The Women on Retford Drive, page 13
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“What time?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Let’s talk before you meet with them. We’re going to have a press conference at noon. We would like you to be there. We need as many supporters as possible standing with us. Do you think your family can be there?”
“I will make sure they stand with you.”
“All right, Martha. How’s Carla? Will she be well enough to attend?”
“She’s okay. I kicked that gato out. And I hear that it’s your father’s blood in the car.”
“That’s why the shirt is important.”
“I know, but if the policía find out it was at the house, that could cause problems.”
“Don’t worry about that. We have a lawyer now. I think I’m going to let him know what’s going on.”
“I will try to find it.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up, now worried about the damn shirt.
Chapter 16
Julia
Standing in front of Stephen’s law office in downtown Dancing Hills, Blythe grabs my hand, and we briefly link pinkies. It’s Friday, June 16th. Blythe told me she’s been counting the days since Keith went missing. I have, too, but I haven’t been counting the hours. According to her latest calculation, it’s been two days and eight hours. We were both unsure about what we’d chosen to wear to the press conference. Now that we’re here, I think we chose well. Blythe gives my brown pantsuit and updo hairstyle a thumbs-up. I return the gesture. Wearing a navy blue, sleeveless silk top and matching slacks, with her tresses pulled back, she looks like she’s about to strut down a runway. We stand at a podium covered in microphones from local, national, and international news outlets. We’re surrounded by Stephen, Sherry, Larry, and Shelbie. Martha, towering over her husband Pedro, nudges their children Jorge and Carla forward. Also standing with us are Stephen’s partner, associates, and a few assistants. Bolstered by all this love and support, I feel invincible. Not even the protestors behind the mob of reporters unnerve me. One group here supports us, and a larger group opposes us. A dozen police officers keep them separate and under control.
We got an unexpected rain shower last night, but it had ended by this morning. I take a whiff of the sweet aroma that follows a summer downpour. Looking up, I smile when I spot a rainbow arching across the partly cloudy sky. Maybe it’s a good omen.
Blythe glances at the prepared statement, and I notice the side of her neck flush. I whisper a prayer for her to do well. She looks out at the crush of reporters, anxious for a sensational scoop. She nudges me, and I nod, letting her know I see Detective Rhonda Carson milling about. I whisper to Blythe to focus, and in a quavering voice she says, “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Blythe Renee Pritchard. I’m the only child of Keith Pritchard. Standing to my right is my mother, Julia Pritchard. The other people standing here with us are family and friends. As you may know, my father was declared missing on Wednesday, June 14. He was scheduled to fly to New York at 5 a.m., but he never made it to the airport. Hours later his car was found abandoned at a strip mall, and there were traces of my father’s blood in the car. As you can imagine, we’re terrified about what may have happened to him.” Choking up, she composes herself and says, “He was at the beginning stages of taking his company public. It was a great time for him.
“My father has lived in Dancing Hills all his life, and he’s provided employment for many of you, your family, and friends. We need your help in finding him. We’re holding out hope that in spite of the blood found in his car, he may still be alive. Following this press conference, a search party will canvass the surrounding area. We hope that you will join us as we try to locate my father. We also have a website and a Facebook page named Keith Pritchard Missing. If you have any information regarding my father’s whereabouts, please call the hotline at 800-555-LFKP. And if you have my father, and you’re watching, I beg you to return him to his family. What you’re doing is senseless and hurtful. Please return my father.”
The clouds shift, opening a gap for the sun’s rays to beat down on us. I notice Blythe’s skin already turning erubescent under the harsh glare of the midday sun. She’s putting her heart and soul into the statement, and guilt creeps up on me. We need to let Stephen know about the bloody shirt, but since Martha can’t find it, it’s a moot point. Maybe it’ll turn up when we least expect. That shirt is evidence that Keith was most likely hurt at home. It could lead to his killer. Why did I agree with Blythe to keep the shirt a secret? If I’m brutally honest with myself, I’m fearful the shirt will lead to Blythe. The murder took place at the house, and whoever did it, cleaned up well. Martha mentioned that someone had used all the bleach, and the laundry room reeked of it. Her comment flew right over my head at the time, but now I’m wondering if Blythe used the bleach to clean up. Perhaps she was in such a hurry she missed the shirt. So if Blythe did it, why am I here? Why are any of us here? I guess my only alternative is to let this all play out until the police label this an unsolved case. Then Blythe and I can go on with our lives—separately.
And then there’s the knife. Where is the knife? Is it the murder weapon? Is it in the house somewhere? We didn’t find it when we searched the other night, but then again, we weren’t exactly looking for a murder weapon. And if Blythe did kill Keith, I doubt she would have left the knife in the house. The shirt was an oversight.
“We will now take questions.” Blythe’s white-knuckled grip on the podium belies her confident tone. Stephen sidles up next to her.
The reporters, camera operators, and photographers close in, and the explosion of flashbulbs causes Blythe to stagger backward a bit. I look over at Shelbie, smiling for the cameras, seeming to relish her five minutes of fame. Shelbie wants to be famous so badly, she’d kill for the opportunity to be the next Kardashian in the legal field. The reporters, with craned necks, raise their hands, hoping to be called on.
“You, right there,” Blythe says to a middle-aged man in the front.
“Do the police have any idea who is responsible for killing your father?”
Blythe frowns and then turns to Stephen. He promptly responds, “As you know, the police have now classified this case as a homicide, but the family is still holding out hope that Keith is alive. The detectives working the case are at the beginning of their investigation, and they’re interviewing everyone in Keith’s circle of family, friends, and business associates.” Stephen defers to Blythe, and she moves forward with answering questions.
“Yes, you,” she says, pointing to a female reporter in the back.
“Do you have any idea who would want to harm your father?”
“No.”
Another female reporter raises her hand, and Blythe motions to her. “Do you believe your father’s IPO has something to do with what’s currently going on?”
“No, I don’t. Yes,” she says, pointing to another male reporter.
“Does his disappearance have anything to do with his pending divorce?”
Blythe looks at me, and I shake my head. Stephen whispers in her ear, and she says, “No, it doesn’t.”
The reporters become restless, and Stephen gently maneuvers his way to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have no further time for questions. As you have witnessed, Miss Pritchard and those close to the family are deeply saddened by this situation, and we need your help. Please don’t try this case on your news shows and blogs. And please give the family their privacy.”
“Why did Keith’s mother have a separate press conference this morning?” a reporter in the front row asks.
Blythe told me Dolores’s press conference was at 2:00 p.m. Dolores must have found out about ours and moved hers to an earlier time.
Stephen pauses and then says, “I cannot speak for Keith’s mother.” He attempts to shut down the press conference, but before he can, he’s barraged with questions.
“Keith’s mother says Julia killed Keith. What does Julia have to say about that?”
“Did Julia Pritchard kill Keith in an act of self-defense?”
“Is Blythe an accomplice?”
“Does Julia’s affair have anything to do with Keith’s disappearance?”
“Do you believe Keith’s disappearance is any way related to his wife, Mary, going missing in 2001?”
The protestors take the flurry of questions as their cue to become vocal. The courtyard fills with chanting, and the two groups confront one another. I notice the bald man from the police station among the anti-Julia and Blythe group. He’s still wearing camouflage. Before the police can stop them, two middle-aged protestors, gray at the top and thick in the middle, step to each other.
“Julia Pritchard is a murderer. She’s not one of us.”
“Let the court decide.”
“We want justice for Keith. No peace until we get justice for Keith.”
“Shut your face, bitch.”
“Who are you calling a bitch?”
The taller woman swings her placard at the shorter woman, but a fast-acting officer snatches it out of her hand before it lands on the woman’s head. The other police get the two factions under control. All of us at the podium share looks of surprise at the pandemonium. The reporters direct their photographers and camera operators to get shots of the melee.
Stephen motions for us to move out of harm’s way while we can. He ushers us out of the courtyard, back into the building. We gather in a glass conference room adjacent to the reception area.
Blythe, red in the face, approaches me. “That was crazy.”
“Yes, it was,” I say, my eyes scanning the room. Stephen, huddled with his partner and associates, turns toward us and flashes a thumbs-up. Sherry and Shelbie, near the credenza, are engaged in what looks like an animated conversation, and Martha and her family partake of the refreshments.
“How did I do?” Blythe asks.
“You were fantastic,” I say.
“I can’t believe those reporters.”
“I thought Dolores’s press conference was at 2 p.m.”
“She must have moved it. I wish there was a way we could have a gag order placed on her. She’s spreading lies left and right.”
“Tell me about it.”
We turn toward the corner of the conference room at the sound of a flurry of words in Spanish. Martha’s husband, holding a saucer of fruit, storms out with Martha’s son, Jorge, following him. She and her daughter, Carla, avert their eyes in embarrassment.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Blythe says. “Can you believe Martha can’t find the shirt?”
“No, I don’t believe it,” I say, studying Blythe’s face, hoping for some kind of reaction—something that’ll clue me in to her thoughts.
“There you guys are,” Shelbie says, approaching with Sherry.
“That was some press conference,” Sherry says, running her fingers through her brown hair. “Larry sends his apologies. He can’t join us in the search. He had to get back to the office.”
“No, worries,” I say.
“I can’t believe those crazy questions the reporters were asking,” Shelbie says, adjusting her red dress with a plunging neckline. I can’t help but notice the contrast between her and Sherry, who’s wearing a gray skirt suit.
A hush falls over the conference room when what looks like a swarm of bees converges on the reception area. A group of people wearing yellow and black T-shirts gather around the receptionist. Overwhelmed, she beckons to a nearby security guard.
“I think those are the volunteers,” Blythe says.
The security guard ushers them outside to the buses that Stephen rented. I told Blythe I was concerned about the expenses piling up, but she was quick to remind me that Keith probably hadn’t had a chance to amend her trust, and upon his death she would be set for life. When she said it, I got chills—and not the good kind. Keith’s attorney, Theo, called us today, and he wants to meet with us regarding Keith’s estate. He also mentioned he’s going to be meeting with the detectives. I hate to use the cliché, but I wish I could be a fly on the wall when that meeting takes place.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the volunteers are here, and they’re boarding the buses. Those of you who are joining the search party, please head out. Be sure to take some fliers,” Stephen says, pointing to a cherry credenza.
I walk to Martha, and she grabs my neck and whispers in my ear. “I am so sorry I can’t find the shirt. It was at my house. I think my husband did something with it. He tries to make money doing different things. I think he may have took it for eBay. I heard him tell Jorge he could get a lot of money for it. But he said he didn’t take the shirt. That’s why we had that little fight. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Martha. It will probably show up.” I pull away from her.
“I have to go to my interview with the policía soon.”
“Just tell them everything you told Blythe. You know, how you left and came back to the house and how you heard Keith rushing out of the kitchen and driving away really fast.”
“I will tell them everything, except about … you know.”
“Right,” I say.
“Carla and I will get on the bus. We can search a little before I meet with the policía.”
I watch her leave, and then I beckon to Sherry across the room.
“I’m glad you called me over. I want to do something for you and Blythe. I’m going to start unpacking all those boxes you have at your apartment.”
“No, Sherry. You don’t have to do that.”
“Julia, when my mother died and I needed to return her body to Europe, you were there for me emotionally and financially. I know Keith footed the bill, but it was because of you. I know you don’t like being at the house with all those bad memories. Wouldn’t it be nice to settle in your new place? I want to get it ready. I have some great decorating ideas.”
“I don’t want you to have to do that.”
“Okay, don’t say I didn’t offer.” Her face droops in obvious disappointment.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about your meeting with the detectives this morning.”
“It was uneventful. For the most part, they wanted to know who I thought would hurt Keith. They also asked me about my business dealings with him. That was it. That Detective Johnson is huge—pretty eyes though.”
We turn toward Stephen approaching. “How are you ladies doing?”
“Fine,” we say.
“I’m so proud of Blythe. She did a great job. Are you ladies ready for the search?”
“Yes,” Sherry and I say.
“Great. Sherry, do you mind if I speak with Julia privately for a moment?”
“Not at all. I’m going to change into my jeans and T-shirt. I’ll see you on bus #1.”
“What’s going on, Stephen?” I ask.
“I spoke to Detective Rhonda Carson this morning. By the way, she was here today.”
“I know. Blythe and I spotted her.”
“She’s going to stop by my office later today to give me a complete update. Also, your alibis will be verified.”
“That sounds like we’re suspects.”
“It’s standard operating procedure. You were at the nursing home. I’m sure your mother will be able to vouch for you.”
“My mother has Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she’s present and aware, and other times she doesn’t even know who I am.”
“What about staff?”
“The regular evening nurse was on vacation Tuesday. I’m not sure if the temp even noticed me, and when I left Wednesday morning, no one was at the desk. But my mother should be able to put in a good word for me,” I say.
“Blythe gave me permission to discuss matters relating to her and the case with you.”
“Yes, she told me she was going to do that. I mentioned to her that I had done the same.”
“Blythe said the manager at your apartment can confirm she was there at 6 p.m. As far as the rest of the night goes, she says there’s really no one who can vouch for her. She should be okay though,” Stephen says, tentative. “Are there cameras on the property?”
“Keith was super paranoid about them. He had this crazy idea that if he installed them, they’d be hacked, and he would be spied on. Were there any cameras at the strip mall?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask Detective Carson.” Stephen snaps his fingers.
“Hopefully, there are.”
“What do you think about me trying to broker a truce between you and Dolores?”
“Stephen, you’d have a better chance at ending the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in the Middle East than you would uniting my mother-in-law and me.”
“That bad?” He chuckles.
“I think she might be behind the protestors railing against Blythe and me. I used to let that woman walk all over me, but that changed after Keith tried to kill me.”
Sadness floods his eyes, and he takes my hand. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Keith hasn’t even been declared dead yet, and you’re flirting with your lawyer.”
Startled, Stephen drops my hand, and we turn toward Dolores approaching, flanked by Kathleen and Jim.
Chapter 17
Blythe
Shelbie and I end our conversation when we spot my grandparents and my father’s assistant, surrounding Julia and Stephen like a small enemy force. I press my hands to my face, waiting for the anger rising within me to settle. The reporters’ questions fill my head again, and I feel an urge to let my grandmother have it. I look around the room at Stephen’s staff and a few volunteers who have trickled into the room, and I muster restraint. Stephen, jaw clenched, takes a few steps backward, and Julia plants her hands on her hips. I take that as my cue to come to their aid.
“Shelbie, why don’t you get on the bus? I need to find out what my grandmother’s up to.”
“Okay. I’ll go change my clothes. See you in a little while.”
I take a deep breath and head toward the group, ready to put my grandmother in check. “What are you doing here, Grandmother?”
