The Women on Retford Drive, page 3
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
He grinned and said, “My nine-year-old daughter is in love with the sitcom.”
“I see. To answer your question, yes, I play the mother.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed me a business card. I noticed he was a left paw and that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Would you mind signing this? Her birthday is coming up, and your autograph would make a great gift. She’s crazy about the triplets and you. She says you’re the best mother on TV.”
“Wow, that’s nice. Now, I’m glad I went into acting and not PR.”
“Excuse me,” he said, squinting.
“I majored in public relations but fell in love with acting the year I graduated. I was hit with the bug when I saw The Lion in Winter on Broadway.”
“Julia?” the barista said.
“I’m sorry, but my order is ready.”
“No worries. Go right ahead. But seriously, I’d like your autograph.”
“Give me a minute,” I said, walking toward the freckle-faced young man holding up my latte. I glanced over my shoulder, and the handsome man was no longer there. I turned toward the exit just in time to see him helping a bent-over, gray-haired lady with a walker get through the door. He caught me watching him and motioned to an empty table near the window. I gave my watch a gander and sent him a nod. Once I had my coffee, I joined him. He stood and waited for me to sit. Wow, chivalry isn’t dead, I thought to myself, looking up at his six-foot frame. He sat across from me and flashed a blinding smile.
“I hope I’m not holding you up.”
“I have a few minutes,” I said. I took a promotional 8x10 out of my portfolio case.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for the photo.
“Sure.” Watching him study my picture, I shifted in my seat. A warm blush rose up my neck, and I prayed for it not to make its way to my face.
“You’re stunning, and this picture doesn’t do you justice.”
“Thank you …”
“Keith, Keith Pritchard. And I heard the young man call you Julia.”
“I’m Julia Wesley.” I shook his extended hand.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” I removed a pen from my purse and reached for the photo. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Blythe. It’s spelled B-L-I. Sorry, I mean, B-L-Y-T-H-E. The spelling has always confused me. Her mother named her after the actress Blythe Danner whose maternal grandmother was German. My wife’s also German. I’m sorry. I’m babbling.”
“It’s okay. It’s a lovely name. ‘To Blythe, with love. All the best, Julia.’ How’s that?”
“Perfect.” He averted his eyes, but not before I detected a hint of sadness in them. I started to ask him if everything was okay, but he turned toward the window and peered out before I could do so. After a few seconds, he brought his attention back to me. “Blythe lost her mother three years ago.”
My eyes stung, thinking about Blythe and how devastated she must have been, losing her mother at such a tender age. I couldn’t imagine what it would have felt like if my mother had passed away when I was six. My father died of a stroke five years ago, and I barely shed a tear. That bastard was a terror. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“I think that’s why she loves the show. I believe you’re like a substitute mother to her.”
“I hope I’m not prying, but how did your wife die?”
“She was abducted.”
A cold shiver sped up my spine, and I reached for my latte. I took a sip, not sure what to say. I didn’t want to give him some hackneyed response, but I was at a loss for words. “My gosh. How horrible,” I said, vainly stifling the grimace on my face.
“We searched for two years and finally gave up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be the bearer of such tragic news. I feel comfortable talking to you. I see why Blythe is enamored with you.”
“It’s okay. My heart goes out to both of you.”
“Thank you. We’re doing fine. Blythe spends time with my mother, and she’s very popular at school.”
“Where does she go?”
“Dancing Hills Elementary.”
“That’s an interesting name for a city. Where is it?”
“It’s forty-five minutes east of downtown Los Angeles—population sixty-five thousand. That’s where I grew up, and I have a company there.”
“What line of business are you in?”
“Investment banking.”
“Excuse me, I need to take this call. It’s my agent,” I said, reaching for my ringing cell phone.
“Look, I probably should let you go. I’ve taken up way too much of your time. You have my card. Call me when you can. I’d love to see you again.”
“Sure,” I said, answering my phone, waving goodbye.
~~~
“Julia?”
Jarred back to the present, I say, “I’m sorry. What were you asking me, Blythe?”
“I asked you if you think my father is dead.”
I take a moment, not sure what I think. “I don’t—”
Before I can respond, an approaching car diverts my attention. Blythe goes to the window and looks out.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“The police.”
I join Blythe at the picture window, squinting against the sun’s rays. My eyes shift from the clear blue sky to the black-and-white parked in the cobblestone driveway. I look over my shoulder at Martha leaving the room. Slamming car doors bring my attention back to the window. A male and female police officer walk toward the house.
“He’s dead. They’re coming to tell us he’s dead,” Blythe says.
Her words make me weak at the knees, but I muster strength and say, “We don’t know that.” I must stay strong for Blythe. The doorbell rings, and I motion to her to have a seat on the sofa. Walking to the foyer, I take a calming breath and then open the door.
“Hello, ma’am.”
My eyes trace the cop’s face—prominent cheekbones, an angular jaw, and a well-defined chin and nose. He looks like he came straight from central casting. My focus shifts from him to his partner whose smile is having a difficult time finding its way to her baby blues. She runs her slender fingers through her blond crew cut, casting her gaze beyond me, seemingly trying to get a glimpse inside the house. I notice a manila folder in her hand.
“Hello, officers. How can I help you?”
“I’m Officer Williams, and this is my partner, Officer Stone.” He folds his muscular arms across his barrel chest. “We’re with the Dancing Hills Police Department. Are you Julia Pritchard?”
“Yes, I am.”
“We need to speak with you. Do you mind if we come inside? What we need to discuss with you is rather sensitive.”
Blythe is right. They’re about to tell us Keith is dead. Tears prick my eyes, and I feel a flush rise in my cheeks.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” Officer Stone asks.
I force a smile and say, “I’m fine. Please, come in.” They step into the foyer. “Come this way.” I lead them to the living room, my heart pounding in my chest. Blythe, now standing near the window, wrings her hands. “Blythe, this is Officer Williams and Officer Stone. They need to speak to us.” My voice cracks, and Blythe’s eyes widen. She emits a low, shuddering sigh and flops down on the sofa, tugging on her long, black tresses.
“We’re here because we received a call from a very upset Kathleen Brody, who says she’s the executive assistant to Mr. Keith Pritchard. She says he failed to show up for a flight to New York this morning and that she had spoken to you regarding Mr. Pritchard going missing. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I say.
“She also said she spoke to Mr. Pritchard’s daughter, Blythe.”
“I’m Blythe.”
“She mentioned that neither of you have heard from him today. Normally, we would have told her that until we receive word from the family that Mr. Pritchard is missing, we wouldn’t be able to declare him as such. However, prior to receiving her call, we had been notified that a luxury car had been left overnight at a strip mall in Shady Grove. That area is out of our jurisdiction, but due to the nature of the case, and the Shady Grove Police Department’s limited resources, we have agreed to handle it. Upon investigating, we discovered traces of blood in that car, and equally important, we learned the car is registered to Keith Pritchard, who lives at this address.”
I can’t believe Kathleen called the cops.
“Have you been in contact with your husband since you last spoke to Miss Brody?”
“No, officer. Neither of us have,” I say.
“Why haven’t you reported him missing? According to Miss Brody, under normal circumstances he would have made his flight.”
“Officer, everything is happening really fast. When we found out he had missed the flight, we weren’t sure what was going on. At one point we thought he was still here at the house. We looked, but he’s not here. And we just saw his car on the news. We were about to call you. We definitely want to report him as missing.”
“Ma’am, Miss Brody mentioned that you and Mr. Pritchard are in the process of divorcing.”
Blythe, clearing her throat, sends a cautious glare my way. I grit my teeth and try to remain calm. “Officer, Miss Brody has been my husband’s assistant for close to two decades. She prides herself in knowing about every aspect of his life, but unfortunately, there are issues between my husband and me she’s not privy to.”
“So you’re not in the middle of a divorce?” Officer Stone asks. Prior to now, I thought she had gone mute.
“Yes, we are.”
“Is it because he’s abusive?” she asks, pointing to my face.
Loud coughing fills the room, and we turn toward Blythe. “Excuse me,” she says, leaving.
I follow her. “Blythe.” I catch her as she enters the kitchen.
She pulls away from me and grabs bottled water off the table in the breakfast nook. I watch her guzzle until her coughing subsides. She tosses the bottle into the triple sink and wipes her face with the back of her hand. “Dammit, Julia!”
“What?”
“Your forehead. We should have put makeup on it,” she says, barely audible.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything. You heard that lady cop. She’s already connecting the dots.”
“What dots?”
“Julia, you’re divorcing my father, and he was abusive. That gives you a motive,” she says, whispering. “And please don’t mention the shirt.”
“You need to take it easy, Blythe. As far as we know Keith is still alive. And they don’t even know if the blood in the car is his.”
“Julia, you’re in denial. That shirt means someone hurt my father in this house. The police are going to point the finger at you—at both of us. I lost my mother when I was six. Now my father is gone. You’re all I have left, and I can’t lose you too.”
“You’re not going to lose me, sweetie.”
I hug her, and she pulls away from me. “I can’t believe Kathleen called them and told them all your business. It doesn’t matter about the divorce. It’s a matter of public record, but she still should have kept her mouth shut.”
“And I’m sure Keith told her he was the one who filed and that he did so because I was cheating on him.”
“You’re probably right,” Blythe says. “But what he’s never told her all these years is that he likes to beat women.”
“Of course not,” I say, looking toward the living room. “In Kathleen’s eyes, he’s a saint.”
“Julia, we need to shut down this conversation with the police. I don’t like where it’s going, and we probably need to get lawyered up.”
“Blythe, we’re not suspects. And I’m still holding out for Keith to make an appearance.”
“Julia, he’s not going to make an appearance. My father is dead,” she says, weeping.
“Honey, don’t. Don’t say that. We don’t know that. I’d better get back in there,” I say, fighting back tears. “Where did Martha go?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll find her,” she says, wiping her eyes.
I leave her in the kitchen and head back to the living room. “I’m sorry for that, but Blythe is upset about her father.”
“We understand,” Officer Williams says. “Ma’am, as mentioned, there were traces of blood found in the car and our CSI team is in the process of completing a DNA analysis to determine whether the blood in the car is your husband’s.”
“How are you able to do a DNA test without a sample from my husband?”
“There was luggage in the car, ma’am, which included a toiletry bag with a comb and brush. Once the results come back, detectives from our department will be in touch with you. In the meantime, if you hear from your husband, please let us know.”
“Officer Williams, I’m sure you’ve dealt with a lot of cases like this.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Based on your experience, do you think something may have happened to my husband?”
“Brian Johnson, the lead detective, will reach out to you tomorrow. You can talk to him.”
Officer Stone removes a sheet of paper from the manila folder she’s holding and hands it to me. “This is a missing persons checklist. We need this information to complete your report. Please go over it, and write the answers down or type them on a separate piece of paper. When you’re done, fax it to the number below. We’ll let the officer on duty know you’re going to send a fax. The data you provide will be entered into our computer system.”
My eyes glaze over the extensive list of questions. This cannot be happening. Keith James Pritchard, where the hell are you?
“Ma’am, you mentioned that you looked for your husband here in the house,” Officer Williams says.
“That’s right.”
“Do you mind if we take a look around? Just to be sure.”
“No, I don’t mind.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I remember. Dammit. The shirt.
Chapter 4
Detective Brian Johnson
“Finding Keith Pritchard is our number one priority. The chief and the mayor have been calling the captain nonstop.” I sit on the edge of my desk with my eyes glued to Rhonda Carson, one of the best detectives on the force. She furrows her graying brows, and nods. We graduated from the academy together thirty years ago.
“God has a real sense of humor.” She chuckles and then buttons her favorite cardigan sweater all the way to the neck. Five minutes ago, she wanted me to turn up the speed on my desk fan. I can barely keep up with her temperature fluctuations.
“What’s up?” I ask, shutting off the fan.
“I’ve been waiting for a case like this for more than a decade, and now that I’m fat, old, gray, and two years away from retirement, one of the most important people in Dancing Hills goes missing. A case like this could make us rich and famous. This could be our trial of the century.”
I frown, hoping she’s kidding. Rhonda’s never had a great sense of humor, but now that she’s going through what she calls the change, she’s become quite the jokester. Unfortunately, there’s nothing funny about this current case. I grab the bottle of ibuprofen from my desk and pop a couple of pills. The captain’s mantra still rings in my head like an overzealous church bell, making my temples throb. Keith Pritchard is well-respected and a longtime supporter of the police department. Don’t fuck this up.
“Relax, Brian. I’m bustin’ your chops. You should have seen your face.”
“You’re right about one thing: Keith Pritchard and his family are movers and shakers. Back when I was playing pro football, his grandfather was trying to buy the team. But the deal fell through.” Rhonda and I look toward the door at the sound of knocking. “It’s open,” I say. I stand when Officers Williams and Stone enter, anxious to hear about their visit to the Pritchard residence. “How’d it go?”
Williams’s chiseled face reddens, and he folds his arms over his huge chest. Everybody on the force says I look like Lou Ferrigno on steroids, but Williams has me beat. “We talked to the wife and the daughter—Julia and Blythe Pritchard. The house has to be worth north of twenty million. I’ve never seen anything like it—at least not in person.”
“Williams, I’m interested in what information you were able to obtain from the family, not the property.” I sit down at my desk that’s covered in files and copies of news stories featuring the Pritchard clan. I rifle through them, wondering when Williams, who recently transferred to Dancing Hills, will acclimate to its residents’ wealth.
“Sorry about that,” he says, shifting his gaze.
Stone’s blue eyes widen and she says, “We did a cursory inspection of the house. He wasn’t there. They’re in the process of filing a missing persons report. Once that’s done, we’ll organize a search party.”
“Why hadn’t they done so earlier?” Rhonda asks, her tone thick with condescension. She acts more like Stone’s mother than her supervisor.
“They said they were in the process of calling us. They just hadn’t gotten around to it,” Williams says.
“What did they say when you told them about the car being abandoned?” Rhonda asks.
“They knew about it,” Stone says.
“I’m not surprised. It’s all over the news.” I glance at the muted flat screen TV on the wall adjacent to my awards and commendations.
“What was their reaction?” Rhonda asks.
Williams passes his hand over his face and says, “They seemed concerned. That’s when Julia said she wanted to file the report.”
Rhonda rises and paces. “What was your overall feeling about the two of them?”
“It’s hard to say. I mean, it was apparent they were upset about something. They both had puffy and red eyes like they had been crying. Now whether it was about Keith, I’m not sure. Something was off about them. I just can’t put my finger on it. The daughter ran out of the room coughing when I pointed to the bruise on Julia’s face,” Stone says.
Rhonda glances my way. A rumor used to float around the department that Keith Pritchard’s donations were hush money. I assumed it had something to do with his business dealings and possible city infractions. Maybe I was wrong.
