“I remember. When you figured we could add a little brown sugar, it helped with the flavor some. We didn’t use much, because it was expensive.” Carl smiled and squeezed Linda’s hand. “We’ve paid for Shelly’s college education and gave them a place to stay when they needed it. We also paid for their wedding. That’s about all we can do,” Carl said. “They’ll be stronger for it. We certainly are.”
“Detectives, we had nothing when we got married. I got a job out of high school and worked as a waitress.” Linda’s eyes glistened. “My parents could have helped us, but they didn’t. My father didn’t agree with my choices and chose not to help. My mother went along with whatever he said.”
“And my parents didn’t have much. Bless their hearts for offering, though. You see, I’ve always worked with my hands. Learned from my father. I’ve done a lot of upgrades to this house, and it’s worth four times what we paid for it. I built this sunroom.”
Bernie and I looked around us at the light and bright room. The oak hardwood floors gleamed. Fresh-cut flowers in the corners added a touch of nature, making it a relaxing place to be without the overly floral scent permeating the air. A long bench with thick yellow and white striped cushions ran along a stretch of wide windows overlooking the backyard. I could see myself reading in the white wicker rocking chair in the corner.
“I’m sorry. We don’t mean to preach. It’s something we feel passionately about.” Linda smiled. “We tried to teach her that there’s nothing wrong with going without some things until you can afford them.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. I glanced at my watch. “You said they’d be back soon. Do you have any idea where they went?”
Linda’s gaze slid to Carl, then she shrugged. “I don’t. Do you, honey?”
“They said they’d be back before lunch.” He looked at the rooster wall clock. “It’s past that now, so no, I don’t know when they’ll be back or where they went. Those kids don’t tell me everything, and to be honest, I don’t want to know.”
I liked down-to-earth people, especially ones who got to the point. I liked her, too.
Well, that settled that. Time to go, then. I shoved my chair back. “It was nice meeting you both.” I handed business cards to them as I shook their hands. I’d written Theresa’s name and number on the back of the cards, as well. I told the Simons they may be hearing from her.
Bernie grabbed the recorder they’d been eyeballing on and off since he’d set it on the table, and I thought I heard a sigh of relief coming from them. Bernie said his goodbyes, and we took off.
I turned to Bernie as I buckled myself in. “Any thoughts on that conversation?”
“Shelly and Jake lied about where they were getting the money to rent another house.”
“If her mom and dad were telling the truth—and I have no reason to believe they weren’t—the ‘kids’ weren’t getting any cash from them.” Shelly and Jake were only a couple of years younger than I was, and I didn’t consider myself a kid. But maybe my parents still did when they spoke about me to their friends.
Bernie put the car in gear and headed down the street. “Not that they were obligated to, but at least they paid for college.”
“And the wedding. Don’t forget about that. How about lunch?”
“Let’s go to Denny’s.” He hung a right at the stop sign.
Bernie had devoured a cheeseburger with shredded carrots and cucumbers on it the last time we ate there. Well, at least he consumed more fiber and veggies, which I’ve always encouraged.
“Sure, I’m starving.” On the drive there, I called Theresa, updating her on our conversation with the Simons. I told her I’d given them her phone number, as well. She indicated she’d follow up with the Miltons on the money issue. If I believed their story, the fact that they hadn’t asked her for updates perplexed me.
Bernie picked a parking space in the far corner of the Denny’s lot. I spotted Jennifer Moore with a group of people. I thought of Shelly Milton and wondered how she felt about her parents’ lack of monetary assistance. I wouldn’t expect my parents to help me, but did she? I believed she would. As an only child of parents who had the means to pay for college and a wedding, she might have also expected them to help her get the money together for a place to live—at least a little.
Jennifer rushed toward us as we crossed the lot on our way to the entrance. “Hey, Sydney Valentine!” She moved with a surprising amount of energy and grace, like a dancer. “Detective Valentine!” She waved at me then turned to Bernie and smiled. “Hello.”
Bernie returned the smile. “Hello, Jennifer.”
“Jennifer, how are you?” I asked.
She’d cleaned herself up some. She even had a bit of makeup on. What was that about?
“Good. Look, I’ve been thinking about that picture you showed me. The one of the dead girl?”
“Yes, I remember.” I pulled the photo from my pocket. “This one.”
Jennifer took it from my grasp and pointed at the girl’s face. “It’s hard to tell, but she reminds me of a girl I used to see at my cousin’s house.” She handed the photo back.
“Who’s your cousin?” I had my notebook, ready to write.
Bernie had his, too.
She held her hand out then looked at her cohorts. Oh, I see. I retrieved five dollars from my pocket and gave it to her.
She folded it and shoved it in her bra. “Shelly Miller.” She spun on her heel and took a few steps away from us.
“Whoa. Wait a minute.” I hurried after her, grabbing her skinny arm.
She jerked away. “What? I gave you the name of my cousin. I don’t know her address or phone number.”
“Jennifer, are you sure that’s her name? It’s important.”
She narrowed her eyes, looked to the sky, and bit her bottom lip. “She got married a couple of years ago.”
“Milton?” Bernie asked.
“Yes!” She jumped up and down, smiling. “That’s it! I hadn’t seen her much since we were teenagers. The last time was when she got married.”
“What was her last name before she got married?” I asked, just to be sure we had the right one.
“Simon. Her initials were ‘SS’ before she got married. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Right. How are you and Shelly cousins?” I asked.
“Our mothers are sisters. Sometimes, Aunt Linda used to babysit me when my parents were too busy. They were always too busy for me. Shelly and I had sleepovers a lot at her house. I don’t think she was at our house since she was five or six.” She laughed uneasily. “I used to wish my aunt and uncle were my parents.”
What the hell? I hoped the surprise didn’t show on my face. “Have you seen your mom and dad since the last time I saw you?”
Scowling, she took a step back. “Why?”
“Just wondered.”
“They’re worried about you,” Bernie said.
She scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” I asked.
“You don’t know them like I do. They’re worried about how it looks to their friends. You know, to have a kid who isn’t a college graduate—with a regular job.” She mocked her mother’s voice when she said the last part, and I found it eerily spot on.
There’s that word kid again. “Jennifer, did you finish high school?”
“What do you think? I thought you talked to my parents. To my mom.”
“I did. She seemed worried.”
“I told you. It’s not about me. It’s what other people think that matters to them, especially my mom. I wanted to be a performer. An actress, singer, and dancer. They wanted me to be a corporate puppet.”
“There are places you can go for help,” Bernie said.
“Don’t you think I know that?” She glanced at her group. “Is that it?” She held out her hand for more cash.
I shook my head. “Thanks, Jennifer. It helps.” I watched her shuffle over to her friends, the energetic prancing gone. We’d ru
ined her day with all of the talk about her parents. I felt a twinge of guilt about that.
We made our way into the restaurant and took our seats. Bernie ordered orange juice, sunny-side-up eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns. I hesitated but got the blueberry pancakes—a ton of calories.
“Well? Cousins?” I dipped a fluffy pancake chunk in gooey blueberry compote, speared a berry, and popped it all in my mouth. Delicious.
“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” Bernie smeared a triangular toast slice in the runny yolk, swiping a clear trail on the plate. He bit the toast and swiped again. I tried not to watch, but as if I were driving past an auto accident, I just had to look.
“While talking to Shelly or Jake, did you ever get the feeling they knew they were renting her aunt and uncle’s house?” I asked.
“Nope. Not at all. If Shelly hadn’t been there since kindergarten or first grade, she might not remember. I can’t remember places I’ve been from that long ago, even family members’ homes. What about her parents? They didn’t seem to know much about the transaction.”
“And didn’t want to know. They didn’t ask, either.”
We finished our meal, split the check, and rolled out of the lot. I pulled out my notebook to read my notes on the way back to the station. My cell phone rang, and I checked the caller ID. Mrs. Moore. Well, what do you know? “It’s Mrs. Moore.”
“We should head over there anyway.”
I nodded then answered the phone. “We were planning to give you a call or stop by.” Mrs. Moore told me she would be home in half an hour. I agreed to be there soon.
“What did she say?” Bernie stopped at a red light and glanced at me as he drummed on the steering wheel to the beat of the music in his head.
“She said they’re wanting to get their house sold soon. Since we were talking about Jane Doe, I figured we should go talk to her.”
Bernie made a U-turn then went toward the 10 east, on our way to Palm Springs. We might get more information on Jane Doe if Mrs. Moore took another look at the photo.
Chapter Twenty-One
We pulled up to the curb outside the Moores’ home in Palm Springs. I hopped out of the car—and stepped into an oven. I hurried to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Moore opened the door before Bernie made it up the walk. What the heck was he doing? I looked back to see him sliding his phone into his back pocket. Oh, that.
“Come in, Detectives.” She ushered us in and shut the door.
We followed her into another room. A pitcher of iced tea and three glasses with lemon slices clinging to the rims sat on the table. Smoothing the front of a charcoal-colored skirt, she eased into a white chair upholstered in a fabric that resembled burlap. Bernie and I took the matching sofa.
She reached for the pitcher. “I know I’m parched. How about you?” She looked up as she poured. Although late in the afternoon, her crisp white top looked fresh, as if she’d just put it on.
“Yes, please.” Bernie set the recorder on the table.
“Me, too. Thank you,” I said.
Mrs. Moore handed us our tea then leaned back in the chair with hers, crossing her legs. Her ankles were so thin, I wondered why they didn’t snap when she stood. She had defined muscles in her calves, though. “Do you have news for me?” She peered over the rim of her glass as she sipped.
“We’d like you to take another look at the photo I showed you previously.” I handed her the photo of Jane Doe.
She held it as if something inappropriate covered it. She hadn’t done that when I’d showed it to her before. She shook her head then handed it back.
“Are you sure you don’t know her? Never saw her before?” I asked.
“I’m quite sure. What is this about?” Her brow furrowed. She set her glass down, uncrossing her legs.
“Do you have any other family members besides your husband and Jennifer?” Bernie asked.
“I have two sisters. My parents are deceased.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“What are your sisters’ names?” I asked.
“May I ask what brought about this sudden interest in my family?” She gazed at us as she squeezed the juice of a lemon slice into her tea.
My phone vibrated inside my pocket. I removed it and glanced at the number. Monica Stewart. I let it go to voicemail.
“We’re still investigating, and we’ve recently been made aware of some issues,” I said.
“What type of—”
I held up a finger. “Before you ask, I can’t tell you what the issues are because the investigation is ongoing.”
“Wait. Am I a suspect?”
Everyone is a suspect. “As I said previously, we’re still at the investigative stage. At this time, we must consider all information and go from there. Who are your sisters?”
She sighed. “All right. My sisters are Linda and Sylvia. Linda Simon and Sylvia Frakes. Does that help?”
More than you know.
Bernie had stopped writing.
I tried to organize this new information and relate it to what we already knew. “How many children have Linda and Sylvia had?”
She’d been looking down, stirring her tea. She gazed at me as she continued to stir with a glass straw. The ice chunks clinked against the glass. “I must say, it seems to me that you already know the answers to the questions you’re asking.”
“Yet, I’d still like a response.”
She inhaled deeply and let it out, as if speaking required too much effort. “Linda has a daughter, Shelly. Sylvia doesn’t have any children. She’s ambitious and money hungry. She always said she thought of her career as her baby. I have one niece. No nephews.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She looked at her watch. “Do you have any information on what happened at our home? With that girl? When can we get back in the house?”
Hunh. That girl. People could be so cold. “I’m sorry, but we don’t know exactly what happened yet. We’ll let you know when we do.”
“And the gardener? I’m sure the yard is overgrown by now. It doesn’t take long.”
“You’ll be notified when we’re done. It won’t be much longer.”
“Thank you. I’ll let Sylvia know so that they can continue showing it. Did you ever find out what happened to the lockbox and real estate agency sign?”
“Well, no. The death investigation would take priority. If we run across them during our investigation, we’ll let you know. I’m sure the agency can provide you with another sign and lockbox in the meantime.”
She flipped her wrist again, glanced at her watch, and sighed. “Is there anything else?”
Bernie shook his head then packed up the recorder and notebook. “I think that’s about it for now.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Moore.” I pulled out my phone.
She showed us to the door, and we stepped outside into the heat.
Bernie turned around. “Mrs. Moore, are you and your sisters close?”
“Define ‘close.’”
“Do you get together for the holidays? Do you have family gatherings?” Bernie asked.
“I see them around the Christmas and Thanksgiving holidays.”
“Did you go to your niece’s wedding?” I asked.
“Yes, I did. It was lovely.”
“All right. We’ll be in touch if we have any news or questions,” Bernie said.
We hit the road with Bernie driving. I listened to my voicemail. Monica Stewart had left a message, informing me she had attended Vincent Frakes’s funeral today. She commented that Sylvia had attended and didn’t seem to be too upset. She asked if there had been any progress in the investigation of his death. I updated Bernie on everything she told me.
I gazed out the window and thought about what we’d learned. We’d made several connections but none to Jane Doe. “Let’s go back to the Simons’ now that we know Sylvia and Joan are Linda’s sisters.”
An hour later, Bernie and I were sitting in the Simons’ living room. Linda
Simon placed her bifocals on her face and gazed at the photo of Jane Doe she was holding. She shook her head. “I don’t know. She kind of looks like my daughter. It looks like somebody beat her up. I mean she’s young and blond like Shelly. I guess that’s the only similarity. It’s hard to tell.” She handed the picture to Carl. “What do you think?”
“I think I’ve seen her before. A long time ago. I just don’t know.” He looked at me. “She’s dead?” He laid the picture on the table and slid it away from him but continued to gaze at it.
I nodded. “We’re trying to locate anyone who may have known her.”
Linda picked up the picture, held it to her face, squinting, then looked at Carl. “You’re right. She does look familiar, but I can’t place her, either. Maybe she has one of those faces. You know? But, like I said, it’s hard to tell.” She chewed on her lip and looked at me. “Is this the only picture you have of her?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry, but that’s all we have.”
“I don’t think I know her,” Carl said. “She looks to be about the same age as Shelly. What happened to her? It looks like she went a few rounds too many. Or maybe a car accident. I’ve seen people who survived car accidents and looked like that. Broken nose, swelling, and bruises.”
“We’re investigating what may have happened to her,” I said.
Linda gasped. “Is she the one who was found in the house the kids were supposed to be moving into?”
“Yes, she’s the victim.”
She shook her head. “So sad. Her parents must be worried sick about her. Has nobody reported her missing?”
“Not yet.”
“You thought she resembled Shelly. Do you have other family members?” I asked.
“None her age,” Carl said. “And if I did, I would’ve thought about that when I saw the picture and I would’ve told you she looked like a family member.”
I turned my attention to Linda. “What about you?”
“I don’t have any family members her age,” she said.
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 35