Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

“First tell me about you guys,” I said.

“Well everyone had a great day at camp. I took them to the pool, and now we’re finishing dinner. Do you want to say hello?”

“Sure. Put me on speaker.”

“Say hi to your Mom,” she instructed cheerfully.

“Hi, Mom!” was the united response.

“Hi sweeties!” I confirmed their day was going well and they were having fun with Grandma.

“We get donuts for dessert,” Jack said. “Grandma took us to that place you never let us go.”

“Really?”

“Sorry, honey,” Mom piped up. “It’s Grandma’s prerogative.” I couldn’t argue.

“What flavors did you pick, guys?”

“Stwaberry fwosting!” Sophie yelled, apparently in the midst of enjoying it.

“I got vanilla cream,” Jack said.

“Mmmm,” I said. “Yummy! Well, keep having fun. Grandma, can you take me off speaker?” The phone clicked. “I won’t be too late, Mom, but I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

“Of course.”

“Can you go into my office and look up a website for me when you have a minute?”

“Oh, Nicki, you know how terrible I am at that stuff.”

“It’ll be easy. I promise.”

“Well, the kids
are
busy with the donuts.” She sighed. “I’m walking to your office.”

I thanked her again for the navigation system, an embarrassingly life-changing gift. I got lost plenty in life, but at least now on the road, I knew where I was going. Then in the simplest, most patient words I could find, I reminded her how to access the Internet and type in a website.

“Asheleigh Manor provides short- and long-term care for individuals with special needs,” Mom read aloud, “including complex psychiatric diagnoses and developmental disabilities.” She stopped. “Nicki, I can’t imagine why on Earth you need this information.”

“It has to do with the investigation, Mom. It’s probably not important. But keep reading if you don’t mind.”

She described how the Manor assured families of its commitment to “quality of life” and staff who loved their work, clients, and community. It had been founded by a local woman whose son suffered a traumatic brain injury, and now it was a major local employer.

So what was Dr. Rush doing there? Working? Visiting someone? Volunteering? Like I told Mom, it probably didn’t matter, but I had to check it out.

“What would I do without you, Mom?” I asked. “Good luck tonight. I’ll call you before I drive home.”

“Be safe,” she reminded me before we hung up. That was when I realized I
did
feel safe. Maybe I was getting too comfortable.
A real PI
, I thought,
probably shouldn’t let her guard down.

Fifteen

Instead of waiting for Dr. Rush to drive home, I headed back to his neighborhood, where as night fell, lights revealed people’s indoor activities. Based on Dean’s advice, I tried to notice everything about everyone. If Beth was here, neighbors probably knew, and I needed them to confide in me. It was just a matter of picking the right ones.

I took more notes than ever and actually felt a little like a PI. One thing I didn’t like was sitting in the van’s front seat. I was too visible through the windshield. The back seats had tinted windows, but they didn’t have a clear view of the house. I knew the seats were removable—something to keep in mind for future surveillance, but taking them out myself was intimidating, not only because they were cumbersome, but also because crumbs, melted gummy bears, spilled drinks, and other unwelcome surprises had probably glued them to the floor.

My most notable observations were of people coming and going. A thirty-ish, white man in a business suit carrying a fast-food bag into a dark, seemingly empty home. A slender Hispanic woman in blue scrubs walking a pigtailed toddler to an SUV. An old man in a rusty, dented pickup flying by. While I kept watch, the curtains in the Rush home stayed tightly closed, although I saw light and occasional movement behind them. It was all I could do not to prowl around for a glimpse of Beth, but if I got caught, it could ruin things on every level.

So I kept my distance. With whom might the Rushes socialize? Who probably kept to themselves? I doubted the tailored guy with fast food knew the Rushes well. He was young. He came home late. And he lived just far enough away not to be a close neighbor. I watched him click on a TV and sink into a lounge chair. Talking with him probably wouldn’t tip off Beth, but it might not yield much, either.

I was hesitant to approach the woman with the young child. She wore scrubs, so she might have talked with Dr. Rush about the medical field or having children.

Nothing else stood out except a man and woman six houses down, about my age, shooting hoops in the driveway. It struck me as a cute thing for an adult couple to do. If they spent time outside often, maybe they’d seen Beth. I wanted so badly to talk with them now, but Dean had advised me to wait, and I knew he was right.

Before calling Mom to let her know I was leaving, I had two brainstorms. I’d call Asheleigh Manor and ask about Dr. Rush. And instead of continuing to use my cell phone for investigative calls, I’d buy one of those throwaway phones I pictured criminals using. Weren’t they untraceable?

The navigation system directed me back to the drugstore, where I bought the healthiest (or least unhealthy) food I could find: trail mix, whole grain crackers and extra-dark chocolate. I added an orange juice to my basket and perused the phones. The cashier rung up a ridiculously high total, and I paid it, thankful I hadn’t impulse-shopped for anything else, including a digital recorder I might eventually need.

In the parking lot, I used the new phone to call information for Asheleigh Manor’s number and then to reach the facility, already tallying how many minutes I’d burned.

“How may I direct your call?” the receptionist asked.

“I’m not sure. I’m looking for a doctor who I think works there,” I explained.

“Okay,” she said. “What’s his or her name?”

“Dr. Rush. Graham Rush,” I said. “Does he work there?” I bit my lip and squinted as I waited for her response.
Please be helpful!
I pleaded.

“Of course. Dr. Rush is here now, but I’m sure he’s with a client. You can leave a message if you’d like.”

“Hmm.” I stalled for time. “What’s Dr. Rush’s schedule like?” I wanted to get as much information as possible without sounding like a lunatic.

“It depends. He’s one of our busiest volunteers. But I’d be happy to give him a message. Are you calling on behalf of a client?”

I ignored her question and spoke in an innocent, friendly voice. “Oh, no, it’s okay,” I said. “I don’t need to leave a message.” My heart pounded as I grasped for another way to pump her for details. I heard another line ring in the background. “It’s wonderful that he volunteers. How many hours do doctors typically donate?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know. But I can connect you with our volunteer coordinator.”

I interpreted “sweetheart” to mean
I’m being polite, even though your incessant chatter is keeping me from other calls.
This was confirmed when I was transferred to the volunteer coordinator’s voicemail, which announced she was out of the office for a week. I jotted down her name and hung up.

So Dr. Rush was charitable. That was nice. I tried to put myself in his shoes. What if my granddaughter was pregnant and I was an OB-GYN? What if she was unhappy and needed a place to stay? Would I care for her?
Yes.
Would I do it secretly?
No. I’d want my family to know she—and her unborn baby—were safe.
What would stop me from doing that?
Maybe if I thought my daughter—or her husband—was an unfit parent.

At first glance, Beth’s mom seemed impersonal, not incompetent. Maybe Beth’s father was the problem. April described them as overprotective and opposed to adoption. Those didn’t seem like reasons for Dr. Rush to betray them.

I called Mom to let her know I was on the way, thankful that despite typical mother-daughter challenges, we got along just fine.

I wished I could beam myself home and then skip the necessities, including small talk with Mom. There was so much to do and no time to spare.

I spaced out as I drove, letting thoughts flow without observing them, almost like meditation. Times like these often yielded the best ideas.

Finally I pulled into my driveway and parked next to Mom’s car. I turned off the headlights and sat in silence, closing my eyes. I needed a minute to steel myself, organize ideas, and mentally prepare for the next day. As I took a deep breath and stepped onto the asphalt, three noises in quick succession jolted me out of peace. A roaring engine. A firecracker. And an unintelligible yell from a young man. I whirled around to see a bright red Mustang speeding away. I couldn’t make out anything else.

Now my thoughts raced like wildfire.
That sounded like a firecracker. But what if it was a gunshot? Could someone have shot at me? Or am I just a basket case after Marcus’s shooting?

Moving between the van and the garage to protect myself, and thinking of Marcus’s injury, I frantically ran my hands over my head and body, sensing only the pounding vibrations of my heart. No blood. Okay. Then I circled the van, heart still racing, ears on alert for approaching vehicles. I traced familiar dents and scratches we’d accumulated over the years. Nothing new. Mom’s car and the garage were fine too.

Suddenly a new blast of fear ran through my veins. I’d heard stories about bullets penetrating homes and hitting kids.

I’ve lost it
, I thought.
Those were rowdy teens. They probably had leftover fireworks from the 4
th
of July. Or maybe it was a backfire. Aren’t there ways to make your car do that? Kids are always trying to look cool. I’m probably having some kind of PTSD-ish reaction. Plus, the stress of worrying about Beth and Kenna is getting to me.

Calling the police crossed my mind. But it could waste precious time—theirs and mine. Instead, I’d make sure the kids, Mom, and the house were okay, and I’d give everything a once-over in the morning.

“I feel awful, Mom,” I said during breakfast the next day. “I’m sorry I was late. It was a long day.”

When the kids weren’t listening, I asked whether she’d heard anything out of the ordinary around the time I got home. She hadn’t. I called Kenna and Andy, and their answer was the same. While Kenna and I were catching up, Sophie interrupted.

“Can we do the sprinkler?” she asked.

I looked at the stovetop clock. It was still early enough that they wouldn’t have to wear sunscreen, so I said yes, as long as it was in the backyard. Plus, it would keep them busy while Mom and I discussed the day. I had to take the kids to a birthday party, and Mom would meet us afterward so I could head to PI class.

She loaded the dishwasher while I urged the kids to put on bathing suits. Knowing I’d get soaked somehow, I slipped on old running shorts and a T-shirt, trusting Dean wouldn’t show up again. Just in case, I pulled my hair back and rubbed on a little makeup. I grabbed study materials, put them in a safe spot on the deck, and made the kids scream with happy shock as I started the sprinkler with them in its path, each wearing a superhero-themed bathing suit.

With Mom in charge, I took a few moments to re-inspect the cars, booster seats and all, for bullet holes and suspicious scratches. Everything looked fine. That should have been a relief, but I felt queasy. What if it
had
been a gunshot? What if Jack and Sophie had been in the car? What was I doing?
Helping Kenna
, my conscience told me.
Just keep the kids out of it.
I promised myself I would.

A shriek from Sophie broke into my thoughts. I checked the backyard, where Jack was pointing the sprinkler at Sophie’s face. She was standing still, taking it, water streaming eyebrows to feet.

I looked at Jack. “What are you doing?”

“I’m the Green Goblin and she’s Firestar!” he said. “I’m taking away her power.”

“He got me!” she blubbered.

“Stop it Jack,” I said. How was she breathing with a waterfall in her face?

“I like it,” she sputtered.

Okay
, I thought.
She’ll move when she’s had enough.

I turned toward Mom, and Jack shrieked.

“She slapped me!”

“That was a fireball,” she said. I should have known. A handprint was forming on Jack’s arm. Great, it would be a thrill to take him around like that. Social services, anyone?

“Sophie! You are never, ever allowed to hurt Jack. Or anyone. Unless they might harm you. Like a bad guy or something.”

“He
was
a bad guy!”

“You know what I mean. A
real
bad guy.”

“Like who?” she asked.

Good question.

I got the kids bathed and dressed for the party. Mom watched them while I showered, the second time in a week she’d blessed me with this enormous luxury. I took the time to iron olive capris and a navy T-shirt. I didn’t paint my nails, but I filed them. That was a step in the right direction. When Dean saw me, hopefully he’d forget yesterday’s sweaty mess.

On the way to the party, Sophie spontaneously apologized for her fireball. Jack checked his arm and pronounced it fine.
She’s maturing
, I thought.
Parenting will get easier. I won’t always worry about the kids killing each other.

“Can I have some gum?” she asked. “Please?”

“No, honey. You’ll get treats at the party.”

“But I said sorry to Jack!” Oh. So she was maturing
intellectually
.

Her disappointment was replaced with excitement when I turned on the new navigation system.

With its help, we pulled up to birthday boy Justin’s house, thankfully festooned with balloons so we couldn’t miss it. Sophie grabbed his present and bolted to the front door. Jack and I met her there.

“He’s my friend, you know,” Jack said. “I should give him the present.”

“Okay,” Sophie conceded. She was here to keep Justin’s sister company. That was more exciting than presenting a gift.

“Thank you so much for inviting both of them,” I said as Justin’s mom showed us in. I’d promised to stay and help with crowd control.

“Of course. You know it’s easier if Ginger has a pal here. I’m so glad you’re staying.”

Jack joined a group of boys playing pirate Legos in the living room while Sophie and Ginger took off for parts unknown.

“Things seem pretty calm so far,” I whispered, knowing the guests could turn into a screaming, group-think mob at any moment.

“It can’t last,” she lamented.

“If we get stuck, just yell ‘Cake time!’” I said. “Even if it isn’t.”

While she scooted off to answer the door again, I walked around the house, looking for Sophie and admiring pirate-themed decorations, including a blow-up palm tree, a stuffed talking parrot, a treasure map cake, and booty goodie bags with chocolate coins. Justin’s Dad wore a bandana, a clip-on earring, and an eye patch while tossing around pirate expressions.

“Do you know where the girls went?” I asked him.

“Aye, matey, I think they went into the ship’s hull,” he said, pointing to the basement. I couldn’t decide whether he was awesome or weird. Or both.

I trotted down the steps and peeked around a corner. There were Sophie and Ginger, engrossed in a doll adventure involving two pools and wedding attire. An older woman sat nearby and introduced herself as Ginger’s grandmother. She offered to bring the girls up when the games began.

As I started back upstairs, I heard Justin’s mom call my name. Maybe the games were starting already.

“Right here,” I responded, opening the door to the main level.

“Do you drive a silver van?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Someone said it has a flat tire. Do you want to check it?”

“Oh, I can’t believe this. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back.” Great. I really needed my car for PI class today. Much worse, I feared this wasn’t a coincidence. It was best to trust your instincts, I believed, and last night, mine had shouted, “Someone just freaking shot at you!” Unfortunately, it was easy to confuse instincts with panic attacks.

Looking at the front left tire was confusing, too, especially for someone who knows nothing about cars. It was about one-third flat. There were no obvious problems with it, such as a gash or protruding nail. I had tire sealant in the trunk, so I could probably make it to a gas station, if I could figure out how to use the gunk. I didn’t even know if I had a spare. Pathetic.