Tea, Anyone

by S. R. Mallery

  Larry scrolled down a bit to the next page.

  “Oh, no!” Henry clutched Larry’s arm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Abby could feel her pulse soar. Who knew a simple meditative stroll through her favorite park first thing in the morning would slam the past right into the present? Normally, a walk amidst leaf-coated branches, blossoming flowers, and color-dotted bushes chilled her anxiety even faster than her normal chants and lit candles. But not today.

  Up ahead, two men were plunked down on a park bench with their heads together and their high-priced coffee lattes in hand. At first, they looked like they were gabbing about nothing in particular. But as she ambled by, not only did she recognize one of them, the other one’s words hit her like a six-point-nine earthquake.

  “Let’s finish what we started,” the better-dressed one said, his voice piercing.

  “I don’t like all the police eyes on us, but I’ll risk it,” Collin said. “Remember, you owe me.”

  Abby flashed back on Simon’s announcement to Wallace that murderous night: “Let us finish what we started.”

  She visualized the photos pinned up on Brooke’s workstation wall. The fancy pants guy here sure looked like the Whitman’s lawyer, also known as Ruth Novak’s ex-husband, Peter. Slowly, Abby walked past them. But once she got out of their sight, she texted Larry, asking where he was because she had something to tell all of them. His return text was instant, and she left the park to meet up with him.

  Once inside Brooke and Henry’s apartment, although it was so good to hear Henry talking normally, Abby was concerned. Larry told her Brooke had gone off somewhere, but they didn’t know where or why. More than that, she wasn’t answering her phone. Abby’s stomach tightened. No way did Brooke’s sudden disappearance without a real word to anyone seem normal her. Particularly not when she was in the middle of pounding the research pavement.

  Meanwhile, Larry pointed to the page he had just printed out from Henry’s ancestry site. “Wow. Look at that, will you?”

  They all huddled over it. There it was, plain as day. On Simon’s ancestry page, the Leightons had all changed their name to a surname they probably thought would be easier to pronounce and appear less English––Lawson.

  “I remember now. I can recall what I thought after I read that,” Henry said. “No one would suspect Helen Lawson. She is like Simon––kind and helpful. We loved it when she took over our class from Ruth Novak.”

  “Jeez. Let’s go back to everything you saved from your ancestry site and any papers copied from the microfiche machine,” Larry said.

  Henry nodded and pointed to a file on his desktop, labeled “Library.” He pulled it up. It included several links and a PDF document.

  Henry clapped his hands. “I remember now. They let me scan one article I’d found on their microfiche machine a few days before. Then I was allowed to send that to my computer. Funny, I never read it though. I was just taken by the sad photograph in it.”

  Larry grinned. “Henry, you’re back. Cool!”

  Beaming, Henry added, “I think I am. I also remember seeing Helen off near the library stacks the day I––”

  “Was hit?” Larry asked slowly.

  “Oh, my lord. Yes. Why was she even at the library? I’d never seen her come there before.”

  “Let’s continue.” Larry clicked on the PDF document. It was an article and interview that included a photograph.

  The headline said it all:

  “Ten-Year-Old Girl Taken from Abusive Parents”

  Bill and Jan Lawson, parents of said ten-year-old girl have been charged with major physical and psychological abuse. After Child Protective Services intervened and brought said child to a safe house, Judge John Roldau decreed that since the extent of harm was high, it would be contrary to the child’s welfare to be returned home. He further demanded a termination of all parental rights, with no appeals allowed.

  “Wow. I’ve heard of that kind of stuff happening. But in Helen’s case,” Abby said, “it obviously may have tipped her over the edge.”

  Larry nodded. “Amen to that. Let’s move on to the interview and photograph.” He scrolled down further.

  “Besides the photograph, it looks like they typed up a script from a video interview that’s not included. I’ll read it out loud now,” Larry announced.

  First off, they all looked at the picture of a child. She was a girl around ten, her light hazel eyes dark circled and intense. Her cheeks were pale, save for a single bruise.

  The three of them leaned in closer.

  “There’s something familiar about that girl. Could it be…?” Abby said softly.

  “It sure could be Helen as a child. And the age makes sense,” Henry said.

  “All right here goes the interview,” Larry cleared his throat then began to read out loud.

  INTERVIEWER: “So what do you remember most about your mother?”

  CHILD: (A slight pause) “You mean Madam Nasty?”

  “Oh, my lord,” Henry muttered. “Right out of Helen’s playbook.”

  Her hand over her mouth, Abby’s eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. She motioned Larry to continue reading out loud.

  Larry cleared his throat then went on.

  INTERVIEWER: “What did Madam Nasty do to you?”

  CHILD: (A long pause) “She would put a bag over my head when I didn’t do what she wanted. Or liked.”

  INTERVIEWER: “Where was your father in all of this?”

  CHILD: (Shakes her head) “He always does what Mama wants him to do.”

  INTERVIEWER: “So he didn’t protect you?”

  CHILD: (Laughs) “No, he’d never do that. He agrees with Mama.” (Long pause). “Family traditions, he always says.”

  With the screen now blank, Larry reached out to click exit from the document.

  “Wait. Wait.” Abby placed her hand over his outstretched finger. “There’s more. Go to the next page.”

  She was right. There was more. Nodding at Larry, she encouraged him to go further.

  INTERVIEWER: “What do you mean by family traditions, Helen?”

  “There, she said the name. It was Helen for sure!” Henry said proudly.

  “Finish it, Larry,” Abby urged.

  “Okay,” he said.

  CHILD: “Mama told me my great, great, great-grandfather put bags over people’s heads because they were bad people. He said that’s why we called it our family tradition.”

  That was it. Nothing more. A blank white screen with the three of them staring at it, stunned.

  Finally, Larry turned to Henry. “Can you get into Brooke’s computer and find out what else she might have?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s do it now. This time I made sure Chief Bruner got a warrant for me and Tony for getting into private online emails, if we need it.”

  Within minutes, they were all reading Ruth Novak’s email regarding her lunch with Helen, starting with the subject line: MY LUNCH WITH HELEN LAWSON––WARN THE ADMINISTRATION.

  “Since Helen Lawson was going to be the Fun & Fit’s substitute teacher, I invited her out to lunch to get to know her a little bit. During our meal, I asked her a couple of questions about her background. Nothing heavy, just light things. At first, she was hesitant to say much, but after two glasses of wine, she became pretty chatty. She admitted how she disliked the Whitman girls. At first, I could relate. It was no secret how I felt about Wynnie and Cathy myself. But Helen’s whole manner changed after she brought up their names. She kept saying she knew what needed to be done about them.

  When I asked her what she meant, she suddenly clammed up, but still looked really strange. She told me she had said too much already. Then she actually screamed, “You tricked me into telling you all this. You tricked me!”

  Basically, she went crazy. I knew I had to tell the administration about her. More on this later.”

  “Wow,” Abby said, her hand at her throat.

  Hen
ry clicked on another email. “Look, there’s a later email. Let’s pull it up.”

  This next memo was filled with anger. Ruth was furious how the Fun & Fit gym administration hadn’t heeded any of her warnings about the new gym teacher. They had even laughed at her and told her she was no longer needed there. Her language was more than colorful.

  Larry smirked. “I didn’t know Ruth swore like a sailor.”

  They studied it further.

  “How dare the gym administration treat me this way? After working for them all these years. Well, if they won’t help me, I’m going to confront Helen myself. I may have been fed up with all those crazies in my class, but still, they need to be protected from this wacko.”

  “Interesting.” Henry scratched his chin. “Turns out Ruth was nicer than we thought.” He turned to Abby. “What’s wrong?”

  Abby pointed to the email’s date. It was a couple of days before Ruth’s body was found.

  Larry grabbed Henry’s shoulder. “Why can’t I reach Brooke? Get me Helen’s address. Now!”

  * *

  Who does she think she is? Getting such a demanding call from Roberta, of all people, was bad enough, but to be ordered to go to the home of the head librarian, Margaret Steward, to have a “special” meeting was ridiculous. And why wouldn’t Roberta tell her what it was about?

  Having never been invited to one of the Steward’s “elegant home gala events” at a thousand dollars a pop, Brooke immediately put the address given into her GPS and found out it was a good twenty-five minutes away. That didn’t sit well with her––to say the least. Should she call Larry to tell him she had found Ruth’s email about Helen but was interrupted? Nah, better to just get this Margaret Steward meeting over with. Then, as soon as she returned, the three of them would read Ruth’s email together.

  After passing wooden barns grayed by age and wear, she noticed the road narrowed considerably. Another sure sign of small-town America. Normally, she appreciated that. Not this time. She was anxious to get back and read more of Ruth’s email. On impulse, she pulled over to try and call Larry. No service. Great. So back on the road again, passing the time by soaking up the countryside and conjuring up a couple of nicknames for Margaret Steward.

  Miserly Margaret, Stingy Steward…

  The sky was slowly darkening now, the descending sun creating an explosion of spectacular mauves, purples, gold, and orange all at once. It was an Oh My Gosh kind of sky that usually took Brooke’s breath away. It almost did now, as she slowly entered the circular driveway to an older blue clapboard house with white trim and a large red front door. East Coast charm at its best. Well, maybe at its best. Eyeing things more closely, she could see definite signs of wear and tear, including landscaping neglect and a car with a ding or two and in need of some fresh paint.

  That car looks familiar. Maybe one of Margaret’s servants driving it around town?

  She trudged up the brick steps and hammered the gold knocker against the door. Ping! went her cell phone’s message alert. Surprised texting actually worked again, she was about to check it out when the door was flung opened.

  Later, Larry. She plopped the phone back into her purse and stared up at an overweight, somewhat disheveled man, who ushered her in. Following him down a very long hallway, she was quickly distracted by the different rooms on each side of it. They passed a living room, with a comfy mishmash of sofa pillows, a warm area rug, and overstuffed floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A dining room on the other side of the hall housed an old pine table and mis-matched chairs, along with a long, green table runner topped with two brass candleholders. A large kitchen looked spacious yet old––1950s old. There, she spied a couple of cats lapping water under a thick, steel-framed table with a Formica top.

  The man in front of her moved so sluggishly, she soon turned her attention back to him. And his thick neck, where etched across it was a large tattoo––of a black spider.

  Wait a minute. The man who was with Ruth Novak right before she died?

  What was going on? Suddenly, her mouth went dry––scared dry––and her normally warm hands felt icy cold. Oh, Larry. Why didn’t I text you where I was?

  The man led her to a closed wooden door. As soon as he knocked on it lightly, muffled cries sounded.

  Who’s that? Where in the world am I?

  The big lug shoved the door open and started to push Brooke in ahead of him. She resisted.

  “Just a minute, buddy,” she said. “Where am I? And don’t tell me I’m at Margaret Steward’s house. Not on your life.”

  A familiar sounding female voice floated out. “Ah, the clever police researcher gets it right.”

  Helen?

  Sure enough, the pleasant, blonde gym teacher was standing off to one side––not looking so pleasant. It was bad enough just seeing her demonic smile, but when Brooke heard the muffled cry again, it sent chills rippling down her arms. She peered into the slightly dim corner, not far from Helen.

  There was Roberta on a chair, gagged and bound. Her wide-open eyes were filled with tears, her mouth letting loose a stream of heavy, shallow breaths.

  Suddenly an instinctive, Mama Bear force washed over Brooke. “Let her go, Helen. Whatever’s your problem, she’s innocent.”

  Helen nodded slowly. “Probably so. Still…” She turned to the man. “Tie Brooke up.”

  Rough, pudgy hands jerked both of Brooke’s smaller ones around toward her back, then roped them together with a plastic police tie.

  “Should I muffle her?” he asked.

  Helen shook her head. “Not necessary. I may want to hear what she has to say. Anyway, we’re safe, sound-wise. No one knows we’re all the way out here.”

  She smiled for several seconds before turning toward a wall of photos.

  That slight pause gave Brooke time to make a fast scope of the small room. A black wig and hoodie were hung up on a large wooden hook on the northwest wall. Below those items sat a large Gucci bag on a tall stool. She was playing Ruth that time when we saw her with this same guy? She must have stolen it. Had she already killed her?

  Leaning against the stool was a flat shovel. Of course. Her eyes shifted over to the wall, where

  a large, blown-up photo of the Fun & Fit class group shot held center stage. The same one Helen had requested Collin take. Thick, black Sharpie pen circles had circled a few people’s heads. Brooke stared at the picture.

  “That’s all right. Take a look. You’re featured, as well as Henry.”

  Brooke noticed the Whitman girls with thick black magic marker X’s crisscrossed over their faces.

  Roberta whimpered.

  Turning toward the femme fatale kidnapper, Brooke asked, “Tell me, Helen. Why? Just why?”

  Helen and the man exploded with laughter. “Oh, W.L.,” she said. “Brooke wants to know why. Isn’t that a kick?”

  “Tell her, cuz. Might as well. She ain’t gonna live to tell anyone else anyways.”

  “W.L.,” Brooke said softly, a sudden memory of something familiar clanging in her head. “What’s your last name, W.L.?”

  “Lansbury, if it’s anything to you.”

  Wallace Lansbury? W.L.? A Sheffield Company client?

  She flipped around toward Helen. “Helen, was your last name always Lawson?”

  That seemed to stun her a little. “What?” Then a look of respect flitted over her. “Again, you and Henry, the research gurus.” She turned toward Roberta. “Isn’t that true, Roberta?”

  A single moan escaped the librarian.

  Abruptly, a strong protectiveness for Abby came into play. No way was she going to tell this crazed animal about Abby’s unique approach. And Roberta? That poor woman.

  “If you must know, the family’s name way back when was Leighton. Maybe interesting to some, but in the end, that information is not going to help either of you today.”

  Hearing the renewed whimpers from Roberta, Brooke could feel an overwhelming sadness wash over her. Sadness at never seeing her grandm
a or Haley again. Sadness about leaving both Henry and Larry. And Junebug. She gulped hard. Tony…

  A sudden childhood memory reminded her how she had dealt with her grandfather. It was the one way that stalled his punishments. She decided to go for that same kind of misdirection.

  “So, why, Helen?” she asked. “You might as well tell me, if I’m going to my grave.”

  Straightening up, Helen looked thoughtful. “I always did think you had spunk, Brooke. I guess I was right. All right, if you insist. So, you want to know why I killed those three people? I’ll tell you.”

  “Four.” Brooke kept her voice steady.

  “What?” she said.

  “You killed four, in case you forgot.” Brooke stifled an urge to snarl.

  W.L. laughed. “Yeah, you forgot about Olivia, cuz.” Facing Brooke, he raised his left hand, and she saw it. A flat banded silver ring with a topaz stone encased in it. OMG…

  O and W up in a tree…

  “That was Helen’s gift to me,” he said. “I wanted to dump my nag of a wife, and Helen showed me how. No biggie.”

  Helen stomped her foot. “Be quiet, Wallie. Now, Brooke, do you want to hear my story or not?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Larry stormed into Brooke’s apartment, his near panic expression said it all. “No one’s at Helen’s place, and the landlady says she hasn’t seen her for weeks.”

  His usual laissez-faire attitude and snide jokes at-all-cost had vanished, replaced by shallow breaths and a fast chest clutch as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

  Instantly, Abby’s lips trembled. “And Brooke?”

  “Yeah. Why isn’t Brooke answering?” Larry practically moaned. “I don’t get it. And why doesn’t Tony answer his phone? What’s going on?”

  Suddenly, he looked down. There was June, rubbing around his legs, purr-less. Larry quickly picked her up and draped her over his shoulder. “You see? Even Junebug knows something’s up.”

  Henry’s noisy sniffle demanded attention. “I even tried hacking into Brooke’s phone,” he said, “but I’d forgotten she put a block on it. She was going to tell me what her new password was, but then I had my––you know––accident.”