Plain Jane (39 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Plain Jane
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Epilogue
Louisiana State University
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
 
The turnout was nothing short of spectacular. Jane sucked in her breath as she looked around at the media trucks, the throngs of people, the representatives from the various police departments, and, of course, the K-9 Corps from Louisiana, Kentucky, and Alabama.
It was all to honor Trixie and Fred for their unselfish generosity and devotion to the K-9 Corp they founded. Even the weather had cooperated, with warm breezes and bright sunshine. A picture-perfect day for such a momentous honor. The only problem was, where were the guests of honor?
Jane craned her neck to look around. A squeal of babyish delight brought her back just in time to see her six-month-old daughter smile and gurgle at the yellow butterfly perched on the side of the two-seat stroller. Mickey, the baby's two-year-old brother, tried to catch the elusive creature with chubby fingers. He laughed happily when it took wing and circled overhead.
“How late am I, Janie?” Trixie asked breathlessly as she came up behind her goddaughter. “I got hung up with one of the police commissioners. He said we have a discrepancy where the dogs' shields are concerned. Do you know anything about it?”
Jane kept a straight face. Of course she did, but she wasn't going to admit to it. “What kind of discrepancy?”
“One too many badges. I told him it was nothing to get excited about. He started to get a little pissy, and Flash let him know we didn't much care for his attitude. He backed right down and said he was sure it would be resolved, that it was probably some sort of computer-input error.”
Jane nodded. “Yeah, that's probably what it was. I don't think it's anything to worry about.” She glanced to her right. “Have you seen Mike?”
“He's headed this way with Fred.” Trixie bent over the stroller. “And how are my two little darlings today?” She tweaked the children's cheeks and kissed them. “Ooh, you're both just too cute.” She straightened and looked around. “My God, Jane, there's so many people.”
“Uh-huh. Are you nervous?”
Trixie made a hissing sound.
“You're supposed to wait until the LSU Golden Band winds down. John Murray is going to escort you, Fred, and Flash to the parade ground, where you'll review your troops.” Jane took Trixie's arm and squeezed it. “All one hundred thirty-seven dogs are here with their handlers. I think the whole state has turned out to see you and Fred receive this honor.”
“Do you think any of the dogs will remember me?” Trixie asked, her voice anxious.
“Every damn one of those dogs is going to remember you, Trixie,” Jane said in no uncertain terms. “You wait and see! Oh! Here comes the band. Straighten up, lady, this is your fifteen minutes of fame. Enjoy it.”
Trixie grimaced. “I feel like a cat on a hot griddle.”
“You're whining. Stop it right now,” Jane scolded.
The Golden Band from Tigerland as they liked to be referred to, marched onto the parade ground. John Murray appeared to take Trixie's arm.
“I don't know if I can do this,” Trixie bleated as she stared around at the enormous crowd.
Jane leaned toward her and whispered, “You have to do it. You bought that ass-kicking outfit just for this occasion. And Flash wants to see all his old buddies. I'm so proud of you I could just bust.” Jane grabbed her and hugged her, then turned her around and pointed her in the right direction. “Get moving, lady!”
“You should be over there with me,” Trixie said over her shoulder. “You did as much as I did.”
“Go!” Jane commanded.
“Okay, okay, I'm going.”
As soon as Trixie moved into the crowd, Jane turned to her husband. “Mike, will you watch the kids for a minute? I have to do something. I'll be right back.”
“Don't be long, or you'll miss the introduction,” Mike called after her.
Jane sprinted toward the Student Union. Breathless, she leaned against the tree and opened her clenched fist. A shiny police shield winked up at her. Police Officer Jeeter, Shield number 138. She closed her fist again. “Billy, it's me, Jane. You said if I ever needed you to call. I'm calling. Hurry. Billy, can you hear me? Please, Billy, hurry.”
“I'm here, Miss Jane. Turn around,”
a distant voice said.
Jane turned to see him standing at the top of the steps, looking just as she remembered him. Still a boy. Forever a boy. Her breath exploded in a loud sigh. She lifted her hand, and said, “Catch!” She tossed the official police shield through the air and smiled when he caught it. “Hurry, Billy. You need to put it on Jeeter!” She watched Billy tie a bright blue bandanna around the speckled dog's neck and then pin the shield on it.
“Go, Jeeter!”
The speckled dog raced to the parade ground and came to a halt next to Flash, who stopped his parade strut long enough to acknowledge his ghostly friend. He continued on, his tail swishing furiously.
Jane clapped her hands in delight as tears dripped down her cheeks. She motioned Billy over to her. “Come with me and meet my family, Billy. You'll be able to see Jeeter better.”
Mike held out his arm to his wife. “It's about time. What took you so long?”
“I had something I had to do, honey. It's awesome, isn't it?” she said, gazing lovingly at the parade of K-9s, dogs she and Trixie had trained and loved.
“Why are they playing the ‘Marine Corps Hymn'?” Mike queried as he tapped his foot to the rousing music.
“That was one of the conditions Trixie imposed. We play it all the time to psych up the dogs. They love it. They're prancing now. See? They remember. Oh, God, look at Flash!” They watched as the big Malinois used his nose to inch two of the K-9s into a straighter line, the speckled dog at his side.
“I must need glasses,” Mike said, blinking his eyes. “For a minute I thought I saw a brown-and-white-speckled dog next to Flash.”
The inspection over, Trixie pulled her whistle out of the pocket of her dress. She brought it to her lips and let loose with three sharp blasts. “Drill's over! Stand down, troops! Come on now, give Trixie some loving! One at a time. I have all day!” Trixie shouted at the top of her lungs.
“Jesus, I've seen everything now!” Mike whooped as all 137 dogs dragged their handlers toward Trixie. “It looks like she's holding something on her lap. Does it look like that to you, Jane?”
“Yeah. It's Jeeter, Mike. See, he has his shield just like the rest of them. The first command those dogs learned was, give Trixie some loving! And she was afraid they wouldn't remember her. Can you see him, Mike? Can you
really
see Jeeter?”
“I—Yes, now I can. That has to mean Billy is here. Is he, Jane?”
“Over there.” Jane pointed to the smiling boy.
“So that's what the extra shield that police commissioner was in a tizzy over was all about.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mike pulled Jane into his arms and hugged her. “God, I love you.”
“Him loves you, Mommy,” two-year-old Mickey giggled.
Jane patted his little head. “I know, Mickey. I love him, too.”
“Forever and ever,” Mike said.
“Forever and ever. And then some,” Jane said.
If you enjoyed PLAIN JANE,
you won't want to miss Fern Michaels's
brand new stand-alone novel,
SOUTHERN COMFORT.
Turn the page for a special preview.
 
 
 
A Kensington hardcover, on sale in May 2011.
Prologue
Atlanta, Georgia
March 2002
 
Detective Patrick Kelly, Tick to his friends, signed out of his precinct and headed to his car, an eight-year-old Saturn with 120,000 miles on it. It purred like a baby when he turned the key. Then it sputtered and died. He'd given it too much gas and flooded the engine. He knew the drill—wait five minutes, try again, and if he was lucky, Lulu would get him home.
Sally, his wife, had named his car Lulu but never told him why. She'd just giggle and say it was a lulu of a car. Sally drove a ten-year-old Honda Civic. The only good thing about owning two old cars was not having to make car payments. Everything was about cutting corners, saving for college for the kids and doing without.
Tick sighed, leaned back against the headrest, but didn't close his eyes because, if he did, he'd go to sleep. He'd worked a double shift because Joe Rollins had a ruptured appendix, and he'd filled in for him. He couldn't wait to get home to Sally and the kids, take a shower, maybe eat something Sally kept warm for him, and go to sleep with her spooning into his back. When he felt his eyelids start to droop, he turned the key, and, miracle of miracles, Lulu turned over. He was on his way to his family, whom he loved more than anything on earth. He loved them more than he loved his job, and he dearly loved his job. There were days when he hated the job, but the love always won out. He truly believed he made a difference. Where his family was concerned, there was no doubt, he loved them twenty-four/seven, unconditionally.
When he worked the late shift, he always let his thoughts go to his wonderful little family as a way of unwinding on his way home. He'd met Sally in the seventh grade, when she transferred from out of state. He fell in love with her that day when she stood in front of the class, and said, “My name is Sally, and I'm new today.” He'd seen the sparkle of tears in her eyes and knew instinctively that she was afraid. Afraid the kids wouldn't like her, afraid she'd make a mistake, and they'd laugh. He never did figure out where or how he'd known that, he'd just known it. Then, when he found out she had moved one street over from his own street, and they would be walking to school at the same time, he'd almost done cartwheels. Later, Sally said she didn't fall in love with him till they were in the eighth grade. He'd been heartbroken at that news but covered it up well. She loved him, and that was all that mattered.
Married for fifteen years now, and he loved her as much as he did that day in the seventh grade when she introduced herself. He hoped and prayed nightly that his two children would find mates as wonderful as their mother when it was their time.
Sally Pritchard Kelly was the wind beneath his wings. She was the reason he got up in the morning, the reason he was still sane considering the fact that he was a homicide detective. Because of Sally and the kids, he didn't carry his work home with him. When he walked in the front door of his mortgaged-to-the-hilt house, he was in another world. Worn, comfortable furniture waited for him. Sally always waited at the door for him, a smile on her face and smelling of a summer day. Always. He couldn't remember a single day in all the years they were married that she hadn't greeted him with a smile and a kiss on the lips. A real kiss that said she loved him, missed him, and now things were the way they should be because he was home. There would always be a warm meal in the oven if he was late. Didn't matter how late he was. Sally would curl up on the couch and wait. Sally was the constant in his life.
Prettier than a picture, he always said. He loved the freckles that danced across her nose, loved the crooked eyetooth she refused to have straightened. There wasn't one thing he didn't love about his wife because in his eyes, she was perfect. At this point in his reverie, even if he was so tired he couldn't think straight, his eyes always misted up. He'd just curl up and die if anything ever happened to his beloved Sally. Well, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, they had at least another fifty years to look forward to. Both he and Sally came from families where longevity was the rule.
Tick could feel his eyes start to droop again, so he pressed the stereo unit and turned up the volume. His and Sally's favorite song was burned on every inch of the CD, so he could play it over and over. “Mustang Sally.” He started to sing along with Wilson Pickett at the top of his lungs,
Ride, Sally, Ride
!
He was two streets away from where he lived on David Court when he saw the strobe lights shooting upward to the sky. Blue, red, white just like it was the Fourth of July. But it wasn't the Fourth of July. He knew what the lights meant. Good cop that he was, he knew he was going to have to stop to offer any assistance if needed. Sally, the kids, and sleep would have to wait just a bit longer. He turned off the CD player and turned the corner, and his world came to a screeching halt. He saw the barricade, the yellow tape, the crazy arcing lights, the crowds of people, and too many police cars to count.
All parked in front of
his house,
in the driveway, on the lawn and sidewalk. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and lunged forward. He heard his name being called from all directions, arms trying to reach him, someone trying to tackle him. He plowed ahead, driven by an energy he didn't know he possessed. And then he was in a vise grip, unable to move. The more he fought and struggled, the tighter the hold became. He looked up to see the face of the man holding him and was stunned to see his captain, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Easy, Tick, easy.”
Tick ground his teeth together. He had to show respect to the captain. “Did someone rob my house? Where are Sally and the kids? Captain, I asked you a question.”
“ Tick . . . I . . .”
Rising onto his toes, Tick reared upward, loosening the hold his captain had on his arm. He sprinted forward as fellow officers rushed to prevent him from entering the house. He evaded all of them.
The house was deathly silent. The crime-scene personnel took that moment to stop what they were doing and stare at the man who looked like the wrath of God. “Where are they?”
Someone, he didn't know who it was, pointed to the second floor. Tick took the steps two at a time. It looked to him like there were a hundred people in his small upstairs. He bolted down the short hall to his bedroom. In his life he'd never seen so much blood. He saw her then, his beloved Sally, lying in the doorway leading to the bathroom. He knew it was her because of her nightgown and robe. And her wedding ring. There was little left to her face. How could that be gone? Those beautiful freckles dancing across her pert little nose were gone. Her throat was a gaping hole. Tick's knees buckled. Strong hands held him upright. “Ride, Sally, Ride,” he blubbered.
“Get him out of here. Have the ME look at him.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Not now, Tick. Please,” his captain said.
“Where are my kids?” Tick roared.
“In their rooms. Tick, please, let us handle this. I'm begging you, don't go there.”
“Get the hell away from me . . .”
Tick found them huddled together in the closet, which was full of toys and balls. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood for two tiny little creatures who once carried his life's blood. Now it was a river on a hopscotch-patterned carpet. He wanted to bend down, to scoop up his children, to hold them close, but they wouldn't let him. He wanted to run his hands through his daughter's curly hair, which was just like her mother's, but it was matted with blood, and he couldn't see the curls. He looked at his son and fainted dead away. He felt himself being carried someplace, heard voices he couldn't identify, then he felt something prick his arm. Ride, Sally, Rideeee.
 
The Governor's Mansion
Tallahassee, Florida
August 2009
 
Thurman Lawrence Tyler checked himself in the mirror one last time. He adjusted his Hermès tie, examined the crease on the French cuffs of his custom-made shirt, brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his imported Italian suit, inspected the shine on his shoes, and smoothed a thick white errant hair in place before stepping into the foyer, where Elizabeth waited. At six-foot-one, he had an athletic build and sharp blue eyes that rarely missed a beat, and she thought her husband still as handsome as the day she had met him. Maybe even more so.
“Thurman, dear, you look as handsome as you did the day of our wedding.” Elizabeth Tyler, his wife of forty-six years and right hand of Governor Thurman Lawrence Tyler, looked every bit the elegant wife of a dignitary. Perfectly coiffed blond hair, her grandmother's pearl earrings and necklace glowed next to her porcelain skin. A pale blue Chanel suit brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Both were tall, slim, and in excellent physical condition, and they appeared almost perfect as they scrutinized one another.
“And you, my dear, look like the innocent that you were.” Thurman studied his wife for a moment longer. She'd aged extremely well, unlike many of her friends. Elizabeth was always careful to protect herself from Florida's punishing sun, never smoked, and rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of white wine. She played tennis three times a week, had a facial once a week and her hair touched up every third Thursday of the month. Of course he wasn't supposed to know this, so he pretended her blond locks were as natural as those of a newborn.
“You're too kind,” she replied.
“Nonsense,” he responded.
Without another word, he escorted her to the elaborate dining room where they had their breakfast. Each consumed two cups of coffee, his with skim milk and hers black. Both had one-half of a Florida Ruby Red grapefruit with one slice of homemade dry wheat toast. After they'd consumed their meal, they took their daily doses of vitamins with a bottle of mineral water imported from Switzerland.
Their morning routine was like clockwork and had been since Thurman was elected governor of the fine state of Florida almost eight years ago. With his second term coming to an end, both were preparing for the next step of their career—president of the United States. Yes, it was
their
career because Thurman never made a decision without first consulting his dear wife.
When they finished their meal, the governor went to his office, and Elizabeth went to hers, where she spent the morning going over the menu for an upcoming gala they were hosting. With nothing more on her agenda, she went to the personal living area that connected their offices. Knowing her husband would be occupied for the rest of the day with his lieutenant governor, she placed a phone call to her son, Lawrence. Hanging up after several rings went unanswered, Elizabeth called an old high-school friend. They made plans to have lunch soon. Free time was rare, and she decided to take advantage of it and relax with a book. She'd spent her life promoting literacy and was very involved with the public-library system, but never once in all her years of reading had she told anyone of her love of horror novels. Today she planned to read Stephen King's latest.
Settling into a Queen Anne chair next to the window overlooking the garden, Elizabeth spent the next two hours immersed in her novel. Later, when she heard Thurman shouting on the phone to Carlton, she hid her book beneath the chair's cushion and hurried to the door, where she stood silently, listening to her husband's private conversation.
She and Thurman had done everything in their power to see that Lawrence never found out. It would ruin him and his father if the public got wind of this. Elizabeth thought she had done the right thing by keeping him. No, she
had
done the right thing. He was her son, the only child she would ever have. Whatever it took to ensure that he wasn't ruined by her and Thurman's past mistakes, Elizabeth would do it. After all, she was his mother, and if he couldn't count on her, then poor Lawrence had no one.
Every hope and dream they had ever imagined was about to be destroyed. They had worked too long and hard for this moment. Elizabeth refused to allow anyone to ruin the future that was just now within their reach.
She'd made numerous sacrifices throughout her life in order for Thurman and Lawrence to be successful. Now that someone threatened her life's work, she wanted to fight back in anger; but that had never been her way, and she would not start now.
She went to her private office and sat down. She removed a sheet of creamy personalized paper from her desk. Lawrence would have to know this someday. If neither she nor Thurman were around to tell him, then a letter would suffice.
My Dearest Son,
If you're reading this letter then you must know that your father and I are no longer of this earth. There is something I have wanted to tell you since you were a little boy, but the time was never right. Then as you got older I thought it would be a disservice not to tell you, yet I could never find the right time. If you hate me or your father after reading this, know that I will understand and love you in spite of it. The first time I laid eyes on your father, I fell madly in love . . .

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