by Judy Alter
“Of course,” I said. “Your neighbors probably don’t even know what happened. It hasn’t been in the paper or on TV, though I expect it will be today.” All of a sudden, I ran out of talk. I wondered why I was there, what I wanted to ask or say, what I expected to accomplish. And yet at the same time I felt a bond with these people.
She showed me into a small living room, crowded with a couch and two large recliners, now upright, the usual TV, and tired drapery that hung sadly at the edge of the sheers in each of the windows. Beyond I could see a round oak dining table—probably an antique—covered with a lace cloth. The inside was like the outside—clean and neat but in need of updating.
Framed photographs covered a side table, some showing two young girls together, others chronicling the girls’ growth as they progressed through school. “Which is the most current of Sandra?” I asked.
Wordlessly, she handed me a picture, and I studied it. She was pretty but not striking, her streaky blond hair cut into what in my day was called a pixie or something similar—today’s version of the spiky haircut. She wore a tad too much makeup, a photographer’s black drape top, and stared at the camera with an enigmatic look. I couldn’t tell if she could be sassy or sweet. As I handed the picture back, I said, “Pretty girl.”
“She can be,” Mrs. Balcomb said with a sigh.
Mr. Balcomb shuffled into the room—he was not old, but today he walked with the shuffle and bent shoulders of an old man the world had beaten down. His wife whispered to him, no doubt about who I was and the food I’d brought, and he came forward, now a bit more erect, to take my hand in both of his. “You’re very kind. Please sit down. Alma, can we at least serve coffee?”
I held up a hand. “No, thank you. I just finished lunch. I don’t need anything.”
I sat on the couch, and they each sat in overstuffed chairs that were probably his and hers, where they spent hours watching TV. For a moment, there was an awkward silence.
“I am so sorry about Sandra,” I said. “I have a teenage daughter, younger, but still I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“We shouldn’t have let her stay with that young man,” the mother said. She studied the carpet and avoided eye contact with me. “We…I…was so afraid that she’d end up on the streets, I thought it was better to keep her in communication with us.”
I thought for a moment. “I think you’re right, but I can’t say what I’d do in a situation like that. My daughter, so far, is just beginning to be interested in boys. I wasn’t wild about the first one she brought home, and I’m sure I’ll be too critical.”
“He’s shifty-eyed,” Mr. Balcomb said, “and he’s got a limp handshake. I like a man with a firm grip. You can usually trust him.”
A nervous giggle threatened to erupt—absolutely the wrong thing at this moment. But the idea of Greg Davis/Charles Sanford with a limp handshake somehow struck me as funny. I plunged in where I probably shouldn’t have. “I’ve met him. Under unusual circumstances. But my husband said he was the same young man who beat your daughter a while back. I wonder she didn’t take that as a warning.”
“She didn’t…but we did,” the man said. “She told us about it. Had to explain the shiner. I told her to get out of there and come home. But she wouldn’t listen.”
“As the saying goes,” Alma Balcomb said sadly, “she made her bed.”
“Did they perhaps run away to get married?” I asked.
“Dear God, I hope not,” was the response from the mother.
Just then Janice wandered into the room, saying, “Mom, don’t…” She stopped, startled when she saw a stranger, but then almost instantly recognizing me. “Ms. O’Connell, what are you doing here?”
“I brought your family some food and came to share your worry,” I said.
Mike was right. She wasn’t the pretty, bright girl who greeted patients at Dr. Goodwin’s office. Her face was pale, her eyes puffy, her hair in need of a shampoo. But even disheveled, she looked much more traditional than her younger sister—shoulder-length hair, jeans and a T-shirt. She was still skeptical about my presence. “How did you know?”
“My husband is commander with the Central Division of the police department. He remembers you from Dr. Goodwin’s office, and he was here yesterday and today to talk to you.”
“He remembers me?” For a moment, her face reflected pleasure at what she presumed was flattery, but then her expression changed. “He was here this morning with other officers. We told them everything we know. I don’t think we have any more to tell you.” Her body language gave off clear signs of tension.
Instinct shouted at me that she wasn’t just tense over her missing sister. There was more to it, something she hadn’t shared with her parents, even as she bent over to console her mom for what I presume was not the first time. Leaning toward her mother, she shot a wary glance in my direction.
“I’m not here to investigate—that’s my husband’s responsibility. I’m here because I hate that this is happening to a family in our community.” Hah, there Mike Shandy. I hope she quotes that to you. In truth, I was a little uneasy about how Mike would take this visit, but hadn’t he told me to take care of the emotional end of things?
She straightened and looked at me, still clutching her mother’s hand. “I don’t think we have anything to say to you.”
I repeated, “I didn’t come for information. I came to see if I could be of help, and I brought some food. That’s what neighbors do when there’s trouble in a family.”
“We don’t need charity.”
At that, Alma Balcomb let go of her daughter’s hand, rose from her chair, and demanded, “Janice Balcomb, where are your manners? You will not talk that way to a guest in our house.”
With a muffled cry and a hand over her mouth, the daughter turned and fled the room.
Mr. Balcomb—I hadn’t yet learned his first name—mumbled, “She’s upset. She and her sister were close.”
I stood. “I don’t want to cause more upset when I came to see if I could comfort.” I drew a business card from my purse and handed it to Alma. “Please call me if I can do anything to help. I really mean that.”
Alma looked at the card, then at me, and smiled weakly. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.” She paused at minute, glanced in the direction her daughter had gone, and asked, “How does Janice know you?”
“I’m a patient of Dr. Goodwin’s.”
She nodded as if that cleared up a puzzle. “Such a nice woman, and such nice people in her clinic. We’re grateful Janice has a job there.”
I agreed Dr. Goodwin’s clinic was a good place for a young girl to work, shook hands with Mr. Balcomb who had pushed himself out of his chair, and gave Mrs. Balcomb a hug. “I’m sorry if I upset Janice.” And I was out the door and down the walk to my car. I didn’t dare turn to look, but I bet those sheer curtains swayed slightly.
I drove back to Bun Appetit to get the girls, all the while wondering what was troubling Janice Balcomb. In fact, I thought troubling a slight term for it. That girl was afraid of something. Deathly afraid. For herself or for her sister?
And something else bothered me. If he was a postal carrier, she was a teacher, and Janice worked, I figured they had a combined income of $75,000 between the parents, and say Janice contributed even $12,000 a year—a thousand a month—they should be able to update their house. I knew some people just set up housekeeping once and never touched the place again, but little signs showed that these people cared about their house. Were they supporting Sandra? And her boyfriend? If so, why did they do it? Did he have some way to threaten them? Something was wrong—okay, that was my instinct again. Mike would never believe it. But he would believe me about Janice. That meant I had to tell him where I went this afternoon.
I was still pondering when I drove the girls home, despite their protests they wanted to stay at Bun Appetit longer. Em broke into my thoughts, “Mom, is something wrong?”
“No, sweetie. N
ot at all.”
By the time we got home, I was stewing about what I’d fix for supper. Turkey hash made with dressing, gravy, and turkey.
As usual that night at the supper table, Mike asked how the day had gone for all of us. The girls reported on their visit to Bun Appetit, and Maggie said that she and Jenny wanted to have a sleepover at Jenny’s next weekend. I said we’d discuss it.
Mike turned to me. “Sweetheart? How come the girls were at Bun Appetit? You need a nap?”
I took a swallow of water and said, “I went to visit the Balcombs today.” I thought about saving this news until we were out of hearing of the girls, but then, it was a good lesson in compassion for them—or so my thinking went.
Mike’s fork clattered to his plate. “You what?”
“I went to see the Balcombs.”
“I didn’t even tell you where they lived.” He was incredulous, so much so that he forgot to ask why I went.
“They’re in the phone book. Not hard, Mike.” I was struggling for composure. “Remember at lunch you agreed I should take care of the people part, and you’d solve the crimes? So I did just that. I went to pay a call of compassion, and I took some food.”
Maggie finally caught up with the conversation enough to ask, “Who are the Balcombs?”
Mike said shortly, “Just a minute, Maggie. Kelly, I didn’t really mean it that way.”
“Well, after you patted me on the head, I decided that was what you meant.”
“I didn’t pat you on the head. If I remember rightly, I kissed the top of your head.”
“Mike, I think they were grateful. No neighbors had paid them kindness visits, and they’re really beyond upset. And I sure wasn’t putting myself in danger.”
He thought a minute and finally said, “I guess not.” Then he changed the subject. I knew the discussion wasn’t over.
While I was doing dishes—Em’s turn to dry—my cell phone rang. I answered with my usual, “Kelly O’Connell.”
“Ms. O’Connell? This is Sally Buxton. I hope I’m not interrupting.” Her voice was calm, caring, just like it was in the office.
“No, Mrs. Buxton. What can I do for you?”
“I’m so worried about Janice Balcomb, and I know your husband is investigating her sister’s disappearance. I talked to Janice this afternoon. She said she doesn’t think she’ll be back in the office this week, which of course makes it difficult for us to serve our patients. But I really called because I am so worried about her. She didn’t sound like herself at all.”
I could agree with that. “I think she’s terribly upset, afraid for her sister, worried about her parents. The whole family’s taking it hard. I suspect she’s staying home partly to be with her parents and take care of them.”
“She sounded so distraught, I thought maybe she knew more than she was telling me.”
“Not that I know of,” I said. I didn’t think it smart to confirm that had been my suspicion, too. “It’s kind of you to call though.”
“Well, you let me know if you hear anything, would you please?”
I assured her I would, and after a few questions about how I was feeling—I told her fine—she hung up with profuse thanks.
I stood there for a long time, phone in my hand. Was this just what it seemed—an innocent call of concern—or was it another piece to the puzzle? What possible connection could she have to Greg Davis or any of this mess?
Late that night, I told Mike the whole story, beginning with how strange Janice Balcomb acted.
He looked up from his book. “Instinct, Kelly?”
All right, I was a bit defensive. “Yes, instinct. Didn’t you notice anything when you were there this morning?”
“Grief, yes. And worry. But nothing beyond that. Your imagination again, Kelly.”
I loved this guy so much, but he could make me so mad. And when he did, it was because he dismissed me, didn’t take me seriously. “You better go back in the morning and judge again,” I said, turning my back on him.
My attempt at indignation was ruined, because I immediately turned around and said, “I forgot. Mrs. Buxton called tonight.”
“Who is Mrs. Buxton?”
“The nurse practitioner from Dr. Goodwin’s office. You know, the one who’s always so solicitous.”
“So why did she call? Are you having any symptoms you haven’t told me about?”
“No, she called because she has the same instinct I do. She was worried about Janice Balcomb. Thought she was upset enough that we should be alarmed, wanted to know what I knew.”
“How would she know you knew anything?”
“She talked to Janice this evening.”
Mike suddenly threw his book across the room, a gesture totally unlike him. “This is getting out of hand. Everyone knows more about my case…or thinks they do…than I do. Kelly, do not go near the Balcombs again.” He realized rather quickly that I’d resent being given a direct order that went counter to my nature, so he added, “Please? As a favor to me?”
“I’m not promising. But I’ll wait a day or two and maybe Sandra will turn up.” And you’ll cool down. Mike sees this as a straightforward missing person’s case. I see it as a jigsaw puzzle in which, so far, the pieces don’t fit at all.
****
Sandra Balcomb’s picture was on the front page of the morning paper. I glanced at it as I started breakfast for the girls, waiting for Mike to come make his world-class pancakes. Once I had a cup of coffee in front of me, I spread the paper out and read only the first sentence, because Keisha called and interrupted me.
“You read the newspaper about that poor girl?”
“Trying to,” I replied with a big dose of sarcasm.
“What did her folks say yesterday? Now don’t be so surprised. I knew where you’d go.”
“I wasn’t sleuthing. I went to pay a compassionate call and take some food, not to see what I could learn. That’s Mike’s job.”
Keisha finally said, “That girl is scared out of her wits. But she’s goin’ to be all right.”
“This is one time I really do hope your sixth sense is right on.” I went back to reading the paper.
The article was basically a plea for anyone with information to come forward. Anonymous tips would be accepted at the police non-emergency number. There was a reward of $10,000 for any tip that led to Sandra’s safe return to her family. Then it deteriorated into an account of Sandra’s life, which was relatively unremarkable. She attended local schools and was a senior at Paschal High, scheduled to graduate in May. Good student, not active in extracurricular activities but a member of the local Church of Christ and attended regularly. Nothing in the article about her living with her boyfriend or having a slightly rebellious streak.
A mug shot of Greg Davis topped a sidebar, listing him as a person of interest, known to be close to Sandra and probably the last person she was seen with. Greg Davis did not resemble Charles Sanford. He had apparently cleaned himself up for his gig as Sanford—shaved off a stubble of beard, cut his below-the-ear hair into a conventional style and bleached it, and spiffed up his wardrobe, changing from what looked like jailhouse orange to a suit. Who is Greg Davis? Where did he come from? What’s his stake in all this, because it goes far beyond a romantic relationship, even an obsession with Sandra Balcomb? She had nothing to do with the rest of the puzzle, as far as I could tell.
The thought went through my mind that both Greg Davis and Sandra Balcomb were self-serving, not passionate lovers devoted to each other. Bonnie and Clyde they were not.
Chapter Eleven
Maybe I let my guard down, but I’d been thinking that since Greg Davis was missing and presumably hiding out somewhere deep and dark, I was safe from both harassment and serious attacks on my well-being or that of my family. I was taking advantage of my pregnancy, though I didn’t even admit that to Keisha. But as I had threatened, I stayed home one day a week, usually Friday to gear up for the weekend when we always seemed to have extra peo
ple around, more mouths to feed, and I was in the kitchen a lot, especially since the weather was too cold to grill.
Usually I tried to devote part of Friday morning to office work and part to weekend planning, menus and the like. And then I took a nice nap before it was time to get the girls. But one Friday in early December, my planning was devoted to Christmas—gifts, schedule, the whole works. Claire had invited us to Christmas dinner, so I could cross that off my list except for the dressing, green beans, and wine I’d promised to bring, the latter being Mike’s end of the responsibilities. But every year my gift list grew—I liked to give something nice to Keisha, and this year a joint gift to her and José would be appropriate. But then there were Mom and Claire and Anthony, with token gifts to Claire’s girls and Anthony’s children, and Mom’s paramour, Otto. The term struck me as hilarious, and I laughed out loud. And then Joe and Theresa, and this year I wanted to have something for baby Lorna. Plus of course Mike and the girls. It made my head spin, and I worked until almost noon.
Then I fixed myself a peanut butter sandwich—I seemed to crave peanut butter these days—and a glass of milk. Got to keep that calcium up for baby bones! I went back upstairs, read for maybe ten minutes and fell asleep. It was a good thing I’d set the alarm for 2:45 because it brought me out of a sound sleep. I could pick up the girls in the sweats I slept in, since I didn’t have to get out of the car, so I shoved my feet into tennis shoes and headed downstairs to grab keys and phone off the kitchen table where I’d left them.
Propped against the salt and peppers was a note on white paper. In crude block lettering, it said, “Hope you had a nice nap. Didn’t want to disturb you—this time.”
I screamed, a long, blood-curdling scream. Then I called Mike, who said not to touch anything and he’d be right home. Next I called Keisha to get the girls—she thanked me for the advance notice, but I didn’t tell her what was wrong. She’d find out when she got here.