Identity Issues (The Samantha Series)

by Whitsitt, Claudia

  "What about the money? How much did you find when he died? Is it all there, except for what you’ve used?"

  "It’s all there."

  "It’s not my business, but how much did you find?"

  "Over a million dollars," she whispered.

  "Wow." What else could I say?

  She smiled faintly. "I’ve never told anyone, and I spend only what I need. I didn’t want anyone to become suspicious. It’s no longer in the house, but in a secure location."

  "Do you think anyone knows about the money besides you?" I asked.

  Rosie nodded. "Perhaps the men who showed up that time looking for Jon."

  "You mean the goons?" I asked her.

  "Goons?" She looked confused by the term.

  I translated. "Guys with thick necks, tattoos, oily, slicked back hair, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow."

  "I know the kind of men you mean. Yes, they were goons. They scared me just to look at them. They seemed like men who would hurt people."

  "You were smart to send them away and not draw attention to yourself or the boys," I said.

  "They have not been back in a long time," Rosie said, "which makes me feel like Jon is really dead. If he were alive, they would have returned. Jon would have come back for the money or to hurt me."

  "Rosie, you are hurt, if you get my meaning."

  "You believe my illness is Jon’s doing?"

  "I honestly don’t know, Rosie. It just seems odd that a woman in otherwise good health could have cancer at such a young age."

  "No one can give another person cancer, can they? And Jon is really dead, isn’t he? That lawyer… if he’s right, said there were two men at the scene. Did Jon kill someone? Could he have made it look like a suicide by planting his personal effects on the body? Besides, the attorney claimed he was an alcoholic back then."

  "An alcoholic is not a reliable witness," I reassured her. "According to the police, Jon’s dead." The wheels spun in my head. Could Jon have caused Rosie’s cancer?

  After a long moment, I urged, "Think, Rosie. Jon tried to poison you once. If he’s alive, could he be doing it again? Maybe someone else is looking for the money, and they could be poisoning you."

  "I don’t know. I need to think."

  "I’m sorry."

  "Don’t apologize. You are just trying to help me and my boys. If someone is hurting me, what’s to say they won’t hurt my sons?"

  "My number is on the study guide. Call me anytime, day or night."

  Rosie reached out and touched my arm. She turned over my hand and placed something small, cold, and hard in my palm. A house key.

  "Why, Rosie?"

  "I want you to have this in case you need to get inside when I can’t answer the door, or if the boys need something and I’m not around."

  I nodded, slipping the key into my pants pocket.

  "It’s too late for me now, but I would never forgive myself if anything happened to my boys."

  "I’ll see myself out." I walked to the door. As I reached for the knob, I turned to see Rosie staring out the back window. I left, despite a profound desire to remain at her side.

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  I PULLED MYSELF together, slid the key into the ignition, and started the van. I yanked the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb.

  I used the forty minute drive to calm down and regain my composure. I flipped on the radio and settled on an Adele song. Somehow, singing along to Chasing Pavements seemed like just what the doctor ordered.

  The gods continued to shine on me. I made it home without hitting any major construction slowdowns. A miracle. By the time I pulled in my driveway, I’d refocused on things like kids and dinner. The kids tumbled off the school bus a few minutes after I arrived.

  I set out some nutritious snacks—Chips, Twinkies and Brownie Bite’s—then poured myself a glass of wine, told the gang I’d be on the front porch if they needed me, and turned on the sprinkler. I found the rhythmic swooshing sound very restful.

  Lizzie and the neighbor girl joined me outside, drawing their four–square game on the driveway with the sidewalk chalk I kept in a bucket in the garage. I had lost myself in their innocence when Nick popped out of the front door with the phone in his hand.

  "Mom, there’s some lady on the phone for you," he said as he smacked the portable into my hand. He vanished before I could put the receiver up to my ear.

  "Hello?" I smiled as I watched him disappear.

  "It’s the water," Rosie said.

  "What?"

  "It’s the water."

  "What do you mean, Rosie?" I asked. "What water?"

  "I keep water in the trunk of my car. I buy it at the discount warehouse and store it in my trunk to have at work. Someone could have gotten to my water."

  "Rosie, isn’t your water capped?"

  "I never check the seal’s security," she said. "I just drink it when I’m thirsty."

  Rosie turned out to be savvier than I’d expected. Just when you think you have someone figured out, they surprise you.

  "Are you the only person who drinks the water?"

  "Just me."

  "Is there any water left in your trunk?" I asked.

  "I think so."

  "I’m coming by tomorrow after work. Leave the water in the car. It’s safer out there at this point, especially if there’s anything wrong with it. I’ll get it tomorrow, and we’ll figure out where to go from there." I jotted notes—convince Rosie to let me call McGrath, get the water tested ASAP.

  I tried to sound reassuring. She had so little time left. Standing in her shoes, I’d want to know. Right now.

  "He poisoned me." Three simple words. A death sentence.

  "Call the police. Right now," I demanded.

  "No police. Not now. Not ever." Her voice remained hushed, as if the boys sat near.

  "Let me call them." I’d call McGrath. He could be there in minutes.

  "No police," she whispered.

  "Do you need me to come over?" How I would manage that, I had no clue.

  "I’m okay. The boys are home, and we’re going to order in pizza. My mother’s here, too. We’ll be fine."

  I heard the defeat in her voice. She was right. Nothing more could be done for her. I guessed that’s why she didn’t want the police to bother with an investigation. I supposed she figured that her husband had already had his way with her, and that he was out of the reach of the authorities. On the other hand, she’d sounded adamant. What was that about? Would any purpose be served by my calling McGrath when she didn’t want me to? She deserved some peace in her final days. I felt sure that had to be part of her decision. Then again, I still had questions.

  "I’ll see you tomorrow," I said. "Try to have a good evening." My words sounded hollow, even to me.

  "Goodbye," Rosie said.

  I returned my gaze to Lizzie. She hopped from one chalked square to the next, tongue tucked in the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on her movements. I took another sip of my wine and rocked back and forth in my chair. Did it make sense to call McGrath? Absolutely. I rifled through my purse, nerves jingling, located the detective’s business card, picked up my cell, and dialed his number at the police precinct. When he didn’t pick up, I left a short message, reminding him who I was and asking him to return my call ASAP.

  Chapter Twenty–Five

  I’D PRAYED FOR Rosie during my sleepless night. Prayed to God that He would help her find some peace and that He would help her boys deal with her loss. And I prayed that I could somehow help her before she died. Acceptance had kicked in. Acceptance that I’d see Rosie Stitsill and her children through to the end.

  I still hadn’t heard from McGrath, which seemed a bit odd, but then I reminded myself that he had no idea why I’d called him. I headed for Rosie’s right after school. Pulling unnoticed out of the school parking lot, I drove there like I’d been doing it my entire life. As I climbed out of the van, I spotted a male cardinal, in his splendor,
join his less colorful mate in the maple tree on Rosie’s front lawn.

  I knocked on the front door, cracked it open, and called out, "Rosie, it’s Sam Stitsill."

  "I’m in the back," she said.

  As I made my way through the house, I took notice. Still in order, neat and tidy, clean and functional. A homey place, she’d done a good job.

  She lay on the couch, head propped at a forty–five degree angle. She looked too fragile for words.

  I touched her arm gently. "How are you?"

  "So very tired." Her voice trembled now.

  I nodded. "Did you have a bad night?"

  "No. I slept well. I have been sleeping most of the day, too. I wish I could get outside and enjoy this beautiful weather, but I don’t have the energy."

  "I’ll help you." I smiled. "The fresh air will do you good. What do you say?"

  "I’d like that. My mother is picking up the boys from school and taking them to the soccer field. She’s driving more now."

  I positioned my hand under her elbow and helped her to her feet. Skin and bones, I could have tossed her over my shoulder.

  "Thank you." She smiled her glorious smile, and I knew in that moment that I would never forget her.

  We took our time. Her steps were small and tenuous. No other choice. I helped her into a folding lawn chair on the back stoop, then sat down on the concrete step next to her.

  She grinned. "Feels good."

  "I’m glad."

  We sat for some time. I’m not sure how long. We lingered over the striking pair of cardinals, and gazed at the colorful tulips in their beginning stages of bloom. She took in the fruits of her past labors, and she seemed content.

  I hated to break the peaceful moments we shared, but I knew more pressing matters demanded our attention. "It’s time to call the authorities," I said softly.

  Rosie shot me a stricken glance. "No police. They can’t be trusted. Even here. Especially here."

  She’d come from a third world country. Her paranoia made perfect sense. "We need their help, Rosie. We’re civilized in the States. We follow rules. There are services in place to help you." In that moment, I realized that I’d uttered words I no longer believed.

  "They call the police a social service," she said angrily. "Here to protect. But who’s protected? Not me. Not my boys. If we get the police involved, they’ll make things worse. They’ll want to take my boys away from me." She struggled for air.

  "Have your mother take the boys to Mexico. Now." Before you die.

  "They will miss saying goodbye to me."

  Her gaze implored me to help, to do things her way. I thought to ask her if we could make arrangements for the boys and her mother to fly out directly from her funeral, but I couldn’t work up the nerve. It seemed callous and cold.

  "Is your mother planning to take the boys to Mexico soon?"

  "For a time," she said. "I’m hoping that she will return here though, so that there are not so many changes for them. For at least the next school year. My mother agreed to take the boys to Mexico on a vacation after my death, but I don’t know who will raise them."

  Really? She hadn’t made guardian arrangements yet? Granted, her mother appeared to be about seventy years old. The boys might be around longer than their grandmother. I felt nauseous. This quandary needed an immediate answer, or the boys would wind up lost in the very in system Rosie so feared.

  "Where do you want the boys?"

  "Not in Mexico. I wouldn’t rest if I knew they had to live their lives in that place."

  "Then, what’s the plan?" And no, I don’t have room for two more youngsters in my home or my life.

  "I called Emilio’s school. The principal there, Ms. Hathaway, said she would look into finding a family for them."

  Holy shit. The local school? Pick a family? Or have a family pick your kids? Just like the humane society. I knew Rosie had a full plate, but this seemed ridiculous.

  "Don’t you have a friend who would take them?"

  Tears covered her face. I did need to call the cops. "I know Ms. Hathaway," I said. "She’s a friend. I’ll call her and explain the urgency of the situation. You’ll rest easier if we have this managed." I couldn’t believe it. What next? "I’ll take the water now," I continued. "I have a friend who works for a lab. He can analyze it for us. If there’s a problem, then, and only then, with your permission, I’ll share that information with my friend who works in law enforcement. He’s a good guy. We can trust him." Maybe Detective McGrath knows someone who wants to adopt two boys by tomorrow. If Rosie would consent to my contacting him, I could call him on the drive home and alert him to the possibility that Rosie and I had discovered the most likely murder weapon. I would add that we needed an adoptive home, pronto.

  Rosie hesitated for a long moment. I could almost see her wheels spinning. She inhaled sharply before speaking. "There was a reason I came to conferences. I awakened one morning and smelled my Jon’s cologne."

  I sat there stunned, my stomach churning. Gathering facts took precedence now. I’d deal with my shock later. "Go on," I said.

  "After I’d found the money, I moved it to a safe location. But I continued to fear Jon. I left the strong boxes where I found them, behind the fridge in the basement. Even though they were empty, I sealed each one with a piece of tape. That way, I could check them from time to time and see if he’d been back to the house."

  "You believed he was alive, because you smelled his cologne."

  "And the seals were broken on the boxes," she said.

  She must have been scared out of her wits. So much still didn’t make sense. Why would she think he was married to me? The more I tossed around the idea, I guessed she knew this guy way better than me, but did she know everything about him? He’d fathered a child in Botswana, then married her on the fly. There were other questions, too. "He’s been gone for ten years. Why would he need the money now?"

  "Do you remember the government murders?" she asked.

  A memory seeped in slow, but clear… The killings had been brutal. I narrowed my eyes. "You’re talking about Congressman Black’s family."

  An entire family—mother, father, and two young children had been executed. Shot at close range. Their hands had been sawed off. Even the babies. Afterwards, the assassin had positioned their dead bodies on the living room sofa, as if a photographer had posed them for a family photo. The thought of that mutilated young family made the hairs on my neck stand at attention.

  "Yes." Rosie cast her sad eyes to the concrete step in front of her. She clenched her fists. "Right before we came to the States, a similar crime occurred in Mexico City. A government official and his family were brutally murdered. After the Black family was executed, it got me thinking."

  I fought panic. "You believe your husband killed that family?"

  "I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. I don’t have proof of anything."

  She looked terrified now. As if our conversation had resurrected a fear she’d carried inside for many years. Plus the fact that it now appeared her dead husband had figured out a way to kill her.

  Rosie’s eyes brimmed with tears. I could only imagine what she felt in that moment. Shame. Guilt. Fear. Fury.

  "You think he came for the money because he needed to get out of town."

  She shrugged.

  But he hadn’t left town. I’d seen him since then. Why was he still here?

  "Have you checked the boxes on a regular basis?" I hoped that it had been a while and perhaps she’d been mistaken, but I knew better.

  "Every Sunday, right before Church." She gripped my arm with what little strength she still possessed. "They’d never been touched before then."

  "I’m so sorry, Rosie. But don’t you see? We have to call the police."

  Her nails bit into my skin. "No," she begged.

  I swallowed around the lump in my throat. "What can I do to help?"

  "Take the money. Put it in a safe place for my boys."

  The urge
ncy of her request ripped me apart. I spun the options. My neighbor, Stuart James. "I know an attorney," I said. "I’ll deliver the money to him and ask him to set up a trust for the boys. The money will be safe, and the boys will be protected." I hoped.

  "Please share the details with my mother."

  I nodded.

  "The money is in a large pack. It’s in my closet. It’s sitting on a stool behind my clothing."

  "I’ll take the money and the water, if you agree to my terms."

  "No police."

  No cops? Still? Why? She calls the cops on me, suspecting I’m married to her dead husband, yet she insists now that she can’t trust them.

  "Only if we find a problem with the water. Please, trust me. My friend will help us. He’ll be discreet. He’ll ensure your boys’ safety." He’s the cop you called about ME. I hoped that my impressions of McGrath proved true. When I’d met him that night at the Frozen Margarita, he’d seemed like a good guy. If he wasn’t, I might have even more serious trouble on my hands.

  Rosie nodded, resigned. I retrieved the cash–laden backpack, then the two remaining bottles from the case. After that, I secured them in a plastic bag, and carried the bag and pack to my car. I hid both bags beneath a blanket, locked the car doors, double–checked them, and then returned to the back stoop. I gathered up Rosie and helped her back to the couch. I kissed her cheek before I let myself out.

  "I’ll be in touch," I promised.

  Chapter Twenty–Six

  BY THE FOLLOWING morning, Detective McGrath still hadn’t returned my call. I reasoned that it made the most sense to try again after I had a read on the water. I sat in the parking lot and watched Annie’s friend’s dad, and my buddy, Charlie Olsen, lift his lab coat from the back seat of the van, shove his arms through the sleeves, and make sure he’d clipped his ID tag to his breast pocket. As he slammed shut the door and headed for his office, he hit the lock button on the key remote, which apparently reminded him to retrieve the bag in the back of his vehicle.

  As I watched him enter the lab, I couldn’t help but chuckle. A scientist through and through, he lived a life of total black and white. He operated on some internal sense of order I admired but could never have replicated.