert demanded, and Michael handed over his photo credentials, identifying him as a private investigator. She eyed him warily. “You know you’re not the first one to come around here asking questions about Beth.”

  “So you’ve told me.” Michael knew from Webster’s reports that two detectives had located Elisabeth in this small, rural town. But the former cop in him suspected it had been two of Webster’s enforcers who had been dispatched to bring back the wayward Mrs. Webster. And given Margie Schubert’s attitude, he was fairly sure that neither of the men had endeared themselves to the older woman.

  “They said they were trying to locate Beth to tell her about an inheritance, some rich uncle who’d left her a lot of money.”

  Having learned long ago that it was better to stick as close to the truth as possible, he said, “As far as I know, Beth, or rather, Elisabeth, didn’t have any living relatives other than her son and her husband. And, as I told you, I’m searching for her and her son on behalf of her husband. He’s feeling very bad about the spat they had, and he wants her to come home.”

  The older woman frowned, her ample jowls giving her a forbidding expression. “Still can’t believe Beth was lying about her being a widow.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I suspect she told you that to spare you from becoming involved in any kind of legal action.”

  “What kind of legal action?” she asked sharply.

  “Well, since Elisabeth…Beth,” he amended. “Since she took her son out of state without the father’s knowledge, it’s considered kidnapping. And since you were helping her, you could be considered an accessory.”

  “How can a mother be charged with kidnapping her own child?” Ms. Schubert demanded, apparently not pleased by the accusation. “I’ve never heard such a thing. The poor girl would have spent every cent she earned on day care if I hadn’t kept the little one for her.”

  “And it was kind of you to help her.” Michael saw no point in scaring the woman. As far as she was concerned, she’d helped out a friend. “I’m sure her husband will be glad to hear she has a friend like you.”

  “You say her husband is rich?”

  “Yes, he is,” Michael assured her.

  The woman shook her gray head. “The girl sure didn’t act like she was married to money. Why, when I got sick, she was in this kitchen fixing up supper for my other tenants, washing dishes and changing the linens. Never once acted like it was beneath her the way rich folks usually do.”

  “She was apparently very fond of you.”

  “And I was fond of her,” Ms. Schubert countered. “The last thing I’d want to do is add to the girl’s troubles by talking to you.”

  “But you do want to help her, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, by helping me find her, you would be,” Michael assured the woman. “Even if she decides she doesn’t want to go back to her husband, he would be obligated to help her financially. I’m sure it can’t be easy for her being on her own and having a child to care for, too.”

  “She never complained. And she took real good care of Timmy. Why, anyone with eyes in their head could see that as far as Beth was concerned, the sun rose and set on that little boy of hers.”

  “Her husband said she was a good mother,” Michael said, although Webster had indicated just the opposite. “I’m sure Mr. Webster would be happy to pay a reward to anyone who could help me find his wife and son.”

  “I’m not looking for any reward,” the woman informed him. “And if Beth ran away from the man, she must have had her reasons.”

  He was beginning to wonder if the lady was right, but immediately cut off that line of thought. “From what I understand, he and his wife had a nasty argument, and the next thing he knew, she and the little boy were gone. I’m sure you can understand how worried Mr. Webster is, not knowing where they are.”

  “I suppose so,” Ms. Schubert told him.

  “There are a lot of crazy people out there in the world. Because of
Mr. Webster’s wealth, he’s afraid that if the wrong person were to find out that she’s his wife, she and her little boy could be in danger. Maybe even held for ransom.”

  “Oh my,” Ms. Schubert said in alarm. “I guess being rich isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it to me,” Michael told her. And because he suspected she was weakening, he added, “If you can think of a place or the name of someone that Beth might have mentioned, anything that might help me locate her, you’d be doing her and her little boy a favor.”

  “And if Beth doesn’t want to go back to this Webster fellow, she doesn’t have to?”

  “No. Not unless that’s what she wants. My job is to make sure that she and her son are safe, and to let her know that her husband would like to see her. What she does after I tell her is up to her.”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, mind you,” Ms. Schubert began, “but she did mention going to New Orleans. She said her grandmother had an old friend who’d moved there years ago.”

  “Did she happen to tell you the name of this friend?”

  Margie Schubert shook her head. “And I didn’t ask.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Schubert. You’ve been a tremendous help.” Michael stood and shook the woman’s hand.

  “If you find Beth, would you give her something for me?”

  “Sure,” Michael said.

  The older woman disappeared into a back room of the sprawling house. When she returned, she handed him a photograph. It was of Elisabeth Webster and her son, Timmy. Only, the woman in the snapshot didn’t look anything like the glamorous creature in the studio photo Webster had given him. This woman wasn’t wearing diamonds. Nor was her hair a curtain of long blond silk that fell to her shoulders. Her lips weren’t pulled into a sexy pout and painted a bold red. And she wasn’t wearing a strapless gown that revealed milk-pale shoulders and cleavage that would make a man’s mouth water for a glimpse of what lay beneath the sheer black lace. Instead, the woman in the snapshot was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt that only gave a hint of the curves that lay beneath. Instead of looking sexy, she looked wholesome seated in the center of a pile of leaves. Her hair was pulled up into a lopsided ponytail strewn with leaves in various shades of orange and gold and brown. Her lips were bare and the smile on them totally lacking in artifice as she clutched the laughing little boy in her lap.

  “I took that the day before she left. She and Timmy were raking the yard for me, and they were having such a good time. I remember thinking how happy they looked that day,” she said, her expression softening with the memory. “I thought Beth might like to have the picture, to remember her time here with me.”

  “I’ll see that she gets it,” Michael promised, and tucked the photo into his pocket.

  Later that night in his hotel room Michael made a series of calls and planned a trip to Elisabeth Webster’s grandmother’s old neighborhood, then he stretched out on the bed. Pulling the snapshot out of his shirt pocket, he stared at the woman whose green eyes had haunted him from the moment he’d first seen them in the framed photograph on Adam Webster’s desk. While he’d found the sexy Elisabeth Webster appealing, it was this softer version of the woman that intrigued him. “Who are you?” he murmured to the fragile-looking woman in the photo. Was she the calculating, coldhearted gold digger who’d drugged her husband and stolen his child? Or was she this innocent-looking creature who pitched in to help a sick old woman in need?

  The sound of his cell phone ringing pulled Michael from his disturbing thoughts. He tossed the photo onto the nightstand and snatched up his phone. “Sullivan.”

  “I got your message. You said you had some news for me. Have you found Elisabeth?”

  Michael gritted his teeth at the sound of Webster’s voice and reminded himself that the man was paying him to do a job. “Not yet. But I’m getting closer. I talked to some people in Arkansas who knew her as Beth. She left here about two and a half months ago.”

  “I’m not interested in where my wife was, Mr. Sullivan. I want to know where she is now.”

  “The best way for me to find her is to retrace her path so I can get an idea of where she was headed. Thanks to the bozos you sent after her, getting people to talk hasn’t been easy.”

  “If finding my wife was easy, I wouldn’t be offering you such a large sum of money to find her, now, would I?” He paused. “Of course, if you don’t think you can find her—”

  “I’ll find her, and the boy, too. I talked to the owner of the boardinghouse in Arkansas where they stayed and was able to get a more recent photo of her and your son.”

  “I want to see it,” Webster demanded.

  “I’ve already overnighted a copy to you. I’m headed for Alabama in the morning to check out a lead.”

  “What kind of lead?”

  “The lady who ran the boardinghouse said your wife mentioned visiting one of her grandmother’s old neighbors.”

  “But Elisabeth’s grandmother has been dead for more than ten years. She’s had no contact with any of those people,” Webster told him.

  “Like I said, I’m checking out a lead.” What he didn’t tell Webster was that the lead would take him to New Orleans.

  “It sounds like a waste of time to me. Just be aware that the clock is ticking on our agreement, Sullivan. You said you could find my wife within thirty days. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I’ll deliver on my end of the bargain. You just make sure you have the rest of my money ready,” Michael said, then he cut the connection.

  Tired, Michael lay back down on the bed. But when ten minutes had passed and he was no closer to sleeping than he’d been when he’d lain down, Michael sat up. Might as well get a head start for Mobile and then get on to New Orleans, he decided. And after grabbing his bag and jacket, he picked up the snapshot. He took another long look at it, then shoved it into his pocket and headed out the door.

  “Mommy, I no feel good,” Timmy whined to Lily as she settled him into the big, comfy bed at Gertie’s house.

  “I know you don’t, baby,” she soothed, and pressed her hand to his forehead. “It’s because you have chicken pox. But the shot and medicine Dr. Brinkman gave you is going to make you feel all better real soon.”

  “I’m going to fix you a special treat this afternoon,” Gertie Boudreaux promised as she came into the spare room and joined the pair.

  “Cookies?” Timmy asked hopefully.

  “Something better than cookies,” Gertie assured him. “But you need to be a good boy and take a little rest now while your mama goes to work.”

  “I not seepy,” Timmy informed her.

  “I know you’re not, sweetie. But if the medicine is going to work and make you feel better, you need to rest,” Lily told him.

  “You bring me ’prize?” Timmy asked her.

  “All right. Mommy will bring you a surprise.” Lily kissed his forehead. Then she planted a kiss on his teddy’s forehead, as it was her custom.

  “And ’prize for Teddy, too,” Timmy added.

  While she knew Timmy was pushing it, there was no way she could refuse him. “All right. Two surprises. One for you and one for Teddy. But that means you need to be a really good boy, and do what Gertie tells you until Mommy comes back.”

  “’Kay,” Timmy told her, and hugging his teddy close, he snuggled beneath the covers and closed his eyes.

  She sat on the edge of the bed a few minutes longer until his breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. But even when he’d dozed off, Lily found herself reluctant to leave him.

  As though sensing her thoughts, Gertie placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, child. What he needs now is to rest.”

  With leaden feet, Lily stood and followed Gertie out of the room and into the kitchen of the small cottage. But her thoughts remained with her son. “The doctor said it’s a mild case, but he looks so sick.”

  “If you ask me, you look a lot worse than he does.”

&n
bsp; “I’m all right.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you look as though a strong gust of wind could knock you over. I bet you didn’t sleep a wink last night. And you were probably too worried about that boy of yours to bother eating anything this morning, weren’t you?”

  Lily saw no point in telling her that when Timmy had awakened her saying that he didn’t feel well during the wee hours of the morning, she’d panicked upon discovering he had a fever. When she noted that what she’d thought was a rash during his bath had spread to his belly, she’d been terrified. The emergency call to the pediatrician, and his diagnosis by phone that it sounded like chicken pox, did nothing to ease her worries. She’d been unable to sleep a wink after that and had sat beside her son’s bed until morning, when she’d taken him to the doctor.

  “You better sit down before you fall down, and let me fix you something to eat.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry. And I need to get to work.”

  “Work isn’t going nowhere, and you’re not leaving here until you have something in your belly,” Gertie insisted.

  Knowing there was little point in arguing with Gertie Boudreaux, Lily sat down at the small kitchen table where she’d sat, for the first time, two and a half months ago and poured out her troubles to her grandmother’s friend. To this day, Lily hadn’t figured out how old Gertie was because she had the same white hair and plump figure now that she’d had all those years ago when she’d lived next door to Lily and her grandmother in Alabama. And just as she had done when Lily had first shown up on her doorstep with Timmy in late November, scared and desperate after narrowly escaping Adam’s men, Gertie had set about calming her with food. Gertie served up two cups of coffee, placed a plate with steaming biscuits in the center of the table. A dish with real butter, not margarine, followed. She plopped a plate, napkin and utensils in front of Lily.

  “I still can’t believe I let Timmy catch chicken pox.”