I had just put the first taste of the treat in my mouth when my cell phone chimed. Celeste’s head snapped around and she stared at me through wide eyes. I excused myself from the table, found my purse, and hurriedly glanced at the small screen on the device. Caller ID told me, “West, Judson” and the phone number. My heart did a somersault.
“Madison Glenn,” I said, trying to look calm. Every eye was on me as I held the phone to my ear. I turned my back to those seated at the table so I could focus on West’s words. I listened as he spoke softly but firmly. I said I understood and disconnected. My chest muscles tightened and I felt the blood drain from my face. The room spun for a second, then returned to its rightful place. I was holding my breath. I forced a few inhalations. Slowly I turned and faced family and guests.
Celeste broke the silence. “Was it about my mother?”
I shook my head. I was starting to feel numb, distant from reality, like a balloon released in a stiff breeze.
“What, dear?” my mother asked. “Who was it?”
I blinked a few times. “Detective West. There’s been another abduction, and . . .” I wasn’t sure how to put it. “And it’s someone else I know. I’m going over there.” I put the phone back in my purse. “Can Celeste stay—”
“Of course,” Mom answered before I completed the sentence. Judging from Dad’s open mouth, she had beaten him by a slim second.
“I’ll pick you up on my way home, Celeste. I’m afraid I have to do this.”
She said nothing.
“I’m going with you,” Jerry said, jumping to his feet. “I’ll drive.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No, but I want to. Don’t bother arguing. You can let me drive or I’ll follow you over. Either way I’m going to be there.”
I agreed with a silent nod. Why do men always have to be the ones to drive? Three minutes later I was riding shotgun in Jerry’s Ford Excursion.
W
e got on the 101 and headed north for about five miles. Jerry handled the SUV with precision.
“You going to fill me in?” he asked, his eyes fixed forward, looking beyond the black hood. “All I know is that we’re going to Canyon Rim.” Canyon Rim is a new subdivision that was built less than five years earlier. It’s a gated community with large homes and shared swimming and recreational facilities. “Canyon Rim, the Family Oasis,” it bills itself. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars can get anyone a home with an ocean view.
“Gillespie Street, 1344 Gillespie.”
“You said this was another abduction?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to face this, didn’t want to talk about it.
“Someone you know, you said.”
“Yes.” I was going to have to talk about it. “How much do you know about Lisa Truccoli’s kidnapping?”
“Just what was in the papers, and that wasn’t much.”
I studied Jerry for a moment. He was a gentle man with a keen mind, attractive in every way. His most winsome attribute was his ability to empathize. That was what made him a good doctor, or so I heard. Having no children, I’ve never needed his services. I took a deep breath and explained all I knew. I felt as if I had recounted the story every hour of the day. I told him about Lisa’s role in my campaign, and the discovery of my bloody business card.
Jerry listened, asking only the occasional question to clarify my sometimes murky descriptions. When I was done, he said, “Wow.”
“Wow?”
“I know that’s not eloquent, but it’s all I can think of to say. This place we’re going is also connected to you?”
“The person is. Take the next off ramp.” I gazed out the window, watching the terrain zip by as we began to head inland. The 101 bifurcates Santa Rita: coastal communities and businesses to the west, the rest of the city nestled in the hills to the east. Those hills, still green from the winter rains, were lit this night by a waxing gibbous moon. “Poor Lizzy.”
“Lizzy?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be opaque. Elizabeth Stout. She was my best friend in college.”
“At San Diego State.”
“Yes. Peter introduced us during my freshman year. She’s from Agora Hills originally. She moved to Santa Rita about ten years ago. Turn left on Sunset, then make a right on Grove. We’re almost there.”
“Did the detective say . . . I mean . . . did he mention if . . .” He gave a halfhearted chuckle. “It appears I just suffered a stroke.”
He was trying to ask a hard question delicately, but there was no subtle way to approach it. “Detective West didn’t say anything about the crime scene, so I don’t know if there’s blood.”
“Isn’t it unusual for the police to ask a civilian to come to the scene of a crime?”
“I suppose,” I admitted, “but this is all atypical. He said it involved me again, but didn’t say how. Maybe because I’m the mayor, I get cut a little extra slack.”
“Make’s sense, I guess.”
“That’s it,” I said. I didn’t have to say anything else. Two patrol cars and one unmarked police car rested near the curb. Jerry parked behind the last car in the queue and I exited. Outside the vehicle I paused, closed my eyes, took a deep breath of sweet night air, and wished I were far away. When I opened my eyes, I found that reality had decided to hang around.
Lizzy’s house is a two-story structure that must hover around three thousand square feet. The stucco exterior appeared stark and uninviting in the yellow porch light. The light bar of one patrol car was still on, splashing the house with rotating red and blue splotches.
For the second time in two days, I walked to a house that had harbored a crime.
I
’m Maddy Glenn,” I said to the officer posted by the front door. As with Lisa’s house, the door was wide open. “Detective West asked to see me.”
“Who are you?” he asked Jerry.
“He’s with me,” I said.
The officer frowned, then took one step into the house. “Detective, Maddy Glenn is here.”
A second later West appeared, his suit looking as crisp and pressed as it did that morning. “Madam Mayor,” he said. “Thank you for coming.” He looked at Jerry.
“Dr. Jerry Thomas,” I said, “meet Detective Judson West, Santa Rita PD.”
They acknowledged each other, but I noticed that West was studying Jerry carefully.
“Jerry is a family friend. He was having dinner with my parents and me when you called.”
“Celeste?” West asked.
“She was with us. I left her at my parents’ house. I didn’t think she needed to see any of this.”
“Wise. Come in, but please keep your hands to yourself and watch your step.”
We followed West into the house. It was as I remembered it. Clean in a way that only a compulsive organizer could keep it. Lizzy fit that bill. Smart, witty, and aggressive, she was the consummate real estate broker. After learning that a degree in art history was hard to convert into a livable wage, she studied and took the real estate exam, passing it the first time, unlike the bulk of other aspirants. Within five years she had earned her brokers license and opened up shop for herself. She had a knack for placing people in houses and browbeating lending institutions into loaning money to anything that breathed.
Over the years, she and her husband, a civil engineer for the county, had earned enough money to be comfortable. Her only vice was a love for new artists, and her house proves it. Paintings hang from every wall and sculptures rest in nearly every nook.
The foyer is small but opens onto a large living area with a cathedral ceiling. Leather furniture fills the space, which is accented with mahogany end and coffee tables. On the sofa was a man, hunched over, his head buried in his hands. He rocked back and forth like a metronome.
“Leo?” The man didn’t look up. I glanced at West.
The detective nodded. “He’s taking it hard.”
“How else could he take it?” I scurried to Leo’s side, sat down on the sofa, and put my arm over his shoulders. He seemed to melt under my touch. I wanted to say something but nothing came to mind, so I just sat there with him for a moment. He never lifted his head.
“Mayor, if you have a moment, please,” West whispered.
I rose and Jerry and I followed him to the kitchen. Like the living room, the kitchen was spotless. The tile glowed, it was so clean.
“Here’s what we know so far,” West said. “Mrs. Stout was alone in her home this afternoon. Sometime after three and before five-thirty, one or more people entered the house, struggled briefly with her, and then removed her from the premises.”
“How do you know the time?” Jerry asked.
“Mr. Stout spoke to her on the phone at three. They planned a dinner engagement. He arrived home at five-thirty. He found her missing and he found this.” He pointed to a photograph sitting on the counter, just in front of a drip coffeemaker. “Do you recognize the picture?”
I was standing ten or twelve feet from the photo but I could see it clearly enough. It showed Lizzy with her short styled hair framing her round face. We were standing shoulder-to-shoulder next to a wood podium. There was something odd about the picture. “Yes. Lizzy was president of the Santa Rita Chamber of Commerce last year. I spoke at one of their luncheons. That picture was taken then.”
I took two steps closer. An empty wood frame sat to the side. At first I thought something had been spilled on the picture, but then I realized how wrong I was. Mustering courage I didn’t feel, I stepped closer. Drops. Rust red drops. Tiny little mounds of viscous fluid had been carefully and strategically placed on the image of Lizzy’s face: one drop on each eye and one on her mouth. Three drops. Three tiny drops that hit me like atomic bombs.
I felt sick. Clutching my stomach, I turned away.
Jerry said, “What kind of sick person does this?”
“Good question,” West asked. “If we knew that, we could put an end to it all.”
My stomach cramped and a burning filled my gut. For a moment I felt as if my knees would buckle. I sucked air, hoping to quell the volcano in my belly.
“You all right, Mayor?” West asked.
“Uh, yeah. Give me a minute.”
“Perhaps we should go outside,” he suggested, taking my arm. “I can’t have you tossing your dinner in here. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” I squeaked and allowed him to lead me out of the house. I felt like an old lady.
The cool air washed over me in sweet relief. I was angry for being weak, but the picture was the last straw on my camel’s aching back.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Jerry said. I could feel his hand on my shoulder. “In fact, you better sit down.” He guided West and me to his SUV and opened the passenger door. I sat. I breathed. I tried to regain my pride.
“I’m sorry. I don’t normally respond this way.”
“How often have you faced a situation like this?” West asked. “There’s no need to apologize.” He and Jerry were standing next to me on the curb.
“I’ll take you home,” Jerry said.
“Hang on a sec,” West countered. “I need to ask a few questions.”
“Can’t you see she’s not up to it?”
West paused before replying. He eyed Jerry hard, then said in a calm but cold voice, “There are two women missing, Doctor. While it may be an uncomfortable inconvenience for the mayor, it is a necessary one. Or would you like to go tell Mr. Stout that we need to hold up the investigation?”
“Of course not,” Jerry shot back. “I just think you should show more compassion.”
I had to put an end to this. “I’m fine, Jerry. Thanks. Detective West is right. Ask your questions, Detective.”
“How do you know Mrs. Stout?”
I explained about being school chums and maintaining a friendship over the years.
“Do you know if she has any enemies?”
“Not Lizzy. She can charm a bear out of its honey. Everyone likes her.”
“Has she spoken to you recently about any problems in her life?”
“Problems?”
“Family, business, that sort of thing.”
“No. As far as I know, she and Leo have a perfect marriage . . . as perfect as marriage can be, anyway.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
I had to think about that. “About two weeks ago, give or take.” My stomach settled and I could feel the blood circulating in my head again. I was beginning to feel like I might survive.
“When you spoke to her, did she seem abnormal . . . by that I mean, did she seem stressed, fearful, irritated, or depressed?”
“No.” I thought it was time to cut to the chase. “Detective, I know you’re trying to cover all the bases, and maybe you’re trying to spare me any more shock, but I think I know the real questions you want to ask. Perhaps we should get right to it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Did Mrs. Stout have any connection to your office or campaigns?”
“Yes. Like Lisa, she worked in my campaigns.”
“In what capacity?”
“Lizzy is well connected in the business community and active in the Chamber. As I said earlier, she was president last year. With her connections, we thought it best that she serve as fund-raising chairwoman.”
“And that’s what she did?”
“Yes, excelled at it. Her people skills are beyond match. She jump-started the campaign with several key fund-raising events.”
“So she worked with the money.”
“Not like Lisa. Lizzy couldn’t write checks and didn’t have access to bank records. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her; she just had no need to work in those areas.”
“Still, it is an interesting tie-in.”
“What’s it mean?” Jerry asked.
“I have no idea,” West replied. “It’s a flimsy connection, but it is a connection nonetheless.” He paused. “I need to ask another question.”
I had anticipated this. “I was at my office until a few minutes before five, which you know, since we spoke on the phone. From there I drove home. Celeste can tell you I arrived at about five-ten or five-fifteen. A little while later we left to drop off Michele and then go to my parents’ house for dinner. I arrived there around twenty after six.”
“Michele?”
“That’s Celeste’s friend. They go to college together. She spent the day with Celeste while I was at work.”
In the dim moonlight I could see West’s eyes narrow. “You arrived home sometime after five but didn’t reach your parents’ house until nearly six-thirty. What did you do in the meantime?”