by Carol Schaal
“Do you, do you know who it might be? Even maybe a good guess?” Sarah asked.
Cassandra squirmed in her seat. “It is just a guess, and please don’t ever say I said this. But I think it might be Justin. He hurt his back several months ago, and …” she trailed off.
Sarah glanced up at me, still standing a bit apart, and nodded. We both understood Cassandra’s unspoken link. And we both shared the same worry about the quiet Justin.
* * *
My big plan was for a quiet Friday night, but the idea didn’t disturb me. I desperately needed to think about everything that was happening around me.
The move to Michigan meant several lonely nights for me, but I was past the bleak fog of grief that threatened to choke me in the first few months after Drew’s death. A list of activities my grief counselor gave me before I left, one I shared with Aunt Raelynn so she could encourage me from the sidelines, helped keep the blues at bay. I went to movies by myself, visited the library frequently, and did more physical exercise than I’d ever done before. I also took nature walks, even though I looked like an overweight polar bear, as I piled layer upon layer to keep out the biting winter cold.
My mom, Wanda, and dad, Phil, were in Haiti, where they had joined a humanitarian group renovating homes. Cell service was spotty, so we didn’t talk much. That wasn’t such a bad thing. My mom, whom Greg and I loved dearly but privately referred to as Wanda the Worrier, would have driven me crazy with her concerns.
Sometimes I looked through my wedding album and had a good cry.
Therapy was not on this evening’s list but detecting was. After I slapped together a turkey sandwich, my hand hovered over the bottle of red wine sitting on the counter. I touched the cork gently then opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of mineral water. Time to keep a clear head.
I set my meager meal on the small dining room area table and got my laptop from my desk. Time for some analytics, but not the financial kind.
Maccini’s discovery of my past still had me rattled. I’d hoped to make friends in Alleton before sharing the real story of my background. If he leaked what he had discovered, my chance at being fully accepted by the tight-knit community might be impossible.
That wasn’t my major worry, however. The detective’s hints that he was focusing on me for two murders scared me. And I had a distinct feeling that Aunt Raelynn might be right, someone could be setting me up. A lot of people knew when I was scheduled to visit with Bernice. How easy it would have been for the killer to plan the time of Bernice’s death, so I would find her body. And I knew too well that that put me front and center as a suspect.
It would be more difficult to point a finger at me for the overdosing of Dennis, or at least I hoped so. Supposedly anyone could have pulled that off, but the details of how it was done escaped me. And I wasn’t familiar with Dennis’s medical history.
Or was I?
I took my plate to the sink, rinsed it off, then sat on the front room’s recliner, my legs crossed on the cushion in front of me. I closed my eyes and started breathing deeply, Aunt Raelynn’s anxiety cure. I let various conversations play through my mind, not forcing them.
The relaxation effort had a side effect. Two hours later, curled on the recliner, I woke up to the squawk of a gull on the balcony. I stared over at the balcony slider, which gave me back my reflection. And I played through the episode my unconscious mind had recalled.
It was a Sunday evening in November, and I was attending my first Waves End gathering. Several shop owners were celebrating a successful Small Business Saturday. The Thanksgiving weekend weather had cooperated, offering sunny skies and temperatures in the 50s. I knew most of the people there, as they were the merchants that I’d introduced myself to during my October scouting trip.
Frank was wearing what I would learn was his typical party look, a funny apron over jeans and a white dress shirt. This one said: “The last time I cooked, hardly anyone got sick.”
“What’s in this?” Dennis said, looking suspicious as Frank held out a plate of appetizers. “’Cause it really could make me sick.”
Frank listed the ingredients in what he called his trademark spinach cheese squares.
“That’s not for you, Den,” Tami said, waving the tray away. “Mushrooms. Too much potassium.”
Two months later, I understood why I remembered that conversation. Because I was the one who had pointed a finger at Frank and said, “Looks like you need a new apron. It should say ‘Killer cook.’”
And everyone there had heard me.
22
If the mourners at Bernice’s funeral had been solemn and respectful, those gathered for Dennis’s last rites on Saturday were nervous and full of chatter. People kept looking around, perhaps expecting to see the devil incarnate walking into the room, and even the minister caught the unease. He stumbled through a reading of Dennis’s obituary, making it clear he had no personal knowledge of the man in the casket, and spouted generic praise while avoiding any hint of the facts of Dennis’s death. When he asked if anyone would like to say a few words, he was met with silence.
Finally, to everyone’s relief, he uttered a final prayer and ended the service with an invitation for those present to join the family at a luncheon following the trip to the cemetery.
This time, I did go to the cemetery, because I thought Tami and D.J. might need to see a few more faces of friends there. As I stood, shivering, near the open ground, Dennis’s final resting place, I saw Maccini, dressed in civilian clothes, standing off to the side. He caught my glance and lifted his chin, the look of a man ready to do battle. I returned his look. We were like two kids, set to throw grimy snowballs at each other, neither one of us backing down.
He did not make an appearance at the lunch in a nearby church’s basement, an event even more depressing than the funeral. The ham on white bread sandwiches and bowls of macaroni salad, green beans, and coleslaw did little to lift anyone’s spirits.
Sarah, Frank, Justin, Kylie, and I sat at one of the metal folding tables. Frank, as usual, tried to get a conversation flowing but with little success. Tami, who was walking around thanking everyone for being there, eventually took a seat next to me. I gave up on my half-eaten sandwich and held her hand.
“You okay?” I asked, realizing it was a stupid question.
She gave me a wan smile. “Den would be so mad if he could see this,” she said, passing her hands above the food on the table. “And he would have been right. I could have afforded better, but I decided it was time to spend money on the shop and on me and on D.J.” Her face contorted as she tried to hold back tears.
“You know, he was not the bad man everyone thinks. He worked hard, and we raised a good son together. That counts for something.”
None of us at the table could say a word. What would we do? Argue with her? Offer the same platitudes we’d heard at the funeral service?
D.J.’s arrival broke the uncomfortable silence. “Hey guys, thanks for coming,” he said, standing behind his mother and massaging her shoulders. “Anybody need anything else?”
His attempt at being a proper host met with shaking heads, but Kylie, at least, had the presence of mind to say the appropriate thing. “We’re all so sorry about this,” she said. “And we know it will take a while for you and your mom to want to go out and do a lot of socializing. But you both should know you can call any of us, and we can get together and talk or eat or just be with you.”
The others at the table almost applauded. Kylie had said the perfect thing. It also offered the perfect get-away line. We all exchanged hugs and quietly left the room. Like me, I’m sure everyone was breathing a sigh of relief.
As I stood outside the coat closet, buttoning my jacket, I overheard two women talking.
“I’m not going to book club Monday,” one of them said. “I’m afraid to be out at night.”
“Oh, we don’t have to worry,” the other one responded. “You and I have family and friends who care
about us.” She gave a small laugh. “The killer got rid of the Dragon Lady and Dennis the Abusive Menace, people no one wanted to be around. Maybe we should thank him.”
* * *
The driver in the car behind me honked, pulling me from my reverie about the conversation I had overheard. Could it be, I had been thinking, that some individual saw himself as an avenging angel and was ridding Alleton of those he deemed unworthy of life? Or perhaps the misguided person felt he was doing a favor for those who suffered from the actions of his victims.
The idea chilled me. Because if that’s what was happening in the killer’s mind, did that mean he had another victim in mind? Was someone else already in danger?
I waved an “I’m sorry” to the impatient driver and picked up my speed, although I was in no hurry to get anywhere. Most of the work for the Bathing Beauty’s re-opening was done, and the photo shoot to complete the store’s web presence, showcasing various products and giving viewers a glimpse of the store’s new look, wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow.
My new employees, Tiffany and Cassandra, had agreed to pose as customers for the shoot, with Sarah taking her actual role of salesclerk. Kylie had hired a woman in her late forties to represent a mature age group and arranged for D.J. to add a male presence. I wondered if he’d show up.
I only had to bring sustenance, Kylie said, since I had balked at being the face of Bathing Beauty.
“But you want people to relate to the shop’s owner,” she argued when I continued to refuse to allow her to use my picture as part of the web redesign.
“I think you’re wrong,” I said. “The drawing of the woman for all seasons works, customers can relate to her image, put themselves in her place.”
I didn’t know if that was true, but the last thing I wanted to do was show my face on social media. After Drew’s death and the resulting flurry of suspicions put forth by people I thought of as real-life friends, I did my best to remove all my online accounts and any photos people had tagged as me. If social media guru Kylie was unable to find me by using the picture she had taken, I knew my efforts had been successful.
Unfortunately, I knew my reaction had raised her own suspicions. She didn’t push, and I didn’t explain, but if she wanted to believe I was in witness protection or fleeing an unhinged stalker, I was happy to let her think that.
Someday soon I could tell her the real reason, but I was not ready to go public with it now, given the deaths of Bernice and Dennis. That’s just what I needed, facing another round of nasty innuendo that cast me in the role of a vindictive murderer when I had fled my life in Florida to escape that very thing.
23
“Now stand over there and reach for the jar of skin cream on that higher shelf,” the photographer, a man with brown hair turning gray, instructed Tiffany. “And D.J., you stand off to the side, looking patient. No, not bored. Patient!”
I arranged bagels and cream cheese on a tray and set it off to the side and grinned at the photographer’s comment. Poor D.J. was having a tough time displaying interest in the elixirs around him. Still, I thought he was happy to be at the shoot.
“Mom is having brunch with her cousin,” he said when he arrived at the shop, “and I needed to get away from all the reminiscing. That’s not a bad thing,” he added hastily, “but, ya know, sometimes you need a break from the tears.”
I did know. And Sarah, Kylie, Tiffany, and I, who had all been at his dad’s funeral yesterday, were offering just what D.J. seemed to crave, a return to normalcy. Cassandra and Isobel, our forty-something model, also helped keep things light.
The process of taking just the right photo seemed interminable, and I wondered what the final bill would be. At the end, when the tired models gathered for more coffee and bagels, I was happy to see what the photographer had captured.
“You like?” Kylie asked the group when we gathered round to peer at the photographer’s digital preview.
“We like!” announced Sarah. The workers exchanged hugs, then began packing up to leave.
When Cassandra entered the office to get her coat, I pulled her aside.
“I have a favor to ask,” I said quietly. “Can you wait a few days before telling Frank and Justin you’re leaving? And can you manage to get me into their studio when they’re out?”
She looked at me quizzically. “They’ll both be in Lansing all day Tuesday, meeting with Michigan’s arts council. I’m covering the gallery for them and they leave me all the keys, so I can easily get you upstairs. But I don’t like doing that.”
Cassandra started to add more but stopped when Tiffany entered the office. “I’ll explain when I get there,” I whispered, and turned to thank Tiffany for her modeling contribution.
“You both will get paid for this,” I said, “and you’ll get paid for the training session tomorrow. I have heard that Sarah can be a tough drill sergeant, but I know she’s a cream puff at heart. I have to go to the printer’s tomorrow, but you will be in good hands.”
Sarah and I stayed at the shop when the others left, moving the out-of-season merchandise used in the photo shoot back to the basement.
“You know, Lauren,” Sarah said as we looked around the store, almost ready for its grand unveiling, “this place really did need an infusion of new energy. I, I think my mom and I forgot to pay attention to our customers’ changing tastes. I’m excited about this place again.”
We smiled at each other. “See you at the final January Doldrums gathering tonight,” she said. “We need some fun. Too many funerals.”
* * *
Frank’s ability to bring the fun was on full display that snowy evening. His choice of an apron, “Sassy, classy and a bit smartassy,” the sound of Copland’s “Hoe Down” playing in the background, and the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls brought a note of cheer. I think we all felt the absence of Tami and Dennis that night, but the gallery’s co-owners had added one of their artsy friends to the mix, so the place had a different vibe.
“Welcome, welcome,” Frank told the assemblage when the clock struck seven. “And please introduce yourselves to the newcomer. This is Roger, known as the Artful Dodger because he picks people’s pockets with what he charges for his sketches.”
The Artful Dodger, a thin, intense guy who looked like he survived on a diet of mineral water and brown rice, had some works on display in Waves End, and I complimented him on his ability to capture the nuance of an expression with just a few strokes of the pen. “Kylie told me you’re doing one of Evie,” I said as I tried to wipe cinnamon roll icing off my hands. “I’m anxious to see that one.”
The Artful Dodger grimaced. “I’m having major problems with it. No matter how I try to capture Evie’s sweetness, her shy joy, all I get is her subconscious knowledge that her life will be short.”
He looked around, making sure Kylie wasn’t within earshot. “Maybe that’s my own subconscious at play. Either way, I can’t show it to anyone yet. Frank said my latest effort would tear Kylie apart.”
So much for happy talk. And his words brought to my mind the terrifying subconscious thought I had had yesterday, driving back from the funeral lunch. If the killer was still planning on adding to his list of victims, dear little Evie might be at risk. Would a deranged mind decide he would help Christie and Tom by removing the source of their financial problems?
Sarah tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t look so glum,” she said. “This is meant to be a, a happy party. Or at least as happy as we can get, with, with the specter of death hanging over the town.” She waved her hands in front of her face. “Oh no, forget, pay no attention to me. And, and I’m taking off. Need to show up at the shop early tomorrow to help Cassandra and Tiffany, help them learn how to handle payments and, and tough customers.”
She gave me a quick hug, and I hugged her back, feeling hypocritical. Because while she was at Bathing Beauty tomorrow, I would be sneaking into her house.
24
My decision to creep into Sarah’s house was p
art of a plan I had arrived at the previous evening. Once again, I sat in front of my laptop, planning to stay awake this time, and made a list of people and their secrets. The irony of my being suspicious of my new-found friends did not escape me. But if Maccini was determined to arrest me for two murders, I was determined to flush out the actual culprit.
Maybe I was out of my mind. Chasing a killer could get me killed. But I was done with running. I had run from Florida, run from the police department’s and insurance company’s suspicions, run from my family, run from my friends, run from my agony over Drew’s death, run from my very self. I did not ignore the innuendoes, I did not stand tall, I did not look people in the face, I did not appreciate those who stood by my side.
I was a coward. But no more. Lauren Andrews, the new name I had given myself to honor Drew, was not going to run again.
* * *
Late January days in Alleton offered a mix of sunny skies and gray days, raw winds and refreshing breezes, freezing temperatures and teasing warm spells. Monday brought forth Mother Nature’s nasty side, and she pitched hard pellets of sleet at my car’s windshield.
Same as I had done before, I pulled my car close to Sarah’s garage. I thought about trying to hide it behind the building, but tire tracks on the snowy yard would be a giveaway. Yes, a passerby could easily see my car, but I decided to risk it. I had been at Sarah’s several times, and her neighbors, even the nosy ones, wouldn’t see my car in her driveway as a problem.
When I unlocked the side door with the key Sarah had given me weeks ago and never thought to request back, Eliot greeted me with a friendly swipe of his paw. I leaned over and gave him the tuna treat I had stashed in my purse that morning. If you are out on a nefarious deed, it helps to have the house’s cat on your side.
For all my brave self-talk, the least little noise made me jump, and the old house let out a series of creaks and groans. The kitchen and living room looked the same as it had on my last visit to Sarah, but the stairway door was open. Eliot and I headed upstairs, he probably hoping for another treat from the home invader. Sarah had left lights on throughout the house, no doubt to avoid coming home to darkness in the winter’s early nights.
