Anjanette reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes, then rose, closed the checkbook and held it to her chest. She glanced around the room, then took the checkbook with her and went through a doorway that must have led into the bathroom. Rhetta heard water run.
Rhetta slid open the louvered door, and stumbled for the doorway leading to the hall. She snatched it open.
And stood face-to-face with Jeremy.
Jeremy paled when he saw her. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “What were you doing in the office?”
“Take your hands off me, and right now,” she said, stage whispering into his ear and totally ignoring his question. She shrugged emphatically as he released his grip. She sidestepped him without answering, and trotted briskly down the hall to rejoin the guests. Let him figure out what, if anything, she was doing in there.
Her stomach had turned to jelly, and her hands began to shake. Perspiration covered her forehead, and dripped down her nose. Now she really had to use the bathroom. As soon as he could get herself together, she had to find Ricky.
Chapter 16
After successfully finding a restroom, but being unsuccessful in locating Ricky, Rhetta wandered out to the patio and sidled up to James. His fluffy white chef’s hat bobbed as he grilled. “Have you seen Ricky Lane?”
“Not in the last fifteen minutes or so,” James answered. “She stopped with him to check on the food, then went out to the pool area.” When he said him, he rolled his eyes with much exaggeration.
“I guess you mean Jeremy?” Rhetta laughed when he nodded. “Thanks a bunch, James.” Rhetta finger-waggled a backward wave at him, and headed to the pool. Rhetta was still unable to locate Ricky even after threading her way once again through the assembled poolsiders. She decided not to go back to the house in search of her friend. She wanted to leave and go home to her sane and normal husband. She had known dysfunctional people before, but these folks ranked right up there amongst the worst. She was amazed that Ricky couldn’t see through them. In fact, Ricky was probably having a big time somewhere inside the house. Rhetta couldn’t stand any more time there of any kind, so she trotted to the back of the yard.
The air hung muggy and close, without a breeze to moderate the humidity. The late afternoon sun bronzed the glistening bodies. Many guests already wore bright red patches of sunburned skin on shoulders, cheeks, backs and noses. They’d be paying tomorrow for their fun today. As she walked, she riffled through her purse, pulled out her cell phone and dialed Ricky’s number. The call went straight to voice mail. She left a message as she walked down the flagstone path, going back to the alley the way she’d come in. “Ricky, I had to leave, and couldn’t find you. Call me when you get a chance.” Rhetta hit END and dropped the phone into her purse.
She passed Jeremy’s garage/house, and couldn’t tell if anyone was there. The garage doors were tightly closed. Arriving at the gate leading into the alley, she leaned a shoulder against it. After a great effort, she managed to shove it open. She wondered why it was so hard to push until she noticed the spring-loaded hinges. And a tiny red flashing light. It was designed to be opened electronically. With her luck, she probably set off a burglar alarm. She didn’t care. Ignoring the sun beating down on her, she walked briskly toward Henderson, and her car. She nodded to the watchman on her way out. And swatted away the drops of perspiration that ran down her nose.
* * *
Rhetta turned on the radio and the air conditioner. Sweat had plastered her hair against her scalp then dripped down her forehead and her nose after the uphill hike to her car. Inside the car, she located a box of tissues, and wiped down her face. Makeup smeared onto the tissue. She glanced at her watch. It was still early, barely five o’clock. Her stomach grumbled. The steaks had smelled so great when she first inhaled the mouth-watering scent of James’ grilling. She’d head home and throw a couple of steaks on their gas grill and cook for Randolph.
Maybe she should call Randolph and tell him she was on her way home early. She pulled up to a red light, and groped in her purse for her cell. Sometimes when her phone was buried in her bag, she couldn’t hear it ring. She found it and glanced at the screen. No messages. She called Randolph and when he didn’t answer, she left him a message. “Hi, Sweets, I’m on my way home. If you’ll take a couple of steaks out of the freezer, I’ll grill them.”
Her mind returned to Ricky. How should she approach telling her about Jeremy? Rhetta badly wanted to know more about Jeremy and Anjanette Spears. She tapped her favorites list for the one guy who kept up with everybody and anything Cape Girardeau—her personal information resource that she’d nicknamed Woody-the-Answer-Man-dot-com.
He answered on the second ring.
“Is this Woody-the-Answer-Man?” She reached over to crank the air conditioning on high and turn the radio off.
Woody chuckled. “So what do you need to know about the Family Spears?”
“How did you know that’s why I called?” The light changed and she edged over to the right lane.
“I know you.”
“I know you know me, but how do you know I wanted to ask you about the great American dysfunctional family?”
“It’s Saturday afternoon, and you were going there for a pool party, to which I wasn’t invited, by the way, and now you call me. It’s a given.”
“Hey, I wasn’t in charge of the invites.” Rhetta stopped for another red light at the corner of Broadway and Kingshighway. “I wish I hadn’t gone.”
“That bad?”
“Yep. Worse. I’ll tell you about it Monday. I don’t want to talk about my experience over a cell phone.”
Woody whistled. “Since when?”
“Look, things were pretty weird, and I promise I’ll fill you in, but first some info. How was Mrs. Spears able to buy that house?”
“What happened to not wanting to talk about stuff on a cell phone?”
“This is different.”
Woody sighed. “Uh-huh. If you say so. Anyhow, the details are public record by now. Agnes Dalton‑Evers with Tri‑County Realty told me that Mrs. Spears paid cash for the house. Agnes handled the sale as both the buyer’s and sellers’ agent. It closed real quick for a short sale. You know how long it usually takes for a bank short sale. In fact they should call them long sales.” Woody chuckled at his own joke. When banks sold homes through short sales, they could sometimes take up to a year or longer to close.
“Must’ve been a local bank that owned it, and not one of the big national bad boys,” Rhetta said.
“Yep, our competitor, Cape First Bank.”
“How short was it?”
“I’m not sure about that, but Agnes said Mrs. Spears paid right at a million for the place.”
Rhetta nearly swerved into a Honda. “Did you say one million? Dollars? Where in God’s name did she get that kind of money?”
“I don’t think the name on the policy was God’s.” Woody chuckled. “I heard she collected two point five million bucks from her husband’s death.”
“Did you say million? With all the zeros? How come you never told me about this before now?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Woody, you know Jeremy is dating Ricky. You should’ve told me.”
“You should’ve asked.”
He’s right. I should have asked. Woody always knows this stuff. “That explains how she got the big bucks.”
The light changed to green and Rhetta accelerated. “Woody, exactly how did Willard Spears die?”
“He had a stroke or a seizure or something like it. Went pretty quickly.”
She resolved to check the newspaper obits to find out more.
Chapter 17
As she zoomed westward out of Cape toward home, Rhetta tapped her phone, pulled up her recent calls, and hit redial on Ricky’s number. Again it went straight into voice mail. Ricky must’ve turned her phone off. Rhetta dropped her phone into her purse.
As she made a left turn, she heard her phone ringing.
Certain that Ricky was calling her back, Rhetta plunged her arm into her purse and managed to locate the phone in time to answer it.
“Ricky, I’ve been trying to call you. I need to talk—”
Before she could finish, an unfamiliar voice asked, “Is this Rhetta McCarter?”
Rhetta pulled the phone away from her ear and glanced at the number displayed for the caller. It was the Illinois number.
“This is Rhetta McCarter.” Rhetta said as she slowed, then turned into a convenience store parking lot. If this gravel-voiced woman wanted a loan, the conversation might get lengthy. Rhetta didn’t think she could focus on driving and talking to a customer at the same time.
“My name is Mylene Allard,” the woman said, then paused.
Rhetta did a rapid scan of her memory and was sure she didn’t know her caller. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you to meet me at Jeremy Spears’ barn at nine o’clock tonight. Come alone, and do NOT mention this to anyone, do you understand?”
Rhetta’s stomach flipped. Who the heck is this Mylene Allard? And why on earth did she want me to meet her at the barn? In spite of having been uncomfortably warm in the late afternoon heat, especially after her recent trek to her car, goose bumps erupted on her arms.
She blurted, “I don’t think so. I’m not going out there alone at nine o’clock tonight. You just need to tell me what you want, or I can call the police and have them meet you out there instead.”
Before she could ask Mylene Allard how she got her phone number, and why she wanted her to meet her at the barn, Mylene disconnected. Crap. I’m not a very good detective. Good thing I’m a banker. Rhetta pounded her hand on the steering wheel. Now I’ll never know what she wanted. She’ll probably never call back. Rhetta was mad at herself for not playing a little cozier with Mylene. Then again, who knows who this person is? She may be a serial killer.
Rhetta quickly dialed Randolph. His call went to voice mail. She called Ricky, and again the call went to voice mail. Doesn’t anybody answer the phone? She thought about the call for a few minutes, and even started to call back. Good sense prevailed for once, so she didn’t call.
Rhetta glanced at her watch. It was only 5:30. She pulled back on to Kingshighway, passed a truck loaded with logs, and punched the accelerator for home.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into her driveway, after waving to Mrs. Koblyk. When she opened the garage door, she found the spot that was normally occupied by Randolph’s truck empty.
If he’d left, she wondered again why he hadn’t answered her call. She spotted his cell phone on the kitchen counter, plugged into his charger. If he went off without his phone, as he sometimes did, that would explain why he didn’t answer. She picked it up and glanced at it, seeing the missed call from her number.
Rhetta set her purse on the countertop and peered out the sliding door, and didn’t spot any of the cats. They’d show up magically as soon as they started to fire up the grill. Peering around, she glimpsed the Artmobile alongside the Garage Mahal. Randolph’s art trailer was hooked to it. He must’ve gone down there to load up some paintings to take to the gallery, and forgotten to take his cell phone. That’s probably where the cats are, too. She hadn’t bothered to call their house phone. She didn’t think about calling it, since they seldom used the land line. In fact, she’d decided to have it disconnected, since the only reason she kept the house phone was because she’d occasionally call the house and leave herself a message about something she might need to remember at home. She used her cell phone for everything else.
She jogged down the circular path to the garage. Not finding him around the truck or trailer, she stuck her head inside the garage and called to him, but got no reply. After a quick scan inside, she returned outside and began circling the garage, calling out again. Still no answer. Where could he be? Then she heard the distinctive meowing of the cats. She followed the sound to the back of the barn. The cats were lined up staring at something on the ground, their tails swishing. A couple of them were meowing. She jogged over to the cats, and spotted a jeans-clad leg and a foot wearing one of Randolph’s boots on the ground behind the dumpster.
Her heart sunk to her stomach in fear as she bent over his still form. “Oh, God, Randolph. What happened? Are you all right?” He moaned then, and began to move. The side of his head bore an ugly, blood-soaked welt. “Are you all right?” Rhetta asked again, caressing his face. He groaned, then tried to sit up.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move, Sweets. I’m calling an ambulance.”
His eyes fluttered open, and although he appeared to be dazed, he recognized her. “Rhetta,” he said, and closed his eyes again.
“What happened?” she asked.
He mumbled something she couldn’t understand. She patted his arm, desperately trying to remain calm. “Sweets, can you understand me?”
He mumbled, “Yes.”
“Do not move.” She spoke slowly, and with as much authority as she could muster. She realized her phone was in the house, in her purse, which was on the counter alongside his cell phone. “I’m going into your studio to call 9-1-1. I’ll be right back.” She stood and made sure he remained quiet. He did. She raced to the barn, which sat behind the garage. Randolph’s new, larger studio was a finished area inside the barn. She snatched the phone extension.
Once she’d given the Emergency Operator the necessary information, Rhetta ran back to her husband, thankful for the phone in the studio. She resolved to keep the land line service.
Chapter 18
Three hours after tests and scans in the emergency room at St. Mark’s Hospital revealed nothing more serious than a mild concussion, Randolph insisted on going home—in spite of the emergency room physician’s recommendation that he spend the night for observation. Rhetta had informed the doctor that Randolph had been out cold when she found him. Randolph insisted that he wasn’t.
When they were alone, Rhetta took her husband’s hand. His head bore a serious bandage across the welt and his face had been cleaned up.
“I know you want to go home, but because of your last head injury, Doctor Marinthe wants you to spend the night to be sure everything is all right. He remembers your previous accident.”
“This does hurt,” he said, touching the bandage on his head, and wincing.
“Do you remember what happened” She pulled the sheet up and tucked it around him. Why are emergency rooms always so cold?
“The Dumpster lid got me.” He smiled crookedly, then flinched. “I guess I shouldn’t have tried holding the lid open and swinging the trash bag in at the same time. Next time, I’ll know to make sure it’s all the way open first.” He shivered, and Rhetta reached for the thermal blanket folded on the table. “The next thing I knew, you were standing over me.”
She kissed the side of his face. “I agree totally with Dr. Marinthe. You’re going to spend the night.”
“All right, if you say I was out, then I guess I’ll stay.” He grasped her hand, and squeezed.
“You were indeed out, and yes, I insist.” She squeezed back.
“Your wife is right, of course,” said Dr. Marinthe, sliding the privacy curtain aside and walking toward the gurney. Marinthe’s limp was evidenced in his shuffling gait. He pulled a stool out from under the counter and sat by Randolph. “We will have a room ready in about ten minutes.” His French accent lent a musical lilt to his words.
Marinthe, who hailed from French West Africa, was Randolph’s hospitalist following his wreck. The slight-framed doctor rolled the stool to a nearby computer station and keyed in his notes. He tucked the stool away, and returned to Randolph’s bedside. “It is good to see you again, my friend, but I am sorry it is because of another calamité.” He smiled and turned to Rhetta. “His head is very hard, non?”
“That’s true in more ways than one, Doctor,” Rhetta said and smiled.
“I will check on you later, my friend,” Marinth
e said, patted Randolph’s shoulder, then left.
Rhetta had just begun gathering up her husband’s clothes, wallet and personal items when an orderly arrived to take him to a room. Rhetta accompanied them on the trip upstairs, and waited while the staff got him settled in.
“The doctor would prefer that you have only liquids until tomorrow morning.” The orderly broke the news to him as he tucked a warm blanket around Randolph.
Rhetta’s stomach growled. She hadn’t stayed at the pool party long enough to eat, nor had she been able to grill steaks at home. The memory of the wonderful scent of the grilling steaks made her stomach rumble. She realized she was famished.
“That’s all right, I’m not hungry,” Randolph said, as he wriggled down into the covers.
“I’m hungry enough to eat a couple double cheeseburgers by myself,” Rhetta said. Her stomach growled in agreement.
“You go on and get something to eat. I’m in good hands here,” Randolph said.
She leaned in and kissed him, then headed for the door. “I love you. Be a good patient,” she admonished wagging an index finger at him.
Walking down the hall to the elevator, she realized that in all the excitement she hadn’t told Randolph about the party, or about the strange phone call. Oh, well. It can wait until morning.
She checked her phone. Still no call from Ricky. She dialed again. Voice mail. Now, she was worried. Had that scumbag of a boyfriend done something to her? Although Ricky claimed Jeremy was “younger,” Rhetta wasn’t sure who Ricky thought he was younger than. Certainly not her or Ricky. Methuselah, perhaps. During their close encounter, she spotted tell-tale crows’ feet that indicated he was on the long side past forty. Probably the Botox was wearing off. In fact, her rapid mental calculations determined that Jeremy was an adult when Malcom Griffith “disappeared.” Might he have had something to do with that, should the body turn out to be Griffith’s?