The Women on Retford Drive, page 16
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Point well-taken,” I say.
“Stephen, I don’t have to tell you what an important man Keith Pritchard is to this community. Please know that the captain, the chief, and the mayor want this case solved, and so do Brian and I.”
“I understand.”
She glances at her phone and says, “I have another meeting. Don’t hesitate to reach out to us if your clients remember anything new.”
“Will do,” I say, rising, walking her to the exit.
~~~
Back in my office, I call Julia on my cell. She picks up after a couple of rings.
“Stephen, is everything okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine. I just met with Detective Rhonda Carson, and I want to update you. Is this an okay time? You sound like you’re busy.”
“No … uh … it’s okay. What did she say? Do they have any leads?”
“Nothing yet. But they’re still interviewing and following up on hotline tips. They’re also checking out Keith’s other properties. It sounds like they’re doing a thorough job.”
All I hear is deafening silence.
“Don’t be discouraged. It’s still early in the investigation. Julia, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“You seem distracted.”
“No, I’m okay. I guess I’m just worried that if they don’t find a suspect soon, they’re going to start focusing on Blythe and me.”
“Detective Carson gave me no indication that they’re looking at you or Blythe. She did suggest that you try to think back over the past few weeks leading up to Keith’s disappearance. She says something that may have seemed insignificant at the time could be important, and she’s right about that.”
“Of course, that makes sense. I’ll tell Blythe what she said.”
“Great. I’d better let you go. I feel like I’ve interrupted something, and you’re just being polite.”
“Okay, Stephen. I’ll talk to you later.”
Julia hangs up, and I stare at my phone. What is she up to?
Chapter 20
Blythe
Next to Shelbie in Julia’s car, I study the pale green, stucco house directly across the street, topped with a weather-worn shingle roof, surrounded by a rusty metal gate. The small cottage is the antithesis of my father’s estate. The brown lawn is overgrown and filled with tall, weedy grass. An old Mazda with no tires sits in the driveway, and behind it, there’s a white pickup truck with a bashed fender. I imagine Martha leaving my father’s palatial Dancing Hills home each day and arriving at her Section 8 house, reflecting on where she went wrong. How did my father end up rich and her poor?
“Blythe, we’ve been waiting for over an hour. It’s almost 7 p.m., and I’m getting hungry.” Shelbie stops fidgeting with her phone, returns her seat to the upright position, and pulls down the visor. She peers at her face, puckering her lips, making strange smacking sounds.
“I’m sorry, Shelbie. I forgot about Martha’s appointment with the detectives. She should be here any minute now.” I swivel my head, scoping out the oncoming traffic.
“I don’t know why you won’t call or text her to let her know we’ve been waiting.”
“I want to have the advantage of showing up unannounced.” We fall silent at the sight of an approaching car. “It’s her,” I say.
Shelbie and I fist bump when Martha’s husband, Pedro, stops in front of the house. Martha and Carla get out of her Honda, and Pedro and Jorge burn rubber. Martha and Carla watch the car until it turns the corner. Martha, wearing shades too big for her face, nudges Carla forward, and they enter the house.
After about ten minutes we approach, and I knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Martha, it’s Blythe and Shelbie.”
We wait while she unlatches the chain lock, and she opens the door just enough to peep out. “Miss Blythe, what are you doing here?” She pushes the dark glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“I need to talk to you. Can we come in?”
We wait in silence. After a few beats she says, “Okay, but I can’t talk too long, because I have to cook Pedro’s dinner. He’ll be back soon.” Shelbie and I enter the matchbox masquerading as a house. I shut the door while Martha goes from room to room, opening windows. “Sorry it’s so stuffy in here. I hope you won’t be too warm. Our air-conditioning is not working.”
“That’s okay,” I say.
“Siéntense,” she says, pointing to a floral sofa wrapped in plastic.
We do as she instructs and sit. My gaze locks on the throw pillows. “These look so familiar, Martha.”
“Miss Sherry bring me those. They used to be in her living room, but after she remodel she had them in the closet not being used, so she give them to me.”
“I knew I recognized them.”
“Why did you come here? I’m sorry I seem like I’m not happy to see you, it’s just I haven’t had a chance to clean up. I was at your house this morning looking for the knife and then at the meeting with the press and then I had to talk to the detectives. I’m very tired.”
“I’m sorry you had a long day, but this is very important.”
We both look at Shelbie when she emits an exaggerated sigh. “For goodness’ sake, please ask her.”
“What do you need, Miss Blythe?”
“Martha, why did you lie to Julia and me about the cat?”
Her face reddens, and she says, “I no lie to you. I tell you the truth.”
“Martha, we asked Carla about the cat, and she had no idea what we were talking about.” I look over her shoulder, wondering where Carla’s hiding out.
“That’s not true. Carla is causing a lot of problemas right now. There was a cat here.” She jumps up and runs to the trash can. She removes several small, empty cans. “You see this? It’s proof I had a cat. I put him out because he made Carla sick.”
“Stop lying, Mama. Stop it,” Carla says, rushing into the living room.
I’m surprised Carla would throw her mother under the bus. But apparently, whatever’s been going on, Carla is fed up, and I can’t wait for her to fill us in.
Trying to silence her, Martha gets up from the sofa and grabs Carla’s arm. “Go back to your room.”
Carla snatches her arm away and with defiance says, “No, I’m tired of you, Mama. I’m tired of you making excuses for him. You have to stop being so weak!”
Martha flops down on the sofa next to Shelbie. She snatches off the glasses and cups her face in her hands. Her shoulders rise and fall while she sobs. I motion to Shelbie, and she exchanges places with me. I sit next to Martha, rubbing her back, trying to calm her down. “Don’t cry. What’s wrong, Martha? I’ve known you more than half my life—why won’t you talk to me?”
“Because she’s afraid of my father,” Carla says. She leans against the wall, hands on her hips, twelve going on forty.
“Carla, please get your mother some tissue,” Shelbie says.
She leaves and returns with a wad of toilet paper. She hands it to her mother, and Martha, composing herself, blows her nose. “I don’t have a cat. I made it up.”
“Why?” I ask, noticing her black eye.
“Because I was ashamed. Pedro did this.” She points to her face and pushes her sleeve above her elbow. “I felt stupid because I always tell you and Miss Julia that you should not put up with what Mr. Keith does, but I do the same.”
“How long has Pedro been hitting you?”
“For three months now. Ever since he lost his job. He blames me for him not finding any work. I do everything, and I give him all my money I get for working for you and for Miss Sherry and my other two families. He gambles it away.”
“Excuse me, Martha, but why do you have cat food if there’s no cat?” Shelbie asks.
“That’s all we can afford. That and beans.”
“Are you telling me you’re eating cat food in this house?” I ask.
“I won’t touch it,” Carla says. “My mother, father, and Jorge eat it.”
“As my dear departed grandmother would say, ‘Lord, have mercy.’” Shelbie shakes her head in disbelief and stands. “So Pedro is gambling away every penny.”
“Sí,” Martha says.
“How long have you been living like this?” I ask.
“Not for long. Only for two months now.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? You could have taken food from the house,” I say.
“I did once, and Mr. Keith curse at me. He said he paid me well. But he didn’t know Pedro takes every penny I make.”
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Martha, I believe you, and I’m sorry this has been going on, but I’m still confused about the shirt.”
“Miss Blythe, I brought it home like I said, because I didn’t want the policía to see it. I had it right in the living room, and then it was gone.”
“Carla, did you see it?” I ask.
“No, but I think my father took it. He said he could make a lot of money on eBay with it.”
“Martha, is everything else you told us true, about hearing my father leaving the kitchen and driving away?”
“Yes, I swear it is the truth.”
“How was your interview with the police?”
“It was okay. I told them everything, but I no mention the shirt.”
“Did you meet with a man and a woman?”
“Sí, the hombre was negro and very tall, and the mujer was white.”
“Martha, I’m really worried about you. You shouldn’t be living like this.”
“Miss Blythe, I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’ll have to think of something. It’s not good for Carla to see you being abused.”
“You’re right. I know you have your own experience with this kind of thing.”
“Carla, has your father ever hit you?” I ask.
“No. He knows better. I’d kick him in the balls.” She extends her bony leg and makes a spirited yell like a martial artist.
We can’t help but laugh. I wish I’d had Carla’s bravado at that age—hell, at any age.
“Are you guys hungry?” I ask.
“I’m starving,” Carla says.
“Why don’t we go to my favorite restaurant?” Martha’s eyes widen, and I say, “I’ll pay.” Looks like Pedro is a poor man’s Keith.
~~~
Once again sitting on the patio of my favorite restaurant, I think about how many times I’ve been here this week. Food has never been something I’ve lacked. My father was a jerk, but we never went without food. It’s something I’ve always taken for granted. My eyes fill with tears while I watch Carla scarf down a dinner-size plate of tacos, beans, and rice. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that they’ve been eating cat food. Martha’s husband, Pedro, needs to be bitch slapped.
Shelbie, biting into her burrito, does a double take at Carla. “Slow down, sweetie. You’re going to choke.”
“She loves tacos,” Martha says, finishing her own plate of fajitas.
I can’t eat because I’m consumed with thoughts about the case. How is Julia? Did the volunteers find anything at Hollis Park? Julia must be reading my mind. I excuse myself from the table and answer my phone, which needs charging.
“Julia, I’m worried about you. I called you and sent you a text,” I stand next to a plant near the patio door.
“I saw. I’m at the strip mall. I’m fine.”
“The strip mall where my father’s car was left?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you were going there. We could have gone together.”
“This wasn’t planned, Blythe. Anyway, the owner of the store said he saw a lady looking at your father’s license plate.”
“What lady?”
“That’s what I’m waiting to find out. He’s selling lottery tickets right now. How did the search go? Did you all find anything?”
“Sherry found an old phone, but it wasn’t my father’s. Shelbie and I left. We didn’t stay.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a burning need to question Martha.” A trio of Mariachis converge on the patio. I go inside the restaurant to escape the noise.
“What’s that music? Where are you?”
“I’m at dinner with Shelbie, Martha, and Carla. Pedro has been gambling away all their money, and they were eating cat food. He’s been abusing her. That’s how she got the scratches. She didn’t kill my father, Julia,” I whisper.
“Excuse me.” A waitress hoisting a tray over her shoulder maneuvers around me. I move into a corner, out of traffic.
“Wow,” Julia says.
“And they really believe Pedro took the shirt. My phone is about to die, Julia. I’ll call you after I charge it. Be careful. That’s not the greatest area.”
“Okay, Blythe. You be careful too.”
I return to the table feeling hopeful. Maybe the woman Julia mentioned is the ‘she’ in the note.
“Is everything okay?” Shelbie asks.
Martha and Carla, done eating, whisper to each other in Spanish.
“I’ll update you up once we leave,” I say, uncomfortable discussing the case in front of them, especially when I can’t understand what they’re saying. I’ve never been good with languages, unlike Shelbie, who speaks French, German, and Mandarin.
They end their powwow, and Martha places her hand on mine. “I was just telling Carla that if she stays in school and studies hard, she can become a lawyer like you.”
“I’m not a lawyer yet.”
“Don’t you have to take this thing called the bar?” Carla asks.
Shelbie points to Carla’s chin. She grabs a napkin off the table and wipes the red sauce from her face.
“Yes, but first I have to take the LSAT. I have to get a top score on the test so I can get into the law school of my choice.”
“Is it hard?”
“Yes,” Shelbie and I say.
“But if you study, you can pass it,” I add. “Then I have to apply to law school.”
“What law school do you want to go to?” Carla asks.
“Yale—the number one law school in the country.”
“What about you, Shelbie?”
“Yale.”
Carla laughs, revealing teeth that could benefit from a pair of braces. “You’re like a set of twins.”
“We’ve known each other since we were your age,” Shelbie says.
“Does it cost a lot of money to go to Yale?”
“Over two hundred thousand dollars for three years,” Shelbie says.
“Dang, we could buy a new house for that much money.”
“That’s why you have to stay in school and study hard. If you do well, you could win a scholarship to go to school,” Shelbie adds.
“Once I graduate, I’ll take the bar. And yes, that’s hard too, but it’s not impossible to pass. Shelbie’s going to law school too,” I say.
“You guys must be really smart,” Carla says.
Her eyes light up with hope, and I feel warm and fuzzy inside. She reminds me of myself when I was twelve— innocent, eager, and full of possibility. My father hadn’t started changing yet, and life was good.
Martha’s phone rings, and her face drops. “Excuse me. I need to take this call.”
“It’s Dad, isn’t it?” Carla says, rolling her eyes.
“Sí,” Martha says, scampering away.
“She needs to stand up to him.”
“Carla, your mother’s been married to your father for a long time, and things were probably good at one point in their lives. Your mother’s probably remembering those times.”
“She needs to forget them.”
“Does Jorge stand up for your mother?” Shelbie asks.
“He’s a pussy. He won’t do anything.”
We turn toward Martha approaching the table, batting at tears pouring down her face. “We have to go. Can you take us home, please?”
“Are you sure you want to go home, Martha?” I ask.
“I have nowhere else to go.”
“He’s going to beat her,” Carla says.
“Martha, we have a million bedrooms at our house. You can stay with us.”
“He’ll come there and find me like he did a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t tell you or Miss Julia, but he got into a bad argument with Mr. Keith. Mr. Keith called him a lot of nasty things. Pedro wanted me to stop working there, but he knows it’s the most money we have coming in. I don’t want him to find us there. He has threatened to hurt us.”
“Why don’t you let them stay at the apartment, Blythe? Pedro doesn’t know where it is.”
“That’s true, Martha. You can stay there until Pedro comes to his senses. Is there anyone you know who could talk to him?”
“Our priest, maybe.”
“Have him call Pedro and let him know you’re not coming home until he gets help.”
Martha nods, her face coated in hesitation and confusion. “I will do that.”
“We’d better go,” I say, closing out the bill.
Leaving the restaurant, I feel a sense of purpose. I think about the countless other women and children, like Martha and Carla, who I’ll be able to help once I’m practicing law. We get in Julia’s Mercedes, and my phone rings. Who’s calling from a restricted number?
“Hello?”
“What kind of monster kills her own father?”
Before I can respond, my phone powers down.
Chapter 21
Julia
Looking through the windshield of Blythe’s car, I watch Mitch sell lottery tickets, thinking about my earlier call with Stephen. I feel guilty about not telling him what I’m doing, but I sense he would try to stop me, and I have to be proactive, especially now that I know the police still don’t have any leads. Mitch winks at me and mouths, Almost done. I’m not sure how true that is, because every customer seems to buy multiple tickets. I look at the sign above the door, shaking my head. The jackpot is close to two hundred million. I’ve never bought a lottery ticket in my life. I had no need to, because I’m married to a gazillionaire. I hope the people buying tickets know that the winnings may afford them comfort, but it won’t guarantee happiness. And I pray this hour I’ve waited hasn’t been a waste of time. At least I was finally able to catch up with Blythe. I was shocked to find out Pedro has been abusing Martha. And I’m glad Martha didn’t kill Keith. Domestic violence is an epidemic. I stretch my neck, hoping Mitch doesn’t get any more patrons. He cashes out the final customer, then he beckons me to come into the store. I nearly fall as I enter. I run to the counter, and he raises a brow. I look desperate, but I don’t care.
