by J. D. Webb
Smudge
by J. D. Webb
Published by L&L Dreamspell
Spring, Texas
Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell
Copyright © 2010 J. D. Webb. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN: 978-1-60318-211-9
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Again thanks to my wife, who unselfishly gives me support and allows me to sit at the computer and not pay attention to her.
With great admiration, I acknowledge much help from my editor Cindy Davis. Competency and thoroughness are among the many talents of this fine lady. Also my writing group, The Write Stuff. Five women and one gentleman who kept me on the right path with gentle reminders that a woman would never say or do that. The dreaded comma affliction I have is well healed by this group.
Of course, I thank the Dream Team who allowed me one more opportunity to have my words not just sit on a page, but be published in a novel.
I appreciate one of my mentors, Barb D’Amato, who graciously read my book and honored me with a blurb.
Oh yes, hey mom, I got another one done.
ONE
Tonight of all nights, why is the traffic so heavy? How can there be a traffic jam in a town with only 1,241 residents? Twelve hundred forty-one and a half, now that Mrs. Purvis has entered her second trimester. Get out of the way, Mr. Lavery. Pay attention. Seems like everyone in Millvale, Illinois, and two surrounding counties wants to be downtown at 8 pm.
Trisha Morgan flashed her lights and pulled around John Lavery’s car, giving him a half-hearted wave. She continued to the only ATM in town to grab enough money to cover tomorrow’s breakfast with the girls. All were employees of Spitzer, Walters, Walters, and Sloan, the premier law firm in town. Okay, the only law firm in town.
Each Friday morning Trish and her friends Joan, Charity and Heather met at Jan’s Java Hut to rehash the oddities and inequities of SWW&S. The small coffeehouse refused to take credit cards, which necessitated her trip to the cash machine. No reason other than the weekly date with good friends would get her to make a side trip to the bank. The tests at the doctor’s office had taken longer than she had anticipated.
Well, isn’t that amazing? A parking spot right in front of the bank.
Trish signaled and eased Jim’s car into the space, cringing at the scrape of the wheel against the curb. Thankfully, the curb didn’t gouge the side of his new Jaguar. She shivered and tried not to think of the consequences of causing damage to her husband’s newest plaything. With her Escort in the shop again, she had been allowed to borrow Jim’s car—but only for the day.
Grabbing her umbrella, she cursed as the release button refused to operate. Damn, just long enough for the rain to make her mascara run. Finally it opened, she splashed through puddles, across the sidewalk to the front of the Citizens’ National Bank of Millvale.
As usual, the light over the ATM had not been replaced, so she dug her small flashlight out of her purse and approached the open-sided kiosk. Juggling umbrella and flashlight in one hand, she inserted her card and waited for the machine to activate. She swiped a smudge off the screen with her hand so she could see to enter her PIN.
Ugh! Wet and sticky. Dropping the umbrella, Trish rummaged a tissue from her purse and quickly scrubbed her hand. She shined the light on her palm, revealing a dark red smear.
Oh, my God! It’s blood! Her thoughts stalled as the ATM ate her card for the second time in two weeks.
The moan seemed to come from beneath her feet. Trish’s head swiveled left and right. Just darkness and rain drenching her good Nike sweats. Traffic trickled past. She cocked her ear, straining to hear any noise. Nothing.
“Hello? Someone there?” Silence. Maybe the sound wasn’t what she thought. Trish looked over her shoulder hoping to see someone she could call for help, but the sidewalk was deserted. She wanted to find the source of the groan, and then again, she really didn’t. Someone may be hurt and needs help. She picked up the umbrella and willed her feet to move toward the corner of the bank building, her reservations replaced by concern. Squeezing her flashlight in a death grip, she let the light play out on the sidewalk and into the darkness between buildings.
An alley ran between the bank and the drug store. Trash cans and debris littered the interior as far as she could see in the limited light. Trish listened, hoping the moan had been a figment of her imagination. She took baby steps through the wetness and strewn garbage.
“Help…me.”
The barely audible plea came from beyond an overflowing container in front of her. Trish looked behind her once, praying someone familiar would appear. No one came. She wanted to run. Get the police. But she couldn’t make herself move.
“Is someone here?”
A whisper came from the side of a huge green dumpster. “Please…help.”
Trish crept toward the voice. There. Light from her flashlight shone on a woman lying on her back. Then Trish saw the pool of blood near the woman’s head.
“Help.”
Trish dug for her cell phone and hit the 911 speed dial.
“Nine one one, emergency.”
“Help! Someone is injured in the alley beside the Citizens’ National Bank. I need an ambulance here right away.” Trish gave her name and answered the rest of the dispatcher’s questions quickly. She tucked her cell phone into her jacket pocket and dropped her purse next to the injured woman. Trish slipped off her jacket and then her cardigan. Draping the sweater over the woman’s chest, she wriggled back into her jacket and knelt beside the woman. “Help is coming. Hang in there.” Trish leaned the umbrella so that it partially shielded the woman from the steady drizzle. There was so much blood! Where was the ambulance? What had happened?
Blood covered the left side of the woman’s face and head. Trish wished she could remember her first-aid training class from several years ago. The huge sad eyes closed as the woman lost consciousness.
Thirty seconds later the distant wail of a siren drifted through the darkness. The ambulance arrived, followed by a Millvale police car. And, oh gosh, it was Bob Jenkins. Not that he was a bad cop or anything. In high school they had been a hot item for two years. That had been over fifteen years ago.
With bustling efficiency the EMTs took over, and Bob, who constituted half of the entire police force, greeted her. He escorted her away from the emergency workers.
They stopped at the ATM. “Okay, Trish, what happened here?”
“I don’t know.” Her hands shook and she gripped her purse to steady them. Both purse zippers gaped open; she fumbled sliding them shut. “I stopped to use the ATM and heard moaning.” She opened her palm to him. “I got blood on my hand.” She stole a quick glance back toward the alley. “I went to investigate, then called nine one one.”
The EMTs rolled a gurney out of the darkness and toward the ambulance. An IV drip hung from a man’s outstretched hand as he pushed the sheet-draped stretcher. Trish looked away. “All that blood. I thought I might be sick for a minute there.”
“Let’s get you out of the rain. You’re soaked. You’re probably cold. My car’s just over there.” He followed Trish and opened the rear door for her.
Trish thankfully sank into the stale-smelling back seat and
shivered.
Bob closed the door. He scanned the entire area, and moved to the back of the squad car. He removed a blanket from the trunk, opened the back door once more and draped the blanket over Trish.
Grateful for the added warmth, she wrapped the coverlet around her as tightly as she could. “Thanks.”
He still had that same George Clooney smile. “Forgive me for not getting you out of the rain sooner. As far as crime goes, Millvale’s normally a pretty quiet town. I guess this kind of spooked me. Wait here for a second.”
Bob unrolled a line of yellow and black crime-scene tape and attached it in a semi circle around the ATM. He stopped once and picked up what appeared to be a credit card off the sidewalk directly in front of the ATM. He took out a plastic bag, dropped the object inside and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Then he headed back down the alley.
Trish checked her watch. Oh no. Jim’s going to be royally pissed that I’m so late. She fished her cell phone from her jacket and called home. She waited for the answering machine message. “Hi, we’re not home right now. Leave a message and if we recognize the name, we’ll call back.” Jim was proud of that message. He felt it conveyed humor and let people know they were a fun couple. Like that was true.
“Jim, I got delayed. I’m not sure how long I’ll be. I’m okay, just had some trouble at the ATM. I’ll be home soon.”
Bob appeared at the corner of the building talking to old Doc Winters. The silver-haired family doctor had brought most all the Millvale residents into the world. He served as the local MD and coroner. They finished and Bob waved after Doc, who shuffled toward his 1982 Buick.
Bob returned to the squad and got into the front seat. Leather upon leather creaked and he handed her the umbrella she’d been carrying. She nodded thanks. He picked up a clipboard and began writing.
“Do you think she’ll be okay?”
Bob turned and propped a leg on the seat. “Doc says she has a probable concussion. Head wounds always bleed like hell. Do you know her?”
“Never saw her before. At least I don’t think I know her. With all the blood and everything, it was hard to tell.”
“Her name is Elizabeth Thompson. I found her ATM card in front of the bank.”
Trish shook her head. “Nope. The name’s not familiar.”
“None of us recognized her, either. Well, the chief’ll want you to come to the station tomorrow and give a statement.”
“I guess I could stop by on my lunch hour. About noon okay?”
“Fine.” Bob paused and shifted his position. “Trish, think back. Did you see anything unusual when you pulled up—anyone lurking around or maybe a car shooting away?”
“Nothing at all. There seemed to be a lot of traffic for this time of night and in the middle of the week. Nothing else out of the ordinary. Didn’t notice any unfamiliar cars.” Trish laid the blanket on the seat. “Is that all? I really ought to get home.”
Bob nodded. “That’s it for now.”
She got out of the car, flicked the button on her umbrella and it popped open.
Jenkins exited and touched his cap. “Till noon tomorrow. Nice to see you, Trish. You still look great.” Without waiting for a response he turned and hurried back to the crime scene.
Trish stood frozen in her tracks. How could he say that? I must look like a drowned rat. As if to provide evidence, a rivulet of rain rushed down her face. It tasted of hair spray.
But she had to admit Bob looked great, too. His hair still black and wavy. No hint of gray and, just like in high school, a few uncooperative locks spilling onto his forehead. She flushed and scolded herself for even having such thoughts. She was a married woman. Gosh, I almost said happily.
On her way to the Jag, her mind wandered back to high school with the captain of the basketball team and the first love of her life. What had happened to cause their breakup? She couldn’t remember. Even though she’d seen Bob around town from time to time, they barely acknowledged each other. They would nod or wave. What was different about tonight?
Well, why worry about something that can lead nowhere? Might as well go home, since the ATM is now guarded by crime scene tape. Nuts, I can’t go to breakfast tomorrow. During lunchtime, I have to go to the police station. That’ll be a waste of time for sure.
Climbing into the Jag, she couldn’t help wondering if Bob would be at the station tomorrow. She glanced at her watch. Crap, Jim will be furious.
TWO
“I’m home.” Trish shook out the umbrella at the front door and stuck it in its stand next to the roll-top desk in the sprawling foyer.
Jim Morgan peeked around the kitchen wall with a sour look on his face. “Where’ve you been?”
“Went to the ATM. Didn’t you get my message? I needed some cash for tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I got it. I’m hungry. What’s for supper?”
“I really don’t feel like fixing anything tonight. Could we just have a sandwich?”
Jim walked down the hall toward Trish, a grin spreading under his meticulously trimmed moustache. “Aw, Trish, I was counting on some fried chicken. That won’t take too long, will it?”
Trish fought the anger welling up inside. “Jim, something happened at the ATM. I’m kinda shook up.”
“What was that?” He leaned against the doorway, gnawing on a piece of provolone.
“I found an injured woman next to the bank. She’d been beaten and left for dead.”
“Good Lord! I guess that’s why you’re so wet.” Jim’s expression didn’t change. He ran a finger along her cheek and she shivered. “Well, it’s all over now, sweetie. Let’s have something to eat. Come on. It’ll do you good to busy yourself in the kitchen.” He took her arm and tried to lead her down the hall.
Maybe it was the trauma she’d been through or the weariness of being mindful of how Jim would react, but Trish surprised herself by snatching her arm away. Beads of water sprayed the hallway. “You aren’t listening. I don’t want to cook. I’ve had a traumatic experience. I’m cold and wet. I’m going up to shower and then go to bed.”
Jim stood silently, his arm frozen in the position it had been in when she jerked away. His eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. “I guess I can find something myself. But, dear, don’t ever pull away from me like that again.” Slowly his 6-foot-3 frame headed to the kitchen.
Trish breathed a sigh of relief and hung her sopping coat on the back of Jim’s prized Louis the Fourteenth desk chair. Screw the chair. Her heart fluttered and she knew her blood pressure was elevated from the events of the evening and then the confrontation. Her breath caught in her chest when she spotted some dark brown splotches on her fuchsia leather coat.
Oh, I hope that woman’s okay.
* * * *
The hot shower refreshed her. She quickly toweled off and put on the flannel nightgown Jim hated. She sat down at her makeup table to dry her hair and started when Jim appeared in the mirror, then touched her shoulder. “Feel better now?”
“Much, thank you. I’m sorry I was so short earlier, but I was really shaken by what happened. I have to go to the police station tomorrow and give a statement.”
“You must have been upset because you forgot and put your jacket on the Louis Fourteenth. I found it in time to keep it from causing damage.” His hand rested on her shoulder and he squeezed hard causing her to move her head toward the pain. “We must be more careful.”
Trish gasped. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Finally he eased the pressure. She reached up and massaged her neck.
Jim’s fingers slowly traced circles on her neck and met her hand. She fought the urge to pull away. “I forgive you. Let me get a shower and I’ll give you a foot rub. That always relaxes you.”
And always leads to something else. No thanks. Not tonight.
“I’m fine. I just want to go to bed and forget about this whole thing.”
“Oh, all right. Have it your way.” His voice carried that tone again. Anger lurking beneat
h the surface. But he left, and she crawled into bed, thankful for the soft down comforter that settled around her tense body.
I never wanted that damn chair anyway.
Later, she felt the bed move as Jim tugged the covers over himself. He moved closer to her and touched her arm. “You awake?”
She held her breath and did not move, tightening her eyes with every muscle available. Her heart thundered and she thought Jim must be able to hear it.
“Good night, dear.”
Soon Jim’s familiar snoring filled the room and she relaxed. She tried to regulate her breathing and prayed sleep would come. The bloody scene around the bank haunted her. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she finally slept.
* * * *
After Jim left for work, Trish ate a leisurely breakfast. She hated that she hadn’t been able to draw money from the bank last night and had to miss breakfast with the girls. She really needed to talk to someone about last night. But admitting she had little or no money embarrassed her. She’d borrowed from them too much already. No use asking Jim. The checkbook never left his sight; he didn’t like what she spent as it was. He insisted on receiving her paycheck every two weeks. At first she accepted his claim that it was only to keep things together. But it soon proved to be another form of control.
Trish tidied up the kitchen and in her haste, dropped a glass. It shattered on the ceramic floor. Shit! Why does this always happen when I’m in a hurry? She carefully gathered up the broken pieces. Then she stomped upstairs to finish getting dressed for work. Nothing in the closet seemed appropriate. Finally she threw on a wool sweater and skirt. What the hell is appropriate for the police? She had to make several trips upstairs for things she forgot. She seemed to be wandering around in someone else’s body.
Grabbing her purse from the dresser, she opened it to make sure her cell phone was charged. Her hand stilled. What’s this? I don’t remember putting a DVD in my purse. Trish plucked the disk from her purse. Oh, my God. It’s got blood on it. Where… The woman… She must have stuck it in my purse. But why? Not wanting to get anything on her clothes, she carried the disk down to the kitchen and dropped it into a plastic baggie, then put it back into her purse. Probably got my fingerprints all over it now. Crap, look at the time. Sloan will have my hide.