by Lois Winston
Miss Cynthia was another matter. She mostly took her cues from Otto, her companion. Kelly was sure theirs was a platonic relationship, but I wasn’t convinced. Whatever it was, they were inseparable, and we never got to see Miss Cynthia alone. Otto, a round little man with an Old-World air about him, always tagged along, plopped himself in the arm chair, put his feet on the ottoman, and asked Miss Cynthia to bring him a beer. Sometimes I thought Miss Cynthia didn’t buy him no beer at home.
Otto walked in, took one look—Maggie was holding Clyde’s collar and reassuring him—and announced, “Never did like dogs. Germs, you know. And not trustworthy.”
“Does he bite?” Miss Cynthia asked, eyeing Clyde from across the room.
Kelly reassured her that he didn’t bite.
“I suppose I’ll never get to hold my new grandbaby anymore.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, that dog won’t let me.”
Kelly poohpoohed that, walked over to the crib to scoop up a giggling Gracie and handed her to her grandma. Cynthia sat down on the couch and had a one-way conversation with Gracie, who smiled and gurgled all the time.
‘Course no one told Miss Cynthia or Otto the real reason for the dog. It was all “We thought she should grow up with a dog” and stuff like that. The girls had been schooled in the family line and held to it admirably.
“If so,” Otto intoned, “should be a German Shepherd. Only reliable breed there is.”
We didn’t see much of them after that first visit. It remained to be seen what would happen on state occasions when the whole bunch assembled.
~*~
If it sounds like I spent all my time at the Shandy household, I really didn’t. Most evenings found me home, while José did his night beat in the neighborhood. I’d nap so’s I’d be awake a while when he came home. On a good night, he got off at midnight and came right home.
But sometimes just after midnight, the phone rang and José told me he was on a call and wouldn’t be home for two hours or whatever. Then I went to sleep. One night I had a nightmare to rival that one that sent Mike running to me for reassurance. I was tied up inside that empty mansion in the real expensive part of Fort Worth, and people in the next room were debating whether to kill me or not. That unpleasant Sally Buxton was loud and determined to kill me. I’d untied myself but it still made me a tad nervous...and really angry.
In real life, Kelly rescued me just in time to get me to my wedding rehearsal, and I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. I knew I wouldn’t die that day, but I was frantic about something, anything ruining my wedding celebration.
This time, though, it was José who saved me from Mrs. Buxton. He shook me gently, calling my name, until I sat up in confusion. “You had a dream,” he said, putting his arms around me. “You were yelling about killing someone.”
“Sally Buxton,” I shouted. “Let me at her.”
“Shhh, Babe. She’s in prison, and you’re safe in my arms. You’re dreaming—what is it they call that? Displaced anger? You really want to kill whoever threatened Gracie, but you ain’t gonna do that either.”
He was right, and he calmed me down. We sat and drank hot chocolate for an hour while I confessed how angry I was getting at what someone—Bruce Hollister, probably—was doing to Kelly and her family.
Finally, with José’s arms around me I slept so soundly I missed our morning breakfast date and was late getting to Kelly’s.
~*~
Complacency is a wicked thing when it sets in, and within a week or so, with all the security planned and in effect, we all got complacent. We’d had no more threats. Life went on—Mike kept law and order in the inner city, I sold real estate and found work for Anthony, the girls went to school. Gracie was the one who suffered, because she didn’t get out much. “Vitamin D,” Kelly wailed, “she needs sunshine to get Vitamin D.” Occasionally on the spur of the moment, they’d spirit her to the Grill for supper, and I usually went along.
“Kidnapping is planned ahead,” Mike said. “Whoever this is won’t know we’ll be out of the house for an hour or so.”
On those occasional Grill nights, we let the girls eat cheeseburgers and drink Cokes, Kelly and I had wine with our salads, and Mike ordered chicken-fried steak with all the trimmings and drank beer. We seemed to think indulging our tastes would chase fear away, but it didn’t. We existed in a gray fog.
Yes, complacency set in. And then Don Kennemer called to say that Alamo Heights authorities notified him that televangelist Bruce Hollister had disappeared from the minimum-security facility holding him two weeks earlier. They hadn’t considered him a security risk, but truth was he’d been out since before the note arrived.
“What’s wrong with those folks?” I exploded. “How could they not consider him a security risk? The man don’t know good behavior. He’s a con man, and now he’s fooled the authorities.”
“Kennemer was a little vague,” Mike said, “I wonder if Hollister didn’t get real cagey and come up with some sort of diagnosis that got him out of the prison for care and then just walk away. You know, a security escort falls asleep, has to go to the john, something like that.
“That happens in law enforcement?” I was really on my high horse now. “You guys aren’t supposed to sleep or take a leak. You’re beyond all that stuff.”
Mike’s smile was ironic. “Sometimes a loser sneaks through. That’s not our worry right now. Gracie’s our worry.”
“And little Lorna,” Kelly added. “I still think he’d want her—she’s the child of his blood.”
“Maybe he wants two babies,” Em said. She’d snuck into the room, knowing there was adult talk going on. “I would want two if they were like Gracie.”
Nobody scolded her for eavesdropping. Mike ruffled her hair and said he would want two.
In truth, we couldn’t figure Bruce Hollister out, and we were on high alert again. To my mind, he wasn’t the kind to use force—so that bar across the door wasn’t needed. Hollister was cagey, like Mike said—he’d trick everyone. Who knew? Maybe the threat against Gracie was a way of hiding the threat to Lorna.
THREE
The Kennemers lived in a renovated small Craftsman—two bedrooms, one bath—that Sheila purchased before they were together. It was smartly done in Craftsman colors—green siding with pale yellow trim and green accents on the pink front door. The inside was also letter-perfect, with wood floors, polished wood built-ins, and authentic Craftsman furniture. Sheila had combed antique markets for the furniture and frequently paid too much. Their home might not be so perfect these days, with little Lorna crawling everywhere and pulling up, just on the edge of walking.
Their house was in Fairmount, just blocks from Kelly and Mike’s house, but somehow the two families never got together, despite—or maybe because of—all they had in common, including late-in-life babies.
They brought little Lorna, now eighteen months old, for supper the night after Kelly called them.
Kelly fixed the chicken tetrazzini—finally, after many tries, that girl could make that almost to perfection. The girls begged for it. I came loaded with Caesar salad makings and a loaf of French bread. The girls, at their insistence, baked a chocolate cake, from a mix, and iced it with that stuff from the can. The icing was generous in some places and stretched thin in others. I bit my tongue. Mental note to self: teach those girls, and maybe their mama, how to bake and ice a cake from scratch.
We sat around before dinner—Kelly and Sheila and me sipping wine, and the men drinking beer. Little Lorna immediately pulled Kelly’s book off the coffee table, but neither of her parents moved to save the book, and they looked surprised when Maggie gently took it with one hand, using the other to make sure the baby didn’t fall backward. I guess they thought little Lorna gets whatever she wants.
The babies were in the middle of the floor; ringed around them, we watched, commenting on how cute they were, how much little Lorna had grown, what joy she would have brought t
o her late grandmother. Clyde was a bit puzzled by Lorna, but after being assured these new people were friends, he was content to watch from near the blanket, just outside the circle formed by the rest of us. Frankly, it got old pretty quick, and I didn’t blame the girls for excusing themselves till dinner.
Over dinner we finally got to the topic of the evening, and my ears perked up. At least for a minute. Turned out the Kennemers didn’t take the threat seriously, didn’t think Bruce Hollister was behind it.
“He wasn’t in touch with reality at all after that night in Alamo Heights at his house,” Don explained. “I don’t think he could have pulled himself together.” He was eating with one hand and holding Lorna with the other, while Gracie was contentedly back in her crib, with Clyde sniffing of her just often enough to keep her and the dog happy.
Mike spoke softly as he asked, “Was he getting therapy? Who was keeping track of his progress…or lack of it?”
Kennemer shrugged. “I cut any ties—and that means any interest in what happens to him.”
“I’m so sorry, because I feel I bought all this trouble to you,” Sheila said. “And I can’t believe Bruce wants Gracie over Lorna.”
Were her feelings a tad hurt that someone else’s baby had won a popularity contest? Surely not!
“But I agree with Don. He’s no threat to us. We’ll do whatever we can to help you,” she added hastily. “And, of course, if we hear from him, you’ll be the first to know.” She shuddered just a bit.
“Do you intend to ignore this even if it puts Sheila and Lorna in danger?” Kelly’s eyes were flashing, not a good sign.
“If I thought they were in any danger, we’d be out of here yesterday. I’d just walk away from everything for their sake. But I don’t believe the danger is what you think it is. I’m not even sure Bruce is your potential kidnapper.”
Kelly shook—anger? Frustration? Even Sheila shuddered a bit. Did the thought of hearing from that maniac make her shudder, or memories of the circumstances of little Lorna’s conception? I’d never know, but I was seeing a woman who went along with whatever her husband said. If I were in her shoes I’d be raisin’ holy hell to get some protection, no matter what my man said.
After that, things were a bit strained. Don commented that Mike and Kelly had certainly gone to extremes in protection. He mentioned the security system, the bars on the doors, the dog.
“We thought it was necessary,” Mike offered as though no offense was taken.
I suspected he was boiling, because he’d reached out to try to help these people and they refused to see their need for help. Would he put their house on José’s unofficial surveillance list? No telling.
Conversation changed to what a good dinner Kelly had fixed. “How do you find time to cook?” Sheila asked. “Lorna takes every bit of my time and energy. Don does our cooking, and we’ve ordered one of those services that sends you ready-to-prepare meals.”
Mike frowned, and the girls looked puzzled. Kelly, bless her, refrained from saying that first babies usually took more time until the mom got the hang of it.
“Mike does his share of cooking, especially breakfast and grilling. But I have the girls for help. They baked this cake,” and she proudly pointed to the cake that Maggie was carrying. She as followed so closely by Em, wanting to be in on the glory, that it’s a wonder those girls didn’t trip each other.
The Kennemers made polite comments and took small helpings of cake, Don fighting to keep Lorna from digging her hands into his piece. The girls ate heartily, looking sideways at the dinner guests who clearly puzzled them.
The guests didn’t linger long after the cake, and once they were out the door, we all breathed a sigh of relief.
“I couldn’t have been polite much longer,” Mike said.
“Mama, didn’t you help Miss Sheila? Doesn’t she owe you?” Em was seriously confused.
Kelly pulled the child to her. “That’s not why we help people, Em. Keisha and I helped Sheila because she needed someone to help her and we could do it. But sometimes you help people and then they drift out of your life. Maybe because you remind them of that bad time in their life. It’s too bad, but it happens.”
I know Kelly too well—she was thinking of Joanie, her former best friend who had finally revealed that her baby might belong to Kelly’s now-dead ex and who had married Buck Conroy, Mike’s former supervisor and the thorn in Kelly’s side. None of us ever heard from them these days, and it would be okay if that happened with the Kennemers. But I knew it wouldn’t.
~*~
After the Kennemers’ blithe dismissal of our suspicions, the arrival of the second ransom letter exactly two weeks after the first was a sudden jolt back to reality. It was almost as if the would-be kidnapper timed the threats precisely to the day—to keep us on edge.
This note was a little more extensive:
I’ve been watching, and I know the safety steps you’re taking. There was never a security system that could stop me. I will have baby Gracie, and no I’m not interested in little Lorna.
Detective Shandy, do not report this to your superiors. You’ll only make it harder on everyone, including the baby.
There will be no ransom note afterward and no other warning before. I will strike when I am ready.
I was surprised as I read at the difference two weeks had made in all of us. Two weeks and a day ago, we’d been carefree, relatively happy people. Oh sure, everybody’s got troubles and we had our share, but Gracie seemed to wipe them all out. Now we were cautious. I won’t say fear had exactly set in yet but we felt it edging toward us, like a gigantic ooze of slime. Could we avoid it? The only option I saw was to find the kidnapper before he or she struck, to beat them at their own game. And I’d be dad gummed if I knew how to do that.
Kelly read this new threat with anger that replaced earlier tears. “Bruce Hollister can’t do this to us. He can’t just ruin our lives and threaten the most precious thing I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t say that to the girls,” I cautioned.
She threw me a withering look. “They know how precious they are, but they also know that to a certain extent they can take care of themselves, and Gracie can’t.”
“Don’t say that either.”
She handed me the note. We didn’t bother to bag it because there’d been no prints or evidence on the last one. We’d learn that was a mistake.
Mike’s response surprised us. “Time to call for reinforcements. I don’t like that this person knows so much about us, knows about Lorna.”
But what Mike did changed our lives and not for the better. The detective assigned to the case was none other than Mike’s old boss and Kelly’s nemesis, Buck Conroy. He came banging on the locked door that afternoon—did the man not know how to knock?
Clyde growled, a deep frightening sound, and then barked. Mike caught him as he rushed toward the door. Maggie and Em rushed to their rooms, figuring out from the yelling who was at the door. They had long ago developed a dislike for Conroy. Besides, he usually ordered them from the room anyway, and they resented it.
“What you guys been smokin’ around here?” he asked loudly as he plopped on the couch. A stump of a cigar was clenched in his teeth, but he’d never relight it in Kelly’s house, wouldn’t dare. Two junior detectives none of us knew stood awkwardly by the door.
Kelly gave him a look so cold that I’d have run for a coat had it been directed at me.
“Buck, nerves are pretty raw around here. Not a good time for jokes.” Mike spoke softly.
“Who’s jokin’? Kidnappings like this, with notes, are old-fashioned. Even kooks don’t announce their intentions ahead of time.” He grabbed the note. “I see you didn’t use an evidence bag on this.” As he read, he muttered. Finally, “No ransom? Then why’s he gonna kidnap the kid?”
“Revenge,” Mike said. “We’re pretty sure Bruce Hollister is behind this. Look at the reference to little Lorna. He doesn’t want a baby—he wants revenge. He’d pro
bably sell her on the black market.”
Kelly gasped, grabbed the baby, and fled to their bedroom.
Mike watched her go without a word and then went on, “I’m spooked by the thought that he knows so much about us. I think he’s been around the house and we don’t know it.”
“What good’s that mutt?” He nodded toward Clyde, who had taken up a position outside the door to the bedroom hall.
“Acted like a guard dog when you came in, didn’t he?”
Conroy ignored him. “Got to review all we ever knew about Hollister. Got forty years, didn’t he? He can’t be out on good behavior this quick. What’s going on?”
Mike shrugged. “He apparently just walked away. Minimum security, and once he was gone they couldn’t find him again in San Antonio. His former lawyer says he was totally out of touch with reality, not enough with it to have written these notes.” He gestured toward the paper Conroy held, though now it was in a clear evidence bag.
Conroy nodded at one of the detectives, who took out a pad and began scribbling. Obviously, he’d investigate Bruce Hollister.
Conroy went on, “His house was sold to settle debts, so you got to find out where he went if he got out. Start with the Alamo Heights police, but I don’t have much confidence there. Federal people should be on it since he was in their custody, but we all know things fall through the cracks.” He scribbled in that little notebook most officers and all newspaper people carry. Then he began issuing orders.
“I want a thorough search outside this house tomorrow morning. Detail two men, have them look under every bush, check every windowsill for the smudges from someone peeking in, check footprints. You know the drill.” He nodded at the two detectives who now both wrote furiously in their own little notebooks.