Danger Comes Home (Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (3 page)

****

Next morning, Anthony came by the office, he said to check on projects I had for him. When I didn’t have anything, Anthony subbed for other contractors, but he much preferred to work for me. He liked the houses I chose to redo and the vision I had for them, and he particularly hated to work for a contractor who was a friend of his and who kept buying properties that weren’t worth renovation. “I tell him,” Anthony told me about each one, “but he don’t listen.” For a man with barely a high school education and for whom English was his second language—Greek was first—he had a good eye for line and a great inborn knowledge of structure and what made it sound.

He was also a hearty man, given to extremes—he could flare in anger at an injustice, explode with fear when he thought one of his children was in danger or when he thought I was or my family. Today he was quiet, subdued, unlike him.

“Anthony, I don’t have anything. But you could go by the McDavid house and see what you can tell from the outside. She won’t let you in the house, but maybe you can get some ideas about how much work it would need, just to fix the outside and make sure there are no foundation problems, that sort of thing.”

“Sure, Miss Kelly, I do that for you. And I fix that leaking gutter you got at your house. It’s dry enough now that I can clean it out and patch that hole. We don’t have to replace the whole thing.”

“Mike will be relieved. And, Anthony, think about ways that we might add a master bedroom suite to the house. I’d really like to do that.”

He rubbed his chin with its stubble of growth. “Okay, Miss Kelly. That’s not gonna be easy, but I’ll sketch out some ideas.”

I kept Anthony on a modest retainer and paid him additionally per job, so that I could ask him to do these odds and ends when he wasn’t working directly for me or someone else. Today he seemed at loose ends. I thought maybe I’d given him enough for the day, but still he sat in the chair by my desk, looking down at the hands he clasped between his knees.

Keisha, with her sixth sense, said, “Kelly, I’ve got some errands to run. Be back in about twenty minutes. You want me to bring lunch?”

I looked at my watch. “It’s only nine-thirty,” I protested. “Too early to think about lunch.”

Anthony watched her leave and then said, “Miss Kelly, I need your help. It’s Theresa. I’m worried about her.”

To use his favorite phrase,
Mother of God! I’m already worrying about Jenny. Do I have to have more to worry about?

Of course I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “You know I haven’t seen Theresa and Joe in a couple of weeks.” Theresa had married Joe Mendez, the young man who vandalized my house and on whose behalf I’d spoken in court because I didn’t think jail would improve him; community service, a job, and an education might turn him into a useful citizen. The young couple was now part of our extended family. “Why are you worried?”

“I know my Theresa. I can tell when she’s not happy. Her eyes don’t laugh at me, and she doesn’t have, you know, that spark. It’s like she was when she was in high school and went to live with you. And Joe, he don’t talk to me anymore. It took me a long time to like that boy, but I came around. I thought he was good to her, loved her, took care of her. Now it’s like he’s all drawn into himself.

Trouble in Paradise.
A subjective analysis I know, but Anthony’s observations made me worry. He knew them both well, and I sensed real concern. “What can I do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they’d either one talk to you or Mr. Mike, but maybe it’s worth a try.”

“Let me talk it over with Mike and see what we can come up with. I love those kids as much as you do, and I really want to help.”

“I appreciate it, Miss Kelly. You’re a good woman. And you can tell Keisha. I just didn’t want to talk in front of her, but I know she cares about them too. We’re like one big family.” He stood to leave, and impulsively I stood and hugged him.

“Anthony, we are one big family. How are the boys?”

Theresa had two younger brothers, Emil and Stefan, who she had partially raised after their mother died way too young. I never could keep track of how old those boys were.

He beamed now. “They’re doing fine, Miss Kelly. Emil, he’s in high school now and taking some special classes, gets real good grades. Stefan,” he shrugged, “he likes sports better than books, but he’s only in what you call it? Middle school? He’s got time. They’re good boys. They miss Theresa.”

He turned to leave and then said, “Thank you, Miss Kelly. I know you take care of this for me.”

As if I can solve everyone’s problems. Well, Mike always says I try, so I guess I’ll try. In some ways, Theresa was easier than Jenny and her mom—I knew her, and I knew she’d talk to me.

Keisha minced no words when she came in. “Well? What’s bothering that old man?”

“He’s not old, and he’s worried about Theresa.” Of course then nothing would do but I tell her the whole story.

Her reaction was immediate. “You call that girl, Kelly, and tell her the truth. She’s worrying her daddy. Take her to lunch.”

Keisha was right. Theresa worked in a boutique on Camp Bowie Boulevard, not exactly close to us, but I could take her for a quick lunch someplace near her store. Lucile’s, that was it! I picked up the phone and punched in her cell phone.

“Theresa,” she answered.

Was it my imagination or did I detect a difference in her tone of voice?

“Theresa, Kelly. I…well, could I come pick you up for lunch today? I need to talk to you about your dad.”

“Dad?” Her voice was livelier now, just with concern.

“Nothing serious,” I said. “But let’s talk. What time’s your lunch hour?”

“I can arrange it. What time’s good for you?”

“How about if I pick you up at eleven-thirty and we beat the crowd at Lucile’s?”

“I’ll be watching so you don’t have to park,” she promised.

I hung up the phone, wondering exactly what I’d say to her over salads and iced tea.

Keisha looked at me. “You’ll think of the right thing,” she said, her sixth sense going strong.

As she promised, Theresa was watching for me. There’s no easy way to double park on Camp Bowie, but the boutique is in a shopping center with off-road parking. Still, there were no parking places right in front of Polly’s Pretties (I thought Polly could have come up with a better name, even Polly’s Boutique), so I stopped behind some parked cars and resisted the urge to honk. No need, Theresa was out the door in no time and climbed into the passenger seat, reaching to give me a quick hug.

She’s what my mom calls “a pretty little thing”—definitely little, tiny, short, thin, with delicate bone structure instead of her Greek father’s burly build. She has beautiful thick dark hair she probably inherited from Anthony. I bet his was jet black before it went silver. Her face is delicate, and her eyes wide. If there could be a facial flaw, it was the Greek nose—a bit large for her face. But you didn’t see that when you looked at her—all you saw was beauty and a radiant smile.

Today, though, she looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes and the lipstick that usually brightened her face seemed suddenly too bright, plastered on in an attempt to look cheerful.

“Hi, Miss Kelly. What’s up with Dad? I hope he’s okay.”

“He’s fine, Theresa. Just a bit worried, but we’ll talk about it over lunch. Tell me what’s up with you and Joe. It’s been too long since we caught up.”

Was it my imagination or did a dark cloud pass over her face. “We’re fine. I’m taking Spanish this semester, but it’s not as easy as I thought. I know Spanish, but I’ve discovered I know street Spanish, not what they teach in school. And right now we’re reading short stories, in Spanish, by some well-known author I’ve never heard of. Brianna something. I’m not sure I’d understand the stories if they were in English, so I’m working hard.”

I laughed sympathetically. “I never heard of her either. What’s Joe taking?”

“American literature, and right now they’re studying Mark Twain. I thought he’d love
Huck Finn
, but he says it’s a kid’s book and the teacher keeps trying to read all kinds of significance into the relationship between Huck and Nigger Jim, as the book calls him. Joe doesn’t like the word Nigger, and he doesn’t like some of the language, says he expects literature to be more proper.”

I wanted to sputter that
Huck Finn
is a classic with many layers of meaning, but I kept quiet.

“He’s threatening to drop the class and quit, and I try to tell him he’s come too close to his degree to quit, and he can’t do it over one class or one book. But I think he’s just looking for a reason to quit.”

We had pulled into a parking space right in front of Lucile’s—how did I get so lucky?—so conversation came to a halt while we went inside, asked for a table, and were seated. We studied the menu, and I opted for my usual choice: the chicken salad plate. Theresa, after some hesitation, ordered the tossed salad with grilled salmon and then looked at me hesitantly as though she feared that was too expensive.

“Good choice,” I said, as we handed the menus to the waiter. As soon as he was out of earshot, I asked, “Why do you think Joe wants to quit school.”

She shrugged and looked down at the table, then began toying with her bread. “I don’t know. Joe’s just different lately. Something’s happened that’s changed him. He’s going out a lot with his old buddies, and I’m terrified he’ll go back to their ways, like he was when you had him arrested. But now tell me about Dad. What’s he worried about?”

I reached across the table and took her hand. “You. Joe. What you just told me. He doesn’t know about Joe and school, but he knows something is wrong. He says Joe doesn’t talk to him any more like he’d begun to.”

“Joe doesn’t talk to anyone,” Theresa said with the first touch of bitterness I’d heard from her in years. “He won’t talk to me about whatever’s bothering him, and he brushes me off when I ask about him spending so much time with those guys. No wonder he isn’t passing his class. He never stays home to study.”

“How’s he doing at the YMCA?”

“Fine. He loves that. It’s like a different world to him, and I think when he’s there he puts aside whatever he’s worried about. The only time he talks to me is when he comes home from there and tells me about what the kids did or didn’t do.”

There was a delicate question I longed to ask but never would. I didn’t need to. Theresa, blushing, volunteered the information. “He doesn’t make love to me much, like he used to, and when he does, there’s a kind of desperation about it.” She put her head in her hands and when she raised it again, I saw tears in her eyes. “I’m scared, Miss Kelly. I love Joe so much, and I don’t want to lose what we have. Or had.”

“You’ve tried to talk to him about it?”

“Of course. He doesn’t want to talk. Just tells me, ‘Don’t worry, babe. It will all be all right. Just give me time.’ I’m having a hard time dealing with that.”

“Of course you are. And I wish I knew how to help you. We’ve got to think about how to find out why Joe’s worried—and why he seems to have gone back to his old ways. Let me think and—is it okay if I talk to Mike?”

She nodded. “I trust both of you, and this has gotten beyond what I can handle.”

We had both nibbled at our salad plates. Now we turned our attention to them more seriously, but neither of us had an appetite. “Why don’t you take that salmon for your supper?” I suggested.

“Thanks. But I’m just not very hungry these days.”

I got out of the car to give Theresa a big hug when I dropped her off. “I’m like Joe in a way, Theresa. It will all be all right. I just don’t know when or how. But Mike and I are here for you—and so is your dad.”

“I know,” she said, swiping at a tear, “and I’m so lucky to have such loving people in my life.” Then she turned and fled into the boutique.

Sometimes I feel like a reporter. I had to tell Keisha all about it. Her reaction was, “Do I need to slap that Joe upside the head?” I assured her I didn’t think that was the answer.

“And just what is?” she demanded. “I’m with Anthony. I don’t want to see that child hurting like she apparently is.”

Mike was much more measured in his response. “She thinks he’s gone back to his old ways? I hate to even suspect that. I was so against what you did when you didn’t send him to prison and then so proud that your decision proved justified.”

Wow! That put the whole thing on my shoulders in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“Do you think he would talk to me?” he went on.

“I think you’re probably the last person he wants to talk to right now.”

He put his nose back in the copy of
Atlantic Monthly
he was reading, effectively leaving me to stew in my own juices. Which I did.

****

The next morning Em appeared in the kitchen. Since she was now eight, her taste in clothing was a lot better than when she was five or six and used to come up with some weird combinations that we could not talk her out of. Today she was pretty in pink, her favorite color, with a pink sequin-trimmed T-shirt and jeans banded at the Capri cuff with pink plaid fabric. Mike whistled in appreciation, and she giggled.

But when she sat down, she made a serious statement. “You guys”—that was her newest way to address the two of us—”we haven’t had any fun lately. You’re both so boring, like you’re thinking of other things.”

I thought the unspoken message was that we should be thinking of Em and her sister, who had not yet made it to the kitchen. “You’re right, Em. What would you like to do?” I sat down at the table and focused my attention on her.

“I’d like to have everybody here for Sunday supper and Mike grill hamburgers, like we used to do. And I don’t want to hear any talk about murder or Jenny or any of those serious things.”

Mike sat down too and took her hand. “You’re right, pumpkin. We haven’t done that in a long time. And we’ll keep it light.” He turned to me, “Kelly?”

“I’ll start calling this morning.”

“Maybe you could get a set of horseshoes? Or at least the plastic kind. I bet everyone would have fun with that. And maybe a bean bag toss.”

I could see a trip to Academy or wherever in my future. “I’ll ask Joe for suggestions. He works with kids all the time.” That was an automatic response, and then I wondered what this changed Joe would think of the request. Maybe that would be my opening to talk to Joe.

Maggie wandered in just then, wearing jeans and a large shirt. She’s a beautiful child, and I wished she could be just a bit more of a fashionista like she once was. Her sister had apparently taken over the role in the family. But Maggie is Maggie, and this, I suspected, was a phase that would pass. “What are you talking about?”

“Em wants us to have one of our Sunday hamburger dinners, with everybody here.”

“Cool.” Her voice was filled with enthusiasm, something we didn’t always hear from the tween. Then she was thoughtful for a minute. “Could we invite Jenny and her parents?”

I looked at Mike, who returned my look without giving me a bit of help. So I jumped. “Sure. Maggie, I don’t think her parents would come, but maybe they’d let Jenny come. I’d be glad to pick her up and take her home. If you find out her phone number, I’ll call her mom tonight.”

She promised.

We were late with breakfast, so we hurried along; I threw lunches together for all three of them—“Ham again?” Mike asked and got a withering glance, at least I hope it was withering. Then we were all out the door, me to take the girls to school and Mike to the downtown police station where he worked.

When I got to the office, Keisha asked, “What are you bursting about?”

So I told her what Em said and that we planned a Sunday cookout. Sunday was always José’s night off, so she was delighted. “I’ll bring my mom’s cheese grits.”

I loved the cheese grits, but the girls didn’t like grits in any form. They’d just have to be quiet about it. “Bring your mom too if you want.”

“Mom’s got a new grandchild, remember? My sister’s baby girl. She takes every minute of Mom’s time.”

Anthony declared he and his sons would bring an ice cream cake, and Claire was delighted. Claire Guthrie was my closest friend these days, probably because we’d shared a lot of traumas together—the night she shot her husband in the butt (I thought he deserved it) she moved in with me and stayed until Jim Guthrie killed himself in a one-car accident. And the night Mike was in the accident and had a six-hour surgery, Claire was the one who stayed with me at the hospital. Several years before I’d sold Claire and her late husband the house Tim Spencer had bought for us—a two-story that was too big—and moved my girls into the wonderful Craftsman house where we now lived. So Claire and I had a lot of ties. These days, she worked as marketing manager for a small, independent bank in the neighborhood, and we didn’t see each other nearly as much as we both wanted. Life gets in the way.

“It’s been way too long,” she said. “I bet Liz will come, though Megan might have a date. She’s still seeing that Waggoner boy, and I admit he’s growing on me.” Megan was a junior at TCU, while Liz was still in high school.

“Tell her to bring him, if he’s not afraid,” I said.

She laughed. “Megan just might do it.”

I called Joe and Theresa and, of course, got Joe.

“We’d like to come. Theresa’s been making some good, Mexican-style dips—she’s learning from my mom. We’ll bring a couple of those.”

He sounded, well, just like Joe. I wasn’t hearing what Theresa was seeing. “Terrific. Joe, can you suggest stuff for the kids to do? Mike thought of horseshoes, the plastic kind, and maybe ball toss.”

“Yeah, Miss Kelly. I’ll go out to Academy and see what I can find.”

One long errand off my list, but this wasn’t getting me any closer to the conversation I wanted to have with him. “Bring me the bill,” I said, “and don’t argue.” Then, “Joe, you okay?”

“Yeah, Miss Kelly. Why are you asking? You been talking to Theresa?”