The Women on Retford Drive, page 19
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Exactly. At one point, I thought that’s what Martha had done, but obviously I was wrong.”
“At one point, you thought that’s what I had done.”
“What makes you think that?” I feign innocence.
“Julia, I know you.”
“What you said about Keith not having a chance to amend the trust was on my mind, and that did make me a little suspicious. But, Blythe, you suspected me for something I said.”
“You’re right. Can we move forward now, without being suspicious of each other?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
“What if you’re wrong about this woman? What if it’s not my mother? She might not be the only Mary Weber in Dancing Hills.”
“If I’m wrong, who did it?”
“Maybe we should let the police figure it out. Maybe once the announcement about the reward goes out, people will come forward with some solid leads.”
“And what if they don’t? What if the police get tired of doing their job and conclude that we did something to Keith? And if he was killed at home, and they obtain a warrant to search the house, they might find blood, and that’s going to be the end of us.”
“Okay. I’ll support your latest theory. What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to have my back. You should check the website and Facebook page, see if we have any messages. Tomorrow you should touch base with the missing persons unit and see if anything has turned up from the hotline. Hopefully, I’ll hear from the driver tomorrow. I’m going to meet with him.”
“Don’t you think we should update Stephen?”
“I do, but not yet. I want to have something concrete.”
“I also have to check on Martha and Carla.”
“Speaking of Martha and Carla, are they sleeping on the floor?”
“I bought a queen-size bed for my room. They’re sleeping together. Do you know where that red, king-size blanket is? I thought we had packed it.”
“It should be at the apartment. Where were you able to buy a bed and have it delivered with so little notice?”
“Like my father always says, money moves mountains.”
~~~
From my bedroom, I make the last call of the day.
“Julia, I can’t believe you’re still up. It’s after midnight.”
“I got your email, Sherry.” I look down at my feet, which are in desperate need of a pedicure. “So you guys didn’t find anything?”
“No, we didn’t. Have you seen the news?”
“I’ve had enough drama over here to have my own newscast. What’s up?”
“They had a crime analyst on, saying it didn’t look good that you and Blythe weren’t at the searches. And your mother-in-law was interviewed, repeating her lies.”
“To hell with her. By the way, Shelbie and Blythe were out at Martha’s place trying to get to the bottom of Martha’s lies. There was no cat. Her bruises came from Pedro.”
“Why am I not surprised? I dropped some pillows off at her house the other day, and I heard him screaming at her.”
“We moved her and Carla into our apartment. She should be safe there. We’re going to have to figure out a long-term solution.”
“Good.”
“But the biggest news is that I might have a lead on who the ‘she’ is in the note.”
“Who is it?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“I am now.”
“Mary Weber.”
“Mary Weber, as in Blythe’s missing mother?”
“Yes.”
“What does Blythe think about that?”
“She doesn’t believe it, but she’s supporting me. Speaking of Blythe, she was attacked at Stephen’s law firm tonight.”
“Attacked by whom?”
“The same nut who sent me that text and who called her tonight. He’s the reason all those people were ready to burn us at the stake. He’s a sicko. The police arrested him. And the police think the mafia might be involved.”
“But the note indicates a woman killed Keith.”
“‘Men aren’t the only people who are hired to do hits.’ Those are Stephen’s words.”
“Julia, you need your own reality show—screw the detective series.”
“What I need is a Valium. I’ll touch base with you in the morning. How are you feeling? You’re not throwing up anymore, are you?”
“I’m feeling better. It’s not so bad at night. Maybe it’s menopause.”
“You’re only thirty-nine, Sherry, and you haven’t had your plumbing reconstructed. Maybe you’re pregnant.”
“That would be a trip, after all these years. Maybe if we had kids, Larry never would’ve cheated on me. Julia, I love him so much.”
“I know you do, sweetie.”
“You know I gave up trying to have kids a long time ago. Anyway, I need a kid like I need another hole in my head. Get some rest, Julia. Bye.”
I hang up the phone and head to Blythe’s room. After what happened tonight, I feel compelled to check on her. I tap on her door, and she says, “It’s open.”
“How are you doing?” I enter. My eyes shift to the shirt I found under her bed. Sitting next to her laptop, with her cell in her hand, she stares at the screen, ignoring me.
“I see you found my shirt.”
“Yeah, I did.”
She turns around with a scowl on her face. “You thought it was my father’s, didn’t you?”
“No … I …”
“Don’t lie.”
“I didn’t know what it was.”
Rising and stepping toward me, she says, “There are plenty of people out there who think we’re both guilty. I met two of them in the restroom at Keith’s law firm tonight—his partner, Faye, and Ellen, one of his associates. They’re ignorant, and they don’t know us. But you know me, Julia. The police don’t believe I’m a suspect—why do you think I am?”
“I don’t anymore. I found that shirt before we talked. I think the woman at the strip mall—”
“Yeah, it’s the woman at the strip mall for now. Who’s next? You’re gonna play a detective on a TV show; you’re not one in real life, so stop acting like you are.”
“I hear you. I just came to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine. You can go now.”
“Goodnight.” I leave her room, feeling like I’ve failed her.
Chapter 24
Blythe
Flopping on my bed, I look at my phone in my hand and then set it on my pillow. “Did you hear her?”
“I can’t believe she tried to lie about the shirt. She just won’t let it go. I know you didn’t kill your father, and you know you didn’t, but why does she think you did?” Shelbie asks.
“Julia’s always been like that. Once she sets her mind on something, it’s hard for her to let it go. But I think she’s onto something new now.”
“The lady from the strip mall who she thinks is your mother.”
“Right,” I say, peeling off my sweat-soaked T-shirt. I lay it on the bed, staring at my father’s picture plastered to the front of it, wondering if he’s alive or dead.
“That’s crazy.”
“I’m going to let her wear herself out.”
“So are you guys going to hire bodyguards?”
“I’m not sure, but you were right about me being careful tonight. Thank god Stephen was there.”
“I hate to say, ‘I told you so,’ but I did. That’s good there’s going to be a reward. Maybe somebody will come forward with some real information. Blythe, I need to go. My mother’s calling me from the other room. My parents want me to let them know about the next search. They want to help, but they need advance notice because of their surgery schedules.”
“That’s nice. I’ll have to check with Stephen. Tell your parents I said goodnight.”
“Will do.”
“Bye.” I hang up.
I roll out of bed and sit at the computer. I click over to the Facebook page. Amazing. We have over ten thousand likes. I scroll through some of the messages.
I hope you find your father. My father died when I was five. Never got to know him.
No peace until we get justice for Keith.
Your father fired my uncle. I hope he’s dead.
“Okay, who’s this prick, J.J. with no photo?” I click on the name, and his Facebook page comes up. The profile picture is the scales of justice. He’s not my friend. I think I’ll send this info to Stephen. I continue looking at posts, focusing on the negative ones. Who knows? The killer might be online.
Tired of reading, I check out messages on my personal page.
Hello, Blythe. My family is praying for you. I met your father many years ago while he was on vacation with your mother—your bio mother, Mary. I was saddened to learn a few years later that she had gone missing. And of course, I was shocked to hear about your father’s recent disappearance. Be careful, my dear. Not everyone is who they pretend to be.
Respectfully,
A concerned friend
Who the hell is this now? I click on the name, Mrs. Tatum. There’s nothing there. They’re either blocking me, or they’ve deactivated their account. This is giving me a headache. I log out and search for a photo of my mother. I know Julia is chasing a ghost, but if this is what she needs to do to keep her sanity, I’ll support her.
~~~
Good morning, this is the Dancing Hills Saturday Morning Entertainment Report. We’re starting this segment with the latest from the most talked about story in town. It’s June 17th—three days since business mogul Keith James Pritchard was reported missing. Police are still in the process of interviewing everyone in Keith’s circle, which extends to individuals home and abroad. Yesterday the family held a press conference at their lawyer’s office. Keith’s only child, Blythe Renee Pritchard, tearfully asked for the public’s help. In a stunning move, she spoke directly to those who may be responsible for Keith’s disappearance. Authorities say they have evidence that indicates Keith may be deceased, but the family at yesterday’s press conference says they are still holding out hope that he’s alive. Following the press conference, multiple searches were held. Julia Pritchard, Keith’s wife, had a group looking for him, and his mother, Dolores Pritchard, had her own team of volunteers. Sources tell us the women are at odds with each other and that Keith’s mother is certain Julia is involved in Keith’s disappearance. However, police tell us that at this time, Julia is not a person of interest or a suspect. Dolores made it known yesterday that she wasn’t pleased to learn that neither Julia nor Blythe participated in any of the searches. Today we learned that a hundred-thousand-dollar reward is being offered for information leading to Keith Pritchard’s whereabouts.
I click off the TV, calculating the days my father’s been missing. The talking head got it wrong. It’s been three days and five hours. If he’s in a situation where he’s fighting for his life, every hour counts, every minute matters. If he hasn’t had anything to drink since he disappeared, he could be dead from dehydration, depending on the conditions. I don’t know why I’m playing these games with myself. He’s dead!
“Blythe?”
“Come in.”
She opens the door with a faint smile on her face, her blond hair in a ponytail, wearing a skirt and a T-shirt. There’s barely any trace of the bruise on her forehead, but she has deep bags and dark circles under her eyes. I guess I’m not the only one in the house not sleeping.
“Good morning.”
“Hi.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“I was never mad at you, Julia—disappointed, but not mad.”
She enters. “I promise, I’m done accusing you.”
“I hope so.” I get up from the bed.
“I’ve made pancakes. Your favorite—blueberry.”
“You’ve talked me into it.” I allow a smile to brighten my face. “Give me a minute. I need to check on Martha. I told her I’d call her around 9 a.m.”
“Sure. I’ll see you downstairs.” She turns and leaves the room with a triumphal bounce.
I reach for my phone on the bed and hit speed dial.
“Buenos días, Miss Blythe.”
“Good morning. Are you guys okay?”
“Sí. We just finished breakfast.”
“Have you heard from Pedro?”
“Not yet. He called all night. I turned my phone off. I just turned it on. Your timing is perfect.”
“Please don’t let him know where you are.”
“I won’t.”
“How’s Carla?”
“She’s good.”
“I’ll be there in a little while to pick you up. Were you able to reach your priest?”
“I did, and he wants me to come to the church. He’s going to try to have Pedro to come, too, so that he can talk to both of us.”
“What time?”
“In the afternoon. Whatever works for you.”
“Okay. I have a few things I need to do. I’ll call you back in an hour or so.”
“Gracias, Miss Blythe.”
I hang up and head downstairs to the kitchen. The aroma of fresh berries makes my mouth water. I sit at the breakfast nook, gaping at the pancake stack on the plate in front of me. I drown the pancakes in maple syrup and dig in. I look up when Julia, holding her phone close to her mouth, sits across from me.
“Thank you for calling,” she says to whomever is on the other line.
A voice with a heavy British accent comes through the phone. “Who is this? This isn’t Mary. Mary wouldn’t have called my supervisor. She would have called me directly.”
“No, you’re right. I’m not Mary.” Julia shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
Eating my pancakes, I wonder how she’s going to get through to the driver, who sounds like he’s going to hang up any minute now.
“What do you want? Why did you tell my supervisor you left your purse in my car? Who are you?”
“I need to talk to Mary. I have some important information for her.”
“What kind of information?”
“I can’t talk about it over the phone. But if you help me, I can pay you.”
“Mary is not just a regular passenger. She’s a friend, and I’m not—”
“I don’t want to harm her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Tell her an old schoolmate is trying to reach her.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say. What’s your name?” she asks.
“I’m Anozie. What kind of money are we talking about?”
“A lot,” she says. “Can you arrange for me to meet Mary?”
Silence permeates the kitchen. I disrupt it with my lip smacking.
“Anozie, are you there?”
“I’m here. You’re not with ICE, are you?”
“What’s ICE?” Julia asks.
“Immigrations and Customs Enforcement,” Anozie and I say.
“Who’s talking? Who’s that?”
“No one. And I’m not with ICE.”
“Let’s meet at the coffee shop at the strip mall. Just you—no police, no funny business,” he says. “I need to meet with you first.”
“How soon can you be there?” Julia asks. “And I promise you, I have nothing to do with the police.”
“In one hour,” he says.
“I’ll see you then. Bye,” Julia hangs up.
I finish chewing then ask, “Who was that?”
“Mary Weber’s driver.”
“I heard. You need to be careful, Julia. You shouldn’t meet him alone.”
“You want to go with me?”
“I need to pick up Martha and Carla, but I have time. What do you plan to do?” I push my empty plate aside.
“I’m going to persuade him to put me in contact with Mary.”
“What are you going to do if and when you meet with her? Do you think she’s going to confess?”
“I have a plan.”
“What plan?”
“To convince her to admit she killed Keith, and I’m going to record her.”
“You’ve been watching way too much TV. This is real life, not the movies. Why don’t you go to Stephen and the police with this information? They have more experience with this. They can wire you. Tell you what to say. If she’s involved, you could blow the whole thing—scare her away.”
“I promised Anozie I wouldn’t involve the police. You heard what he said. I had no idea how paranoid people are who aren’t born in this country.”
I shake my head, wishing Julia weren’t so stubborn. Maybe she’s got a point. Maybe the woman is my mother. I don’t remember her that well. I’m not even sure if I love her. I don’t know her. She’s like a stranger. I remember the first time I called Julia “Mom.” My father reprimanded me. He said I only had one mother, and that Julia would be better than a mother; she would be my friend. I wanted to call her mother, and she wanted me to call her mother, but we acquiesced, because at the time, he was the perfect husband and father, and he could do no wrong. Now that I think of it, it may have been his way of trying to keep us from bonding, perhaps joining forces against him. But in the end, it backfired.
“Okay, I’ll go with you, but we need to take separate cars, so I can meet Martha on time.”
“Blythe, we’re going to crack this case.”
“I hope so,” I say, warily.
~~~
I follow Julia into the strip mall, which I recognize from all the news reports. It took us longer than it should have to get here because we had to ditch reporters and paparazzi. She parks in front of a dog grooming business, and I park a few spots down from her, in front of a laundromat. I peer in my rearview mirror, and my stomach sinks at the sight of crime scene tape where my father’s car was abandoned. I get out of my BMW, and Julia joins me. She slips her car key into her skirt pocket and her eyes widen. I look over my shoulder and come face to face with a scrawny man sporting a long, bug-infested beard.
“Hey, pretty lady, you came back.” He runs to Julia and bumps into her, almost causing her to topple over. “Nice car,” he says, eyeing her Mercedes.
“You know him, Julia?”
“He’s Dirty Harry.”
