Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  “I usually work nights.”

  “Sure, of course. Boss always works the nights. Anyhow, for the hell of it I checked you out in the databases and found you run a group called Phobias Anonymous out of a church up on Fulton Road.”

  “So, what’s this about, then?” Ben’s head was beginning to explode from all the unanswered questions. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, last week one of your group members took an unfortunate fall from her patio. You must have heard about it?”

  “Yes, poor Sharon. We didn’t have group that day. We started, but then we found out about Sharon and then everything just went crazy. I had just started to think it was all over when you called to me this morning.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Well, I can’t share the details with you, but some information became available to us that complicated the investigation…”

  “Like what?

  “Like I said, I can’t share the details, but I was called in to investigate.”

  “You think it was a homicide? Somebody killed Sharon? Oh God!”

  “I was called in to rule out homicide. We don’t like to complicate the investigation by slinging accusations around.”

  Ben paced in his living room for a few seconds, then he said what was causing the rumble in his brain, “So why are you here with me? You don’t think I killed Sharon? Do you think I poisoned the cannoli?”

  “Not now. Guy who owns a restaurant would not take poisoned cannoli to a homeless shelter. Wouldn’t be good for business.” Max took an expensive looking pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote something in his notebook. “I think somebody in your group poisoned them, either to make people sick or they tried to kill people, but they didn’t know much about poison.”

  “Jesus! So, what do you want from me? What can I give you?”

  Max smiled. “I guess I really don’t need to ask your permission, but I would like to go undercover in your phobia group.”

  “An undercover cop in the meeting! People divulge all kinds of personal information there. If they found out…I don’t know what would happen!”

  “Relax,” Max replied. “I’ve spent most of my time on the force undercover. Besides, I was a theater major. Crazy, right? Theater major becoming a cop?”

  Ben paced some more and shook his head. He remembered how great he had felt just an hour before. On top of the world and now he was in a deep hole and he still had to go in and stare at the accounts. He probably would have menu decisions to make and he didn’t feel like thinking at all. His head hurt too much for that.

  “What time is the meeting?” Max asked as he readied his pad and pen.

  “You know that already, don’t you? Wasn’t that your blue sedan I saw in the parking lot at the church? You were parked far away, and you drove away as I got out.”

  “You got me there, Ben. Pretty observant – you ever think about being a cop? You’re not too old.”

  “So, what were you doing there?” Ben asked with a bit of irritation in his voice.

  “Well, I guess I can tell you that. I was taking down license numbers. We can do reverse lookups and find out who the people are.”

  “So why do you need to be in the group? Just question the people down at the station like you guys do!”

  “Because we don’t want them knowing that we suspect them of something. If I am in the group, I can learn about them. Maybe figure out who we need to question. I really don’t need your permission. I can just walk in and sit down.”

  “You do, and I will just tell the group that there is an undercover cop in the group.” Ben felt a head rush as he stood up for himself against a man with a gun. His headache began to go away, and his scalp muscles relaxed.

  “I wouldn’t advise that Ben. I said I didn’t think you were the killer, if there is one, but I haven’t told anybody else that. Boys at the station would love to pull somebody in to question. I know you have seen a lot of cop shows, but have you ever been to a real interrogation? Stay long enough and you will be confessing to the crime. I guarantee it!”

  Ben’s headache came back worse than before. He was being threatened and there was nothing he could do about it. The cops had all the power. “Alright, but if you tell anybody you are a cop, I swear I will call your superior officer.”

  “You think he cares about that? But no, I will stay undercover.”

  “Ok, can I get to work now? I got the accounts and the chef will probably want to discuss the evening menu with me. You mind going out first? I’ll leave in a couple of minutes.”

  Detective Fetterman snapped the notepad closed and returned the pen to his shirt pocket. “See you Wednesday, Ben. I suggest you buy some donuts from Dunkin.”

  When the door closed after him, Ben let out a huge sigh. What in the Hell is going on? I can’t even think straight, and I have to go to work. He considered taking an anti-anxiety pill – he still had a ton of powerful drugs left from when his wife was murdered, but then he remembered how tired they made him. Better just to gut it out.

  He went out the front door and glanced to his right. The damn blue sedan was still there. He didn’t want to be obvious, so he went straight to the BMW X5 SUV, backed it up, then left the parking lot to turn right onto Lakeside Drive. He turned right at the stop sign on 13th street, then drove past the YMCA and Tim’s Tavern on his way to 12th Street. The road curved along the southern boundary of Meyers Lake and he got a bit of nostalgia when he passed the place where Cleo’s Ice Cream Drive-in used to be. His favorite had always been the chocolate pecan ice cream and the black raspberry milkshakes.

  The fortune teller was still there, and he remembered the time he had visited her on the evening of his wife’s birthday. A few days before the visit, he had gone into an antique shop in Dover, Ohio and bought a ceramic yarn holder in the shape of a face. His wife liked to knit, and he had thought it would make a nice birthday present.

  After a wonderful dinner of salmon, homemade potato salad, and mesclun greens salad drenched with Angelo’s secret dressing, he took the dishes to the kitchen and returned with a gift box. He was smiling when he handed his wife the expertly wrapped gift, but his smile evaporated when she opened it and her eyes got huge with fright.

  “It looks positively evil. Look at those eyes. And that soot – it looks like it was in a house fire. Get it away from me – now!”

  “I’m sorry, honey, I thought you would like it. It’s for knitting. It holds the yarn.”

  “I know what it is. I don’t want it burning down our house. Get it out of here!”

  So, at 9:00 on a Saturday evening, he drove the same route over to the fortune teller. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but for some crazy reason he thought the fortune teller might take it from him.

  He pressed the doorbell and a middle-aged woman dressed in a blue paisley blouse opened the door and released a week’s worth of cigarette smoke into the environment.

  “May I help you? Do you have questions you need answers to?”

  Ben opened the top of the box and lifted the mask out. “I thought you might want this. I got this for my wife and it…”

  “It terrified her just as it terrifies me. I don’t want anything to do with that. Get it out of my sight!” She slammed the door in Ben’s face. He turned around and saw Cleo’s behind him. There was a white metal trashcan on the side of the parking lot. He walked over and placed the box and contents in the can, then he went to the order window.

  “What can I get for you,” the teenage perky brunette asked while chewing her gum.

  Ben always wanted to correct other people’s grammar, but he resisted the urge. “Black raspberry milkshake. Actually, make that two – I’ll get one for my wife. It’s her birthday.”

  The girl put two scoops of vanilla ice cream into each of two stainless steel cups, then she guesstimated how much milk to add, then she grabbed a bottle of raspberry syrup and gave each cup a three second pour. She put the cups under the milkshake mixer and flipped a switch.

/>   Back at the window, she said,” That will be four dollars even.”

  Ben was getting his money out when there was a terrible racket and raspberry milkshake flew out of the window and onto his shirt. A second later, one of the cups hit the young girl on the head and she fell to the floor. Smoke began to pour from the mixers, then orange flames. Ben had pulled out his mobile and dialed 911, then he grabbed the trash can with the mask inside and threw the metal against the glass front, smashing the window. He dropped the can and swept the shards of glass from the counter before climbing in.

  The girl was coming around, but she was disoriented from the blow and the smoke and started to run toward the fire. Ben grabbed her arm and put her over his shoulder, then he dropped her on the counter, climbed to the outside, and slid the girl to safety.

  “We have to get the car out of the lot. Firetrucks will be here soon.”

  He pushed the girl into the passenger seat and as he came back to the driver’s side, he saw the mask glowing orange on the black asphalt of the parking lot. Had it done this? Ben didn’t want to touch the mask, but he also didn’t want the mask to hurt anybody else who might pick it up. He put a finger through an eyehole and put the mask in the back seat. He headed West on 12th Street and pulled into the Meyers Lake Shopping Center lot just as the sirens screamed into the night.

  “You OK?” He asked the girl.

  “Yeah, thanks. What happened? My head hurts.”

  “I have no idea, but I need to call 911 and let them know you are safe.” He dialed the number, then waited as the mobile rang.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “This is Ben Angelo. I called in the fire at Cleo’s. I’m across the street in Meyer’s Lake Plaza. I rescued the one employee. She is safe with me, but she has a nasty bump on her head. What should I do with her?”

  “There’s an ambulance there now. Bring her back and we will take her to Aultman. Give them your phone number. The fire inspector will want to talk with you later about what happened.”

  “OK.” Ben dropped the girl back at the parking lot of the now destroyed building, gave his information, then headed home just as he remembered the mask he had put in the back seat. He stopped at the curve that rounded the Southern tip of the lake. He grabbed the mask from the back seat and sailed it like a Frisbee toward the water. There was a welcoming splash. “Sayonara!” he yelled into the night.

  Two days later after an evening’s worth of drinks, and in the arms of a sales rep for Barto pizza ovens, intruders targeted his home. The next day, with a night’s worth of guilt, he got home and found his wife’s body. He hated himself for buying the mask.

  “BRONK! BRONK!” The noise brought him out of his daydream. He looked to his side and saw a car sideways in the road at 4th Street and Whipple. An angry driver was shaking his fist. Ben looked in his rearview mirror and saw the light was red. “Jesus, I ran a red light! He thought about stopping, but there had been no accident, so he just cruised on down Whipple and made the right turn at West Tusc that would take him to his restaurant.

  “Hey Josh,” Ben said to the day manager as he walked into the kitchen. I’m going to do paperwork. Have one of the waiters bring me a Diet Coke there. And see if anyone has some Tylenol.”

  Ben sat down at the ancient oak seven drawer desk and tapped the on button on his computer. He got a black screen with a spinning circle and a message that said installing updates. About five minutes left.

  “Now this!” Ben muttered under his breath. He was still a bit upset at Norman for giving his name to Detective Fetterman. He pulled out his mobile and dialed the homeless shelter.

  “This is Norman. How may I help you?”

  “This is Ben. Ben Angelo…”

  “Now what do you want?”

  “I just wanted to say sorry again about what happened. I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have been angry.”

  “What about the guys that had to go to the hospital?” Ben asked with a bit of hesitation as he watched the time ticking down on the screen.

  “Nobody went to the hospital. I mean we were puking, but it’s not like anybody was going to die. Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Detective Fetterman. He told me. You talked with him last Wednesday night. You gave him my name and he came to see me this morning.”

  “Ben, police won’t come near the shelter. And again, there were no ambulances.”

  “But you gave him my name. The Detective said you were puking your guts out. Maybe you forgot.”

  “Look Ben, I sure as hell would remember if a Detective came around, OK. You know I have a record. I don’t want nothing to do with the cops. Now if you will excuse me, I got work to do.”

  The phone clicked off. Another piece of Ben’s reality fell away just as Sarah, a beautiful blonde waitress and Kent Stark student, brought in his Diet Coke.

  “Anything else, Mr. Angelo? Oh, almost forgot, two Tylenol.” She studied the clenched fists of her boss and the tight shoulders. “You OK?”

  “Thanks, Sarah, yes, I’m OK. Thanks so much.”

  Sarah turned and left, and Ben’s desktop finally appeared on the screen. He just stared at the icons as if he didn’t recognize them.

  5

  Wednesday, August 7th, 11:45 AM

  Ben unlocked the side door of the church with his right hand while holding the bag of Dunkin Donuts in his left. He had thought about buying coffee as well, but then he decided he was just being extra paranoid. He flipped the hall light switch, then went down the 13 steps to the meeting room.

  He just stared at the space. It had seemed like such a safe place just a week before. Now there had been a death - maybe a murder, poisonings, and he dreaded the coming meeting. He quickly set up the ring of chairs, leaving an empty one for Sharon so that the members could role play their feelings to her if needed. He didn’t put one out for Max as he didn’t want anybody else knowing that a new person was coming.

  He filled the coffee maker with water, then added a cup of Maxwell House regular to the metal filter and wheeled the gray plastic cart out into the room.

  “Hey Ben,” John yelled from the circle. “How you been doin?” John was about 45 years old with long gray hair cut in an 80’s mullet style. He had a Carhartt baseball cap on his head that made it hard to see his face. Blue barbed wire tattoos circled his massive biceps and the veins on the back of his hands stood out like piping. His jeans fit tight in the thighs and the cuffs sat at a ridiculous height above his ankles. His white socks barely rose above his black steel work shoes, and his ankles were covered with bruises. “Need some help over there?” he called to Ben.

  The last thing Ben wanted was John’s dirt and probable germs anywhere near the food and coffee. “I’m good John. Did you have a good week? Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and we can discuss the rest in group, OK?”

  “You know I’m terrified to talk in front of others – it’s my glossophobia.”

  “That’s why you are here, John, to work on that. Now just sit there and think about what you want to say. My God, you have a phobia for every day of the week.” Ben was sorry as soon as he had said that.

  Connie interrupted the conversation by entering the room with as much drama as she could project. “It’s just a lovely day out there. Maybe we should have group outside today. I remember back in grade school when Mrs. Muster would take us to the park for science class. Wouldn’t it be fun? This basement room reminds me of a crypt!”

  “Possibly, Connie,” Ben replied as he took his seat in the circle. “John, what would you think of that idea?”

  “Scares the hell out of me. Connie, you know I got that agoraphobia. It’s all I can do to leave my apartment and get here.”

  “But we all say we need to confront our fears. We could help you so you wouldn’t feel you were going crazy.”

  “Jesus, Connie, what are you trying to do? You’re about to make me go crazy!”

  Frank walked in next wearing a su
rgical mask and blue nitrile gloves. He glanced at John, then sat on the opposite side of the circle from the dirty Carhartt hat. He waved his hand and waved at the others.

  John put his hand over his mouth and coughed in Franks’ direction, then put his hand down and smiled.

  “I know what you are doing, John. Just trying to rile me up!”

  “Can’t a man cough when he needs to? I covered my damn mouth!”

  “Is this the right place?” a voice called from the doorway.

  The group all turned and saw a sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties dressed in khakis and a green polo shirt standing in the doorway.

  “Depends what you are looking for?” Connie blurted out.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Connie, he’s looking for our meeting. I’m Betty and this is Phobias Anonymous. I assume that is what you are looking for?”

  “That’s right. My name is Max.” Max walked toward the group and started to sit in the chair where Sharon used to sit.

  “Not there!” Ben yelled as he entered the room. “That chair is reserved for one of our other members.”

  “Sharon is dead, Ben!” Connie belted out. I don’t want a chair filled with a dead woman. You know how death freaks me out. Let Max sit there!”

  Ben looked around at the group members and they just shrugged their shoulders or looked away. “Anybody object to Max sitting there?” He waited a few seconds, then said, “Ok, I guess the chair is for you.”

  “I hope you don’t meet the same fate, Max,” Connie said. “She fell fifteen stories. It was awful – I mean when she hit the VW – one of the new ones!”

  “Connie!” John Yelled. “Just because you are afraid of death and are supposed to be confronting your fear doesn’t mean you need to be the New York Post correspondent in the group!”

  “Sorry,” Connie replied and put her hands to her face. “I’m so ashamed I could kill myself. Somebody just shoot me!”

  “Just work the 12 Steps, Connie,” Ben replied, “and reach out to your higher power.”

  “I am so glad we are staying with five chairs and five people,” Betty said. “I don’t like six because three of them is the Number of the Beast. If you add those three sixes you get 18, and if you add those digits you get nine. You’re following me, right?”