“Yep. I have a meeting with Mitch Green, the owner of the convenience store tonight. Maybe he’ll ID somebody on our cast list. I’m gonna have him check out some mugshots as well. I hadn’t planned to ask him about the men on the list because of the note. But I think I will now. Like you said, that could be a diversion. ‘She’ could be a ‘he.’”

  “Might as well be thorough,” I say. “Maybe the parents will be able to help us with motives.”

  “So you think it’s somebody on our list?”

  “I don’t want to lock in on any one person right now. Let’s keep our options open. Keith Pritchard is an international businessman. Again, I have a feeling this may have been a hit. That car was too clean. Somebody on the list might know more than they think they do. When is Richard Calhoun scheduled to arrive?”

  “Kathleen and Julia said he’s back in town on Saturday.”

  “That’s right. Good.”

  “What did you think about the attorney?”

  “He seemed all right. Why?”

  “I think he’s sweet on Julia.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s the way he reacted when she was shaking and sweating—after we told her about the blood in the trunk.”

  “I didn’t notice anything.”

  “Men!” She rolls her eyes.

  We share a laugh, and then I merge onto the freeway. After about twenty minutes, we exit and head toward Keith’s parents’ house.

  ~~~

  The door opens, and we’re greeted by a woman in her sixties with dark, beady eyes staring up at us through bifocals. “Come in, detectives. I’ve been waiting for you. I would have come by the station, but Jim, Keith’s father, has been under the weather. He’s napping upstairs. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”

  “No worries, Mrs. Pritchard,” I say as we enter the two-story brick house.

  Rhonda and I give the place the once-over. The cathedral ceilings, dual spiral staircase, and hardwood floors are impressive, but based on Williams’s description of Keith’s mansion, the parents’ house is modest in comparison. My eyes scan the photos in the foyer, apparently of Keith when he was a kid. I wonder if he grew up in this house. I wince at a snapshot of him standing next to a birthday cake with tears streaming down his face. Why is he crying, and why anyone in their right mind would put a picture like that on the wall?

  “Follow me,” his mother says, stiffly, ushering us into the living room. “Have a seat.”

  We sit on the floral sofa, and she settles into a recliner. After a moment of silence, she gestures toward the mantel. “That’s our boy.” She points to an oversized family photo. Keith and his father are sitting. Dolores, in the rear, stands over them. “He’s our only child. He’s absolutely brilliant. He has the most successful company in town, and it’s going to be trading on the stock market soon, when it goes public.”

  “You and your husband must be proud,” Rhonda says through a fake smile.

  “Of course we are.” She smooths her wrinkled hand over her flowered dress. “Kathleen told me she’s been helping with the investigation.”

  “Yes, she has,” I say. “We were hoping you could shed some light on some of the people in Keith’s inner circle.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “I saw Julia and Blythe on the news today, going into the police station.”

  “Yes, we’ve spoken to them,” Rhonda says.

  “I hope you didn’t fall for Julia’s act. She’s an actress and not a very good one, if I do say so myself. She hurt my son. She was angry because he was divorcing her for cheating on him.”

  Rhonda and I exchange knowing looks. “Ma’am, Julia filed for divorce, and that’s a matter of public record,” Rhonda says.

  “Humph. I still say she hurt him.”

  “Why? What would be her motive?” I ask.

  She gives us blank stares.

  “Ma’am, did you know your son was abusive to Julia?” Rhonda asks.

  “It’s all lies. I refuse to have my son’s name dragged through the mud.”

  “Ma’am, is there anyone else you think may be involved in Keith’s disappearance? Did he have any enemies?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “Ma’am, do you think Richard Calhoun had anything to do with Keith’s disappearance?”

  “They grew up together. Julia is who you need to be investigating.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Pritchard. We have to go. If you think of anything, please give us a call,” I say. This woman is royally frustrating.

  “I’m having a press conference tomorrow. Please stop by. It’ll be at my son’s company at 2 p.m.”

  We leave, shaking our heads. Is Mrs. Pritchard just a mean, old mother-in-law, or does she have good reason to believe Julia is involved in Keith’s disappearance?

  Chapter 14

  Julia

  I scoot to the sofa edge when Stephen, followed by Blythe and me, leaving the Dancing Hills Police Department, appears on the TV. He pushes through the throng of reporters, all thrusting microphones and cameras at him. Studying his expression, I detect anger and frustration. Gone is the laid-back fellow who gushed all over me this afternoon. He moves through the mob like a pissed-off pit bull ready to pounce. His irritation is understandable. We were barely out the door when we got attacked.

  Stephen, are your clients suspects in the missing persons case of Keith Pritchard?

  Was there a confession?

  Do police know where the remains of Keith Pritchard are?

  Have your clients been charged?

  Someone mentioned on Twitter that the police found a cryptic note in Keith Pritchard’s car. Are you aware of the note?

  Stephen pauses, and Blythe and I, next to him with red, puffy eyes, link arms.

  My clients are not suspects.

  But—

  I have no further comments, he says, ushering us away from the melee to the parking lot. I cup my chin in my hand, thinking about that dreadful note, and Stephen catching me before I hit the floor. I felt safe in his arms, and I didn’t want him to let me go.

  Blythe clicks off the TV, snapping me out of my thoughts. After a few minutes I say, “That was a nightmare.”

  “I can’t shake those three words.” She kicks off her shoes.

  “They give me the willies, and I can’t believe he wrote it in blood. He was determined, and whoever killed him had no idea he would try to expose them while on the brink of death.” I leave her on the sofa and walk to the window, looking past the lush landscape at the reporters milling about, thinking about their families left home alone, feeling abandoned all for the sake of a salacious scoop.

  Blythe moans, and I turn toward her. She looks at me with questioning eyes. “Julia, do you believe he’s dead now?”

  I press my hands to my face when the word “dead” resonates throughout the room. The note and everything hits me at once, and I sink to the floor, trembling, trying not to cry. Blythe comes to me, and we hold each other, weeping for each other and for Keith. We sit on the floor in front of the picture window, listening to each other sniffle. After what seems like an eternity, the room is completely quiet. Blythe punctures the silence.

  “What did you think when they showed you the note?”

  “I was shocked.”

  “Who was the first person you thought of? Who did you think ‘she’ was?”

  “I hate to say this, but I thought about Martha.” I avert my eyes, thinking about who really had come to mind.

  “Now you sound like me. Remember, I suspected her when she left with the shirt, and I couldn’t shake those scratches on her arm. And then in the text she sent us, she said a cat Carla brought home scratched her. Why would Carla, who’s allergic to cats, bring home a stray cat?”

  “Exactly.” I feign agreement. “But what would be her motive?” I return to the sofa.

  She follows me and perches on the arm. “She hated him.”

  “But we were moving out. It doesn’t make sense. I could see her killing him a month ago, but why now, when we were getting our freedom?”

  “According to Richard, my father got home around 5:45 p.m. Maybe she had planned the whole thing and was lying in wait.”

  “But why would she let us see the shirt?”

  “To throw us off.”

  “Well, the police aren’t giving up any information. After their show and tell, I asked them if they had any idea who ‘she’ was, and they told me they were at the beginning of the investigation and that they were in the process of interviewing everyone in Keith’s circle.”

  “They told me the same thing.” Blythe walks to the mantel. She takes Keith’s family photo off the wall and sets it face down. “Do you mind? I’ve always hated this picture.”

  “Join the club.” I imagine a photo of Stephen, Blythe, and me on display. Feeling guilty, I dismiss that thought.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about Stephen and how lucky we are that we have him. He’s joining us at his office tomorrow, thirty minutes before we meet with the press. Based on the responses, we should have a full house, and we have over a hundred people who’ve signed up for the search. Is Shelbie going to help you with the Facebook page?”

  “She should be here any minute now.”

  “Sherry’s on her way too. She’s bringing my contract.”

  A horn blows, and I make my way to the window. It’s probably one of those pesky reporters trying to get our attention. “Speaking of the devil, she’s here. Shelbie’s here too.” I walk to the door and press the gate opener. The speaker box is busted, so we had been leaving the gate open, but that’s not an option now, with the press lurking about. Opening the door, I crane my neck, wave in the two cars, and quickly press the gate closed. The women park their vehicles in the driveway and join me on the portico. I motion for them to enter, and they follow me to the living room. We all come together in a group hug.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Sherry says.

  “Spoken like a true agent and best friend,” I say, squeezing Sherry’s shoulder.

  We all sit, and my gaze lands on Sherry, lounging in the recliner with her long legs crossed. My eyes shift to her empty hands, and I ask, “Where’s the contract?”

  “I need to talk to you about that.” She sets her purse on the piano bench.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The producers called me just as I was leaving. They want to hold off for now.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not them; it’s the network suits. They’re nervous about bad publicity.”

  I jump up from the sofa and slam into the coffee table. “Dammit.” I rub my knee. Why am I suddenly so accident prone? “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “It’s not over, Julia. They just want time for things to cool down,” she says, approaching me with a hopeful expression.

  “I’ll be shriveled and dried up by then, because things are just revving up.” Before I can continue my rant, Shelbie, sitting on the sofa, interrupts.

  “How did the interviews go?”

  “The blood is my father’s, and there was a no—”

  The women’s eyes widen in anticipation, but I cut off Blythe. “That’s confidential remember?” I send her a cautionary glare.

  “Sorry, I can’t talk about everything from the interview.” Sitting next to Shelbie, she gives her friend a conciliatory pat on the leg.

  “What happens now?” Sherry asks, returning to the recliner.

  I stand in the middle of the room, feeling like the Missing Keith Pritchard tour guide, wishing I could wake up from this nightmare. I grit my teeth and say, “Tomorrow we’re going to meet with the media, in front of Stephen’s law firm, and then we’re going to do a search in the area. We’re hoping you guys can be there.” I flop down on the sofa, between Shelbie and Blythe. Shelbie rubs my back. I force a smile, imagining what it must feel like to have grown up in a normal household—granted, her folks are workaholics, but I’d take a workaholic over an alcoholic in a heartbeat.

  They both say they’ll be there.

  “Have you talked to Keith’s parents?” Shelbie asks, removing her hand.

  “They were here last night. Keith’s mother is a terror,” I say.

  “Is it safe to assume Keith is dead?” Sherry asks.

  “Blythe and I believe he is. But who killed him, and where’s the body?”

  The grandfather clock in the library chimes, startling us. “That scared the hell out of me,” Shelbie says, pressing her hand to her well-endowed chest.

  “Remember how it used to scare us when we were studying in the library?” Blythe asks.

  The sound of a horn blowing gives us pause.

  “The pizza we ordered is here.” Blythe pops up and heads toward the door.

  “You guys can help us eat it. I can’t believe it’s almost 8 p.m. I never eat this late.” I head toward the kitchen, Sherry and Shelbie following me.

  “You have a lot going on, Julia,” Sherry says.

  After a few minutes, Blythe, with two large pizzas, joins us. I retrieve plates and cups from the cabinet, and the women get comfortable at the breakfast nook. I go to the refrigerator for water and soft drinks, then sit with the ladies and force myself to eat. “Who knew things would work out like this—that Keith would be missing?”

  “And a knife would be missing,” Shelbie says.

  “What knife is missing?” I ask. “If you’re talking about the black-handled knife—that’s in my room. I started keeping it in there after Keith tried to choke the life out of me.”

  Blythe and Shelbie share a conspiratorial glance, and Sherry’s eyes widen with curiosity.

  “She’s talking about the largest knife from the cutlery case, not the black-handled knife,” Blythe says. “I meant to ask you about it. Martha said you had it last. I looked for it and haven’t been able to find it.”

  All eyes fall on me, and I brace myself for the hot flash rising within me. I get up from the table, grab a paper towel, and wipe the sweat dripping down my face. “It’s burning up in here.” I open the refrigerator and fan myself with the door.

  “You should see my doctor, Julia. You shouldn’t have to go through that.”

  “I’ll be okay. What were we talking about anyway?”

  “The knife from the cutlery case. Martha said you had it last,” Blythe says.

  “I might. I don’t remember. If I used it, I would have put it in the dishwasher.”

  “It’s not there,” Blythe says.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do about it?” I ask, slamming the refrigerator door shut.

  Tense silence fills the room, and the women stop eating. I return to the breakfast nook, feeling like a shrew. “I’m sorry, ladies.” I sit.

  “Blythe, why don’t we start on the Facebook page?” Shelbie suggests, ignoring my apology.

  “Sure.”

  They leave Sherry and me alone. She sits next to me and takes my hand. “What’s really going on, Julia?”

  “Hold on a minute.” I walk to the staircase, craning my neck to ensure that Blythe and Shelbie are in Blythe’s room upstairs. Then I return to the kitchen.

  “Talk to me, Julia.” Sherry motions for me to sit next to her.

  “Remember the conversation we had back at the producers’ office?”

  “We talked about a lot of stuff.”

  “I’m talking about the conversation we had about Blythe—about me suspecting Blythe.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m going to share something with you, and you cannot—and I mean cannot—repeat it.”

  Sherry licks her dry lips. “I won’t.”

  “The police found a note in the trunk of Keith’s car written in blood. He had scribbled ‘She kill me.’”

  “That’s something straight out of a horror movie. Who do the police think ‘she’ is?”

  “If they know, they’re not saying.”

  “Who do you think it is, Julia?”

  “I hate to even form my mouth to say this, but I think it might be Blythe.”

  “Holy shit. Blythe!”

  “Shh.”

  “If it’s Blythe, why didn’t he just write ‘Blythe’?”

  “He was probably taking his last breath, Sherry. I’m surprised he could write anything. When I first met him, I autographed an 8x10 for him to give to Blythe.”

  “I remember that day. I had called you at that coffee shop, and he had just left. You were already in love.” Sherry rolls her eyes.

  “He misspelled Blythe. He said the spelling always confused him. So that’s why he probably wrote ‘she.’ Blythe was supposedly at our apartment between 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. She had access and motive.”

  “You’re reaching, Julia.”

  “Am I?”

  “Is 6 to 8 p.m. the time frame the police are using?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should talk to her about it.”

  “I did, and she said she didn’t or couldn’t hurt Keith.”

  “How would you feel if she confessed? Would you turn her in?”

  “Hell no! But it would change our relationship. I don’t know if I could live with her knowing that. As horrible as Keith was to me, I could never bring myself to hurt him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to move forward with our plans. Hopefully, the police will do their job and prove me wrong about Blythe. That’s my phone ringing.” I rush to the living room.

  “Hi, Stephen. … We’re okay. … Yes, we’ll be there on time. … Thank you for everything you did today. … See you tomorrow.” I hang up and notice my message icon. I hope crazy Dolores isn’t texting me. I click on messages and gasp. My cell slips out of my hand. Afraid to look at the message again, I leave my phone on the floor and run back into the kitchen.

  Sherry, standing near the refrigerator, her back to me, abruptly turns around. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, Julia.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

  “I need you to pick up my phone. It’s on the floor in the living room.”

 

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