My Private Detective

by Rebecca Winters

  With the diaries lined up like this, the proof leaped out at him, substantiating a theory of his that had only been in an embryonic stage until now.

  Excited by Heidi’s insight, he grasped her hand and squeezed it. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Her gaze clung to his. “Not really.”

  “While I was reading the first volume yesterday morning, I got the distinct impression it wasn’t a true diary. By the time I’d finished all the volumes, I felt that I’d been reading the rough draft of a cleverly crafted novel or play. Everything seemed to have been orchestrated for one express purpose.”

  “You mean, to hurt Dana.”

  He released her hand. “Surely that goes without saying. But there’s much more to it than that. What you’ve just noticed is so vital to this case that without your inspiration, I might not have been able to piece everything together nearly this fast.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean I’ve really found something that could help?”

  “More than you know. Consider the fact that neither you nor Dana had any idea Amy kept a diary. That, in and of itself, doesn’t necessarily mean she didn’t keep one. But if your recollection is true and you’re correct in your assessment of her writing, then it means she wrote all these volumes very recently. What would that tell you?”

  “That at the age of nineteen she sat down and reconstructed her past in diary form,” Heidi said promptly.

  “Maybe.”

  “Or she could have planned to pass off the diaries as authentic. I know it’s a stretch, but perhaps she hoped they’d eventually be made into a film she could star in. Another scenario is that she was consciously writing fiction with the hope of getting it published someday.”

  “Those are both possibilities.”

  “But you don’t believe them any more than I do.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The tone of your voice. Your body language.”

  His lips twitched. It pleased him no end that she could already read him so well. It meant she’d been studying him, thinking about him.

  “You’re not going to tell me what your theory is, are you.”

  He finished the rest of his coffee. “Not yet. First we need proof that we’re on the right track. As soon as I get dressed, we’ll have breakfast, then drive to your house so you can pack and do whatever you have to do.

  “By that time we’ll be able to make phone calls without waking people up. The first person I want to talk to is Mrs. Winegar, the teacher Amy referred to. The one who gave her the diary.”

  “I think she made up that name, along with everything else, Gideon.”

  “If that’s true, then the more lies we can prove, the more a real picture of Amy will emerge. Tell me something. When you were younger, did you ever get one of those kits where you paint a picture by number? All the threes were yellow, all the fours were blue, et cetera?”

  Heidi nodded.

  “Well, that’s the way I look at suspects during an investigation. In the beginning, they’re a colorless shape waiting to come to life. As I learn about a fact or a memory, I fill in a space. Then I uncover a lie and fill in another space. One lie often leads to another. The picture starts to come together until I gradually arrive at the truth.”

  Silence followed and her eyes searched his for a moment.

  “You just said ‘suspects,’” she finally said. “But Amy was the victim!”

  Again it gratified him that she was such a quick study; still, he couldn’t resist teasing her.

  “Now you’ve disappointed me.”

  She looked crestfallen. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve broken the first rule Daniel Mcfarlane wrote on your blackboard.”

  Deciding to let her think about that for a while, Gideon stood up from the table. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent down to kiss the side of her neck. “If you want to start breakfast while I get ready, you won’t hear any complaints from me.”

  Halfway down the hall he heard footsteps behind him. “Gideon…” She followed him into his bedroom and stepped in front of him so he’d have to stop and face her.

  “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you believe Amy staged her own death to make it look like Dana murdered her.”

  “Ms. Ellis? You go to the head of the class.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Then…then she had to be out of her mind!”

  “Maybe she suffered from true mental illness. It’s an avenue we’re going to explore. We’ll also find out if she was a drug user whose world became too distorted for her to behave rationally.”

  Heidi groaned. “I never thought of drugs. There would’ve been evidence of that—right?”

  It was apparent that Heidi didn’t know there’d been no autopsy. Dana and the Turners had done a good job of keeping her uninformed. Gideon decided not to say anything about it just yet.

  “They might not be a factor, but we won’t rule anything out. Can you arrange a meeting with the Turners today? We’ll need all the help they can give us.”

  “I’ll call them right now. They won’t have gone to work yet. When they find out you’re investigating the case, I know they’ll be so thankful they’ll do anything they can.” She hurried out of the bedroom.

  Gideon headed for the shower, anxious to find the proof that would free Dana from prison. The day that happened, her life would begin again. And so would his. However, he wasn’t going to complain about the present. Heidi had already spent one night under his roof. Even if she hadn’t been in his bed.

  SECOND PERIOD at Las Palmas Middle School had already started by the time Heidi and Gideon entered the front office. She and Dana had been students here when it was still a junior high. Except for updated technology, nothing seemed to have changed about the place since.

  The secretary looked up from her computer.

  “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m Heidi Ellis, the teacher from Mesa Junior High who called you about an hour ago trying to locate an English teacher named Mrs. Winegar. This is Detective Poletti with the San Diego criminal-investigations department.”

  “How do you do,” the other woman said. “After you phoned, I asked anyone on staff who came by the office this morning if they recalled the name. Two of the teachers have been here for thirty years. They said they’d never heard of her. I’m sorry.”

  “Lie number one verified,” Gideon whispered as his hand slid up Heidi’s back. “What now, Sherlock?”

  She could scarcely concentrate with him touching her.

  “We appreciate your help. Does the school keep old yearbooks on file? We’d like to look at a couple of them.”

  “I believe Mr. Delgado has them locked in the large storage closet behind his counter. He runs the media center. It’s midway down the next hall on your right. I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”

  “Thank you. Oh,” Heidi said, “could we have a printout of your current staff with their room assignments? I once went to school here. If it turns out those yearbooks we’re looking for are missing, I’d like to be able to talk to the teachers whose names I still recognize.”

  “Help yourself from that stack at the end of the counter. We leave them out for parents.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Gideon moved his hand to her waist as he ushered her out of the office. “Congratulations,” he murmured.

  “You’re starting to think like a detective. I’m impressed.”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” she teased, but his compliment brought her great pleasure. “Any sleuthing skills I’ve got have been developed by necessity in order to survive my own particular jungle.”

  He was still laughing at her remark as they walked into the media center, which was filled with students. The man at the counter waved them over.

  “Mr. Delgado?”

  “Good morning. The office told me you were on your way. I’ve pulled out the yearbooks for the past decade. You’d bette
r come into my office to look at them.”

  His office was no more than a cubicle, but at least it was private. He brought in an extra chair and closed the door for them.

  Heidi searched through the pile until she found the yearbooks that would have covered Amy’s seventh and eighth grades. She handed one to Gideon and took the other. They leafed through them until they located her pictures.

  “She and Dana don’t bear a strong resemblance to each other,” Gideon said.

  “No,” Heidi agreed. “When you meet the Turners, you’ll notice they’re blond and kind of short. Dana looks more like her grandmother on her father’s side.”

  “Let’s check faculty names against the ones on the printout.”

  Heidi put the paper between them. After a thorough scrutiny, she said, “I can only find four teachers from either yearbook who are still working here. None are English teachers. I have no idea if any of them even taught her.”

  Gideon pressed a swift kiss to her lips. “Let’s drive to the district office. They can look up her records and print them out for us. We’ll also ask for the names of her former teachers.”

  They thanked Mr. Delgado, then left the building and headed for the education office. Seeing a detective at work was a revelation. All Gideon had to do was flash his credentials and everyone scurried to accommodate his requests. Within the hour they had a list of every teacher who’d taught Amy, including their current teaching status and their schools, if they were still working in the district.

  “It looks like her seventh-grade English teacher was a Ms. Ferron. That’s not a name I remember.”

  “According to this, the woman’s not working in this district anymore. I’ll call headquarters. They’ll find her. In the meantime let’s go back to Las Palmas and talk to Mr. Finch, the shop teacher. He’s the one person who’s still there and taught Amy.”

  They returned to the school, timing their arrival between classes.

  When they’d introduced themselves, the older man lifted his safety goggles to get a better look at Gideon’s credentials. “Amy Turner, you say? Yes, I remember her. It’s a terrible tragedy—being murdered by her own sister.”

  His comment sent a shudder through Heidi’s body. Gideon pulled her closer.

  “I’m not at all certain her sister was the culprit, Mr. Finch. That’s why we’re here asking questions. Tell us your impression of Amy. It could be very important.”

  “Well…” The other man scratched his head. “She was on the quiet side. Kind of lived in her own world. No friends to speak of in my class, but that’s not unusual, considering only a small percentage of girls sign up for shop.

  “Amy never caused any trouble. But there was one thing I do recall. Every year before summer recess, the kids make pendulum clocks to give their dads on Father’s Day. She did a nice job on hers, but I found it in the room hidden behind some equipment after school closed. That’s the only thing about her that stands out in my mind.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of information we need,” Gideon assured him. “If I may ask one more question—did you notice anything about her behavior that would lead you to believe she took drugs?”

  Mr. Finch shook his head. “No. Generally the kids on drugs have noticeable mood swings. You can spot them right off because they don’t handle the machinery and equipment properly when they’re under the influence.”

  At that point the bell rang and the students reappeared. It became impossible to compete with the din of the machines.

  Gideon reached out to shake the teacher’s hand. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Anytime.”

  They walked slowly out of the school, both of them silent.

  “What do you think?” Gideon asked on the way to the car.

  “I keep wondering about Amy’s warped view of her life. Dr. Turner is such a kind, extraordinary man, who thought the world of his daughters. I never saw him show either one of them anything but love. He would have cherished that clock.”

  “You and I might know that, but it’s obvious from the diaries that jealousy of Dana had a stranglehold on Amy from an early age. With her perception so twisted, I would guess she had serious doubts about her own worth.”

  “For as long as I can remember, Dana was aware of Amy’s sensitivity. She always tried not to hurt her feelings. And she made a real effort to give her encouragement and recognition.”

  “That probably angered Amy further.”

  “You’re right.”

  No sooner had he helped her into the car than his cell phone rang. “It’s headquarters getting back to me.”

  Heidi glanced at her watch. The Turners were expecting them at one. That gave them two hours to track down the English teacher. While she waited, she noticed Gideon jotting a number on his notepad.

  “Barbara Ferron is now Barbara Lowell. This is a home phone number. Let’s hope she’s there.”

  He punched in the digits, and to her relief he began talking to someone. The next thing she knew, she heard him say they’d be there shortly.

  His face broke out in a satisfied smile as he turned off his phone and started the car. “The Lowells now have two children. She hasn’t taught since she left Las Palmas six years ago. They recently moved into a new block of condos in City Heights. It shouldn’t take us long to get there.”

  “Oh, Gideon…”

  He reached for her hand. “I know what you’re feeling. When you’ve got a strong hunch about a case, you’re impatient for everything to fall into place.”

  She squeezed his fingers, then released them. “I can see how you could lose yourself in chasing down leads.”

  He nodded. “For some of the guys it becomes an addiction. It can play havoc with marriage and family life. Last year I worked on a special task force with Max. It cut down on the time I could spend with Kevin. I suspect that’s contributed to the problems he’s having now. As a result, I vowed I’d never put duty before family again.”

  She bowed her head. “In Kevin’s eyes, your spending time with me is as threatening to him as any task force.”

  Gideon placed his hand on her thigh. The touch sent a current of desire through her. “We’ll just keep including him and reassuring him until the threat is gone.”

  That was easier said than done, but she’d fallen under Gideon’s spell and wanted to believe him. When they were within touching distance, anything seemed possible.

  She couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She was in love with him. No matter what the future held, she knew with certainty that there could never be anyone else.

  THE LIVING ROOM of Barbara Lowell’s small condo looked like an advertisement for baby paraphernalia. She had a cute two-year-old who clung to the webbing of the playpen, watching them. But Gideon’s eyes were drawn over and over to the sight of Heidi as she cradled the woman’s nine-month-old infant in her arms. It made him hunger for things he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years.

  The woman, who appeared to be in her early thirties, sat down on a chair opposite the couch.

  “Detective Poletti? I have to tell you that when you mentioned Amy Turner’s name, it really gave me a jolt.”

  “Because of her murder?”

  “That, too, of course, but I was thinking more of the year I taught her. It was my first—and only—teaching experience. Seasoned teachers told me it would be tough. With a student like Amy, I soon learned they weren’t exaggerating.

  “To be honest, I was glad to get married and move to Texas with Gary. We’ve only been back here since July. Even when my kids are older, I’m not sure I’ll return to teaching.” She sighed. “Anyway, as I said, I only taught one year, so the memories are still pretty vivid.”

  “Tell us what you remember about Amy.”

  “I believe she was a very troubled girl.”

  “In what way?”

  “As far as I could tell, she had virtually no self-esteem. It permeated her writing. The very first assignment she han
ded in actually alarmed me. I thought it might be a joke. Because I was so new to teaching, I feared I couldn’t see it for what it really was, so I showed it to the school psychologist.

  “She agreed Amy might have serious emotional problems, but one sample wasn’t enough to raise a red flag. She might be trying to shock me, or perhaps it was a cry for attention. I agreed both reasons could apply in her case.

  “The psychologist told me to watch for more of the same. If a pattern developed, then I should come to her again.”

  “What was the assignment?”

  “I asked the students to write a story about themselves that would be put in a time capsule to be read fifty years from now. I emphasized that the only history available to people half a century later would be what they gleaned from the kids’ stories. Therefore, the students needed to reveal the essence and richness of their lives and culture.”

  “What did she write?”

  “She handed in a short paragraph, badly written, that basically said life sucks and her family hates her.” Gideon exchanged glances with Heidi. “I corrected the papers and handed them back. On Amy’s paper I wrote a note, asking her to see me after school.

  “I told her she’d missed the point of the assignment, and I insisted she try again. In an effort to encourage her, I gave her some examples to study. Her second attempt was no improvement, and for the rest of the year she handed in mostly failing assignments that were very dark in content.

  “Neither of her parents could come to the conferences, but we talked on the phone, which was fine. They said they’d noticed a change in her over the summer and had put her in private counseling. Knowing the Turners were trying to get on top of the problem, I felt relieved. But nothing ever really changed.”

  The baby started to fuss. As Heidi handed her back to the mother, she said, “By any chance did you require your students to keep a journal?”

  “No. The English department had dropped that project from the curriculum the year before I was hired.”

  “From an academic standpoint, how would you judge Amy’s English?”

  “The first thing the psychologist and I did was check SAT scores. Hers were below average. Her writing resembled a fifth-grader’s. But that was true for a number of the students.”