Letters From Rachel

by N L Westaway

  Downstairs, she locked up, before heading back to the station, mumbling to herself about how she really needed to get a car.

  She had made it back in time to change for work and had enough time in the ambulance bay now to get ready for her shift. She laced up her steel-toed boots, then straightened to readjust the pen in the pocket of her short-sleeved uniform shirt, then double checked the applet straps on her shoulders. They weren’t permitted to wear shorts of any kind while at work, but it was going to be such a long hot day, she would have given just about anything to cut off the bottom half of these poly-cotton pants she was required to wear. She tightened her ponytail and came around the open backdoors of the rig then and saw Detective Franklin heading her way.

  “Hey—it’s good I caught you,” he said as he got closer. “Scott mentioned you were on shift with him again today.” He put his hands on his hips and glanced around the bay. “Were you able to speak to your mother?”

  “No, she wasn’t home—but I left her a message to call me,” Gwen said, moving to shut the ambulance doors.

  “Well—the letters match, Gwen. All the dates and cities.” He looked around again as if checking to see who was in earshot of their conversation. “But there are some details in the letters that were not released to the public, so Rachel could potentially be a witness to some of these murders. If we could locate her, maybe she could help I.D. this murderer.”

  “Did you tell Scott about this?” Gwen asked, leaning around the rig to see if Scott was on his way back from filling up their water bottles.

  “Not yet.” He swiped at the sweat bead running down the side of his face. “I was wondering about the idea that your mother could be a relative of Rachel’s, but I’m struggling as to why she would have the letters,” he said.

  “I wish I knew the answer to why as well,” Gwen said. Obviously, her mother must have known Rachel, they had to be related. But what else has her mother been keeping from her all these years, Gwen speculated?

  “They have to be related,” Detective Franklin said, as if reading her mind. “Your mother must know her, and she may not realize that she knows who this man is—the one Rachel refers to in the letters, the one Rachel believes is the serial killer. Your mother might even be able to give me the first solid lead I’ve had in years. Maybe I could go see her—does she work in the city?” He wiped at the side of his face again.

  “No, she works in Ann Arbor,” Gwen said, exasperated. Then a sudden realization hit her. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid—I don’t remember all the cities—but there were a lot. What if Rachel isn’t the only one running from this guy? What if my mom was afraid of this man too—and why she’s never come forward?” Gwen said. “I’ll try her again.” Gwen fished out her phone from the pocket of her cargo pants and then dialed her mother. “Voicemail,” Gwen said, shoving the phone back in her side pocket.

  “Hey, Dad,” Scott said, rounding from the other side of the rig.

  “Hey, Son,” he said. “Sorry, but I gotta run. Gwen, you’ll keep me in the loop, yes?” He gave his son a pat on the shoulder and then he turned to leave.

  “Later, Dad,” Scott said, handing Gwen a clipboard.

  “Will do, Detective,” Gwen tossed back, frowning then at his abrupt departure. “What’s this?” She looked down at the paperwork clipped to the board.

  “A work order. They have to run service on the rig before we can head out.” He rolled his eyes. Then he opened the driver’s side door, placed their water bottles in the drink holders, and then climbed in to sit and wait.

  Gwen huffed out a breath. More delays, like she wasn’t already frustrated enough with her mother not returning her calls, this was one more thing now to add to her growing annoyance.

  An hour and a half later, when they were pulling up to attend to their first call from dispatch, Gwen’s phone vibrated against her leg. Sliding it free from the side pocket, she saw it was her mother calling. She answered, and said, “I can’t talk now, Mom—I’m on site.”

  “What letters?” her mother said back to her.

  “You know what letters—the ones from Rachel. Who is she—a cousin?” Gwen undid her seatbelt and opened the passenger side door.

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about?”

  “Look, Mom, you need to come in and speak to Detective Franklin, about those letters.”

  “Gwen, I don’t want to talk to some detective—I need to talk to you.”

  “Mom, just call the County Criminal Investigations unit and ask for Detective Franklin.” Gwen slammed the door shut.

  “Let’s go Gwen,” Scott hollered from the back of the ambulance.

  “Mom—I gotta go—just call him, please.” Gwen hung up and slid her phone back into her pocket.

  ✽✽✽

  The overnight shift they had been on, normally ended shortly after 7 a.m., but they’d had to cover for part of the next shift, since unlike their rig, the other ambulance had needed to get extensive service done, not just reviewed as theirs had been.

  Gwen was beyond drained now, so much so, that she had waited to check her phone until Scott and she had parted ways at their apartment floor, and she was out of her uniform and comfortably planted on her couch. That’s when she saw that she had two messages waiting for her.

  Checking the call log, she saw that one of them was from Detective Franklin, the other one was from her mother, and she pressed the voicemail button to listened to her mother’s message first. She put the phone on speaker, then set it on the coffee table.

  “Gwen, now I don’t know who this Rachel person is you keep talking about and I don’t have a clue what letters you’re referring too,” her mother’s voice said, followed by a huff. “What I want to talk to you about involves your father.” There was a sound of another huff. “We were never married. And, well—he’s still alive.”

  “What?!” Gwen said, picking up the phone and staring at it.

  “I didn’t know him—not really… he, well—he raped me—it’s the reason I changed my name. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—but it’s the reason we have moved so much—he’s been following me ever since I left my hometown, and I don’t know why.”

  “Mom—oh-my-god,” Gwen said to her phone, stunned.

  “Gwen—I don’t know his name, but I think…I think he’s this serial killer. He’d been gone for six years—I hoped he’d been arrested or dead even—but he’s back, and he knows where I am.”

  The call ended then, and Gwen hit redial on her phone. “Voicemail again—dammit.” Beep “Mom—Call me back,” was all she said before hanging up and switching to hear the message from the detective.

  “Hello, Gwen—it’s Detective Franklin. Can you call me with an update?” was all his message said.

  Gwen hit dial on the detective’s number, but his voicemail too picked up. “Meet me at the diner right away—what I have to tell you can’t wait,” she said, leaving him a message. She had an update, and she had a theory too, now that her mother had given her this information about her father, but unlike her mother, it was not something she felt she could leave in a message.

  Chapter 15

  Last night was probably the worst sleep Laura had ever had. In fact, she felt like she had not slept a wink. She had been so distraught over her phone call with Gwen that she could barely calm herself enough to get any semblance of rest. And this morning she was a wreck, having not heard back from Gwen about what she had told her in that message about Gwen’s father. She wouldn’t be okay until she had a chance to speak to her, however she had got herself together enough to head into work for the early shift, mainly because she couldn’t let herself miss another day of work again.

  Laura had had two cups of coffee before leaving home, yet it was not helping with her lethargy. All it had done in fact, was frazzle her already fraying nerves. She was only past the first hour of work and she had already messed things up by charring two apple pies, b
y putting salt instead of sugar in the butter tarts, and she had backed up into one of the supply shelves when she’d clumsily burned her arm on a tray in the cooling racks. Now they would have to order additional supplies of vanilla, almond and peppermint extracts, as the boxes containing the bakery supplies of the extracts, had been on the shelf she had banged into, and they had all fallen off and smashed onto the floor. A couple of the bottles had been salvageable, but these few would not last awfully long in a bakery.

  “Accidents happen,” her boss had said to her, but Laura had felt like an ambling disaster. This type of behavior her boss knew, was not typical, and sensing that Laura might not be herself today, her boss had sent her off to the local grocery store with the easy task of purchasing the extracts they would need. Laura knew that if she could just get the supplies they needed to get through today and tomorrow, they’d be fine until the new shipment arrived on Tuesday, and that she might be able to redeem herself over the screwups she’d made this morning.

  Before going into the grocery store, Laura made a call to Marlene, but it went to her voicemail. “Hi, I need to talk to you—can we meet?” Laura said, when the message beep sounded. She could really use some wise words on how to handle things with Gwen. She slid her phone back into her bag as she entered the store through the sliding doors, then went straight to the aisle she knew the baking products should be.

  In the middle of the aisle, the one she had been to dozens of times, she found that the section that normally displayed the shelves of flour and sugar and smaller baking supplies were nowhere to be seen. She looked to the overhead sign, and it clearly stated this was the baking aisle, however, instead of finding the urgent supplies she needed for the bakery to make amends, there were items such as loaf pans, muffin tins, cookie trays in several materials such as onetime use foil and reusable ones in glass, metal and that flexible silicone. The section was filled with tools for baking, and not the edible food items that were normally here and that she required. She turned left and then right to glance down the aisle, and at the end nearest the butcher section, she spotted one of the young male stock clerks. She waved to him for help, and he waved back, sauntering over at a less than amiable pace than Laura would have preferred.

  “Good morning, ma’am. How can I assist you today?” the barely 16-year-old young man said.

  “The other baking supplies—where have they been moved to?” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

  “Other baking supplies, ma’am?” he said, as if she had asked for rocket fuel, then he turned to glance at the baking pans.

  “Yes—the food items, like flour and sugar—they used to be right here,” she said, motioning to the area with the baking tools.

  “Right—yes, they were moved to a new section,” he said, stating what she already knew as obvious.

  “What section?” Her nerves were wearing thin with this kid.

  “The section with all the spices and oils—same aisle as the pasta and sauces, and that sprinkle cheese stuff.” He grinned as if the words he spoke were genius.

  “What. Aisle. Would that be?” she asked, her patience waning.

  “Next one over,” he said, pointing in the direction of the next aisle.

  “Thank you,” Laura said, turning on her heels and heading down and out of the aisle to get to the next one. “The kid could have just said, ‘next aisle’ first and saved me all the painful back and forth,” she muttered to herself.

  She rounded the corner to the aisle then only to find she had picked the wrong end of the previous aisle to exit from and was now at the side with all the pasta and sauces.

  “Did you have a good time the other night, Laura?” came a man’s voice from behind her, and she froze. “Laura?” the man’s voice came again. The need to run overwhelmed her, but her feet remained bolted to the floor, and despite the adrenaline rush craving to propel her forward, she stayed where she was, struggling to muster whatever courage she could find. Drawing in a breath, she turned herself in a slow circle, her feet dragging as if pulled through wet cement.

  The man standing before her, smiled. “I thought it was you,” he said. “My apologies if I startled you.”

  Her nerves were still frazzled, yet she let her shoulders relax and then she blew out the breath she had been holding. Professor Christian Weick stood next to the short rows of pasta sauce, holding a green grocery basket, and grinning at her. “Professor,” she said, feeling a flush of embarrassment now, remembering what her behavior that night must have looked like. “The other night, yes—it was fun. I don’t normally drink that much—drink at all, really. Sorry if I was a bit out of it,” she said, attempting to clarify and repair any damage to her dignity she may have sustained. She readjusted the shoulder strap of her bag.

  “No-no, it was all in fun—I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. And call me Christian, please. Dr. Branden mentioned that the two of you don’t get out much.” He lifted the little green basket from his side to hold it in both hands.

  “Yes,” she said, the flush of humiliation returning.

  “I’m just here to pick up some items for a dinner I’m preparing for a friend, though I’m not sure about the meal idea.” He glanced at the shelves of pasta sauce. “I feel a bit helpless, really,” he admitted.

  “Helpless? With making pasta?” she asked, relishing the opportunity to make him feel a bit foolish. It was not nice, but she had already had a morning full of feeling stupid herself.

  “I mean—I know how to cook the pasta and add the sauce, but when it’s just for me, I don’t worry about if it’s good or not.” He laughed. “But…” he started to say.

  “But when it’s for someone else—for a date, you want it to be… good, special even,” Laura finished for him. She may not know anything about dating, but she did know about food.

  “Yes, my thoughts exactly,” he said. “Which of these would you choose?” He pointed to the shelves.

  She came to stand near the sauces and tapped a finger on a colourfully labeled jar in the row second from the top. “These ones are the name brands and the most popular ones purchased. These…,” she said, pointing to the top row. “these here, are made by smaller companies and taste more homemade. And those at the end there….” She pointed, then shuffled passed him. “These are the organic small company ones, and I would go with one of them, if I had to choose.” He reached for the first jar, and she said, “That one has quite a lot of garlic, I would stick to the tomato and basil blend if this is for a date.”

  “Right—good call. I love garlic, though you’re right about it not being great for a date,” he said, grinning again, switching to pick up the version she had suggested.

  She then moved up the aisle to the section with the boxes of pasta. “Go with spaghetti—it’s the easiest to cook and the least likely to feel too filling.” In contrast to the sauce she had recommended, she handed him a box of one of the popular brands available. “Best to go with a company who knows what they’re doing on the pasta side. Homemade is best, but I take it this dinner might not be the ideal time to experiment with making pasta, yes?”

  “Yes—simple and delicious is what I’m aiming for,” he said, in agreement. Then he reached for a canister of cheese off the shelf next to the pasta. “Parmesan or Romano?” he asked, before picking and taking one from the shelf.

  “Fresh,” Laura said in response. “Come with me.” She turned then and left the aisle the same way she had come in. She did not look to see if he was following her, she just assumed he was, if he genuinely wanted her help.

  When she stopped in the deli area in front of one of the open cooler fridges, she turned to see him scanning the contents of the cooler next to the one she was standing at. “Never buy the processed stuff that looks like sawdust,” Laura said, to get his attention. He stepped closer and leaned in to look at the display of cheeses. “Make sure it says Parmigiano-Reggiano and get the type that looks like flakes—similar to the fa
ncy pastries you see with shredded chocolate.”

  “Brilliant,” he said, full of enthusiasm now. “Should I get some of that garlic bread from the freezer section?”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave him a smirk. She had not taken the time to consider his appearance that first meeting at the bench. Then, at the bar when he had come over, she’d been too drunk to scrutinize much of anything to do with his looks, so her recollection of him had been vague at best. Standing in front of her now she recognized that he was not bad looking, some might even consider him handsome.

  “Right—no garlic. Does that cover it, do you think?” He placed a container of the shredded cheese into his basket.

  “Not quite,” she said, then checked her watch. “I still have to grab some things for the bakery.”

  “Don’t let me keep you—you’ve been so kind to help me,” he said, checking his own watch for the time.

  “Do you know what kind of wine they like—your dinner guest?”

  “Wine, no—I hadn’t thought of that, and I don’t know their preference.” He gave her a little grimace.

  Laura may not drink, but she had learned plenty about wine with her years in food service and running the catering. “Okay, so you get both, a red and a white. For white, since you are doing Italian food, pair it with a nice crisp Pinot grigio. For red, go with French, and pick a mid-priced Cabernet Sauvignon.” She checked her watch again.

  “Laura—thank you so much for your help,” he said, rocking his carry basket of food. “And I’m sorry for keeping you from your own shopping.”

  “No worries, but I should get back to it.” She gave him a kind smile. “Wines that way,” she said, moving then to leave.

  “Thank you, again,” he said, turning in the direction she had indicated.

  She started off in the way of the aisle they had come from, then stopped. “Oh, pick up something for dessert too—something light.”