Ryn Davis Mystery 03-No Little Lies Page 3
“Like mother, like daughter.” The statement fell out of her mouth without any warning and jerked her upright. “Bull.”
“Ah, the truth hurts.”
“Bull.” She grabbed the handrail and pulled herself up the steps.
“Tsk, tsk. Why so defensive?”
“Give me a break.”
The towel she picked up slipped through her fingers, slid into the water, and floated like a weird jellyfish before gliding to the bottom.
“Great,” she yelled, naked and shivering. “Absolutely great.”
“You sure about that talking-to-yourself theory?”
“Oh, shut up.” She ignored her flip-flops and dragged on a floor-length terry robe lying on a bench. Her nose stung as if a colony of bees had made it their hive.
“You were supposed to avoid hot showers—”
“Shut—”
“Showers, hot tubs, saunas—”
“For a week. Yada. Yada. Blah. Blah.” Biting her bottom lip, she lowered her aching butt onto the nearest chaise lounge. With padding thick enough for the pickiest princess, it felt as if she were sitting on a pile of razorblades.
The urge to lay her wrist across her forehead like a melodrama diva hummed in her fingertips. She tucked her hands under her hips, tilted her head back, and stared at the glass ceiling. “Good thing Dr. Tim can’t see me now.”
Chapter 7
When the phone rang, Ryn lifted the edge of her sleep mask and glanced at her bedside clock. Five-thirty? She moaned, pulled the pillow over her head, and instantly tossed it on the floor. Instead of screaming because her nose hurt so much, she reached for the phone. “Either payback or perfect timing, Jack.”
It’s probably Steven White.
“Even better timing.” She choked the damn phone. “Why didn’t I put the techno wonder in the garage?”
Or bury it in a hole in the garden like Elena? Ryn’s heart missed a beat, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, staring at the led. Please let this be Jack. Talking to him might derail the memory of Marta’s confession.
Jack McCoy flashed.
Yesssss. Ryn punched on and spoke in the fast, breathy rush of a soulful lover. “Jack!”
“Whoa! Now that’s the kind of greeting every red-blooded—”
“I-I’m still half asleep.”
“At least tell me you were dreaming about me.”
OoooGod. She imagined slapping him, remembered he must have something about Hannah Gleeson, and summoned a dry, sexless voice she hoped he could hear over her drumming heart. “How about telling you I’m impressed—provided you have info I can use.”
He exhaled like a man drawing his last breath. “Well, hell, there goes that attaboy.”
Her pulse slowed. “Anything?”
“Nada. Nothing. Zip. I couldn’t even find a school record.”
“How’s that possible?”
“The place closed before the 1987 school year started. No idea why. The two lines in the local rag didn’t say.”
By then, she and Mama were living in Kansas City. Hands sweaty, she asked, “What about The Kansas City Star?”
“Ran three lines. Did you know that caves over the Missouri River hold all kinds of archived computer and hard records? There’s an underground town—”
“You mean in Kansas City?”
“Duuuh, Ryn. Am I keeping you up?”
“Why would I know about caves in Kansas City?” she snapped.
“Didn’t you grow up in St. Louis?”
“Your point?” During all the years with Stone, she’d lied and told the press she grew up an only child in St. Louis, raised by her dead maternal grandparents.
“I grew up in LA, but I know stuff about San Francisco.”
“Uh-huuuh. The Golden Gate Bridge. Alcatraz. Chinatown. Who doesn’t know about San Francisco? St. Louis and Kansas City aren’t the same city.”
Silence, then a stiff reply. “Oookay. My mistake. But nothing’s all I’ve got on Hannah Gleeson. No obituary. No birth records. No Gleesons currently living in the area—Kansas City or St. Louis.”
“Thanks. I didn’t expect much.”
His silence telegraphed the potential slam in her comeback.
She backpedaled. “I mean, I didn’t give you very much and didn’t imagine you’d uncover much.”
“Well, I did tell you a factoid you didn’t know—the underground town.”
“Right. The caves and the underground town. Good to know.”
They rang off, and she was pretty sure she’d wounded his fragile ego. Too bad. She might want more information from him in the future.
About your mother?
“God, no!” She lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. Did he know what he was talking about—an underground town?
Chapter 8
Safety Harbor, Florida—9:00 AM
After Chad left, Molly rinsed the coffee mugs. She didn’t dare go to the bathroom to examine her ear. Such a brazen misstep guaranteed a matching blow to the other ear after Chad returned. He hadn’t even bothered to hide the camera he’d installed in one corner of the ceiling.
It was too early to visit Carolyn. The schedule allowed Molly to leave the house at 10:00. On the dot. The Mercedes had to back down the drive at 10:01, stop at the four-way sign at 10:03, arrive at Safety Harbor Ocean View Subacute Center at 10:23.
Enter the building at 10:24 (thanks to valet parking).
Greet the staff and proceed to the Ocean Room at 10:26.
Thinking about her trained-dog schedule caused her ear to spasm.
Damned if she’d let him see her fight for control.
So, she checked the freezer in the garage. Something special for supper meant steak in Chad’s mind.
She spent more time than necessary rooting through the precisely labeled packages. She’d served the last rib eye two days earlier. As chatelaine of Chad’s meticulous home, she knew every item and its exact location in the freezer. The icy inside was one of the very few places where she could escape the all-seeing, omnipresent electronic eyes posted throughout the house.
Chatelaine. His word because Molly figured it sounded better than slave. Shoulders straight, face blank, she shut the freezer door and returned to the kitchen. Calling him was a risk so soon after he’d left the house. On the other hand, calling later presented greater risks if he came home early and she hadn’t fixed his special din-din.
Hyperaware her left carotid was pounding, she approached the nearest cabinet, pulled out a deep drawer, and bent over the pots and pans. Blood rushed to her head. She pulled out the six-quart Le Creuset Dutch oven. Its fourteen-pounds could explain her throbbing carotid. Bending to retrieve two Vidalia onions provided double insurance against dinner-table drama. Chad loved his caramelized onions.
God, if only she could figure out some way to drop the oven on his foot and then run out of the house while he writhed in pain.
Even if she managed to kidnap Carolyn, even if the two of them boarded a boat to South America with forged IDs, even if they hid out in Lower Patagonia, he’d find them.
And bring them home.
And let the alligator in the house.
Chapter 9
Molly answered Chad’s phone call at the stop sign. She waited a beat for him to inform her about the phone call he was expecting from Steven White. When he started talking about the weather, she let his drone run down to a pause and asked him about rib eyes for dinner.
“Didn’t we just have steak two nights ago?” His tone hummed with an I’ve-got-a-secret undertone.
“We did. I thought you might like grilled shrimp to go along with them tonight. Or lobster. Caramelized onions, of course.” She fought the desperation building in her throat and added, “Asparagus—”
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
“Carrots—on the grill.” She backpedaled. “In case I don’t find perfect asparagus.”
“What kind of potatoes?”
“Whatever you want.” She slowed, on the lookout for ambulances, in her approach to the care center.
“Pommes Anna? Will you have time? I forgot to tell you my tux is ready at the cleaners.”
You bastard. She pasted on her red-carpet faux smile. She’d swear he could read her mind. “I’ll cut my visit short with Carolyn. Six, as usual?”
“As usual. Gotta run. Have a blast shopping. I’m in the mood for lobster and steak.”
“Have a blast shopping,” she mimicked, twisting her face in a grimace as she handed the keys to the valet. She hated steaming lobsters.
The kid’s eyebrows shot up. “Ma’am? Mrs.—”
“Sorry, Carlos.” God, what if he reported her bizarre behavior to Chad? She turned a full-wattage smile on the kid. “I was reviewing my shopping list for dinner. I can only stay a few minutes.”
Carlos called something she didn’t stop to hear. God, she wished he’d smash the car in the nearest wall. Or run over the curb. Or lose the keys.
Inside the sprawling one-story building, she shivered. Cold air raised goosebumps on her arms. The frigid temperature camouflaged any telltale signs of dying old people. The place felt like a morgue. Which, when Molly thought about it, this was the first stage to the morgue. Very few of the residents left here alive. Technically, they had to have a pulse to call an ambulance, but she wondered …
Several nurses greeted her by name as she strode through the carpeted halls. None commented on the bruise above her ear. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she didn’t have a bruise but was imagining the worst so she could stoke her simmering rage.
Cindi, Molly’s least favorite nurse, was leaving as Molly approached the door. Neither of them smiled. Molly recognized danger when she smelled it. Blonde, stacked, carrying the scent of roses … just one of the many reasons Molly and Carolyn could never escape.
Chapter 10
The woody asparagus stems signaled their unworthiness to serve to Chad. Molly moved on to the carrots. Grilling them required constant attention to avoid burning. That could mess up the timing for the rib eyes and lobster. Molly’s heart skittered. She should’ve cut her visit to Carolyn to five minutes instead of ten.
Sorry, Carolyn.
The check-out clerk smiled and greeted her by name. Grateful for every opportunity to connect with others, Molly made mindless small talk and imagined the woman’s reaction to a note passed on with the platinum Visa card.
help. call the police. help me.
Only one small problem: paper for a note.
Chad demanded email receipts for all credit-card transactions. Every purchase she made was recorded on the Visa card.
She couldn’t withdraw cash. Nor order anything from Amazon or any other vendor.
She used a cloth bag for the fresh produce. The butcher and fishmonger placed their products into individual coolers she brought to the store. The tux she’d pick up later would go inside the hanging leather bag she’d give the owner.
The pantry held nothing in cans or bottles with paper labels. Freezer foods went into individual plastic containers without labels.
Bidets in the four bathrooms removed the need for toilet paper. Cloth wipes replaced paper towels.
Post-menopausal, she lived in a paperless world.
Molly kept the smile pasted on her face right up until she slid behind the steering wheel. Aware of the cameras she could see and the ones she couldn’t, she straightened her shoulders and started the car.
If it weren’t for Carolyn—
A chime from the phone obliterated the thought. Instead of backing out, she answered at once.
“You’re not home yet,” he said, the accusation clear.
“On my way.” Should she give a reason—an excuse—as he called any explanation for going one minute off schedule?
He loves confirmation of his infallibility. “You were right …”
“About the asparagus. I told you so.”
“Yes.” She stuffed the flash of her spitting out the bottled-up fury, frustration, and fear and rushed on. “But the carrots are perfect. So is the lobster.”
“How about the rib eyes?”
Bastard. “Mr. Drakos cut them to your specifications. He always comments on your knowing what you want.” If all my customers demanded such trimming, I’d be out of business.
“For what we pay, that Greek bastard better appreciate my good taste.”
“I’m headed to the cleaner’s. Anything else you want?” Of course, he wanted something. He always wanted something that might trip her up.
“We okay on wine?” Did he really think she hadn’t memorized the contents of the wine cellar?
“Six bottles of Syrah left, three Cabs, one Malbec.”
“Open the Syrah around 5:30 and get ready to celebrate.”
Snick. If she asked why, he could go ballistic. If she didn’t ask why, he could go nuclear. Her heart raced.
“Your enthusiasm is so spontaneous, darlin’.”
Snap. “I know you’re busy. I thought maybe you wanted to surprise me.” Dread uncoiled in her gut. She touched the spot over her left ear. “I can listen and drive—”
“The hell you can. You can’t listen and listen. You’re like all women, always yap—” His name in the background overrode his low, menacing rant. He called, “Coming.”
Coming … God, something to look forward to. She squeezed the muscles in her pelvic floor and ran the red light.
Chapter 11
Alta Vista, California—8:30 AM
The vibration of Ryn’s cell phone roused her from the doze she’d fallen into a little after four. Pain seared her nose, and she kept her eyes closed. Dammit, she hadn’t expected the incision to hurt so much.
No saunas. No hot showers. No hot tubs.
The phone pulsated against her arm. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. She swore in sync with the phone’s rhythm for another second and then opened her eyes. Thanks to the black-out drapes, the bedroom was a cave—the quiet interrupted only by the phone’s continued shudder.
“Jack. Has to be Jack.” She held her watch up to her face.
You started it. You called him.
“Shut up.” She lowered her arm and grabbed the phone in a chokehold.
The beeping stopped. If she slept another hour, maybe the throb would subside. Seeing the doctor today didn’t fit her agenda.
“Ryn?” Beau tapped her door with pats as soft as Maj’s footfall. “You awake? Jack’s on the phone.”
Tell him I’m asleep. She fought the impulse to ask Beau to lie.
Opening her eyes, she yelled, “I don’t want to talk to him. I’m trying to sleep.”
“He says it’s important. Says he’s going to bed—”
“Jerk.” She threw back the covers. “Okay, I’ve got it.”
“Owww,” Jack whined. “You don’t hafta break my eardrum.”
“You didn’t have to—what, Jack?” She bit her tongue to keep from blurting, This had better be damned good.
Jack lived and breathed that kind of melodrama. Ate it up.
“I sent you an email. Since I don’t believe people simply disappear without a trace, I kept digging. You know me.”
“I do.” She shoved her feet into her bedroom slippers. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“It may not be anything.”
“I’ll read what you sent and get back to you.”
“I can hold on while you read. It’s pretty short.”
She rolled her eyes. Forget trying to get him to hang up. She put him on hold and opened the email.
Ryn, here are 3 leads I found. Obviously, there’s more to the story now that I have another name. Want me to keep searching? Read them in order.
First
Independence (MO) Register—November 20, 1986—Police Blotter—An Independence juvenile was ch
arged with vandalizing an empty property at 87 Orchard Drive. The juvenile was booked and released on their [sic] own recognizance.
At the bottom of the newspaper notice, Jack had added: note: reporter/editor? bracketed “sic.” unusual—even for a small-town rag. i’d guess it was an attempt to muddy the gender of the juvenile … having the opposite effect in my humble journalistic opinion.
Ryn laughed. Did Jack know the meaning of humble? A quick glance showed he’d made no other comments.
Second
Independence (MO) Register—January 20, 1987—Jackson County Circuit Court dismissed the charges against an alleged vandal of property at 87 Orchard Drive due to extenuating circumstances.
Third
Independence (MO) Register—January 21, 1987—Notice to all subscribers: The Register will cease publication with today’s edition. All those with paid-up accounts will receive full settlement by end of day on January 22, 1987. If you do not receive your refund by February 6, 1987, send a letter to the address on the masthead. Indicate the amount due you and provide a correct address for forwarding your repayment.
Ears ringing, Ryn reread the notices three times. On each pass, her mind shied away from the address of 87 Orchard Drive as the numbers and letters danced at the edge of her vision. Two figures—faceless, hazy—hovered in the shadows.
She squinted, winced, cursed.
“Do any of them mean anything to you?” Jack asked.
“Nothing.” Not a total lie. The address … almost thirty-five years ago. She shook her head. Her memory couldn’t connect the dots.
“Probably a good thing. I can’t tell you how I found these notices. I have no idea why they aren’t in the Register’s archives.”
“Are their archives in the caves in Kansas City?”