The Women on Retford Drive, page 22
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Mija, Carla, where are you?”
“That’s my mother. Come say hello to her.”
Carla drags me out of the sanctuary into the narthex. Pedro leaves the building without speaking to any of us. Martha hugs me. Why is she shivering if everything’s okay? It’s a hundred degrees in the shade.
“Are you okay, Martha?”
“I’m bien. Here’s your key.”
I take the key and walk her and Carla outside. “Where’s Jorge?”
“One of the fast food places he applied to called him. He’s meeting with the manager,” Martha says.
“That’s good. Don’t worry about coming by the house Monday.”
“But Mr. Keith paid me for the month.” She lowers her eyes.
Before I can tell her not to worry about my father, Pedro honks the horn, she and Carla get in the car, and Pedro speeds away. Something isn’t right. “Anyway, I need to focus.” I grab my ringing phone out of my jeans back pocket and answer. I always hesitate to pick up when I see Restricted.
“Hello?”
“Is this Blythe Pritchard?”
“Yes, it is. Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Janice Tolliver from 2 Catch a Killer.”
“How did you get my number?”
“A friend of a friend. I would love to have you on my show. I can help you get your side of the story out to the public.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not happy about some of the things I’ve been hearing you say about my mother and me.”
“Operative word— ‘hearing.’ Have you watched my show?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“Please don’t trust what you hear. I will be fair and straightforward with you. And I will let you see the questions in advance.”
“I’m not sure. I need to talk to my mother and my lawyer first.”
“Please do so as soon as possible, because Dolores Pritchard has been calling me nonstop about being a guest. And I think you’ll probably want to tell your side of the story before she tells hers, if you get my drift.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tolliver. I appreciate the heads-up.”
“I look forward to receiving your answer. I’ll text you my assistant’s number, so she can make the necessary arrangements and act as a liaison.”
I hang up, put my phone away, and head home, thinking about what I’ll wear on national TV.
Chapter 28
Julia
Water rains down on me while I pour shampoo onto my hair. I put the bottle in the shower caddy and scrub my locks, thinking about Mary and her dye job. I don’t believe her. I think she was wearing a wig and foundation to cover her freckles. And she admittedly was wearing contacts. And I think she was the woman Anozie called; she was his passenger. And how do I know she arrived Friday? Argh, let it go, Julia! Let it go. “What is wrong with me? Why can’t I let the police do their job?”
Could it be because they’re not doing their job? Have they turned the car inside out, searching for prints, fibers, hairs? Have they missed something? They failed to ask Mitch, the convenience store owner, the right questions. How do I know they’re asking anybody the right questions? Yesterday when I got home, I checked with my neighbors to the right and left, and they said the detectives were going through the motions. Are they going through the motions because they believe Blythe and I are guilty, and they’re waiting for a decent amount of time to pass before they knock on our door with arrest warrants? We definitely need to come clean with Stephen, so he can advise us on how to move forward. Someone wounded Keith in this house. I still think it was Mary!
I rinse my hair and get out of the shower. Standing at the mirror, I wince at the dark circles and bags under my eyes. I need some rest. I blow-dry my hair, apply my makeup, and get dressed. It’s Sunday, June 18, 11:30 a.m. This morning, over blueberry pancakes, Blythe mentioned that Keith has been missing for four days, four hours, and thirty minutes. Now he’s been missing for four days, seven hours, and thirty minutes. Where are you, Keith James Pritchard?
Descending the stairs, I think about what I would do if Keith is actually dead, and for some bizarre reason I end up with this house. I’d sell it in a heartbeat. Much good could be done with Keith’s money. He made donations, so he could write it off his taxes. I would be philanthropic because it’s the right thing to do.
“You ready?” Blythe asks, coming out of the library.
“You look nice,” I say, giving her navy-blue, silk dress the once-over. I stare at her, looking for any of Mary’s traits, but find none. It’s like Keith birthed her all by himself. She’s the female version of him, physically. I believe she has her grandfather Jim’s soft heart. Last night, I changed my mind about telling her I had met her mother. I agree with Mary; the timing isn’t right. To me, it’s not right because after the police discover that Mary killed Keith, Blythe will have to contend with the fact that her mother is a murderer. That won’t be as difficult to get through if Mary remains a virtual stranger to Blythe. If she’s introduced to Mary now, that will complicate things.
“You look good too. You don’t look as tired today.”
“It’s the makeup. I probably should’ve worn my black pantsuit. Is this pink dress too much?”
“Screw the press.”
I reach the bottom stair, and she grabs my hand. “I want you to go on the show with me.”
“They don’t want me. And Stephen will be by your side. You’ll be fine. Besides, Sherry told me this morning that the producers for the TV show are talking about moving forward. I don’t want to jinx that. We’d better head out; it’s almost noon. By the way, what were you doing in the library?”
“I was looking at some of the books. I’m going to mentor Carla, and there are a few classics in there I think she should read.”
“With everything going on, I can’t believe you even have time to think about books for Carla.”
“It’s a welcomed distraction.”
“That’s wonderful, Blythe.”
“Shelbie and I both. That way, if one of us is busy, the other can fill in.”
Beaming with pride, I press my hand to my chest, wishing I had given birth to Blythe. We step outside and quickly return to the house. A mob of reporters is at the front gate. You would think they’d rest on the Lord’s Day. “Let’s go around back,” I say.
~~~
Next to Blythe in her BMW, I peer at the rolling hills with manicured grass and trees as we approach the country club. She pulls into the valet area, filled to the brim with luxury cars, and she sighs loudly.
“What’s wrong?” I follow her out of the car.
“I was just thinking about Carla, Dirty Harry, and the people who live in Shady Grove. The United States has become a nation of poor and rich.”
“You’re right.” I suppress the guilt seeping through my veins.
A valet approaches and takes Blythe’s key in exchange for a ticket. Blythe and I share curious glances when we approach the country club. A horde of reporters shouting over one another are blocking the entrance. A security guard motions for them to move away.
“We should probably enter from the rear,” I say.
“I see Richard and Theo.” Blythe points to two men dressed in designer suits, with microphones and cameras in their faces.
“Let’s get in while we can.”
We go to the back entrance and enter the lobby. Through the glass doors we can see the reporters chasing Richard and Theo. We bolt to the ladies’ room.
“It’s a madhouse out there,” Blythe says, primping in the mirror.
“Julia, how are you?”
I turn toward the matronly woman wearing a large, yellow summer hat. “Hello, Jessica. I’m fine,” I say, wondering what the gossip queen wants.
We air kiss, and she turns to Blythe. “You’re the spitting image of your father. It’s a sad situation. We’re all praying for you and Julia.”
“Thank you,” Blythe and I say.
“I hear you plan to apply to Yale.”
“That’s my dream school.”
“Good luck with that. And Julia, what a pretty pink dress. You’re awfully bright and fluffy. I guess the festive color helps counter the sadness.” She smirks.
“It was nice seeing you too.” I usher Blythe out of the restroom.
“Who was that again?” she asks.
“Jessica Tatum. She goes way back, and she’s one of the biggest gossips in town. Always has been.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“Some woman with the last name Tatum sent me a cryptic Facebook message. I’ll show it to you when we get home. Look, there’s Richard and Theo.”
We turn toward the approaching men. Richard waves, and his smile barely reaches his blue eyes. At six foot three, he stands head and shoulders above Theo, who suffers from a Napoleon complex. Theo mops his bald head with a handkerchief and nods at us. They join us at the center of the lobby. I glance at the crystal chandeliers and the marble floor, thinking it’s all so posh. When I wed Keith, I married into this lifestyle. I used to be a simple person.
“I thought we were going to get flattened out there,” Theo says, rolling his brown eyes. He knits his bushy brows and gives Blythe and me awkward hugs. “Tough times.” He clears his throat.
Richard walks to me and holds my hand. He pauses, seemingly trying to muster warmth, and then he says, “Julia, my heart is broken. Both Karen and I are devastated.” Then he hugs Blythe. “Keith loved you with all his heart.” He moves out of her embrace and looks at the other guests milling about. “Sundays are always busy around this place. Why don’t we go in and have lunch?”
He leads us to the dining area. A cacophony of clinking glasses, plates, silverware, and the lunch crowd’s laughter and lively conversation spills into the lobby. When we enter the hall, all eyes fall on us, and the room is suddenly blanketed in silence. After a few seconds, mumbling and whispering can be heard. We sit at the table, exchanging uncomfortable glances.
I break the silence. “This reminds me of something Oscar Wilde said.”
“And what, might I ask, was that?” Theo says.
“‘The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.’”
We laugh, and the other members, some shaking their heads, resume their banter.
“Great quote,” Richard says.
“Spot on, Julia.” Blythe winks at me.
I glance down at the table covered with a flax linen tablecloth and decorated with a beautiful floral centerpiece. I look around at the people in the room, thinking about what Blythe said in the car. I’ve lived in luxury the past eleven years, never thinking about how I’d make ends meet. I sold my soul for comfort. I wish I would’ve told Richard we wanted to meet at IHOP. I feel dirty being here. I want to gain success again on my own terms, working as an actress—not feeding off Keith, and especially now that he’s probably deceased.
A waiter approaches, and we order food and beverages. Richard, looking more than satisfied, turns to me and asks, “Have you spoken to the detectives assigned to the case?”
“They’ve been communicating with us through our attorney.”
“And who might that be?” Theo asks.
“Stephen Miller,” Blythe says. She lays her napkin in her lap and looks at Theo as though waiting for his approval.
“Never heard of him,” he says.
“He’s with a small firm—Miller & Rawlings,” I say. “He’s very good. Anyway, the latest is that the detectives are still conducting interviews.”
“Julia, they weren’t able to retrieve any evidence from Keith’s car—prints, fibers?” Theo asks.
“I emailed our attorney about that last night. He said the car was clean except for Keith’s DNA. By the way, in the morning there’s going to be another big search for Keith. I can send you the information, in case you want to join us.”
“The person who did this was very methodical, and Karen and I will be there,” Richard says.
Theo nods and says, “I need to talk with the detectives to see what’s going on. They’ve reached out to my office, but I’ve been so busy, I had to cancel my appointment. I did give them the property list.”
“Theo, my attorney asked about the divorce papers. Have you been in touch with Jerry? Did Keith ever sign them?”
“Actually, Jerry told me Keith had planned to sign them the week before the trip, but he got busy. Under the circumstances, and to your benefit, the filing may be rendered moot. Regarding evidence, I’m surprised the detectives are coming up empty.”
I wonder what he would think about the note, but Blythe and I agreed we should keep that bit of information to ourselves. It’s bad enough that we told Sherry and Shelbie. Mary’s smiling face pops in my head. Blythe looks at me, and I avert my eyes. Sometimes I think she can read my mind. The waiter returns with our food, and we all begin to eat.
Blythe, in between bites of her rare steak, engages Richard in conversation. “When will the company start trading on the stock market?”
“We’re about three to four months away from trading. But things are going well. The underwriters estimate that our IPO will price at around fifty-eight dollars a share.” Richard takes a bite of his salmon, followed by a sip of Chardonnay.
“If my father is dead, what’s going to happen to the company?”
“That’s why I had Theo join us.”
Theo wipes gravy off his chin and folds his stubby arms across his chest. “Blythe, as you know, your father set up a living trust. Provisions have been put in place in the event of his death. A week before his trip, he did make some revisions.”
Blythe’s face drops, and she sets down her fork. She reaches for the glass in front of her, filled with red wine, and takes a gulp. “What kind of revisions?”
“Your father included specific instructions on how the trust is to be distributed in the event of his death. Please note that this distribution is based on your father dying of natural causes and or due to a fatal accident. I’ll give you an overview of the distribution process before the amendments were made.”
Blythe scoots to the edge of her chair.
“Again, this is prior to his recent revisions. If Keith had been killed in an accident or had died of natural causes, you would have inherited everything your father owns, including all properties and his shares in the company. At the age of twenty-five and/or upon graduating from law school, whichever came first, you would have been able to withdraw annual amounts of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This money could be used at your discretion. Other monies from the trust would automatically pay for all your living expenses. And of course, your tuition would be covered.”
“What about Julia?”
Theo passes his hand over his face. “Julia, prior to Keith’s recent amendment, if he had died in an accident or had died of natural causes, you would have received an annual allowance of ninety thousand dollars a year for the remainder of your life.”
I stop eating my Cobb salad and sip my red wine, surprised Keith included me in the trust, but as Theo said, that was before he made revisions.
“But as we know, if my father is found dead, then it’ll be because of foul play. So what happens then?”
Theo and Richard exchange a conspiratorial glance.
“Blythe, as I mentioned, a week before your father was scheduled to start the roadshow, he made changes to the trust.”
Blythe’s brows rise in anticipation.
“He requested that all his assets, including properties and his shares in the company, go to charity. He left nothing to you or Julia.”
My eyes meet Blythe’s disappointed eyes, and she looks away. “So we receive nothing,” she says, a bit choked up.
“Well, yes and no,” Theo says.
“What are you saying?” Blythe asks.
Richard stops eating and leans back in his chair. Years ago, Keith told me that he’d made Richard a successor trustee. He probably knows more about the trust than either me or Blythe.
“If any aspects of the revised trust are questionable or any points result in unanswered questions or any scenarios that aren’t addressed, the amended trust is automatically revoked, and the original trust overrides the amended trust,” Theo says.
“Which means …?” Blythe says.
Richard leans forward and says, “Your father never outlined what should happen in the event of him being murdered.”
Blythe winces.
“Sorry for being so blunt,” Richard says. “But there’s nothing said about what to do in that sort of situation. The trust only takes into account him dying of natural causes or due to a fatal accident. It’s a technicality, but it could be contested. Because that question hasn’t been addressed in the amended trust, the original trust could be reinstated.”
“But it’s not addressed in the original trust either,” I say.
“This is true, but the way the trust is designed, once it reverts back to the original trust, and that question remains, as the executor and trustee of the estate, it’s at my discretion to allow the distributions to be made as originally requested even though the question remains outstanding, if and only if I feel the beneficiaries are deserving,” Theo says.
“What if Julia and I are both accused of killing my father?”
Richard and Theo shake their heads. “That would put me in a very awkward position. I’m not really sure how I would proceed,” Theo says.
“Being accused doesn’t necessarily mean a person is guilty,” Richard says.
“This is true,” Theo says. “It’s something I would have to contemplate long and hard,” he says, looking wary.
Chapter 29
Blythe
Driving up Davis Avenue, Shelbie and I holler when we spot a naked man sprinting into the street. Bone thin and wrinkled, with gray hair above and below, he’s almost hit by the car in front of us. I slow to a crawl and park in my grandmother’s nursing home visitors’ lot. We jump out of my BMW and run toward him, but before we can reach him, a black-and-white approaches. Two police officers emerge and begin talking to him.
