Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I opted to pray, but my prayers apparently fell on deaf ears. Or, perhaps my prayers were answered, but in a way I have yet to understand. A few months later, Wendy returned to the Midwest with her fiancé on her arm, the arm that once held her charm bracelet. I met the two of them at my front door the afternoon they arrived home to Kansas. Her fiancé looked straight at me with unwavering eyes as he held Wendy's arm in a possessive manner. His demeanor made me uncomfortable. It was as if he were daring me not to accept him as my future son-in-law. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. I did my best to return the young man's stare.

  "Mom, I'd like you to meet my fiancé, Clay Pitt."

  * * *

  Clay Pitt? Who would name their child Clay Pitt? Of course, not too many people can pull off any name that ends in "Pitt" unless their first name happens to be Brad. And technically, it was Clayton Oliver Pitt. Surely his parents realized other people would shorten his name to Clay, either out of convenience or spite.

  But then, who am I to judge others on their name-picking abilities? A woman who named her own daughter Wendy, after a Peter Pan character, is now casting stones? Well, yes, but I had a very good excuse. After a long Tuesday, in excruciatingly painful labor, I finally delivered my daughter early on a Wednesday morning. I was exhausted and not feeling too creative when somebody wandered into the room with a birth certificate and asked me what I wanted to call the new baby girl. Call her a cab, I need a nap, I wanted to say. Chester was outside passing out cigars. Wendy sounded like Wednesday but was easier to spell, and made more sense than naming her February, so she was named Wendy Starr. I think any woman who's ever given birth can relate.

  My thoughts soon drifted back to Clay. Or Clayton Oliver Pitt, I should say. His preppy monogrammed golf shirts would read COP. How fitting that he would grow up to be a police officer! I despised him on sight. His condescending voice grated on my nerves. He had a look about him that said: I'm the toughest, most self-possessed guy you'll ever meet, and don't you forget it.

  Clay was a nice-looking man, however. I had to give credit where it was due. He was about six feet tall, brown-haired, green-eyed, and had a slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, muscular build. Clay was definitely easy on the eyes. But he was arrogant and overbearing, and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Ayers Rock. He wasn't at all the type of man I'd expect Wendy to find attractive.

  My opinion of Clay didn't improve much, but I soon became adept at hiding my true feelings from Wendy. There was something about Clay that I didn't trust, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it in those early days. Even now, I have no concrete reason to distrust him, although suspected murder is a good start.

  It was difficult for me to believe that Clay could kill his wife, a young woman who was expecting his child. In fact, it was hard for me to believe that any human being could be capable of this kind of atrocious behavior. For anybody to take another human's life was incomprehensible to me. Except possibly in the rare circumstance of self-defense, where a person's life was being threatened and killing an attacker was the only option.

  But Clay was intolerant and quick-tempered. I'd observed him losing his cool over a very insignificant matter on a couple of occasions. I had once watched him snap at Wendy for not leaving steaks on the grill long enough, and then complain throughout the meal about the toughness of the meat. As Wendy would say, "He went ballistic."

  Knowing what I know now, I think who'd know better than a cop, someone training as a homicide detective, no less, how to commit the perfect crime and get away with it?

  Chapter 3

  This whole ordeal started at the small, local library where I volunteer as an assistant librarian two days a week. I was helping a young man research who'd won the men's Boston Marathon in 2001. The winner was Lee Bong-Ju, but that's beside the point.

  We were searching through newspaper databases on microfilm because the small local library has not yet added Internet access to their program. (A wealthy citizen had pledged three complete computer systems, so the old-fashioned library would soon be reluctantly dragged, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.)

  The library also didn't keep the Boston Globe in their archives, so we chose to search through the April 2001 editions of the New York Times, hoping to find the news from the day after the marathon. Justin, the young man I was assisting, knew only that the race was held yearly in the month of April. He was considering the idea of writing a freelance article on the 2001 men's champion because Bong-Ju was the only competitor to win the annual event in thirteen years who wasn't from Kenya. Justin knew the man was from Korea, but couldn't recall his name. I can see where a name like Lee Bong-Ju wouldn't stick in your mind forever.

  While the two of us were looking through microfilm clips, a headline leaped off the page at me: Clayton Pitt Under Cloud of Suspicion. It was a short article at the bottom of the fourth page. I nearly fell off the chair. Justin was eyeing me with concern, having noted my sudden odd behavior. I removed the film with jerky, spastic motions, and stammered, "Thought I recognized that name for a second, but I'm probably mistaken. I'll read it more thoroughly later."

  My pathetic attempt at appearing nonchalant failed, but Justin had too many other things on his mind to dwell on my silliness for long. We quickly scanned through articles until we found the one we were searching for. I was never so happy to see someone's name as I was to see Lee Bong-Ju's. I'd lost interest in the runner from Korea and was itching to get back to the microfilm on the desk beside me.

  After Justin had thanked me and strolled away, I reinserted the microfilm into the viewing machine with trembling fingers. I was so engrossed in this effort that an explosion could have leveled the building and left it in piles of rubble all around me, and I wouldn't have noticed. I shook my head as if I thought that would help clear it and give a chance for reality to set back in. I slowly read the article again.

  Boston police academy standout, Clayton "Clay" Pitt, is being questioned due to the recent disappearance of his wife, Eliza Pitt, who was last seen in the parking lot of Schenectady's Food Pantry grocery store on Fourteenth Street early in the afternoon on April 12. Mr. Pitt has been unable to provide an adequate explanation to authorities regarding his whereabouts on that day. Chief investigator, Detective Ron Glick, stated Mr. Pitt has not officially been named as a suspect, but he is under a "cloud of suspicion" at this time. Pitt has been staying at a Boston motel during the week while attending the police academy. He spends weekends at his home in Schenectady, New York, where he and Eliza have resided since their 1996 marriage. The Pitts, both thirty, celebrated their fifth anniversary in March and are expecting their first child in July.

  I had to read it again, and then one more time. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Could this be a different Clay Pitt? Obviously there were a lot of clay pits, but how many human Clay Pitts could there be? How many Clayton "Clay" Pitts lived in New York, were thirty years old, and were enrolled in the police academy in Boston? Not many I presumed.

  I was nearly bowled over by the thought that my new son-in-law was a potential killer, a sadistic murderer who could kill one spouse and replace her with another two years later. I sat back in my chair as questions zipped through my mind. Was Clay guilty or not? Was Wendy in mortal danger? Could another raw T-bone push her husband over the edge? What if Clay went really "ballistic"? Could a little marital spat escalate to the point of murder? I needed to find out the truth, one way or the other, or I'd never get another good night's sleep again.

  I read the short article one last time, hopeful it was only a matter of needing stronger reading glasses. No such luck, I soon discovered. My vision had not deteriorated. The part about Clay staying at a Boston motel confused me a bit. I could've sworn that Wendy had told me he'd been staying with a friend there during the week. Perhaps he'd moved in with a friend following the disappearance of his wife.

  I looked stealthily around the room and thrust the microfilm down into my pocket, as nervously as
if shoplifting a diamond-studded watch. I knew there was a good possibility that I'd need to refer to the article again. I also snatched up films covering the following several weeks of the New York Times in case there were subsequent articles about the case. What were the chances anyone else would need to research those exact dates in the near future? Slim to none. I would return the films at a later date, when I no longer had a need for them.

  What to do now? Wendy had to be warned that her husband could be a homicidal maniac, didn't she? Would warning her place my own life in peril? Worse yet, would it jeopardize my daughter's life? Would Wendy accept my news as a mother's attempt to protect her own flesh and blood, or would she view it as a mother's attempt to stick her nose in where it didn't belong? I didn't want to appear as if I were trying to come between Wendy and her new husband, as satisfying as that'd be. It would be no easy task to make Wendy see that the man she felt the sun rose and set on was not as flawless as she perceived him to be. I didn't want to take a chance of alienating my daughter in the process of trying to protect her. It seemed a no-win situation.

  What to do? What to do? I rubbed my temples with the tips of my fingers as I considered my next move. I didn't think Wendy knew that Clay had been married before and that his wife had mysteriously disappeared. She wasn't the kind to have given him the time of day had she known he was a murder suspect.

  Wendy was also not one to watch the news or read the paper, except on rare occasions. She found the news depressing, she'd told me on numerous occasions. But being oblivious to current events could have made Wendy vulnerable in this situation. Yes, I concluded, it was entirely possible that, living in Massachusetts, she'd have no knowledge of events happening in New York. Keeping up with the crimes taking place in New York could become a full-time job. The more I thought about it, the more I was certain that Wendy was completely unaware of Clay's past. The question was whether or not it was my responsibility to make her aware of it. Didn't Clay, himself, owe it to his new bride to fill her in on what most people would consider important events from his past? If he were truly innocent, would he hide the details from her? It didn't seem likely.

  If I didn't warn my daughter and she became his next victim, could I live with that on my conscience? If my intervention caused a rift in their marriage, and Clay turned out to be completely innocent, could I live with that instead? But, I asked myself, wasn't it something I had to risk to make sure no harm came to my child?

  I gave it serious thought on my way over to Wendy and Clay's new home in Kansas City, Kansas, just seven or eight blocks north of my own. I was hoping I'd come to the right decision on the way and that Clay would not be home when I arrived.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Clay was home, talking in the front yard with his friends. He appeared more evil than ever to me, and even his friends had taken on a sinister look in his presence. I chickened out and fled home to hide in my own humble abode while I pondered the situation.

  Sitting in my family room later, my feet propped up on the coffee table, a cup of espresso in my hand, I found myself almost wishing I'd never accidentally run across the newspaper article about the murder. But I believed nothing happened by accident, and there are no coincidences. I'd always felt things happen for a reason.

  I was the one who'd been given the message, and I couldn't live with myself if I sat back and did nothing. I had to do whatever I could to protect my only child. I had to make a trip to Schenectady, New York. I helped people with research all the time in my volunteer work. Now it was time to do a little in-depth research and investigating for myself. It was time to find out what really happened to Eliza Pitt.

  Chapter 4

  I spent the next few days getting ready to make the trip to New York. It seemed like a good excuse to refresh my wardrobe, so a lot of my time was consumed at the local mall and at several of my favorite boutiques. I had my hair trimmed and drew cash out of the bank. I scoured through about a month's worth of the New York Times from April and May of 2001. I was disappointed to find only a few more short articles about the Eliza Pitt murder case.

  "Battered Body Identified as Eliza Pitt" was the headline that really caught my eye. The article stated that dental records and DNA tests had positively proven the body to be that of Clayton Pitt's wife. Eliza's brutally abused body had been found two weeks after her disappearance by a hiker from nearby Schenectady. The hiker had stumbled across the remains of Clay's first wife in the Adirondack Mountains, north of Schenectady. There'd been little progress in determining who'd been responsible for her death. There'd been no irrefutable evidence linking her husband, Clayton, to the murder. As of yet, no polygraph test had been given or requested. Why were they giving him the benefit of the doubt? I wondered. Wasn't the victim's spouse always the primary suspect in a murder case like this one?

  I hoped to get a lot more information from the local police department when I arrived in Schenectady. I even purchased a notebook to record all the details I uncovered about the case.

  All that remained to do was to come up with a good excuse for my intended absence of undetermined length. I knew if Wendy were to try to contact me and be unsuccessful, she'd panic. I didn't want to scare her, but I obviously couldn't tell her I was going to Clay's hometown of Schenectady without raising a red flag. I'm sure Schenectady, New York, is a very nice town, but why would I go there on the spur of the moment, and then stay there for an extended amount of time? Off the top of my head, I couldn't think of one good falsehood that would be believable. I'm not a very accomplished liar as it is. Like Wendy, I could never look someone in the eye and tell a bald-faced lie. When attempting to deceive someone, we both become intently fascinated with our fingernails. And that happens even if we're only slightly stretching the truth. We both seem to stutter and, if it's a real whopper, we become afflicted with an involuntary reaction of popping our knuckles with an intensity that could crack walnuts in half. Wendy never could get away with anything as a child because I knew all the signs to look for. If I couldn't come up with an excuse that had at least some measure of truth in it, Wendy would know I was fibbing. She knew all the telltale signs too.

  To force myself to think of something else for a while, I went up to my computer room to check my e-mail. I'd recently turned my third bedroom into an office when I realized I had too much space for company. It's not that a volunteer library assistant is in dire need of a home office; it's just that I have a few high-maintenance relatives who have a maximum appeal period of about three days. After three days I'm struggling to remember why I invited them to visit me in the first place. Three days of schlepping around, looking bored and hungry, rearranging my knickknacks, and leaving dirty towels on the bathroom floor is occasionally more than I can handle. And sometimes it's just nice to be able to highly recommend the Comfort Inn up the street.

  I logged on and was surprised to have only three unread messages. One of them offered me a lower interest rate on my home mortgage, a mortgage that's been paid off for almost two decades. The second was a diet promising a thirty-pound weight loss in three weeks or less. Not interested. I could accomplish that in about three seconds by firing up a chainsaw and lopping off a leg. Right now, while I'm relying heavily on comfort foods, lopping off a leg sounded less painful than giving up ice cream and potato chips. Hey, I had another one, didn't I?

  The last e-mail was in response to a query I'd sent out earlier in the day. It was from Stone Van Patten, a representative of an online jewelry company called Pawley's Island Jewelers. In his message he assured me they carried very nice twenty-four-carat gold bracelets. Although I hadn't asked him to, he said he'd also be happy to help me try to replace Wendy's charms if I could send him a list and description of the lost ones. He said they may not be identical, but they'd be similar and every bit as nice. In closing, he stated it was very sweet of me to go to all the expense and trouble to replace my daughter's bracelet and charms. I must be a very special mother, he said.

  "Very spec
ial mother?" Gee, I liked Stone already. I liked anybody who considered me special. I could use a little more "Stone" in my life right now. I'd been feeling a little neglected and out of sorts since Wendy and Clay's wedding. It was as if I'd suddenly realized that my baby had truly left the nest, and I was now on my own forever.

  I tried to brush the sense of melancholy aside as I clicked on the "reply" icon. I thought it was very considerate of Mr. Van Patten to offer to assist me, and I told him so in my response. I hadn't figured out yet how to replace the charms without actually revisiting about two dozen cities scattered across the entire United States, not to mention Paris. I thanked him sincerely and included a description of all of the charms I could recall.

  "Where is Pawley's Island?" I typed at the close of my reply. I didn't recall ever reading about that island in any of my travel literature.

  When I checked my e-mail once more before going to bed that evening, I had another message from Mr. Van Patten-Stone, I should say. "Call me Stone, please," he'd requested in his last message.

  Stone wrote that replacing most of the charms, if not all, would take a few weeks but shouldn't present any big problems. He'd enjoy working on the assignment as a break from his normal routine. He ended with, "Pawley's Island is just south of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in the Grand Strand area. It's not the typical island you might visualize. Have you ever had the opportunity to visit here before? I noticed that your daughter had no charms from South Carolina."

  Before signing off I sent another message of appreciation and a negative reply to his question. Although I knew it to be a beautiful state, I'd never visited Myrtle Beach or Pawley's Island or any other part of South Carolina. But someday I would make it there, I promised.