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

by Judy Alter

  Chapter Fifteen

  Monday was one of those rainy, dark fall days that make you want to curl up with a book and forget the world. I crawled out of bed and went through the motions of getting ready for the day almost automatically. Someone else seemed to be in control of my body, and if I felt this tense and anxious, how must Sheila feel?

  She joined us for breakfast, having learned the trick of eating crackers before raising her head to quell her nausea, which was diminishing now anyway. Hers wasn’t to be a sick pregnancy. This morning, she looked as serene as possible in a fashionably oversize heavy-knit beige sweater and chocolate brown wool slacks. An orange and red scarf brightened the outfit and put color in her cheeks.

  “I’m getting fat,” she moaned. “I had trouble buttoning my pants this morning.”

  “We’ll have to go shopping,” I suggested, and she countered that she was beginning to order things online.

  And so the small talk went until we dropped Maggie at school. She gave me a hug, and then she hugged Sheila, saying, “I hope it’s a good day for you.”

  Sheila smiled at her and said, “Thanks, Maggie. I think it will be fine. I will make sure it is.”

  With a muttered, “You go!” my oldest daughter, growing up so fast, got out of the car and walked away, turning one last time to give us a thumbs up signal.

  At Em’s school, she leaned from the back seat to plant a kiss on Sheila’s cheek. “That,” she announced, “is for good luck.”

  Sheila laughed and thanked her.

  And then we drove to Terrell’s office, where of course we were early and had to sit and wait, making small talk to cover our uncertainty.

  By nine fifteen Bruce Hollister had not shown up.

  “It’s his game,” Sheila said. “It’s supposed to throw us off balance, but we must not let it. And it’s also to show how important he is…the world waits on him.”

  How can one man be so despicable?

  Bruce Hollister swept into the office just before nine-thirty, followed by two men. One was obviously the lawyer, smartly dressed but not as flashy as his client. He had dark hair going gray at the temples and eyes that lit up when he saw Sheila.

  “Diane, my dear, I’ve missed you and worried so about you.” He hugged her with the familiarity born of a long friendship.

  “No need to worry, Donald. I’m just fine.”

  He patted her shoulder and moved away. She made no move toward her husband but said distantly, “Bruce,” and he replied, too heartily, “You’re looking well, Diane.”

  Strange to hear Sheila had become Diane again.

  I would have sworn the third man was FBI if I didn’t know better. He was the panhandler, the man who drove the black SUV, the man Mike described as a hit man. He wore a conservative suit, plain tie, but he still had the airplane shades he never took off so you could see what was happening with his eyes. I shuddered. I was in the same room with the man who had probably killed Ralphie, shot at us, and broken into Dr. Goodwin’s office. His presence gave me the shakes, and I suspect, behind those glasses, he knew it and was gloating.

  Bruce introduced him as “my assistant, Nick.”

  Sheila had seated herself at one end of the table, acting as though she’d never met Nick and maybe she hadn’t, but he didn’t worry her as much as he did me. Hollister went over and sat next to her, pulling his chair so close that she scooted a bit away.

  “How are you, Diane? I’ve missed you.” He reached a hand to lay on hers, but she withdrew the hand.

  Her answers to his questions were polite but perfunctory and never cordial. She assured him she had been well; she did not assure him she’d missed him. But she didn’t tell him she preferred to be called Sheila, nor did she say she was staying in Fort Worth. Yes, her mother was well. Yes, she had satisfactory living arrangements. Hollister knew very well where Ms. Lorna lived, and anyone could see the state of the house by driving by.

  Terrell watched this non-drama for a few minutes, checked everyone’s coffee, asked if anyone wanted another pastry, and then, clearing his throat, took charge. “Let’s get down to business,” he said. I was still shaking so hard, casting surreptitious glances at Nick, I could hardly concentrate. Kelly, get a grip. He’s not going to get up and start shooting in a meeting like this.

  Wordlessly, Sheila rose, came around the table, and took the seat between Terrell and me. We were her defensive ends.

  “Mr. Hollister, I believe you asked for this meeting, so why don’t you begin.”

  Hollister had his speech prepared, as though he had readied himself to preach a sermon. He began with an apology, a clear rhetorical trick to take Sheila off the defensive. I didn’t think it worked well, from the expression on her face.

  Then he moved into the need for her to return to San Antonio. “I need you. My ministry needs you. People ask me about you every day. They’re concerned about your welfare. So am I.”

  “You can assure them I’m well,” she said, never lifting her eyes.

  I watched Nick who seemed to be silently studying each of us at the table, sunglasses still hiding his eyes. Marking us off as targets? Had I put Terrell in danger now too?

  For a full thirty minutes, we listened as Hollister explained, oh so rationally, why Diane belonged in San Antonio.

  She finally cut him off with, “Diane doesn’t exist anymore. I’m Sheila.”

  Hollister turned to his lawyer with an expression that spoke volumes. He wanted so badly to say “I told you so!” but Donald laid a restraining hand on his client’s arm.

  “Diane, I’m so sorry to hear you say that. I was fond of Diane. I’m afraid Bruce might be right that you’re not thinking clearly. Between the accident”—he glanced at her still-bandaged arm—”and your pregnancy, you’re not yourself. We believe, for your own good, you should let us take over your affairs.”

  “And let you tell me what to do, where to go, perhaps even confine me? Donald, I thought better of you. I’m perfectly capable of handling my own affairs—for the first time in my adult life.”

  Any doubts I had about her veracity went out the window with that line. I cheered silently.

  Bruce harrumphed, Nick remained impassive, and Donald spoke soothingly. “We’re concerned about the baby’s welfare too.”

  Now Sheila was caustic. “Since Bruce seems to have a confidential relationship with Dr. Goodwin, I’m sure she’ll assure you the baby and I are in perfect shape.”

  “But will you be capable of caring for a baby with a bad arm and living in a garage.”

  “My arm will be fully functional by the time the baby comes,” Sheila said with frost in her voice.

  I almost leapt to my feet, but this time it was Terrell who touched me gently and then spoke himself. “Both Ms. O’Connell and I can testify, if it becomes necessary, that Ms. O’Gara takes excellent care of herself, following all the recommendations for a rather late-in-life pregnancy. It might be interesting to investigate how that pregnancy came about. I was given to understand there were no marital relations between the two parties for quite some time.”

  Oh, Terrell, if you hadn’t done it before, you just made one big enemy!

  Hollister turned such a deep red in the face that I was really afraid he’d have apoplexy, whatever that was. Maybe a heart attack. He sputtered and finally managed to get out, “Don’t you even….”

  Donald stopped him. “I don’t think that’s relevant here,” he said smoothly.

  Terrell was blunt. “A court of law might find it relevant.”

  The talk went on, with the lawyers keeping it as calm and polite as they could. There were hints of self-destructive tendencies on Sheila’s part and innuendoes about violence from her husband, veiled threats about child custody and an outright refusal from Sheila to stop divorce proceedings. There was a blatant derogatory reference on Hollister’s part to Sheila’s mother, which she had the grace to ignore. Part of Hollister’s demand that she come back to San Antonio included disavowing he
r mother. There was no sense in fighting that particular battle with him.

  Finally, after we’d been there slightly over two hours, Hollister turned to his lawyer and said, “We’re done here. We’ll fight the divorce and sue for custody of the child.”

  “You don’t care about this baby,” Sheila spat. “All you care about is your image and your power. I’ll never let you have this baby.”

  I bit my lip hoping she didn’t say something dramatic like she’d kill the baby rather than let him have it. I knew she wouldn’t, but she was the angriest I’d ever seen her.

  Once again, Terrell stepped in and calmed her. Then he turned to the men and said, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I guess we’ll see you in court.” He held out his hand for shakes all around as though everyone had just reached an amicable agreement.

  Bruce refused the hand, gave Sheila a venomous look and one equally threatening to me and stalked out the door. Donald shook hands all around, tried to hug Sheila again, and murmured, “I’m so sorry it has come to this. I had hoped we could come to a settlement.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I knew we could reach an agreement only if I agreed to everything he wants, and I won’t do that. I can’t.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I hope you understand. He’s my client, my biggest client.”

  She nodded, and he turned just as Hollister demanded from outside the door, “Donald, you coming or not?”

  I was glad right then I wasn’t a lawyer, and I was grateful for Terrell and the kind of lawyer he was.

  Nick lingered, turning in the doorway, to give each of us a long look, over the top of his shades. My skin prickled, because the look held a definite promise of more to come. If anything, this meeting had set us back. I just wondered how far.

  Once they were out of hearing, Sheila sank into the chair and began to apologize. “I’m sorry. I know I just made things worse for all of us—you two, your family, Kelly, and my mom. But he left me no choice.”

  Terrell walked over and reached down to hug her. “Don’t worry. We can handle it. He doesn’t wield quite as big a stick as he thinks.”

  “Lunch, anyone?” I asked, hoping to divert us. Mike said in a crisis my mind always turned to food but never to cooking it myself. “I’ll treat.”

  “Great,” Terrell said, “I’ll take that as my payment.”

  I hoped that boy had plenty of clients who paid better than I did.

  “Can we get Keisha?” sheila asked. “She deserves to know what happened this morning.”

  We picked up Keisha at the office and went to Lili’s, where I set the precedent by ordering a glass of wine. We were a solemn group though, our comments at first few and far between as we each sorted out our thoughts. Keisha had gotten a capsule version of the morning in the car but she wanted more. What did he say about Ms. Lorna? Why does he want the baby? Did he really think she would go back to San Antonio with him today?

  Sheila shook her head. “I don’t know what he thought, but he’s the one who’s not thinking clearly.”

  Terrell always spoke cautiously when giving opinions but he said, “He’s the one who’s lost touch with reality. I think his position of power, at least that’s how he sees it, has caused that.”

  Vance, the restaurant owner came over to comment on what a solemn group we were. All we could do was nod, and he announced the wine was on the house. “Maybe it will brighten you up,” he said cheerfully. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  One question burned on my mind. “Sheila, who’s Nick and where did he come from?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I never saw him or heard of him before, but I don’t like him.”

  “He scares me.” I spoke slowly and so low that Keisha leaned across the table. “I suspect he’s the one who shot at us and broke into Dr. Goodwin’s office.” I thought for a minute. “That break-in never came up this morning.”

  “Good thing,” said Terrell. “There’s no proof connecting it to your husband, Sheila.”

  After lunch, Terrell walked back to his office. I took Sheila to Ms. Lorna’s where she would tell some sort of tall tale about where she’d been in the morning, and Keisha and I went wearily to work. We still didn’t have much to say.

  And that night we had to repeat the whole story for Mike. The girls listened carefully, and I decided by now it was too late to hide any of it from them—except maybe some details, like rape on the kitchen floor. My blood boiled every time I thought about it.

  But retelling the story one more time was a conversation killer at supper as well as at lunch. We all turned in early.

  ****

  Three days later, Sheila’s shoulder binding came off. She sat on the doctor’s table, slowly moving her elbow away from her body just a bit and then back again. The doctor warned her to take it easy—no heavy lifting, no reaching over her head, and a whole list of “don’t do this” that including walking a dog with that arm. She would continue physical therapy to regain the strength gradually.

  “When can I drive?”

  “In one week, if you do your therapy and are very careful.”

  “But I can take a shower today?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you surely can.”

  “I’m going to stand in it and let it soak for an hour,” she said.

  At least that’s how she repeated it to me, and I believed her because the moment we got home she disappeared saying she was going out to shower. And she was gone a long time.

  When she told Mike she could drive in a week, he looked…oh, upset, hesitant, something. “I don’t know, Sheila. I wish I’d gotten a look at this Nick character, but what you both have said worries me. I think he’s a hard case.”

  “I’m sure of it,” she responded. “But I won’t live my life in fear. I promise to take reasonable precautions.”

  Maybe this will all be over in a week. But how? I can’t imagine a happy resolution to this standoff.

  We fell into a new routine. For a week I continued to take Sheila to her mother’s in the morning, but now I picked her up at lunch and brought her home. The physical therapist came in the afternoon, and some days I’d get home to find she had started supper and was cheerfully singing in the kitchen as she stirred or mixed or whatever she was doing. She sometimes gave me a list of groceries but never told me what she was going to cook. We had such delicacies as pork tenderloin with a maple syrup marinade, stuffed cabbage (the girls rebelled a bit but finally decided it was good), scallops in a cream sauce, and fish à la Provence with tomatoes and scallions over them. She was a fish person and some days kept me busy going to Central Market for fresh seafood, but I didn’t mind. Her dinners were delicious, and the girls were learning to eat things that neither Mike nor I would cook.

  And Sheila? She loved having her arm free, and each day it grew stronger. She would lift a small stack of plates or a pot from the stove to demonstrate her strength, while we cautioned her to be careful.

  Her mother, she reported, was getting more relaxed by the day, and as soon as she could drive, Sheila would start taking her to lunch. Our only effort in that direction—a lunch at Nonna Tatta—was not a great success. Ms. Lorna ordered spaghetti puttanesca because she liked the idea of spaghetti of the whores. What she didn’t like was the spicy taste. Since then, events had gotten out of hand, and we’d had no more lunches. Sheila planned to take her to Lili’s.

  If she were worried about what Bruce Hollister would do next, she never showed it. But I was a nervous wreck. It had now been almost two weeks since our unpleasant meeting, but I knew better than to let our guard down. Once again, we were waiting for Bruce Hollister to make the next move. It was too much to hope he’d simply give up and walk away. And Sheila and I knew better than that from the look on his face as he left and from Nick’s penetrating stare.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a Wednesday night, and we went to bed early. The girls had more homework than usual, and it made them so cranky we sent them to bed early. Sheil
a said she was restless and would take her uneasiness out to the apartment in case it was contagious. Mike and I stared at each other a moment and raced for the bedroom. We were asleep before ten o’clock.

  When the phone rang just before eleven, I was in a deep fog, coming slowly to the surface. Mike’s reactions are always quicker than mine, and he grabbed his cell, punched the button and said, “Shandy here.”

  Silence was followed by an incredible, “Are you sure?” Holding the phone with one hand, he was fumbling to get into his pants. “Do whatever you can. I’ll be right there.” Another pause. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Mike?” I was alarmed to say the least.

  “José. Fire at Ms. Lorna’s. He’s called the fire department, but he’s going in to get her.”

  “I’ll go get Sheila.”

  “No.” He held out a hand as though to stop me. “Let me see what’s happening first.”

  “Call me as soon as you can. Promise?” I was up, out of bed, pacing nervously.

  He kissed my nose and flew through the house, barely remembering to disarm the security system.

  No surprise that Em came stomping into our bedroom, demanding, “Where is Mike going at this time of night?”

  “Police business,” I said. After all, it was the truth.

  “There’s more to it than that,” she said matter-of-factly. “Tell me.”

  “Baby, I’ll tell you more when I know more. Here, curl up in my bed with me.”

  She did but stubbornly refused to sleep, lying there with her arms crossed in a belligerent pose.

  It was probably thirty minutes before my cell phone shouted the strains of The Saints Go Marching In. Mike hated my ringtone, and I was rarely as glad to hear it blare as I was that night.

  “She’s okay,” he said, “and stubborn as ever. EMTs think she inhaled a bit of smoke and want to take her to the ER, but she’s having none of it. While they’re checking her out, can you drive Sheila over?”

  “Mike, I can’t leave the girls, but Sheila can drive, you know. She can use my car.”