Shaking his head as if the girl could see him, Jim said, “I’ll get back with her, Olivia. Listen, can I ask you one more thing?”
“Depends.” Her voice held suspicion.
Jim smiled at the phone. “Okay. If you wouldn’t mind—I mean, I realize that it’s probably hard for you to talk about, but just how did your father die?”
“Car wreck off the side of a hill.” Her voice grew higher and higher. “They say it rolled over and over, and he was all smashed up because he wasn’t wearing his seat belt.”
That too familiar pinprick feeling came over him again. Flores’ death was not dissimilar to Mr. Johnson’s. Not at all dissimilar. Jim opened his mouth to reply, but his voice didn’t cooperate. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry, Olivia. I know this has been difficult for you.”
“It’s okay. I really didn’t know my father that well. I don’t know why it gets to me.”
Poor confused kid. “I appreciate you talking to me.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got to go now, Mr. Dorman,” the girl said and hung up.
Holy shit. He’d stumbled upon the story of a lifetime. Women killing men who are supposed to be paying them child support. He covered his mouth with his hand in disbelief. If he called the others and found them all dead, he’d know it was true. Then he’d just have to prove it.
He fetched another beer from the refrigerator and searched the telephone book for the other names, a part of him almost hoping the numbers were unlisted. If Patty was on the WiNGS board, then Patty was implicated. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.
The next number wasn’t unlisted.
“Hello.” An older woman’s voice.
“Mr. Winkleman, please,” Jim said.
“Who’s calling?” A monotone.
“My name’s Dorman.” Jim hesitated to say that he was a reporter. “I’m a writer.”
The telephone clicked, a dial tone came on. Jim looked at the phone, as if it could tell him why it had disconnected, and redialed. He’d give the caller the benefit of the doubt. Surely it was an accident. Or not.
“This is Jim Dorman,” he said when the voice answered. “We got disconnected.”
The phone clicked, and the dial tone came on again.
Jim took another swig of his beer. He’d like to forget the whole thing and get drunk. He checked off the two names, Flores and Winkleman, Wait. Winkleman. Wink. It wasn’t possible, was it? The hairs rose on his arms. He felt like biting ants covered his body. He shook himself. Rubbed his arms and the back of his neck. Nah. No way.
Okay, way. But he could check on that. And he would.
He searched for the other two names, a part of him hoping he wouldn’t find them either. But he did. He dialed the phone a third time. A third woman’s voice.
“Yes, hello.”
“May I speak to Mr. Clark, please?”
“This is Mrs. Clark. May I help you?”
“You mean the ex or the former Mrs. Clark?”
“No. Elizabeth Clark. I was the current Mrs. Clark, if it’s any of your business. Who is this anyway?”
“Jim Dorman. I’m a journalist, and I wanted to interview your husband for a series of articles I’m doing.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you were a salesman or a lawyer. I’m sick and tired of them calling me.”
“No. I’m a writer.”
“I think they call everyone whose husband’s or wife’s name appears in the obituaries. It makes me so mad. They think they can make money off of me, but it ain’t gonna happen. I tell them to call his ex. She’s the one with all the loot.”
Jim’s muscles constricted and flexed again though he was not the least bit shocked by the revelation of Mr. Clark’s demise. This was obviously what Noel had wanted him to know. “Yes, ma’am. You mean people are calling to solicit your business?”
“Yes. The creeps. They ought to be put out of business.”
“And I guess you didn’t get anything under his will?”
“Will? What a joke. We didn’t have nothing to say grace over.” Her voice was clipped and high pitched. “His life insurance had to go to those kids—his divorce papers say so.”
“Did the two of you have children, Mrs. Clark?”
“Nah. I didn’t feel like it was right when he couldn’t hardly pay his child support. I got a boy by my first husband, but he never paid support either.” Jim could just picture a face written with disgust.
“You must be having a difficult time getting by.”
“Yeah. I have a cashier’s job at the cafeteria down on Pinemont. You ever eat there, Mister?”
“I have. Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.”
“Yeah. Well, I have to go. I got to get up early in the morning.”
Jim hung up and glanced at his list. There was one name left. He realized he hadn’t gotten any details of Mr. Clark’s death. He thought about calling the widow back, but decided against it. He was going to research the others anyhow. He’d just go through the obituaries on the Internet at the library and look at the newspapers for Clark also.
Spending the next ten minutes poring over the phone book, he discovered Klein’s listing in Berryville. It was the tiniest town in the county, a whistle and a blink and anyone driving through would miss it altogether. It didn’t have much more than an antique store and a gas pump on the public access road. He punched in Klein’s number. It went to a message with a woman’s voice instructing the caller to try a different number.
He tried the new number and the same voice, one that was vaguely familiar, answered. “Klein residence.”
“My name is Jim Dorman. Is this the home of Oliver Klein?”
“No, actually, it isn’t. But may I help you? I’m his uh-widow and executrix of his estate.”
Another pinprick shiver struck Jim at the base of his neck. His fingers tingled with cold. He realized where he knew her voice from. Oliver Klein. He’d heard that name before—his first day in court. Klein versus Klein. The little, defiant woman with the blond finger curls and the dead ex-husband. Jim cleared his throat. “You’re the former Mrs. Klein?”
“Yes, sir. What’s this about? Do you have estate business?” Her voice was clipped and business-like.
What could he say to keep her on the line? That he’d been in court the day the Suggestion of Death was read into the record? That he was sorry for the loss of her ex-husband? That he thought there was funny business going on? That he wondered whether she was part of the funny business? No. Wrong approach. And he sure wasn’t going to tell her he was a reporter. “I-I may have some business with you, ma’am.”
“About Oliver’s property?”
He didn’t want to mislead her. He might need her later. “Ma’am, Ms. Klein—you’re still Klein, didn’t change back to another name?”
“Yes, Klein. That’s fine. Can you get to the point? I have children I need to attend to.”
“Yes, ma’am, I apologize.” Honesty might be his best ploy. “You see, I’m writing an article about men who don’t pay their child support, and I wondered if you’d be willing to give me an interview.”
“I don’t know, Mr.–”
“Dorman. We’ve met, you know. Well, kind of. I was in court when you found out your husband—ex-husband—had passed away. I held the door for you.”
“Oh. Thank you for that. I was a little upset that day.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s understandable. So I was wondering—”
“I don’t know.”
“By the way, Ms. Klein, do you mind if I ask why you’re the executrix of Mr. Klein’s estate?”
“Oh, well. The children, you see. They got everything—not that there was much to get.”
“If this isn’t a good time, I can call back later or come out to your house for the interview.” He’d much prefer to get all the information he could over the phone, but if he had to drive out there, if a visit to her led to evidence of a conspiracy—there, he�
�d articulated his thought—to commit murder, he’d be out there as soon as his Mustang could get him there.
The phone had gone silent except for her breathing.
“It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow even, if you’re busy, but I was just wondering something, if you don’t mind telling me, how did Mr. Klein die?”
She drew a sharp breath. “Accident out on the loop.” Her voice had grown small and quiet.
His voice froze in his throat. Klein had died like the others.
After a few moments, Jim coaxed Ms. Klein into a personal interview early the following week and ended the call.
He’d struck out on one name and hit home runs on the other three.
Counting Johnson, there were four deaths from traffic accidents and one hang up, Winkleman. He had to find out if Bitsy Wink used to be Bitsy Winkleman. But it couldn’t have been Bitsy Wink who answered if there was some kind of emergency WiNGS meeting.
Hell, she could have left instructions regarding telephone calls. It didn’t really matter who was on the other end of that phone. But he needed to find out if Winkleman had been Wink’s husband.
His stomach burned with curiosity. Noel could have made a mistake on Winkleman. Or it wasn’t even Bitsy, but some other person who didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t even know if—wait—he’d heard Bitsy tell Patty she had kids too.
But Wink was a Deputy Sheriff. A law enforcement officer. As loathsome as she was, he didn’t want to believe she was somehow entangled with a group of conspiring man-haters. This was need to know. And need to know now. If it wasn’t already too late to get to the library that evening, he’d have rushed right over to the library computers. As it was, he’d have to wait until the following day. Damn he wished he hadn’t had to let the Internet service go.
Rubbing his eyes, Jim just wanted to shower and fall into bed. As he started to fold up the list Noel had given him, his eyes focused on it as a whole. He’d made large Xs over each man’s name when he’d discovered the man was dead. There was one left. On the list he’d found in Pat’s purse, there were small Xs or asterisks next to several names. There were cross-outs over others. Had they crossed out the same ones? He got up to go to bed but didn’t think he would get much sleep that night. He couldn’t help but remember seeing his own name on Patty’s list and right next to it was a small x.
Chapter Seventeen
Jim awoke after sunrise, after a bad dream involving him and a bunch of women though he couldn’t remember more than that, and lay in bed staring at the light peeking in under the blinds. Before going to sleep, he’d laid out a plan of action that included finding out what had happened to the men on the list, and who was behind the whole thing. He could trust Frieda and would turn to her for help if he felt stymied so the library was the logical place to start. Although he wanted to make plans for his move to Dallas—he knew in his gut Edgar would offer him the job—he also knew he’d never be able to leave without finding out the truth. Without finishing what he started.
His stomach gnawed at him like a rat when he thought about Patty being involved in something from which she couldn’t extricate herself. He crawled out of bed and phoned her, but after twenty rings, replaced the receiver and lay back on the bed again, studying the ceiling tiles in the morning light as he had done in the moonlight of the night before. Sleeping on it hadn’t changed his mind. He still thought, as unbelievable it was, there was a conspiracy going on. A conspiracy of women. Doing exactly what, was the question.
He was not a police officer. His job was not to catch anyone before, during, or after a crime. His job was not to turn anyone in. His job was to report, to be unbiased, to gather facts, to write the truth.
But what if the truth was that his wife was—was what? Guilty of some sort of complicity? Involved with some unscrupulous women? Could she be implicated in the demise of any of the men on the list? That was a nice way of putting it, but he wasn’t ready to say the ‘M’ word aloud or even admit his real suspicions.
Jim focused on his double career as a writer and investigative reporter as he showered, shaved, and dressed before calling Edgar Buck and Caulfield Marshall. His ritual was to get up and get dressed like he was actually going off to work, except his clothes no longer came out of dry cleaners’ bags.
“Congratulations, Jim-Boy,” Buck said in a hearty voice when he came on the line. “We’re prepared to offer you the job at the salary we discussed, plus moving expenses.”
The hair stood up on his arms, but in a good way. Elation reverberated through him. His knees weakened so it was a good thing he was sitting down when he made the call. “I’m really pleased, Mr. Buck. I was hoping that’s why you called. When do you want me to start?”
“You name it. We could use you today if we had you. How about August first?”
“Can I let you know in a few days? I mean, exactly when I’ll arrive?” And whether he’d be taking Pat and the kids with him.
“Sure—by Friday?”
“I definitely want the job, Mr. Buck. I’ll be there no later than August one, but there are some things I need to do.”
“Call me Edgar, son. And I understood that. Just talk it over with whomever you need to, and let me know what I can do to help you with the transition. Oh, and Jimbo—we can also go the expenses for a trip up here to look for a house—maybe even a couple of trips if there’s someone you’ll need to bring with you. How does that sound?”
Warmth spread through Jim’s chest. No question he was going to like working for the guy. “Great. I’ll call you back as soon as I can and let you know a good start date.” Jim hung up. Though he took a moment to enjoy the adrenaline rush the call had given him, fear of Pat’s involvement with WiNGS overshadowed what should have been cause for celebration.
If he could just grab Pat and the kids and put Angeles in the rearview mirror, everything would be fine. They could buy a nice house in a Dallas suburb and enroll the kids in school up there. Pat could find a better-paying teaching job.
The more he thought about it, the more absurd it was that Pat could be involved in anything sinister. She was a schoolteacher for heaven’s sake. Sure, she was on the board of WiNGS, but no one in their right mind would let someone waltz in and become wise to their criminal activity after just a few weeks—if in fact there was criminal activity.
Ridiculous, that’s what it was. Now that he thought about it, he must be wrong. In the light of day, the whole situation seemed rather insane. Jim shook his head and forced a laugh. Preposterous.
The dark of night had made him suspicious of Pat. That and the bad dream right before he woke up. What he needed was a celebration. And he needed to celebrate with his wife. He picked up the phone and called her again, still no answer.
The phone rang before he’d let go of it, sending shockwaves through his fingers and vibrations up his arm. He needed to quit being so jumpy. He drew a long breath and picked it up.
“Hello.” His voice sounded as weak and worried as he felt.
“Where the heck have you been, James?” Caulfield Marshall shouted into the phone.
Jim had been impressed with Caulfield as an agent from the start, except for one thing. Caulfield seemed to believe no one could hear him unless he shouted. At least that was the impression Jim got from their telephone conversations. They hadn’t met in person. Jim had, however, been involved in long distance discussions with Caulfield where he’d had to hold the phone away from his ear to understand what the man said. And he’d heard Marshall shout to people in his office when he was on the phone with Jim. So the man was either deaf or an eccentric, probably more than a little of both.
“Hey, Caulfield. What’s up?” Jim’s trembling voice surprised him. He hoped Marshall couldn’t tell how nervous he was. “Sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday, but I didn’t get in until late. I don’t have but the one number for you. I’ve been applying for jobs and working on a magazine article so I’m out a lot.”
“Hey, chill, p
al. I have a contract on your book if you want to shut up long enough for me to tell you about it.”
Heart palpitations and shortness of breath kept Jim from responding with more than just a grunt. Weird how things happened in clusters. Go for weeks, months feeling like a piece of dog turd, then all the hard work pays off at the same time. He felt just like he thought he would. Way far from dog turd. More like his favorite cream cheese topping on a cake.
After the call, Jim could not remember half the conversation. A highly reputable publisher had made an offer. The advance was not as high as Marshall wanted but wasn’t bad—way more that Jim thought he’d get for a first novel—what Marshall called “a good deal”. The contract, though, was for two books and, of course, Caulfield said, options on the third. If the hardcover did well, they reserved the right to handle the soft cover deal. And of course, the hard cover included e-book publication—something Caulfield said they’d have to scrutinize with a magnifying glass to be sure Jim wasn’t being screwed.
Jim wanted to call Pat again, if Caulfield Marshall would only shut up. The man rambled about a big publishing future, making references to trips Jim would have to make to New York, and generally raving about what a wonderful agent he was. Words Jim would have killed to hear a few days ago. At that moment, though, he had other things on his mind. There was a certain amount of pomposity in Caulfield’s personality for which he’d have to give forbearance, harmless—though trying and time consuming—and ordinarily, Jim wouldn’t mind. Now, he wished for an end to Caulfield’s blustering pretentiousness. He murmured uh huhs to Caulfield’s monologue; his mind shooting off sparks like fireworks, and finally was able to hang up.
He dialed Pat’s number again. Still no answer. He was definitely driving by before he went to the library just to make sure there was no reason for alarm.
Chapter Eighteen
Clouds had gathered by the time Jim left his place so the temperature wasn’t as bad as it usually was. They needed some rain, though it was unlikely. He did cruise by the house, but no one was home. He felt better, though not much better, and couldn’t help feeling it was his responsibility to know where his family was every day. Another thing he’d have to work on.
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