Desperate for Death (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery Book 6)

by Judy Alter

  “You call her mom?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to scare her. Keisha doesn’t run home to mama unless it’s something big…like deciding she doesn’t want to marry me.”

  “She’s not going to do that, José. She’s crazy about you.” I volunteered.

  “Something bad has happened. I know it.”

  Mike stood leaning against the counter, his thought processes almost showing on his face. “Let’s think this through. She should be here…in fact, she should be at this house in about an hour. She’s not home. Did you check the office?”

  “No. I kind of panicked because I was so sure she’d be here…and then she isn’t. I’ll go check that now.” He started to rise.

  “Sit down,” Mike commanded. “I’ll have someone go by there. Kelly, you call Keisha’s mom. Say she told you she was going to run some errands and you need to ask her something. Did she by any chance run by there? We don’t want to alarm her.”

  Keisha’s mom was a blank. She hadn’t seen or heard from her but didn’t seem the least concerned. “My girl, she’s got a mind of her own. I’ll see you all shortly.”

  The neighborhood officer on duty declared the office was locked and dark and empty.

  The girls were sitting speechless, listening to all this. Finally Em wailed, “Is Keisha all right? I’ll die if anything happens to her.” She swept a dramatic arm across her forehead.

  Maggie looked at her. “How do you think José feels?”

  The question was designed to put Em in her place but was ineffective.

  “Awful,” Em said as she ran around the table to give him a huge hug.

  “José,” Mike interrupted. “Any sign of a struggle? Anything out of the ordinary you noticed?”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking like a cop, Mike. I was just looking for my lady.”

  “Okay, that’s the first place we stop.” Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Kelly, call Peter. Make sure she’s not stuffing herself at the Grill.”

  I’ll strangle her if she is, with all the food we’re about to have in this house! Peter hadn’t seen her all morning.

  “But I’ll see you all in a bit,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a shower before. You know, men aren’t usually invited.”

  I assured him we’d be glad to see him and hung up more abruptly than I meant. By now, I was scared. Deep down in the bones kind of scared. The girls clung to me, though Maggie made a show of comforting me, while Em more openly needed comfort for herself. I wandered around the kitchen, unable to think of what I should do next. The girls, well trained by now, rolled flatware into the napkins and set it all in a basket next to a pile of plates. Then they filled pitchers with ice water, put plastic plates under them to avoid dripping condensation, and put the pitchers on the table. Maggie even sliced a lemon into each pitcher. All I managed to do was turn the oven onto warm.

  Claire arrived followed by Liz and Brandon who each carried a casserole. Claire took one look at me and asked, “Omigosh, what’s wrong?”

  “Keisha’s missing,” I said.

  She almost dropped the casserole she was carrying. “Kelly, if this is some kind of a wedding joke….”

  “It’s no joke,” I said miserably. “I wish it were.”

  I told her the full story, as much as I knew, and said Mike and José had gone back to the apartment to “study” things. “What should we do?” I asked, literally wringing my hands.

  “You should sit down right here.” Having set her casserole down, she pulled out a kitchen chair and then another one for my feet. “We will proceed as if nothing is wrong. Kids, put those casseroles in the oven and then go back for the other two. They won’t all fit, but we’ll figure out something. Maggie, Em, you’ve done a great job with decorations and tables. Looks perfect.”

  Claire completely took charge, handling all the food as various people arrived. Everyone seemed to take the news of missing Keisha quite calmly, and Anthony summed it up when he said, “She’ll be back in time for the rehearsal.”

  Mike called. The report was not helpful. “No sign of a struggle, her purse is still here. I’m pretty sure she’s been kidnapped, but why Keisha? Why not you, since you get the inheritance? Or why not Maggie, as they kept threatening, because she’s the way to your heart?”

  I drew another of those deep breaths. “Because you’ve been here, protecting Maggie and me. And because they know I care deeply about Keisha.”

  We hung up, and I sat and thought. No one would have taken Keisha against her will without a terrific struggle. I knew that much about her. I knew she was a fighter. Hadn’t she always bragged she could handle anyone who came after us? What about a gun? I suspect Keisha would have called their bluff, said, “Go ahead and shoot,” and lunged for the gun, disarming them. So how did someone kidnap Keisha?

  I picked up my cell phone to call Mike and noticed a text message. It was from Keisha and read simply, “Nusre” and then nothing.

  “Nusre?” from my super-skilled typist office manager. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t spell “Nurse” and why would she be sending me that message? It didn’t take a nanosecond: Nurse meant Mrs. Buxton. She had something to do with Keisha’s disappearance.

  I called Mike, my fingers almost as clumsy as Keisha’s had been because I was frantic. I didn’t even give him time to say, “Shandy.” Instead I rushed on, “Mike, look for glasses…probably wine, maybe beer bottles, anything that indicates two people had a drink. If there are more….I don’t think I want to know about it.” Keisha wouldn’t knowingly drink with the enemy, yet she knew enough to be suspicious of Mrs. Buxton. But I bet Keisha, being Keisha, thought she could outwit her. Maybe this time she outwitted herself.

  “Kelly, we’re outside, looking for signs of a scuffle or fight around her car. We think maybe she was jumped before she ever got into the apartment.”

  “Then why were her shoes in the apartment?”

  Long silence. I didn’t say “I told you so”—honest I didn’t, but I told him about the message and my theory.

  “We’re on it. Call you right back.”

  It was maybe four minutes when he called to say, “Two wine glasses, traces of red wine. We bagged it all. Lab will analyze wine for sedative, check glasses for prints.”

  “All that will take too long. Mike, we need Keisha here in an hour.”

  He had his patient tone on. “Kelly, Keisha’s safety is more important than her shower.”

  I didn’t say, “Not to Keisha,” but I thought it. “This is her dream weekend. We can’t let it be ruined.”

  “I don’t know what we can do except follow police procedures. We’ll send someone to the address Sherrie Goodwin gave us for Mrs. Buxton, and someone to the Balcombs. I think maybe they need protection anyway.”

  Long shots, I thought, and not what’s needed right now.

  Meantime, everyone who brought food was congregating in the kitchen, and more guests were straggling in. I greeted Keisha’s mom and the uncle, or was it great-uncle, who would perform the ceremony, hastily explaining that Keisha would be a bit delayed, but I was going to get her now. Then I drew Claire aside and whispered what was going on. “Please make guests welcome and comfortable…and give them lots to drink so they don’t get antsy.” Of course, Keisha’s mom didn’t drink and might worry herself into a tizzy if I didn’t hurry.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get Keisha.”

  “Without Mike? Kelly, you can’t….”

  “Mike is duty bound to arrive with squad cars, flashing lights, all that. I can do this myself and no one will get hurt.”

  She looked more than doubtful, but I turned and ran upstairs to get my gun, kissed the girls and told them I’d be right back and meantime help Claire, and ran out the door—only to run smack into Terrell Johnson.

  “Just the person I need,” I said, grabbing his hand. “Come with me.” And I ran for my car.

  Thinking it w
as all a joke, he laughed and said, “What? We’re going to drag the reluctant bridegroom here?”

  “No. We’re going to rescue the kidnapped bride.”

  He sobered and snapped himself into the passenger seat without another word.

  I peeled out of the driveway at a speed that made Terrell clutch his armrest. It wasn’t until I was on Eighth Avenue, headed for the freeway, that he managed to ask, “Where is she? And how do you know?”

  “In a house in River Crest, and I know by instinct.”

  “Did you call Mike?”

  Once again, I explained. “Mike would come with multiple cars, sirens blaring, lights blazing. There’d be a standoff. Someone might get shot. I have to get Keisha back to my house in an hour.” I said a silent prayer that she wasn’t still doped up.

  Terrell was visibly alarmed. “I always said you made my life interesting. I’m not sure I want it this interesting. How are we going to do this?” He wiped his forehead with a nervous hand.

  “I’ll know when I get there.”

  All I got in reply was a huge sigh.

  I sped to the Ashland exit and wove through the Arlington Heights neighborhood until I reached Camp Bowie, where I had to double back a bit to get to River Crest Drive. Then I slowed to a sedate speed and cruised by the house at 1305 River Crest. Two cars stood in the driveway, neither of them familiar—one a small, oldish Honda and the other a Jeep. I drove around the block.

  “Terrell, I’m going to let you out. The curtains are all drawn, so I think you can sneak down the driveway…”

  “Now, let’s think this through, Kelly….”

  “I have. You can let the air out of two tires of each vehicle. Stay low.” I pulled just past the driveway, and Terrell eased out of the car. As he gently closed the door, I said, “Keep your gun handy.” He gave me a dirty look.

  I drove down the block, parked, and walked back, trying for all the world to look like I was out for a casual Saturday stroll. At the driveway to the late Robert Martin’s house, I eased along the edge of the bushes between the drive and the next property, then quickly crossed to the back door. It had a glass pane, curtained, but it was unlocked. The door opened into an old-fashioned back porch—a stoop, Keisha would have said—with barely enough room for an ancient refrigerator. On my left was the door into the kitchen, also glass-paned but covered with a sheer curtain that gave me some advantage. I stayed motionless, trying to figure out who was where. Greg Davis and Mrs. Buxton sat at opposite ends of the table, both turned away from me toward the person in the middle. The young blond girl could be no one else but Sandra Balcomb. She was good—a flick of the eyes told me she saw me but other than that she stifled any reaction.

  I pulled out my gun, grateful for once to have the loathsome thing. With what I hoped was one sudden, swift motion, I threw open the door and yelled, “Nobody move!” Greg Davis, of course, moved, jumping up to confront me. Sandra Balcomb did an amazing thing—she reached down, grabbed his leg with both hands and pulled back as hard as she could. Davis went splat, face down, directly in front of me. For good measure, I reached down and hit him fairly hard with the gun butt. He was out.

  Mrs. Buxton, meantime, had run through a door into the house. Within seconds, I heard a scream that was shortly cut off, and Keisha emerged, pushing Mrs. Buxton in front of her and holding tight to a rope around the older woman’s neck. Mrs. Buxton clawed at the rope and tried futilely to kick behind her but Keisha was too much and too quick for her.

  Keisha eyed me and asked, “What took you so long? I was gettin’ real tired of this place and these people.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Just then Terrell burst through the door, tripped over the still-unconscious Davis, righted himself, and asked, “Did I miss all the fun?”

  Sandra Balcomb wailed, “I want to go home,” while Keisha plopped Mrs. Buxton into a chair and carefully tied her hands behind the back of the chair.

  “Just finished untying myself with this,” she said philosophically. “Might as well put it to good use.”

  Sandra said her first helpful thing. “I know where there’s more.”

  “Get it,” Keisha commanded, having taken charge of the situation. Keisha would always be Keisha.

  Sandra returned with rope and got a butcher knife for cutting it. Terrell hauled a groggy Davis into the chair he’d been sitting in and tied his arms behind him. Then he tied his feet to the chair and did the same to Mrs. Buxton, who was now protesting loudly.

  “You can’t do this! Jo Ellen will be furious.”

  “Jo Ellen? She has no power. You might remember that,” I said.

  “But she’ll have money,” the woman cried.

  Davis gave her a dirty look.

  And I knew that what I suspected was right all along.

  I went back into command mode. “Sandra, we’ll get you home as soon as we can. Terrell is a good guy, and he’ll keep you safe.” Turning to him, I said, “You stay here with these lovely folks. Give us a ten-minute head start and then call Mike. Tell him I’m taking Keisha to her bridal shower.”

  Keisha practically pulled me out the door. “What’re we waiting for?” Then she complained because I’d parked so far away.

  I ignored her, rushing as fast as I could to keep up as she nearly ran down the block. Nope, she wasn’t drugged.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Keisha, in yesterday’s tired muumuu and flat shoes, was the belle of the ball. We were only a little late for the party, so most guests didn’t know, and few would question Keisha’s sartorial choices. I whispered, “I’ll explain later” to the girls and Claire.

  Mike called, and I had to take the phone upstairs to avoid sharing his anger with the whole crowd. He called me harebrained, foolish, headstrong, and accused me of endangering our unborn baby. I listened meekly, and when he finally calmed down, he said, “Good job, Kelly. But absolutely against the law—breaking and entering among other charges. And in spite of what you told Terrell, I would have had the sense to come without screaming sirens and flashing lights.”

  After a pause—I think he had to catch his breath—he asked, “How did you know where she was?”

  I explained that one time Sandra Balcomb had been able to call her parents, and she’d said something about a big, old-fashioned house and an older woman being there. “It just clicked this morning. And I honestly would have called you, but you’d have held Keisha for questioning, and she’d have missed her own party.”

  He sighed. “You’re probably right. I’d have had to. I can hold these folks on charges of kidnapping Sandra Balcomb, but I’ll have to question Keisha before they leave for a honeymoon.”

  “I can’t think that far ahead. I have to get back downstairs for the shower.”

  “Kiss the bride for me and tell her I’m sending her groom there now. He’s useless around here. I probably won’t get there.”

  José and Terrell arrived together, joking that they were on parole but not dismissed. Keisha threw her arms dramatically around José who said how worried he’d been about her. She drew back,

  “Honey, I can take care of myself. You know that. Why I singlehandedly subdued that wicked Buxton woman.”

  I kept very quiet.

  After that, José was almost the forgotten man as the guests ate heartily, and Claire’s casseroles all but disappeared. Joe kept busy dispensing lots of Bloody Marys and mimosas, plus white wine. Otto was the first to toast the bride and groom, an Old World toast that I thought was sweet but made Maggie giggle. Sort of a German version of the Irish, “May the road rise to meet you.”

  José’s father was still puzzled that his son was called José and not Joe, as he was known at home. But he gallantly rose to toast Keisha, the most welcome new member of his family. Keisha rushed to hug her father-in-law. After that toasts came one after another—from Terrell, from Anthony who turned his into a slight poke at Keisha’s bossiness, and even from me—standing in for Mike.


  Keisha had a mountain of gifts to open—she had registered every place from Target to Neiman Marcus, and I was relieved at least that she hadn’t registered at Babies R Us—though I guessed I soon should. She oohed and aahed over everything, a toaster/oven, a Keurig coffeemaker, sheets and towels, the stainless steel flatware she had chosen, and several settings of her everyday china. Predictably she eschewed fine china, saying, “I ain’t never gonna serve on that stuff. But I need a whole lot of the everyday stuff.”

  The girls, having been trained by their mother, scurried around picking up wrappings and ribbons that Keisha flung in every direction and Theresa showed them how to fashion the ribbons through a paper plate to make a faux bouquet. She also quietly kept count of the number of ribbons Keisha broke. When the flurry of present opening was over, Theresa announced that in her haste to get to the contents, Keisha had broken eleven ribbons—she and José would have eleven children.

  Keisha arched an eyebrow at her fiancé, and he blushed to the roots of his hair.

  Then came the wedding rehearsal. None of the guests wanted to leave, so everyone stood around. Keisha’ s nephew walked her down the aisle—an adorable boy of about sixteen who took his responsibility seriously—and José waited by her uncle, the rather elderly minister who would perform the ceremony. The minister was…ah…inventive. He’d quote a bit of the Bible and then go off on a tangent of his own on marital fidelity or the glories of parenthood or the importance of solving all disagreements before going to bed. In short, he rambled. Unmercifully. When he finally asked, “Who giveth this woman,” Keisha stepped boldly forward and said, “I do. I give myself to this man.” Even her uncle looked startled.

  For the rehearsal we had no way to work music in, but even so it lasted an hour. The next day’s ceremony would be endless, and frankly, I was already exhausted. Gradually the guests began to drift away with cries of, “See you tomorrow.”

  Bless Claire. She saw that I’d pushed myself too hard. “You sit right there. We’ll get this cleaned up in a flash.”