by Lynn Bohart
“It was Jake Dooley,” Rudy said. “His granddad is my old editor. I’d talked to him about our project, and Jake found out about an article a reporter had written a couple of decades ago about the brothel, but never published. Jake decided to see if he could corroborate the story. So he also went to see Miller down in Puyallup.”
“Miller didn’t like talking about his grandfather much,” I said. “To us…or to Jake. He kicked us out when he saw me looking at a picture of him and his wife.” I didn’t mention the jewelry box.
“Why?” David asked.
“We didn’t know it at the time, but we found out later that his wife was wearing a very expensive diamond necklace in that picture that had once belonged to Pearl and Pettie Kettle. They lived here in the early 80s. Turns out that Frank Miller worked for the Kettle sisters back then. They found him riffling through their drawers one day and fired him.”
“And he disappeared with the necklace you saw in the photo,” David guessed.
“Yes,” I replied.
Sean ran his fingers through his hair as he glanced at his notes. “That’s an amazing amount of information. And a lot of grandfathers, grandsons, and I don’t know what else.” He looked up at us with a smile “I should put you guys on the payroll.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
We finished recounting our stories and everyone left. I told Crystal I would be off the grid for a while in order to take a nap. I returned to my apartment and dropped onto my bed fully clothed and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke two hours later feeling slightly refreshed. It was almost six o’clock.
I checked in with April, who said the afternoon had been uneventful. After washing my face to freshen up, I fed the dogs and made myself a light dinner. I was cleaning up the dishes when my phone jingled. It was Rudy.
“I just got a call from Rush, Jake’s grandfather,” she said. “Jake is missing.”
“Missing? But he only drove to Leavenworth.”
“That’s just it. He never made it. They found his car in a ditch up on Highway 97, but Jake wasn’t in it.”
I dropped into a chair. “Oh, my God. Miller.”
“Frank Miller? You think Miller did something to him?”
“I don’t know, but he did threaten Jake the other night.”
There was a long pause. Rudy sighed on the other end of the phone. “This is my fault,” she mumbled.
“No, it’s not. Jake’s the one who made the decision to pick up the story. And I guess we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he just had car trouble and went to find help. Still, I wish he’d never gone to see Miller.”
“I think I’ll call Rush and let him know about Miller, just in case,” she said. “And then I’ve got to get going. Blair will be here in a minute. We’re going down to Torero’s for dinner. Want to join us?”
“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I just had some soup, but thanks. And Rudy, they’ll find him. Jake will be okay.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
After we hung up, I sat for a moment feeling emotionally drained. My mind wandered back to lunch when Jake had been so proud of his ability to secure the jewelry box for Mary Haley. Now he was missing. First the fire, and now this. They say the death of famous people comes in threes. I wondered if that extended to tragic circumstances. If so, what else was in store for us?
÷
I was watching TV at nine o’clock that evening when my phone pinged. It was a text from Doe that read, “Heard from Emily Foster. On my way home. Meet me there. Ten minutes. Important.”
I wondered why Emily would contact Doe directly, but then called April to let her know I was leaving. I put on tennis shoes and a light jacket over my peasant blouse. Five minutes later, I was in my car, heading to the top of the island.
The night was crisp and cool, and I passed a few people still out walking. The small bluff that Doe lived on was divided into three adjoining lots. As I pulled into the main driveway, I noticed lights on in the house to the right. But the big home to the left was dark, even though the tail end of a sports car was evident in the driveway.
I parked in the large circular area in front of Doe’s entrance. After turning off the engine, I glanced through the trees toward the twinkling lights of Seattle and sat for a moment, thinking about Jake and wondering where he was. More importantly, I wondered if he was okay. I had grown tired of all of this. I wanted my life back.
Doe’s front porch light was on, and her big Mercedes was parked in the side driveway in front of the garage. I got out and walked up to the front door. Doe wasn’t a big TV watcher, but she typically had some kind of music playing, and I could hear Vivaldi playing in the background.
I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I rang again. Nothing.
She must be in the kitchen, I thought.
I circled around the front planters and moved down the driveway to the side door. As I stepped up onto the brick landing, I glanced through the kitchen window. The blinds were drawn, so I could only catch a glimpse of the countertops. The light was on, but it didn’t seem as if anyone was moving about. I reached out to knock, but the door swung ajar.
I grabbed the door handle and stuck my head in. “Doe?”
There was no response, so I stepped into the large kitchen and glanced into the great room. No one was there. A cutting board sitting on the counter was covered with sliced vegetables, and the bottom of a fry pan on the stove had a sauce in it. I stuck my finger in it. Whiskey sauce.
“Doe!” I called out again. “It’s me!”
The sound of a door closing down the hall brought me to attention. She was in the bedroom.
I moved through the kitchen and crossed into the darkened hallway toward the master bedroom. My adrenalin had kicked in, but I passed the first two bedrooms and a guest bathroom when “Rock Around the Clock” interrupted me. I stopped and reached into my pocket and grabbed my phone.
As my thumb reached out to click on the phone, a hand appeared over my shoulder and a strong arm encircled my waist, pulling me in tight. The hand pressed a cloth firmly against my nose. I tried jerking away as the familiar smell of chloroform flooded my nasal passages. Been there, done that. Didn’t want to do it again.
I reached up with both hands, dropping my phone, and clawed at the hand that held the chloroform-soaked cloth, while trying to twist away. All I saw was a black sleeve and a gold ring before the drug began to take over. A few seconds passed, and then I slumped into unconsciousness.
÷
I came to smacking my tongue against my lips because of a sour taste in my mouth. That, plus the feeling that I’d swallowed a large lump of sculpting clay, made me feel nauseated.
Eventually, my eyes fluttered open, but my head swam. I glanced around at a dimly lit room. A four-poster bed sat to my right, flanked by dark wood side tables and Victorian lamps. I took a deep breath, but a pungent smell of decay made me gag, and I closed my eyes to steady myself again.
“Slap her,” a voice ordered.
“What? No,” another voice replied, as my eyelids began to droop.
I heard movement and then felt the sharp sting of a slap on my cheek.
My eyes popped open.
Someone moved away from me to the far wall. I tried to focus on the figure and lifted my chin to find the blurry image of a man standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Mrs. Applegate.”
My eyes adjusted, and a chill ran the length of my spine.
“Mansfield,” I said with a slur.
Mansfield Foster was dressed impeccably in a black long-sleeved polo shirt and black slacks. His eyes were as dark as two cesspools, and yet a strange glint reflected off them. The soullessness of his gaze made me fight to catch a breath.
“Where am I?” I managed to say. My mouth was dry and my throat burned. I tried to move my hands, but they were tied behind me. “What’s going on?”
“You’re on Camano Island. You’ve created a problem,” he
replied casually.
“And so you abducted me?” I said weakly. “You’re a District Court judge.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid something had to be done about the two of you.”
“Not mother!” a female voice screeched.
I turned all the way to my left. Emily Foster stood next to an old-fashioned, high-backed wheelchair; the kind with cane backing. When I realized who was in it, I gasped.
Doe!
My dear friend was propped up in the chair, her head lolling to one side. A needle stuck out of her left arm, secured with tape. A tube ran from the needle to a bag of clear liquid that hung from a metal rod in the back.
“What are you doing?” I turned to Mansfield for an answer.
He shrugged. “My sister made me promise that she could have your friend.”
“What do you mean have my friend?”
His eyes shifted toward his sister, and he nodded. Emily stepped to one side. Behind her was another old wheelchair, facing the window.
Her father!
“Judge Foster!” I blurted.
“He’s not going to help you,” Mansfield said. “But I suppose it’s time you two met. Emily, if you would do the honors.” Emily took hold of the wheelchair and began to turn it around. As she did, Mansfield said, “Mrs. Applegate, let me introduce you to Judge Wendell Foster.”
When the chair was turned to me, I sucked in a deep breath and felt bile rise to my throat.
Judge Wendell Foster was dead.
Had been for years.
All that was left was a mummified corpse wearing a brocade smoking jacket and gray slacks. Soft slippers covered the bones of his feet. His bony mouth hung open, showing a set of yellowed teeth, and empty eye sockets stared back at me.
I began to hyperventilate and leaned forward, trying to catch my breath.
“It’s okay, Julia. Don’t you see?” Emily said with encouragement. “Now I’ll be able to take care of mother and father. Just like before. We’ll be a family again.”
“What?!” My head shot up, and I stared at her, horrified. “What do you mean?”
She pointed innocently to Doe. “She looks just like Mother, don’t you think? I’ll take care of her. I promise.”
My head spun in the direction of her brother, making me dizzy. “You can’t do this. This is crazy.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” he said with a Cheshire Cat grin. “But now we have to move on.” He stepped forward and used a pen knife to reach around and cut my ties, releasing my hands. “Stand up,” he ordered. He stepped back, while I got unsteadily to my feet. “We’re going to the basement.” He reached behind him and produced a small pistol from his waistband and gestured towards Doe. “You’ll push the wheelchair. Emily, you go first and open the elevator.”
Emily hesitated, but then stepped past me and hurried from the room.
Mansfield used the gun to point again at Doe. “Don’t try anything funny. Now, let’s get going. I have one more stop to make tonight.”
“You won’t get away with this,” I said, moving behind Doe’s chair.
“Oh, you’d be surprised at what I get away with,” he said confidently.
“I’m the Governor’s ex-wife.”
I didn’t like to play the governor card, but if I was ever going to use it, now would be a good time.
He merely laughed. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more than sticking it to your sanctimonious husband.”
“Ex-husband.”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
He followed me as I pushed the chair forward with faltering steps. We moved out of the room and across the landing. The chair creaked as the big wheels rolled along a dirty carpet runner.
We passed a bathroom and a second bedroom before stopping at the back of the house. My mind raced as the adrenalin began to lift the chloroform fog. I scrambled to think of some way out of this. Even if I got away, I would have to leave Doe behind. So what were my options? Doe would be no help. I had no weapon, and we were alone on an isolated piece of property more than an hour from home.
As I made a left turn into a dimly lit hallway, something shifted inside my blouse. Keeping my hands on the wheelchair, I used my elbow to locate whatever it was and press against it. The peasant blouse I had on was belted at the waist. From what I could tell, something flat and hard was caught in my blouse down by my belt.
My cell phone!
I’d had my phone in my hand when someone, probably Mansfield, had knocked me out with the chloroform. I got a chill, thinking I might have a means of communication with the outside world.
And then I panicked, thinking my mother might call at any time. She always seemed to know when I was in trouble. That would alert Mansfield, and he’d certainly take the phone from me. I silently reached out to my mother, pleading with her NOT to call.
I turned the corner and saw Emily waiting expectantly at the end of the corridor. I continued slowly forward as real panic began to build in my chest. Doe and I were trapped in the movie Psycho with no way out.
I stopped halfway to Emily.
I couldn’t do this. Getting into that elevator meant certain death.
“Why are you stopping?” Mansfield growled from behind me.
I felt the barrel of the gun dig into my lower back.
“Mansfield, please. We’re just writing a book. This is crazy. Let us go. We won’t say anything.”
My fingers toyed with the clear tubing that ran up to the drip bag above Doe’s head as I spoke.
“Move!” he commanded. “Or I’ll shoot you right here.”
A sob caught in my throat, but I took a step forward, crimping the tube in half as I moved. I glanced down, and before I could change my mind, I pushed the crimped end through one of the holes in the cane backing of the chair. I didn’t know if it would work, but maybe, just maybe it would cut off the drug supply to Doe.
When I reached Emily, I whispered, “Please, Emily, don’t do this.”
A tear glistened in her eye, but she turned her head away.
Rebuffed, I wheeled the chair around and backed it into the small, ancient elevator, feeling as jittery as if I’d drunk a gallon of coffee.
“Wait here,” Mansfield said to his sister. “I’ll be right back.”
“Why do you have to take Doe?” she said in a pleading voice.
“I won’t hurt her,” he said, reaching out to stroke Emily’s cheek. She flinched away. “I just want to make sure they’re both safe underground until I get back.”
He stepped in with us and pressed the button to close the old accordion-style door. An immediate sense of claustrophobia took hold of me when the door latched shut.
The elevator began to descend with a lurch. Neither one of us spoke. At this point, I didn’t know what to say. My heart raced, and I felt a trickle of sweat on my neck.
The trip to the basement was short. The elevator bumped to a stop, and my stomach turned over. I took another deep breath when the door slid open, but was overwhelmed this time with a strange, antiseptic odor. Mansfield stepped out first and then gestured with the gun to force me forward.
“Move!” he ordered again.
I pushed the chair over the elevator rails and into a short hallway. Mansfield stepped in behind me. The hallway opened into a large basement room. My gaze roamed the walls, looking for another door or window. There was none. The only way out was the elevator.
“Get over there,” Mansfield said, pushing me toward an old, beat-up metal chair.
I left the wheelchair and stumbled forward.
“Sit down,” he said.
I did what he told me. He produced zip ties and quickly secured my wrists to the back of the chair, and then he zip-tied my ankles together. I felt a tear slip down my cheek as I remembered other dangerous situations I’d gotten out of.
Would this one be the end?
“Now, there’s one more loose end I have to take care of. Then I’ll be back,” Mansfield said.
“What?” I mumbled.
He giggled. “Your hot little friend.”
“Blair?” I said, looking up.
Once again, a cold sweat washed over me.
He smiled seductively. “She knows too much. I’m going to bring her back here. You’ll have a happy little reunion, and then I’ll take care of everything all at once.” He spoke quickly and the fingers on his left hand played a nervous rhythm on his leg. “Although I may have a little fun with her first.” His eyes strayed to the far side of the room, but I dropped my head and allowed a sob to escape my throat. He just laughed. “Don’t bother trying to get away. The only way out of here is the elevator, and I’ll be turning it off once I get back upstairs. And Emily won’t be any help, either. I’ve cut her medication so she’s in la-la land. So just sit tight.”
A minute later, he was gone.
The moment the whir of the elevator’s motor retreated, I struggled against the zip ties, pulling my hands this way and that. I tried to get my ankles loose, although I had no idea how that would help. In the end, all I succeeded in doing was digging the rigid plastic edges of the zip-ties into my skin until my ankles began to bleed.
I tried hopping my chair over towards Doe. But instead of moving very far, I mostly just rattled my brain. I stopped struggling, breathing heavily. I considered tipping my chair over, but decided there was no point. It was a metal chair. It wouldn’t break.
What could I do?
Real panic began to rise again in my chest, and I glanced around the room, looking for anything that might help release me from my bondage. I studied a bookcase against the wall. I peered into the shadows, past boxes and old furniture. There was nothing.
After a good ten or fifteen minutes of futile effort, I gave up and began to cry. And cry. And cry. A couple of times, I called out to Doe, but she didn’t respond, so I cried some more. I had almost worn myself out when a voice interrupted me.
“Julia, why are you crying?” Emily said.
My head shot up. I hadn’t heard the elevator return. She was standing just inside the room, holding the gun by her side. It wasn’t pointed at me.