Letters From Rachel

by N L Westaway

  Securing any doors or windows had become a cinch now that she had done it multiple times. First was the security hinge with tamper-proof pins and a locking tab for doors. If she was in a position where she couldn’t do that, she had several more options that she more than often combined, like door chains that allowed the doors to be opened slightly to see outside while still remaining locked, these were good when you didn’t have a peep hole. Her favorite was the pick-proof deadbolt, because even an amateur intruder could pick a lock, she’d read, and using the sliding lock over the deadbolt’s handle, keeps it from turning. Lastly were the windows. For those she used pin locks which she had found were an easy solution. She’d bought a cheap drill to install them, and she’d learned from the guy at the hardware store that if you wanted to lock a window in a partially opened position, you need only drill a second hole. Which was handy if you wanted some fresh air without risking the security. On more than one occasion she had had the sense that someone was following her, and she was a single mother now, the last thing she needed, was someone coming in through an unlocked or wide-open window.

  Several years back, when she had gotten her first bakery job, the owner had given her a travel trunk to keep her belongings in. It was one of those rectangular ones with engineered wood construction, a heavy gauge vinyl covering and a paper-lined interior to protect contents, making it a reliable solution for all her storage or travel needs as it were. It was the wheeled footlocker type, 30 inches wide, 15 across and 12 deep, with black high impact bindings, nickel plated hardware and two durable recessed wheels. It had a side carry handle and a front one to make moving the trunk simple. It also had an easy open push button key lock. The keys had been lost prior to her owning the trunk, but it could also be locked with a padlock for added security. And she had dragged that thing with her each time she had had to leave and move to a new town.

  She hadn’t owned much when she’d started out, but she had accumulated some basic kitchen stuff; two pots, one large, one small, a single egg fry pan, a small toaster, some baking tools, a roll-up knife set and even a food processor—second hand of course, along with essentials for the baby, paired with the home items that came with a basic furnished rental, and she believed she had everything she needed. She also had a notebook which she kept her recipes in, ones she had learned and the ones she’d invented herself. And like this place, the small towns she preferred to live in, had everything she felt she needed too, usually within walking distance, plus a few extras beyond what she required.

  There was the grocery store, it was always nice having easy access to food and arguably one of the most important businesses in town. Like the grocery store, pharmacies played a vital role for her as well. In addition to prescriptions, the needs of the community essentially determined what else they had in stock, like over the counter medication, baby formula, toiletries, vitamins, and whatever, it varied from town to town, she had found. She guessed a hair salon was needed in each town too, almost everyone needed a haircut at one point or another, but she had trimmed her own hair for years and normally wore it pulled back and in a bun since she worked in food services. The hardware store and a local handyman were two other staples in small towns. Every town needs a local handyman, and she had learned plenty from the guys at the hardware stores.

  Now a laundromat, if you were not fortunate enough to have a washer and dryer in your building, this was essential, especially with a baby. She didn’t own many clothes, so other than towels and bedding, and the baby stuff, that was all she had that required constant washing.

  There always seemed to be an auto repair shop/gas station combo in every town she moved to. There is no denying that every small town needs a gas station, and a mechanic, but it wasn’t on her list of necessities—no car, no need, she didn’t even have a driver’s license. Bus services had been her means of transportation, and like gas stations, every town had a bus station, even if it was just a sign next to the gas station that also sold the tickets.

  Along with the gas station, there was always at least one bar. She knew that bars often had things like pool tables and dartboards, but even if she were interested in these things, bringing a baby into a bar was surely frowned upon. It was the gathering place to talk about the day’s news or catch up with an old friend apparently, but she didn’t have any friends and she definitely didn’t have any news to share, plus she had no interest in drinking.

  Restaurants, every town needed them, but not every town needed every type of restaurant. A good pizza shop, a place that served a good breakfast, and one of those all-American restaurants that serves good burgers and fries, was probably enough, in her view, and the eat-in bakery café she worked at, of course. Excess was not something she respected, probably because she lived a minimalist life, only spending what she needed and buying only the essentials, everything else she felt was a luxury. Not to say she didn’t want a better life for her and her child but spending her well-earned money on frivolous things wasn’t going to get her or take her anywhere. Slow and steady wins the race, she had told herself.

  It wasn’t a necessity, but she preferred the towns that had a college or university in them. She would have loved to go to college but being a single mother had taken precedence. Bucknell University was founded in 1846 and featured a multitude of programs, and even had a Female Institute, though despite being opened in 1852, it hadn’t been until 1883 that college courses were opened to women, and she couldn’t quite understand that. Her boss had suggested that she take a night course there. She’d not had very good success with that in the past, though she loved visiting the college to walk the grounds.

  She was looking forward to the cherry blossoms that bloomed in April on the Academic Quad near the Bertrand Library where she often liked to walk. It was a 450-acre campus with numerous Georgian style brick buildings that ran adjacent to the West Branch Susquehanna River. The campus was divided into Lower and Upper Campuses and it offered amazing views northwest across the Buffalo Valley toward Nittany Mountain and southeast across the Susquehanna River toward Montour Ridge. They had a non-denominational Chapel on campus for worship, weddings, and celebrations, which she thought was very progressive, not that she needed any of those things. And there’s the Christy Mathewson-Memorial Stadium, the home to the Bucknell University Bison football team and the Lewisburg High School Green Dragons football team. Again, not something she needed, but it was a morale booster for the town.

  Another thing she was looking forward to in April, was that her daughter would be turning four, her terrible twos had continued into the threes, and she was hopeful they would finally be past this difficult stage. She had been a good baby, actually, but there was something about turning two that had sparked some defiance in her daughter, her favorite word being No, which had ignited a few choice words of her own—that Laura had luckily managed to keep under her breath, a challenge thus far. Laura knew that moving so much had not been easy on either of them, but she did her best to provide some joy for her daughter. Stability on the other hand, well, that was another challenge she was working through.

  Thankfully, when she had moved here last year, she had once again managed to secure a job, and she had found a first-floor apartment in a three-story brownstone just off the university’s campus. The other tenants in the building were students at Bucknell, one of them was gone most of the time, and the other was doing a minor in Women’s Gender Studies and though Laura had found her very interesting to talk to, she had also found someone willing and trustworthy to watch her daughter when she had to work the breakfast and lunch shift. She had been able to bring her daughter with her on overnight shifts since there were no customers during those times.

  The coffee shop/bakery—where she currently worked, seemed typical now of every small town. If you were a coffee lover, this was the place to go. Apparently 64% of Americans over the age of 18 drink coffee regularly. She wasn’t one to drink much coffee, but she would guarantee that each customer woul
d be greeted with a smile and a great cup of coffee, and hopefully one of her pastries. She had made a point to always be vigilant, watching her surroundings, the people, the ones she didn’t recognize, and even the ones she knew.

  The customer coming in now, unfortunately, she did recognize. It was Professor Complainer. Laura had been told that he taught at the university, something in the Foods Systems program, but despite coming in and eating there every day, he always felt the need to share a negative remark about the food each time. The staff had joked about poisoning his food, or at least adding a little something to make him sick, keep him out of commission and out of the place for a few days or so. Laura rarely worked at the order side of the counter, but she was covering for the young girl who normally did, while she took a break. Lucky her, Laura thought, as their favorite customer approached the order area. “Good morning,” Laura said, with a smile. “What can we make for you today, sir?” She waited while he reviewed the specials and the regular menu board. He had only been reading the same things every day, but he clearly wanted to make her and the customers behind him wait. Arrogant prick, she had wanted to say, but she held her smile.

  “Let me seeee,” he said, drawing out the last word.

  Laura couldn’t help herself, she let out a loud sigh due to the frustrated breath she’d been holding.

  “Oh—I’m sorry, am I keeping you from something? Baking crap food and brewing crap coffee, perhaps?”

  Laura bit the corner of her lip. “No-no, Sir. What can I get for you?”

  And then like normal, he ordered his usual. “Large coffee—black, and a raspberry croissant.” Laura grimaced. “Is there something wrong?” he asked, his voice raising.

  “No—it’s just that we sold the last raspberry croissant. Could I offer you something else?” Laura rocked from foot to foot.

  “Something else? The raspberry croissant is the only thing barely edible in this place,” he said, his voice raising even higher now. “Just the coffee—see if you can get that right for a change.” He tossed a dollar on the counter; a large coffee was 0.95 cents.

  “Thank you,” Laura said, through the gritted teeth of her smile. At least she didn’t have to hand it to him, the food pick-up area was at the other end of the counter, and the person preparing the order would have to deal with him, which would have typically been her if she hadn’t been covering the cash. Timing was everything, she thought to herself.

  ✽✽✽

  The next morning, when Laura arrived outside of work, there was a small crowd gathering at the corner near the bakery. She could see the local news reporters standing with their mics out and cameramen at the ready. They seemed to be waiting on the police chief and another taller dark-haired man not in uniform, who she could only see the back of, to make an announcement of some kind.

  Laura hurried into the shop and caught the arm of the cashier. “What’s going on?” she asked the girl.

  “You didn’t see the news this morning?” The girl said, leaning to look out the window.

  “No—what, what happened?” Laura turned to see where the girl was looking.

  “Right—no TV, sorry,” the girl said, clearly remembering that Laura didn’t have a TV at home.

  There was one in the back of the bakery that she and the other baker flipped on once in a while, but she didn’t usually watch the local news. Laura readily used local newspapers to find apartments, and jobs, as well as the online newspapers at the local library to follow any news on the serial killings. But no news was good news, wasn’t it?

  “That professor—the one we all love so much, he’s dead,” she tossed out. “The police are making an announcement about it to the press.”

  “Why?” Laura asked, then shivered, a little tingle prickling the back of her neck.

  “Why is he dead?” the girl asked, “or why are they making a statement to the press?”

  “The press,” Laura said, she didn’t care why the guy was dead, but the tingle at the back of her neck now traveling down her spine, was an indicator that the next words out of this girl’s mouth would be something she may not want to know—but needed to know.

  “They brought in a homicide specialist. Seems the evidence indicates it was murder and the same MO as that serial killer, the small-town strangler,” she said, leaning again to look out the shop window as the crowd continued to gather.

  Just then the owner of the shop came out from the back bakery. “The cops are gonna want to speak to each of us,” she said, to Laura and the other staff now gathering near the window.

  “Why us,” Laura questioned, wrapping her arms around herself though she wasn’t cold.

  “One of the customers told the cops he’d been in here causing a ruckus.” She rolled her eyes. “That asshole professor caused us grief every morning—yesterday was no exception. But if the cops think it can help—we can each spare a few minutes to help them and the FBI solve a murder, can’t we? Kind of exciting—if you ask me,” she added, peeking out the window.

  ✽✽✽

  In the days that followed, each of the staff was taken to the back office of the bakery to be interviewed by the local police. Laura had cooperated by telling them about the last time she had seen the professor, the morning prior to his death and about the exchange they had had. The others had mentioned it to the cop interviewing them, so she was merely confirming what the others had already said. None of them could be guilty of the murder, but that fact hadn’t put her at ease.

  All week she’d had the sense that someone was following her, and it only escalated her unease. Then twice she had found the window in the front of her apartment left open without the pin lock in it, and she had even found the front door left unlocked once. Laura had given the student watching her daughter a key to the apartment, because she liked to go from her apartment to Laura’s when babysitting, that it helped entertain her daughter, she’d told Laura, but when she questioned her about the window and door, she’d explained that she never opens the windows and always locks the door when she leaves. Laura had wanted to believe the girl, but these violations of her security—if her babysitter hadn’t done them, she wanted to know then, who had?

  The panic this had caused Laura only worsened when she had found the new postcard that had been slid under her apartment door. This one hadn’t been a ‘welcome’ message like the others, but it did have a warning similar to the ones she had received,

  Enjoying your stay?

  You know I killed that professor for you, but you spoke to the police despite my previous warnings. Don’t let that happen again.

  Remember, I’m watching you, AND your daughter.

  She’d had no choice but to talk to the police, she hadn’t instigated the contact. The killer must have known this, or they would not have given her this second chance to keep her mouth shut. Laura took this warning even more seriously than the first ones, because unlike the others that had images of the places she lived prior, this one had a photo of Bucknell University on it and it had been purchased at the university’s tuck shop, she’d seen this exact one on her last visit. But the warning had hit home more than this postcard being from the town she currently lived in, it had been more obvious than that, and now any ideas she had entertained about speaking further to the cops, telling them what she knew—all that she’d been going through, had been thoroughly eradicated from her thought process, because there was only one thing that mattered about this postcard, and it was the fact that the killer’s message, had mentioned her daughter.

  Chapter 4

  July 1st, 2019 - Royal Oak Diner, Royal Oak, MI

  “How are you feeling about that call this morning?” Detective Franklin asked, as Gwen and Scott slid into the booth seat across from him.

  “Weird,” Scott said, straightening the paper placemat.

  What was weird to Gwen, was being here. She and Scott had been to this diner before, they only lived up the street, but this was the first time she had
been anywhere with the detective, other than on the job. “Ya, it’s strange to get called to such familiar ground, let alone establish that someone’s been murdered,” Gwen said, shooting a glance at Scott. “I mean, I don’t technically go there anymore—to the college. I don’t have any more classes—just this last month of on the job training, but it was my home away from home for the past three years.”

  “Call locations are not usually so… personal,” Scott added.

  “Well, this one feels personal to me too,” Detective Franklin said, “but not in the same way.” He motioned for the waitress, asking for her to fill his coffee cup.

  “You two want anything?” the waitress asked, as she filled the detective’s cup.

  “Coffee,” Scott said.

  “Me too, please,” Gwen said, sliding her coffee cup over. “And can I get a fried egg sandwich—on brown?”

  “Sure thing,” the waitress said, pouring their coffees next.

  When the waitress left, Detective Franklin said, “I don’t know how much Scott has told you, Gwen.” He sipped his coffee. “But I’ve been working this case almost since its inception. Time in, makes it personal for me—nearly 20 years of my life I’ve been chasing this bastard—sorry, this guy,” he said, correcting his words as if to be more polite.

  “Bastard is more accurate,” she said, as she added cream to her coffee, cooling it down. She didn’t know how the detective could drink it, being so hot. Badass, she thought. Scott on the other hand had added three sugars and most of the creamers to his.

  Detective Franklin nodded at her comment, then said, “This latest murder—I couldn’t believe it when I saw the evidence report.” He sipped the scalding coffee again. “He’s here—killing in my county,” he added, leaning in as if to avoid being overheard. “Six years I’ve been waiting—six years. You hope for a new lead—any lead, but never for someone to be killed.” He ran a hand through his shot cropped hair.