J. Jance - Deadly Stakes

Through veterans’ organizations, I was able to learn of your honorable service in the Royal Marines during the Korean War. They were able to lead me to this address, the one to which I’m sending this missive. At the time of my writing, I have no idea if indeed you are still there; nor do I know if, upon reading this, you would be willing to consider reestablishing any old family ties.

I am currently in the process of organizing a family reunion that is scheduled to take place in either Stow-on-the-Wold or Cheltenham in May of next year. I am hoping I can persuade you to consider attending.

Should you decide to come, you would unfortunately be the last member of that generation to be in attendance.

Again, whatever quarrel might have been between you and your two brothers must have been a serious one, but I’m hoping you’ll be willing to set that aside and join us. It would be an honor to welcome you back into our fold.

Sincerely,

Jeffrey Alan Brooks, Esquire

Ali carefully refolded the letter, returned it to the envelope, and passed it back to Leland. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

Leland shrugged and eased his spare frame down onto a kitchen chair. “When I left there, I vowed I’d never go back,” he said. “That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant.”

“Things have changed for the better since then,” Ali said. “The letter sounds welcoming, as though they really want you to come.”

“All during the war, I was very circumspect in what I wrote to my mother. I doubt she had any idea of the real cause of the feud between my older brothers and me. It seems likely now that Leo and Langston died without telling anyone,” Leland replied. “Jeffrey has no idea what happened-about them telling me there was no place in the family for someone like me. For all I know, he may share their opinion.”

“Then again, he may not,” Ali interjected. “And the truth is, how you’ve lived your life between then and now is none of the family’s business.” She paused and then added, “I hope you’ll consider going.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Leland said grudgingly, returning the letter to his pocket. “I wouldn’t have told you about it otherwise. The problem is, if I were to go larking off across the pond, who would look after you?”

“I’m sure I could manage,” Ali said. She wanted to say that she wasn’t exactly helpless, but she also didn’t want to denigrate Leland’s steadfast service in any way. “There’s plenty of time. Maybe we could look around and find a temporary replacement.”

“Perhaps,” Leland said. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Ali spent the afternoon getting ready to welcome B. home. She ducked into the nearest of Priscilla Holman’s nail salons for a much needed mani-pedi, then settled into a chair in front of the library fireplace, where she returned to the world of Charles Dickens. Losing herself in the intricacies of the French Revolution was a way to put aside the present for the time being, as well as keeping her from watching the clock.

By the time B. arrived, Leland had discreetly gone to his own digs in the fifth wheel, leaving them to enjoy B.’s homecoming dinner with some welcome privacy. They ate the savory stew, accompanied by slabs of freshly baked bread, in the cozy confines of Ali’s spacious kitchen, which was far and away B.’s second favorite room in her house.

When they finished eating, B. leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “This is the best part of being away on business-coming home,” he said. “I love what I do, but perpetually living out of a suitcase and being on no known time zone gets old after a while.” He opened his eyes, looked at her, and grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to ask you to marry me again. A guy can only handle so much rejection. The problem is, Leland has always been my benchmark. As long as you kept him around, I figured I was safe, but if he’s on a short leash. .”

Just then Ali’s phone rang. The caller ID said GATE. The security gate at the bottom of the drive closed automatically at sunset. From then on, anyone wanting access to Ali’s home had to dial from the handset on the post.

Ali switched on the kitchen TV and activated the video monitor that allowed a clear view of visitors on the far side of the gate. An older woman stood there, holding the phone to her ear.

“Yes,” Ali said, answering the phone. “May I help you?”

“My name is Beatrice Hart,” the woman said. “My daughter, Lynn, is a friend of yours.”

“Sorry,” Ali said. “Are you sure you have the right person? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Lynn Hart.”

“You’re the lady detective who helped catch Brenda Riley’s cyber-stalker, aren’t you?”

“I may have helped, but I’m not a detective-not officially,” Ali responded.

“In that case, you probably know my daughter by her married name, Lynn Martinson. She was one of the women who got mixed up with that same guy years ago. I believe they filmed both you and Lynn at a TV station in Phoenix when Brenda’s book was about to come out last summer and when they were doing that true-crime show for TV.”

That was enough of a hint to trigger a vague memory. Yes, Ali did remember meeting a woman named Lynn in the greenroom for Scene of the Crime at the TV station in Phoenix when they were both there for a scheduled taping. At the time, Ali had been so preoccupied with her own issues-most notably her mother’s election campaign-that she barely remembered anything about it.

“I follow Brenda on Twitter these days,” Beatrice continued. “Did you know she’s about to come out with another true-crime book? This one’s about a serial killer who operated in Northern California and southern Oregon. When all of this came up this afternoon, I sent Brenda a tweet asking for her advice. She suggested I should get in touch with you.”

“When all what came up?” Ali asked.

“Lynn’s gone missing,” Beatrice said, her voice breaking. “She didn’t come home this morning, and with this murder business all over the TV news, I’m terribly worried.”

“This sounds like a police matter,” Ali said. “I’m not sure how I can be of assistance.”

“Please,” Beatrice begged.

Of course, the use of the magic word-as Ali was forever telling the twins-was enough to tip the scales in Beatrice’s favor.

“You’d better come on up,” Ali said, relenting. “I’ll buzz the gate open. It’ll close automatically after you drive through. Drive to the turnaround at the top of the hill. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

“What’s going on?” B. asked as Ali pocketed her cell phone and headed for the entryway. “Who’s here?”

“Her name’s Beatrice,” Ali told him. “She’s the mother of one of the women from Brenda Riley’s book. Something about her daughter going missing. I couldn’t just leave her standing in the cold, so I invited her up.”

“If her daughter is missing,” B. said, “what does she expect you to do about it?”

“Good question,” Ali said. “I guess we’ll find out when she gets here. Brenda Riley evidently suggested that the mother contact me.”

“You go let her in,” B. suggested. “In the meantime, how about if I clean up the kitchen and set out cups and saucers?”

“Good idea,” Ali said. “From the sound of things, a hot beverage is just what the doctor ordered.”

Leaving B. to do his voluntary KP duty, Ali went to the front door, turned on the porch light, and stood waiting while an older-model Chevy Lumina with a single occupant came up the drive and parked in the turnaround.

The white-haired woman who emerged from the vehicle and walked briskly up the drive looked to be somewhere in her late sixties or early seventies. She was wearing a red-and-white tracksuit and tennis shoes.