The Women on Retford Drive, page 2
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
Julia, with tears streaming down her reddened cheeks, now stands within arm’s length of the shirt. “Oh my god, where did it come from?”
“I found it stuck between the dryer and the washing machine. I dropped a sock, and when I looked down, I saw the shirt. I’m sorry for yelling so much,” she says, choking back her own tears.
“It’s okay,” Julia says, extending her hand.
I rush over and knock it away. If it is my father’s blood on that shirt, the last thing Julia should do is put her hands on it. Finally, able to speak, I say, “Don’t touch that without gloves, Julia.”
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“You shouldn’t handle that. We need to put it in a plastic bag,” I urge.
Martha, with trembling hands, takes a garbage bag from the shelf lined with laundry supplies and passes it to Julia. I wince at the sight of deep red scratches on Martha’s forearm. Julia holds open the bag, and Martha dumps the shirt into it. My eyes dart between them. For an instant, I think I see them exchange a conspiratorial glance.
“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, feeling sick to my stomach.
“I don’t know.” Julia sets the bag on top of the dryer.
The three of us stand in silence, trading questioning looks. My father didn’t show up for his flight. His shirt is in the laundry room with blood on it. “Something has happened to him. He’s not just missing, he’s hurt,” I say.
Martha’s eyes widen. “Your father is missing?”
Before I can respond, Julia says, “He didn’t show up for his flight this morning.”
I blurt out, “Okay, something is weird. Why is there blood on my father’s shirt, and why is it in the laundry room?”
Martha’s reddened face crumples, and she takes a few steps backward, passing her hand over her uniform hugging her portly frame. Then she points a quavering finger at the space between the washer and dryer. “Miss Blythe, I was telling the truth. I found this shirt right here. Please believe me.”
“I’m not blaming you, Martha.” I cast a wary look Julia’s way.
Averting her baby blues, she says, “I didn’t put it there.”
“I didn’t put it there either.” I glance at the bruise on her forehead, and a wave of fear surges through my body. Oh my god. Did Julia kill my father? She spent the night at the nursing home, but what if she came back here last night? What if she…? I hate to even think it, but it’s hard not to when what she told me three weeks ago rings in my head: If he puts his hands on me one more time, I’m going to kill him. Images of Julia and my father in a life-or-death struggle flash through my mind. I shake my head, tossing the thought.
As though she’s reading my mind she says, “Before we jump to conclusions, let’s call Kathleen. Maybe … uh … she’s been able to reach Keith.”
“That’s a good idea, Miss Julia.”
“I’ll call her.” I take my phone out of my pocket, repelling images in my head of Julia in handcuffs. I dial my father’s office, and Kathleen picks up on the first ring. “Kathleen, I have you on speak—”
“Thank you for calling back, and thank god he’s okay,” she says, cutting me off. “I was pulling my hair out by the gray roots with worry.”
Julia leans against the washing machine with a look on her face teetering between relief and disappointment. She flips her hair, and her blond locks spill onto her sagging shoulders. Martha casts her eyes to the ceiling and makes the sign of the cross. I stand here feeling like I’ve dodged a million bullets. My father is a screwed-up guy, but I’m glad he’s alive. And now I won’t have to become a co-conspirator, because after all Julia’s been through, there’s no way I could let her go to jail. “I’m … we’re glad to hear that, Kathleen. Where was he?”
“Where was who?”
“My father.”
“I’m confused,” she says with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I thought you were calling to tell us you’ve spoken to Keith and that he’s okay.”
“We were calling to see if you had heard from him. I’m at home with Julia and Martha. I have you on speaker.”
“You’re at your new apartment?” she asks. Her tone drips with disdain.
“No, we’re still at my father’s house. We just finished moving the last of our things.”
“I’m sorry for the confusion. No, I haven’t heard from him. And I just got off the phone with Richard and the team. They’re in New York now, and they’ll be heading to London in an hour. He hasn’t reached out to them either, and they’re understandably concerned.”
Julia, standing on tiptoe, grabs the calendar section of last Sunday’s newspaper off the shelf. In the throes of a hot flash, she folds it and fans her face that’s covered in a sheen of sweat.
“Julia, did you hear that? They haven’t heard from him,” I say. A fresh surge of fear and dread rush through me.
“Yes,” she says, furiously fanning.
“I’m extremely worried. I think we should call the police,” Kathleen says.
“No … I mean, I think we should wait to hear from him,” I say. “There’s gotta be a reasonable explanation for him going missing,” I add, giving Julia a reassuring look.
“If we don’t hear from him in the next hour or so, I really think we need to report him as missing,” Kathleen says.
“Of course,” Julia says, barely above a whisper.
“We’ll call you back when we hear from my father. And if he contacts you, let us know.”
“Okay, Blythe,” she says.
I click off the phone and turn toward Julia and Martha. Again, the laundry room plunges into silence. All eyes go toward the shirt.
“Wait a minute. What if he’s aquí? What if he hurt himself, and he never left? Maybe that’s why the blood is on his shirt.”
Martha’s pathetic, high-pitched voice snaps me out of my stupor. “Martha, have you cleaned upstairs yet?” I ask, hoping and praying she’s right. Maybe he is still here—hurt somewhere in the house.
“No.”
“And I haven’t been up there since I got here this morning,” Julia says.
We share optimistic looks. “I’ll check the bedrooms.”
“You don’t have to bother with my room, Blythe. I can do it,” Julia says.
“I got it,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Julia. I’m sure!”
“No, Miss Blythe, I will look in Miss Julia’s room. You should—”
“Please, I’ve got this. I’ll be fine,” I say, becoming a bit annoyed.
“Okay, then I’ll inspect the gym downstairs,” Julia says.
“I can look everywhere else,” Martha says.
We stand gawking at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move. I thrust my sweaty hands into my pockets, rethinking the search. If Martha’s right, then I don’t have to worry about Julia. But what if he’s dead? I squash the thought. I need to stay positive.
“Okay, ladies, let’s do this!” Julia says, eyes on me like I’m her star quarterback about to throw a Hail Mary.
I leave them there and sprint to the stairs, jumping over two at a time, pushing back the fear creeping up my neck. I stop at the master bedroom and fling open the door. The stark white-on-white décor is jarring. Julia said it used to give her a headache. To her delight, my father stopped jumping her bones after she had the hysterectomy and banished her to the pink room. She said she would have gotten one a long time ago if she knew it was going to turn him off. My eyes shift from one side of the master suite to the other. I walk past the king-size bed that hasn’t been slept in and inch my way into the bathroom. He’s not here. I make my way to the red room, my heart pounding and sweat beading on my forehead. I inspect it and it, too, is empty, and the bed is made. The green, blue, and brown rooms are also vacant.
Walking toward Julia’s room, I stay focused, dismissing the parade of images running through my mind. I vowed never to go in there again. My stomach flutters, and droplets of sweat form on the back of my neck. Maybe I should let Julia and Martha check it. Pull yourself together, Blythe. You can do this. I press the door open, and I freeze. Memories of the worst night of my life rush toward me like a tsunami, dragging me back to a time I’d rather forget.
~~~
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“Get out, Blythe. This is between me and Julia.”
I stood there, watching him with his massive hands around her neck. Her face was turning blue. Gasping for air, she kicked her feet and flailed her arms. I jumped on his back and pulled his hair, beating him in the head, not making an impact. Then I grabbed him around the neck. He wrenched free, sending me tumbling to the floor. I looked toward Julia’s feet, and they were no longer moving. The fear of god swept through me, and I grabbed her shoe that was dangling from her foot. I plunged the spike heel into his back, and he jumped off her.
“You crazy bitch.” He ran from the room, holding his hand over his shoulder blade.
I shut the door and pushed the dresser against it. Then I ran to Julia. She was barely breathing. I gave her mouth-to-mouth, and she slowly came to.
“We have to leave, Blythe. We can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice hoarse and panicky. “If he puts his hands on me one more time, I’m going to kill him.”
“Your ear is bleeding.”
“He tore my earring out of it.”
“What happened?”
“I told him I had filed for divorce.”
“Jeez, I thought you were going to wait. What do we do now?”
“Get out with the clothes on our back if we have to. He has the roadshow coming up. I think that’s the best time to make our move.”
“If only there was a way I could access my trust fund.”
“He’s probably going to have Theo amend it when he finds out you’re leaving with me.”
“Maybe he won’t have time to revise it.”
“What do you mean he won’t have time to—?”
Loud banging startled us, and I jumped up and pushed the dresser from the door. “What the fuck do you want, Dad? Haven’t you done enough damage?” I asked, opening the door.
~~~
Coming out of my trance, my eyes meet Julia’s. “I’ve been knocking for five minutes. What are you doing in here, and why did you lock the door?”
“I had a flashback, Julia. It was so real.” I push past her and rush out of the room.
“That’s why we didn’t want you to come in here, Blythe.”
“I thought I was over it, but the moment I stepped into your room, I went right back to the night he tried to kill you.”
“Blythe, we probably both need therapy.”
“In time, Julia, but right now we need to find my father! We should check my room. Maybe he’s in there.”
“Martha already checked. We’ve looked everywhere, and his car is gone.”
“And his Louis Vuitton suitcases, his good suits, and his toiletries are gone,” Martha says, approaching.
“Martha, you’re sure you didn’t make any of the beds up today?” I ask.
“I didn’t make any beds today.”
“Then he didn’t sleep here last night,” I conclude.
Julia presses on her head as though she’s trying to squeeze answers out of her mind. “Where could he be?”
“That’s a lot of blood on his shirt. We should check the hospital. Maybe he drove himself there,” I say. My ringing phone breaks up our brainstorming session. “Hopefully, this is Kathleen. Maybe he’s shown up.” I put my phone on speaker.
“Martha, please turn the ringers up on the house phones. Keith must have turned them down,” Julia says.
“Sherry?” Why is Julia’s agent calling me?
“I’m sorry to bother you, Blythe, but I’ve been trying to reach Julia all morning. She’s not returning my calls.”
“She’s right here.” I hand Julia the phone.
“Sherry, have you heard from Keith?”
“No, was I supposed to?”
“He—”
“Julia, I have great news,” she says, cutting her off. “The producer of that new detective series I was telling you about is being interviewed on the morning show.”
“Sherry, Keith—”
“It’s on now. Hurry, I need you to check it out.”
“But—”
“Now, Julia.”
Julia, overruled as usual by Sherry, sprints down the stairs to the living room, with me following. She turns on the flat screen and channel surfs. After a few seconds, she stops on the program Sherry referenced. “Is it the guy with the receding hairline talking right now?”
“Yeah, that’s him. The African American man with the beard is the executive producer. The best news is that they want to meet with you tomorrow about playing the lead.”
Julia’s eyes roll back in her head. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d be excited.”
“I wish I could be, but right now we have a situation going on.”
“What?”
“When did you speak to my father last? He’s missing. Have you spoken to him today?” I stumble to the picture window, looking past the expensive landscape, in search of him.
“Missing? What do you mean he’s missing?”
I turn away from the window, and my eyes meet Julia’s. Hers are filled with a mixture of pity and exasperation—or is that guilt I’m seeing? “He and the other bankers were scheduled to go to New York and from there to London. My father didn’t show up.”
“Holy shit. I haven’t seen or spoken to him. He missed the roadshow? Have you tried to reach him on his cell?”
“We haven’t, but Kathleen’s been calling him all morning.”
“Where do you think he might be?”
“We don’t know,” Julia and I say.
“What are the police saying?”
“We haven’t called them,” Julia says, nervously swaying.
“You need to. There’s no way he would have purposely missed the roadshow,” Sherry says.
“I was hoping he would show up before we had to involve the police. I really don’t want to miss out on this opportunity. Can we play it by ear? Hopefully Keith will make an appearance, and Blythe and I can start living our new lives.”
“Did you get all those boxes moved? I still want to help you guys unpack.”
“We did,” I say. That’s the least of our worries.
“Okay, Julia, let me know if I need to reschedule. And please let me know if Keith shows up. Kathleen must be losing her mind. Have you reached out to Keith’s parents?”
“Not yet,” Julia says, grimacing. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Stay strong.”
Julia hangs up the phone, then flops down on the sofa and says, “We’d better call the police.”
“Let me call the hospital first,” I say. She hands me my phone, and I sit next to her. I start to Google the local hospital, just as Martha enters the room. She points to the TV and yelps. Julia and I turn toward the flat screen. With open mouths, we get up from the sofa. I blink, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me. Unfortunately, they’re not. The morning show has been interrupted by breaking news. Julia and I exchange terrified looks at the sight of my father’s car surrounded by cops.
Chapter 3
Julia
Blythe grabs my clammy hand while we stand in the living room, eyes glued to the TV, staring at Keith’s black Maserati. She reads his personalized license plate aloud with an eerie tone creeping into her voice. “It’s his car,” she says. She releases my hand, collapses on the sofa, and bursts into tears.
I sit next to her and cradle her in my arms, rocking from side to side. “Don’t cry, sweetie. It’s going to be okay. It’s just his car,” I say, choking back sobs. Martha, sitting in the white recliner near the grand piano, with her hands clapped over mouth, joins us. She mumbles a prayer, and Blythe begins to calm down.
“What if he’s dead inside his car?” Blythe says.
I turn up the TV volume. The screen splits, and the image of the car and the police appear next to a bleached blonde and a dark-haired man in studio, reporting on the scene.
Dancing Hills police have found what appears to be an abandoned Maserati in a strip mall parking lot near the intersection of Richmond and Davis Avenues. The manager of the all-night convenience store says he first noticed the car parked there last night between 8:00 and 8:30. Thousands of automobiles are abandoned every day in the United States, but what makes this one stand out is that it’s registered to a prominent Dancing Hills resident, and there appear to be traces of blood in the vehicle. The police are not revealing the name of the owner until the family has been notified. We will report more on this story as it develops.
The reporters move on to other news, and I mute the TV. The three of us sit in the deafening silence. Blythe groans and covers her face with one of the sofa pillows. I place my hand on her juddering leg. “We need to call the police, Blythe.”
“Do you think he’s dead?”
My stomach drops, and my eyes burn, mulling over Blythe’s question. There’s a bloody shirt, and now Keith’s car, with traces of what might be blood in it, has been found abandoned. Is the man who captured my heart in a coffee shop twelve years ago dead? That man died a long time ago, and the memory of him is wreaking havoc with my heart and head right now.
~~~
“Excuse me.”
Waiting at the counter for my latte, I turned, pondering what the man behind me could want. Taken aback by his green eyes, framed by long lashes and dark brows, I paused before responding. He slightly parted his full lips, revealing straight white teeth. He was deliciously gorgeous.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw you when you came in. Aren’t you the mother on that show about the triplets?” He took the last bite of a muffin, then ran his fingers through his lush black hair.
I laughed heartily, surprised he would be interested in a kid’s TV show.
“Do I have crumbs?” he asked, passing his hand over his clean-shaven face.
“No, not at all. I was tickled by the idea of you watching the program. You’re not exactly in the producers’ demographic.”
