Deception in Strange Places (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Judy Alter

  I picked at my salad and wondered how to inject a note of reality into this girl’s thinking. “You know, Elisabeth, you can’t write a mystery based on my experiences. You have to use your imagination, create your own stories. That’s what fiction is about.”

  She looked defeated. “I don’t have any ideas.”

  “Read other books. For Pete’s sake, read the newspaper. Do you read a lot of mysteries?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t read much. I don’t have time.”

  I wanted to explode. If she didn’t have time to read, how would she have time to write a novel? Her naiveté was more exasperating than endearing. “How can you write if you don’t read? Okay, I have an assignment for you. Read three mysteries in a week, and then come talk to me.”

  “I don’t even know where to start.” Her big eyes looked at me with confusion.

  I racked my brain. “Read Agatha Christie, Deborah Crombie, and Carolyn Hart.”

  She grabbed her notebook, wrote down the names—asking me to spell them—and returned to her cheeseburger. “Now,” she said, “tell me about the recluse who lives in that big house, and why the man was sitting on her curb.”

  This girl never gave up, and I could see that she could become a pain! Besides how did she know she was a recluse? Had Megan Anderson been telling tales again?

  Chapter Three

  Diane Smith walked into my office unannounced one afternoon. “I’d like to see a real estate agent,” she told Keisha, who almost fell off her chair laughing but avoided saying, “We have only one.” Instead, she said, “That would be Kelly O’Connell. Kelly,” raising her voice, “someone wants to talk to you.”

  I always welcome new clients, so I rose to meet her, showed her my guest chair, and asked if she wanted coffee. She hesitated, as though unsure, and then said, “No, no thank you.”

  I took a moment to study her, hoping it would help in my approach to this total stranger. She was tall, thin, and athletically graceful. Her tailored pantsuit had the look of money, perhaps Neiman Marcus. So did the silk shirt and bulky gold chain beneath the jacket. Her hair was loose and straight but with an excellent cut, and her bag and shoes were both of high quality. This was no poor lady sitting opposite me, and yet she didn’t have the air of self-confidence that graces most women who dress that well. I thought again of Claire who had that air on a much lower budget but made it look like high quality, or Elisabeth Smedley who, young and naïve, still sailed self-confidently through life.

  “I’m Diane Smith.” She held out a hand, which I took and found to be damp and cold. She was obviously nervous about something, and she bit her lip frequently until the carefully applied lipstick was almost gone. “I’m interested in Craftsman houses.”

  “Terrific,” I said, gathering all my enthusiasm. “I have a basic information sheet for new clients. Let’s fill it out together.” I pulled out the sheet and began rattling off questions. Name was no problem, but when I asked for a current address, she said, “I’m staying at the Residence Inn on University.”

  That, to me, was hardly a permanent address, but we continued.

  “How big a house? How big is your family?”

  “Oh, the house is just for me. But I want a two-story.”

  Okay, I noted that. “Do you want one that’s been updated or are you planning to do that yourself? There are of course guidelines to what you should do and not do to the interior, and if the house has a historic marker or you want one, there are guidelines that must be followed.”

  She nodded, but I had the feeling she wasn’t really paying attention.

  “Ah, I…that is…I’ve found a two-story that I’m really interested in.” She told me the address, and I immediately knew it was Ms. Lorna’s house. “I’d like to see the inside.”

  Coincidence is too much for me—I just don’t believe in it. First Ms. Lorna tells me about her daughter, and then Elisabeth Smedley knows a recluse lives in the house, and now this woman is fixated on that house. I stalled with the only answer I could give. “Sorry. That one is most definitely not for sale. I know, because I’ve tried. It’s in bad shape, and I want to redo it. But the owner won’t consider selling.”

  “Even if I make a most generous offer?”

  I shook my head. “No, there’s one very determined lady who lives there. I can show you others, though two-story Craftsman houses don’t come on the market often. But I have one I can show you.”

  She was tentative. “Let me think about it. Maybe another day.” She rose, then seemed to remember her manners and turned back toward me. Holding out her hand again, she said, “Thank you for your time.”

  “May I contact you at the Residence Inn?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, I expect to be there for some time.” And she was gone.

  As the door closed behind her, Keisha said, “You ever wonder about people with the last name of Smith? Too common. I’m bettin’ that’s not her name.”

  “That hadn’t even occurred to me, but something is bothering that lady. She was so nervous and so uncertain.” I doodled on a piece of scrap paper, a sure sign I was considering something. In this case, I suddenly thought Keisha was right. There were too many odd things I couldn’t figure out—it was like one of those connect-the-dots exercises in school, only the dots didn’t form a pattern.

  “Don’t be gettin’ intrigued, Kelly,” Keisha warned.

  Before I could come back with a smart reply, we heard the squeal of breaks, a crash, and the sound of a car peeling away in a hurry.

  Keisha and I ran for the door, colliding with each other as we did. She brushed me aside—hey, she’s bigger than I am—and beat me out of the door. Neither of us thought about locking the office. Once on the street, we saw a knot of people about a block away, and we ran. Keisha amazed me with the speed and grace with which she moved, and she beat me by more than a minute. I was panting; she wasn’t.

  We saw a crumpled figure lying on the sidewalk, surrounded by people, and a lamppost knocked over. One man seemed to have taken charge.

  “Stand back. No one touch her. Ambulance is on its way.”

  I knew this was standard advice—don’t move the victim—but I edged closer. And I recognized Diane Smith, her clothes bloody and torn, her head lying at a funny angle.

  “Does she have a pulse?”

  “Yes,” the man said gruffly. “Weak, but it’s there. Give her air, here!”

  Keisha was questioning people about what happened and a chorus of voices sang out. “Van jumped the curb. Looked like it was aiming for her. Knocked her down, then took out that lamppost as it righted itself onto the street and sped away.”

  So the light post was the crash we heard. But it sounded like a deliberate, targeted hit-and-run. Why would anyone want to run down Diane Smith? Keisha’s supposition that hers was a made-up name made a lot more sense now.

  While we all stood numbly, wringing our hands helplessly, an ambulance and a fire rescue truck roared up simultaneously. Keisha and I knew better than to question the paramedics as they checked her signs, gently put a neck brace on, and then moved her on to a collapsed gurney. But they whisked her away without asking any of us about her identity, what happened, etc. I did see one paramedic pick up her purse, and I wondered if it held information about Diane Smith or who she really was.

  Keisha, who never hesitates a moment, managed to bully her way up to one of the paramedics and ask, “You taking her to JPS?”

  He nodded, and she turned right back to me and said, “Come on, Kelly. We’re going to the county hospital.”

  What I knew about JPS came from personal experience, when Mike was in a bad automobile accident that sent fear into us that he would be permanently disabled and finally left him with only a slight weakness in one leg. But I also knew it was the best trauma center this side of Dallas.

  We didn’t run back to the office. No need. As Keisha said, “It’ll be a while before they tell us anything. If they ever do. I wonder if that poor baby
has any relatives.”

  “Maybe there was a driver’s license or something in her purse,” I offered.

  Striding along at too fast a pace for me, she said, “For Diane Smith or for who she really is?”

  “You’re right. No one would likely have any reason to run down the woman we saw this afternoon. It must have something to do with another identity. Maybe she’s hiding from someone.”

  “Kelly, you let your imagination run away with you. But you know what, this time I think you’re right.”

  My thanks were not gracious.

  And then a question ran through my mind. “If she’s staying at the Residence Inn, that’s not walking distance to the office. She must have driven. Why was she walking down the street?”

  “Maybe because we got lots of good restaurants on Magnolia, and she was hungry,” Keisha offered.

  It didn’t satisfy my curiosity.

  We checked for messages—there were none—and I thought to make sure nothing had been disturbed in the office. “You didn’t lock the office,” I said accusingly.

  Waving a hand, Keisha said, “Neither did you!”

  No more was said about that, but when we went to the parking area behind our building, I noticed a beige Lexus I’d never seen before. Instinct told me that was how Diane Smith had arrived at our office, but we were so intent on getting to the hospital that I didn’t say anything and didn’t wonder any more about why she was walking away, leaving her car behind.

  We went to the trauma center reception desk and asked about Diane Smith. Of course, they told us they had no one by that name.

  “Hit-and-run victim on Magnolia,” I said. “A woman probably in her forties.”

  “Oh, the Jane Doe that just came in. They’re still evaluating. Are you family?”

  “No. But we don’t know that she has any family. Can you call us when some news is available?”

  The woman behind the desk was kind. “She had no identification in her purse, no driver’s license or credit cards although quite a bit of cash. I’ve put it in a safe. Naturally, I can’t release it to you, but we may have to go into details later. Have a seat. Give me a name to call out when we hear something.”

  I told her to call for Kelly. “No family,” I repeated to Keisha as we sat down as far from anybody else as we could.

  “That’s why we’re here. So she’ll know someone cares about her.”

  “She’s probably unconscious, has no idea.”

  Keisha smiled and gave me one of her tolerant looks. “She knows,” she said enigmatically.

  The waiting room was crowded with all kinds of people. Young kids who looked terrified, young couples with anguished faces, perhaps worried about a child or an elderly relative, older people who looked resigned. The whole place smelled of humanity, some of it unwashed, and desperation. I thought about the kind of circumstances that brought people to this sort of last-ditch place, and it made me sad. Keisha and I didn’t have that much emotion invested in Diane Smith’s well-being, but we cared. And I, for one, was beginning to feel determination to connect those dots.

  “If we sit here very long, your imagination will run away with you,” Keisha said.

  “No, I have my phone, and it has my latest book on the Kindle app.”

  “Oh, that’s good, Kelly. Really good. You call Mike yet and ask him to get the girls?”

  “Omigosh, no.” I punched in Mike’s quick-dial number. And immediately got voicemail saying he was unavailable and please leave a message. I did and then, frustrated, I called Claire, who said she’d get the girls and take them home with her. She was grateful for a reason to leave the office early.

  Then I settled down to read, knowing the wait at JPS could be long and tiresome.

  “There’s a McDonald’s here. Think I’ll go get a hamburger,” Keisha announced. “You want one?”

  I shook my head. I did not do fast food. Mike had reformed my culinary tastes.

  While Keisha was gone, Mike called to demand, “And exactly what are you doing at JPS?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you when I get home.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, Keisha’s with me. She just went to get McDonald’s.”

  I could hear a slight sigh of relief. Mike had gone from being cynical about Keisha’s sixth sense to trusting her to look after me, which he thought I usually needed. “Good. Claire and I are going to take the girls to the Grill for supper, but she’s afraid they’ll think she’s the grandmother.”

  “Tell her I said better that than a cougar.” I was laughing as I said it. Mike and Claire had patched up what began as an antagonistic relationship when he truly believed she murdered her husband. Besides, she was a good twenty years older than Mike.

  Keisha arrived just then with a hamburger that smelled pretty darn good and made me realize I was hungry. Into the phone, I said, “Bring me meatloaf, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans? Please?”

  “Okay. Don’t be too late. I don’t like the two of you over there at night.”

  “Neither do I,” I muttered as I ended the call.

  “Neither do you what?” Keisha asked, her hamburger halfway to her mouth for that first delicious bite.

  “Like being here at night. That parking garage is spooky.”

  She patted my hand. “It will be all right.” Then she bit into her hamburger and sighed with obvious satisfaction. I turned back to my Kindle, trying to ignore my empty stomach.

  Time crawled. My book couldn’t hold my attention when a real-life mystery was unfolding in front of me. Keisha and I made small talk, but we didn’t have much to say to each other. She finally busied herself playing with a toddler whose tired-looking mother had run out of patience, and who now shot Keisha looks of gratitude.

  And then I heard a young female voice say, “Well, what are you two doing here? And why didn’t you call me?” Elisabeth Smedley stood in front of me, leather notebook and all.

  I’m pretty sure dismay was obvious on my face as I looked at her, but she didn’t flinch. She just stood waiting, her attitude hands-on-the hips demanding.

  Why does she feel entitled to be part of things? I was sincerely puzzled. “How did you know we were here?” I asked, standing up because I thought I could confront better at eye level. If Keisha would only stand up she would dominate, being lots taller than Elisabeth.

  “I called the office and got no answer, so I called your house. Your husband said you wouldn’t be home for a while because you were in the trauma waiting room at JPS. So I high-tailed it over here.” Unfazed by my eye-level confrontation, she sat down with a satisfied air and pulled out the legal pad and pen. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  My first thought was about just what I was going to say to Mike Shandy. My second was about how to get rid of Smedley. “It’s nothing,” I said, sitting back down so hard I hit the chair unexpectedly. “A client was injured right outside the office, and we thought we should come and wait for a report.” No need to go into all those unconnected dots, even though she was one of them.

  “Where’s her family?” She was busily scribbling notes.

  I hesitated. “We don’t know that she has any. She had no identification, so all I have is her name.”

  “Which is?” Her pen was poised about the pad.

  “I don’t think I’m at liberty to tell you that.”

  “Okay, I’ll call her Jane Doe.” She wrote that with a flourish. “There are a lot of Jane Does in mysteries.”

  I looked at Keisha, pleading for help, but she deliberately kept her back to me and concentrated on the toddler, who was now playing patty-cake and peek-a-boo while squealing delightedly.

  “It may be a long wait,” I said. “Why don’t you go along before it gets dark? That parking garage is really spooky at night.” Hoping to scare her, I widened my eyes and hugged myself. It didn’t work.

  “Oh, I have mace. And besides I parked illegally right outside the door. Won’t have to go in
to any creepy old garage.”

  This child had chutzpah if nothing else. I picked up my phone, but I noticed she was still writing furiously. Maybe she was outlining her Jane Doe novel. I read, and she sat and scribbled, and Keisha played with the toddler. I don’t know about the other two, but I was ready to scream.

  Finally, at seven-thirty, which seemed like midnight, I heard a voice call, “Kelly?”

  “That’s me,” I waved my hand in the air and headed to the reception desk, closely followed by Smedley until Keisha reached out a long arm and grabbed her jacket to pull her back. Thank you, Keisha. Smedley may have chutzpah, but she had no idea about boundaries. I looked over my shoulder to see her sitting next to Keisha who appeared to be giving her a lecture, but Smedley, as I’d come to call her, was spreading her hands, as though in explanation.

  The receptionist called “Kelly!” again, and I hurried toward her.

  Hands on the counter, she leaned forward to say quietly, “They’ve determined that Ms. Smith’s injuries are not life threatening. Beyond cuts and abrasions, she has a broken shoulder and perhaps a slight concussion. The doctors will run more tests tomorrow to be sure there are no internal injuries, but as this point they don’t think so.”

  I sighed in relief. “Can we see her tomorrow?”

  “Probably, but call before you come to find out what room she’s in.” Then she got businesslike. “Who will be the responsible party for her bill?”

  Helplessly, I shrugged and said, “I have no idea. I just met her this afternoon, and to tell the truth I don’t think she gave me her real name.”

  She was almost sharp. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because no one else is,” I said, which left her shaking her head.

  “This is a county hospital, which means we won’t turn her away, but we prefer to get paid. Until that is straightened out, she’ll be in a ward once she goes upstairs.”

  A ward. God, what an awful thought. I managed to thank her, as I turned away to collect Keisha and Smedley and head for home.