Terri Austin - Diners, Dives & Dead Ends

“Do you miss it?”

I thought back to the house where I’d been raised with my mother’s coldness and my dad’s apathy. I’d never felt at home there. “No.”

“Well, I’d miss it.”

Sheila answered the door and she didn’t look good. Instead of the pulled together, suburban mom outfit she usually sported, she wore dirty jeans and a faded green t-shirt. Her hair looked limp and there were dark circles under her eyes.

“Hi, Sheila. This is my friend Roxy. We need to talk.”

Sheila’s gaze flicked from Roxy’s bright blue hair, down to her kimono, her bare legs, to the sandals on her feet. She paused a beat before her ingrained manners kicked in. “Hello, Roxy. Nice to meet you. Come in.”

Roxy openly looked around the foyer, taking in the marble tile and the crystal chandelier. “This is really nice,” she said, her voice a little hushed.

“Thanks. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be great,” I said.

“This way.” She turned and walked toward the kitchen.

I spotted a pile of mail on a small table in the foyer. On top was a letter from Huntingford Bank and Trust.

“Roxy.” I pulled her next to me. “Keep her busy for a second.”

Roxy nodded and followed Sheila.

I quickly rifled through the mail. There were several bills from different credit card companies. I held the letter from the bank up to the light, but couldn’t see a thing.

I desperately wanted to know what was inside. If Packard had a gambling problem, a bank statement would reflect that. If he owed one hundred ninety-six thousand dollars to someone — cough, Sullivan, cough — he must be in real financial trouble.

“Rose,” Sheila called from the kitchen.

I jammed the letter in my purse, my heart beating so fast I thought I might have a heart attack there on the spot.

“Sorry,” I said, hustling into the kitchen, “I have to keep retying these stupid shoelaces.”

“I keep telling you to get new laces. Ones that aren’t so long,” Roxy said. She pointed to me and shook her head. “Every day we go through this.”

Sheila poured two cups of coffee and set them on the counter in front of us. She grabbed a bowl of sugar and a carton of creamer from the fridge and placed them with a couple of spoons next to the coffee. “Any news on Axton?”

“We’re making progress,” I said. “Are you okay, Sheila? You look tired.”

She ran a shaky hand through her hair and tried to smile. She failed. “I don’t know what’s going on with Pack.”

“I came to tell you we followed him last night.”

“He said he had a city council meeting.”

“Yeah, well he lied,” Roxy said.

I dug my elbow into her side and frowned.

“What’d I say?” she asked.

“He lied to me?” Sheila placed a hand over her heart. “If he didn’t go to the meeting, where did he go?”

“There’s an old school out in the country,” I said. “They have illegal gambling there.”

“I know Pack likes to gamble a little. Why would he lie to me about it?”

“I think he likes to gamble more than a little, Sheila. I think Packard has a problem.” I felt like crap springing this on her, but I knew that somehow it was all tied up with Axton’s kidnapping.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know my husband.” She grabbed a hand towel from the counter and refolded it. “He likes to play a little poker. He likes to go to Vegas a couple of times a year. That’s not a problem.”

“Then why did he lie about it?” I asked.

She threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to have a few hours to himself. He deserves it, you know. He works really hard.”

“Why wouldn’t he just go to a casino then?” Roxy asked.

Sheila put her hands on her hips. “How do I know you’re not lying? You could be making all this up. And Axton’s probably not even missing, he’s probably out somewhere living it up while Packard’s getting questioned by the police.”

“Why would we lie about this, Sheila?” I asked. “What would we have to gain from it?”

“I don’t know. But following my husband is…intrusive.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You came to me.”

“Well, that was a mistake. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He’s just stressed from work.”

“Sheila—”

She crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin toward the door. “You need to leave.”

I shot Roxy a look. We hopped off the barstools and headed for the door. As we walked to the car, I glanced back. “That woman is in deep denial.”

“Yep. She’s also in deep shit,” Roxy said.

I nodded in agreement. “By the way, I stole her bank statement.”

“You, Rose Strickland, are turning into a criminal. And I’d like to take a little credit for that.”

I laughed and started the car. “I need to stop by the police station.”

Roxy snorted. “Gonna turn yourself in?”

“I have to get a copy of the police report from last night. My landlord needs it.”

Ten minutes later, I parked across from the police station and pulled Sheila Graystone’s bank statement from my purse. I held it in my hands and stared at it. I felt weird about taking it, but I had to know what kind of trouble Pack was in.

Roxy tapped her finger on the plastic bag window. “You hoping the information will jump into your head or are you going to open the damn thing?”

“I suppose I should, since I went to the trouble of stealing it.” I squared my shoulders and ripped the flap, pulling out the piece of paper inside. “Wow.”

She leaned over and peeked at it. “What? What’s it say?”

“They’re overdrafted to the tune of fourteen thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

“No shit,” Roxy said.

“And the rest of their mail? All credit card bills.”

“He makes a butt-load of cash though, right? I mean he’s a doctor, and all.”

“A doctor who is in debt up to his eyeballs.” I shoved the statement back in the envelope, and stuck the whole thing in my glove box. Although I felt guilty for stealing Sheila’s mail, getting Axton back was more important than mail theft. Well, maybe not to the postal service.

Roxy and I walked into the police station and up to the reception desk. I was beginning to know my way around here and that probably wasn’t a good thing.

Officer Delany, whom I spoke to on my first visit, was on duty. Her gaze swept over me, then moved to Roxy. Her bored expression didn’t change. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for a police report. Someone broke into my apartment last night.”

“What was the name of the officer who responded to your call?”

“I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention.” I think I was in shock the night before. Watching the police, my neighbors, seeing my things broken and scattered, had left me numb. It wasn’t until Roxy arrived with her cleaning supplies that I woke up from what seemed like a really bad dream.

Officer Delany sighed. “Wait over there and someone will be with you shortly.” She gestured to a small room across the hall. It had a vending machine and four black padded chairs.

Roxy sat and texted while I wandered around. Cops may not care about Axton or all of my worldly possessions being trashed, but apparently they loved softball. Years’ worth of team photos covered the walls. My gaze drifted over last year’s picture. Police Chief, Martin Mathers, held a trophy in one hand. His other arm was thrown around the shoulder of a grinning Officer Andre Thomas. The two looked very chummy. Roxy was right. Officer Thomas might not be on the hard drive list, but he could be doing dirty work for his softball buddy.