Nightmare Sally, Reed Ferguson Private Investigator Mysteries: Book 15

Sample Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

She looked nervous.

That was my first impression as I watched her for a moment from the entryway of the Cherry Hills Country Club restaurant.

“May I help you, sir?” a hostess in dark slacks and a white blouse asked me.

“I’m meeting someone,” I said, then gestured at the woman, who was sitting near a window across the room.

“Ah, yes. Are you Reed Ferguson?”

I nodded.

“Mrs. Evans is expecting you.”

She escorted me to Mrs. Evans’s table, then said to her, “Your guest has arrived.”

Mrs. Evans thanked the hostess, then indicated I should sit down.

I introduced myself and she smiled.

“Call me Brenda.”

She discreetly sized me up, probably wondering how could this brown-haired guy with boring hazel eyes be a private investigator.

If my guess was correct, Brenda Evans was in her fifties. That was maybe ten years or so younger than my mother, but you wouldn’t have known it by looking at her. Her cream-colored pantsuit hung loosely on her thin frame, her cheeks were hollow, and her short blond hair had a strange quality I couldn’t put my finger on.

“I’ve met you before, but it was a long time ago,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“When your parents lived in Denver, we golfed here at the club with them.”

I nodded, letting her ease into the conversation. A waiter came over and asked if I wanted something to drink. Brenda was sipping coffee, but that wasn’t generally my style, and I asked for a Coke. He nodded and scurried away. It was after one on a beautiful September day, and the restaurant was quiet, only a few other diners in the room. The murmur of their conversations drifted into the background as Brenda and I talked.

“I talked to your mother the other day on the phone and was telling her about my … situation,” she said, “and she suggested I contact you.”

I leaned in a bit. “I’m happy to help if I can.”

“Your mother speaks very highly of you. She says you’re quite the detective.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

And it was. My parents had been slow to warm up to the idea of my being a private investigator, but now that I had been in the business for several years, they were coming around. Brenda interrupted my thoughts.

“But she does say that she worries about your getting into dangerous situations.”

There it is, I thought. That was the one thing with my mother that wouldn’t go away. She always assumed that when I was working on a case, somehow I would end up getting hurt. I’m sure she was sitting on the balcony of her Florida condo right now, wondering what kind of precarious situation I was in.

Brenda smiled. “I assure you, there’s nothing dangerous in what I’m asking you to do.”

“Okay,” I said. “What do you need?”

“I want you to get a message to my daughter.”

I watched her twist a gold ring on a bony finger. The waiter returned with my Coke and asked if I wanted anything to eat. Brenda wasn’t eating, so I declined.

“We – my husband, Joel, and I,” she continued after the waiter left, “haven’t had contact with her in months. She barely talks to us.” Sadness spread across her pale face.

“What’s her name?”

“Sally. I don’t think you ever met her.”

I couldn’t recall if I had. “Tell me about her.” I drank some Coke and waited.

She gazed past me, a faraway look in tired brown eyes. “She was a good kid, overall, didn’t cause us a lot of trouble. Not like her older brother, Wayne – he was a holy terror. Thank goodness he got things straightened out. He’s a lawyer now, lives in San Francisco.”

I prodded her back to the original subject. “But Sally?”

“She graduated high school and went to college for a couple of years at Princeton – that’s where Joel and Wayne went – but she dropped out and came back to Denver. She wanted to pursue a singing career.” She frowned. “So that’s what she did. We let her take a year off, thinking it was just a passing fancy, that she’d realize how tough it is to break into that kind of career. We also thought she’d realize…” She glanced away.

“What?”

She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Sally’s not a very good singer. I hate to say that, but she doesn’t have what it takes. She doesn’t have the right kind of voice. But she thought she did, and she wouldn’t think of going back to college. That led to problems.”

“What happened?”

Now she met my gaze. “One night we had an argument about it. Joel and I told her that we didn’t think she had the talent to make it in the music industry, and that she needed to think about a real career. And we said in no uncertain terms that if she was going to live under our roof, and have us help pay for her expenses, she needed to drop the singing nonsense and go back to school. Otherwise, she would need to pay rent or move out.” She stopped.

I cocked an eyebrow. “She chose to move out.”

Her lips trembled, and she took a tissue from a small purse on the table and dabbed at her eyes. Then she clutched it in her hand. “Yes. Joel and I were so certain she wouldn’t want to strike out on her own at twenty, and that she’d decide to go back to school. But she didn’t. A week later, when Joel was at work, I came home and she’d moved all her belongings out while I was gone. We called her friends, and their parents, and we finally found out she’d rented a tiny attic apartment on Capitol Hill. We went to talk to her, and she said that she’d made her choice, and she wasn’t going to take a penny from us, that she was going to live her own life. And to her credit, she has, although I think it’s been a struggle for her.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Eight years.”

“Any issues with drugs or alcohol?”

She shrugged. “She’s never said anything, but I think so. I’m not naïve.”

“And the singing career?”

She sipped some coffee, then put her cup down. “It never really went anywhere. We didn’t talk to her much.” She shrugged. “She didn’t want to see us; she was angry at us. She worked in some clubs around town, and we heard that she went out to LA for a year or so, and that things might’ve been going somewhere. But I think things fell apart out there, so she came back to Denver. I don’t even know if she plays in clubs anymore. From what I’ve heard, her old friends don’t talk to her now. She periodically calls Wayne, and the last she told him, she was mostly waiting tables.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does Wayne think about the … situation?”

She sighed. “When she moved out, he thought we were too hard on her. Now he thinks she needs to let go of her anger toward us. He told her that, and that didn’t make her happy. None of us have seen or heard from her in over six months, and even when we did, we didn’t really talk about anything. She’s so angry with Joel and me, but I want her to know that he and I are sorry for what we said and did. We should’ve been behind her dreams, instead of being critical of her.” She drew in a burdened breath, then choked out, “I want her to know that now. It’s time to put everything behind us, before it’s too late.”

She scratched carefully at a spot on her head, and the action seemed to move an entire portion of her hair. Then it dawned on me that she was wearing a wig. Things fell into place.

“I hope this isn’t too forward of me,” I said gently, “but may I ask, are you having some health issues, and is this why you want to talk to your daughter as soon as you can?”

Her face remained impassive, and then she nodded slowly.

“I have cancer,” she finally whispered. “It doesn’t look good.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

She composed herself and shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m a fighter, so we’ll see. But I don’t want to leave things this way with Sally. That’s a burden I can’t bear.”

“Why do you want me to tell her all this instead of you?”

“I don’t, but she won’t talk to me. I’ve tried calling her, but her cell phone’s disconnected, and I can’t find a listing for a new one. I’m sure she has a new number, but I don’t know what it is. Both Joel and I have been over to her apartment on separate occasions and she doesn’t answer. When I was there, I wondered if she was home because I thought I heard her behind the door. I think she knew it was me and wouldn’t answer.” She pointed at me. “But you could go over. Since she doesn’t know you, she’ll probably answer the door, and you can tell her what I’ve told you.”

I thought for a moment. “What exactly would you want me to say to her?”

“You’ve got to impress upon her that her father and I are sorry, and we’re desperate to talk to her. You can let her know I’m having some health issues, if that would help, but don’t tell her how serious my condition is. I’d rather do that myself.”

I’d rather you do it, too, I thought but didn’t say.

“I’m happy to pay you for your time.”

I shook my head. “That’s not necessary. I don’t mind helping out.”

“Your mother said you’d say that. It’s very kind of you.” She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue again. “I just want to clear things up with Sally before it’s too late.”

“I understand.”

She pushed a piece of paper across the table. “This is my contact information, and her address and the only phone number I have for her.”

I glanced at it. Brenda lived in Castle Pines, a very nice area south of Denver, and Sally lived in an apartment northeast of downtown, near Bruce Randolph Avenue and York Street. Not the best part of town.

“Does she still live there?”

She arched her eyebrows, surprised. “I think so. I suppose it’s possible she moved, but if so, she didn’t tell anyone.”

“Just checking. One other thing. What does Sally look like?”

She let out a small laugh. “Oh, that would be helpful, huh.” She pulled out her phone, swiped at the screen, then handed it to me. “This was taken about a year ago at our house.”

Sally Evans was sitting at a picnic table, holding a beer and smiling mischievously. She had shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes that sparkled the way I’m sure her mother’s once did, and the same high cheekbones.

“Wayne was there as well, and she was telling some jokes.” She smiled. “She can make you laugh, and Wayne could get her going.”

“I can see the resemblance between you two,” I said.

She nodded. “Please let me know as soon as you talk to her.”

“I will.” I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. “Can I pay you for my drink?” I didn’t think she’d let me, but I had to ask.

“Don’t be silly.”

I stood up. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“I’ll be in touch soon.”

She smiled wanly, and I walked toward the entryway, then glanced back.

Brenda was staring out the window, the same sad expression on her face.

 

I have loved all of the Reed Ferguson mysteries, and this lives up to the reputation that the author has established. ~Reader review