The Women on Retford Drive, page 15
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
I wash my hands and get leftover pizza from the refrigerator. I nuke it, have a seat at the table, and turn on the TV next to the pantry. I stop eating when scenes from our press conference appear on the screen. I turn up the volume to see how the story is being presented. A field reporter standing in front of Stephen’s law office recaps what happened earlier today.
Andrew, I’m here at the law offices of Miller & Rawlings. At noon today there was a press conference at this location, held by the family of the missing Keith James Pritchard, who the police believe may be dead. Keith’s daughter, Blythe, who recently graduated with honors from Dancing Hills University, read a statement on the family’s behalf. She was tearful and sincere. Here’s a small snippet of that interview.
The screen fills with a video of us at the press conference, and then there’s a close-up of Blythe. The camera loves her.
He was at the beginning stages of taking his company public. It was a great time for him.
The field reporter is now back on screen. Andrew, as his daughter said, this was an exciting time in Keith’s life. So what went wrong? The detectives are knee deep in interviews, and at this time, they have no persons of interest. But they believe that will soon change.
The reporter stands with her hand to her ear, listening to a question coming in from the studio. Pamela, we understand there are two factions in this affluent community—those who believe Keith’s wife, Julia, killed him and those who believe she’s innocent.
That’s correct, Andrew. And the division is palpable, as you can see from this clip.
The women who were fighting fill the screen.
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?
We’re back on the field reporter, and she’s wrapping up the story. Andrew, people are really on edge about this case. As you know, Keith Pritchard’s family founded this area. The police are under a lot of pressure to solve this mystery.
Pamela, in cases such as these, the significant other is the prime person of interest. We know the wife and daughter have been questioned, but they obviously have not been charged.
Andrew, the police don’t have any evidence that we know of pointing to either of the women, but as we know from past experience, that could change.
We will keep our eyes on the story.
Reporting live from downtown Dancing Hills, this is Pamela Robinson. Back to you, Andrew.
I click off the TV. The reporter’s words resonating in my head kill my appetite. Andrew, the police don’t have any evidence that we know of pointing to either of the women, but as we know from past experience, that could change.
I dump the pizza in the trash and head upstairs. I can’t just sit here doing nothing. Searching through my phone, I find a photo of Martha. Someone had to have seen her Tuesday with the car. Walking to Blythe’s room, I’m filled with renewed energy. I press the door open, and my gaze falls on the pastel yellow walls. Posters of the triplets and me from my former sitcom put a bittersweet smile on my face. That seems like a million years ago. My eyes land on the armoire in the corner of the room, where Blythe put her clothes we’d brought back from the apartment. I hope she put the key where she usually does. I open the second drawer, and it’s empty. Checking the top drawer, rifling through her bras and panties, I spot the BMW logo on the key ring. I grab it, shut the drawer, and then start to leave, but something pulls me back into the room. It’s what my mother calls that intuitive voice.
I double back and search all the drawers. They’re empty except the top one. Then I look in the closet. A few pairs of shoes and a couple of dresses stare back at me. What am I looking for? Martha is the culprit, not Blythe. A sickening feeling rises within in me, and I brace myself for the impending hot flash. Sweat sprouts from my forehead. I reach for tissue on the nightstand and pause at the sight of something poking out from under the bed. I tug on what is obviously a shirt, but not just any shirt—Keith’s blue shirt. Trembling, I inspect it, but no blood is on the sleeve or anywhere else. Did Blythe wash out the blood? I keep staring at the blue shirt, and it dawns on me: Keith wouldn’t be able to wear this shirt, because it’s too small. Damn, this is Blythe’s shirt. “What is wrong with me?” I toss the shirt onto the bed. “Argh!” I leave the room, print Martha’s photo, change my clothes, and drive to the strip mall.
~~~
I pull into the parking lot, inspecting my surroundings. It’s almost 5:00 p.m., and the area is teeming with people. Two teenage boys, wearing sagging jeans, exit a video game store laughing and roughhousing. A corpulent man walks his terrier, dressed in a miniature blue sweater, to the grooming business on the corner. A few feet from there, a family of four carries loads of clothes into a laundromat. A young couple sits on a patio in front of a coffee shop, drinking and chatting each other up. Next to the coffee shop, there’s a donut shop, a pizza parlor, and a nail salon—all sharing the small plot of land. In front of me is the 24-hour convenience store.
I get out of Blythe’s BMW and take a closer look at the area. I remember everything from the news footage. I go to the stall where Keith’s car was parked. It’s blocked off with crime scene tape. Why would Martha leave the car here? She knows the nursing home is nearby. I stare at the ground, racking my brain.
“Did you hear about—”
Startled, I turn around and come face to face with a rail-thin man desperately in need of a shave and a bath. “Excuse me?”
“I was sayin’, did you hear about the rich dude that was whacked?” He tugs on his dirty, gray, waist-length beard.
His breath, reeking of what smells like a combination of onions and dog crap, overpowers me, and I recoil. “I don’t think the police know he’s dead for sure.”
“They found blood in that fancy car that was right here. He’s dead. Yep he is.” His bloodshot blue eyes roll back in his head.
“Do you live around here?”
He points to a cardboard box against a large, metal trash bin, surrounded by empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers. “I live right there.”
Guilt shoots through me when I think about my lifestyle. “How long have you lived there?”
“About a month.”
“Were you here the night the Maserati was abandoned?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” His gaze shifts to my purse. I reach into it and give him a ten-dollar bill. I wish I could give him a new lease on life, but unfortunately, I have my hands full right now.
“You’re an angel. And yep, I was home Tuesday night.”
I take the photo of Martha out of my purse, and I hold it up. “What’s your name?”
“Dirty Harry,” he says, howling, pointing his finger at me in a shape of a gun. “Make my day!” He bends over, cracking himself up.
“You’re quite the comedian,” I say, with a wry tone, wishing he’d focus. “Did you see this woman here Tuesday night or any night?”
He takes the photo, squints and studies it. “Nah, can’t say that I have. Who is she?”
“She was the lady who drove the car here.”
“No, she wasn’t!” He returns the photo to me.
“Why do you say that?”
“I saw the lady who drove the car here, and she was a looker. She was hot. Man, she gave me that good feeling inside.” He grabs his groin and moans.
Anticipation surges through me, and I rock on my heels. “Harry—”
“The name is Dirty Harry.”
“Dirty Harry, tell me exactly what she looked like.”
“Who looked like?”
“The woman, the hot girl who was driving the car.”
“What car?”
Confused, I scrunch up my face. Then I realize that he wants more money. I give him the last five-dollar bill I have on me. He grabs it, and I ask him again, “What did the lady you saw look like?”
“What lady?”
Now somewhat annoyed, I cringe. “I gave you fifteen dollars. I need you tell me what she looked like, or I’m going to have to take my money back!”
“Hey, what’s going on out here?”
We turn toward a man with a potbelly, standing in the convenience store doorway. He tousles his scraggly, brown hair, squinting and craning his thick neck. Embarrassed, I compose myself. I can’t believe I went off like that.
“Dirty Harry, are you stealing money from my customers again?”
“No, Mitch. I wasn’t stealing nothing. This pretty lady was talking to me. She was telling me how she likes to drive cars and how she drove that Maserati here, and that’s her car too.” He points to Blythe’s BMW.
“Dirty Harry, you go on away from here now. Let the nice lady alone. I’ll have some work for you to do tomorrow.”
“Sure, Mitch” he says, shuffling away.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry about that. He’s a little mixed up in the head. You can’t believe a word he says.”
Disappointed and dispirited, I start to walk away. A camera mounted on the roof of the convenience store gives me a second wind. “Mitch, does that camera work?”
He gestures for me to join him in the store. I do so. “Between me and you, it’s a façade. It’s just up there to scare the scumbags away. The police asked me the same thing.” He gives me the once-over and says, “I’ve never seen you around these parts, but you look familiar.”
“I used to have a hit sitcom. I played the mother to triplets.”
“No, I’ve seen you recently. That’s right, I’ve seen you on the news. You’re the wife of that Pritchard guy. Hell, I wish I had his money. Ain’t that a trip that’s he’s missing. I’m sorry about that.”
“Yeah, I am too. Were you here the night the car was left?”
“I’m here most times. I own the place.”
“Do you remember seeing this woman around here?” I show him the photo.
“I haven’t seen her in person, but I’ve seen her picture before.”
“Where?”
“At the police station. A woman detective showed it to me. When I first saw the dick, I thought she was a librarian. She reminded me of Aunt Bee from Mayberry R.F.D. She had a bunch of photos of different people. Some of them I’ve seen on TV. I guess they know the Pritchard guy. She had me look at mugshots too. All that happened after she came here to the store. You know what? I think she showed me your picture too.”
“What did she want to know?”
“Same thing you want to know. If I had seen the person the night the car was left.”
“I see,” I say, more discouraged by the minute.
“Tuesdays are really busy around here because people think my store is lucky. Two people have bought winning Mega Millions tickets at my store. I had a line around the block. That’s why I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to the car. It’s going to be busy tonight too. There’s a Mega Millions draw on Fridays.”
“Was there anybody strange or different looking at the car or around the car Tuesday?”
Two customers enter, and he’s momentarily distracted. “There was something.”
“What?” I ask, desperate for anything.
“There was a lady who was looking at the license plate. I happened to glance up, and she was staring at it. You know, it’s one of those personalized plates. I can’t remember it.”
“I know it. Did you see what she looked like?”
“Yes, because she ended up coming into the store. She was a little pissed off.”
This is like pulling teeth. “Can you describe her?”
“Sure thing. As soon as I wait on this customer,” he says, stepping behind the counter.
Chapter 19
Attorney Stephen Miller
I’m in my office, reflecting on the Pritchard case, specifically the time I spent with Julia today when I dropped her off at home. I had a feeling she wanted to continue our conversation indoors, but for some reason she didn’t extend an invitation. It’s a good thing she didn’t, because I may have said something unprofessional. I don’t get involved with my female clients, but I must admit, I’m struggling with my feelings toward Julia. I turn toward my computer and Google her. The screen fills with images of her when she was starring in the sitcom as well as in other projects. She’s not just beautiful on the outside; she has a peaceful, caring essence about her. I can’t imagine how any man in his right mind could lift his hand to hurt her, but then again, from what I gather, Keith Pritchard is a pretty twisted guy.
“How’s it going?” Faye asks, entering my office.
Startled, I alt-tab to my email, not wanting Faye to see Julia’s image on the screen. When we were in the conference room, Keith’s mother wasn’t the only one raising her brows when I took Julia’s hand in mine.
“I’m good. I was just thinking about the case.”
“It’s been a long day,” she says. She sits across from me, and I notice a mischievous glint in her eyes. Maybe she saw Julia’s headshot before I switched to my email. “What time will the detective arrive?”
I dispel my paranoid thoughts and say, “She called me about fifteen minutes ago to tell me she was running a little late, but that she should be here within the hour. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. What did you think about the press conference?”
She crosses her legs and leans forward, exposing her ample cleavage. Recalling the sexual harassment workshop we participated in a few months ago, I shift my eyes to my computer. With everything that’s happening now, I don’t want any hint of impropriety associated with the firm. Not that Faye would falsely accuse me, but when things seem to be going well, I worry it won’t last. It was when I thought my marriage was at its best that my ex told me she was unhappy and that she wanted a divorce.
“Stephen? I asked you what you thought about the press conference.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, getting out of my head. “I think it went well. I am concerned about all the protestors. I don’t know who’s behind the group that’s already tried and convicted Julia and Blythe, but they’re not helping our case. Unfortunately, nothing was discovered by the search party.”
Faye shifts in the chair and says, “I thought for sure that was Keith’s body at the morgue.”
“I did too. For Julia and Blythe’s sake, I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m not sure they would have been able to handle it.”
“So the detective is going to give us an overview of where they are with things?”
“Right. I really wish I could get Keith’s mother on board, but she’s married to the idea that Julia killed Keith.”
“Sounds like the typical mother-in-law. I thought she was going to sucker punch you in the conference room today.”
“She takes the mother-in-law, daughter-in-law rivalry to whole ’nother level. Her behavior is irrational.”
Faye and I turn toward the door when Vanessa enters. “Detective Rhonda Carson is here. I put her in the conference room.”
“Thanks, Vanessa. When are you going home?” I ask, noticing that it’s after 6:00 p.m.
“Soon,” she says, turning on her heel.
“You ready?” I say to Faye.
“I’m right behind you,” Faye says, following me.
We enter the conference room, surprised by the sight of the matronly looking woman studying the pictures on the wall. If I had seen her on the street, I never would have guessed that she was a detective.
“Thanks for coming in,” I say.
She points to the famous landmarks—the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, Big Ben, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “These are great prints. You take them?”
“Yes, and thank you. By the way, this is my partner, Faye Rawlings.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, shaking Faye’s hand.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.
“Your assistant already offered me something. I’m good.”
We all sit at the table. Faye and I share somewhat awkward glances. Then Rhonda breaks the silence. “Nice office. How long have you been in practice?” I pause before answering, noting the steely look in her eyes that upstages her compliments. I get a sense this is how she deals with suspects. She butters them up and then goes for the jugular.
“Twenty years. I started out with a large firm in Northern California, and I’ve had my own firm for thirteen years.” Wanting to get down to business I say, “What’s the latest?”
“I interviewed Mitch Green, the owner of the convenience store, and some other people out at the strip mall where Keith’s car was abandoned, but we came up empty. That’s a pretty rough area, and a lot of the residents don’t believe in snitching. Someone could have seen something, but so far they’re not talking.”
“Are there any cameras at the strip mall?” Faye asks.
“No. No traffic cameras either. Shady Grove is an impoverished area with a low tax base. We’re also in the process of interviewing neighbors, hoping someone heard or saw something Tuesday night. We received a property list from Keith’s attorney, Theodore Schmidt. We’re checking out the family’s lake house in Santa Barbara. We’re also working with authorities in Aspen and New York. They have people checking out the properties there. You never know—he may be at a different location, incapacitated.”
“Anything interesting come in on the tip line?” I ask.
“A ton of calls, and we take them all seriously. We’re in the process of following up on a few calls. Someone mentioned they saw Keith at LAX Tuesday around 10 p.m. We have officers checking that out.”
“Obviously, you’ve been at this a long time,” I say, immediately realizing my faux pas. I can feel my face flushing. The room fills with strained laughter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No worries,” she says with a warm smile. “Yes, I’ve been at this a long time, and if you want to know what my experience is telling me about this case, the only thing I can say at this time is that it’s not going to be solved overnight. There are a lot of moving pieces, and we’re going over everything. My suggestion to you is to have your clients think about everything for the past three weeks leading up to the day Keith went missing. You’d be surprised what people can suddenly remember—a phone conversation Keith may have had with a business associate, some comment he may have made, a suspicious person in the area. Every little thing counts. We questioned Julia and Blythe extensively, but sometimes people are intimidated by police stations, so their memories can be a little muddy.”
