She turns toward me with venom pooling in her beady eyes. “I want to know why Julia is putting on this charade. Why doesn’t she just put all of us out of our misery and tell the truth?”

  I chuckle to myself, thinking about her audacity—remembering the story my grandfather told me and the years of her nasty attitude. “Grandmother, you’re the one who needs to speak the truth. Why did you tell all those lies at your press conference?”

  “What lies?”

  “You told the reporters Julia cheated on my father.” I look around the now-silent room, hoping no one is recording us. A group of people dash for the exit, leaving Stephen’s partner and his staff behind.

  Kathleen steps forward, her hands clenched at her sides. “That’s what your father told me. In the twenty-two years I’ve worked for him, he’s never lied to me.” She glowers at me, seemingly waiting for me to refute her.

  I look at the scowl on her weatherworn face and at her saucer-size, blue-gray eyes and decide to ignore her. I’ve always suspected she never liked Julia, and now there’s no doubt she’s team Dolores.

  Stephen, trying to diffuse the situation, says, “Ladies, why don’t you join our search party? If we’re going to find Keith, we need to maintain a united front.”

  “We have our own search party,” my grandmother says. Then she steps to Julia. “The truth will come out, and when it does, you’re going to go to jail for life or worse.”

  Julia, recoiling, parts her lips to retort, but my grandmother, followed by Kathleen and my grandfather, turn away from her. We watch them waddle and hobble away. My grandfather looks over his shoulder, and I notice remorse and embarrassment in his eyes.

  Overcome with the sight of the scraggly trio making their getaway, we burst into nervous laughter. Stephen’s ringing phone halts our laughter. He answers it and excuses himself to the lobby. Julia and I go outside.

  We stand in silence in front of an ornate, four-tier fountain, staring at the water cascading from the top. I close my eyes while listening to the sound of running water. It’s a soothing contrast to my grandmother’s screechy voice. I feel Julia’s hand on mine, and I open my eyes, searching her twisted face.

  “Thank you for standing up to Dolores, but you didn’t have to, Blythe. She gets off on pushing my buttons. I can’t believe I let her bully me as long as I did.”

  “I just feel sorry for my grandfather.” I sense something else is bothering her. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange.” I slip my hand out of her grasp.

  “Strange in what way?”

  “Are you keeping something from me?”

  “I’m not, Blythe.”

  Before I can further interrogate her, Stephen, a little winded, joins us. “Ladies, that was Detective Johnson. As you’ve requested, I’m the detectives’ point of contact.”

  Julia and I hold hands again, bracing ourselves for the worst.

  “He says they were alerted by the coroner’s office that a John Doe fitting Keith’s description is at the morgue.”

  I release Julia’s hand and take a few steps back. Julia and Stephen reach for me, and I wave them away. “I … I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure?” Stephen asks.

  Julia, pale, forces a smile. “You don’t look like you’re okay,” she says.

  “I’m fine. Really,” I say.

  “Can we see the body?” she asks Stephen.

  “Yes, you can.”

  They turn toward me, waiting for a response. I’m not sure I want to view his body. Seeing his body on the news, from a distance, covered up, I could handle that, but I’m unsure about an up-close view. “Stephen, what do we do about all these people searching for my father when he might be the man at the morgue?”

  “There’s no guarantee it’s him, Blythe. I’d let the search continue. The volunteers might even run into someone who saw something. So it won’t be a waste of time.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I can drive you ladies over there.”

  “If you don’t mind, since my car is here, I can take us,” Julia says.

  “No problem. I’ll text you the address. I’m going to talk to the search coordinators, and then I’ll be on my way. See you there,” he says.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle a visit to the morgue, Blythe?” Before I can respond, Carla, Martha’s daughter, runs past us, almost colliding with Julia. “Be careful, Carla,” Julia warns.

  Carla stops and gawks at us, her hands planted on her narrow hips. “Sorry about that.” She’s the typical preteen—plenty of pimples and even more attitude.

  “And we’re sorry about the cat,” Julia says.

  “What cat?” she asks, her brown eyes narrowing.

  “Your mother said you found a cat, and she got rid of it because it made you sick.”

  “I didn’t find a cat. Cats make me sick, and so does my mother. She’s loca. Anyway, I have to go to the restroom.” Shaking her head, she bolts.

  We stand with our mouths and eyes wide open.

  Julia nudges me. “Did you hear her? There was no cat.”

  “I heard her.” I grimace. “What the hell? So Martha lied about the cat.”

  “She said the cat scratched her.” Julia shakes her head. “We need to get to the bottom of what’s really going on with Martha.”

  “I agree.”

  “After we finish at the morgue—and I pray it’s not Keith—and with the search, I want to have a heart-to-heart with Martha. We need answers. She found the shirt. It was reeking of bleach in the laundry room. She was alone in the house with Keith. She had access and motive.”

  “And what’s the motive again?”

  “Hatred, maybe even money.”

  “Why money?”

  “Remember the argument she had with Pedro in the conference room?”

  “What about it?”

  “She said she thinks he may have stolen the shirt, so he could sell it on eBay.”

  “That’s too far-fetched. I’d go with her hating him, over killing him so she could get a bloody shirt for Pedro to sell on eBay.”

  “Now that I think of it, that is pretty lame. We’d better head out, Blythe. Stephen’s going to wonder where we are.”

  “Okay.” I’m disappointed that Catgate wasn’t big enough to upstage the morgue visit.

  “Let’s go.” She leads the way to the parking lot.

  ~~~

  In the lobby of the coroner’s office, I squeeze my hands against my ears in a vain attempt to drown out the shrill screams bouncing off the white walls. So intense is the pain that floods through me from the distressed woman, I grip the sides of my chair to stay upright. Tears spring to my eyes, and I try not to cry. I’m tired of crying. The woman stumbles through the hall, almost lifeless herself after seeing her husband’s dead body. Julia, sitting next to me, takes my hand. She too, with tears in her eyes, watches the woman’s unabashed display of grief. We gawk at the woman until she’s escorted out of the building by two people who might be her adult children, both of whom have black hair and pretty green eyes. We continue to wait for Stephen to return with confirmation that John Doe isn’t my father. It’s a formality, because we know the woman who just left identified John Doe as her husband. He had been missing for a week and was found early this morning in a ravine.

  “Ladies, we can go,” Stephen says, approaching.

  “Okay,” we whisper.

  Holding hands, we walk with Stephen toward the exit. “I have to head back to the office. Maybe you ladies should skip the search and get some rest. It’s been a taxing day.”

  Thinking about the grieving widow, I feel it’s imperative I look for my father. It may have been excruciating for that woman, but she got closure. I need and want closure. “I’d like to join the search party,” I say.

  “What about you, Julia?”

  “I think I’m going to go home, Stephen. Is that okay with you, Blythe?”

  “I’m good,” I say.

  “Blythe, you can take my car.”

  “I’ll drop you—”

  “I can take Julia home, Blythe. That is, if you’re okay with it, Julia,” Stephen says, hopeful.

  “Sure,” Julia says.

  He smiles broadly and peeks at his watch. “Blythe, the search party should be at the park near Hollis Avenue in about thirty minutes. If you leave now, you’ll arrive at the same time they do.”

  “That sounds good.” I hug Julia.

  “Blythe, please tell Sherry I’ll call her later and send her my apologies. I’m out of it.” She hands me her car key.

  “Feel better,” I say. I leave them in the lobby. Standing outside, I shake off the stench of death and breathe in the fresh air. Walking to the parking lot, I grab my phone and check in with Shelbie.

  “Blythe, where are you?”

  “I’m at the morgue, on my way to my car.” I send a sympathetic look to a young man wiping his eyes and accompanied by a priest.

  “The morgue? That’s not good. Oh my god, they found your father. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, it wasn’t him. They didn’t find him. It was some guy who looked like him. His wife was here when we arrived, and she identified him. She was devastated.”

  “Wow. Okay. How are you doing?”

  “Better, now that I know my father isn’t dead in the morgue. I’m on my way to meet up with you guys. How are things there?” I unlock Julia’s car.

  “Fine. I’m sitting next to Sherry. We’ve been talking about decorating your new apartment. I think we should, Blythe. You probably need to leave your father’s house, with all those whack memories.”

  I get in the car, thinking Shelbie and Sherry may be onto something. “Maybe so. Do you see Martha and her daughter?”

  “They’re three seats ahead of us. Why?”

  “No reason. Just checking.”

  “We’re almost at the second stop—Hollis Park.”

  “I know. I should arrive there the same time you do. I’ll see you in a few.”

  “Before you go, what happened with your grandmother? She looked like she was going to come to blows with Julia.”

  “She was just being her usual evil self. Stephen tried to bring us together, but that’s not going to happen. She says she has her own volunteers searching for my father.”

  “All right. I’ll see you when you get here.”

  I disconnect the call, still thinking about the woman at the morgue and her husband who was found in the ravine. Could my father be buried in a shallow grave at the park? The park’s only a couple of miles from the strip mall and my grandmother’s nursing home, so it’s no wonder it tops the list of search locations.

  ~~~

  The park is teeming with volunteers wearing yellow and black T-shirts with my father’s picture on them. I take mine out of the Louis Vuitton tote bag my father gave me as a graduation present last month. He surprised me and had it sitting in the driver’s seat of my other graduation gift—a 2017 BMW. I pull the T-shirt on over my silk blouse that’s plastered to my back. Sweat trickles down my chest and sides. I should have changed like Shelbie did. I grab a bottle of water out of my bag and take a gulp, my eyes locking on a group standing near a tree. I notice Shelbie and Sherry among them.

  Shelbie must sense I’m here, because she suddenly turns around. “Blythe, come check this out.”

  “What is it?” I trudge over, hoping it’s nothing gory. Sherry, with a stick in her hand, pokes at something on the ground. I stop and stare. “What is that?” I ask.

  “It looks like a phone,” Sherry says.

  “Speaking of phones, Julia said she’s going to call you later. She’s not feeling well,” I say.

  “I can imagine,” Sherry says. “Shelbie told me about the morgue. But look at that, doesn’t it look like a phone?”

  I stoop down and peer at the silver metal object. “My father’s phone is silver.”

  “I know it is,” Sherry says. “That’s why this got my attention.” Wearing gloves, she reaches down and picks it up. “This isn’t his,” she says.

  I stand next to her while she looks at the phone. When did she become an expert on my father’s cell? “No, that’s not it. How do you know so much about his phone?”

  “Remember Larry’s birthday dinner? Keith saw the phone I had gotten Larry, and he fell in love with it. Julia said he bought it the next day.”

  “I forgot about that,” I say.

  “Oh well, let’s keep it moving,” Sherry says.

  We turn toward two police officers with German Shepherds in tow. The dogs pull them forward, sniffing along the way. “Maybe they’ll find something,” Shelbie says.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s go search the other side of the park,” Sherry says. “I don’t think the other groups have been over there.”

  The dozen men and women, sweating, gulping water, follow her. I yank on Shelbie’s T-shirt, and she remains behind with me.

  “What’s up, Blythe?”

  “Where’s Martha?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where did she go?”

  “Her husband and son were waiting in the parking lot when we pulled up. He made her and Carla leave with him.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “That’s what happened. Why?”

  “Julia and I think Martha is involved with my father’s disappearance. She had these scratches on her arm, and she claimed a cat Carla brought home attacked her. But when Julia and I asked Carla about the cat, she didn’t know what we were talking about. And then there’s the shirt. She found that, and now it’s missing.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to her.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “I could use some backup. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 18

  Julia

  Parked in my driveway, Stephen and I have been sitting in his car for more than twenty minutes. I want to invite him in, but I know he has to get back to his office. And frankly, I don’t trust myself. I’m too vulnerable. I’m drowning, and I want to reach out to my life preserver that’s sitting next to me. I want to fall into his strong arms and cry a river. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the presence of a man who seems to care about me. I know I just met Stephen, but I feel close to him. And for that reason, I need to keep my distance.

  “Stephen, thank you for the ride and the conversation.”

  “It’s been my pleasure. Hey, I hate to leave you knowing you don’t have a car. What if there’s an emergency?”

  “Blythe’s BMW is in the garage, and I know where she keeps her spare key. And I can grab a taxi or use a car service. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, Julia. Take care, and I’ll touch base with you tomorrow. Do you know what time Richard and the other bankers are going to get in town?”

  “No, but I’m sure Richard will call.”

  “Let me know how that goes.”

  “Will do.” I get out of the car and watch him drive away. It’s a relief to have the property free of reporters. I guess the press conference has appeased them for the time being. I’m overcome with joy that Blythe didn’t kill Keith. Martha lying about the cat confirms my suspicions that she’s the culprit. My glee quickly fades when her face pops in my head. My heart is saddened. The entire situation is tragic.

  I enter the house and input the alarm code, then make a beeline to the kitchen. My stomach is making so much racket, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say a couple of bears were clawing each other in there. A thought comes to mind, and I stop in my tracks. Martha said she heard Keith rushing out of the kitchen to the garage and then driving away. She’s lying, just like she made up the cat story. Martha would definitely be the most likely candidate to have killed Keith. She had access to the house, and the alarm wouldn’t have been set. I make a detour to the laundry room. Standing in the doorway, my eyes scan the washer and dryer. I enter the room, looking at the floor, the walls, and the ceiling for blood. I have an eerie feeling Keith was in this room at one point, fighting for his life. Ain’t karma a bitch?

  Maybe he shoved his shirt between the washer and dryer in the hopes it would be found, like he stuck the note in the spare tire compartment. But if Martha killed him, when she discovered the shirt, she wouldn’t have screamed, knowing Blythe and I would come running. And even if she did on impulse, she could have hidden the shirt from us and made up some other story. On the other hand, if she wasn’t expecting to find it, she could have panicked. Sometimes when people panic they don’t think straight.

  The question is, why? Yes, she hated him, but why now? What triggered the attack? Maybe he blamed her for us leaving and threatened to have her deported, and she snapped. She has a lot of pent-up anger. He comes home, sees the boxes, and it reminds him we’re escaping. He needs a scapegoat, so he strikes out at Martha. Fed up, she grabs the knife out of the cutlery case and stabs him. He runs from her and ends up in the laundry room. He removes his shirt and wipes blood on it. Then he hides it. She finds him in the laundry room and finishes the job. Then she wraps him up in something and shoves him in the trunk of his car, not realizing he’s still alive. He writes the note in blood. Then she drives his car to the strip mall. On the way there she gets rid of Keith’s body and the knife. Then she takes a taxi back here and cleans up all the blood and any evidence.

  Now that sounds plausible. But what real proof do I have? I’m going to have to share my theory with Stephen, and I think we should tell the police. They have the tools to do a real investigation. They’ll be able to detect blood that isn’t visible to the naked eye. Unfortunately, I can’t cover for Martha because it could mean either Blythe or me being charged with Keith’s murder. When we were in the car, Stephen reminded me that this is a murder investigation now. The police will eventually obtain a warrant to conduct an extensive search of the house, and if I’m right about what happened in the laundry room, it’s going to come back to bite me and/or Blythe in the ass. I nearly jump to the ceiling when the grandfather clock chimes. It’s 4:00 p.m. Martha should be almost done with her interview. Maybe the police have already gotten a confession.

 

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