J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

“What’s on the menu for tonight?” Ali asked, seeing the mound of chopped vegetables that had accumulated on the island counter next to the stovetop.

“Beef stew,” Leland answered. “When Mr. Simpson comes home from galavanting all around the world, he does like his comfort food. For that, freshly baked bread and steaming-hot stew are right at the top of the list.”

That was true. B. Simpson’s travels took him to plenty of exotic places with equally exotic food choices. It was no accident that when he was at home in Sedona, he gravitated to Ali’s house and Leland Brooks’s very capable cooking.

Ali helped herself to a new cup of coffee.

“Can I fix you something for lunch?” Leland asked.

Ali eyed the four loaves of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter. “What about a slice of one of those?” she asked. “Or is the bread still too warm to cut?”

“It’s just right,” Leland assured her. Moments later, he handed her a plate with a thick piece of crusty bread. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Ali slathered butter on the warm bread, then found her eyes drawn to the television over the microwave, where the noontime edition of the local news was just starting.

“The Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department just confirmed that a second body has been found south of Camp Verde, near where another homicide victim was found yesterday. That victim has been identified as a Phoenix-area woman. Her name has not been released while the authorities attempt to contact her next of kin. Reporter Christy Lawler is live on the scene. What can you tell us, Christy? Is there a serial killer stalking motorists driving the I-17 corridor?”

“So far the Sheriff’s Department has made no mention of a serial killer, although that’s on the minds of people traveling this roadway today,” the reporter answered. “The second victim was found early this morning by investigators doing an extensive crime scene examination of the area. What we know so far is that the second victim is an unidentified male found with no identification.

“All authorities would say was that the victim died as the result of homicidal violence. Questions asked about the manner of death, and if it was similar to what happened to the previous victim, were met with an official reply of ‘No comment.’ However, authorities are cautioning motorists to beware of giving rides to strangers, and they are asking anyone who has seen anything unusual along this stretch of freeway to please come forward.”

“Are motorists taking that bit of advice to heart?” the anchor asked.

“Absolutely,” Christy replied. “Here’s what one mother, Janie Brownward of Phoenix, had to say.”

The camera panned to the driver’s-side window of a minivan parked in what appeared to be the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. “I’m scared to death,” the woman said, speaking into the proffered microphone. “I drive this road all the time with my three kids, and to think that there might be a murderer lurking in every rest area is terrifying. We need people like this off the streets and off our highways and in prison, where they belong.”

“What can you tell us about the woman who was found yesterday?” the anchor asked.

“Nothing more so far,” Christy said. “All I can say right now is that there’s a big Sheriff’s Department response at the scene, and I’ll let you know of any developments as the day moves along.”

“All right, we’ll look forward to hearing from you again on the five o’clock broadcast.”

Leland took the remote from the counter and switched off the TV as Ali polished off the last bite of bread. “Delicious,” she said, “and absolutely addictive. Shouldn’t your bread be listed as a controlled substance?”

“Very kind of you to say so.” He beamed. “It should go nicely with the stew.”

“That’s assuming there’s still some left by the time dinner rolls around.”

Leland took the hint and cut off another slice, which he buttered and handed over. “Have you heard anything from Sister Anselm?” he asked. “I hate to think of her out on the highway by herself when things like this are going on.”

Ali’s good friend Sister Anselm Becker was a Sister of Providence who worked out of St. Bernadette’s, a convent for troubled nuns in nearby Jerome. When she was at home, she served as an in-house counselor for nuns dealing with any number of thorny issues from substance abuse to post-traumatic stress. She also spent a lot of time on the road, traveling from hospital to hospital, functioning as a special emissary from Bishop Francis Gillespie of the Phoenix archdiocese and as a patient advocate for people who had no one else to speak on their behalf.

“I’ll give her a call and check,” Ali said. “As far as I know, she’s expected to be at the convent all week, but that could have changed.”

“I know she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself,” Leland said, “but I worry about her all the same.”

“That makes two of us,” Ali agreed.

“Before you make that call, if you have time, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” Leland said. “It came up a few days ago, but you were so preoccupied with the election that I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

A frisson of concern passed through Ali’s body. She knew exactly how old Leland Brooks was, and she worried that what was coming was some kind of announcement about a burgeoning health issue. She had known instinctively that forcing him to forsake his kitchen would be the end of him, but she also knew that the end would still have to come eventually.

“Of course,” Ali said worriedly. “This sounds serious.”

Wordlessly, Leland plucked an envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. The stamps, the return address, and the London postmark revealed that the letter had been sent from the UK. “It’s from my grand-nephew,” Leland explained. “My late brother’s grandson. He’s evidently developed an interest in genealogy and has seen fit to contact the black sheep of the family.”

The words were spoken in an offhand way that belied the hurt behind them. Ali knew that after returning from Korea, rather than being welcomed as the hero he was, Leland had been shunned by his own family and sent packing. Compared to now, the early to mid-fifties had been the dark ages in terms of acceptance of gays in society. Fortunately for Leland, Anne Marie Ashcroft had reached out to him from across the ocean, offering him a job and agreeing to be his sponsor. Over the years, Leland had repaid Anne Marie’s confidence in him many times over, and Ali Reynolds was reaping the benefit of his undying loyalty.

“It’s all right,” he said, nodding toward the letter. “Go ahead and read it.”

Dear Uncle Leland,

I trust you won’t think it too presumptuous of me to address you by that name, but that is indeed who you are, my great-uncle, being the younger brother of my late grandfather Langston. Having recently been bitten by the genealogy bug, I was doing a bit of family research with the help of my great-grandmother’s letters which, upon her death, had been donated to the historical society in Cheltenham.

It was with these that I found letters from you to her, written presumably while you were serving overseas during the Korean War and after you emigrated to the U.S. Up to that moment, I had been under the impression that my late grandfather had but one brother, Leo, sadly, also deceased. It was only when I saw the signature on those letters-“Your loving son, Leland”-that I realized there had been a third brother, one whose existence, as far as I can remember, was never mentioned in family conversations.

Details of that time are notably lacking since, as I mentioned before, both my grandfather and Leo are now deceased. I’m forced to conclude that a family difficulty of some kind led to a serious falling-out that has lasted from that time to this. It is in the hope of overcoming whatever was the source of that old enmity that I write to you today.