BLOOD WORK: a John Jordan Mystery (John Jordan Mysteries Book 12)

by Michael Lister

  “My first question of a supposed murder where there is no body. . .” I say. “Is she really dead? Was it her blood? Did she fake her own death in order to disappear?”

  He nods. “I considered that but maybe not enough. There was nothing in her life and background—at least that I found—that made me think she would want to disappear. I mean nothing.”

  I think about it. We should dig deeper there to make sure that was actually the case.

  “But the real reason I believed then that she was dead and still believe now that she is . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “AB negative is a very, very rare blood type—the rarest—and no one could lose as much blood as was in that car and survive. The ME said so.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  For my entire life, my dad has been as stable and consistent as anyone I’ve known. He has his quirks and he’s held me at arm’s length, but he’s been constant—an unmoving anchor in our family, a fixed star in the night sky by which I have navigated my life.

  For that to now be changing, shifting beneath my very feet, has me off balance, searching for stability and footing, finding none.

  “What made you go to the doctor in the first place?” I ask.

  We are similar in our avoidance of doctors, hospitals, and medication.

  “Clothes kept growing,” he says. “They were fallin’ off me and I couldn’t figure out why. Was tired all the damn time. Weird swelling in different part of my body—neck, underarms, stomach, and I was keeping a fever. It wouldn’t go away. All that for long enough’ll send anybody to the doctor. Even me.”

  I smile. “Just not as hardheaded as you used to be.”

  “That’s a risk factor,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “Old age. I’m less stubborn ’cause I’m less everything these days. Two main factors for CLL is oldness and whiteness. Tick those two boxes for damn sure.”

  “Did you read the information Brown sent with your blood work?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “You don’t know for sure you even have it.”

  He smirks and gives me a get real expression. “Pretty sure.”

  “He wants to do a bone marrow test to make sure.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t know about that.”

  “What’s not to know?”

  “May just let it run its course. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”

  “The literature he sent said depending on a few factors, it can be treatable.”

  “Just not sure I want to spend my final days in a sterile room having poison pumped into my body.”

  “That’s not how it would be. Plus it could give you many more days.”

  “Could.”

  “Yes, could. Could give you more time to work this and other cases. Could give you far more time with your granddaughters.”

  He nods noncommittally. “I’m just so damn tired as it is.”

  “But that’s most likely the leukemia. That will get better once we deal with it.”

  “Maybe,” he says, his mouth twisting into a half frown. “I don’t know. I think I’d just rather get my house in order, finish up what I can—including Janet’s case.”

  “At least have the test and follow-up appointment with Brown so you can make an informed decision. Seems the least you can do for me if I’m going to solve your case for you.”

  His face breaks out into a big smile that makes him look twenty years younger and much less pale and frail.

  “I’ll do you one better,” he says. “You solve this damn case, and I’ll do the damn treatment.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I arrive home expecting to find Anna packed and ready to ride, but instead find her cleaning.

  “I figured you’d be in the car waiting,” I say.

  Taylor is in her highchair at the kitchen table eating Cheerios with her small fingers; Anna scrubbing the grout of the tile floor near her.

  She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

  I immediately kneel down beside her.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Mom fell and broke her wrist while she was packing up the car,” she says.

  “Oh no. How is she? Where is she? Does she have to have surgery? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m being silly again. She’s going to be okay. They’re not sure yet whether they’re going to have to operate.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I say. “What do we need to do? Go up there? Do they still plan to go to the beach?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s what I’m most upset about. The damn vacation. I was so looking forward to it. I . . . I just . . .”

  “Need it,” I say.

  “Obviously,” she says. “Look at me. I’m tearily cleaning the freakin’ grout.”

  I smile.

  “At least it’s good news for you,” she says. “Not only do you not have to leave your dad or the case, but you don’t have to spend a week in a beach house with my parents.”

  “Listen to me,” I say. “I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this, how much you need it, deserve it. There’s no way we’re not going. Unless your mom needs you up there, we’re still going.”

  “Really?” she says, a small smile dancing at the corners of her lips.

  “Really.”

  “I figured you’d use this as a chance to get out of going, that you’d be so relieved not to have to go that you’d—”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So we can go?”

  “Unless you’d rather stay and clean the grout.”

  She pretends to consider it, acting as if she’s torn.

  “Do you think we need to go to your folks? If we do, we can—and we’ll turn even that into a vacation all its own. One way or another, you’re getting away and relaxing.”

  “I’ll double check, but she said she’s okay, that there’s nothing we can do. They told us to go ahead and use the cottage, but I didn’t think you’d want to.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “You know I do.”

  “Then you should know I do too.”

  Dropping the small brush she is scrubbing with, she lunges toward me, arms outstretched for an embrace, wrapping me up in a big hug, but I’m unable to keep my balance from my kneeling position and her momentum carries us back. We fall to the floor, her on top of me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I nod. “But I think my skull may have put a chip in the tile.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The late afternoon sun splashes bright orange on the cumulus clouds above it while all around it the deep plum-colored sky slowly devolves into darkness.

  Stillness. Peace. Breathtaking beauty.

  I’m alone on an empty stretch of beach.

  A weekday toward the end of August, school in, tourists from Alabama and Georgia returned home, nearly all of Mexico Beach is open and uninhabited these days.

  Sitting on sand so white, so soft, so fine it has the consistency of refined sugar without the stickiness, I am mindful of my breathing and my thoughts.

  Before me the green waters of the Gulf roll in and back out again, their crash and splash joining the airy sound of the wind to create an aural tunnel of forceful white noise, pierced intermittently by the screech and squeal of seagulls.

  Closing my eyes momentarily on the elegance and magnificence, I breathe even more slowly. In and out. In and out. Conscious of my breathing. Mindful of my thoughts.

  I’ve come to this secluded section of Mexico Beach to meditate and pray, to recalibrate and reconnect—activities that too often get crowded out by less important endeavors during my days.

  Though I was less than enthusiastic about this retreat from the routine of our daily lives, I need this every bit as much as Anna, and I am grateful to be here.

  Like a child fighting falling asleep—something else I too often do—my life would be far better if I would
relax into opportunities like this one instead of fighting against some of the very things that are so good for me.

  Over the course of my life, my spiritual practice has evolved and expanded, shifted and changed, but it has always included this—prayer and meditation in the splendor of North Florida nature.

  Thoughts come and I let them go, observing but not engaging with them.

  I breathe in the beauty.

  I express my gratitude and my love.

  Everything about my experience is restorative and nurturing, and I realize, as I always do, just how much richer and sweeter and deeper my life would be if I would just insist that this be a more consistent part of my daily routine.

  Later toward evening, Anna and I walk hand in hand along the water’s edge, and it is as much an act of worship and spiritual practice as my time alone on the beach had been.

  “Can’t tell you what it means to me that you insisted we still come,” Anna says.

  Taylor is asleep in the baby sling wrapped around her body, her small head nestled against Anna’s breasts.

  It’s after sundown and the quiet quality of evening bathes everything with an ethereal light and sound, like a palpable presence of transcendence flowing in and through and out of us.

  “I was an idiot to be hesitant in the first place,” I say.

  We had already talked at length about my dad and her mom and even the Janet Lester case earlier in the day. Now it was time for all of that—along with everything else—to remain at bay and let it be, for a short while at least, as if we are the only two people on the planet.

  “Sorry I’ve been on edge lately. It’s like some of the shit we went through is finally catching up with me.”

  “You’re handling everything extremely well,” I say. “Don’t hesitate to share it with me and let me help, and if you feel like you need to see a counselor, we’ll find you the very best.”

  “I’m married to the very best.”

  We pause long enough for me to kiss her, then continue walking.

  “You’ve been through so much,” I say.

  “Speaking of being married to the best,” she says. “I know we are married in every way that truly matters, but . . . I’d like to do it officially.”

  “I guess I always figured we would as soon as your divorce from Chris comes through,” I say.

  “It arrived in the mail this morning.”

  I stop and drop to a knee without letting go of her hand.

  “Anna, I have loved you since the moment I first met you when we were just children. I have always loved you. I will always love you. Of all the women in all the world, you are the woman to me. The only woman. You are my dream girl, my best friend, my partner in everything. You are my everything. I never again, not for one moment, want to experience life without you by my side. Will you marry me—”

  “I will.”

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  “Oh, please finish.”

  “—as soon as possible,” I say.

  She smiles as tears trickle down her cheeks.

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes. I thought you’d never ask.”

  She kneels down with me and we embrace and kiss, careful not to wake Taylor as we do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Janet Lester had decided it was time, determined she was ready, while dancing with Ben to “How Deep Is Your Love” by the Bee Gees at the Sweethearts’ Ball.

  She had made him wait long enough, hadn’t she?

  Ben was a good guy, and he really cared for her, but he wasn’t going to wait forever. He’d been sweet and patient, but she could tell he was really beginning to get frustrated. Them not doing it was becoming a big deal.

  And what about her? Hadn’t she waited long enough? She was eighteen. It was time for her too. She was the last of her friends to still be a virgin.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she whispered in his ear as they slow danced beneath the disco ball, a million tiny spots of light slowly swirling around them.

  She was wearing a beige dress with lots of ruffles similar to one she had seen Farrah Fawcett wear at a recent Hollywood premiere. He was wearing a brown suit with a beige shirt that matched her dress. They were surrounded by several other slow-dancing couples, but none that had been together a fraction of the time they had.

  “Oh yeah?” he said. “What’s that?”

  He seemed distracted and maybe even a little disinterested—two things he seemed more and more these days.

  Maybe it was because he was already drinking, but that wouldn’t explain why he had been acting that way in general lately. More and more all the time.

  Her waiting too long would explain it though. Had he lost interest in her?

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I don’t know . . . you just seem a little . . . distracted.”

  He shrugged and shook his head, but didn’t say anything to allay her concerns.

  Was the song, the song that was playing when she decided to give herself to him, actually a warning? Should she have been questioning how deep his love was?

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’. Why?”

  “You just seem . . . I don’t know. Like maybe you’re . . .”

  “I’m what? Let’s just enjoy the song. I really dig it. You know? You’re just trippin’ tonight for some reason. You tired from last night? Or has bein’ the queen gone to your head already? Just chill.”

  They danced in silence some more, her waiting to see if he’d mention the surprise.

  He didn’t.

  Because he didn’t care or because he was really enjoying their dance?

  She was thinking of giving him her virginity, she’d bought a special negligee for the occasion and everything, and he totally didn’t care.

  Maybe rather than this being the night she gave herself to him, maybe this was the night they’d call it quits.

  He was a stone fox and sweet to her most of the time, but . . . maybe he just didn’t love her like he used to. Maybe he had his eye on someone else. But who? One name came to mind immediately. Sabrina. She flirted with him all the time. And everybody knew she was a sure thing. Sabrina Henry. It had to be.

  Are they sleepin’ together already? Is he distracted because he’s looking for her while he’s dancing with me? That’s why he’s been so understanding about waiting—because he hasn’t been.

  Stop dancing and walk off the floor right now. Leave him here to—

  But before she could, the song came to an end and he lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly.

  “I love you so much, Janet Leigh,” he said. “Don’t forget you were my queen before you were theirs. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life. Now what’s this surprise you’ve got for me? Is it a good surprise, or a real good surprise?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I quietly flip through the witness statements, skimming each one in the faint splash of illumination provided by my reading light clipped to the murder book.

  Beside me Anna is asleep. Her breathing and that of Taylor’s coming through the small speaker of the baby monitor are the only sounds beside the occasional creak in the too-quiet cottage.

  Earlier in the evening, we had walked down and eaten pizza at 40th Street Pizzaria and Seafood. The pizza was some of the best we’d had in a while, and we brought a second one back with us to warm up for a snack—something we didn’t do, because Anna fell asleep before we could.

  Our moonlit walk along the beach on the way back was romantic and buoying, and I figured we might go back out later for a swim or a longer walk, but when I came in from talking to Johanna on the phone a short while later, I found Taylor and Anna fast asleep.

  I always miss Johanna, but it’s particularly acute tonight. Something about us being here without her just doesn’t seem right, and despite only being half an hour farther away from her, being out of my ordinary environment makes me feel
less available for her somehow—even though on a rational level I know it’s not the case.

  I console myself with the fact that we’ll be together again at the end of the week, but the constant dull and at times acute ache of missing her feels as though it’s slowly hollowing me out inside.

  The witness statements are pretty much what I’d expected they’d be, though perhaps a little more directly contradictory than usual.

  Most of the young people at the party said they never saw Janet there, but a few did.

  A classmate of hers, Charles Fountain, the only black student at the farmhouse that night, swore she was there and that he saw her not once but a handful of times throughout the night. He even described in detail what she was wearing—a cream crinkle-textured blouse with a lace yoke and a camel, tan, and rust floral-print skirt with a deep flounce at the bottom.

  Dad had written, How does a boy know so much about a girl’s clothes?

  Answering his own question later, Dad discovered that Fountain planned to move to New York after graduation to study fashion design, and deduced that, although he couldn’t be positive, the thin, soft-spoken black boy was most likely homosexual.

  Fountain’s only interest in Janet seemed to be as a friend—one mostly fascinated by her sense of fashion and her eye for photography.

  Another witness, a young woman named Valerie Weston, who was actually closer to Janet—though not in each other’s inner circles, they were part of the yearbook staff together—said Janet was definitely not there that night, that she spent a lot of time looking for her because she wanted to congratulate her for winning the Miss Valentine pageant and show her a totally awesome photograph she had taken. She said she definitely totally was a no-show that night. And only totally stunned spazzes would say that she was.

  Ann Patterson, a junior who shared one class with Janet, remembered seeing her briefly and described her as wearing an outfit similar to the one Charles recalled—though not nearly in as much detail.

  Kathy Moore, either Janet’s best friend or biggest competitor depending on who was asked, said Janet did grace the party with her presence but only briefly, and that she never actually came inside the house.