Danger Comes Home: Kelly O'Connell Mysteries, #5

By Judy Alter

In Judy Alter’s Danger Comes Home, dogs, drugs and death take Kelly on a wild ride with a runaway girl and her abused mother, a relapsed former gangsta, and a drug-dealing gang in her own neighborhood. Add in an imperious recluse for variety, and as usual Kelly’s life is anything but calm. Husband Mike Shandy is right: she has a talent for trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N/A
• Release date: Sep 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781622371716

Judy Alter

An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. With Murder at the Blue Plate Café, she moved from inner city Fort Worth to small-town East Texas to create a new set of characters in a setting modeled after a restaurant that was for years one of her family’s favorites. She followed with two more Blue Plate titles: Murder at the Tremont Inn and Murder at Peacock Mansion.

Book preview

Chapter One

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I am no kitchen maven. Before Mike and I married, I mostly fed my girls pizza, turkey burgers from the Old Neighborhood Grill, and peanut butter-jelly sandwiches. My repertoire has grown since then. I make a cheeseburger meatloaf that Mike loves, and my beef stroganoff is pretty good. But mostly I’m good at providing salads and fixings, while Mike cooks on the grill.

Since the kitchen isn’t my domain, I’m not one to inventory its contents. So it was odd that I began to notice food missing, but I did—that last piece of ham I’d tucked away for Mike’s lunch sandwich, two bananas from that bunch of five I’d just bought, and bread from what was a new loaf and suddenly was little better than half a loaf.

Mike, I asked one night after I’d done the dinner dishes, have you been snacking more than usual?

He lowered his newspaper. I don’t snack, he said in a lofty tone. Ask the girls.

The girls are my daughters—Maggie, twelve, and Em, almost nine. But they were good about asking for snacks. When I inquired about extra bananas or that piece of ham, they looked at me blankly. Maggie shrugged her shoulders and returned to the book she was reading, but Em asked seriously, Do you believe in poltergeists? I just learned about them.

No, Em, I don’t, I replied.

Kelly, I bet you’ve used it and just don’t remember. Mike offered this from behind his book.

That struck me as one of those remarks about the forgetfulness of the little woman who needed to be protected. I dropped the whole subject.

That night I couldn’t sleep, not because I was worried about missing food but because thoughts danced in my brain about a Craftsman house that was in poor repair—deferred maintenance is the term some use. I desperately wanted to buy and redo it, but it was the home of our local legend and retired diva, Lorna McDavid. She was a recluse, her house and life kept going by an occasional maid who brought in food and an occasional yardman who kept the weeds in control but apparently drew the line at repair. I could see the house as it should be, and I salivated. But Lorna had made it plain she wasn’t selling, and she wasn’t discussing it.

****

I’m Kelly O’Connell, sole owner of O’Connell and Spencer Realty, a real estate firm that specializes in renovating the Craftsman houses as well as other vintage structures in the historic Fairmount neighborhood in Fort Worth, Texas. Fairmount is a wonderful place to live, like living in a small town within a big city. Fifteen or twenty years ago, it was a neighborhood in decline, but young professionals discovered the charming old houses and the neighborhood’s proximity to downtown and the hospital district. An active neighborhood association oversaw the development of classy commercial areas, and now, among other things, Fairmount has one of the best dining strips in the city.

The Spencer part of my firm name is my ex-husband who was killed a few years ago—but that’s a story long since told. I married Mike Shandy, the neighborhood police officer when I met him and now a detective with the Narcotics Squad after a bad automobile crash left him unable to run fast enough to be a patrol officer. I’m aided, abetted, and often saved by Keisha. She is a young, large African-American woman—not fat but big-boned, large all over—and she dresses to take advantage of her size, sporting long glittering fingernails, a spike hairdo that changes colors to match her outfit, lots of makeup, and sweeping loose clothes, such as caftans and muumuus. I bless the day I called the school district’s vocational program to find an administrative assistant. Keisha is much more—and she doesn’t even mind making coffee. She is also friend, confidante, occasional babysitter, and, too often, rescuer. She claims her sixth sense tells her when I am in trouble.

Mike agrees with Keisha that I have a real talent for trouble. I maintain that I’m looking out for my beloved neighborhood. Mike says I should let the police do their work and stay out of things. I argue that I would if they’d move fast enough and act on the tips I give them. I admit I have been vandalized, stalked, almost shot and almost asphyxiated. Mike reminds me of those things when he thinks I’m crossing the line into police concerns. After a contentious courtship, to say the least, Mike and I married. I suspect he married me thinking he could keep me safer, but my two girls adore him and couldn’t have been happier when he adopted them.

I doubted missing food would warrant calling in the police.

****

So there I was at midnight, my thoughts whirling about Lorna McDavid and her crumbling house, when I heard those ever-so-soft beeping sounds that indicate someone has disabled the alarm system. Startled, I lay for a moment listening, and then I heard the back door open and gently close. That was enough to make me crawl out of bed, barefoot, in a T-shirt and underpants. I didn’t think about how I would confront an intruder in that outfit. Nor did I stop to wake Mike or take my gun. Mike’s always after me to take the handgun he bought me, but I loathe the thing, though I will say there was one instance where having it in my hand saved my life. But now all I could think of was my girls—had someone crept out the back door with one of them as hostage? Too many bad things happened in the last few years, so these days my imagination sometimes carries me to extreme lengths.

I listened for a moment and convinced myself it was probably that imagination, not something worth waking Mike for. Still I crept down the bedroom hall, through the living room, dining room and kitchen, and came to a crashing halt at the back door. A soft light glowed in the guesthouse, as though someone had a flashlight. Shoot! I hadn’t even thought to find one. It would have taken me too long. Note to self: put a flashlight on my bedside table.

Easing open the back door, I closed it quietly, and crossed the yard to peer into a window. Maggie was handing a sandwich and an orange to a young girl—a very tired and scared young girl with stringy hair and wrinkled clothes. Maggie’s small mutt and constant companion, Gus, sat on the floor staring wistfully at the sandwich. Gently I opened the door.

Maggie? And to the girl, Hi. I’m Maggie’s mom.

The girl sat speechless, clutching her sandwich, while Maggie leapt to her feet. Mom! It’s ...well, I can explain...it’s not as bad as it looks.

That’s good, Maggie, because it really looks bad. Go ahead. Explain.

The other girl seemed to gather courage from somewhere. It’s not Maggie’s fault. I asked her to hide me. I ran away from home. Now I’m afraid to go back.

How can a young girl be afraid to go home? The thought of a child having a scary home made me want to sweep this child up in my arms. Instead I sat on the bed next to her. I bet you’re hungry. Maggie makes good sandwiches—take a bite and then tell me your name.

Without eating but still clutching the sandwich, she said, I’m Jenny Wilson.

I studied her. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, neither particularly fashionable, with old-fashioned canvas tennis shoes with holes in them. Maggie’s friends all eschewed those shoes, the kind I loved, for the latest in athletic shoes. The worst, though, was the almost blank look in Jenny’s eyes. Her face was without expression, as though fright were nothing new to her. The world had dealt this child an awful hurt; I wanted to reach out and hug her, but I was afraid she’d pull away. I was probably just another adult she didn’t trust.

Why are you afraid? I asked gently.

Because I ran away.

Now there’s a circular argument. Why did you run away?

She shifted uncomfortably on the bed. I don’t like my father...I’m not even sure he is my father. He yells at me and scares me. And sometimes I wake in the night and hear men shouting at each other. It happened again the other night, so I left. Just snuck out the back door. My mom will be worried; Todd—that’s what I call him—is probably glad I’m gone. No self-pity, just a matter-of-fact statement. And then, as an afterthought, He beats my mom. I’m afraid he’ll beat me.

I stifled my outrage, saving it perhaps for a rant to Mike. Jenny was definitely not the kind of girl that Maggie usually gravitated toward, and for a moment I was grateful to Maggie for compassion. I reached over and took her hand, even as I continued to question Jenny.

Jenny, where do you live?

I live on Alston, close to Magnolia.

I turned. Maggie?

Maggie dug her toe into the carpet and focused on it, refusing to look at me. In contrast to Jenny, my child had on a pajama set in bright turquoise and blue stripes and fuzzy warm slippers. Her hair tousled by sleep still showed the effects of a good cut, and her eyes were clear and bright. Well, I knew that even if she wouldn’t look at me now.

Maggie began way back instead of giving me the right-now facts I wanted. Jenny, she...she doesn’t hang out with us at recess. She sits on the steps by herself. I felt sorry for her and...sometimes I sat and talked to her. After a minute, she added, She doesn’t talk much.

Maggie, that was kind of you, but tell me how she ended up in our garage apartment and how long she’s been here.

Jenny broke in, her voice soft. I went to the school that night and sat on the playground bench until it was time for class. Then I asked Maggie if I could come home with her because I was...am...scared to go home and I didn’t want to spend another night in the playground. It’s scary at night. Besides, she added, I was hungry. She looked at Maggie, who still stared at the floor but continued the story.

I knew if you knew about it, you’d make her go home, and I didn’t want that to happen because she was so scared. So I hid her out here and brought her food.

The explanation of my disappearing groceries. I felt small to have even worried about them.

It was Jenny’s turn. I haven’t been to school since. I was afraid Todd would come looking for me. That was...well, this will be the third night. I suppose the school has called my mom, but she hasn’t done anything that I know of. She’s probably afraid of Todd.

I couldn’t bear the thought of that child alone on a bench in the playground in the middle of the night. It may be April in Texas, but our nights are still chilly. And playgrounds are indeed scary at night. And why did you choose Maggie? I asked.

She’s the only friend I have.

The answer both pleased me and made me sad. But I also wanted to repeat the favorite phrase of my contractor, Anthony: Mother of God. But then, to myself, I added, we’ve been hiding a runaway child for three days!

Girls, we’ve got to go in the house and wake Mike. Jenny, Maggie was right about one thing—you’ll have to go home. It’s against the law for us to hide you. Come with me. Maggie, be sure to get Gus. I started out the door and then turned.

Maggie put a protective arm around Jenny’s shoulders. Mike’s my dad. He’s a good guy. He’ll know what we should do. Then she looked at me. Mom, could you put some pants on? You really look pretty awful.

How I looked was the last thing on my mind, but I promised. Then it struck me: would Maggie let Jenny slip out the door while I went to wake Mike and get some clothes? I’d always trusted my children, but I was treading deep water here. If Jenny slipped away from us, she’d be on the streets, prey to so many dangers that I couldn’t even think about it. We went through the back door, with me thinking.

Eventually I’ll put on pants, Maggie, I said as we entered the kitchen. First, you go get Mike. Tell him, gently, that we need him in the living room. It’s not an emergency. But you might tell him to put on some pants. I couldn’t hide my smile. And close Em’s door so we don’t wake her.

I’m already awake. So’s Mike. He’s putting on pants so he can go looking for you. He’s pretty mad, and I don’t blame him. Rubbing her eyes, Em proclaimed all this in her usual forthright manner. Oh, hi, Jenny, she added. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?

Jenny moved closer to Maggie, seeking protection from the apparently angry stranger, who just then marched into the room demanding, Okay, what the.... He stopped when he saw Jenny, and his tone softened. Hello. Who are you?

Jenny. Her voice quavered.

He sat down next to her, and she tried to move even closer to Maggie.

Hi, Jenny. I’m Mike. What are you doing in my living room at—what? Twelve-thirty at night?

She ran away from home, Maggie volunteered. She’s scared of her dad and the men who come to see him in the middle of the night.

If Mike was shocked or surprised, he didn’t show it. I’m really sorry. Did you just run away tonight?

No. The voice was soft and scared, but her eyes were big and pleading. Three days ago...this is the third night. Counting the night I stayed on the bench in the schoolyard.

Why do men come to see your father in the night?

She shrugged. I don’t know. He says it’s his business.

Mike looked thoughtful. People come to see him at night?

Yeah. He mostly sleeps during the day.

Have you talked to the school counselor or principal or some other adult about this?

No. He’d kill me then. Or kill my mom.

Has he ever hit your mom?

Looking away, she whispered, Yes?

Twenty-four-dollar question came next. Has he ever hit you?

She shook her head. No, but I’m always afraid he will.

What terrible fears for a child to live with! I wanted to put my hands over my ears. Instead I cuddled Em who had sidled up close to me and was staring with fascination, getting a verbal glimpse of a world she never knew existed. My girls had unfortunately seen murder up close and personal, particularly their father’s death, and I thought they’d heard too many bad things go bump in the night, but this was new. They didn’t know that family abuse has a name.

Mike talked softly to Jenny a few more minutes and got more information, while I slipped away to put on stretched-out knit pants. When I came back, he made an announcement:

Jenny can sleep with Maggie tonight—one of them can have a pallet on the floor. She’s convinced me it would only anger her dad more if we went right now. I’ll take her home in the morning.

We’ll both take her home, I said, holding my ground.

Kelly, you take the girls to school. I’ll take care of Jenny.

Keisha will take the girls to school. I’ll go with you. I tossed my head, which I hoped showed determination and independence. Probably all it did was try Mike’s patience, but I marched off to get blankets for a pallet for Maggie’s room and set the alarm clock for six-thirty so I could call Keisha. She, bless her, doesn’t confine her duties to office work. She’s available to babysit and, in crises, to do whatever is needed. I deemed this a crisis.

Once we were back in bed, I managed to ask Mike if anyone had filed a missing child report.

Not as far as I know, but if they had, Kelly, the whole world would know. There’d be an Amber Alert. Then he turned over and went to sleep. In no time, the girls were also asleep—I crept down the hall and checked—and I was tossing and turning, which I swear I did until the alarm went off. Okay, I might have dozed a bit but I sure didn’t sleep soundly.

When I called Keisha, she never asked why when I said I needed her to take the girls to school. All she said was, Drat. There goes breakfast with José at seven-thirty. I’ll be late to the office, ’cause we’ll eat at the Grill after we take the girls to school. Then you can tell me what kind of a mess you’ve gotten us into now.

True to her word, she appeared promptly at quarter to eight to pick up two grumpy girls who wanted to find out what would happen with Jenny a lot more than they wanted to go to school. I shooed them out the door with kisses and lunch money—a real treat to buy lunch instead of eat what Mom packed.

Jenny was silent, refused breakfast, kept her eyes down, and I thought my heart would break. But she showed no signs of bolting, and the three of us got into Mike’s car. The Wilson house was, as I expected, another one with signs of deferred maintenance, but this one did not share the neighborhood’s classical architecture. There are fewer and fewer houses like that in Fairmount these days, so a neglected house practically shouts at you. A nondescript structure of wooden siding with peeling paint, the house sat on posts, if you could call them that, of brick that leaned dangerously. The porch was littered with rusting furniture, a kitty litter box, and some straggly, dying plants. Iron grillwork, which couldn’t have been cheap, covered windows and provided a protective barrier to the front door. It was locked and the doorbell had a tape over it—how did we tell the Wilsons we were there?

Jenny provided the answer, opening the locked door with a key and then stepping back while Mike rapped loudly on the inner wooden door.

The woman who answered may have been my age, late thirties, but the years had been hard on her and she looked wary. An older version of Jenny, but with more strength in her eyes, one of which was blackened. I wondered what other bruises and scars her long-sleeved shirt hid. When she saw her child, she held out her arms, eyes filled with tears, and cried, Oh, Jenny, I’ve been so worried about you. She clutched the girl to her so tightly that Jenny squirmed a bit. I thought..., the mother began and then stopped herself, burying her face in Jenny’s hair.

This was a mother who was devoted to her child, and I could only imagine the agony she went through for three nights. But then again, she apparently hadn’t made any attempt to find her child. Finally, she raised her head and looked at us, her expression clearly questioning. If you took care of Jenny, I’m grateful.

My daughter did, I said. We didn’t know she was hiding her in our guest house. I am so sorry. You must have been frantic. Did you call the police?

She ignored my question and simply muttered, I can never thank you enough for bringing my daughter back to me. She still clutched the child.

Mike apologized, said he was concerned about Jenny’s story about being frightened. He never mentioned the black eye, which of course would have been the first question out of my mouth if he hadn’t had an iron grip on my wrist. He spoke concisely with no show