Debra Webb - Identity Unknown

Nancy Childers was either an accomplished actress or a dead end.

Patrick didn’t question his client until the door was closed behind them and they were nearing the street. “Nothing, huh?”

Sande shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Sande!”

Patrick’s attention jerked left, toward the source of the greeting. An older woman, seventy or seventy-five, waved from the yard next door to Nancy Childers’s home. As he watched, she leaned her rake against the fence, tugged off her gloves and started in their direction.

“I thought that was you!” The spry woman hurried to the sidewalk to meet them. “I’ve missed our garden chats. Where in the world have you been?” She scrutinized Sande for longer than was comfortable. “You don’t look well. Have you been ill?”

Sande’s expression left no question as to her utter surprise as well as total confusion. “I…uh, yes. I’ve been in the hospital.”

The older lady shook her head. “I wish you’d called me. I didn’t know what in the world happened. Then those men came around this morning looking for you, and I didn’t know what to say. They wouldn’t tell me a thing, just kept asking questions.” She wrung her hands. “Frankly, I was worried you’d…” She looked left then right, as if expecting trouble from somewhere on the street. “There are so many murders these days.” She heaved out a big breath. “You never know when someone just disappears like that. I sure wish you’d called.”

“I’m sorry.” Patrick offered his hand, diverting her attention to him. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Patrick O’Brien.”

“Alma Spears.” She grasped his hand with surprising strength. “I keep a watch on Nancy’s house when she’s away. Usually.” Her gaze shifted back to Sande. “But this time she hired herself a house sitter while she was away. I was going to ask her about that, but every time I drop by she’s on her way out or tied up on the phone.” Alma glanced back at the house. “Maybe she thinks I’m getting too old for the job.” Alma smiled. “In the end I made myself a new friend in Sande here.” Her smile dimmed. “I’m so glad to see you’re all right.”

Sande stared at the woman who called herself Alma Spears. She’d said one thing that had settled like a massive stone in her stomach. “Men came looking for me?” The idea that it may have been those men from the hospital who’d come here terrified her.

“Yes. Two of ’em.” Alma dabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “If you’re not in a hurry, why don’t you come on in and we’ll visit over some tea?” She made eye contact with Mr. O’Brien. “Or coffee.”

Two men. More of that paralyzing fear prickled Sande’s skin. Wait. Focus . The woman had asked her a question. Tea. She wanted to visit. Maybe that was a good idea. How was it that this Alma Spears could know Sande? And she felt no sense of recognition? No connection whatsoever?

“Coffee would be great,” O’Brien agreed cordially.

Sande had to pay attention. She’d completely ignored the invitation. Pull it together, girl. O’Brien had told her to pay attention. To relax and just feel.

Alma Spears led the way through her backyard, past a lush garden. Lots of pansies and deep-green ferns set against the darkening red of dwarf nandinas.

Once inside, she said, “You two make yourselves at home and I’ll get the refreshments.”

As soon as Alma was out of earshot, O’Brien turned to Sande. “You’re certain nothing in the house next door stirred even the slightest reaction?”

She shook her head. “I explored a bit when I asked to use the restroom. Nothing felt familiar.” That was the absolute worst feeling. To know you had a history, maybe family, and not be able to access those memories. It was like some part of her—the part that mattered the most—was missing.

“What about this lady?” he prodded. “Anything?”

Sande turned her palms up. “Nothing yet.”

His next question was preempted by Alma’s return. The tray she carried was laden with a floral porcelain coffeepot and three dainty cups and saucers. “I was hoping we’d get to say a proper goodbye before you left for your next assignment.” She passed Sande a cup prepared with tea, then filled the remaining two with coffee before passing one to O’Brien. “After four days I was certain you weren’t coming back.” She cradled her own cup and sighed. “Like I said before, I feared the worst.”

“Did the men who came looking for Ms. Williams identify themselves?” O’Brien sipped his coffee as nonchalantly as if he’d just asked if there might be rain in the forecast.

Alma gestured to a small plate of cookies on the tray, but both Sande and O’Brien declined. “I guess I should’ve asked for ID,” the woman admitted, “but they seemed so official. I was worried that something had happened and they just weren’t telling me one way or the other. I got a little snippy toward the end of their visit.”

Sande stared at her, stunned. Four days? She had been missing for four days? This was unbelievable.

“Did either one of the men who visited you mention the recent rash of burglaries in your neighborhood?” O’Brien asked, keeping up the pretense, or just making conversation so as not to arouse suspicion, Sande supposed.

The exchange continued on benignly about what a great neighborhood Alma lived in, how she had known everyone on the street for ages. Sande sat stone still, utterly dumbfounded, while she then chatted on and on about her garden, and the relationship the two of them had seemingly developed.

“You’re sure it was only two months ago that Sande moved in next door?” O’Brien looked to Sande. “I was thinking three?”

Before Sande could decide what he wanted her to say, Alma shook her head with complete confidence. “Absolutely not. It was Labor Day weekend. You said you didn’t know a soul in the neighborhood and that Nancy wouldn’t be back for several more weeks.”

“Wait. Yes,” O’Brien allowed, “I think you’re right. Nancy had to go to Dallas.”

Alma’s forehead furrowed. “Dallas? I thought she was in San Diego?” She turned to Sande then, a mix of confusion and suspicion in her eyes. “You took her place at the firm here while she did your work out in San Diego. I’m sure that’s what you told me.” Her head wagged again. “I’ll never understand this whole life-swap thing. People don’t like to take risks anymore. They want to try everything out before they make a commitment.”

Total numbness had overtaken Sande. Life swapping? What was she talking about?

Alma studied her for a long moment. “You act like you don’t even recall staying here. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sande froze. How did she respond to that?

“Sande was quite ill,” O’Brien interjected quickly. “The medication has made the past few days a little hazy.”

The older woman nodded in understanding, but her expression indicated she was less than convinced of their story.

Fear snaked its way up Sande’s spine. What if the woman called those men back and told them she had been here? Had they given Alma Spears a card? She hadn’t mentioned that, but maybe she’d been asked not to say anything. Confusion and fear had wrapped around Sande in so many layers she couldn’t draw a breath. Her heart thumped hard against her sternum.

After a few minutes more casual back and forth, they had obviously extracted all they were going to get from Alma Spears. They had learned that Sande supposedly filled in for Nancy at Peyton and Wyatt, an accounting firm in Chicago where Nancy was employed. Maybe someone at the firm would recognize Sande. Would know where she’d lived before coming to Chicago. Would remember if she had any family or friends.