Текст книги "Family Secrets"
Автор книги: Kate Kane
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Family Secrets
Lane Parker #2
By Kate Kane
Copyright 2013 Kane Communications
ebook Edition
Family Secrets is a work of fiction. Characters, Incidents, Names, and Places are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any events, locales, or Persons living or dead is completely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover images courtesy of Jamenpercy, Alexmit, & Canstockphoto.com
Cover by Joleene Naylor
Dedication
While the Parker, Bellini, and Luciano families were born in my brain, I have to thank my own family for their encouragement and help.
Thank-you to my daughter Keey who helped with a really good one-liner almost every time I needed one.
Thank-you to my son Kaid who helped with the cover concept.
And, thanks to both who listen, laugh, and encourage me as I talk about the disasters and dilemmas my other family faces.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Italian Translations
Lane’s next adventure:
Chapter 1
Saturday Night at the Movies
Lane Parker loved the movies. She’d grown up in a rural farming community where, in an effort to encourage adults to spend more money in the local stores, the merchants sponsored a free Saturday Matinee for the kids. She’d spent countless hours watching the old movies, versions of action flicks – Tarzan starring Johnny Weissmuller; suspense thrillers – like The Pit and the Pendulum – staring Vincent Price; or romantic comedies – starring Elvis Presley, while her faithful dog Ginger waited not so patiently in front of the theater. Perhaps that was what angered her most about the murder. Sure, she was bothered that one human being decided it was their right to take the life of another human being but what really irked her was that they did it in a theater filled with kids, well teenagers at least.
The medical examiner’s van had removed the body. The detectives had questioned the theater employees – mostly teenaged kids who acted as if this was the coolest thing that had ever happened to them. The multiplex manager was standing in front of the cop in charge, yelling about lost revenues. On one level, it was easy to sympathize with him. It was, after all, Saturday night – the biggest movie night of the week and it was release weekend for the new Jason Barlow action film, which was expected to break all of Jason’s very impressive previous box office records and to be the summer blockbuster of all times. But, this guy really needed to get his priorities straight. One of the movie patrons was dead. The place was closed for the night whether this guy liked it or not.
She had a sinus headache from hell and sat with her eyes closed, as she pinched the bridge of her nose. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Ms. Parker?”
She slowly turned to face the man in charge.
“I’m Detective McGuire. I understand you found the body.”
She nodded ever so slightly, careful not to give her head more reason to throb.
He went on. “I know you spoke with one of the other officers earlier, but I’d like to ask you some questions. Would you come with me?”
She rose slowly. Sometimes the slightest change in altitude would intensify the throbbing.
“Can you show me where the man was sitting,” he asked as he led her into theater 18. The scene of the crime as they say. They hadn’t put up all that yellow and black “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape that you see on television yet and she wondered if they would.
The theater had stadium style seating so they had to walk down a long aisle to the front of the theater to get to the seats. They climbed up the steps to the landing below the top tier of seats.
“Second row from the top. Right in the middle,” she said as she pointed to the seat the man had occupied.
“And where were you sitting?”
Her head felt like Stomp was giving a command performance on a little stage just behind her eyes. She knew from experience that if she didn’t get this headache under control soon, it would turn into a full-blown migraine. “Behind him,” she said, just before the headache and the acrid smells of soda, stale popcorn and death caused her to vomit all over his nice suit.
In times like these, Lane wished that she were some little petite southern thing, the kind of helpless woman that men fawned over and would forgive anything. But, there she stood, all five feet ten inches and 175 pounds of her. And, she was embarrassed from throbbing head to neatly polished red toenails. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and she tugged it loose hoping it would help alleviate the pain in her head.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” she said as she fumbled in her purse for a tissue, as if that would even begin to help.
There was a stifled chuckle from one of the uniformed officers as Detective McGuire removed his suit coat and yelled for someone to get him a towel. He took Lane gently by the arm and led her out of the theater as he asked, rather calmly, if she was all right. She explained about the headache. Someone handed her a bottle of water. She sat on a bench in the lobby and rummaged through her purse for extra strength sinus pain relief tablets.
Lane sat there and looked up, well squinted, at the profile of the man she’d just vomited all over. He was a tall man, about six feet four inches tall, he had broad shoulders and a trim waist. He had dark wavy hair, cut short and wore small gold wire rim glasses. She thought he looked a bit like Pierce Brosnan. She swallowed the pills, chased them with water, and looked back up at Detective McGuire.
“I don’t think I’ve been this embarrassed since Ricky Blair unbuttoned the back of my dress in the fourth grade,” Lane said as she handed the bottled water back to one of the uniformed cops.
Detective McGuire smiled. At least she thought it might have been a smile, the corners of his mouth twitched. “I only have a few more questions and we don’t have to go back into the theater. Think you’re up to it?”
She squinted as she looked at him again. Her head was still throbbing and the bright lights in the lobby hurt her eyes. “I’m game if you are,” she said smiling sheepishly as she looked woefully at the jacket he had laid on the concession stand counter. Boy, was that stain going to be tough to get out. “Although my head and I would be happier if we could get out of this bright light.”
She noticed one of the other detectives jerk his head slightly toward the theater next door. Lane swayed almost imperceptibly as she stood. Detective McGuire grabbed her arm.
“This could wait until tomorrow.”
Lane put her thumb and fingers back on the bridge on her nose and squeezed. “I’d just as soon get it over with. I promise the vomiting is all over.” Hoping even as she said it, that it was the truth.
They walked into theater 17 and she sat in the first row. Detective McGuire stood. “You were here alone. Is that right Ms. Parker?” He looked at her. She was beautiful. Surely, she had a husband, significant other, boyfriend in her life. Why was she at the movie let alone anywhere alone on a Saturday night?
“Yes.”
“Do you usually see movies alone, Ms. Parker?”
She sat just looking up at him for a minute. What the hell was that supposed to mean? That she didn’t have any friends. That she couldn’t get a date even if her life depended on it. Well, she thought, I do have friends and I can get a date … well … I do have friends.
“Actually, most of the time, I see movies with a friend who’s currently out of town.” Her head hurt, and she thought this guy was a bit of a jerk. A jerk doing his job maybe, but a jerk nonetheless. “Look, Detective McGuire, I see at least two movies a weekend, sometimes more. I usually sit in the top row. I have a small bag of popcorn and a large Diet Coke. Sometimes, I splurge and have Milk Duds.”
Her outburst didn’t faze him. “I see. Do you always sit through the credits?”
She wondered what on earth her movie going habits had to do with the dead guy. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do.” She was pinching her nose again.
“That’s rather unusual, isn’t it? Sitting through the credits I mean.”
Lane closed her pale blue eyes. Suddenly it was the year she turned thirteen, the year her life changed forever. Funny that it was still the way she thought about it, the year her life changed forever. It was the year Lane had fallen down the steps at the capitol building in Lincoln, Nebraska and had broken both of her legs. The year Aunt Marta married the man who had been Lane’s orthopedic surgeon and then moved them to Omaha, Nebraska. Her Aunt Marta started both habits; sitting in the last row of the theater and staying to watch the credits. Since both of Lane’s legs had been broken in the accident, it was a long recovery and when she was finally out of the wheel chair, she was on crutches. After the crutches came the walker and then the cane. She and Aunt Marta would get to the theater early so that Lane could maneuver through the seats before any one else was there and they’d stay until everyone left.
She opened one eye at a time and peered at him. “I suppose it is. I was on crutches for a prolonged period as a teenager; it was easier for me just to sit still until everyone else left the theater then. It became a habit.” While it was a habit that she’d never broken; she’d have stayed for the credits for this movie anyway.
Detective McGuire sat in the seat next to her. “I see. So you must have thought it was odd that the man was still sitting when you got up to leave.”
“I guess you could say that. At first, I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, although I didn’t know how anyone could have fallen asleep in there considering the volume level, so I bent over and tapped him on the shoulder. I couldn’t get him to stir, so I shook him a bit. He slumped forward, and I saw the blood on the back of his neck. I took out my cell phone, dialed 9-1-1, and told the kid who was cleaning to get the manager.”
“I see, well that’s all I need for now.” Detective McGuire stood up. “Did you give all of your information to the uniformed officer, your name, address, and phone numbers?”
“Yes,” she said, thinking that she’d given them everything but her shoe size. She a made a mental note: never find another dead body. She followed the detective into the lobby area and stopped at the concession stand. She squinted to look at her watch. It had been an hour since she’d taken the sinus pills and they hadn’t even dulled the pain. She asked for another bottle of water as she reached into her purse, pulled out an envelope, and opened a cellophane sleeve. She tilted her head back slightly and poured white powder on her tongue.
The detective was more than a bit curious. Surely, the woman wasn’t taking a hit of a controlled substance right in front of him. “What is that you’re taking,” he asked.
She handed him the red, white, and blue envelope. Inscribed on the front were the words, “BC Fast Pain Relief.” He turned it over and read the active ingredients. Aspirin, caffeine, and what on earth is salicylamide?
“Give me your keys. I’ll drive your car home and have one of the uniformed officers follow us.”
She reached into her purse and handed him the keys to her SUV. Just what I need, she thought, a dead guy, Stomp, and Detective McGuire.
Lane was a fairly religious person. Meaning she attend church on Sundays (well usually Saturday nights), and did nightly devotional Bible reading. She also carried on completely one-sided conversations with God frequently. Not the “Oh, woe is me, Why me God” kind of conversation. More in the vein of “I know you have a reason for all of this and I know you’re in charge of this situation and I trust that you have a plan. And I’d like to do your will if you’d just give me a sign even I can recognize.” Which was pretty much the conversation she had with God as Detective McGuire drove her home, but this time she added the question “… but why does this guy have to be part of it?” Luckily, she lived less than 10 minutes from the theater complex.
Detective McGuire made no effort to talk during the drive. He pulled her SUV into the driveway and asked if she parked in the garage. Lane told him yes and reached up to push the button on the automatic opener at the same time he did. Their hands touched and for just an instant, they hovered in that awkward position. Lane pulled her hand back. Detective McGuire pushed the button and pulled her Cadillac Escalade into the garage.
“Would you like me to go in with you,” he asked as he handed her the keys.
She shook her head slightly and thanked him. He told her they’d be in touch if they needed anything else. He went out the open garage and got into the waiting car. Lane pushed the button to close the garage door and made it all the way to the powder room before she threw up again.
She washed her face and brushed her teeth slowly and in the dark. She took two more Sudafed, two acetaminophen tablets, and two Flexeril. Then she went to bed. Lane could still hear the voice of her ex-husband telling her if she took all these pills that some day she wouldn’t wake up. She mumbled aloud the same thing she’d told him nearly 20 years ago. “At least my head won’t hurt.” She went to bed and prayed that she was right as she thanked God for the forethought of going to Mass on Saturday evening because it would enable her to sleep in on Sunday morning.
It was a short night. A fitful sleep filled with dreams about dead people and Detective McGuire. The detective was an attractive, man with blue eyes and dark wavy hair, just beginning to go white at the temples. In the dreams he wore the same dark slacks, black silk T-shirt and sport coat that he’d worn the night before with one small change – no one had thrown up on him. In the dreams, the detective drove her SUV through streets she’d never seen before, questioning her about skipping school when she was a high school Senior, headaches, her real hair color, why she couldn’t get a date, and dead guys. Lane wondered what Freud or Meninger would have to say about the dreams.
Chapter 2
Sunday morning
Lane had a routine on Sundays. She got up around 8:00 a.m., brushed her teeth, washed her face, showered, and got dressed. She did a few things around the house and then she usually met friends on the Country Club Plaza for brunch. They’d do a little eating, a little shopping, a bit of gossiping, and around five o’clock in the evening, they’d stop for desert. She had some time to kill before she needed to leave. She thought about her friends, mostly coffee drinkers, who would have put their feet up, read the paper, and sipped coffee for a couple of hours. Since coffee was a habit that she’d never acquired, and because she was stressed, she cleaned. Lane thought about her sister-in-law who believed that the world is made up of two kinds of people, Felix and Oscar from the Odd Couple. Her family had taken a vote and decided that she fell into the Felix category. Maybe they were right. When she felt stressed, or worried, or just had a little time on her hands, she cleaned.
“I’m not obsessive compulsive. I really am not.” She had a tendency to talk to herself but not in the crazy kind of way. “And I’m not a clean freak either,” she said as she lifted the dust ruffle on her bed and swiffered furiously. “Ben makes me look messy.” Ben was the friend with whom she usually saw movies. And, when she was doing stress cleaning, she always thought of him as if trying to prove that she wasn’t obsessive compulsive. Her daughter lovingly called her Felix unless she was feeling cranky about something and then it was Monk.
She’d just finished cleaning out the refrigerator when the phone rang. She put the lid on the trash barrel she’d brought in from the garage, and reached for the phone.
“Hello?”
“Angelique Parker,” the voice on the other end asked, always an indication that the caller was a stranger. Her given name was Angelique Lane Parker. She knew something about the name Angelique conjured up thoughts of an angelic face with a disposition to match. Even as a child, she’d lacked the disposition. She’d been Lane to friends and family for decades. Only official documents, like her passport, tax returns, and driver’s license bore the name Angelique.
She asked who was calling, knowing that Sunday mornings weren’t prime telephone solicitation times.
“Detective McGuire,” the velvety voice replied.
That made sense; the uniformed officer had copied her name and address from her driver’s license. “Yes, this is Mrs. Parker.”
“I was hoping you were feeling up to answering some more questions today.”
“I’m much better today, detective. When do you want to talk?”
“Are you available now?”
Lane looked at the clock. It was 9:00 a.m. Her friends wouldn’t be at the Plaza until eleven o’clock. She had some time. “Yes. Do you want me to come to the station?”
The metropolitan Kansas City area is no different from other sprawling cities. One township butted against another. Lane lived in Leawood, but within a two-mile radius, one would find Prairie Village and Overland Park, Kansas and Kansas City, Missouri. Add another mile and you’d run into Fairway, Lenexa, Mission, and Mission Hills, Kansas.
“That’s not necessary; I’m out of the office and could be at your house within 15 minutes.”
She agreed and looked around the house. Police detective or not, he was still company and she only had 15 minutes to put away her cleaning supplies and tidy up. Her Aunt Marta had always said one needed to have the house, what she called presentable, at anytime. In the rural community where she’d lived until the age of thirteen, they were used to friends, family, and neighbors just dropping by. It didn’t happen much in the city, but keeping the house presentable was a habit she’d never lost.
She pulled the trash barrel to the garage, glad that Monday was trash pick-up day and the left overs she’d tossed wouldn’t have time to become noxious. It had been unusually cool, but this was Kansas and it was late July. She knew that the cool temperatures wouldn’t last. She heard a car door close, looked at her watch and mumbled, “Fifteen minutes my ass. The guy must have been calling from the driveway.” She opened the garage door and walked out to meet him.
He was dressed in black slacks and had on a lightweight long sleeved black polo shirt. Lane smiled, wondering if he was on his way to a funeral or if someone had told him black was a power color. As they shook hands and exchanged the normal pleasantries, she could see a few defiant chest hairs peeking out at the open neck of his shirt. She ushered him through the garage and into the French country kitchen. As she motioned toward the table, Lane explained that because she wasn’t a coffee drinker she didn’t have any brewed, but offered to make some for him. He said it wasn’t necessary. Ever the good hostess, she offered orange juice or diet soda. He declined both. He was still standing. Apparently, Detective McGuire’s mother had taught him it was impolite to sit if there was a lady standing. Lane retrieved a glass of Diet Dr. Pepper from the kitchen counter and sat down at the table. The detective followed suit.
“As I said on the phone, I have some questions,” he said as he sat. “Did you notice anything odd last night?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean. Certainly no one stood up and yelled I’m going to kill someone now,” Lane responded.
“Okay, what can you tell me about the people who sat next to the victim?”
She thought for a moment. “There were men on either side of him, but I don’t remember anything in particular about them. One of them might have been wearing a baseball cap.”
“You told me last night that you’re in the habit of going to the theater early. Can you tell me if the victim was alone?” He watched her closely as she put her right elbow on the table, leaned her head into her hand, and rubbed her forehead with her fingers. He’d had many and varied reactions to questioning, but this was a first.
She stopped rubbing and looked at him. “You don’t arrive early for many movies, do you, Detective? A lot of people come in alone to get a seat while their husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, family member, friend stops at the concession stand. As the theater fills up, it’s difficult to say who’s with whom. As I said, there were men seated on either side of him. I couldn’t say whether or not either of them was with him.”
“How crowded was the theater,” he asked, knowing that the manger had told him it was a sold out show.
“It was the second night of the opening weekend. By my estimates, it’s going to be the top box office hit of the weekend. The predictions are that it’s going to be this summer’s biggest blockbuster. In other words, there wasn’t an empty seat,” Lane said, as she once again began rubbing her forehead.
“We’ve already established that you were alone. Was the deceased with anyone?”
What was this, like a Psych evaluation test where they ask the same question three different ways, spaced throughout the test, to see if you give the same answer every time? “As I said, there were men on either side of him. But, he must have been alone. After all, a companion would have noticed when he didn’t get up, don’t you think?”
He let the sarcasm go without comment. “What can you tell me about the people seated next to you?”
There he goes again with that “you were alone at the theater” line of questioning. She closed her eyes. God, if only she’d known that she was supposed to be in charge of keeping track of the seating assignments for the entire theater. She’d have paid more attention. She reached to the top of her head with both hands and began massaging with her fingers. Hadn’t this guy ever been to the movies at all? Even people who go early just don’t engage in conversation with the other people who are there.
“There were women on both sides of me. They were there with men. Husbands I’d say.”
He cocked his head and looked at her. “Why husbands? Why not friends or boyfriends?”
Lane smiled. “Couples who are just friends don’t usually share soda. Both of these couples were sharing large sodas and popcorns. The couple on my right even used the same straw. Couples who are dating usually do a little hand holding maybe even some kissing before, during or after the movie. These people weren’t.”
“I see. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything odd or out of place?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, there was something that distracted me during the movie. There was a guy who was seated the other side of the couple to my left. He got up midway through and left. You know like he was going to the bathroom.”
“Uh-huh and why did that seem strange?”
Have you ever been to the movies Detective? She thought, but what she said was, “Have you ever noticed that men rarely have to leave in the middle of a movie to use the facilities? Women get up and go out a lot. So, it was odd that he got up to begin with. He also stepped on my foot, nearly fell over, and had to grab the seats in front of him to keep his balance.”
“How long was he gone?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t come back by me. I just assumed he was embarrassed about stepping on my foot and that he’d returned to his seat from the other direction.” Lane said as she reached for her Diet Dr. Pepper.
“One more thing, we’ve identified the deceased. His name was Paul Gardner.”
Lane almost dropped her glass as she choked and spewed soda from her nose and mouth. They reached toward the napkin holder at the same time.
“Apparently you recognize the name.” He said as he wiped soda from his hand and face.
Lane wiped her face and blew her nose. She walked to the sink, picked up a sponge, and turned on the tap. Recognize the name? She’d never forget it. She turned off the tap, walked back to the table, and began wiping away the sticky soda. She felt a hand on hers.
“Ms. Parker, are you all right?”
Lane looked up and wondered how long she’d been wiping the table. She sat down and took a deep breath.
“My father was killed in a car accident nearly 45 years ago. It was summer and we were driving from Springfield, Missouri back to our home in Iowa. It was in the early evening. We were on highway 71 just south of Kansas City when a car crossed the centerline and hit us. Not exactly, a head on collision, the point of impact was on the driver’s side. It was before mandatory seat belt laws; the car had no shoulder restraints, no air bags. Just a four-year-old girl and her father. My father had seen it coming and reached his right arm out to shield me. He hit his head on the driver’s window and was pushed over on top of me. We were lucky that there was other traffic, but they still had to drive to find a phone so they could call for help. I don’t know how long we sat there waiting for help to come. My Father was unconscious, blood oozing on my hands as I cradled his head.” She looked down at her hands but saw only a little girl’s hands covered in blood.
“God knows how I escaped without injury, but I was covered in my father’s blood. When the ambulance finally came, they loaded us in and took us to the hospital. My father never regained consciousness and died five months later. The driver of the other car was young, drunk, and got out with only bumps and bruises. His name was Paul Gardner.” Lane didn’t know when she started crying, but she could taste tears and reached for another napkin.
Detective McGuire had his hand over his mouth. He slowly moved it down to his chin. “But you told me last night that you didn’t know the guy in the theater,” he said watching her closely.
“I don’t, didn’t know the man in the theater. And, if you tell me his name was Paul Gardner, then that’s who he was. He might even be the Paul Gardner who caused the accident, but I never saw Paul Gardner. For God’s sake, I was four years old at the time. He pled guilty to drunk driving and vehicular manslaughter. There was no trial. He was sentenced to five years. Five years for killing my father and changing everything I had ever known.”
He had no idea of how the court system had worked that long ago. Maybe she really had never seen Paul Gardner and she was only four, so would she have even remembered. The detective looked at his watch.
“I’ll be going now.” He stood. “I’ll be in touch.”
She stood and walked him to the front door. As she closed the door behind him, her cell phone rang.
“Hey, Red, miss me?”
“Benito Giovanni Bellini, you must have ESP. I was just thinking about you. Meet me at Papa’s?” Papa’s was actually a restaurant called Bellini’s, owned by Ben’s father.
“Half an hour?” Came the reply.
She hung up the phone, grabbed her car keys, and headed for the garage. Her friends on the Plaza would just have to gossip and lunch without her today. From the look on Detective McGuire’s face she was going to need a lawyer, and soon. Lane silently thanked God. Ben wasn’t just the only criminal defense lawyer she knew. He was the best in the Kansas City metro.
As she drove, she replayed the events of last night and this morning over in her head and wondered why it was so important for her to see that movie last night anyway. Didn’t she know that her favorite man and movie partner was getting back from Italy today? Just goes to prove that old habits, and Saturday night at the movies was a habit, were just hard to break. Well, that and the fact that she’d promised Jess she’d see it opening weekend. A sense of relief came over her as she pulled into the parking lot and saw Ben’s black Jaguar XKR convertible.
Ben stood at the door, wearing a blue blazer over a tan polo shirt and khaki slacks, not even noticing the side ways glances, and out right stares, he was getting from every woman in the place.
He was 36 years old, stood six feet four inches tall, had dark hair, and hazel eyes. The best way to describe him was that he could be George Clooney’s much younger, much taller, much, much better looking brother. In other words, he attracted attention wherever he went.
“Hey, Red. There’s only one explanation for meeting me and abandoning the Sunday Brunch Crowd. You really did miss me.” He smiled as he bent down and kissed her.
God, she was glad to see him. They were walking toward the Board Room, a private dining room for the Bellini family and their friends when she looked up and saw Detective McGuire standing in the bar area. He was heading toward them. The situation was worse than she thought, she wasn’t just a suspect; the police had tapped her phone and were following her. The Detective extended his hand to Ben.
“Heard you were out of the country,” the detective said as he and Ben shook hands.
“Mickey, how’s it going? Yeah, I was in Italy visiting the family. I got back late last night.” He motioned toward Lane. “Lane, this is Mickey McGuire. Mickey, Lane Parker.”
Detective McGuire nodded. Lane opened her mouth to speak, but the Detective spoke first. “Ben, Ms. Parker. If you’ll excuse me, my party just came in. Ben, good to see you.”
After they sat down and ordered a bottle of wine, Lane smiled at him. “So, how was the homeland? Are your Grandparents okay? Bet they were glad to see you. You’re a good son to go so Mama didn’t have to make the trip alone.”
He reached across the table and poked at her hand. “You should have come with me. It was a fast trip and you know Nonno adores you.”
