It took a moment for Blatch’s brain to make the tangled connection. Silently, he studied Deanna as her trembling fingers poured a shot of vodka into a highball glass full of ice and soda. When she reached out to hand it to him, he didn’t take it.
“So you working with me and Smalls. Is this just some kind of joke to you?”
Deanna winced, but knew it was no time for tears or shying away. She deserved his anger. “No,” she said softly. “I tried to tell you before ... I wasn’t looking for a job that day. You saw my résumé and made your own assumptions.”
The tendons in Blatch’s neck grew taut. “So you’re saying this is my fault?”
“No!” Deanna grimaced. “I should have said something. But I ... I.” She looked down. “I just got carried away with this idea that I could start a new life here. Meet a new guy ....” She shook her head. “Then this ... unbelievable shit happened with my mother.” She looked up at Blatch. “Before I knew it, I was caught up in the middle of it. Everything was out of control.”
Blatch blew out a breath. He stared at Deanna as if he’d never seen her before. “So you’re a doctor?”
Deanna shrugged and bit her lip. “Ph.D.”
Blatch ground he teeth. He’d hoped for a new beginning, too. But that seemed blown totally off the table now. He set his jaw, switched to detective mode, and thanked whoever was listening up there that things hadn’t gone too far between him and Deanna.
Blatch locked eyes with Deanna. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Come clean with me right now. Tell me everything I need to know about Bernstein ... about your mother ... about whatever you know that’s pertinent to this case. If you do, then we’ve still got a chance we can work this out.”
Just exactly what they could work out, Deanna wasn’t sure. But she didn’t need to hear the other side to Blatch’s offer to understand the consequences. It was written all over his face. If you don’t, you’re on your own.
AS THEY SAT AND NURSED their drinks in Deanna’s kitchen, she told Blatch everything else she’d tried so hard to hold back for the past five days. She explained how she’d counseled sexual predators as a psychologist in New York. She described in detail her creepy last session with Bernstein, and how she’d questioned his ambiguous behavior until the very end, when Bernstein had hugged her, then leered and licked his lips as if she were his next meal.
Deanna confessed to feeling inadequate for the job, that she’d felt like a failure when she’d turned Bernstein back over to Larry. She told Blatch about Larry’s call earlier in the day, informing her that Bernstein hadn’t shown up for his eleven o’clock appointment. How she now understood why. The psychopath had followed her here to St. Pete.
“Geez, Deanna,” Blatch said. “Now I can see why—”
“That’s not all,” Deanna said, cutting him off. “It’s also common knowledge—or I guess, more accurately, it’s local gossip—that my mother killed my father, Warren McMasters.”
Blatch’s face went slack. “And I thought my life was fucked up.”
Deanna cringed. “You have no idea. And that’s just the crap that’s pertinent.”
Blatch blew out a breath. “So this guy Bernstein. You believe he’s capable of physical violence?”
Deanna’s lips pursed into a white line. “I can’t tell you without breaking doctor/patient confidentiality. But I can say this—I wouldn’t want to be alone with him ever again. If you need more, get someone to check his police record in New York City.”
Blatch stood. “I’m going to make a few calls.”
Deanna looked up at him. “What should I do?”
“Pack an overnight bag. You’re not staying here alone.”
BLATCH PULLED UP IN front of his mother’s house.
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Deanna said, touching his arm.
He shifted into park. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
Deanna couldn’t read his tone. Was he joking and all was forgiven? Or had he resolved to mistrust her from now on? Back at her house, while Blatch had made his calls she’d made a few of her own. She’d phoned local hotels looking for a room, but every one she tried was fully booked for the holiday weekend. Only after she’d exhausted every possibility had Blatch offered for her to stay the night at his mother’s house. She didn’t exactly feel welcome.
Without a word, Blatch clicked off his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. Deanna grabbed her carry-on and scrambled after him up the walkway to the front porch of the cottage. Deloris Blatch was waiting at the open door, her silhouette dark against the warm glow emanating from within the house.
“Mom, this is Deanna Young, the woman I told you about.”
Deloris smiled warmly. She took Deanna’s hand in both of hers in a welcoming hand-hug. “Come in, Deanna. I’m Deloris. I’ve got your room all ready.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Blatch. I’m so sorry to put you out. What with the holidays, all the hotels were booked and—”
“Pish-posh,” Deloris said. “Hot cocoa?”
Deanna’s worried face went blank with surprise. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” As Deloris left for the kitchen, she turned to Blatch. “Do mothers like that really exist, or am I in some kind of Mayberry flashback?”
The hard lines of Blatch’s face softened. “No. She’s real all right.”
“You’re lucky.” Deanna smiled at him.
“Enjoy your cocoa,” he said, turning back toward the front door.
She grabbed his sleeve. “Where are you going?”
Blatch turned to face her. “To stake out your place. If this creep comes back, I want to be there.”
“No. Please. I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt. Can’t we just call the cops?”
Blatch tilted his head. “Are you ready for this crap with your mother to hit the fan?”
Deanna shrank back. “No. But I still don’t want you to go. You could be risking your life.”
He turned toward the door. “I’m going.”
“If you do, I’ll follow you.”
Blatch froze in his tracks. Then turned to face Deanna once again. “Geez, you’re one stubborn woman.”
“I like stubborn women,” Deloris said, coming into the living room carrying a tray of cookies and three steaming cups of cocoa. She winked at Deanna. “It shows they still have something they’re hoping for.”
Deloris set the cocoa down, sat on the couch, and smiled up at Deanna. She patted the cushion beside her, a signal for Deanna to sit beside her. “So, what are you hoping for, Deanna?”
Deanna shot a glance at Blatch, then at the happy, silver-haired woman beckoning her to join her. “I ... I guess I’m hoping for the goodness inside us. That it prevails over the evil.”
Deloris’ eyebrows arched, but her eyes remained kind. She smiled. “Oh, my. That’s rather deep.”
For cocoa, yes, Deanna thought. For vodka, not so much.
AFTER TOLERATING ALL the kindness she could for one evening, Deanna begged off and went to her room. She noticed someone had put her carry-on on the side chair next to her bed. She hoped it was a peace offering from Blatch.
A book of poems and a glass of water on the nightstand nearly brought Deanna to tears. Did people really live this way?
She changed into a nightgown and climbed into bed. Then a thought made her get up and lock the door to her room. Her intent wasn’t to protect herself from the Blatches. It was more the other way around.
She clicked off the lamp by her bedside and whispered into the dark. “Please. No spiders tonight. And no sleepwalking.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
“DID YOU SLEEP WELL, dear?” Deloris asked as she poured Deanna a cup of coffee into a delicate china cup.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” The coffee smelled heavenly, but something about the cup set Deanna’s nerves on edge.
“You don’t like coffee?”
“No. Yes. I mean ... it’s just ... I’m afraid I’ll break your beautiful cup.”
Deloris laughed. “That’s just what Marcus always says. Let me fetch you a mug.”
“Where is he?”
“He didn’t want me making a fuss, so he went to get some bagels. He should be back any minute. Let’s wait out in the back garden, shall we?”
Deloris led the way to a set of wicker chairs under a pergola of jasmine. The vines weren’t blooming, but their leathery, emerald-hued leaves provided the perfect amount of dappled shade.
Deanna stopped to admire the view. “This is beautiful. My mother’s garden used to look like this.”
Deloris sat in one of the wicker chairs. “Marcus said you lived nearby. Which house is it?”
“The pink, falling-down stucco monstrosity on Coffee Pot Boulevard. Near the Snell Island Bridge.”
“Oh! I know that place. I always admired it. Hold on. Your mother is Melody Young, isn’t she? I see the resemblance now.”
Deanna sat next to Deloris. “You knew my mother?”
“Not personally. But I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She leaned in close to Deanna and waggled her silver eyebrows. “I’m a horror flick junkie. You should be proud. Tarancula Now is a cult classic.”
“You’re kidding,” Blatch said. He’d arrived undetected, a bag of bagels in one hand, a to-go-coffee in the other.
Deanna shot Blatch a smile and got half of one in return. Nervous, she turned back to Deloris. “I can’t get over how lovely your garden is, Mrs. Blatch.”
“Thank you.” She nodded at her son. “Marcus here helps out with the gorilla work.”
“Really? That’s sweet.”
Deloris grinned and shot her son a sideways glance. “He’s not as gruff as he likes to make himself out to be. Marcus, maybe you can help Deanna in her garden today. The weather is perfect for it.”
“I’m afraid I’d need more than one gorilla,” Deanna said. “The place is a disaster. A veritable jungle.”
Deloris looked at her son. “Last time I checked, gorillas love the jungle.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
“ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T mind?” Deanna asked for the third time.
Blatch wedged a rake into the backseat of his car. “It’s fine. I could use a little workout. It’ll help pass the time while I wait for callbacks.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, too. This whole situation is so ... unnerving. Thank you for hanging out with me, Marcus. I mean it.”
“It’s okay, Deanna. You don’t have to bow and scrape. Helping out is just what we Blatches do.”
The two climbed in his car and headed for Deanna’s house. As Blatch rounded the corner on Cherry Street, Deanna said, “You know, I thought you were weird.”
Blatch made a sour face. “Thanks.”
“No.” She touched his arm. “I mean I thought it was strange that you—that anyone—would want to live near their mother. Now I can see why. You have a family like the ones on the old TV shows I used to watch, back when people were nice to each other.”
Blatch shrugged and hit the brakes for a stop sign. “I never thought about us being anything special.”
“That’s because it’s your ‘normal.’ Like I said before. You’re lucky.”
“So what were you? What was your ‘normal’?”
Deanna blew out a jaded breath. “Me? Well, let me put it this way. You’re the apple of your mother’s eye. I was more like the mangy pet my mother got stuck with after my father died.”
Blatch said nothing. He turned into the alley and pulled up behind Deanna’s garage. As he shifted into park, he turned to speak but was interrupted by the buzz of his cellphone. He checked the display and looked up at Deanna. “It’s my guy on the force. I better take this.”
Deanna unloaded the gardening tools from the car, trying not to appear as if she were eavesdropping. Blatch’s occasional “yeah” and “geez” comments did nothing to calm Deanna’s mind or nerves. When he finally hung up, Deanna dropped the rake and ran up to him.
“Well?” she asked.
“The plates came back. You were right. It’s a rental car. Registered to Joel Bernstein. He rented it at the airport in Tampa on Sunday. My buddy had the rental agency run a history. Bernstein rented a car from them this past June, as well. And again last year, in June and November. Any reason why he would do that?”
“That’s when I came down to see my mother.”
“So it looks like this guy’s been following you here for at least the past two years.”
Deanna was too stunned to speak.
“And there’s something else. On a hunch, I did a cross-check. The dates the four people went missing? Two in June. Two in November.”
Deanna’s eyes widened. “Are you saying you think Bernstein killed those people?”
Blatch studied Deanna. “It’s possible. But lots of people travel to Tampa during those months. Including you.”
Deanna blanched. “Are you implying ...?” More hurt than angry, her eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
Blatch gave her half a smile. “Good.”
She eyed him curiously. Had he played her for her response, or had he just been teasing her? “So, what do we do now?”
“I told my friend about Bernstein’s background, and how he’s been stalking you. But I already knew what he was going to say. There’s nothing we can do until Bernstein does something ... else.”
“Like what? Murder me, too?”
Blatch blew out a breath. “The cops’ hands are tied. As a favor, my friend got his guys on patrol to keep an eye out for Bernstein’s vehicle, but the chances they’ll spot him aren’t great. This time of year, Florida’s lousy with rental cars.”
Deanna wanted to hit something with the rake in her hand. “So what are you saying? That we just wait for him to come back and ...? That’s bullshit!”
Blatch put a hand on Deanna’s shoulder to calm her. “Not if we’re ready for him when he shows up.”
Deanna slumped, hoping fear wouldn’t trump her bravado. “What do you mean?”
“We could—” Blatch’s eyes shifted to over Deanna’s shoulder. “Who’s that guy?”
Deanna turned her head. A pudgy, red-headed man was ambling toward them, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“That’s Charlie Rhodes. I forgot all about our appointment today.”
“Who is he?”
“A realtor.”
Blatch crinkled his nose. “I thought I smelled a rodent in the vicinity.”
BLATCH PICKED UP FALLEN limbs and raked leaves, keeping one ear tuned to Deanna as she talked to the realtor by the back steps.
“I see you’re taking my advice to clean up the place,” Charlie said. “But don’t you think it would be better to start with the inside?” He glanced at the flat of colorful impatiens by the garage, waiting to be planted. “Anything you fix up out here is likely to get ruined by the skiffs you’ll need to haul away all the garbage in the house.”
Deanna chewed her bottom lip. “I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that.”
Charlie smiled brightly and tapped his forehead with a pudgy index finger. “That’s why I’m here. To do the thinking for you.”
Blatch sneered at the salesman’s cheesy line, but said nothing. He stuffed leaves into a garbage bag and kept his mouth shut.
“On that note, I think we should start by measuring the interior rooms.” Charlie laughed and patted a measuring tape clipped to his belt. “People’s top priority these days is whether the rooms are big enough for their king-size beds and monster HDTVs.”
Charlie took a step toward the backdoor. Deanna caught him by the sleeve. “Listen. I’m not so sure I want to sell.”
Blatch stopped raking.
Charlie spun around on his heel, his face aghast. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. But I’m just not ready to make any major decisions right now. At least for the time being.”
“But the market has never been hotter!” Charli
e tapped his watch. “There’s never been a better time to—”
“You heard the lady,” Blatch said. He locked eyes with Charlie. The two men seemed ready to exchange words, but were headed off by Mrs. Havenall.
“Well, hello there!” she called out, coming through the open gate with a basket of cookies and a pitcher of lemonade. She set the basket on a dirty concrete table and looked around, admiring their clean-up work. “Charlie said you two were busy at it. I guess you’ve got to start somewhere. She smiled at Deanna. You two look exhausted. Time for a break?”
Deanna glanced over at Blatch. Despite the cool weather, his face was red. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. “Thanks, Mrs. Havenall. That would be lovely.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
THE PLAN WAS IN MOTION.
Deanna was the bait.
After sipping lemonade in the backyard with Mrs. Havenall and her realtor cousin Charlie, Deanna and Blatch had given up gardening for the day to focus on other priorities.
They needed to bring down Bernstein.
Blatch had promised Deanna that, if her mother wasn’t guilty, they would avoid exposing her name and dragging her into a media circus. Determined to keep his word, Blatch had convinced Smalls to go along with a private stakeout—and no cops unless they caught Bernstein.
Together with Smalls, the three had hatched a plan to lure Bernstein into Deanna’s house, where they could quietly subdue him, then discreetly call the police. They would have him arrested for criminal trespassing, at minimum. While he was behind bars, they’d try to convince the police to hold Bernstein for questioning on the four missing person cases. Worst case scenario, Bernstein would walk, and Deanna would have to file for a restraining order.
If it worked, the cat would be officially out of the bag. But the bag would be a neat, tidy one, with no guns blazing, paparazzi cameras flashing, or headlines featuring Deanna’s house as a murder scene. Given the details, their client, Bill Snyder, had okayed the stakeout.
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