The Women on Retford Drive, page 5
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“Knowing your father, he probably threatened to kill you both if she even thought about taking you with her. Now if she was kidnapped, then—”
“I don’t think she was abducted. I think my father made up that story to save face. Like I said, I was six when he hit her.”
“Keith told me your mother got pregnant with you right before they were married. So they had been married six years when he hit her.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Your father and I had been married six years before he put his hands on me. It’s like the sixth year is a trigger for him.”
“That’s interesting. I guess I’ll never really know for sure what happened to my mother,” I say, wistfully.
“I’m sorry, Blythe.” She places her hand on mine.
“Right now, we need to force my father out of hiding.”
“You’re right.”
“We should go back to the house and start our search. That detective is going to contact us tomorrow, and I want to be a few steps ahead of him. We also need to prepare a press release and the statement. Are you going to call Grandmother Dolores back?”
“Later,” Julia says as she stands. “I need to go to the ladies’ room again.”
“I do too.”
We enter the restaurant and head to the restroom. Passing the bar area, we notice a wall-mounted TV. We come to a sudden stop at the sight of my father’s car on the screen.
“They’re reporting the story again,” Julia says.
I nod, my eyes fixed on the police officer being interviewed. My heart jumps in my throat when a picture of my father fills the screen. Doubt shoots through me, and I wonder if we’re being foolish and delusional. Maybe something has happened to my father, and Julia is involved. Maybe it’s Martha. Maybe it’s Martha and Julia. At this point I don’t know what to believe. Julia grabs my hand and squeezes it. Her touch is comforting. She deserves the benefit of the doubt.
“Jesus,” Julia whispers. “Let’s pee and get out of here.”
“I’m right behind you,” I say, bolting to the restroom so I can puke.
Chapter 6
Julia
You have reached Keith James Pritchard, the founder and CEO of Pritchard & Calhoun Securities. If this call is a pitch, promptly hang up. I don’t do business with people I don’t know. If you have been referred, email me at the address you were provided, detailing your project. If we are currently transacting business, and you have an urgent matter, contact my assistant, Kathleen Brody. Dial zero and this call will be forwarded to her. And remember, life is short. Don’t waste it bitching about this message. Have a great day.
I’d never thought I’d agree with Keith’s mother, but she’s right. His new outgoing message on his cell phone isn’t only dreadful, it’s interminable. Sitting in the kitchen, I disconnect the call, thinking I should have left a message. After Blythe and I left the restaurant, we stopped at our apartment to get clothes, laptops, and a printer. Thank goodness Blythe had thought to tell the manager to let in the movers, so they could drop off our boxes.
“Julia, come quick.”
“What’s happening?” I join Blythe in the living room, curious about why she’s so excited.
She points to the flat-screen TV on the wall. “That entertainment show is covering my father’s story.”
I sit next to her, my eyes locked on earlier recorded images of the Maserati in the strip mall parking lot, which, according to the talking head, has been impounded as evidence. Blythe turns up the volume, and I grab my knees in a vain attempt to stop my bouncing legs.
The Dancing Hills crime scene investigators are in the process of determining whether the blood found in the car is that of longtime Dancing Hills resident Keith James Pritchard. Pritchard’s great-great grandfather, Edwin Pritchard, is Dancing Hills’s founding father. Although extremely successful, the family has not been without controversy and tragedy. Some say they have the Kennedy curse. In 2001, Keith’s first wife was abducted on her way home from a charity event. She was never found. Over the years there have been rumors that Keith—who is known in business circles for being a hothead—may have been involved in his first wife’s disappearance. However, he was never charged with any wrongdoing in the matter. The irony that he himself is now missing is not lost on any of us.
Blythe mutes the TV when a commercial fills the screen. “Did you call his cell?”
“I did. It went straight to voicemail. I should have left a message.”
“We probably should have left one earlier today,” she says through a huge yawn, sadness tinging her voice.
My heart sinks at the sight of her eyes flooded with worry. In the prime of her life, she should be happy and carefree, preparing to go to law school, not caught up in this madness. “You look wiped out.”
The doorbell rings and Blythe shrieks, surprise filling her eyes, replacing the worry. “Who is that? It’s after eleven p.m.”
We go to the window and look out. “Dolores,” we say at the same time.
“I should have called her back.” I trudge to the front door, open it, and she barges in with Keith’s father not far behind.
Standing in the foyer, taking inventory of my outfit, her dark, beady eyes travel the length of me. I’m sure the skirt and top I had on earlier would have been more acceptable. She pushes her bifocals up the bridge of her nose covered with broken blood vessels and purses her pencil-thin lips. She points her spindly finger at my blue leggings and sweatshirt. “What are you wearing?”
“Excuse—”
Before I can respond, she plants her hands on her broad hips and says, “Did you not receive my message?”
“I’ve gotten a lot of messages today, Dolores. I can’t keep up with them all.”
My gaze moves from her full face to Keith’s father, Jim, cowering in the corner, rubbing the few locks of gray hair standing up on his age-spotted head. His long eyelashes fluttering nervously, he sends an empathetic look my way. Dolores glances over her shoulder at him, and he averts his green eyes.
“I’m not talking about all the messages you’ve received. I’m referring to the one I left!”
I imagine myself slapping the wrinkles off her sagging face, knocking her into the mirror above the console table. I almost laugh out loud thinking about her falling on her wide, flat ass, shards of glass falling on her like acid rain. I exercise control instead and say, “Lower your voice.”
“Do you know what we saw on the news this evening?”
Her question gives me pause, and I hold my breath, thinking Blythe and I somehow missed the latest on Keith. Could I be wrong about him faking his disappearance and death? My skin prickles, and a chill races across my flesh, envisioning Keith’s bloody body sprawled in a ditch.
“We saw our son’s car on the news, and the police said there is blood in his car. What have you done to our son?”
I exhale. “I haven’t done anything to Keith. He’s missing, and I filed a missing persons report. That’s what I told you in the message I left you today.”
“I couldn’t understand a word you said.”
“Well, I hope you can understand this. He’s missing. As I said in the voicemail, he didn’t show up for his flight today.”
She grabs her gray hair, piled atop her head in a lopsided beehive, and yelps. “You’ve killed him. She’s killed our son, Jim.”
We turn toward Blythe approaching. “Stop saying that, Grandmother. Julia didn’t kill my father. We don’t know where he is, and we haven’t seen him.”
“Oh, Blythe,” she cries, clutching her in an awkward hug.
Blythe pulls away from her and walks to Jim. “Grandfather, you don’t look well.”
“I’m not,” he says with a shaky voice.
“Come and sit down. I’ll make you some tea.”
We follow Blythe and Jim into the kitchen. He eases himself into a chair at the breakfast nook while Blythe rummages through the cabinet. I stand near the stove, and Dolores, nose in the air, stands in the doorway.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Dolores asks. She tugs at her purple sweater and then smooths her hand over her flowered dress, her eyes roaming the appliances, the countertops, and the floor, for what, only god knows. Dust, grease, blood—maybe all three.
“I told you already. Keith is missing.”
“When did you see him last?” she asks.
“The last time I saw him was yesterday morning,” I say.
“Same for me,” Blythe says.
“Why don’t you have some tea, Dolores? Have a seat and rest yourself,” Jim says.
She grumbles and then flops down in the chair opposite him. “I don’t want tea. I want to know where my only son is.” She glowers at me, accusingly. “You were cheating on him. That’s why he filed for divorce. Kathleen told us all about it. For once that woman made sense. That’s why you killed him. You knew he would divorce you and leave you penniless. Keith has never been able to pick the right woman. His first wife, Mary, cheated on him too. He thought we believed that preposterous kidnapping story. That little Nazi left him for another man.”
The sound of glass shattering on the floor halts Dolores’s rant. “I’m sorry,” Blythe says. She picks up the broken teacup and glares at Dolores.
“Be careful not to cut yourself,” Jim says.
“Dolores, Kathleen is clueless, and so are you. I filed for divorce, because I finally got tired of your son using me as a punching bag.”
“Lies. All lies.”
“Hold that screwed up thought.” I march upstairs and retrieve one of the photos from the envelope I put in my bedroom. I rush back to the kitchen. Out of breath and riled, I slam the picture down on the table. “That’s what your precious son did to me, Dolores.”
She glances at the snapshot and sneers. “This is probably some scene from one of those low-budget movies you did before you met Keith.”
“It’s not from a movie. It’s real life, Grandmother,” Blythe says. “My father has abused Julia for the past five years. That’s why she filed for divorce, and she wasn’t cheating on him. He almost killed her right in this house.”
Dolores, her mouth agape, jumps up from the table. “I refuse to listen to you slander my son when he’s not able to defend himself. Jim, let’s go.”
“I want to drink my tea first.”
“Jim!”
He sits there ignoring her. I want to give him a standing ovation for his defiance.
“I’ll be in the car,” she says. She flounces out of the kitchen in a huff.
The three of us jump at the sound of the front door slamming. Jim, shaking his head, says, “I’m sorry about her, and I’m sorry for her.”
Blythe sets a cup and saucer before him and pours him tea. With a trembling hand, he lifts the cup to his full lips and sips. “This is good.”
“Grandfather, Julia didn’t do anything to my father.”
“I know she didn’t.” He sets down the cup, then strokes his sagging chin. “I am worried about him. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“We don’t,” I say, “but I don’t think he’s dead.”
“He was a troubled kid you know.”
Blythe and I sit at the table, anxious for a rare peek into Keith’s childhood. “Why do you say he was a ‘troubled kid’?” I ask.
“It wasn’t his fault. I blame myself.”
“For what?” Blythe asks.
“For letting your grandmother treat him the way she did. When he was a kid, she traumatized him.”
Blythe and I trade curious glances. “What happened?” she asks.
“Your father was very nervous growing up. He was a bedwetter. Dolores hated it. She would curse at him, belittle him, and beat him, call him a baby. The poor kid couldn’t help himself. Through tears he would tell her he had dreams he was standing at the toilet. The dreams were so real he would use the bathroom in bed. She didn’t believe him. She tried everything to make him stop, even getting him up in the middle of the night. I should have done something to stop it, but I was useless.
“When he was turning six, she planned a birthday party for him. He had never had one before. We usually celebrated by going out to dinner. But this time she invited all his friends. And when it was time to bring the cake out, instead she brought out the soiled sheet from the night before and pinned it on the wall. She had circled the urine stain, and she told all his friends he had wet the bed. Then she opened the gift she had given him. It was a box of diapers. You should have seen the look of humiliation on Keith’s face. He bolted from the party and locked himself in his room.
“He never wet the bed again, but he was never the same either. He was full of rage, and it grew worst over time. He eventually learned how to control and refocus it. But I’ve always worried about him. Like I said, I blame myself. I haven’t always been an honorable man. I cheated on Dolores, and I guess I felt I deserved whatever she dished out. And now I’m an old man who would be lost without her.”
“You’re not old, Grandfather. Eighty is the new sixty.”
“Tell that to these rickety bones of mine.”
“Jim, do you believe what I said about Keith abusing me?”
“I suspected it all along.”
“I was so taken aback when he first hit me; I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even my mother. By then I was deeply in love, and my whole life revolved around him and Blythe. My career was on a downturn, but I didn’t care, because I was so happy being married to Keith. At the time, we were trying to conceive, but I was having difficulty.”
I place my hand on the side of my face, reflecting on the night of July 20, 2012.
~~~
It was a Friday, and Blythe was staying the night at a friend’s house. I had been on set earlier that day, filming a low-budget comedy. All I wanted to do was go home. Keith had worked overtime that night. He got home after midnight. I was in a deep sleep. He woke me up, in a panic.
“Where’s Blythe?”
“She’s staying the night over at Shelbie’s house.”
“Did she say she was going to the movies?”
“No. Why?”
“Because some poor schmuck shot up a bunch of people in a Colorado theater. It was at the new Batman movie. There might be some copycat shootings.” He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV in our room.
I sat up in bed, feeling sad for the people who had been killed, contemplating why Keith would refer to the mass murderer as a “poor schmuck.”
“This is just awful,” he said, eyes fixed on the TV.
“Keith, please turn that off. It’s disturbing.” I snatched the remote out of his hand.
“Give that back,” he said, reaching for the remote.
“No. Stop acting like a baby. I smell alcohol. You’re drunk, Keith!”
“What did you call me?” He turned toward me, his eyes full of rage. He grabbed the remote out of my hand and slammed it against my face. “Don’t you ever take anything from me like that again. That’s why people shoot up theaters. They do it because they’re pushed; they’re knocked over the edge. Don’t fuck with me, Julia.”
I sat there with my face burning and my eyes filling with tears. I wondered if I was still asleep, dreaming. Maybe the shooting had a strange effect on Keith. Maybe he was so upset about what had happened he was acting out. I rationalized his behavior a million different ways. The next day I had a horrible red mark on my face. He was beyond remorseful. He cried and begged my forgiveness. I thought it was an anomaly, but it was the first of many more blows to come.
~~~
“Julia, what’s wrong?” Blythe asks. “You’re crying.”
“I was just thinking about what happened to your father when he was a little boy,” I lie.
“Well, I hope we find him. He’s difficult, but he’s still my son, and I love him.”
“We’re going to have a press conference, and the police are organizing a search party. We’re going to put one together too,” Blythe says.
“Hopefully, your grandmother will settle down long enough to participate. I’d better get out there before she drives off without me.”
“I love you, Grandfather.” Blythe hugs him and kisses his cheek.
We escort him out, and he and Dolores leave. I look up at the night sky sprinkled with stars, speculating about what tomorrow will bring. A ringing phone pulls me out of my head. “I forgot to touch base with Sherry,” I say, running to my phone. “Hey, Sherry.” I sink into the sofa, my eyes shifting to the TV, currently featuring a panel of experts on a cable news station. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you,” I say, eyes still watching the TV. Are they talking about Keith? I grab the remote to unmute the TV. Sherry’s question stops me cold.
“Why didn’t you tell me the police found Keith’s car abandoned with blood in it?” If I had told her, she would have wanted to cancel the meeting. And then I would have had to convince her not to, and persuading her would have made me look like a heartless bitch. “I can cancel the meeting. Under the circumstances, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“No, I want to meet with them. I need normalcy in my life right now.”
“On the news, they said the police are trying to determine if the blood is Keith’s.”
“I know.”
“Julia, this is serious. How are you holding up?”
I stand and walk to the mantel. I pick up the photo of Keith and his parents, wondering if the blood in the car is his. “Sherry, on one hand, I want to pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, and on the other hand, I’m sad for Keith and afraid for Blythe and me.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“I’ll tell you more when I see you at the meeting.”
“Sweetie, why don’t you postpone the meeting. I don’t think—”
“No. I want to meet,” I say, setting the picture face down on the mantel.
“Okay, I’ll text you the location. It’s scheduled for noon.”
“I’ll be there,” I say with resolve. “Talk to you later.” I hang up as Blythe approaches.
