The Women on Retford Drive, page 27
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
Shelbie, shaking her head, says, “We’d better go. This could get ugly.”
Raised voices with caustic and bitter tones stop us. A door slams, and Jorge emerges from the back room, leaving the house in a huff. Martha and Carla inch their way into the living room. Martha, her head down, sits on the sofa. I join her.
“Martha, why did you do it?”
“It was Pedro’s idea. He said the reward money would be more than he could get on eBay for the shirt. He said we needed to turn it in, because it would help the police find Mr. Keith’s killer.”
“But you knew the police would search our house and accuse Julia and me.”
“I knew this, but I couldn’t stop him. He threatened me,” she says, gripping the sofa arm.
“Would you be willing to tell the police we didn’t know the shirt was there, if you could be promised protection?”
She gives me a blank stare.
“Blythe, you need to leave well enough alone before you get Martha killed,” Shelbie says. “Pedro is controlling her.”
I realize I’m wasting my time. “You’re right, Shelbie.”
Carla walks to me and takes my hand. “I’m sorry my mother can’t help you. What if you had some evidence, something that would let the police know you and Julia are innocent?”
“That would be helpful, but—”
“Who’s calling you?” Shelbie asks.
“It’s Julia. I’d better answer this,” I say, stepping outside.
“Blythe, where are you? Didn’t you receive my message?”
“I’m at Martha’s.” My eyes fix on the souped-up car crawling by. I hope I’m not about to become a drive-by victim.
“You’re not confronting Pedro, are you?”
“No, he’s not here. What’s up?”
“The police are searching the house. I really need you here.”
“I’m on my way. Did they search the laundry room?”
“Blythe, just come home, please.”
“Julia?” Wow, she hung up. I return to Martha’s house, dispirited and exhausted.
“Shelbie, let’s go.”
“Miss Blythe, lo siento. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“No worries,” I say. “No need to apologize.”
~~~
I drop off Shelbie at her house and drive back to Retford. As I approach our block, I look overhead at helicopters swerving over the neighborhood. The street is overrun with spectators, police, and reporters. It looks like footage from the day O. J. led the police back to his Brentwood mansion. I was still wearing diapers when that all went down, but now I know what it must have felt like to have the world’s spotlight on you. I drive around the back of the property and park next to Sherry’s Buick. We must have just missed each other at Martha’s. I’m not surprised Julia sent her looking for me.
I enter the house and am greeted by two burly police officers standing in the overflow room.
“Ma’am, we need to see your ID.”
Stunned, I reach in my purse for my wallet and flash it in front of their faces.
Julia approaches and says, “That’s my daughter. Please let her in.”
The officers step to the side, and I enter the kitchen. I look around at all the open cabinet doors and drawers, feeling like I’m experiencing déjà vu. There’s food everywhere and broken dishes on the floor. The refrigerator door is open, and the food trays are on the island. Julia, poker-faced, maneuvers around the kitchen like she’s walking through a minefield. I follow her to the living room, where Sherry, Stephen, and Faye are waiting.
“They haven’t started in here yet,” Julia says.
“Did they search the laundry room? Was there blood in there?” I ask.
“Not a drop,” Julia says.
I sit at the piano, blown away. We were so sure that’s where my father was butchered. “So that’s good for us?” I ask.
“They’re still searching the house. We’re hoping for the best,” Stephen says.
“I went by Martha’s, but you weren’t there,” Sherry says.
“I got there later. Martha isn’t budging. She’s scared to death of Pedro.”
“I can relate,” Julia says. “Well, we did make one discovery today.”
“What?” I ask.
Before she can respond, the sound of loud barking fills the foyer. “Are those dogs?” Faye asks.
“That’s what it sounds like,” Sherry says, holding her stomach. “I need to throw up.” She leaves the room, and Julia goes after her.
“This is crazy,” I say. “Do they think my father is buried here at the house?”
“They don’t know. That’s why they’ve brought in the K-9 unit,” Stephen says.
“What was Julia talking about? She said you guys made a discovery.”
“We believe that missing knife is the murder weapon, and the killer put it in one of the boxes that was moved to your apartment,” Stephen says.
“We need to go check that out,” I say.
“Julia and I did. When we got there, the apartment and the boxes had been ransacked.”
“That means the killer was there and got the knife.”
“Correct.”
“Have you told the detectives?”
“Detectives Johnson and Carson are here. As soon as I get a chance, I’m going to run it by them,” Stephen says.
“So that means whoever killed my father knew we were moving, and they knew where we were moving to,” I say.
“Exactly. Julia put together a list.” Stephen takes a sheet of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.
Mary
Martha
Kathleen
Sherry
Shelbie
I study the list. Maybe the police will discover the smoking gun, and we won’t have to come up with anymore names. Names. Mrs. Tatum. I look up when Julia and Sherry return.
“You look ill, Sherry.”
“I’m still not feeling well. I’m going to head home.”
“I hope you’re better soon,” I say, watching Julia escort her to the back door.
After a few minutes Julia returns, and I pull her aside.
We jump at the sound of a loud boom, followed by the grandfather clock chiming. “What are they doing up there?” Julia asks, looking toward the staircase. “They’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Julia, do you know how to contact that lady from the country club?”
“What lady?”
“The nosy one?”
“Jessica Tatum?”
“Yes.”
“I have her number. Why?”
“I need to talk to her.”
“About what?”
“I think she’s the same lady who emailed me on Facebook. I have a feeling she might be able to shed some light on who ‘she’ might be.”
“Blythe, at this point, we have nothing to lose.” She takes her phone out of her pocket and scrolls through her contacts. After a few seconds she says, “I just texted you the number.”
“I’m going to see if she’ll meet with me.”
“I’ll join you if you can get a meeting. I can’t stand to be here, and Stephen says at this point we don’t have to be.”
“Hopefully, she can meet with us. It’s a long shot, but worth it,” I say.
Julia and I turn toward the staircase when several officers descend, followed by Detectives Johnson and Carson. Stephen and Faye join us. My eyes fixate on the black-handled knife a man with red hair is carrying in a plastic bag. It’s the knife Julia mentioned she’d been keeping in her room ever since my father tried to kill her. The police probably think it’s the murder weapon.
“What’s going on?” Stephen asks the detectives.
“We found the murder room,” Detective Johnson says. He hands Stephen an official-looking document.
“This is an arrest warrant,” Stephen says. His eyes shift from Detective Johnson to Julia.
“It is. We were granted two warrants today,” Detective Johnson says.
Julia, white as a ghost, turns toward me. I hold my head up, determined not to fall to pieces.
Chapter 36
Julia
I see people’s lips moving and their faces contorting, but the room is completely silent. Everyone’s gesturing in slow motion—Stephen, the detectives, Faye, and Blythe. My head, shoulders, and torso begin to shrink. Then my legs and feet follow suit. My whole being is melting into the hardwood floor, and I’m looking down at it. Maybe I’m having an out-of-body experience. I begin to re-form, and Detective Johnson’s voice punctures the quiet.
“Julia Wesley Pritchard, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
My eyes search for my life preserver. I need him, because I’m drowning. My legs go out from under me, and I feel strong hands lift me up. They’re Stephen’s. “Julia, I want you to remember everything I told you at our meeting. I’m here for you. We’re going to get through this. We’ll post bail, Julia.”
“Excuse me,” Detective Carson says to Stephen.
She cuffs my hands behind my back. The metal is cold and hard against my skin. Images of crooks in every cop movie I’ve ever seen parade through my head. Never in a million years did I ever imagine myself being on the wrong side of the law. My stomach churns, and I clamp down on my urge to throw up.
I look at Blythe. “You’re innocent, Julia, and we’re going to fight this. I know you’re going to be vindicated.” Her trembling lips and pallid cheeks belie her encouraging words. She comes to me with outstretched arms, but Detective Carson motions for her to stay back. Detective Carson is no longer sweet Aunt Bee. On this day, I’d cast her as Cold Bitch #1.
Stephen and Blythe sidle up next to me while Detective Carson ushers me toward the back door. I begin to find my voice, and I say, “What’s happening, Stephen?”
“While you were passing out, the police said the red room upstairs was full of blood. That’s where Keith was killed. When they sprayed luminol, it lit up like a New York skyline after a blackout.”
“Where is his body? Did the dogs find anything?”
“Julia, please stop talking,” Stephen says.
“I’m scared, Blythe.”
I turn to her, and my eyes sting when I see tears on her cheeks. “Stephen will bail you out. Be strong. And I’m going to find out who killed my father, Julia.”
We arrive at an unmarked police car, and I’m placed in the backseat. The door shuts, and I scream through the partially open window, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill Keith. Please, you have to believe me.” I stare at Blythe, Stephen, and Faye, looking at me with devastated faces. Could I be dreaming? Please let this be a nightmare. Detectives Johnson and Carson get in the car, and I’m hit with the heartless hammer of reality.
“Where are you taking me?” I whisper. The car hangs heavy with the ripe stench of musk and sweat of previous suspects.
“The Dancing Hills Police Department,” Detective Johnson says.
“I’m sorry things turned out this way,” Detective Carson says.
I start to respond, but I remember Stephen telling me to be quiet. The car begins moving, and I peer out of the window at the evergreens, purple, pink, and reddish-orange azaleas, and an assortment of other expensive shrubs and colorful plants lining the perimeter of our mansion. Who knows if I’ll ever see it again?
Detective Johnson heads toward the back gate, and reporters, cameramen, and looky-loos mob us. I keep my head down, praying the producers of the series don’t see me. Not that it even matters anymore. Like Stephen said, my life and freedom are at stake.
I recoil when a man slams his bloody hand on the window. “Murderer!” Detective Johnson turns on the siren and raises the rear window. The crowd parts, and he drives forward. I look over my shoulder at a caravan of black-and-whites following us. The sound of helicopters overhead makes it all so surreal. We go down the back alley, with the crowd following us, the reporters shouting questions.
“Did you find a body?”
“Was the daughter in on it?”
“How did she kill him?”
Detective Johnson raises his window and turns on the air-conditioning. “You’re a very popular lady, Julia. I guess you’ve gone from being famous to infamous.”
I force my mouth shut and continue taking in the sights, hoping Stephen is working on bail. I don’t think I can stay overnight in jail, but I may not have a choice. How did I get here? I look at my neighbors’ houses as we turn onto Retford. Thank goodness many of them are at work, but the ones who are on vacation and are retired stand on the sidelines gawking at me, pointing, shaking their heads. I’ve already been convicted.
I can’t believe Keith was killed in the red room. Blythe went in there Wednesday, and she didn’t find anything. Whoever killed him obviously cleaned up things, at least what was visible to the naked eye.
After about twenty minutes, we arrive at the police station. Detective Johnson parks, and Detective Carson removes me from the car.
“Careful,” she says, pressing on my head. “This way.”
She walks me through the back door of the station, with Detective Johnson following. My eyes dart at other officers and suspects being escorted from one area of the station to another.
I’m brought to a desk manned by a pudgy, pockmark-faced officer wearing the name tag Burton. “Congrats,” he says to Detectives Johnson and Carson. “I heard you guys were in the middle of a riot out there. Glad you survived.”
“Not quite,” Detective Johnson says.
“Meet Julia Pritchard,” Detective Carson says.
“Sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Burton smiles, and his eyes brighten. “My girls used to watch that show about the triplets. You were good in that.”
“Thanks,” I say, in a dry whisper.
A tall officer, wearing cheap foundation filling too-large pores, approaches. Detective Carson hands me off to her. “I’m Officer Wilson. Officer Burton and I will book and process you.” She pats her blond afro, then removes my cuffs. “The redness will go away pretty quick.” She flashes what seems like a sympathetic smile.
I look down at my sore wrists and rub them. I’m not sure whether to thank or curse her.
“What’s your full name?” Officer Burton asks.
“Julia Wesley Pritchard.”
“And you’ve been arrested for the murder of Keith James Pritchard,” he says, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
“I didn’t murder him.”
“You’ll get your day in court,” Officer Wilson says. “Come this way.”
She takes me to a small room and places me against a wall that’s covered with a height chart. “Look forward, please.” She snaps my photo. “Turn to the side.” I do so, and she takes another picture. I can’t help but think about the day I met Keith and how he studied my 8x10. I wonder what he’d think about my mugshot.
We leave that room and go back to the desk. She removes the small, pearl ring I wear on my right pinkie finger. I stopped wearing my wedding ring years ago. She also confiscates my gold necklace. Then my fingerprints are taken.
I take orders like a five-year-old. If I thought things were going badly so far, I was sorely mistaken. Officer Wilson escorts me to another room and tells me to strip. I stand before her, hoping I misheard her. She glares at me and repeats the command.
“Remove your clothes and shoes,” she says, slipping on a pair of gloves.
I turn around, and she emits a frustrated sigh. “Don’t turn your back to me, Mrs. Pritchard.”
I face her and slowly unbutton my blouse. Her eyes trace my partially exposed breasts. I remove my white lace bra, and my 36Cs flop down onto my ribs. I slide out of my jeans and then remove my white lace panties, thanking god that I recently got a wax and that I no longer have a period. She takes my garments and inspects them, one at a time, running her long fingers over the seams. She sets them on a nearby table.
“I know this isn’t a walk in the park, but it goes by quickly if you cooperate,” she says, turning toward me, snatching the scrunchie out of my long locks. “Now run your fingers through your hair.”
I do so, wanting this to be over.
“Good job. Now pull your ears forward and turn to the right and left.”
I follow her orders, grabbing both ears, thinking about the lobe Keith ripped.
She steps up to me and says, “Tilt your head back and roll your tongue in your mouth. Great. Now lift your arms.”
I hope there’s no hair there. Well, there wasn’t this morning. She interrupts my thoughts when she asks me to lift my breasts and spread my legs. I follow her instructions, wanting to disappear.
Like a kindergarten teacher she clasps her hands and says, “Now we’ll go through the same process, but this time from the back, starting with you running your fingers through your hair.”
I repeat all the steps, and when I get to the “spread your legs” part she tells me to bend over, squat, and cough. I hope I don’t break wind. This entire process is humiliating enough.
With my eyes shut, I wait for the next miserable direction. She says, “I hate to do this to you, but this is the worst part of the search. We save it for last.”
I brace myself, and she bursts into laughter. I open my eyes. Though this experience is undoubtedly mundane for Officer Wilson, I don’t find it humorous.
“Just kidding. The only thing I need to see now are the bottoms of your feet.”
I want to jump up and hug her. I show her my soles, and she tells me I can put my clothes back on. I get dressed so fast, I’m sure I break a record.
She takes me back to the desk, where they search for any outstanding warrants, and then take a DNA sample. After almost four hours, I’m placed in a cell.
I stand in the middle of it, looking at the cot, the dirty sink and toilet, not sure whether to cry, scream, or bang my head against the wall. A strange serenity comes over me, and I sit on the bunk. I lean my head against the graffiti-covered wall and take a deep, calming breath. This is the first time I’ve been alone, really alone, since Keith went missing. No emails, texts, phone calls, news reports, attorneys, police, detectives, family, or friends, bombard my head and my space. I’m in total solitude, and I feel a weight lift. I have no attachments in this moment. I’m locked up, but I feel free. I know this feeling is fugacious and that the reality will set in that I’m behind bars, but right now I’m relishing the peace.
