Deadly Stakes

“Absolutely,” Christy replied. “Here’s what one mother, Janie Brownward of Phoenix, had to say.”

The camera panned to the driver’s-side window of a minivan parked in what appeared to be the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. “I’m scared to death,” the woman said, speaking into the proffered microphone. “I drive this road all the time with my three kids, and to think that there might be a murderer lurking in every rest area is terrifying. We need people like this off the streets and off our highways and in prison, where they belong.”

“What can you tell us about the woman who was found yesterday?” the anchor asked.

“Nothing more so far,” Christy said. “All I can say right now is that there’s a big Sheriff’s Department response at the scene, and I’ll let you know of any developments as the day moves along.”

“All right, we’ll look forward to hearing from you again on the five o’clock broadcast.”

Leland took the remote from the counter and switched off the TV as Ali polished off the last bite of bread. “Delicious,” she said, “and absolutely addictive. Shouldn’t your bread be listed as a controlled substance?”

“Very kind of you to say so.” He beamed. “It should go nicely with the stew.”

“That’s assuming there’s still some left by the time dinner rolls around.”

Leland took the hint and cut off another slice, which he buttered and handed over. “Have you heard anything from Sister Anselm?” he asked. “I hate to think of her out on the highway by herself when things like this are going on.”

Ali’s good friend Sister Anselm Becker was a Sister of Providence who worked out of St. Bernadette’s, a convent for troubled nuns in nearby Jerome. When she was at home, she served as an in-house counselor for nuns dealing with any number of thorny issues from substance abuse to post-traumatic stress. She also spent a lot of time on the road, traveling from hospital to hospital, functioning as a special emissary from Bishop Francis Gillespie of the Phoenix archdiocese and as a patient advocate for people who had no one else to speak on their behalf.

“I’ll give her a call and check,” Ali said. “As far as I know, she’s expected to be at the convent all week, but that could have changed.”

“I know she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself,” Leland said, “but I worry about her all the same.”

“That makes two of us,” Ali agreed.

“Before you make that call, if you have time, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” Leland said. “It came up a few days ago, but you were so preoccupied with the election that I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

A frisson of concern passed through Ali’s body. She knew exactly how old Leland Brooks was, and she worried that what was coming was some kind of announcement about a burgeoning health issue. She had known instinctively that forcing him to forsake his kitchen would be the end of him, but she also knew that the end would still have to come eventually.

“Of course,” Ali said worriedly. “This sounds serious.”

Wordlessly, Leland plucked an envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. The stamps, the return address, and the London postmark revealed that the letter had been sent from the UK. “It’s from my grand-nephew,” Leland explained. “My late brother’s grandson. He’s evidently developed an interest in genealogy and has seen fit to contact the black sheep of the family.”

The words were spoken in an offhand way that belied the hurt behind them. Ali knew that after returning from Korea, rather than being welcomed as the hero he was, Leland had been shunned by his own family and sent packing. Compared to now, the early to mid-fifties had been the dark ages in terms of acceptance of gays in society. Fortunately for Leland, Anne Marie Ashcroft had reached out to him from across the ocean, offering him a job and agreeing to be his sponsor. Over the years, Leland had repaid Anne Marie’s confidence in him many times over, and Ali Reynolds was reaping the benefit of his undying loyalty.

“It’s all right,” he said, nodding toward the letter. “Go ahead and read it.”

Dear Uncle Leland,

I trust you won’t think it too presumptuous of me to address you by that name, but that is indeed who you are, my great-uncle, being the younger brother of my late grandfather Langston. Having recently been bitten by the genealogy bug, I was doing a bit of family research with the help of my great-grandmother’s letters which, upon her death, had been donated to the historical society in Cheltenham.

It was with these that I found letters from you to her, written presumably while you were serving overseas during the Korean War and after you emigrated to the U.S. Up to that moment, I had been under the impression that my late grandfather had but one brother, Leo, sadly, also deceased. It was only when I saw the signature on those letters-“Your loving son, Leland”-that I realized there had been a third brother, one whose existence, as far as I can remember, was never mentioned in family conversations.

Details of that time are notably lacking since, as I mentioned before, both my grandfather and Leo are now deceased. I’m forced to conclude that a family difficulty of some kind led to a serious falling-out that has lasted from that time to this. It is in the hope of overcoming whatever was the source of that old enmity that I write to you today.

Through veterans’ organizations, I was able to learn of your honorable service in the Royal Marines during the Korean War. They were able to lead me to this address, the one to which I’m sending this missive. At the time of my writing, I have no idea if indeed you are still there; nor do I know if, upon reading this, you would be willing to consider reestablishing any old family ties.

I am currently in the process of organizing a family reunion that is scheduled to take place in either Stow-on-the-Wold or Cheltenham in May of next year. I am hoping I can persuade you to consider attending.

Should you decide to come, you would unfortunately be the last member of that generation to be in attendance.

Again, whatever quarrel might have been between you and your two brothers must have been a serious one, but I’m hoping you’ll be willing to set that aside and join us. It would be an honor to welcome you back into our fold.

Sincerely,

Jeffrey Alan Brooks, Esquire

Ali carefully refolded the letter, returned it to the envelope, and passed it back to Leland. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

Leland shrugged and eased his spare frame down onto a kitchen chair. “When I left there, I vowed I’d never go back,” he said. “That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant.”

“Things have changed for the better since then,” Ali said. “The letter sounds welcoming, as though they really want you to come.”

“All during the war, I was very circumspect in what I wrote to my mother. I doubt she had any idea of the real cause of the feud between my older brothers and me. It seems likely now that Leo and Langston died without telling anyone,” Leland replied. “Jeffrey has no idea what happened-about them telling me there was no place in the family for someone like me. For all I know, he may share their opinion.”

“Then again, he may not,” Ali interjected. “And the truth is, how you’ve lived your life between then and now is none of the family’s business.” She paused and then added, “I hope you’ll consider going.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Leland said grudgingly, returning the letter to his pocket. “I wouldn’t have told you about it otherwise. The problem is, if I were to go larking off across the pond, who would look after you?”

“I’m sure I could manage,” Ali said. She wanted to say that she wasn’t exactly helpless, but she also didn’t want to denigrate Leland’s steadfast service in any way. “There’s plenty of time. Maybe we could look around and find a temporary replacement.”

“Perhaps,” Leland said. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Ali spent the afternoon getting ready to welcome B. home. She ducked into the nearest of Priscilla Holman’s nail salons for a much needed mani-pedi, then settled into a chair in front of the library fireplace, where she returned to the world of Charles Dickens. Losing herself in the intricacies of the French Revolution was a way to put aside the present for the time being, as well as keeping her from watching the clock.

By the time B. arrived, Leland had discreetly gone to his own digs in the fifth wheel, leaving them to enjoy B.’s homecoming dinner with some welcome privacy. They ate the savory stew, accompanied by slabs of freshly baked bread, in the cozy confines of Ali’s spacious kitchen, which was far and away B.’s second favorite room in her house.