Before She Left

By Alison R. Solomon

A missing girlfriend. Abandoned spouses. A detective who doesn't want to investigate

Ella Jay has vanished without a trace. Her passionate, strong willed fiancée, Breezy Carmichael, is terrified that something sinister has happened to her. Detective Maxine Golders tells Breezy to accept that she's been dumped. But something strange is going on. Across this small town of Gulfport, Florida, where everyone knows everyone else's business, husbands and wives are deserting their spouses for no apparent reason. Could Ella's disappearance be part of the same mystery?  When Golders makes a shocking discovery about Ella, Breezy must decide whether to listen to her heart, which tells her to walk away, or her unreliable gut instinct which tells her to keep searching. Her decision could make the difference between life and death.

 

PRAISE FOR TIMING IS EVERYTHING

I loved the twists and turns it took as the mystery was unfolded, and that I couldn't guess where it was all going, or what had actually happened…Fantastically written." Carol Hutchison

"Very likable characters find themselves in a seemingly hopeless situation. Suspenseful until the end with a logical yet unexpected twist." 

"Alison R Solomon has become one of my favorite authors. Looking forward to the next book!!" 

Follow Alison at: www.AlisonRSolomon.com

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wild Girl Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393230687

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter One

BREEZY

A barking dog startled me awake. Furious, I reached out my arm to stroke Ella’s back and calm myself, but my hand was met only by a cotton sheet. The condo was dark and quiet. This late and Ella wasn’t home? I rolled over and grabbed my cell phone to check for messages. Nothing. My heart started beating rapidly and my chest felt tight.

Should I be this anxious? Most people wouldn’t have to question whether the situation was panic-worthy or not, but I lived my life constantly on the frayed edges of anxiety and dread, so I didn’t always know which things were appropriate for real frenzy. I was probably overreacting. Best to lull myself back to sleep with the aid of Tylenol PM and some vodka.

When I next looked at the clock it was 4:30 a.m. This time my hand slapped the other side of the bed hard, not caring if I whacked her. My palm fell flat on the sheet. My pulse raced and I sat up, feeling dizzy and disoriented.

"Breathe slowly," my brain commanded. "Look for the rational explanation."

I forced myself to try. Maybe Ella decided to stay overnight with Lucinda but didn’t call because she didn’t want to wake me up. She’d have texted, the ever-present gremlin on my shoulder muttered softly. Maybe she had too much to drink and was waiting to sober up before driving home. She doesn’t drink the gremlin growled.

I couldn’t come up with any other explanations. The gremlin started jumping up and down. Something’s happened. You need to call the police.

I didn’t want to call the cops. I had good reason not to like them, my interactions with them having been entirely negative. Marion, my therapist, had explained to me that the times they’d carted me off to the hospital against my will, they were simply doing their job and trying to keep me safe, but she didn’t know the looks they gave me, or the sneering comments. I could manage a weak wave when they were safely in their cruisers, but I didn’t want to be face-to-face with one.

Had Ella told me she might stay out all night? I was pretty sure she hadn’t, but had I really paid that much attention when she told me her plans? I thought back to the morning before and forced my mind to slow down and try to remember details.

It had been one of those fetid, September days when you poke your head out of the front door hoping to finally feel a cool breeze and instead feel as if you’ve stuck your head into a pizza oven. After I grabbed the Tampa Bay Times from the doorway, I went to the kitchen and poured coffee into two mugs, one for me, one for Ella. I was wearing my lightest summer kimono and still the sweat seeped from under my arms and beneath my breasts. I heard Ella scurrying around in the bedroom and when she appeared, dressed in lightweight blue shorts and a sun-proof lime-green t-shirt, I asked her, What’s your day today?

She started to tell me all the things she planned on accomplishing, but the list was so long and exhaustive I was only half-listening, especially since my mind was focused on a crossword clue I was determined to figure out. I knew she was going kayaking at Clam Bayou because, unlike me, she wasn’t bothered by the heat. There must have been other stuff, but the only thing I could remember was that she was going to hang out with Lucinda in the evening. Out of politeness she’d asked me if I wanted to join her there. I rolled my eyes, as she knew I would, and said I’d pass. I’d never understood what she saw in Lucinda, with her pretentious upper-class British accent and her constant name-dropping.

Should I call Lucinda? It would be a pretty drastic thing to do at four in the morning and  I didn’t want to upset Ella. She’d been working way too hard lately and it had started to show in the hollows beneath her eyes. I wasn’t going to do anything to stress her out. Calling her friend in the middle of the night would definitely qualify as a stressor. Part of me was worried sick, but it was probably just the part that was always over-emotional. I decided to settle for more Tylenol and vodka and slumped back to sleep.

When I awoke in the morning my head felt awful. I pulled myself up as gingerly as I could. Through the window the palm trees teased me, waving their fronds in a morning greeting, as if this were just another day in paradise. But I knew it wasn’t when the world came into focus and Ella still wasn’t home. Panic flooded my chest and fear grabbed my gut. I stumbled out of bed and ran through the condo in hopes she was on the computer or reading in the Florida room. When I realized she wasn’t there, I went back and grabbed my phone, but I’d forgotten to plug it in, so it was completely dead. I felt the panic fall away as quickly as it came. Surely there was a text from Ella ready to blink at me. I plugged the phone in and while I waited for it to charge, I made my coffee. When the screen lit up, I grabbed the phone. No texts. No missed calls. My chest got tight and the panic and fear started up again. Then I remembered all the times Marion and Ella had told me not to trust that kind of reaction.

Ask yourself if someone else would react that way, Marion advised. The idea of checking my reactions was helpful, but how did I know how others would react? To me, my reactions always seemed entirely normal. Still, I tried to imagine how Ella might respond to this situation. I figured she would sit across from me, a slight smile on her face, and tell me that there was probably a perfectly rational, logical explanation for her absence and that I should start by calling Lucinda. I didn’t want to do that, but it did seem the logical place to start.

I picked up the phone. Is she there? I demanded the moment I heard her answer.

I’m sorry, who is this? Lucinda asked in that Princess Diana accent she affected. I was pretty sure she knew it was me.

"Oh, for Chrissake, you stuck-up bitch, is Ella there?"

No, she said. Have you taken your meds this morning?

I stabbed the end call button. How dare she? Okay I wasn’t exactly polite, but I had an excuse, although she didn’t know it. Part of me thought I should call her back and explain what was going on, but the other part, the part that felt like she was labeling me crazy because she knew about my diagnosis, won out.

I stared beyond the palm trees to the bay and knew I had no choice.

My hand shook so badly I could barely punch the numbers in. When my call was answered, I burst into tears.

My girlfriend didn’t come home, I gasped between sobs. I think something may be wrong.

A disembodied voice answered in a monotone. A missing person’s report is usually taken at the station.

She’s not a cat that’s wandered off! This isn’t some minor incident. I yelled. I needed to calm down, but I couldn’t.

The voice kept talking but my wailing grew louder. Eventually, he relented and said, Ma’am? Give me your address. I’ll have someone out there as soon as I can.

Chapter Two

MAX

Don’t forget we’re going to my parents’ tonight, Max Golders reminded her husband, Howard, as she grabbed her car keys from the kitchen counter.

How could I forget? Brisket, honey cake...it’s my favorite holiday of the year.

Max rolled her eyes. You’re the one who should have been born a Jew.

We’re still taking two cars, right? Howard pulled on his coveralls.

Yeah. I promised Mom I’ll stay over and go to services with them tomorrow. I need you there to help get me through tonight, so don’t let me down.

Howard gave her a peck on the cheek as they both headed out to work. As if I would.

Max sighed as she joined the crawling traffic headed on Roosevelt Boulevard, remembering all the times he had indeed let her down. On the other hand, her job didn’t exactly make her a reliable dinner companion either.

She was off the freeway and on Gulfport Boulevard about to pick up a cup of coffee when the call came in.

Detective Golders? The voice didn’t wait for her to affirm. Check out Seabird Condos, Cormorant building number 403. Missing person call. Female caller, pretty upset. Didn’t want to come to the station. I thought a female might be the best match for this one and Officers Jenner and McMillan are both out sick.

Max groaned silently. She was trying to establish herself as the new detective but now here they were asking her to do an officer’s work. She swerved the car to make a right and noticed a little flutter of excitement in her gut. Three months she’d been in this podunk town and hadn’t had even a hint of a real case. Her pulse quickened—this could be it! Which was damned ironic given that she’d booked the next day off for Rosh Hashana. She’d cancel if she hadn’t promised her mother. She spotted a dog walker retrieve an empty beer bottle and mangled sandwich wrapper from the gutter, then go out of her way to put it in a trash can on the other side of the road. These small-town people hated when visitors defaced their beautiful little town of Gulfport. They were all so in love with the place that they couldn’t see it the way she did—a hippie town still stuck in the 1970s, stinking hot, and boring. If only she cared about spotting pink winged spoonbills flying above or dolphins frolicking in the bay. Instead, she longed for the noise and bright lights of a city. She wished she were back in a place where crime meant murder and mayhem, not a stolen bike or missing dog.

As she turned down 58th, the initial buzz started to fade. She doubted there was anything to the disappearance beyond another domestic tiff. When she joined the force, she had no idea how often she’d end up counseling wayward spouses when they got into heated arguments and one of them grabbed the phone and dialed 911. In theory, domestic disputes were one of the most dangerous types of calls cops could take; too many of her sisters and brothers on the force had been killed responding to them. At least, that’s how it was in the cities, but not here. The last domestic she took involved a woman who accused her husband of animal abuse because the guy had given the dog store-bought generic dog food, instead of the organic brand she’d left when she went on a week-long yoga retreat in the woods of northern Georgia. In his defense, the poor shmuck explained to her, he couldn’t call his wife and ask her where she kept the food because she had no access to a phone in the mountains.

Three years we’ve been living here, and he still doesn’t know where we keep the dog food. Now do you understand? The wife asked scornfully, as if a man who was that oblivious to his surroundings must clearly be guilty of animal cruelty as well.

Max hated when women assumed she was going to side with them in some kind of female bonding ritual, and she couldn’t stand having to arbitrate disputes as if she were a family court mediator. Didn’t these people know there was a non-emergency number they could call when no physical threat was involved? Or better yet, a slew of reputable couples’ counselors and divorce lawyers just waiting to snap up their hard-earned cash?

Max pulled her cruiser into a parking space in front of the outermost building of the Seabird Condos. Fitness in mind, she chose the stairs over the elevator and climbed them two at a time to the fourth floor, located number 403 and rapped sharply on the door. A large-framed woman in her fifties or sixties surged forward, her low-cut shirt unable to keep her ample bosom from spilling over the top. She looked like an exotic ostrich with her massive top tapering into skinny legs encapsulated in tight black leggings. Her short, black hair was spiked into a ridge at the center that ran from front to back. She might have looked attractive but for her face, which was blotchy with red patches punctuating alabaster-white skin. Dark shadows surrounded her puffy eyes, and tear tracks ran the length of her cheeks. She held a bunch of ragged tissues in her hand which she wiped absently across her nose. She looked momentarily confused, but her expression quickly changed to one of relief when Max held up her badge.

Ms. Carmichael?

I thought...but you’re—oh, thank God you’re here, she said, her smoldering voice low and raspy. I’m beside myself with worry.

I’m sure there’s a rational—

No! No there isn’t. Something terrible has happened. I know it. The low voice rose without warning to a squeaky pitch. Before Max could say anything, the woman began wailing.

Let’s sit down shall we? The woman was still clutching Max’s arm, so the detective pulled her down the hallway, past a kitchen, into the dining area where she pushed her gently toward the table and chairs.

As they seated themselves Max stole a glance around. The dining area was part of an open-plan living room with floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the Boca Ciega bay, where sailboats bobbed on a sparkling sea and the famous pink Don Cesar hotel sat regally in the distance. Inside the condo, the large open area was a bizarre mix of garishly modern black and yellow abstract paintings, a pink armchair in the shape of a hand, and a vintage fifties black leather banquette sofa.

She sat down and motioned the distraught woman to do likewise.

Tell me what happened, she instructed, trying to sound firm, yet gentle.

I haven’t heard from her. She didn’t come home, and she hasn’t texted.

Oh. The partner’s female. Dispatch thought a female should take the call because it was a lesbian couple. Made no sense. Surely her straight male colleagues had more in common with lesbians since they both liked sleeping with women.

You’re referring to your girlfriend?

"My fiancée," the woman said, a note of defiance in her voice, as if daring Max to challenge her.

Max was still trying to get used to the variety of terms she was expected to use working with this diverse community. The first time she tried to be politically correct and refer to a woman’s spouse as her wife, the witness practically snapped her head off responding that marriage was a patriarchal institution in which she had no intention of being imprisoned. The next time, she chose the term ‘spouse,’ but the client glanced at Max’s hand and said softly, you can call her my wife, you know. Just like your husband probably refers to you.

Max pulled out the notebook she always carried. How long have you been together?

Three years. Living together for two. Engaged for four months.

And does she often stay out all night?

She shook her head vigorously. She’s never done it before.

So last night, when she didn’t come home, what did you do?

Nothing. Her eyes flickered downward for a moment before she looked back up at Max.

You didn’t try to find out where she was. You weren’t concerned?

I was worried. Extremely worried. But... Her voice trailed off.

You’d been fighting. Is that it? You thought maybe she was trying to teach you a lesson? Or perhaps she’d already threatened to leave?

The woman’s dark eyes flashed with a ferocity that startled the cop.

You’re not listening to me! We’re engaged. We love each other. And now she’s missing. The tears started to well up again, but she brushed her hand against her cheek as if she could force them back into her eye sockets.

What time was she due home?

She shrugged. Whenever she felt like it.

Does she normally go out by herself?

She wasn’t by herself. At least, I don’t think...she was going to her friend, Lucinda’s, for dinner.

And then?

I thought she’d come home. But she didn’t.

You think she stayed over at her friend’s place? Max wondered if this person was more than a friend and tried hard not to say the word as if it were in quotation marks.

I called. She’s not there. Her chest heaved, and she looked ready to explode. You have to do something!

Although she was pretty sure this report was going nowhere, Max said, Let’s get some details, shall we? Your full name?

Breezy Carmichael.

And the missing person?

Ella. Last name Jay.

When did you last see her?

Saturday morning.

And her plans were...?

I don’t make her account for every moment in her life. She’s a free agent. Breezy sounded defensive and Max wondered why.

I’m trying to ascertain at what point she went missing. I need to know everything you know; otherwise I can’t help you.

Fine. She was going kayaking, and then she had a bunch of errands, and then she was getting together with her friend for dinner.

I assume you’ve checked to see whether her car and kayak are here.

The car’s gone and she keeps her kayak at the marina by Clam Bayou, so I don’t know if it’s there or not.

You didn’t call the marina. Max made it a statement, not a question. Obviously, she didn’t. But why not?

When did you last hear from her? Did she call or text you to let you know what time to expect her?

Breezy shook her head. I haven’t heard from her since she left yesterday morning.

Would she normally text you when you’re not together?

The woman paused. Yes. But my phone isn’t very reliable. She might have texted, and I didn’t get it.

Is there anyone else she might have stayed over with? Friends, family...

Breezy shook her head. If she was with one of our friends they’d have called. And she doesn’t have any family.

In the area, you mean?

No. None, period. Her parents died. But she never talks about it. I don’t know much about them.

Max felt her interest go up a notch. Most people talked about dead parents. Why didn’t Ella?

How did they die?

They were murdered.

The statement fell heavy in the air. And then, before Max had a chance to think what having murdered parents might mean to this case, Breezy let loose a shriek.

Oh my God! You don’t think...I mean, it couldn’t be... The woman grabbed clumps of her hair, twisting and pulling at them. Then she fell on her knees and grabbed Max around her waist.

Maybe whoever murdered Ella’s parents is after her now! You have to find her. Before it’s too late. I beg you.

Max recoiled and pushed Breezy away. Ma’am! Was she completely clueless? Didn’t she know not to grab at law enforcement? Something about this woman didn’t seem real. All this drama was just one big cover up. Who got on their knees to a cop? Usually the wife batterers who swore they were innocent, even while the hysterical wife had blood streaming down her face.

Could Breezy have something to do with the disappearance?

Don’t look at me like that! Breezy said, and Max wondered if her face was showing her skepticism. I know she’s only been gone for one day, but I’ve heard that nowadays you start looking for people as soon as possible, like you did with that kid last year. I didn’t want to wait any longer to call you.

I understand, Ma’am. I’ll check out the kayak facility and put out a BOLO—a Be On the Look Out—for Ella and her car. Do you have a photo of her I can take?

Breezy glanced toward the coffee table and Max saw a small rainbow-colored frame with a picture of two smiling women. If it weren’t for the jet-black hair, she wouldn’t have recognized the larger of the two as Breezy. The second woman was clearly younger than her and could easily be mistaken for a boy. Ella had short brown hair, slender hips and a lopsided grin. Max reached out to take a better look but Breezy lunged forward and grabbed it.

Not that one. I can’t bear to be without it. Can I email you one from my phone?

Max nodded then snapped her notebook closed. Please let me know if you hear from her.

Of course. Thank you, officer! Before she could correct her title to detective, Max had been enveloped in a bear hug. This woman was one of the oddest she’d met. One minute she hated you, and the next you were her new best friend.

Where’s your accent from? A moment ago she’d been distraught, now she was making small talk?

Philadelphia. The answer popped out before she could stop it. Haven’t lived there for years though.

You’re new in Gulfport, right?

Max nodded.

Why’d you come here? Seems like a step down from a big city like that. Unless you’re running from something. Breezy raised her eyebrows and looked at Max as if she honestly expected an answer. Max ignored her and as she walked to the front door, turned and asked a question of her own.

Is Breezy a nickname? Do you have a formal first name?

Breezy shook her head. My parents were hippies before hippies were invented. They wanted to give me a name they hoped would match my personality.

Max felt the corner of her lip twitching and coughed so she wouldn’t accidentally slip into a