Desperate for Death (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery Book 6) Page 11

  And then, with the necessary people notified, I sat down and had a good cry, from which I retreated only long enough to check the doors—all locked—and the alarm system—fully armed. How had someone gotten into the house in spite of all our safety precautions? And how did I, who considered myself a light sleeper, sleep through the intrusion? Hours later, in retrospect, I decided it was a good thing I slept rather than attempting a confrontation or simply scaring myself out of my wits.

  Mike found me sitting at the kitchen table, still in a daze, eyes red from crying. I pointed to the note without saying anything, and he nodded to the officer with him to bag it. Then he pulled me over onto his lap, ignoring the junior grade officer who was trying hard not to look at us.

  Mike stroked my hair and rubbed my back, and I began to sob all over again. “How,” I managed to gulp, “did Greg Davis manage to get in here. The house was secure—I checked.”

  “I know,” Mike soothed. “I checked too.”

  “And he’s on the run or hiding out. How could he come here?”

  “Kelly, we don’t know that it was him, and if it was all I can say is he has a lot of nerve…and some skills we didn’t know about, like lock picking and disarming alarm systems.”

  When Mike’s guys investigated, they found whoever broke in had disconnected the alarm system so it didn’t go off but later had rewired it so it appeared intact.

  “Damn clever,” Mike muttered in reluctant admiration. “He’s a petty crook with some undesirable skills. Bet he can pick pockets too.”

  The troops also discovered where he’d picked the lock on the back door, and Mike resolved to improve the security of that door. Seemed to me it was locking the barn door after the horse was out—or in, in this case.

  By the time Keisha brought the girls home, the house seemed to be crawling with police officers. Well, not really, there were only two plus Mike, but it seemed like an army.

  Maggie and Em rushed to me, with cries of “Mom, are you all right?” “What happened?” I hugged them, and looked at Keisha who took in my puffy eyes and raised a questioning eyebrow at me.

  “We’ve had an incident,” I said and found my voice was shaky. But downplaying it as much as I could I told them about the note.

  Em’s look was one of pure terror. “He was in our house? I’m sleeping on the floor in your room tonight.”

  Maggie played a more sophisticated role. “He didn’t do anything, did he? It was just, as Mom says, harassment. But Mom’s brought danger home to us again.” She stalked off to her room.

  Thank you, Maggie. If she spent Saturday night at Jenny’s, there was no way Em would sleep downstairs alone. But I put that thought off for the time being.

  Mike’s guys found nothing else of interest—no fingerprints, etc.,—so they left with Mike’s blessing and my gratitude. I was exhausted. I heard Mike on his cell phone and figured out he was talking to Anthony. “Yes, two 4x4s. You measure how long it needs to be. Front and back.”

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “You ever hear how settlers used to protect against Indians?” he countered.

  I sighed. Perhaps Mike had been reading too much early Texas history, his special interest. “No, how?”

  “They put brackets up on either side of a door and then put a large board, say 4x4, across them, effectively blocking the door from being broken down. So it wouldn’t matter if our guy can pick the lock.”

  Several thoughts swirled through my mind, the first that it certainly was not an aesthetic way to improve the atmosphere of the house. Ugly is the word I had in mind. The second was that it would be awkward, hoisting that board up and down. “Just the back door?”

  “Nope, all exterior doors. Course we only have the two.”

  He seemed completely cheerful about his great idea, while I was wondering how heavy the board was and whether or not I could lift it when I was nine months pregnant. Or could Em lift it if necessary? What if there was a fire?

  “Mike, can we talk about this?” I outlined my objections, but he had his answers ready.

  “We’ll have practice sessions with the girls, and if you lift the boards every day, you should be able to do it. Good exercise for you.”

  I wondered how bad it would be if I kicked him, hard, under the table.

  “Kelly, my most important duty is to see that you and the girls are safe. Now that we know this guy’s ability, this seems the only way. I’ll call the security company tomorrow—surely they’re open on Saturdays—and have them check the system, see what they can do about beefing up the alarm that’s supposed to sound outdoors. I suspect they’ll tell us to get a land line—then when service is disrupted, the alarm will go off in the house.”

  “Mike, if this guy is out of hiding enough to leave this note, why can’t your people find him? You’ve got strong charges against him—threatening me with a knife and kidnapping Sandra Balcomb.”

  He was patient, infuriatingly so. “We have no proof that Greg Davis broke in here today. And for all we know Sandra Balcomb may have run to get away from him, her parents, who knows what? The only thing we have is your word that you felt threatened by Charles Sanford.”

  “Felt? I was threatened!” This conversation was not going well, and I longed for a glass of wine.

  It was a tense weekend at our house. Friday night, with Maggie’s semi-gracious permission, Em put a pallet in her sister’s room and slept there. She said she didn’t sleep all night, but Maggie scoffed and said she snored most of the night. Saturday night Maggie went to Jenny’s, after Jenny’s mom promised me she’d be home all evening, and Em moved her pallet upstairs to our room.

  Sunday Anthony installed the brackets and boards on the doors, but he had taken the time to paint the one for the back door to match the kitchen and stain the one for the front door as close as he could to the color of the door. I still thought they were eyesores, but I told him I was grateful.

  “Miss Kelly, we got to keep you safe.”

  I lifted the boards into place and put them back down, but they were heavy, and I knew they’d get heavier as I grew larger and heavier myself. Em to our delight dragged the kitchen stool over and easily put the board in place and then removed it. Maggie had to show her superior strength and did it without the stool, but she almost dropped it when she was taking it out of the brackets. When not in use the boards would rest next to their doors. Not my idea of decorating.

  I couldn’t vent my feelings that all this protection was the wrong approach. Yes, I wanted to be safe, and I was grateful when Mike was home. But finding out where Greg Davis was and why he was stalking me and how the pieces of the puzzle fit together was what we must do in order to get this episode over with.

  And yet, because I wanted to feel safe, always, I even considered giving up my Fridays at home. With Christmas looming there was so much to be done. On Sunday, I sat the girls down at the kitchen table with paper and pencil and told them to make their Santa Claus wish list. Since both of them were too old to believe in Santa, they gave me weird looks but they bent to their task. Maggie asked to use my computer to look up some things she wanted, and I told her to write down the URL.

  But as I went through the motions of being normal—helping the girls, cooking Sunday supper—anxiety loomed like a dark cloud over my head.

  ****

  I didn’t share this with Mike, but I was convinced that Robert Martin’s will had a lot to do with my stalker, the puzzle in my head, and all the bad things going on. So Monday morning I called Benjamin Cruze of Bachman and Bannister.

  When I identified myself, he immediately said in cordial tones, “Good morning, Ms. O’Connell. I have nothing new to report. I know you’d probably like to have your money, but as of now I have no progress to report. We’re researching the claim of the person who disputes the inheritance.”

  “No, Benjamin,” I said. He could be formal if he wanted. It wasn’t my style. “That’s not why I’m calling. How does one person hav
e any grounds to contest? If no one knows who’s included and who inherits what, how can there be a complaint?” I was pushing him out of his comfort zone.

  He stammered. “Well…uh…it’s an unusual situation. Ah…rather long and complicated.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” I said.

  “Well, this person had access to the will as it was originally written but has never seen it as he amended it in his later years.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  He was careful. “This person has figured out that will was changed and someone else inherits rather than the single person in the original version. The person….”

  I kept waiting for him to slip and say he or she, but he disappointed me.

  “…does now know about specific bequests. There may have been a slip before we knew….”

  “Knew what?”

  “Uh, exactly who we were dealing with.”

  I pushed. “If you can’t tell me who this person is, then how do they know who I am? It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out who the original sole beneficiary was. But no one would ever dream that Robert Martin would name me in his will, let alone so generously.”

  His voice was tight. “As I said, there was a slip.”

  I could envision him, sitting at a lawyerly desk and turning beet red with embarrassment. “One more question: if this contest or however you say it goes to court, will the will be open to all who are named?”

  “If the judge orders it.” This time he was on firm ground. “We hope it will not come to that.”

  “I think you’ve told me all I need to know. Thank you, Benjamin.” I hung up and let out the breath I’d been holding.

  “Robert Martin’s will is at the center of this whole thing,” I announced to Keisha, “and Jo Ellen North is contesting the will.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Sixth sense,” I said grinning. “But I still have a puzzle.”

  And I began to draw a chart on a legal pad. I put Robert Martin’s will in one column and under it Jo Ellen North. In another column I put Greg Davis and under that Sandra Balcomb and then, after a moment’s hesitation, Janice Balcomb with a question mark. Was Janice afraid of Greg? Afraid for Sandra? Had she heard from one or both of them? Then there was Sarah Buxton—did she belong on my chart or not? I put her in a separate column and drew an arrow to Janice.

  I went back and circled Greg Davis’ name? Where did he come from? How did he fit into this whole thing?

  I stewed over those scribblings for an hour until Keisha asked, “You figurin’ anything out?”

  “No. Let’s go eat lunch. That new pizza place where Mike and I took the girls the other day.”

  “That on your diet?”

  “It is today,” I said, grabbing my purse.

  Keisha took her time about sliding her feet out of her flip-flops and into her spiky heels, gathering her purse, and generally getting ready to go. As she stood she looked at me and said, “Kelly, it’s all gonna work out. Be of good faith.”

  For the first time I wasn’t so sure about her sixth sense.

  At lunch, she totally changed the subject. “Now about the wedding. José says the sooner the better.”

  That caught me so by surprise that I gave a small gasp, which caused Keisha to give me one of her long looks. I’d been thinking the wedding would be, oh, April, and by then I’d have Greg Davis and Sandra Balcomb and contested inheritances off my mind.

  “Is that a problem?” Keisha asked, her voice sharper than usual.

  Who was I to delay her lifelong dream? “No, course not. It just took me by surprise. When do you want to have it?”

  “Well, Christmas is almost upon us….”

  Since this was the sixteenth of December, I’d say yes it was. I felt smug that my Christmas shopping was mostly done, Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner plans were made, and everything was falling into place. In the back of my mind, I was so much more prepared in advance because I didn’t want Greg Davis to ruin our holiday. And I couldn’t believe the Balcomb family would have to worry through the Christmas holiday.

  Keisha looked at me and knew my thought had wandered off. “Kelly, you listenin’ to me?”

  The waiter interrupted. I ordered a caprese salad and Keisha had a Margherita pizza, declaring she’d take half home to José. Then she went on as though we hadn’t been interrupted and I hadn’t lost the train of thought.

  “José says late January.”

  “That’s barely a month away. Can we pull it all together by then? I mean what about invitations, showers, all that kind of stuff.”

  “I got an email list of those I want to invite. I’ll design it real pretty and send it out.”

  I really did gasp then. “Email wedding invitations?”

  “It’s my wedding,” she said firmly, “and I’m saving money—and now time—where I can. I’ll ask for RSVPs and those that don’t reply will get a call from me demanding to know if they’re coming or not.”

  I was truly appalled. Keisha always lived and operated outside the box, but this was a bit much for me, and I couldn’t imagine my mother’s reaction to an email wedding invitation. In fact, I didn’t want to imagine it. So I swallowed and said, “Okay.”

  “And those who want to give me a bridal shower”—she pointed a meaningful finger at me—“can do so after the fact or maybe the day before. We settled on a date—Sunday, the twenty-fifth—and I checked with both Mona and Peter. They’re ready to go—Peter suggests salads as appetizers—he can do a variety as you know—and he’ll do fried mozzarella, fried pickle chips, curly fries, and onion rings. And Mona’s excited about bringing her whole array of hot dog choices. The two of them had a wonderful time planning this event. So that’s all set, and the date is fine with them.”

  “So what do I need to do?” I was really confused here. As it turns out, she had so many chores for me, I needed pencil and paper.

  “First, help me word the invitation.”

  No problem. I wrote that down.

  “Second, help me shop for a dress.”

  There I balked a bit. I wasn’t a fashionista, and my preference for jeans, loafers and a corduroy jacket certainly ran counter to Keisha’s flamboyant taste. “Wouldn’t Claire be better at that?” Claire kept up with the latest styles.

  Keisha shook her head. “Nope. You, Maggie, Em and I are going shopping together. We got to find something we all like. We won’t find it in bridal shops. I’m thinkin’ Pink Ice or Lulu’s for the girls….”

  I carefully wrote those names down.

  “And Zulilly’s for me.”

  “I’ve never heard of any of those.”

  “Online shopping, Kelly. Only way to go. Only we got to hurry to make sure everything fits in time.”

  Email invitations and online shopping for wedding clothes? Since online shopping was my favorite anyway, I guessed I could accommodate and I’d have to shop that way for a dress for me if I wanted a new one.

  Keisha did it to me again. “You can wear pants if you want.”

  I collected myself. “Cake?”

  “Swiss Pastry Shop—Black Forest. No groom’s cake. Hey, this day is all about me!”

  It certainly seemed that way. That was a switch because she’d originally talked about two cakes, but I didn’t bring that up. We went back to the office, my head scrambling to sort all this out. Once there I pulled up the websites Keisha had mentioned. Some of the outfits for young girls were outrageous and I’d never let my girls wear them, but I did find a few bright-colored dresses that might work. They were outlandishly short but I guessed I had to get used to that. When I pulled up Lane & Bryant, I found the choices dull and discouraging. So I began to doodle on a wedding invitation. Finally I handed it to Keisha:

  Keisha Johnson and Joséph Thornberry

  Invite you to share the joy of their

  wedding day

  Sunday, January twenty-sixth

  The Old Neighborhood Grill

&nb
sp; Four o’clock in the afternoon

  Keisha took one look and said, “His name is José. That’s how my friends know him.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from asking about his friends. I’d never met any and didn’t know if he had a life apart from Keisha these days.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Christmas moved inevitably closer, I felt I was living in suspended animation. The Balcombs, however, were living in tension, longing, and hope mixed with despair. There had been no word from Sandra, no record of her. With Mike’s blessing—he’d changed his mind on that issue—I visited the family once or twice, taking with me gifts—a poinsettia, a basket of cheese and sausage, and once, a smoked turkey.

  They were grateful, pitifully grateful. Somehow I doubted they’d moved much from their chairs in the living room but sat day after day, not speaking because what was there to say? They watched newscasts with the dedication of religious zealots but deep down, they knew if there was any news, they’d have heard it first from the police.

  To what I hoped was my credit, I didn’t try to cheer them. How could you do that to people for whom life held no cheer? When I once offered to pray with them, they willingly agreed and so I, who had been derelict in church attendance for many years, found myself beseeching the Lord to bring Sandra safely home and to bless all of us. Our brief prayers—and I really did try to enlarge on the message—became a ritual for us.

  I visited on December 23 and learned that neighbors had invited them to Christmas dinner. They would go, they said, but I didn’t imagine they’d add much joy, and I blessed the neighbors in my mind.

  Janice had long since returned to work. I had a regular check-up appointment with Mrs. Buxton the day after my mind-boggling lunch with Keisha. Janice was subdued when she greeted me and asked me to have a seat in the waiting area. I watched as other patients came in and noted that she was a bit more lively greeting them—but she wasn’t back to the personable girl who had so impressed Mike. And occasionally I saw her cast a furtive glance in my direction. I truly doubted she was much comfort to her grieving parents.