Lizzie
Lizzie pulled her copper-crest Lexus RX up the long driveway, parking in front of the double-paned cherry doors. The house, somewhere in the neighborhood of 8,000 square feet, could have housed a dozen people comfortably instead of the two people who currently inhabited it. She’d always thought the house was way too big. At least the decor was tasteful, not-over-the-top and the exterior of the house was a simple cedar, the landscaping emphasizing the natural beauty and native plants of Texas. Adding to the attraction: the ten acres also contained a small barn where her stepfather had introduced her to her first pony. Shadowfax, the horse of her teens, had been stabled elsewhere, with people who knew how to train both the horse and her. When she left for Germany, she’d found a new home for Shadowfax with a young competitive rider who loved the horse as she had. Maybe, though, she would start riding again. Someday. When she had time.
But right now, she had a job to do. She steeled herself and rang the bell, hoping the visit—intended to solicit information as well as to perform the usual social niceties expected of offspring—would be at least tolerable.
Roger Vogel, her stepfather, was nice enough, and he treated her as the daughter he’d never had. She appreciated that he did care for her, and she liked him. While he could never replace her real father in her heart, he was the reason she didn’t have to worry about money. So it was a little hypocritical of her to criticize the size or expense of his house.
But her relationship with her mother was the real problem. Difficult was a nice way to describe it.
Compounding Lizzie’s reluctance was the fact that neither her mother nor her stepfather really knew her. She had called from Germany and sent birthday gifts and cards, but neither of them had the slightest idea what she’d been doing over there.
Her mother had welcomed her back to Austin with a casualness that indicated at best a lack of curiosity. Lizzie thought it was a lack of interest. Either way, it hurt. It was Roger who’d been excited to have her back home, as he called it, even though she rejected his offer to move back into the very large house that he and her mother inhabited.
When Lizzie announced her idea of becoming a private detective, her mother had muttered something about running investigations not being suitable for a young woman but had otherwise just radiated silent disapproval. Roger helped her with the licenses and documents necessary to open a detective agency but acted as if it was a joke, calling her Nancy Drew.
She’d opened the agency, hired Murphy, purchased a condo on Rainey Street, and visited as little as she felt was acceptable for an adult child. She knew that she probably should visit more often, and sometimes she felt a bit guilty about not seeing them. A bit. But her mother didn’t seem to mind, and while Roger did want more visits—he wasn’t her father.
She also felt a bit guilty that her present visit was to solicit information.
A bit. Guilt was not one of her usual emotions.
A minute passed, then she rang again.
After five minutes, Maria, the family’s housekeeper for fifteen years, swung the door open, and Lizzie followed her through the voluminous hall and the library, until they reached the living room where her mother and stepfather watched a British murder mystery, Roger calling out his guesses on who the killer might be.
Lizzie could never quite bring herself to call the two of them “her parents.” Her mother, despite their estrangement, was still her mother, but Roger had never become her father in her mind. The phrase “her parents” was always reserved for that period of time when her father was still alive.
Lizzie seated herself on the leather couch, her usual spot, that was adjacent to her mother’s matching leather recliner.
“You look tired.” Her mother picked up a remote and paused the show in the middle of the irritated medical examiner’s autopsy, the image of a partially dissected corpse frozen on the screen. “Maria, bring her a glass of iced tea.” Her mother, at fifty-three, still had the stunning blonde beauty, now assisted with a little dye, that had captivated both of her husbands—a beauty that Lizzie had inherited and also knew how to use.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
She waved off Lizzie’s disclaimer. “Bring two glasses, Maria. I’d like one too.”
Roger nursed a whisky and soda, checks flushed. “How’s the detective business, Lisette?” He glanced at the television and the unmoving corpse, took the remote, and turned off the television.
Roger knew what name she used now, but she forgave him and only offered a mild rebuke. “I go by Lizzie now. I’ve told you that.”
“I don’t know why?” His tone remained genial. “Lisette’s a lovely name. And it’s unusual. Like you.”
If he knew how unusual.
“I think it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Why draw attention to being other than American?” Of course, her mother who still had a German accent, would say that.
While Lizzie spoke fluent German, she’d arrived in the United States at a young enough age to eliminate any trace of an accent in her speech.
“Lizzie,” her stepfather pronounced the name carefully, “is American. She’s as American as apple pie.”
She shot a grateful look in his direction. Not his fault that she couldn’t think of him as her father. “I have a new case. A possible murder investigation.”
That got both of their attention.
“What murder case?” Roger asked.
“Tom Martin. Dr. Tom Martin. His wife doesn’t think his death was suicide, and neither do I.”
“Oh yeah? I heard about that. I was wondering,” her stepfather said. “They called it suicide pretty quickly.”
“Nasty business,” her mother murmured. “Should you be doing this, Lizzie? It might bring up bad memories.”
Lizzie’s own father had been murdered, shot in the face, when she was nine years old. One of the issues between Lizzie and her mother: her mother preferred to pretend it had never happened. She had refused to talk about Lizzie’s father except for vague references, like this one.
Lizzie had dealt with the trauma in a more direct way.
“It doesn’t bring up memories. And this is my business now, Mama. I thought you’d like me to succeed at my business.”
“Of course, I want you to succeed.” Her mother’s tone was anything but enthusiastic, but Lizzie decided to accept the words and ignore the tone.
Maria returned with two glasses of iced tea. Lizzie’s mother accepted the glass without a word or gesture. Lizzie nodded her thanks. Before she left, she’d stop by Maria’s territory in the kitchen and catch up with her.
“I was wondering if you knew him. Or his wife.” Lizzie looked at her mother, who had made her country club the center of her social life.
Her mother pursed her lips. “I’ve met Julia Martin. Good golfer. Played against her in a tournament once.”
“What do you know about her or her husband?”
“I don’t know anything much. Just that she has a good swing.” Her mother thought for a minute. “We did exchange a few words here and there. The last time I saw her, she said something about moving. Her husband was looking for a new job.”
“She say why?”
“No. And I didn’t ask.”
“Do you remember when that was?”
“Let me see. I think it was four, maybe five months ago.”
That was around the time that Tom had begun his searches. Did the desire for a new job have anything to do with the texts to Brenda Phillips? “How about Brenda Phillips? Know her at all?”
This time it was her stepfather who answered. “I’ve met her a few times. Heard about her more. She’s a real go-getter. Hoping to be Governor or Senator, I think.”
“What about the gossip? Any affairs? And did she know Tom Martin?”
“That’s so sordid, Lizzie,” her mother said. “Why do you need to know things like that?”
Lizzie sighed. “It’s what I do, Mama.”
“Well, she is the hospital’s attorney,” Roger said. “As for affairs—if she had any—she kept them quiet, given the crowd that she’s part of. She’s in with the evangelicals, and she’s a member of that Combatants for the Unborn group that Georgina Crane runs.”
“I don’t like them.” Her mother sipped her tea without giving more details.
“Me neither.” A rare comment of agreement with her mother, although whether her mother disliked the group for some breach of decorum or because she agreed with Lizzie that it was an attack on women’s freedom—wasn’t something that Lizzie could discern.
“Well, who does? Women should be able to decide what happens to their own bodies.” Her stepfather stood and made his way to the side table where the alcohol was displayed. He poured himself another whiskey. “Most of that Combatants for the Unborn group are a little crazy. I’ve done business with some of them, but I don’t have to like them.”
Roger, a rich businessman whose enterprises spanned from oil to retail stores, knew most of Austin. And he, unlike Lizzie’s mother, enjoyed being up on all the local gossip.
“Brenda Phillips among the crazies?”
“Crazy like a fox.” He snorted.
“Did you ever meet John Petersen?”
“Petersen? Petersen?” Roger rattled the ice in his glass. “He’s very big in that group. I don’t know him, but there’s rumors about him. Stay away from him.”
“What kind of rumors?” Lizzie ignored the last comment.
This time her mother interjected. “You know the kind of rumors. The same kind of rumors I’ve heard about you.”
Lizzie turned in surprise. “You’ve heard rumors about me? What have you heard?”
“You know. I’m not going to repeat it.” Her mother set the glass down. “Now, I’d like to watch our show. You can join us, or you can go do whatever it is you do.”
“Investigate. That’s what I do.” It’s what she did now. But the possibility that rumors were circulating about her was unnerving. She wanted to ask more but knew that her mother, now picking up the remote, was unlikely to say anything further. “And I’m going to head out to do just that.”
The Brenda Phillips and John Petersen connection was intriguing. But first up—find out why Doc Martin wanted to leave Texas, which meant another talk with Julia Martin. Also on the list—meet up with Brenda Phillips and John Petersen. Then, she’d need to get into Doc Martin’s patients’ medical files. It was illegal and risky, but maybe those files would offer a clue as to why the doctor started job hunting—and why someone might have a motive to kill him.