The Women on Retford Drive, page 25
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“There goes my series,” Julia says.
Stephen looks incredulous. “Julia, there’s more at stake here than a TV show. Your life is on the line right now—your freedom.”
“I’m being facetious, Stephen.”
~~~
I slowly back my car out of the driveway. Julia, Stephen, and Faye are in the house, brainstorming about what action to take. The police haven’t served the warrant yet, but the latest is all over the news. I turn up the volume on the car radio.
At a press conference today, the police confirmed that they’re in possession of evidence further establishing that Keith James Pritchard, who went missing five days ago, is most likely deceased. The type of evidence is unknown at this time. Sources close to the investigation tell us a search warrant is going to be served today for Keith’s Dancing Hills mansion. Police also say that there is a person of interest, but in order not to compromise the investigation, they will not name the individual at this time. This morning Dolores Pritchard, Keith’s mother, spoke to reporters in front of her son’s company.
“I am very unhappy with the Dancing Hills Police Department. They know that Julia killed my son, and they’re letting her walk around free. She’s an actress for goodness’ sake. She’s putting on a performance. Her tears are fake!
I turn off the radio and drive away from the house, looking over my shoulder. As far as Julia and the others know, I’m upstairs in bed with a migraine. I had to get out of there. I’m not going to let Martha and Pedro get away with lying. After fifteen minutes, I make it to Shelbie’s block. I honk my horn, and she waves at me. I pull up in front of her parents’ mini-mansion, and she gets in the car.
“You look like hell,” she says.
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. And I’m sorry about the warrant and everything. Like I told you when you called, I’m going to help you in every way I can.”
“We have to get Martha to tell the truth,” I say, pulling away from Shelbie’s house.
“Did she kill your father?”
“No, Pedro has her making it sound like Julia did. Somebody did kill my father, but it wasn’t Martha, and it wasn’t Julia or me.”
“Who do you think it is?” Shelbie asks, rocking back and forth.
“I got an email on my personal Facebook page from this lady named Mrs. Tatum. She said something about someone we know who’s pretending to be something they’re not.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I don’t know, Shelbie, but I can’t shake her words. Martha heard somebody running from the kitchen to the garage and then take off in my father’s car. It wasn’t him. I need to find out who that person was.”
“And you don’t think it was your mother, Mary?”
“No, that’s a stretch. I just don’t see it.”
“What about the neighbors? Maybe they saw something.”
“No one saw anything.” Shelbie claps her hands, and I jump. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I just got an idea. If no one saw anything, it’s probably because nothing looked out of the ordinary. Whoever came to the house Tuesday, when your father was there, was somebody who comes to the house a lot. So they wouldn’t have stood out to anyone. The neighbors would have tuned them out.”
I scrunch up my face, trying to grasp Shelbie’s theory. “I think I see what you’re saying. Like if you had gone to the house between 6 p.m. and 8 p.m., the neighbors wouldn’t have focused on you, because you’re at the house a lot. But if Mary had been there, people would have noticed and remembered that.”
“You got it,” she says, wiping away perspiration beading on her upper lip.
Shelbie seems agitated, with all the rocking and the sweating. I want to ask her what’s up, but my phone rings.
“Damn. I pray it’s not Julia. If it is, I’m busted.”
“Where is it?”
“In my purse. Can you grab it for me?”
“Sure.” She looks at my phone. “It’s Martha.”
“Answer it, please.”
“Hello, Martha. Where are you?”
“This isn’t Martha. It’s Carla.”
Chapter 32
Julia
In a huddle at the breakfast nook, my eyes shift from Stephen to Faye. Stephen’s been to the laundry room a half-dozen times, looking it over, searching for blood or any other evidence, but he continues to come up empty. He had me rehash the whole Mary story, hoping to discover something we hadn’t considered. All the discussions gave Blythe a migraine. I need to check on her. Before I can do so, the doorbell rings, and my stomach hits the floor. I head to the picture window in the living room, and they follow me like shadows.
“Who is it?” Stephen asks, craning his neck.
“It’s my agent, Sherry,” I say, going to the door. I open it, and she enters, her eyes scrutinizing my face.
“There are so many news trucks out there, I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it around back without being noticed. Have they served the warrant yet?”
“No. Stephen, Faye, this is my agent, Sherry.”
“We know. We met her at the press conference,” Stephen says.
“Right. I’m all over the place. Anyway, we’re in the kitchen. I just made coffee,” I say, motioning for her to join us.
“Where’s Blythe?”
“Upstairs with a headache.”
“Poor thing,” Sherry says.
We all sit at the table, mouths pursed, foreheads creased. Faye rises and stretches. She walks through the kitchen. “Martha was in the overflow room back there,” she says, pointing. “She said she heard someone running out of the kitchen into the garage, and she assumed it was Keith. After she had gotten her phone, she saw him drive off, and then she left. As we now know, it was the assailant who ran through the kitchen. Hearing Martha come through that door, they went into panic mode. Flustered people make mistakes.”
“Like stuffing shirts into crevices,” Stephen says.
“And maybe tossing murder weapons in unexpected places,” I say.
“The attack on Keith wasn’t premediated,” Faye says.
“How do you know that?” Sherry asks.
“It’s sloppy, haphazard—the car being left at the strip mall, blood in the trunk. Whoever did this, at some point lost their head,” Faye says, waving and twisting her hands like she’s conducting an orchestra.
“Speaking of heads, I need to check on Blythe. Excuse me,” I say.
I climb the stairs, happy to escape the talk about blood and murder. I knock on her door, but she doesn’t answer. She must be still asleep. I start to turn away, but I’m compelled to check on her anyway. Who knows how all this is affecting her? I open the door and peer at her under the covers. It’s burning up in the room. “Blythe?” I bend down, and my mouth drops open when I come face to face with her pillow. I tear away the blanket, cursing. “Where the hell is she?”
I rush downstairs and get my phone from the living room. I hit speed dial, and the call goes to voicemail. “Blythe, where are you? Call me. I hope you’re not trying to confront Martha and Pedro. Call me asap.” That could turn into a disaster. I need to find her, but then again, I need to be here when the police arrive.
“Julia, I heard you running down the stairs. Is Blythe all right?”
I look up at Sherry, tears in my eyes. I grip the phone, wanting to throw it against the wall. I’m on the verge of losing it. I’ve got to be strong, dammit. “Blythe is gone,” I whisper. “She took off.”
“Where to?” she asks, placing her hand on my shoulder.
“I think to confront Pedro and Martha.”
“That could be dangerous. Pedro is desperate for that reward money.” She steps away from me and walks toward the window, peering out as if she’s trying to locate Blythe.
“I want to find her, but I need to be here when the detectives come.”
“Do you want me to check on her?”
“Could you, Sherry? I don’t want her doing anything stupid.”
“Sure thing. I’ll call you,” she says, leaving.
I compose myself and return to the kitchen with a fake smile plastered to my face.
“How’s Blythe?” Stephen asks.
I listen to his words resonating in my head. I’m an easygoing fellow, but I don’t like surprises, and I don’t like being blindsided. “She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” he asks with knitted brows.
“I think she’s headed to Martha’s. I sent Sherry to check on her, since we have our hands full right now.”
He sighs and says, “I’m glad you sent Sherry to make sure Blythe’s not in any danger. You’re right that we need to focus on what’s going on here.” He takes a drink of his coffee and says, “Faye may have a point. Whoever did this panicked at some point. I think that’s how the shirt ended up between the washer and dryer. And I believe the missing knife is the murder weapon.”
“But where is it?” I ask.
“Imagine you’re the killer. You have the knife in your hand, and the back door opens. You’re going to stash it the first place that comes to mind,” Faye says.
We wrack our brains. I shut my eyes and imagine the kitchen on that day and my head is filled with boxes—lots of boxes. “Boxes,” I say.
Stephen and Faye turn toward me with faces full of perplexity and curiosity.
“What about boxes?” Stephen asks.
“The kitchen was full of the last round of our boxes. Blythe and I took boxes to the apartment around 5 p.m. on Tuesday. We left a bunch of boxes here Tuesday night, and I had Martha’s cousins pick them up Wednesday morning. What if the killer stashed the knife in one of the boxes—not thinking, in a hurry? Maybe they planned to come back to get it and the shirt and forgot. They could have been so shaken up they lost track of the shirt and the knife.”
“Where are the boxes?” Stephen asks.
“At our apartment.”
He looks at his watch and says, “I think we have time to swing by there. With the authorization you’ve signed, Faye could stay here and let the detectives conduct the search.”
“I have no problem doing that,” she says. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Julia, this could be our big break. If the murder wasn’t premeditated, then I’m sure the killer didn’t wear gloves. So there will be prints on that knife,” Stephen says.
“The last time I used it, I put it in the dishwasher, so my prints wouldn’t be on there. I’m sure Martha put it in the cutlery case. And she wears gloves when she cleans the kitchen, so her prints wouldn’t be on the knife either. We didn’t notice it was gone until Thursday. That is, Blythe noticed it was missing.”
“Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll drive us—just tell me the way.”
~~~
Driving up Crescent Avenue in Stephen’s Escalade, my stomach flutters thinking about the knife with blood on it in one of our boxes. Is it in the box marked dishes, or the one that has books written on it? I just hope I’m right, and we find it before I end up in the slammer.
“That’s our building, right there.” I point to the three-story gray and orange tenement. Stephen drives up and down the block, looking for a place to park. “That’s one downside to this place—no parking,” I say with exasperation.
“We’re going to have to walk.”
“We’re dressed for a stroll,” I say, thinking about our matching casual blue jeans and white shirts.
We find a parking spot a few blocks away. We exit the car and power-walk with purpose to the building.
“Are you all right?” Stephen asks, his eyes full of concern.
Excitement surges through me, and I have an intense desire to hold his hand. I slip mine in my pocket before I make a fool of myself. “This is it.” I open the main door and enter the dark hallway.
“You have absolutely no security in this place.”
“I know.” We trudge up the stairs and are greeted by a tall, muscular, blond guy around Blythe’s age. He looks at us with raised brows. Ignoring him, I take my key out of my purse and approach our door.
“Excuse me, you live there?” he asks.
“Yes, I do,” I say, turning toward him.
“You must be Blythe’s mother.”
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m John Warren. I met her Saturday. She was here checking on her housekeeper.”
“Blythe mentioned you. I’m Julia Pritchard, and this is our attorney, Stephen Miller.”
“Nice to meet you all. How’s Blythe?”
“She’s okay. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
“I actually thought I heard her in the apartment last night,” he says.
“No, she wasn’t here.” I open the door. Entering, I shriek at the sight of clothes, books, dishes, CDs, toiletries, shoes, and other items strewn across the floor. “Someone went through the boxes.”
Stephen motions for us to stay by the door and removes a revolver from his waistband. John and I recoil. He searches the other rooms. “I have a license to carry,” he says, returning the gun to its hiding place.
“I heard someone in here last night, but I thought it was Blythe,” John says. “Did they take anything?” he asks, his eyes shifting from one pile to another.
“We’re about to find out,” Stephen says.
He reaches into his pocket for gloves. He hands me a pair, and I put them on. He puts on the other pair. We begin sorting through the mess.
After about fifteen minutes, Stephen says, “I think they beat us to the punch.”
“Who’s they?” John asks.
“Keith Pritchard’s killer,” Stephen says, standing, wiping the dust off his jeans.
“How did they get in?” I ask.
“It’s a simple lock,” John says. “All you need is a credit card.”
“Great,” I say, throwing my hands up.
“Let’s head back,” Stephen says.
“I’m sorry your place got broken into. I’m usually on top of these kinds of things. The manager went on vacation today. She relies on me to look out for stuff when she’s out of town.”
“It’s not your fault, John. Excuse me for a minute,” I say, suddenly needing to use the bathroom. As soon as I enter, a peculiar smell wafts up my nostrils. Unable to place it, I dismiss it and finish up.
“You ready?” Stephen asks, waiting at the front door.
“Sure. Where’s John?”
“He said goodbye; he had an appointment. He seems like a nice guy.”
“He does,” I say.
We leave, and I lock the door, thinking it’s not really necessary. Stephen leads the way out of the building, and we hike back to his car. “You were right about the knife, Julia, and whoever killed Keith put the knife in one of your boxes.”
“Meaning that whoever did this knew where those boxes were going. They knew Blythe and I were moving, and they knew where we were moving to.”
“Name all the people who knew that.”
We reach his car and get in. I contemplate then list the names out loud. “Mary, Martha, Kathleen, Sherry, and Shelbie.”
“That’s an interesting list. How does Mary know where you all had moved to?”
“She admitted she’d followed us to the coffee shop. Maybe she’s been following us to other places as well.” Now I’m second-guessing my suspicions about Mary.
“I think we’re done with Martha. Why the assistant?”
“She definitely knew we had moved here. As much as Kathleen stands up for Keith, that could all be a front. Who knows? She could secretly hate him.”
“That sounds like a stretch.”
“You’re right. I’m grasping at straws.”
“Why Sherry?”
“She knows everything, and she loathed Keith as much as Blythe and me.”
“And Shelbie? I don’t see the connection.”
“I don’t know. There’s just something there. One time we were having a discussion about Keith being involved with someone and that person being the one who killed him. Shelbie was in a different world, disconnected. For a moment, I imagined she was the other woman. She’s ambitious and hungry for fame. I could see her falling under Keith’s spell. Maybe he promised her fame and fortune, and things went awry. And she’s so light, she could pass for white, and she speaks German. What do you think?”
“I think we’d better get back to the house.”
~~~
Stephen slows down when we near Retford. I look out of the window at several helicopters hovering. The block is filled with black-and-whites, news vans, reporters, and a mob of spectators. On our way back, Faye called Stephen to tell him the detectives had arrived. That was ten minutes ago. A horde of reporters converges on his car, shouting questions. Spectators run alongside the vehicle shouting, “Murderer!”
I cover my face and scream for Stephen to go around back. He does so, and we rush into the house, through the back door. Faye greets us, seeming somewhat overwhelmed.
“Are they here?” Stephen asks.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the laundry room.”
I muster what little strength I have left, preparing myself to face whatever lies ahead.
Chapter 33
Attorney Stephen Miller
In the overflow room near the kitchen, I place my hand on the small of Julia’s back. I can feel her trembling. Faye extends her hand, and Julia grabs it. Together we lead her into the living room. She falls onto the sofa and covers her face with a throw pillow, rocking from side to side. I sit next to her and massage her back that’s now drenched with perspiration.
“It’s going to be okay, Julia. Hang in there.”
“I’ll get her some water,” Faye says, leaving the room.
“I’m scared, Stephen. What if they find something?”
“Don’t think like that. Just focus on the fact that you’re innocent.”
“Here you go.” Faye hands Julia a bottle of water.
“Thank you.”
A loud noise makes us all jump.
“What was that?” Julia asks, eyes wide with fright.
“Stay here with Faye. I’ll check it out.” I head toward the laundry room, breathing deeply, suppressing my own fear and doubt. God forbid, what if I’m wrong about Julia? I pray I’m not, because I’m falling for this woman. And it’s making me sick to see her so upset. I stop in my tracks when I notice a refrigerator tray on the island and a broken plate on the floor. The kitchen cabinets and drawers are open. I continue to the laundry room. Two burly cops standing there block my view. I stretch my neck, trying to see in the room. I can hear Detectives Johnson and Carson and someone else talking, but I can’t see them. A cop with the nametag Williams approaches me.
