“Good. We value you here at Sunnydale,” Clayton said in a veiled threat.
Regina got the message.But why?
Several days later, Regina saw an article about a terrible accident on a highway just outside of Pensacola. The driver was in critical condition. His name: Jeremy Sykes. Regina’s hands began to tremble as she continued to read the story.
When medics arrived on the scene, the driver, Sykes, claimed he was run off the road by a dump truck traveling at a high rate of speed. The victim then lapsed into a state of unconsciousness. So far, there were no signs of the driver or the truck. Anyone with any information should contact the local police authorities.
Regina was in a terrible state. She wanted to reach out, but then thought about Clayton’s warning. She prayed there was something she could do without jeopardizing her job at Sunnydale.
Chapter Seven
Pinewood
The house phone in the kitchen of Myra Rutledge’s farmhouse rang. Myra knew it could only be one of the Sisters, a member of their elite, underground organization of vigilantes. While Myra wasn’t fond of the term, it fit.
The Sisters were formed after Myra’s daughter was run down and killed by someone who went unpunished because of diplomatic immunity. From that point on, she and her stepdaughter Nikki Quinn reached out to women who had been wronged without justice being served. Myra and Nikki scoured the national news to find other women who’d been failed by the system. Their group expanded, each bringing their own talents into the fold. Among them was Myra’s childhood friend, Annie de Silva, one of the richest women in the world. As heiress to a candy conglomerate, Myra was a close second in financial resources. They didn’t flaunt it. They used it. They used it to bring about justice where it had gone missing. Both women were in their mid-sixties with a few strands of gray. Both were fit and agile. Both shared the same mission and determination. Myra’s husband Charles Martin, a former MI6 operative, and his friend and colleague, Fergus, supported the women’s efforts through their former associates, and their own brilliance and experience.
When called upon, the group met at Pinewood, Myra’s one-hundred-plus-year-old farm. The house itself sat above a network of tunnels that had been used by the Underground Railroad. It was only fitting that such a place would bring justice for others. The basement was equipped with advanced technology, the envy of any covert operation.
Myra answered the phone, “Hello.”
“Hey, Myra. It’s Lizzie.” Lizzie Fox was a crackerjack lawyer who once served as Chief Counsel for the White House.
“Hello, my dear. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Myra smiled. “We haven’t spoken for several weeks.”
“Yes, sorry about that. Election season, and everyone wants to be sure their tooshies are covered.”
Myra chuckled. “That’s requires a lot of legal fabric.”
“You’re not kidding.” Lizzie took a breath. “Listen, I just got a phone call from my friend Theresa Gallagher.”
“Ah, yes, your friend from the book club.”
“Correct. Get this. Two weeks ago, she got a certified letter from someone in Arizona. According to the correspondence, Theresa had an aunt who left home when she was a teenager, and the family had lost track of her until recently. The letter was sent by a neighbor who went to great lengths to find a family member and explained that her Aunt Dottie was in a nursing home.”
“Oh?”
“Theresa felt compelled to go out there to see if her aunt needed anything.”
“That was truly kind of her. And Dottie’s neighbor.”
“Yes; however, Theresa told me a very strange story about the place where Dottie was living. Sunnydale in Tempe.”
“Isn’t that one of those senior places where there are different types of residencies?”
“Correct. It’s a bit complicated. Do you think I could stop by later and give you the details? I’m getting the feeling that this is something we might have to look into together.”
“I see. Yes, of course. Would you like to come for dinner? I am sure Charles would be happy to cook up something,” she added. Charles’s “retirement” involved his newly found passion for cooking. He explained that England had “mean cuisine,” and this was his revenge.
“I don’t want him to go to any trouble.” Lizzie knew Charles would be happy to oblige, but she felt it was necessary to say the words.
“Don’t be silly. Hold on a second. Let me buzz him.” Myra pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and hit the speed-dial number assigned to Charles.
“Hello, love. Everything alright? You do realize I am down the hall?”
“Yes, but I have Lizzie on the house phone, and I invited her to dinner. What say you?”
“Chicken cordon bleu?”
