Jack Fell Down: Deluded Detective Book One (Deluded Detective Series 1)

by Michelle Knowlden

  She glanced vaguely around, the pearls on her cashmere sweater set clinking pleasantly. “I’m not sure they have a dress code. I was thinking how sparkling you look especially after having had an episode yesterday. How do you feel?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call …”

  She forestalled the apology by squeezing my hand. “I worry when I shouldn’t. Tell me how you’re doing.” She waved the waiter away with a friendly smile. “He doesn’t mind waiting.”

  I grimaced, vacillating between the irritation I felt for having her entire attention and nervousness about not attending to the other distractions around me—like placing orders and finding which of the older couples sitting on the patio and dining room might be the Durbins.

  “I’m feeling fine.” I tried not to sound curt. “Bobbi told you I had an MRI? The neurologist will call tonight with the results.”

  “Jimmy said you had an episode. He didn’t give me any details.”

  I bet he didn’t. It bugged me when ex-boyfriends reported about me to Ivy, but that was another fallout of the accident. So was me telling Ivy everything to separate fact from delusion. Almost everything.

  “One of the kids recorded it. I’ll show you after we order.”

  She seemed determined to delay lunch again, but I nodded at the waiter hovering hopefully nearby. She ordered a salad, and I had the mahi burger with fries. He re-filled her iced tea and brought me a ginger ale. I sipped the soda, letting the bubbles tickle my nose while I decided how much to tell her. Yeah. The usual “almost everything.”

  After giving her a brief explanation why Jimmy asked me to perform my fortunetelling act last night, I started the video. I sneaked glances at Ivy’s face while I pretended interest in three golfers walking slowly across the green. It was a warm day, sultry for California and early fall. Haze partly hid the Laguna Hills and cypress trees bordering the course. A hint of smoke hung in the air—something was always burning in September.

  I heard the tinny sound of my voice, but not the words till the three repetitions of “Find him,” which sounded exactly like Aunt Hill when she thundered. My attention strayed thinking of Video Me holding the Jack of Hearts high in the air, and wondered where young Jackson was this warm afternoon.

  I’m not sure when the video ended or how long Ivy sat watching me. When the back of my head prickled and I looked across the table, her concerned look shifted into a quick smile. “Interesting, dear. What do you think?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I can get that response from Doc Jo. I want to know what you think.”

  She slid the phone to halfway between us, the shot of me still on the screen, card held aloft. “You don’t remember it?”

  I sighed. What was it about family and psychiatrists that they can’t answer a simple question?

  “Nothing between hearing the girl saying something about her boyfriend going bald and me holding that card in the air.”

  “Not this. I meant do you remember when Jackson Galon went missing? The story blanketed the news for days.”

  “It happened on the day of my accident.”

  She bit her lip. “Of course. How could I have forgotten? It must be why I remember it so clearly. In the waiting rooms of the ER, then ICU, then while you were having surgeries, I watched hours of updates about the missing boy. Did they ever find him?”

  “No.” Then it hit me, and I leaned urgently forward. “Did you see any of these updates in my room when I was unconscious?”

  Before she could answer, the waiter brought our lunches, set them down with a flourish, and asked me if we needed anything else. I probably dismissed him rudely by Ivy’s reproachful look, but her answer would explain a practical reason why I knew about the story.

  “Updates I could have heard in my hospital room,” I prompted her.

  She trickled dressing onto her salad. “Undoubtedly. You were unconscious for weeks, and I could only read and answer emails for so long. We had the television going all hours as the nurses said the sounds stimulated the comatose.”

  I pointed to the video. “So I could have been spouting stuff I knew subconsciously? That I wasn’t in a psychic trance.”

  She stared at me for a quick startled moment then burst out laughing. Ivy may look like a proper lady with her pearls and sweaters, but she laughed full out like an elephant trumpeting in a mud hole. Most of the dining room guests turned to look and smiled, too. I remembered how my face burned with embarrassment when I was 13 and she laughed that loudly in public. Now I waited politely.

  When her guffaws stopped, I said, “After last night, I thought everything I knew had been a lie. That you and Hillary had been right all along. That the world was filled with angels and spirits, miracles and curses. That science was only for the mad.”

  Her amusement faded. “Are you lumping Hillary’s belief in the occult with my faith in God?”

  “I guess I did,” I admitted. “Maybe I still do. I thought I was possessed by Hillary’s ghost. That I talked about a kidnapping that I couldn’t have known about. But this makes more sense.”

  Her nose wrinkled as she peered at the screen, with Video Me still holding the Jack of Hearts high. “Why did you think it was Hillary’s ghost?”

  “Looks just like her.” I pointed a French fry at Video Me. “Sounds like her, too.”

  “No, dear, it doesn’t. It looks and sounds like you in gypsy mode.”

  I stared at her. Was she kidding?

  “Ivy, that in no way looks like me. It scared the kids when I changed.”

  She set her fork down and considered me for a long moment. Then she took my hand. “Honey, trust me. Hillary and you never looked that much alike. The video is all you, including the dramatic gestures and oration. What scared the kids were your eyes, how blank they looked when you had the seizure.”

  I picked up the tablet, turned off the sound, and played it again. This time I saw what Ivy saw. Me, only me. Hillary’s ghost had never appeared. Only my damaged brain had seen the ghost of Aunt Hillary.

  I stifled a dirty word as no one swore in Ivy’s presence and shot her a rueful look. “Sorry. I really thought it was Hill’s spirit speaking from the grave.”

  She didn’t say anything, only withdrew her hand to start working again on her salad. I said it for her. “With this bunged up head, I have to question everything.”

  She swallowed. “When reality and illusion look the same, it’s to be expected that sometimes your guard is down.” Her lips softened. “It’s been awhile since you’ve had an episode, too. No wonder you were misled.”

  I ducked my head so she wouldn’t see me upset, but a small flurry at the door to the dining room caught my eye.

  “Excuse me.” I dropped the cloth napkin on my plate, covering my half-eaten meal. “I see someone I know. You can tell the waiter, I’m finished.”

  Aware of Ivy’s gaze tracking me, I crossed the dining room to where a 60-ish couple had taken their seats. They looked much like their Facebook picture.

  “I apologize for disturbing you,” I said in my most urbane voice. “Bill and Lisa Durbin, yes?”

  They exchanged glances, and Mrs. Durbin’s finger twitched. “I’m sorry, I don’t …”

  I knew that look. She was about to signal the maître d’ to escort me elsewhere. “I’m Ivy Graff’s niece,” I said hastily, pointing to my aunt sitting on the patio behind a potted palm.

  Mrs. Durbin squinted at the evergreen cashmere between the fronds. “I don’t believe …”

  “She hopes you remember her from the Bowers? She wanted me to say that she looks forward to seeing you at the next opening. She said the last one was the best yet.”

  Mrs. Durbin relaxed and so did I, seeing her finger rest upon the table. “Oh not the best, I’m sure. Who can forget the Caskets along the Silk Road? That is the one to remember.”

  I chuckled. “I’m afraid my aunt prefers the jewelry exhibits,” I lied outrageously. “But I’ll let you take that up with her at your next meeting
. She would have stepped over here herself, but her bursitis is acting up.” By this time, I’d lost count of my fabrications.

  “I’d be happy to …”

  “No need. I’ll exchange the necessary best wishes and save you the trouble. She wanted to do something, but is concerned you’d take it the wrong way.”

  Husband and wife exchanged another wary look. “Yes?”

  “I understand there’ll be an exhibit, dear me, I’m assuming it was the Bowers, but it could be the Huntington …. Anyway my aunt wanted to underwrite part of it in memory of your grandson. It’ll be on the anniversary of his passing.”

  She almost sputtered at me, “My grandson is not dead.”

  I clapped a hand to my throat. “I am so sorry. My aunt gets confused sometimes.”

  Mr. Durbin covered his wife’s hand with his. “He’s been missing a long time. You’re not the first to assume the worst, but we hope for the best.” Lisa Durbin’s gaze slid to the floor.

  “Again, I apologize. I should …”

  “If she still wanted to make that donation, I’m sure my wife would appreciate your aunt remembering the death of our son.” His guileless eyes held steady on mine.

  I swallowed. “Of course. I’ll tell my aunt. I didn’t know that you’d lost your son, too.” Although of course I did.

  “Died in that train explosion in the Inland County. It’ll be four years this January.”

  “A terrible thing.” I started to sidle away, sneaking glances at Mrs. Durbin. “So sorry for your loss. I’ll let my aunt know.”

  He said something, probably thanking me for my aunt’s interest or wishing me a good day, but all I wanted to do was escape. I almost trotted back to my aunt and the safety of the potted palm, the sight of Lisa Durbin’s bowed head stamped on my brain.

  As I dropped into my seat, I was still trying to decrypt the look on her face before she hid it. Reminded me too much of students ducking their heads, which I knew always meant deception. What would the esteemed Mrs. Lisa Durbin be hiding? I should have mentioned lost rabbits and checked for a reaction.

  My object in seeing her was to confirm she was the right age, shape, and size to be the neighbor. The one who distracted Mrs. Agra with the lost pet during Jackson’s kidnapping. I could now say “Mission accomplished.”

  “Was it anyone I know, dear?” Ivy dipped her spoon into a small bowl of pistachio ice cream.

  I shook my head and gulped down the last of my soda. “Would you mind if we left by the back way?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Before and during breaking into the house

  Being a good sport, Ivy joined me as we went down the steep stairs leading to the back of the club house, along the golf course, around the pro’s shop and finally reached the parking lot. Definitely the long way around, but I didn’t want to pass the Durbin’s table again, especially with Ivy in tow.

  Along the way, she again tried to get me to move back into her house.

  “No.” It was an old argument so I felt justified in firmly, but affectionately interrupting her.

  “If you’re having seizures again, should you be alone?”

  Even with a logical argument, I couldn’t cave to dependency now.

  “I won’t know if the brain damage caused the seizure till we get the MRI results.”

  We’d passed the pro shop when she pulled me to a stop, her brows arching to her hairline. “It might have nothing to do with the brain damage?” Ivy asked.

  Running late for my next investigatory task, I took her arm and we continued down the sidewalk. “Could be a number of things—my meds, for example.”

  Her lips twisted with worry. “Are you still worried about Hillary haunting you?”

  I tried an amused laugh, but it didn’t even fool me. “You’ve already set me straight there. The brain damage made me think Video Me was Aunt Hill.” She stayed quiet so long, that I finally said, “What?”

  “You’re limping. Is your left leg acting up again? You’re still doing your exercises, right?”

  “Yes,” I sighed. And tried a little trickery. “The scar acts up when it’s hot. Where the tiger scratched me at the circus.”

  “What cir—?” Had she given herself away? “You think you were injured at a circus?”

  “Maybe.” I studied her face.

  “Would you believe me if I said your leg was not injured by a tiger?”

  I’d seen the scar. Could I honestly say I’d seen it before a week ago? Did I trust Ivy more than the evidence of my eyes?

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d believe you.”

  “A tiger did not scratch you, dear.”

  “Okay.” I dropped her arm. “We’re here.”

  She looked vaguely around the parking lot, then down at her car where we’d paused, and then studied me worriedly. “You’ll call when you get the MRI results?”

  I kissed her cheek. “Of course. Bobbi said she’d eat my liver if I didn’t.”

  At that, she finally cracked a smile and squeezed my arm. When she’d settled in the car and started the engine, she rolled down the window. “Think about moving back, dear, for just a week or two. I miss you.”

  My throat tightened, but I managed to say, “I miss you too, but I don’t miss your ugly cat. I’ll see you, Sunday.”

  After she left, laughing, and I waited for my next ride. Moments later he arrived in a black, decked out 2008 Camaro z28.

  “Yo, Miz Graff, you ready for business?”

  Although he came from a good family, Dante Ruiz was a destined to be a thug. Throughout my association with him, which lasted long after he graduated, I had him in the Dead Before 30 bucket. According to my estimate that meant he had four years left. He did graduate from high school because he aced the classes he attended and failed the ones he didn’t, averaging a respectable 2.8 GPA. He had a 4.3 average in the Physics for Business class I taught, and not because he studied. A decent memory, a staggering ability to guess accurately, and, for the rest, an undetectable method of cheating. I had an excellent radar for cheating and would have given him a 4.5 for stumping me, but regrettably I had to deduct points on his final project—a complex model of interlocking pyramid schemes—as the FBI confiscated the data sheets.

  Throwing my satchel on the seat behind the driver, I sat in the other back seat. I’d never admit it, but Dante’s driving made me nervous.

  “What? I’m your chauffeur now?”

  “Just drive. You got the address?”

  “Course, I got the address. Not my first time around the block, lady.”

  I sighed. Hard to believe his father taught at UCLA and his mother, a darling Irish woman, received a Man Booker Award nomination a few years back.

  He jacked up the radio, and the inside of the car throbbed like a drum. Prepared, I stuffed in earplugs, popped some aspirin, and opened the file Bobbi gave me. I had 20 minutes before we arrived at the Durbins’ home.

  After their son’s death, the Durbins (Dominic’s mother and step-father) filed for full custody of Jackson Galon. I quickly scanned the file, noting that the son—Dominic Galon—had not married Tracy Locksley but lived with her at the time of their son’s birth and supported them. Just short of Jackson’s third birthday, Tracy abandoned Dominic and her son and moved in with the boyfriend, Simon Legare. Three weeks later, she asked to have Jackson alternate weekends. On the advice of his lawyer, Dominic allowed it. Two months later during a weekend with their son, she refused to return the child. Eventually the two went to court. Because Dominic had a DUI four years earlier and landed a judge biased in favor of mothers, the court awarded Tracy full custody. Multiple challenges to the judgment didn’t change the first one. A month before Jackson started kindergarten, Dominic died in the train explosion.

  Soon after his death, the Durbins filed for custody and lost the motion. Four months later, they filed again, citing endangerment to the child, armed with the teacher’s report of bruising. The case never went to trial as Children’s Services closed
the report with no judgment against the mother. Two months passed, and a pirate abducted Jackson.

  I almost missed it, turning a page too quickly and turning it back when I realized something was off. In describing Jackson’s “dangerous” home environment, the document didn’t finger his mother—they’d focused on the boyfriend. Tantalizing but not specific, the brief stated that Simon Legare had been a “person of interest” between the ages of twelve to twenty in three missing children cases. He’d never been charged and never convicted. Jackson Galon had been the fourth child. In the end, whatever the police had thought about twenty-four year-old Legare didn’t matter. His alibi during Jackson’s abduction prevented him from becoming a “person of interest” in this case.

  Lucky for him. I put the file away, strumming my fingers against my backpack. In the last five minutes’ travel to the Durbins’ place, I made two phone calls.

  Dante parked a block from the house in a fire lane at the top of a rise. We walked downhill to the Durbin’s driveway, then made the steep climb to the house. Dante, who had “cased the joint” earlier, kept far right along the driveway, away from the security cameras, me on his heels. Halfway to the house, we cut across the lawn, and targeted a side patio off a sunroom. Keeping my eyes on the gravel driveway, I tried not gaping at the concrete mansion with its intricate slate work where walls met and roofs hung. The arched windows reflected the clear autumn sky.

  “When the owners ain’t around, the maid, she spend most of the time drinking iced tea in the back.” Dante sneered, his disdain for laziness among the working class written in his scowl. Years ago he’d informed me that no one worked harder than criminals, and that ethos inspired him to join the gangster throng. “They keep the side door open during the day to circulate the air. She won’t hear us come through.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  He threw me a pious look. “I still do my homework, Miz Graff.”

  When I opened my mouth to clarify what I remembered of his high school years, he added hastily, “I chatted up the maid, Clara, when I checked the place out. Like all women, she fell prey to my charm and was forthcoming about all the household doings.”