“I don’t want to gossip, but—” Jennifer chewed on a finger. She always nibbled herself to raw flesh whenever she became nervous.
Very gently I reached up and pulled her hand away from her mouth. “Then don’t. I overheard people talking at the funeral. There seemed to be some concern about the company. Since you’re on the board, I realize you can’t talk.”
She inhaled, long and slowly. “It’s more than that. As a member of the board, I have a fiduciary responsibility. When that bumps up against my friendships, it’s tough. I mean, I like Deanna and Peter, really, I do. I understand their desire to keep up with their neighbors. But pretending to be someone you aren’t—that never ends well.”
“How’s Peyton doing? Anya’s been awfully moody. You’re lucky that Nicci opted out of participating.”
Jennifer cocked her head and said, “Notice something weird about all the photos of Peyton? Anything unusual?”
I thought back. “They are all posed shots.”
“That’s right. Ask yourself why. You’ll figure it out.”
Sixty-four
As I tidied up after the crop, Jennifer’s challenge stuck with me. I could come up with various reasons for only including posed shots: (1) the subject resisted having her photos taken. (2) Peyton was difficult to capture on film and only a professional did a good job. (3) Peyton’s usual grooming/attire wasn’t up to the standards her family set. All right, there was (4) no one was interested in taking her picture.
None of these told me anything worth knowing about Peyton or the Fitzgerald family. Or did they? Jennifer was a smart cookie. She’d been trying to share important information. She trusted that I would get her drift.
If she was nibbling her fingers, the situation was tense. Ergo, I needed to sort this out right away.
How could I learn more?
I turned to the only resource I truly understood: pictures. I knew that Sheila’s personal library contained copies of the school yearbook going back more than thirty years. Maybe a candid shot of Peyton would help me learn more about the Fitzgerald family dynamics. An unstaged shot might reveal a relevant piece of information.
But relevant to what?
Heartened by my plan, I turned off the store lights and flipped the sign on the front door to read CLOSED. After locking the back entrance, I gathered my dog’s leash and strolled with her toward my car. Once I unlocked the passenger side door, I unclipped the Great Dane.
“Get in,” I told my dog. “Up.”
The night was still. A warm breeze tickled my skin. “Come on,” I tugged at Gracie’s collar. But instead of stepping into the BMW and plopping her backside down on the passenger seat, Gracie froze. She locked her legs, fighting me. She turned her head, stared over her shoulder, and growled.
“Come on,” I encouraged her, pushing her toward the opening. She swung her blocky head left and right before sniffing the air. She sidestepped me.
“Come on, dog. I haven’t got all night.” I urged her forward with a tug on her collar.
But Gracie and I weigh the same. And she wasn’t budging. I grabbed her collar and gave her a bit of a shove from behind.
She didn’t move. Not at first.
Suddenly, she twisted free of my grip and jerked her collar out of my hands.
“Gracie! Come! Gracie, get back here!” I yelled at her retreating shadow. I tossed my purse into the car and took off running, following an instinct rather than an image, straining to keep track of the sound of my dog panting. I paused, listened closely, and heard the slap-slap-slap of shoes on asphalt.
Who was out there? Why had Gracie decided to chase that person down? Usually, she ignored passers-by. But not tonight.
Had Gracie sensed danger to us? What caused her to take off ? Why hadn’t she come back?
“Gra-cie!” I yelled into the black hole that was the night. I kept running in the direction she’d taken, but now I was totally immersed in the thick darkness of that spring evening, a night so humid it pressed down on me from all sides.
Gravel churned under my feet. I used my outstretched fingers like cat whiskers, trying to feel my way along. Where was I? Where was Gracie? I stopped and turned, making a complete U-ie, trying to get my bearings. The only direction I could discern was the south, because I could hear the rumble of engines and the singing of tires. By my calculations, Gracie had gone toward that busy road.
The thought chilled me. I had to get her back. Although her harlequin coat had splashes of white along with the black, she could be hard to see in the dark. I’d heard of drivers mistaking Great Danes for deer. She could easily get hit by a surprised driver.
“Gracie? Wanna go for a ride?” I repeated over and over.
That was all I had to offer. I made a tight circle in the dark. Then I stopped. I heard crunching. I heard scuffling, followed by the hollow clanging of a trash can. A woman started cursing. The voice sounded familiar, but honestly, under duress don’t we all?
“Crud,” I shook my head. Could it be that Brenda Detweiler had stalked me? Was she the shadowy figure my dog had attacked? If so, would Gracie be okay? I didn’t trust Brenda. Her drug usage and history was splattered with violent episodes. A panic rose in my chest. What if Gracie got hurt trying to protect me?
Or what if my attacker had been Bill? Or someone he hired? My underarms were wet with perspiration. My heart beat so hard I swear you could see my blouse shaking. My voice quavered as I called, “Gracie? Come! Here, girl! Come on!”
Sixty-five
Oh, right, like my feeble commands would make her race to my side.
Ha, ha, ha. The joke was on me.
My teeth started chattering. Was my dog okay? Why hadn’t I kept a tighter grip on her? What if she ran out into traffic and got hit?
My only hope was to get in my car, roll down the windows, drive slowly around the block, and call out for her. She loved going for rides. Perhaps it would be enough of an inducement to lure her to me.
I started back toward the parking lot, feeling my way along with my feet. Squinting, I tried to find the edge where the alley intersected the pavement. I was concentrating so hard on my feet that the brush of fur against my leg startled me.
“Gracie! Where were you?”
From her new spot, she growled long, low, and loud. I gripped her collar and tried to haul her back toward the car. The ruff of hair around her neck met my knuckles; the fur stood up on end. She’d raised her hackles. She was seriously ticked.
A crunch from behind our building caused Gracie to surge forward, nearly yanking my arm out of the socket. “What the heck?” I muttered as I rubbed my wrist. “Come on, Gracie. That’s enough of this nonsense. Get in the car.”
I hoped that whoever was out there heard me. With luck my would-be assailant would slither off into the dark.
From across the lot I heard the slap-slap-slap of shoe soles hitting the pavement. A dark figure raced past me toward the alley. I could make out long arms flailing at the night. I heard the crackle and snap of small twigs breaking. I smelled a pungent perfume of broken greenery as the intruder burst through the hedge that separated the back of our building from the house that abutted our lot.
I tried again to get Gracie into my car. Now my job was harder because I was trembling.
In the distance, a dog howled. A beagle from the sound of it, making that eerie yodel that signals catching a scent.
Gracie twisted to look past me. Light from passing cars glinted off her eyes. She was tracking a moving target. I could feel her body relax, and I assumed her prey was getting away.
“Are we safe?” I asked her. My dog’s big tail whopped me as she dug her moist nose into my hand. Translation: “It’s okay. Whoever they were, I scared them off. I’m a good pup, huh?”
I slipped my arms around her nec
k and hugged her.
“You are a very, very good pup. What would I do without you?” I leaned into my car and rested one hand on the fabric convertible roof.
Sticky.
I pulled back and held my hand toward the streetlight. A glob of yellow egg yolk ran down my fingers.
Drat, drat, and double drat.
After I ran the BMW through a car wash, I drove to Ted Drewes. I bought myself a Terra Mizzou, a frozen custard mix-up so thick it was like setting concrete. Gracie lapped up frozen vanilla custard served in their signature yellow and green plaid paper cup.
As I chewed on a pistachio nut, I wondered. Who had been waiting for me in the lot? What would have happened without Gracie acting as my protector? Why had he or she egged my car?
Was this just a prank?
Or a warning, a threat I needed to take more seriously?
When would this be over?
Until then, I vowed to carry my gun close to my body. Especially when I was in and out of the parking lot. After all, why own a weapon if I wasn’t going to use it?
Sixty-six
I made a call to Detweiler to say good night as I was on my way back to Sheila’s, but he couldn’t talk. After I got Gracie situated, I went upstairs. Anya’s bedroom light was on. I rapped at her door.
“Go away,” she said.
I was not about to take that for an answer. I opened the door a crack. My darling daughter lay on her bed, curled up in a fetal position, playing with Seymour and a gray felt stuffed mouse that looked worse for the experience.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Mom? Oh, it’s you. You’re late.”
“That I am. Who did you think it would be knocking at your door?”
“Grandmére. Or that creepy Claudia.”
I bit my lip. As her mother, I was expected to encourage her to be nice. But at what expense? When we were growing up, my mother had insisted on having my sisters and me kiss—and kiss up to—people I didn’t like. Systematically, I was taught to ignore my gut reaction. While I can understand our need to teach our kids civility, where’s the line between civility and victimization? If Anya can’t trust her gut, if I try to lie to her and get her to lie to herself, I’ve stripped her of a powerful protective instinct.
“Claudia creeps me out, too.”
“How come you’re letting her stick around?”
What could I say? Because we’re setting a trap for Bill Ballard and I’m scared your grandmother will mess up our plans?
“I have a reason, and it’s a good one. Actually I have two reasons, but I can’t discuss them with you right now. Will you trust me to tell you later?”
Those denim blue eyes, so like her father’s, blinked slowly as she debated. Finally, she said, “Okay. But I don’t like her, Mom. I caught her in the kitchen opening drawers in Gran’s china cabinet.” Then she turned her back to me again.
“What did she say? I mean, when you walked in?”
“She giggled. She said she was looking for a pair of scissors. Ha. She planned to steal something. I know because she took a piece of Gran’s silver out and stared at the mark on the back. I heard her talking to someone on the phone. She said, ‘You should see all the loot in this place.’ I mean, if that doesn’t prove that she’s a sneak and a thief, I don’t know what would.”
I snuggled next to my girl, spooning up to her. I reached over her and stroked Seymour, savoring his rumbling purr.
“Tell Robbie what you saw—and anything you see in the future. He can help keep an eye on her. In fact, I’ll mention her behavior to him tomorrow. Claudia can’t steal anything if she can’t get it out of the house, right?”
Anya half-rolled over to stare at me. “How come Grandmére likes her so much? Claudia’s not only a sneak, she’s mean and nasty.”
“She pays attention to Grandmére, and Grandmére likes that.”
“But, duh, doesn’t she realize that Claudia wants something? I mean, she’s such a big brown-noser.”
Out of the mouths of babes. “You see that. I see that. But Grandmére doesn’t. I guess she needs more attention than we can give her.”
We rested there, quietly. Anya’s breathing became regular and slow. When I thought she’d fallen asleep, I started to disentangle myself.
“I still think about it,” Anya said in a near whisper. “About all that screaming. How fast we had to run. I hear the shots in my head. We were lucky.”
“Shh. Hush now, sweetheart. You’re safe.” I tightened my hold on her. All night we stayed like that, my arms wrapped around my daughter. I rested on top of the covers, but I didn’t sleep much. Not at all. Were we really safe?
Not while Bill Ballard was in town. Not while he was alive.
Again, my thoughts returned to the little Kel-Tec that Detweiler had given me. What could it hurt if I started carrying it?
Sixty-seven
Saturday, May 8
A strand of drool dangled from my mouth, as I slowly came around to consciousness. Anya grunted, rolled over, and stayed asleep as I got up and tippy-toed around her room. I hesitated in her doorway, enjoying a moment of watching my sleeping baby. I would do anything, anything at all to keep her safe.
Mert once told me, “When you feel like a victim, you act like one, too. That’s how you decide to sign up for Round Two of abuse.”
I decided to break the cycle.
I text-messaged Detweiler first thing and suggested we go to a local gun range. Target practice would go a long way to make me feel better about owning the Kel-Tec. I mean, lipstick I can manage, but a gun? Moving parts? Sheesh.
Using Sheila’s computer, I pulled up info about gun safety and how to shoot. Admittedly, reading the directions wasn’t the same as real practice, but at least it gave me a better grasp of the fundamentals. I thought back to the Lee Child books and how Jack Reacher always slowed his breathing before taking a shot. I extended my arm and pretended that Sheila’s Swingline Stapler was my gun.
“Take your time and aim,” Detweiler said softly in my mind. “Most shooters splatter bullets. Even if someone has you in his sights, he’s likely to miss because of adrenaline.”
I thought back to the past winter and an Olympic sport called the Biathlon where contestants ran a course, then stopped and fired at a target, and then jumped up and ran again. The commentator remarked on how their accelerated heart rates made regulating their breathing—and controlling their muscles—difficult. Detweiler’s suggestion made perfect sense.
He had continued with, “And if someone has a gun pointed at you, and you are aiming back at him, never, ever allow yourself to get distracted. That leaves you as a sitting duck. No matter what happens around you, keep your eye and your gun on your target.”
Every inhalation and exhalation moved the “muzzle” of the stapler up and down.
Interesting stuff. Who knew?
While the printer spit out paper, I combed Sheila’s shelves for her copies of the CALA yearbook, looking for a candid photo of Peyton. I’d just found one when Robbie stuck his head around the door frame.
“Got a minute?”
He motioned me outside to Sheila’s back deck.
Robbie and I could talk in private here. Twice I’d caught Claudia listening in while I chatted on the phone with Detweiler. One time she’d actually been pressed against my bedroom door. When I opened it, she toppled over.
Robbie pulled an official-looking piece of stationery from his back pocket. “I took the liberty of running a background check on your mother’s friend.”
According to this report, “Claudia Turrow” did not exist. She certainly wasn’t registered with any nursing agency or care-giving facility in the Tucson area. She didn’t have an Arizona driver’s license. Or a phone number registered in her name.
Or a permanent address.
“A colleague of mine in the Tucson P.D. promised to poke around, but anything more you can supply about her would be helpful. We’re drawing a blank here, and I have a bad feeling about this woman.”
“Join the club,” I said as we went back inside.
I text-messaged Amanda and asked her to see what she could learn. I decided that the next time Claudia left her purse unattended, I’d look at her driver’s license and her checkbook. If she could snoop around, so could I.
There and then I decided to rummage through the trash. After all, Scotty didn’t beam her down from the SS Enterprise. If she’d flown here from Arizona, there’d be an airline ticket stub. If she’d taken a cab or a bus, maybe there was a ticket or a receipt.
“Anything else?” I asked Robbie.
His weary eyes held mine, as he said, “Johnny met up with Bill last night. Bill offered him five grand to kidnap you.”
My stomach cramped and I doubled over.
“You okay?”
I managed a weak, “Yeah. Just nerves. Haven’t had breakfast either.”
“You won’t be in any danger, Kiki. Not ever. The decoy is ready to take your place. As long as everything happens on this side of the Mississippi, we’re fine. Try not to worry. It’ll all be over soon. How about if I make you scrambled eggs?”
I thought his offer very sweet and told him so before adding, “I’m meeting Detweiler for breakfast.”
Robbie broke into a smile so sunny it brought to mind sunbeams parting clouds after a storm. “I’m glad. You two are good for each other. By the way, Dodie Goldfader filed a complaint about the mess Brenda caused at Faust Park. Your name isn’t mentioned. That Mrs. Goldfader is a smart woman. Keeping you out of it.”
Sometimes she is, I thought to myself. I debated whether to mention what happened the night before. I had no proof that Brenda had egged my car. Any evidence was washed away when I ran the Beemer through the car wash.
“You’re my daughter now. Or you will be once Sheila and I say our vows. I won’t let anything happen to you,” said Robbie as he gave me a quick hug. “I promise.”
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