Stunner

by Niki Danforth

Laura glances at her watch, and obviously surprised at the time, jumps up. “OK. Have to run.” She comes over and hugs me. “Aunt Ronnie, thanks for listening. You’re the best. I always feel better after I talk to you. See you tomorrow.” She walks away and then stops. “Wait. What about that van that was following me?”

  I shrug. “Like I said, that was probably a house repair up the road.” I squint at my watch. “And by now he’s definitively gone. Laura, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  For the most part, fake it till you make it does seem to work, and I’m glad I could help Laura calm down. As for me, let’s just say, at times since my divorce, I’m still on shaky ground. I tried to continue with life as it was at the big house before the split, but no go.

  Too many rooms, too many memories, and too many spooky noises and shadows for me to be alone in that large space. My hope is that a new start in my cozy cottage will be a positive step toward me feeling in charge of my life again.

  ~~~~~

  After my niece leaves, Warrior and I go inside and upstairs to the master bedroom. Warrior drops down on his dog bed to watch as I do some more unpacking. After placing linens and blankets in a closet, I open a box with framed family photographs.

  The first one I take out is my favorite of Brooke and Jessica. It’s a black-and-white of them sitting on the grass in the garden at the big house with our beloved Springer Spaniel, Cress, between them. The girls are about five and two, and it’s a beautiful picture. I place it on the nightstand next to my bed.

  Next I pull out a photograph of Frank, his wife Joanie, and their kids, Laura and Richard, on a sailboat, probably taken ten years ago. They look tanned, windblown, and happy. I put that frame on a shelf in a bookcase and sigh. Oh, Joanie, we miss you so much.

  I reach into the box and find a photograph of my oldest brother, Peter, with his wife and their children. I study the young faces of Petey, Ben, Tim, and Jimmy. This picture must be twenty years old. Haven’t seen them in, what? I do the math. It’s got to be at least fifteen years, when the boys were still in their teens. Wonder what they look like today.

  I tug at a frame that’s jammed between several books in the box and shake it loose. It’s a picture of my ex-husband and me with our children, taken outdoors during happier years. As a matter of fact, it was taken the same year as the picture of Peter and his family.

  I reexamine the shot of Peter’s family—a great picture of the six of them. I also remember that was the first year either of us sent out picture cards for Christmas, using these two family photographs, and neither of us knew that the other planned to do the same.

  When his wife saw our card, she accused me of copying her and made a big stink about it. Wouldn’t most people have just laughed and said, “Oh, how funny. Look. Yours is better than mine.”

  Peter was, is, our big brother. Frank and I looked up to him when we were growing up. We were in awe of him. I examine the faces of Peter’s children in the photo. Not having him and his kids in our lives—this estrangement—still hurts, and all because of his wife’s rigid insecurity.

  Why did our brother go along with all her nonsense? Why didn’t he stick up for his side of the family? Oh well, who knows what goes on in other people’s marriages. I place the photograph of them on the end of a bottom shelf, where I’ll hardly notice it. Then I tuck my family photograph back in the box. My ex will not be on display in this house.

  Time to switch gears. I run downstairs, turn on my computer and Google Juliana Wentworth. She doesn’t come up much on the Internet. A few party pictures at philanthropic events in San Francisco and San Jose. An obituary two years ago for her husband, Carleton Todd Wentworth, a successful technology investor twenty-five years her senior.

  Hmm. This Juliana seems to like older men. Doesn’t look as if she would need more money, unless she didn’t make out very well in his will. No kids together, but he had three from his first marriage.

  What does warm my heart is that the couple supported a number of animal and canine rescue organizations. “Hey, Warrior. I think Frank’s new girlfriend likes dogs. And that’s got to be a good thing. Right?” A snore answers me. He’s fast asleep.

  At first glance, this Juliana appears to be a private woman living a quiet life. But the phone hang-ups and the peculiar reaction to the delivery of the box are, I have to agree with Laura, at the very least, curious.

  Chapter Three

  The phone in the living room rings, and the caller-ID shows Laura’s number. She probably has last-minute jitters before the party for Juliana. “Hey, how’s my favorite niece in the world—”

  “I’m your only niece, Aunt Ronnie, and you’ve been telling me that forever.” But she’s ribbing me and doesn’t sound annoyed.

  “I know, I know. I need some new material. So, what’s up?”

  “Three hang-ups today,” Laura announces.

  Hmm. “How long does the mystery person stay on the line?” I ask. “Do you hear him, her, breathing? Making any sounds at all?”

  “I do hear some heavy breathing, but it’s all pretty quick,” Laura says. “I try to reverse the call, but like I told you, it’s either blocked or it’s one of several pay phone numbers around Scranton and nearby Moosic over in Pennsylvania, and nobody answers. So weird.”

  “I guess so.” I look around for my dog and call to him. “Into your mouse house, Warrior.” Which is a joke, since I had to buy him a huge crate. He charges out of the downstairs bathroom where he likes the cool tile floor, skids around the corner into the hall, and heads for the kitchen.

  “Warrior loves his mouse house,” I say to Laura. “Are you all set over there?”

  “Daddy’s a happy camper, all smiling, laughing.” My niece stretches out the first syllables on smiling and laughing. “He’s helping Dino set up the bar.”

  “What about Juliana? Does she look drop-dead gorgeous?” I guess I’ll find that out myself soon enough.

  “Who knows. Juliana’s been upstairs for almost four hours,” Laura says. “Who needs four hours to get ready?”

  Point taken, but… “Easy, kiddo. Maybe she’s a little nervous meeting your dad’s friends and family,” I say. “Cut her some slack, OK?”

  “I don’t know why she’d be at all nervous. She’s scary beautiful. Richard calls her a real stunner,” Laura answers. “Aunt Ronnie, are you coming soon? It’s almost six. I really need to show you something, before everyone else gets here.”

  “See you in ten.” I’m as ready as I’ll ever be and would need more than four hours to become scary beautiful. I grab the keys and head out the door.

  ~~~~~

  I turn left off Hollow Road into Meadow Farm and drive up the long dirt road that winds among intermittent woods and fields. Split-rail and wire fencing surround many of the pastures containing the ninety-plus sheep that reside at the farm.

  One more big bend in the road, and there, at the end of a lush green meadow among clusters of sugar maples, ash, and Chinese chestnut trees, stands the house where I grew up. I look over at the second floor, left-corner window, first my room and then that of my favorite-niece-in-the-world, Laura, during the last two decades.

  My gaze sweeps across the fine-looking house with stone and stucco walls and slate roof. A textile factory owner built it in 1910, and I was blessed to grow up here from the fifties through most of the seventies, way before the hyper-rich and obscenely famous of the twenty-first century moved into the area. These days, this house would need a complete do-over to interest any hedge fund guy. Not over-the-top enough for that crowd—which suits us just fine.

  I park, and Laura rushes out. We hug and walk inside to more greetings from my brother’s son, Richard, and his wife, Susie.

  My daughter Brooke walks through the dining room door into the foyer. “Mom!” We give each other a big embrace. She’s here from Manhattan and incredibly grown up at twenty-four.

  Laura tugs at my arm while saying to my daughter, “I’m stealing your mom for five minutes, Brooke.
”

  “Be right back, darling,” I call over my shoulder as Laura leads me through the kitchen door.

  Then Laura scoots me past the breakfast table and outside to a grey trash bin. She flips open the lid, and I hear the rustling sound of garbage bags as she reaches inside.

  I’m taken aback. “Laura, what on earth? Your guests are due any second.”

  “Aunt Ronnie, you’re not going to believe this. I was out here a little earlier throwing something away, and I found that box I told you was addressed to Juliana in the bin. Daddy and Juliana were out, so I snooped.”

  I’m not happy to hear about this. “Laura—”

  “I know, I know, but you’ve gotta see.”

  Reluctantly, I walk over to her, suddenly noticing the smell of rotten eggs and something else I can’t put my finger on. Decay? I look in the bin, inside a black garbage bag on top, and see a white box. The lid is addressed to Ms. Juliana Wentworth, care of Meadow Farm.

  I don’t know what to say. The bad odor is now overpowering, and the sound of flies buzzing about causes me to step back. “Something in this garbage bag is rotten. The smell is awful—”

  “It’s inside the box, Aunt Ronnie.” Laura gingerly pushes the lid to the side and motions for me to look.

  On a bed of shriveled flowers lies the bloody carcass of a very dead bird. The sight takes my breath away. Dribbled raw eggs cover the mass. The eggs and the dead bird are the source of the rotten smell turning my stomach.

  “This is super gross, isn’t it? And pretty creepy, too.” Laura fake-shivers as if she’s watching a horror movie. “Those flowers look like they come from a cemetery. And is that a dead pigeon, Aunt Ronnie?”

  “It looks like one,” I answer, appalled. “Who would send such an awful package to Frank’s friend here at the farm?”

  “I don’t know, but the box has a Scranton, Pennsylvania postmark, the same place that those hang-up calls are from. Look.” Laura points at the corner of the lid. “It’s dated the day before they arrived. I wonder who knew she was coming here.”

  So Laura’s bad feelings really aren’t unfounded. “This is alarming—the contents of the box and the fact that the sender knew she’d be here.” Even though I haven’t touched anything, I feel the desire to wash my hands.

  “I wonder why Juliana didn’t want anybody here to find out about the package,” Laura says. “Maybe she knows who sent it, and that’s why she was so upset before she even opened it.”

  “That’s a good point, Laura. If it was a stranger who sent this, you’d think she’d want us to help and call the police to investigate.” I glance down at the contents again. “Ugh.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, I took pictures of the box and the mess inside with my phone. You know, in case you hire a private detective.” She closes the lid of the garbage bin and walks me back inside. “I’ll send the photos to you.”

  As we enter the front hall, I notice goose bumps on my arms and rub them away. I’m truly disturbed.

  From upstairs, I hear the sound of a man’s voice. My brother is speaking soothingly to someone. Laura and I look at each other, and she gives me a small shrug.

  A silky, melodic woman’s voice answers, but I can’t make out what they’re saying to each other. I feel a bit guilty, even hearing that little, as though I’m eavesdropping on an intimate conversation between two lovers.

  Then I hear footsteps move down the hall.

  Chapter Four

  Frank and Juliana walk down the stairs. Well, Frank walks. Juliana sweeps down, even though she stays right in step with Frank the entire way.

  To be fair, if I were coming down our splendid stairway to meet a bunch of people for the first time, I would sweep down, too. I remember making the same show-stopping entry (or so I thought) on a regular basis in my teens at special family parties.

  The stairs curve along the wall from the second floor of our high-ceilinged octagonal foyer and then descend gracefully to the ground floor. It’s a staircase that calls for a big entrance, and I must say, Juliana is certainly worthy of such a grand introduction.

  This lovely, tall creature is in her late-thirties with long, dark, perfect hair, just as Laura described. A flowy summer dress in vivid 1960s Pucci aqua colors does nothing to hide her amazing figure.

  Even though some of my girlfriends proclaim fifty-five is the new thirty-five, and, OK, I look good in my simple Jackie-O-style shift, bejeweled sandals, and a pair of drop earrings, what I do miss about really being thirty-five is that it didn’t require as much work to get myself together. I was also able to cheat much more on exercise, diet, and even sleep.

  I bet Juliana rolls out of bed every morning pretty much the way she looks right now. She certainly didn’t need four hours of prep for this party, as Laura had complained.

  Something about her features is vaguely familiar to me—the high cheekbones, full lips, and inscrutable cat-like eyes. Is she simply an Angelina Jolie-type with a similar staggering beauty, or is my feeling of faint recognition something else?

  Frank steps forward, and his lanky six-foot-two frame folds me into a familiar big-brother embrace. “I’m happy to see you, Sis, and happy to be home.”

  I pull back, look up into his handsome, weathered face and smile. “We’ve missed you, Frank.” I affectionately mess his salt-and-pepper hair, an old habit from when we were little.

  My brother, always so confident, seems a bit awkward now, like a schoolboy in the presence of a goddess. “Ronnie, you’re the only one who hasn’t met Jules yet.” He quickly corrects himself. “I mean Juliana. Uh, I’m the only one who calls her Jules.” OK. I try for a nonreactive expression.

  Frank guides me to her. “Ronnie, this is Juliana Wentworth.” He looks at her as though she’s the only one in the room. Oh, boy, he’s a goner. “Juliana, this is my sister, Ronnie Lake.”

  As we shake hands and smile, her sphinxlike eyes look straight into mine, and I see a momentary flicker of… what? A flash of something like repulsion and then maybe a question—or is the perception only my imagination? Her eyes are unreadable, even though her smile is responsive in a normal, polite way.

  Before she and I can say much of anything except hello, guests begin to arrive. Pretty soon we’re all caught up in the friendly chit-chat of our small cocktail party. The evening is beautiful and balmy. Two dozen of us mingle on the terrace off the dining room. Brooke, Richard, and Susie keep the finger food circulating, and the bartender makes sure everyone has a drink.

  As I catch up with old family friends, I’m able to step back somewhat and watch Juliana. I have to hand it to her: She’s doing all right. She has a laser-beam gaze that, while she talks with someone, I’m sure makes that person feel as if he or she is the only individual on the planet.

  She listens, she nods, she ask questions, she offers a comment when that’s appropriate—all the while picking the right moments for those special looks with Frank. I chuckle to myself. He never leaves her side, and she seems very relaxed.

  The phone rings in the library, and I see Juliana flinch ever so slightly. Her eyes shift in the direction of the sound for a split second. Then she notices me looking at her, and she smiles, an unknowable, Mona Lisa-type of expression. I smile back and walk through the set of French doors that leads into the bookshelf-lined room. I cross to a desk and answer the phone.

  “Hello?” Nobody responds. “Hello? Who’s there?” I think I hear a slight breathing sound and then a click, and the line goes dead. Hmmm. It’s most certainly another one of the hang-ups that Laura’s been talking about.

  I return to the terrace, where Frank and Juliana have moved over to a different couple, again deep in sociable conversation. Juliana has her gaze on the elderly husband and wife exclusively and doesn’t look at me.

  Fifteen minutes go by, then Juliana politely excuses herself to step into the house. I do the same a moment later under the pretext of helping in the kitchen. I step into the library and the phone rings, again. I pick it up, a
nd, once again, nobody responds, and I hear a click.

  As I walk through the foyer, I hear a cell phone ring upstairs and then Juliana’s voice speaking to someone. I stop to listen. The only part I can make out is “stop calling—you’ll ruin everything…” I can’t understand the rest of what she’s saying. Ruin what? Does she have some scheme in mind?

  I think about these mystery hang-ups from Pennsylvania that Laura says started when Frank and Juliana arrived the other day. I mull over the disgusting white box in our garbage bin that Juliana wanted to hide, the one with the Scranton postmark showing it was mailed to her before she and Frank arrived. Who knew she was coming, and why does that person want to frighten her with the revolting contents of the box?

  After catching her slight reaction on the terrace to the ringing phone, which resulted in another one of those hang-ups, and now hearing this cryptic conversation upstairs during our party—well, it seems pretty obvious that some connection exists between these calls and Juliana. The calls could all be perfectly innocent or reasonable, of course, but given the box, the circumstances do seem strange.

  Her voice stops, and I hear footsteps above. I dash into the kitchen, now empty, waiting to hear Juliana go back out to the terrace and rejoin the party. When her footsteps tell me she has done just that, I make an immediate, rash decision. This concerns my darling, somewhat recently widowed big brother, whom I worship and adore—although he would go ballistic if he knew what I was about to do. But the nauseating white box has definitely upped the general creepiness factor surrounding Juliana’s arrival at Meadow Farm.

  I quickly run upstairs with pen and paper and stop at the bedroom that Frank shared with Joanie for almost thirty years. I stick my head in and see some of Frank’s things tossed on the bed, but not Juliana’s.

  I continue walking a few steps further down the hall and push open a half-closed door to the main guest room, where I see her things. I’m glad Frank has given Juliana this room and not put her in his room, which belonged to Joanie. Of course, who knows what their sleeping arrangements are at night—and who cares since it’s absolutely none of my business.