The Women on Retford Drive, page 24
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Will do.” She waves goodbye.
I shut the door and muster the courage to face Blythe. I know she’s unhappy with me again. Climbing the stairs, I long for the day we’re free from this nightmare.
“Blythe, can I come in?”
“Sure.”
I enter the room, and Blythe, sitting on the bed with her laptop, ignores me. “How’s the Facebook page?”
“We have a lot of likes. Let me show you the email from that lady, Mrs. Tatum.”
I sit next to her while she brings up the message.
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 do you think she is?” Blythe asks. “Could it be the woman who was at the country club today?”
I study the message. “I’m not sure. It’s interesting that she says, ‘Not everyone is who they pretend to be.’”
“She knows someone in our circle who’s pretending to be something they’re not. That could be anybody—Martha, Shelbie, Sherry, Richard, and the list goes on and on,” Blythe says, falling back onto the bed.
“I think we’ll feel better after we talk to Stephen.”
“You’re probably right.” She sits up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had met my mother at the coffee shop?”
“I was torn. I didn’t want you to start worrying about your mother or what it would be like to meet her, with your father’s disappearance hanging over our heads. I apologize; I should have told you. You’re an adult.”
“Yes, I am an adult. And I want my own place once this is all over with. I need my independence. I wanted to be on my own when I started college, but I gave in to my control freak father, who wanted me to stay here. I’m not like Shelbie. She loves living with her parents. They’re not there half the time anyway. I’m sorry for rambling.”
“I understand. Are you hungry? I can cook.”
“I’m still full from lunch. I think I’ll take a warm bath and go to bed early. Tomorrow’s going to be an exhausting day, with the meeting and the search.”
I kiss her cheek. “Sweet dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I go to the living room. Sitting on the sofa, I turn on the TV, surfing for the latest on Keith. My phone rings, and I grab it off the coffee table.
“Stephen, is everything okay?”
“Yes. I want to make sure you and Blythe are still coming by my office for the meeting tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“Good, because I just found out Blythe overheard a disturbing conversation between my partner and one of my associates. I want to reassure you that my firm is committed to you and Blythe.”
“Blythe did mention something about that. No worries. We’ll be there.”
“See you then.”
“Good night.”
My phone rings again, and I ignore it. The last person I want to talk to is Dolores.
~~~
Blythe and I sit in the conference room at Stephen’s firm while waiting for him to finish his call. A large fern in need of water occupies a corner. My eyes shift from it to Blythe across from me. Phone in hand, she scrolls through emails, text messages, the Facebook page, website, Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat. Today’s social media sites make my head spin. I don’t know how anyone can keep up with them all. She rocks in her chair, making unintelligible sounds as she reacts to what’s on the screen. I notice the part in her hair. She’s wearing it down today, and it flows past her shoulders. She looks like a modern-day Pocahontas. Rumor has it that Keith’s great-great grandfather, Edwin Pritchard, was half Cherokee.
Blythe finally comes up for air when Stephen’s assistant steps into the room. Vanessa smiles apologetically and places her fingers on her protruding belly, as though she’s trying to flatten it. “Stephen’s going to be just a few more minutes. Please help yourself to the muffins and fruit. And there’s plenty of coffee, tea, and water.” She points to a setup on the cherry wood credenza. “If you want to see The Morning Show, the remote’s right there.” She motions toward a small bookshelf in the corner.
“Thank you,” Blythe and I say, watching her depart.
Blythe sets down her phone and looks at me. “We’re twins today.” She gives my simple white top and jeans the once-over.
“You’re right.” My eyes scan her white tank top and jean shorts.
“Have you spoken to Mary since yesterday?”
“I tried calling her this morning, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“I got the same response when I called Martha. I told her not to bother going to the house, but she probably went anyway. I hope she and Carla are okay.”
Before I can respond, Stephen, dressed in a white shirt and jeans, enters. “Looks like we all got the memo,” he says, laughing. “Sorry about the delay. I was trying to get an update from Detective Johnson, but I couldn’t reach him. Nor could I reach Detective Carson.”
“Join the club. We’ve been getting everyone’s voicemail too,” Blythe says.
Stephen nods and says, “I was able to get the latest on tips from the hotline.”
“Are there any leads?”
“Nothing that’s panned out, Julia. There were a few sightings up North, but they didn’t check out.”
“What about New York and the other properties?” Blythe asks.
“Nothing,” Stephen says. “Before I get into what info I do have from the police, I want to address what happened the other night,” he says, sitting next to me. “Yesterday Faye told me about what happened in the restroom the evening after the press conference and search. I was beyond shocked and disappointed. The last thing I want is anyone undermining our relationship, especially not someone I thought I could trust, a partner in the firm no less. Prior to that incident, I’ve never witnessed or been told that Faye has behaved in an unprofessional and or disrespectful manner. Now, Ellen has had her issues. But I don’t want you to think I condone or agree with anything that was said. Faye and Ellen are going to talk to you both face to face, and they will be apologizing. I pride myself in treating my clients with the utmost respect, and I won’t tolerate anything less.”
“Thank you,” Blythe says.
“Thanks,” I say.
Stephen folds his arms across his chest and clears his throat. “Julia, you said you want to bring me up-to-date about a new development. You have the mic.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the tile floor.
I part my lips to speak, but before I can get a word out, Vanessa rushes into the conference room.
“Stephen, I need to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Please, I need to see you in your office.”
“Excuse me, ladies.”
Blythe and I exchange curious looks. She quickly gets up and heads to the reception area, with me hard on her heels.
Chapter 31
Blythe
When we reach the receptionist’s desk, she stares at us, averting her blue eyes. Her phone rings, and she answers it on the first ring, turning her back to us. “Good morning, Miller & Rawlings, how may I help you?”
“Faye, you know I don’t like surprises. Why were you sitting on this?” Blythe and I look toward the offices at the sound of Stephen’s voice booming through the corridor.
“It wasn’t confirmed, Stephen.”
A door slams, and the receptionist jumps. She ends her call and looks up at us. “Sorry about that.”
“Can you please tell us what’s happening?” Julia asks.
“It has something to do with the police and a warrant. I don’t have all the details, and I can get in trouble for what I just told you.”
“We won’t say anything,” Julia says.
“Ladies, let’s talk,” Stephen says, emerging from his office. He enters the conference room, and we follow. He runs his fingers through his hair. “The police have a warrant to search your house on Retford.”
I slump in my chair and press on my head, trying to repel images of the cops raiding our house. Open drawers and cabinets flash before my eyes. What few personal belongings I still have there are tossed on the lawn, my bras and panties lodged among the bushes for the whole world to see.
Julia paces, sweat forming on her forehead. She unbuttons the top portion of her shirt, fanning herself with her trembling hand. I take water from the credenza. I hand her a bottle. She guzzles, almost choking. After catching her breath, she says, “It’s my fault. I never should have gone to that strip mall.”
“Julia,” Stephen says, waving at her, but she rambles on.
“I never should have tried to find Mary. She told the police what I said about fantasizing about killing Keith. That’s probably why she’s not answering her phone. She’s pointing the finger at me, so the police won’t charge her.”
“Julia!”
“She said she wanted to keep a low profile. That was a lie, and now the police are going to search the house.”
Stephen, seemingly tired of trying to get her attention, rises and grabs her shoulders. “Who’s Mary?”
“Blythe’s mother.”
“The one who was kidnapped,” he says.
“She wasn’t kidnapped. Keith tried to kill her, and she went back to Germany. She told me she found out he was missing and probably dead, and she took the first flight she could back to the States, so she could see Blythe. I met with her yesterday, and I shared some things with her I shouldn’t have. I was going to record her confessing to killing Keith, but she caught on to what I was doing, and she didn’t confess.”
“Julia, you should have told me what you were up to. Anyway, the police never would have been able to get a warrant based on gossip. No judge on the bench would have allowed it. Something more serious has happened. For the police to have gotten a warrant, they must have some really damning evidence.” He sits on the table edge, his index finger pressed to his temple. Maybe he’s imagining blowing out his own brains. He’s probably wishing he’d never gotten involved with us.
“What evidence?” Julia asks.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, but I’m getting the runaround,” he says. “Is there anything else you two need to tell me?”
“Yes, there is. Wednesday, the day Keith was declared missing, our housekeeper found a shirt with blood on it, between the washer and dryer,” Julia says.
Stephens’s eyes widen, and he gets off the table. “Go on.”
“It was my father’s shirt.”
“Where’s the shirt now?” He turns toward me, his eyes intense.
“We don’t know,” Julia says. “The housekeeper took off with it, and someone took it from her house.”
“Why did your housekeeper take the shirt?”
“She was trying to protect us. She didn’t want the police to see it,” I say.
“Then the warrant doesn’t have anything to do with the shirt, if it’s missing,” Stephen says.
“Could they have found the murder weapon? Maybe there was a tip on the hotline. Maybe someone lied about us to the police,” Julia says.
We look toward the door when Faye, brows furrowed, enters the conference room. A sturdy brunette wearing a huge afro, she keeps her eyes on Stephen, apparently still reeking with guilt for her unprofessional behavior. “Stephen, I got the information you needed.” She hands him several sheets of paper and leaves the room.
He begins reading, shaking his head. “Is your housekeeper’s name Martha Ramirez?”
“Yes,” Julia and I say.
“Is she married to Pedro Ramirez?”
“Yes,” Julia says.
“Well, effective today, they’re witnesses for the state.”
Julia and I gasp.
“Mrs. Ramirez says she found the shirt, as you said, between the washer and the dryer. And that you and Blythe were there when the discovery was made, and you confirmed the shirt was Keith’s. Her husband has turned the shirt over to the police. They’ve already established that the blood is Keith’s. With there being blood in the car, getting a warrant to search the house is a no-brainer. If they find blood where the shirt was found, things are going to get a little rough.”
Stephen looks at the second sheet of paper. “Additionally, the detectives weren’t able to confirm that you were at the nursing home between 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. If anything, they came away with conflicting stories. Blythe, they were able to confirm that you were at the apartment. A man by the name of John Warren was questioned, and he confirmed that he saw you move in and that your BMW was there when he left for work on Tuesday at 8 p.m. He also said he saw you looking out the window. With all that said, a warrant may be issued for your arrest, Julia. According to Martha, you were aware of the shirt before the car was discovered, and you never mentioned it to the police, and you didn’t include it in your missing persons report. It clearly looks as if you were hiding evidence.”
“But what about me? I knew about the shirt too.”
“Blythe, there’s a chance the police will target you as well, but with your alibi checking out, that’s unlikely. At most you could be charged with obstruction of justice.”
“Could Blythe go to jail for that?” Julia asks.
“Yes, I can. Up to five years,” I say.
“Why didn’t you ladies tell me about the shirt? I specifically asked you if there was anything I needed to know, anything unusual that could impact this case.”
Julia and I, shaking our heads, are speechless. I walk to Julia and hold her hand. She jerks it away from me and flops into the chair, zoning out. I slump into the chair next to her.
“We were afraid to mention the shirt. We figured it probably met Keith was killed at the house. That would make us the most likely suspects, and Martha is lying, Stephen. Her husband put her up to this,” I say.
“So she didn’t find the shirt at the house?”
Agitated, I get up from my chair and step into Stephen’s space. “She did, but she knows Julia didn’t hurt or kill my father. She told us that on Tuesday, when she came back to the house to get her phone, she heard him running out of the kitchen and she saw him pull away in his Maserati. Her husband is angry with me because I helped Martha and her daughter get away from him. He’s a batterer. He’s pissed at me, so he’s trying to hurt Julia. We need to talk to Martha, alone. We need to convince her to tell the truth.” I pause and then sit, concluding my breathless flurry.
“You’re going to be hard-pressed to get her to go against her husband with a hundred thousand dollars on the line. I think it’s more about the reward money than about getting back at you, Blythe,” Stephen says.
“I didn’t kill him,” Julia says, snapping out of her trance. “I still think Mary did it. I believe she got access to the house and attacked Keith. The sound of someone running from the kitchen when Martha doubled back was Mary, not Keith. The person who drove off was Mary, not Keith. I believe she came to the house, and he either let her in or she had a key. They argued, she grabbed the knife from the cutlery case—”
Cutting her off, I say, “There’s also a knife missing from the house.”
“Okay,” Stephen says, grimacing. “Continue with the Mary scenario.”
Julia rises and paces. “Like I said, she snatched the knife and stabbed him. He ran to the laundry room to get away from her. He took off his shirt and hid it between the washer and dryer. Mary caught him in there and finished the job, or so she thought. She put him in the trunk of his car, not realizing he wasn’t dead. That’s when he wrote the note. Then she changed her mind, took him out of his car, and put him in the trunk of her car. By then he would have succumbed to his injuries. After that, she went back to the house to clean up, but she heard Martha coming through the back door to get her phone. So Mary drove off. After she dropped the car at the strip mall, she took Flash Ryde back to the house to clean up the blood. Martha obviously wouldn’t have seen the mess, because she’d left her phone in the small overflow room next to the kitchen. Then Mary dumped Keith’s body and the knife. I know it’s her. Mitch—”
“Who’s Mitch?” Stephen asks.
“He owns the convenience store at the strip mall. He told me he saw a woman with red hair on Tuesday night, looking at Keith’s license plate. She spoke German. I believe that woman was Mary. And I found out through Flash Ryde that she had been in the area around the time the car was left there.”
Stephen stands and walks to the credenza. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sips it, glaring at us. “I wish you would have consulted with me before you started your amateur investigation, Julia.”
I shoot her an “I told you so” look.
“I know I went too far, and I should’ve gone to the police with this information. Just like we should’ve told you about the shirt. But every time I turned around there was some talking head insinuating that Blythe and I were guilty and that the police were going to find evidence to convict us. And those crazy protestors pointing fingers at us didn’t help matters either.”
“The story about Mary sounds interesting, but you have no proof, Julia.”
“The police can investigate her,” Julia says.
Stephen gives her a blank stare.
“I’ve really screwed things up,” she says.
Stephen sets down his coffee, walks to Julia, and embraces her. He motions for me to join them, and we group hug. “All is not lost, and neither of you have been charged. You have to communicate with me and trust me. Let’s meet with Faye, and let’s come up with a strategy. We’ll meet at the house, so we’ll be there when the search warrant is served.”
He releases us, and we stand near the conference room table, looking up at him. I clasp my hands, thinking about my prayer at St. Elizabeth’s. Now I wish I had been more specific. I should have said, please don’t let Julia and me be charged with my father’s murder, rather than please tell us what’s happened to him, so we can go on with our lives.”
