The Women on Retford Drive, page 7
part #1 of Dancing Hills Series
“He sounds great.” I look at my phone. “Excuse me, but I need to take this call.”
Chapter 8
Attorney Stephen Miller
“Good morning, Miller & Rawlings. Stephen Miller’s office. Whom may I say is calling? … Okay.”
Standing at my assistant’s cubicle, I motion for her to put the call on hold. She sends me a questioning look, widening then narrowing her brown eyes. My gaze drifts to the photo near her computer, featuring the two of us at our former firm in Palo Alto. I wince thinking about how much I’ve aged in thirteen years.
“One moment please,” she says to the caller, a professional but friendly lilt to her voice. She places the call on hold and wipes her dreadlock bangs out of her face.
“Is that Blythe Pritchard?” I ask. I lean forward, my elbows resting on a small ledge lined with her inbox and a couple of plants.
“It sounds like solicitation. I’ll take a message,” she says.
“I’ll be in the conference room with Faye. If you receive a call from a Blythe or Julia Pritchard, make sure you interrupt me.”
“Will do.” She gives me a thumbs-up and returns to the caller.
“Thanks, Vanessa.” I head for the meeting, thinking about the conversation I had yesterday with my former professor, Carlos Juarez.
Entering the conference room, I nod at Faye, who recently made partner. She averts her eyes and thrusts a pack of menthol cigarettes into the pocket of her green blazer. I start to recite my usual spiel about the harmful effects of smoking, but she shuts me down with a look.
“So what’s this good news you want to talk to me about?” she asks, her brown eyes seemingly searching my face for clues as she’s practically bursting at the seams.
I sit across from her. “My old professor from Stanford called me yesterday. He wants me to represent another former student of his.” I wait for her oval-shaped face to break into a smile, but it droops with disappointment. “Guess who the student is?”
“I have no idea.”
“Blythe Pritchard, as in Keith Pritchard’s daughter, and his wife, Julia Pritchard.”
She rears back and presses her hands to her face. “Are you serious?” She twirls and snickers in the leather chair like a toddler high on sugar.
I take pleasure in her reaction, glad that I’ve been able to live up to the promises I made to her when she agreed to leave a major competitor to come and work with me. After six months she made partner, and now she’s going to acquire some major exposure. Nonetheless, I need to manage her expectations. “They’re not our clients yet. I have to meet with them. He said he was going to have them call me.”
“Stephen, that case would put us on the map.”
She stands, pats her afro, and strolls to the window. I join her. In silence, we look in the courtyard, at the decorative water fountain I had installed a few years ago. My ex-wife, who was into feng shui, always talked about water symbolizing wealth flowing to you. She wasn’t right often, but she was spot on about the fountain. Ever since I installed it, business has been booming. I turn toward Faye, who seems to be in a hypnotic trance.
“There isn’t a case yet, and they’re not suspects. Juarez says they just need guidance right now.”
“But it could turn into a case,” she says, with an attitude teetering between optimism and disbelief.
I feel uneasy and compelled to set the right tone. I motion for her to join me back at the table. I look at her pointedly and say, “If it does turn into a case, I don’t want to get caught up in the notoriety. I want to do a good job for the clients, ensure they make the right moves. It’s obvious Juarez cares about Blythe. And Juarez is more than just a former professor to me. If it weren’t for him, I would have dropped out of Stanford. My father had been laid off, and my parents were about to lose their house. I wanted to leave school to help. Juarez made my family a personal loan without interest, which my parents have since paid back. He also got me a work-study job. So I have a lot at stake here.”
“I understand,” she says, seemingly returning to earth.
“This is a crucial time for Blythe and Julia.” I clasp my hands, relieved she seems to be grounded.
“I saw a couple of stories about the case on the news last night.”
“If hired, we’re going to have to move some things around.”
“I can pass along a few of my cases to an associate.”
“Good, because I want to be ready when they call. I’ve been following the case closely. The police are supposed to be holding a press conference today, and they should have the DNA analysis back on the blood soon. There was blood found in the car.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” She leans forward, eyes intense.
I hesitate before answering. It dawns on me that I’ve never entertained the thought one way or the other. As par for the course, I want to stay open. I work better that way. “I’m not sure.”
“Do the police have any suspects?”
“No. It could have been a carjacking. The car was found in Shady Gove.”
“That’s a rough area.”
“Juarez says Blythe and Julia are concerned about the police focusing on them because there’s a pending divorce, and they were in the process of moving out. I think it’s a smart move to seek representation.”
Faye folds her arms across her chest and raises her brows—her signature cynical pose. I brace myself for the impending comment. “You know that once the press finds out they’re lawyered up, they’re going to insinuate that they’re guilty, Stephen.”
“I’d rather that than for them to say or do anything that solidifies guilt.”
“If he’s dead, I wonder who would have killed him.” She shrugs her broad shoulders.
“That’s what the police have to find out, but in the interim, I don’t want them pointing their fingers at Blythe or Julia.”
“Do you think they have motives?”
“I’ll know more once I talk to them. My gut tells me one of Keith’s competitors may be behind this. He’s in the process of taking his company public.”
“This is huge, Stephen.”
“Excuse me,” Vanessa says, stepping into the room.
“Is Blythe on the line?”
“No, but the receptionist said you wanted to be interrupted when that press conference starts. She said it’s on now.”
“Thanks,” I say, heading toward the reception area.
“We can watch it from here,” Faye says. She turns on the new flat-screen TV in the conference room.
“I keep forgetting we have that now.”
We fall silent when a robust African American man in a stylish blue suit, a matronly woman and uniformed officers flanking him, steps to the podium covered with dozens of microphones. News vans from all the local TV stations sit in the background. The audience consists of a sea of reporters from local, network, and cable news.
Good afternoon. I’m Detective Brian Johnson with the Dancing Hills Police Department.
Yesterday we were notified that a late-model Maserati with traces of blood in it was abandoned at a strip mall in Shady Grove. We subsequently confirmed that the vehicle belongs to Dancing Hills resident Keith Pritchard. At the present time, we have received the DNA test results. Those results will be released once we have contacted the family. Mr. Pritchard is the founder and CEO of Pritchard & Calhoun Securities, and he is the largest employer in the area. As you can imagine, we, along with his family, are very concerned about his whereabouts. If you have any information relating to this case, please contact the Dancing Hills Police Department.
As soon as the detective says, “Thank you,” all hands go up. He takes questions.
Is this now a homicide case?
I cannot answer that question at this time.
Are there any suspects?
Not at this time.
Is Keith’s disappearance related to the IPO?
Not that we know of.
Could the person behind his first wife’s disappearance be involved?
Hearing about his first wife, I turn toward Faye and say, “Did you know about his first wife?”
“I forgot about that. It was big news back in the day. I don’t want to taint your opinion about Keith or anyone related to the case, but I know a few people who have done business with him. He’s got an edge.”
“Hmm.” I wonder if the two cases are related.
The press conference ends, and I return to my office, hoping I hear from Blythe and Julia sooner rather than later.
Chapter 9
Julia
“Sorry about that, Blythe. Can you hear me now?” I duck into the restroom, so the burly man dressed in a brown uniform pulling a dolly stacked with boxes can pass.
“Yes, where are you? Are you still tied up?”
“I’m at the producers’ office in West Hollywood. We’re meeting in a conference room. I stepped out for a minute, so I could check on you.” I peek under the stalls for feet. Glad to have the restroom to myself, I check out my face in the mirror. “Thank goodness for foundation,” I say, peering at my forehead.
“What was that?” Blythe asks.
“Nothing. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I just had lunch with Shelbie, and I’m sitting here with Professor Juarez now. He gave me the name of an attorney.”
“Give him my thanks.”
“Will do. Julia, try to wrap things up as soon as you can. We need to distribute the notice about our press conference. What do you think is holding up the detective? I thought we would have heard from him by now.”
“I’m going to make a few edits to the press release and the statement when I get home. As for the detective, maybe I’ll call for an update. We at least need to follow-up on the missing persons report.”
“Sounds like a good idea. And by the way, Martha told me she has the shirt.”
“Great.” I glance at the time on my cell. “I need to get back to my meeting. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay.”
“Bye now.” I disconnect the call, slip my phone into my pocket, and smooth my hands over my green pantsuit. The restroom door opens, and the receptionist, a short brunette, enters. She gives me a warm smile, and I nod, thinking that she has perfect timing.
When I reenter the conference room, all eyes fall on me. I smile at the producers and Sherry. Sitting across from them, I scan the walls, lined with posters of all the movies and televisions shows they’ve produced over the years. A wry smile creeps onto my face when I imagine myself up there, a gun hanging from my hip holster and a badge in my wallet. Who knew I’d be sought after to play a TV detective while concurrently being sought after by a detective in real life?
“Is everything okay?” David rubs his forehead, which appears much larger than it is because of his hair loss. Through tortoiseshell glasses, he looks at me with concern. “Julia, I’m not just your potential producer—I can be a friend as well.”
“Thank you. Everything is fine.”
Sherry runs her fingers through her short sandy brown bob, nodding, a “we’ve got this” look in her brown eyes. When it comes to business, she exudes confidence. But lately, not so much when it comes to her personal life. Last year, her husband cheated on her, and it rocked her to the core. Unfortunately, she had already been struggling with the aging process and her weight gain.
“As we were saying before you left the room, we want you to star in our new detective series, but there also could be future opportunities for you to direct a few episodes. As executive producer, I have the power to make that happen.”
“Gary, I would love to make a foray into directing. I’m a little confused. It’s my understanding we’re just at the pilot stage.”
Sherry chimes in. “I wanted to surprise you, Julia. David and Gary pretty much have a network on board. At this point, everything is a formality.”
“She’s right,” David says. “All we need you to do is sign on to the project.”
“How much time do I have to decide?”
“The sooner the better,” David says.
“I would like to take a closer look at the contract, with Sherry.”
“Of course,” Gary says. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.” His heavily bearded face lights up in a grin, revealing a gap between his two front teeth.
David stands and says, “I think we’re done for today. We look forward to hearing from you, ladies.”
“I’m excited,” Gary says, standing and stretching.
“If you want to hang out here, help yourselves to the rest of the beverages and food.” David gestures to the credenza lined with water, soft drinks, sandwiches, and assorted salads.
“Thank you,” Sherry and I say.
We stand and shake their hands. As soon as they leave the room, we high-five and hug.
“Didn’t I tell you I was going to revive your career?”
My stinging eyes fix on Sherry, her hands on her hips and her chest sticking out, and I realize that landing this gig represents a fresh start for both of us.
“You sure did,” I say, thinking about sitting in the director’s chair. “Did you hear there’s a chance I could direct?”
“I heard. You deserve this.”
The reality of my current situation hits me, and I collapse into one of the high-back chairs.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was just thinking about Blythe and me smack dab in the middle of all this drama right now. Why couldn’t this opportunity have come at a better time?”
Sherry, sitting next to me, takes my hand and squeezes it. “I understand. This situation with Keith is surreal.”
“It’s a nightmare.” I glance at the wall clock. “I need to leave. I have to finalize the release we’re sending. We’re holding a press conference, and we’re also going to start searching for Keith.”
“I want to help in any way I can. I’ll have Larry help too. You’re doing the right thing.”
“We have to make a good presentation for the media and the cops. You know the significant other is the first person of interest, and with the divorce, the abuse, and the bloody shirt—”
“What bloody shirt?”
“Martha found Keith’s favorite shirt, in the laundry room with blood on it.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I wish I knew. And then there’s the blood in the car. As much as I want to believe Keith is alive, I’m beginning to have doubts. I haven’t admitted as much to Blythe, but I’m beginning to think he might be dead.”
“But who would kill him?”
I give her a blank stare, and her face drops. “Julia, did you kill Keith?”
“No! Why would you say that?” I stand, distancing myself from Sherry and her unnerving question.
She approaches me and places her hand on my shoulder, nudging me forward. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did, and I still can’t believe you hid what was going on all these years. You’re a better actress than you know. The man was outrageous.”
“I didn’t kill him … but … but … I …”
“What?”
I pause. Should I keep my dark thoughts to myself? But they’ve been haunting me ever since Martha found the bloody shirt.
“What is it, Julia?”
“I’ve been wondering about Blythe.”
“Blythe?”
“It’s just thoughts. Something she said to me that time Keith tried to kill me.”
“What did she say?”
“We were talking about leaving, and she said something about him not having a chance to tamper with her trust fund.”
“Meaning that something could happen to him before he had a chance to revoke it.”
“Right. Keith started banging on the door before I could get her to explain what she meant. And she believes he’s dead. She’s adamant about it.”
“Like she knows he’s dead, because she knows where the body is buried,” Sherry says with raised brows, now pacing in front of the posters on the wall.
“And she wants us to get lawyered up. She already has someone in mind.”
“Damn.” Sherry stops burning a hole in the Berber carpet and touches her stomach.
“Do you feel sick?”
“I think it may have been the shrimp salad. I feel sick. I’ll be right back—I need to throw up.” She rushes out of the room.
I don’t blame her for feeling sick to her stomach. And I feel like a louse for suggesting that Blythe might be involved in Keith’s disappearance.
I figure I’d better check on Sherry, but my phone vibrating in my pocket stops me. The call is from a restricted number. My stomach sinks when I realize it’s probably the detective. “Hello?”
“Is this Julia Pritchard?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Detective Brian Johnson with the Dancing Hills Police Department. I’d like to meet with you and Blythe Pritchard as soon as possible.”
“Yes, I understand. We’ll be there as soon as we can get there.” I grab a napkin off the credenza.
“When you arrive, ask for me. I’m in the homicide division.”
“Okay.” I hang up, wiping the perspiration dripping from my face.
I look toward the door when Sherry enters. “What’s wrong? You look sicker than I am.”
“I just got off the phone with a Detective Johnson. He works in homicide with the Dancing Hills Police Department. He wants to meet with Blythe and me asap.”
“Wow.”
“I need to call Blythe.”
“You probably should make the call from your car. Better yet, my car. You look like you can use a shoulder to lean on.”
“And maybe even cry on.”
Sitting in Sherry’s Buick, I listen to Blythe’s Law & Order ringtone.
“Julia, what’s up?” she says when she answers.
“Have you talked to the lawyer yet?”
“No.”
“I think you’d better call him.”
