Lost but not Forgotten

Her stomach heaved. Tears coursed down her cheeks. That case contained all she had left in the world that was dear to her.

Last Monday, she’d been nothing but confused when Daryl awakened her, babbling. She’d watched as, in a frenzy, he packed the small case and a larger one. The night was still blurred in her mind. For too long, she’d been an emotional wreck—a decline that had begun when she’d first broached the idea of starting a family. Daryl resisted. Said he wanted to wait. Until his CPA firm was more secure. Until they had more money in the bank. Until she could sell her flower shop and stay home full-time. Silly reasons, she’d thought.

So she had defied Daryl, stopped her birth control pills and gotten pregnant almost overnight. That definitely strained an already strained relationship. In hindsight, she wished she could go back and change everything.

Especially the part where something went horribly wrong in the last month of her pregnancy, resulting in the stillbirth of her long-awaited daughter. The rift widened between her and Daryl because after the autopsy, while she was heavily sedated in the hospital, he’d unilaterally arranged for baby Katie’s cremation. Oh, he attempted to explain. Families who’d lived in New Orleans for generations had access to above-ground burial vaults. Others, like them, had limited choices. He’d done what he believed was best, he’d told her.

For weeks, Gillian had wept. Weeks turned into months during which she couldn’t eat, sleep or work. Daryl did the opposite. He rarely came home from the office. And so after six months of that, they’d split, bound only by their joint partnership in Daryl’s firm. Maybe if she’d been a more active partner…if she hadn’t sunk into emotional oblivion, perhaps she wouldn’t be here four months after their separation, with both Daryl and Katie gone. Gone!

Suddenly she knew exactly what had happened—where she’d lost the suitcase. The place where she’d changed the tire. She entertained the idea of going back. What if the thugs were, even now, waiting in the trees? As desperately as she longed to retrieve the case, self-preservation dictated she wait.

Exhausted, Gillian dragged herself inside, stripped off her dirty clothes and fell into bed. Her agenda had just taken a new turn. She wouldn’t rest until the thugs who’d killed Daryl were brought to justice. And they’d better know she would go to any lengths to rescue Katie’s ashes.

CHAPTER TWO

GILLIAN STOOD in the cramped office off the kitchen of Flo’s Caf'e. She’d come to speak with the caf'e’s owner, Florence Carter, about a waitress position listed in a current edition of the Desert City News. It was the first newspaper Gillian had bought since departing New Orleans, although she’d followed the TV news and was relieved there’d been no mention of Daryl’s or Officer Malone’s murders. Her objective in buying this paper had been for the employment ads. Desert City was the closest town of any size to the back road where she’d lost her suitcase.

This morning, when she dressed to go on interviews, Gillian had barely recognized herself in the mirror. Little by little over an extra week spent in her border hideout, she’d pulled together a disguise of sorts. The most dramatic change in her appearance came about after she’d ruthlessly cropped and colored her shoulder-length blond hair, leaving a bob of coppery red curls.

As well, she’d transacted a satisfactory car exchange, buying another used car. However, because the new car had taken most of her cash reserves, she was now almost broke.

Flo Carter, a cheery, round woman, studied Gillian with curious hazel eyes. “Why did you answer my ad? There were at least two other waitress jobs posted yesterday for yuppie-style restaurants where you’d earn higher tips.”

Gillian didn’t want to say those places all had bars where creeps from New Orleans might go to drink and eat. She’d checked them first. It would be self-defeating to admit Flo’s Caf'e was last on her list. Or that the one other place she’d applied had demanded references she couldn’t produce.

“According to your ad, you provide uniforms and you pay weekly. Did I mention I was divorced? The truth is—” she hesitated marginally while deliberating how much to reveal “—I left home and this is where my money ran out.” Best to stick as close to her real story as possible, Gillian decided.

“I’m sorry, honey. Enough said.” Flo patted Gillian’s arm. “Frankly, you look like you could use a few good meals, too. The job’s yours. Minimum wage plus tips, a uniform and two meals a day if you work two shifts. Tracy, my brother’s niece, left me high and dry. Kid up and moved to San Diego with her boyfriend. I nearly killed myself over the weekend. I’m flat getting too old to wait tables from opening to closing. When can you start?”

“Anytime. Today, if you’d like.” A weight lifted from Gillian’s shoulders. “I have a small apartment three blocks east of here.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the furnished place she’d moved into yesterday. It wasn’t much.

“Saguaro Arms, right? A brick building behind the police station?”

“That describes it.” Gillian didn’t know if she’d made a wise choice or not. On one hand, she figured the men who were after her wouldn’t want to be noticed by the local police. On the other, she didn’t know how vigorously the police in Flagstaff and New Orleans were trying to find her. Surely she was wanted for questioning, at least.

“I hope you’re comfortable around cops,” Flo said. “They make up half our clientele. A great bunch, but demanding customers. They want coffee on the table the minute they sit down. They need their orders quick in case they get a call.”

Flo opened a cupboard and took out a pink uniform still in its plastic laundry bag. “You’re skinnier than Tracy, but this has an adjustable belt. The bathroom’s down the hall. How fast can you change? First crew from the precinct breaks at ten.” She glanced down at Gillian’s feet. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing sensible shoes. Next time we catch our breath is nigh on 2:00 p.m.”

“I’m stronger than you might think,” Gillian said, reaching for the door knob. She hoped that was true. Normally she’d be in great shape from handling crates of flowers at the shop she’d once owned. That had been a while ago.

“You’ll get a complete workout before the end of the day. I’ll spell you for breaks and meals. Otherwise, I sling hash onto plates while my husband, Bert, cooks. You okay with working a shift before we fill out employment papers?”

“Sure. Okay.” Gillian looked over her shoulder. “Is there someplace I can leave my street clothes and purse?”

Flo scooped things out of a drawer in the bottom of her cluttered desk. “Tracy left all this junk. She was big on running in to apply makeup every ten minutes.”

Gillian uttered a genuine laugh. “I won’t do that, Mrs. Carter. What you see right here is what you get.”

“Call me Flo.” She examined Gillian again. “Cops flirt a lot. They’ll like what they see in you. You sure you’ve waited tables before? I’d have pegged you for one of them fashion models.”

“No way. I prefer anonymity.” This time Gillian’s laughter held a nervous edge. She’d waited tables during high school and college. And she’d never been comfortable with the way a lot of male customers felt they had every right to flirt with women servers. She used to have a knack for discouraging that sort, and hoped she still did.