Murder And Mayham, Page 3

  Chapter 1

  A fist sized lump formed in Philip’s throat when his eyes confirmed what his heart wanted to believe. Light reflected off the glossy surface of the art gallery brochure. An adorable little girl, a child he had never seen, gazed at her mother. The name of the painting, My Sweet Beautiful Rachel, erased any remaining doubt.

  Renée is alive. We have a daughter.

  The jet engine’s pitch changed and the plane began its descent toward Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Philip turned toward the young woman seated to his right. Through the window, a cloud passed in the distance. Wearing white jeans, a pink Hard Rock Café T-shirt, and matching flip-flops, he guessed her to be a college student returning home for a summer break.

  Her hand flipped through pages of Cruising World, the magazine he had purchased at La Guardia before boarding the plane. Appearing to be oblivious to his emotional reaction, he raised the brochure and asked, “Where did you get this?”

  She looked up from the magazine and said, “I’m not sure,” before lowering her head again.

  Not sure?

  “Please, I hate to trouble you, but it’s important.”

  She glanced out the window before turning her head toward him. “I took a shortcut through one of those big hotels with entrances on two different streets. Several pamphlets and brochures were in a rack. I liked the picture on that one, so I grabbed it on my way out. Sorry, mister, I don’t remember the name of the hotel.”

  “May I keep it?”

  She flipped through another page. “Sure.”

  He gazed at the portrait. Would it be enough to get the police to reopen the case? No one had been able to find anything, not even her car. All active searches ceased when legitimate private investigators quit taking his money.

  Statistically speaking, his wife was dead. Everyone involved in the case either felt that way or had said as much to him. Why had no one been able to find her? Confronting one possibility he had never considered, he tried to think of anything he had done. If she left voluntarily, why for God’s sake had she gone into hiding and kept his daughter from him? Rachel’s first words, her first steps; he had missed so much. He blinked away tears.

  By the time the wheels of the plane touched down, he had organized his plan to return to New York. The certainty his wife and child were alive had brought back all the hope and optimism the last seven years had drained from him.

  I have a daughter played over and over in his head. Nothing could stop him from finding her.

  The young woman broke the silence as the plane neared the gate. “Thanks for letting me read your magazine.” She offered it to him.

  He raised the palm of his hand. “Please, keep it.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not really into boats that much.”

  He took it and tucked it away.

  She gathered a small backpack from beneath the seat.

  “My name is Philip Lewellan.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m … I’m Carla.”

  “Nice to meet you, Carla.” He glanced at his watch.

  “Do you have a connecting flight?”

  “Not tonight, but I’m hoping to catch one out in the morning. I have to get to New York City as soon as possible.”

  She knitted her brows. “We just came from there.”

  “It’s a long story. What about you? Are you home?”

  “Almost, I work at the Red Bird Grill in Lubbock. They expect me back tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp. My aunt paid for the trip. I wouldn’t have been in New York otherwise. She still has high hopes for me. If you’re ever in town, stop by. We serve a good breakfast.”