by Patricia Fry
"What, her personality? Career? Position? Looks?"
"Let's start with looks," Savannah said.
"That's easy, I have a photo." She pulled a file from a drawer on her left. She started to hand Savannah a photo, but then said, "This is not for publication."
"Of course not," Savannah said, reaching for the photo. She took one look at it and handed it back, attempting not to let her emotions show. That's the dead woman, Julie. My gosh, what business did she have with Leslie? It took a moment for Savannah to realize Sharon was talking to her.
"So tell me about your mission here today."
"Oh, yes. I'm writing a story about successful women living in institutions and how they manage to survive in a facility such as this one—where seemingly all of their freedom is taken from them."
"Is that what you think…that we take away their freedom?" Sharon snapped.
"No, no. that's not me talking. That's the general consensus. I'm here to shed a more positive light on your program and how women who were successful in business and in life find creative ways to manage in a system like this one." She looked at Sharon. "As I understand it, intelligent, successful women handle their confinement differently than most others. Do you think she'll be receptive to my questions?"
"Now that depends. She has her good days and bad. She's still on a bit of a roller coaster—needs things constant around her, freaks out when things change—but not all the time. On a clear day, you wouldn't know there was a thing wrong with her."
"What about the other days?" Savannah asked.
"Well, let's just hope you've caught her on a good day." Sharon stood. "I saw her this morning and she seemed calm and relatively content." She looked hard at Savannah and said, "I think she'll like meeting you. Come on. I'll take you to her." She said over her shoulder, "I told her you were coming."
Sharon rapped lightly on the door to room 222 and then opened it and peered inside. "Leslie, I brought a new friend," she said. "Okay if I bring her in?"
Savannah didn't hear a reply, but Sharon ushered her in, nonetheless. Once inside, she could see a blond woman dressed in all white, sitting at a large window with her back to her guests. Sharon walked to the left of the woman and addressed her. "Good afternoon, Leslie." She motioned for Savannah to join her. "This is Savannah Ivey. She'd like to visit with you for a while."
Savannah looked down at the woman, who was seated in a small dark-blue print recliner chair staring out the window upon lovely gardens below. "What a beautiful view you have," Savannah said.
Leslie looked up at Savannah through one blue eye. Her other eye was covered by a shock of long blond hair. She smiled. "You're tall."
"Yes, you look as though you're tall, too."
"Five-ten," she said. "And you?"
"Five-nine and a half."
"Sit down, if you want," Leslie said.
Savannah turned a straight chair around and sat in front of Leslie, off to the side a little so as not to spoil her view. Sharon slipped out unnoticed.
"You're pretty, too," Leslie said.
"Thank you."
"I used to be pretty." She pulled her hair away from her face and revealed a grotesque scar running the length of her face and across one eye. "Lost my eye when I lost my beauty," she said.
Savannah used every bit of restraint she could muster to keep from reacting. "What happened?" she asked calmly.
"Acid," Leslie said dropping her hair back into place over the scar.
Savannah stared at the woman for a moment. "Is plastic surgery an option?"
"Not for me," she said. "I need to remember what he did. I want him to remember what he did. He'll come to see me sometime. He always comes back—he always returns like a male cat to the places he marks and I want him to see what kind of mark he left on me."
"Did your husband do this to you?" Savannah asked, knowing she was way off course where Craig's list of questions was concerned.
Leslie shook her head. "Oh no. He was boring. He was…not very smart. He was dependable, like an old shoe." She stared out the window, as if in another world. "I never liked boring old shoes." She paused. "I should have known better. I should have treasured what I had. I didn't need a new pair of shoes; especially not those shoes…"
"Metaphor?" Savannah said.
"Huh?"
"You're using a metaphor, right?"
Leslie took in a deep breath and then looked over at Savannah. "What's your story? Do you have a boring husband or boyfriend?"
Savannah smiled. "I have an amazing husband and a baby daughter."
Leslie didn't smile. She stared at Savannah and studied her clothes, sparse jewelry, and most of all, her sensible but fashionable shoes. "So you want to know what it's like in here?"
"Uh, yes. Let me see, I have some questions." She looked Leslie in the eye and said, "You seem to have adjusted nicely to this…home. Can you tell me if it took some time or have you always found it comfortable?"
Leslie looked at Savannah. Savannah wasn't sure of her intentions—would she respond or not? Finally she said, "It's as if I've always been here. Yeah, they're nice to me—don't make me do anything I don't want to do. I can sit here and think all day if I want." She suddenly engaged Savannah, saying, "I'd like it if you'd tell them I'd rather not talk to Dr. James anymore. He makes me think about things I don't want to think about. I have my own thoughts and I don't want him telling me what I should think." She leaned forward toward Savannah and asked, "Do you get what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I think I do," Savannah said. "Do you remember what happened just prior to your coming here? You were a librarian, weren't you? You were married. You remember being married, don't you? You told me a little about your marriage."
"Damn it!" she hissed. "I told you I don't want to think about that."
Savannah stiffened her posture. "I'd like to hear about what frightens you when you think about those days before coming here. Did something happen?"
Leslie took Savannah's hand. "I've told my sister and my other best friend. Now that you are going to be my friend, I can tell you. But I'm not going to tell that Dr. James or even Sharon. She leaned toward Savannah. "I like Sharon. She's good to me, but she doesn't understand because she's not pretty and desirable like you and like me." As if sharing a secret, she said, "It's a burden being desirable." She looked at Savannah again—patted her hand. "You know what I mean, don't you?"
Savannah, humoring the woman, nodded and said, "Oh yes. It can be a burden."
"So when he came to take me, it was my obligation to go with him. It was my obligation to leave my husband behind. But when it was all over…" Leslie began to cry. "When it was all over, everyone had left me. There's always a prettier girl, Savannah. Remember that. There's always a prettier girl and that's what he found…a prettier girl. I knew that, so I decided to leave him. That's when he disfigured me. He didn't want anyone else to have me, you see. That's how deep his love for me was."
Savannah was about to break the silence that seemed to last forever, when Leslie said, "Julie isn't pretty—not in the way that you are and I am. But she loved him, too. She wanted to know the truth and she came to me for the truth."
By the time Savannah had bid Leslie goodbye, she was shaking. She sat in her car for a full five minutes before she could settle down enough to make a necessary call.
****
An hour later, she walked into a coffee shop in Hammond. She spotted him right away and walked in his direction. "Craig, thank you for meeting me here. My aunt has agreed to keep Lily for another hour because I just had to talk to you."
"What happened, Savannah?" he asked, reaching for one of her hands. "You're shaking. Are you all right?"
"No," she said. "It was a horrifying experience meeting Leslie and listening to her. You were right, by the way. She connected with me almost instantly and decided to confide in me." She rested her elbows on the table. "She has confided in very few people, she says. According to her, she hasn't even told her psychi
atrist what caused her breakdown. But she did tell someone we know—someone who…" Savannah took in a ragged breath. "…someone who's now dead! Murdered!"
"Slow down, Savannah. Are you saying that she talked to Julie?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I checked with Leslie's caseworker. It was a week before Julie was murdered."
Craig sat back in his chair and contemplated this new piece of information.
Savannah began speaking a little more slowly. "I think Leslie was having an affair and either he or she or both of them killed her husband. So the gunman who's been threatening Michael and Damon is probably his killer and maybe her lover—at least he was four years ago." She took a breath to calm herself before saying, "He threw acid in her face, blinded her in one eye, and scarred her face terribly. She thinks he's coming to see her. She has evidently been waiting four years for him to come."
"What makes her think he's coming there?"
"I don't know. For the most part, she's out of touch with reality." Savannah hesitated. "There seemed to be occasional clarity, but..." Savannah shook her head slowly. "That poor, poor woman."
"Did she give you a name, Savannah?"
"No. But let's look at what we know about this guy so far," she suggested. "He's a relentless womanizer, goes for the pretty ones, and is capable of violent acts and maybe even murder."
"What we don't know is if the Chris Sparks murder and Julie's murder were perpetrated by the same person."
"But it makes sense that they were. What if Leslie told Julie the name of the man who killed her husband and Julie used it to blackmail him. He waited for the right moment and killed her, too." Savannah looked down at her hands. "Or he killed her in a rage when she confronted him. But it would have to be someone that both Leslie and Julie knew."
"And he had to have access. I can see your point about motive. But what about opportunity?" Craig asked.
"Craig, a known womanizer is one of your suspects. He used to live here. Auntie knew him and so did Glenda Cathcart, but I don't know her story." Savannah's eyes lit up. "Hey Craig, go talk to Glenda. She must know something or knows someone who does. I'll bet you can get the rest of the story right there at the library. And hurry. Because now that the freezer has been discovered, he might double back and try to silence witnesses from four years ago."
Chapter 9
Later that afternoon, Craig walked into the library. "Hello, Ms. Cathcart. You may recall that we met at the Iveys' house a few weeks ago. I'm Detective Craig Sledge."
She smiled. "Certainly, Detective. How can I help you?"
His demeanor shifted from cordial to serious. "I'm actually here on business. Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to ask you some questions."
"Sure. Let's talk in my office."
Once seated, Craig began, "Ms. Cathcart…"
"Glenda."
"Glenda, do you recall four years ago when Leslie Sparks was librarian? Were you here then?"
"I was assistant librarian across town, brought here just before Leslie…left."
"Do you think she was having an affair?"
Glenda hesitated. "That was the rumor. I can tell you the names of staff who worked here during that rather…tumultuous time. They have a lot of stories." She tightened her lips and then said, "I don't like telling stories out of school, as they say, but…if it helps the innocent, I must say it."
"What's that?" Craig asked.
"Now that that poor man's body has been found…" she lowered her head, "and to think he was in this library all those years…" She shuddered. "Well, I did see something once. I was working odd hours during that period and there was all this construction going on. One man I saw here occasionally during that brief period was that videographer, Lance. He was at Savannah and Michael's party, you know. Good-looking guy. Rumor was that he and Leslie were running around together and we all suspected that he had something to do with her husband's disappearance. And now he's back," she said.
"Did you ever see him with Ms. Sparks?" Craig asked.
She thought about the question. "No, I don't think so. But I saw him with someone else. One night I walked in on him and one of our young volunteers—she couldn't have been more than seventeen…and what was he…like late thirties or something? There they were, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing like the world was coming to an end." She paused. "She was a beauty. I wondered, what her parents would say about it. I was so angry at him for luring her in. Besides, I thought he was Leslie's man-friend." She looked at Craig. "Of course, Leslie was married, but at least she was an adult and capable of making her own decisions."
"What's the girl's name? Do you know where she is now?"
"Yeah, I do. Tiffany works at the ice-cream parlor. She's waiting to be discovered. Wants to be a film star."
Craig made a few notes and then pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "This is a list of library staff and volunteers we spoke to four years ago while investigating the disappearance of Chris Sparks. Can you tell me who still works here; which ones might be high priority witnesses?"
After the librarian commented appropriately, Craig nodded, saying, "Thank you Ms…Glenda. You've been most helpful."
"Do you think he's the murderer, Detective?" she asked.
He thought about the question and said, "We should know that soon enough."
Craig climbed into his unmarked official car and punched a number into his phone. "Cheryl, this is Detective Craig Sledge. Can we talk for a sec?"
"Why? Haven't you harassed me enough?"
"Listen, Cheryl, the right answers just might get you off the hook. The questions this time are not about you. I think you can relax."
There was silence, and then, "I'm listening."
"Cheryl, how long have you and Lance Grayson been a couple?"
"Um, what do you mean by couple?"
"Come on Cheryl. I can't help you if you don't cooperate. And from where I sit, you could be in a whole lot of hot water—up to your neck, in fact."
"Okay, okay, she said with a forced sigh. Yeah, we've been hanging out for about…uh almost a year, on and off."
"Why on and off, may I ask?"
There was more silence. "Two reasons. He strays."
"He does what?"
"Strays, you know, goes looking for greener pasture."
"He's a player?"
"Yeah, pretty much. He likes women and he likes to have a variety pack. But he always comes back to me."
"So you wait?"
"Yeah, sorta."
"Meaning?" Craig asked
"I don't exactly wait-wait. I date—have my own fun."
"But you're there when Grayson comes back."
"Yeah. I hold my options open."
"You said there were two reasons why your relationship is on and off. What's the second?"
"I get tired of being knocked around."
Craig perked up. "He beats you?"
"Oh, I don't think you can say that. He just likes to rough up his chicks—it's his thing, if you know what I mean. I don't take it personally."
"Cheryl, in your opinion, is he capable of murder?"
"Wow, bringing out the big guns, huh, Detective? You know, I really have no reason to protect his butt any longer, so I'm going to tell it like it is. Yes, I know for a fact that he is capable of murder. How's that?" She paused and then said, "And don't ask me how I know because until you get him locked up, my lips are zipped."
"Sounds as though he's threatened you?"
"Something like that. Now am I off the hook for that witch's murder?"
Craig hesitated. "Sure, Cheryl, as long as it wasn't you who did it."
****
The Iveys were having dinner at home when Craig called Michael's cell phone. "Michael, I think you and Savannah ought to take the baby and your animals and spend the night in a motel or at her aunt's or something."
"What!?" Michael shouted.
Savannah looked at him from across the table
, fear in her eyes.
"Michael, get out of there. They just found Leslie Sparks strangled and I don't think you're safe. Pack up, decide where you're going. I'm sending a couple of guys over to give you safe passage."
"Will do. Thanks Craig." After ending the call, Michael looked at Savannah. His lips quivered. "Honey, we're evacuating for the night. Go put a few things in a bag for the three of us. I'll call your aunt and tell her we're coming over."
Savannah stood, but didn't move. "What's going on, Michael?"
"I'll explain later. Take Lily and go do as I say, NOW!" She picked up the baby and he carried the cradle swing into the living room. As he started walking down the hallway to get the fold-up portable crib, he heard the sound of a car on the gravel driveway. He pulled the drapes back a little and saw a lone man walking toward the house. Michael could see the glint of something in his hand. Good Lord, he thought. What do I do now?
He rushed into the bedroom and grabbed the baseball bat he had kept there ever since a stalker had followed Colbi to their home months earlier.
Knock-knock.
"Who is it?" Michael asked. He turned on the porch light and peered from behind the drape again. He could see the back of a man wearing a windbreaker-type jacket and a baseball cap. Suddenly the man turned and Michael could see his face. "Damon," he said in relief. He opened the door and pulled him into the house, looking out into the yard quickly before closing the door.
"What's the deal Michael?" he asked. "You expecting someone?"
"I hope not. But Craig has ordered us to leave the house tonight, so I'm not opening the door to anyone I don't know."
"Can I help?" Damon asked.
"Sure can. In fact, with your help, we can take the animals. Savannah's packing for us. I'll get the carriers and you can help me load up the cats."
"Glad to do it."
"Hey, what did you come by for, anyway?" Michael asked as they rushed to the service porch to get the carriers.
He held out Michael's drill. "Just bringing this back. Thanks for letting me borrow it."
"Sure thing. How'd the carpentry work go?" he asked as he took the drill, set it aside, and handed Damon a cat carrier.