I took the picture and Sabrina gave her a hug, then walked with her to her family’s table. She talked to them for about five minutes before returning, and we headed out the door.
“Too bad you couldn’t just meet people like her,” I said. “You wouldn’t have the trust issues you have.”
“I wish there were more people like her. She had a nice family, too.”
We exited the elevator on our floor and I was reaching for my key card when someone jumped out from one of the recessed doorways and grabbed Sabrina’s wrist, while pointing a pistol at me.
“Why were you visiting Daisy’s daughter?” he said to Sabrina, pulling her closer to him.
Bad move. By doing so he exposed his arm in front of her body. Sabrina yanked and twisted the wrist he was holding, pulling him off balance and turning his arm so that his elbow was facing her. Using her free arm, she came down hard on his elbow with the solid bone of her forearm. I heard his elbow make a sickening snap. He screamed and dropped the gun from his free hand. He fell to the floor, rolling in agony.
Doors up and down the hall opened and heads peeked around the corners of the recessed doorways.
“Could someone call security for us?” I asked.
The man in the closest doorway nodded and went back into his room.
Our assailant had made an almost fatal move. He held the gun on me, assuming that as the man, I was the more dangerous of the two of us. Frankly, I was ready to wet my pants. Sabrina was the one he needed to be afraid of, and he learned it the hard way. He was trying to rise shakily to his feet, his bad arm hanging down by his side. Sabrina kicked him behind his knee and he flopped back to the floor.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said.
I once asked Sabrina how she could be so meek and mild most of the time and yet be able to explode with violence as she just had. She had explained that while in prison she was taught the most effective methods of self-defense—the things that could really do some damage. They weren’t fancy and there was nothing choreographed about them. They were quick, simple, and devastating. Mostly, she had said, it was a mindset. You had to be willing to kill. In this case, the assailant had broken two of Sabrina’s cardinal rules: he had touched her, and he had pointed a gun at me. He had put us both in danger. The guy didn’t stand a chance.
“Why are you interested in where we were?” Sabrina asked him. “And who’s Daisy?”
She added the last line to try to throw him off, to create a little doubt in his mind that he had targeted the right people.
It worked. Through his tears he gave Sabrina a puzzled expression.
“Veronica’s mother,” he said hoarsely.
“Didn’t know she had a mother,” responded Sabrina. “We are just old acquaintances in town for the day.”
Security hadn’t yet come, so I took his wallet from his back pocket and checked his license. His name was listed as Lester Rhodes, and he had a Pittsburgh address. I put the license back in his wallet and the wallet back in his pants.
By now we had quite a crowd around us. I kicked his gun closer to us so no one would be tempted to pick it up.
Now Lester was apologizing to Sabrina.
“I was given some bum information. I’m sorry. I thought you knew her mother.”
“And what would you have done if I did know her?”
The man just shook his head. He was done talking.
Someone from the crowd called out, “Hey, aren’t you Sabrina Spencer? The author who was in prison?”
I felt like picking up the gun and shooting the idiot.
Lester looked up at Sabrina and his face took on a nasty smile.
“I thought so,” he said quietly. “You did know Daisy.”
He sat up and motioned for us to move closer, out of hearing range of our audience. We got closer, but not too close.
He whispered, “You’re both dead.”
Chapter 5
Security arrived a few moments later and the police about ten minutes after that. The security guys had us explain what happened, but we kept it to the bare minimum knowing that the cops would be asking the same questions.
Lester, of course, refused to answer any questions and remained silent while the paramedics examined him and eventually took him away, accompanied by a couple of officers.
The detective in charge took our names. When Sabrina gave hers, he cocked his head, as if trying to place it. Then he smiled.
“The mystery writer?”
She nodded.
“My wife has read all of your books. She says you always treat the police well. We’re not idiots in your books, like in so many detective novels. That makes you okay by me. So what happened?”
We had a choice to make: give the full story or gloss it over to keep Daisy out of it. But really, what was the point? We had no idea what was going on, so Sabrina went ahead and told him the little bit we knew, including Lester’s comment that we were dead.
Meanwhile, the hallway behind the police tape was packed with gawkers, all with their smart phones glued to their faces, getting shots of Sabrina from every angle possible. The pictures and videos were probably already going viral on Twitter and Facebook. The news agencies would be next. As the interview progressed, Sabrina was getting more and more agitated. We were far enough away from the crowd so they couldn’t hear, but still too close for Sabrina’s liking. Finally I stepped in and asked the detective if we could move the interview to a private area. He agreed and transferred the circus to a meeting room on the third floor.
All in all, the whole process was fairly painless, undoubtedly due to Sabrina. Had it been me alone, they’d have locked me in a basement with bright lights and rubber hoses. We gave the story straight, starting with the little we knew of Daisy’s murder, our visit to her daughter, and ending with the safe-deposit box.
The detective took it all seriously, but, with so little to go on, all he could tell us was to be careful. Well, duh.
While they were finishing up the interview with Sabrina, I went down to the front desk to ask for a different room on a different floor to get away from all the cameras—and the people behind the cameras. The front desk staffers were very obliging, especially when they realized that I was with the world famous Sabrina Spencer. I was beginning to feel really sorry for her. Was book writing worth all this?
As I turned away from the counter and headed for the elevator, a news truck pulled up outside. No wondering what they were there for.
I got back to the conference room just as the interview finished. I gave Sabrina the key card to the new room and told her I’d grab the stuff from the old room. Half the police force offered to accompany her to the room, “for protection, just in case.” The cops told the hotel security to accompany me back to our first room. The security guys didn’t look happy.
The hallway was still alive with camera-happy guests, all of whom were obviously disappointed not to see Sabrina. I quickly gathered our belongings—luckily we had packed lightly, anticipating a quick trip—and the two men escorted me to our new room. I went in, closed the door behind me, and leaned heavily against it, breathing a sigh of relief.
I looked up to see Sabrina sitting on the end of the bed, tears streaming down her face.
“I hate this,” she said.
I sat down next to her and put my arm around her.
“Which part?” I asked.
“All of it. The publicity, the added attention from the police because of who I am, but most of all, what it’s doing to you. I know this is hard for you. You run interference for me, you get totally ignored when people see me, and I may have put your life in danger.” She looked at me through her tears. “I don’t want you to leave me because it’s all too much for you.”
I enveloped her in my arms and kissed her deeply. When we came up for air, I said, “You are the best thing that ever happened to me in all my life, so don’t ever worry about me. I love you. I’m not going anywhere … ever. As far as the other stuf
f, don’t forget, I got you involved in our last adventure.”
“Well, it was my choice.”
“As is this for me. For both of us, really. We could go home right now and forget about Daisy, but we won’t. It’s too exciting. As for the other stuff, I really don’t mind being ignored. It’s kind of funny, really. But here’s my question to you: do you like writing your books?”
“I love it!”
“Then all the rest is just background noise. Keep doing what you’re doing. At some point all of this will die down and people will forget what you look like. Or you’ll get old and wrinkly and no one will care who you are.”
She hit me with a pillow, then kissed me.
*****
The next morning, we made it out of the hotel, to the airport, and even onto the plane without Sabrina being recognized. It was an early flight, so maybe people were just tired and hadn’t yet had their morning coffee.
We had to go through Chicago, changing planes to a Dallas-bound flight to get a third plane to get to Lubbock. It was a pain in the butt, but Sabrina only got recognized a half dozen times in the three hours we were stuck in Chicago, so we considered it a victory of sorts. At Dallas, we only had a half hour layover, so that wasn’t bad. We just prayed that Lubbock would make it all worth it.
It wouldn’t.
It was a dusty town. Maybe all towns in Texas are dusty. Since it was my first trip to Texas, I had nothing to compare it to. I had a feeling though, that for my first foray into Texas, I hadn’t picked the garden spot of the state.
It was flat. I’m not sure I was expecting that. As we flew into the city, I could see farmland all around, as well as grain elevators. Sabrina, who loved to look up the places we were visiting online, informed me that Lubbock was a large cotton-growing area. I had seen enough. It was time to go home. We got off the plane and left the airport only to wilt in the heat. The guy at the car rental counter informed us that it felt like mid-summer, despite the fact that it was only spring.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at the bank, but early enough to get in before they closed. It was a small no-name bank tucked in the middle of a shopping plaza. We approached the teller in the empty lobby and I asked for the safe deposit section. The woman chuckled at my request.
“Honey,” she said with a Texas drawl, “you’re looking at her. I’m the teller, safe deposit box lady, trash collector, and official greeter. In fact, we both are.” She motioned to a small woman counting money at the only other teller counter in the place. “What can I help you with?”
Again, there was no reason to lie, so Sabrina gave her the truth—minus most of the story, of course.
“An old friend of mine recently died and left me a key to a box. She wanted me to empty it. I never made out a signature card, but supposedly the friend put me on the list.”
“Not a problem. Go to the door at the end of the counter and I’ll buzz you in. What name is the box under?”
“Daisy Leduc.”
“Daisy Duck?”
“Leduc.”
“Oh.” She stopped and looked at her counter-mate. “Wasn’t she in here yesterday getting something from her box?”
The woman looked up behind giant Coke bottle glasses that had to be an inch thick. They must not have been strong enough, because she still squinted.
“Leduc. Yup. Yesterday.”
A real chatterbox, that one.
Sabrina and I glanced at each other in alarm.
The first woman unlocked the door and let us in, leading us to the back. Now she was eyeing us.
“Did she die today?” she asked suspiciously.
“No,” said Sabrina. “There’s something wrong here. Daisy died three or four days ago. She couldn’t have come in yesterday.”
“I remember her and she wasn’t dead.”
“It wasn’t Daisy.”
The other woman heard the exchange and meandered back to where we were standing.
“I checked her out myself,” she said. “She presented her license and the key to the box.”
“Number 122?”
“That’s the one.”
“Did you look carefully at the license?”
“Lady, I might look blind, but trust me, I can see as well as you so long as I’m wearing these things.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sabrina. “I’m not questioning that. I’m just telling you that Daisy died a few days ago. Whoever came in yesterday was an imposter.”
The two women looked at each other, now showing signs of nervousness.
“Can you describe her?”
“Pretty. Mid thirties. Small. Blonde hair.”
“Daisy was in her fifties and there was nothing attractive about her.”
Teller one looked at teller two and said, “I told you.”
She turned back to us. “After she left, I said to Harriet that I thought I remembered opening that box last year, but I coulda sworn that she was an older woman. Just figured my memory was mixing people up.”
“Everything checked out,” protested Harriet. “Her license, her signature, everything.”
“We’re not blaming you,” I said.
“Maybe we should open the box,” suggested Sabrina, who showed them her ID.
They took us to the box and put in the bank key. Sabrina followed with her key. She pulled out the drawer and opened it.
Empty.
Chapter 6
“I think you should call the police,” I said.
At this point, both women were flustered to the point of inaction. Neither one moved. They kept looking at the empty drawer, the key, the floor, back to the drawer, each other, and then into space.
“The police?” I suggested again.
The first woman, whose name was Marge, finally ran off, saying, “I have to call my manager.”
“The police would be nice, too,” I called out after her.
The next hour was somewhat chaotic. By then it was closing time, and the manager, who showed up about fifteen minutes after being called, locked the door, got a quick recap of the situation, then did the right thing by calling the police, who arrived promptly.
The detective in charge, who introduced himself as George Moody, was smart and efficient, and somewhat of a fashion plate. He wore a starched shirt and tie, with a suit that looked like he hadn’t moved in it all day. Not a wrinkle in sight. But looks were deceiving. He had bags under his eyes that told of someone who was overworked.
After he got the general rundown from the manager, he turned to us. “So what can you tell me? First of all, your names.”
We gave them and he didn’t seem to recognize Sabrina’s name. We related the story from the beginning, holding back nothing. At one point, a light went off and he interrupted.
“Did you say Daisy Leduc?”
We nodded.
“She was murdered a few days ago over in Spur. Is that the one?”
“It is,” answered Sabrina.
“And how did you know her?”
Sabrina hesitated. “We were in prison together.”
Moody raised his eyebrows. “You were in prison?”
“It’s a long story, but yes.”
“You’re the author.” It was blurted out by one of the uniformed officers standing nearby. “I saw your story in ‘People.’”
“Right,” said Moody, who was all business. “Sabrina Spencer. Got it.”
He said to the manager. “I’ll need the video feed from yesterday. We’ll see if we can identify her.” He turned back to us. “I can’t force you to answer this, but it might help. What was in the box?”
“We have no idea,” I said. “She left a cryptic note and indicated it would all be explained by the contents of the box.” We showed him the note and he asked one of the uniforms to make a copy on one of the bank’s printers.
There was nothing more we could do there, so Moody sent us on our way, after getting our cell phone numbers.
“When we get the video of the woman,
I’ll call you in to look at it. Maybe you’ll recognize her.”
“I doubt it,” said Sabrina, “but I would like to know what she looks like.”
“Okay, it’ll be tomorrow sometime.”
As we left the bank, I said, “I guess we should have checked a bag.”
“We’re going shopping,” Sabrina answered. “I’ve run out of clothes.”
Before looking for a hotel, we stopped at a Kohl’s and picked out some clothes. We had no idea how long we’d be stuck in Lubbock, so we made sure we had changes for a few days. We found a nice-looking Marriott and checked in, then hunted around for someplace where we could sit quietly and have an uninterrupted dinner.
Residents of Lubbock must not have been Sabrina Spencer readers, as we were able to have a nice quiet dinner out of the limelight. Well, except for the end, when we were almost killed.
“So what do we do now?” I asked as we ate.
Sabrina shook her head. “I don’t know. That seemed to be our only clue. I’m not ready to give it up, but at the same time, it’s not like we had a lot to go on. We still have no idea what it was she wanted me to know about. How far do you want to go with this?”
I thought back to the research waiting for me at home.
“As far as you want to take it.” Then I had an idea. “Do you think it would help to visit the place she was killed?”
“Can’t hurt. It’s only a couple of hours from here.” She hesitated. “I had another thought, as well. I wonder if Daisy confided anything to Terri. It might be worth asking her.”
“You mean go back to the hellhole you spent six years in?”
“Uh huh.”
“You really think you’re up for that?”
“No.”
“Then we have to seriously consider whether this is worth pursuing.”
“It’s a mystery. I write mysteries.”
“You write fiction.”
“Right, but after our last adventure, I now write nonfiction, too.”
Fatal Lies ( Lies Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Page 3