At a knock on the door, she jumped up from the sofa
"Caroline, could I talk to you please."
The landlady.
Twelve
On Monday morning, Caroline rose two hours early for work, took a quick bath in the big apple-green painted claw-foot tub at the end of the hall, and dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse. In spite of her nerves, resulting from both fear and excitement, she managed to get down a cup of tea and a slice of toast.
It was a fifteen-minute walk to work and she used the time to work on her nerves. The day was sunny and bright, which also helped. She'd do fine. It was just a dishwashing job and she knew how to do that, for Heaven's sake. Her step became almost light as she drew nearer her new place of employment.
Yet, at the door, she had to take a couple of deep breaths and let them out slowly, before she could bring herself to open the door and walk into the warmth and cheery sounds of the restaurant. Enticing smells filled her senses—eggs, bacon, and toast, blending in with the aroma of rich coffee. Unlike before, when she'd stood outside the door with Mrs. Bannister, Caroline wasn't hungry, only anxious.
The place was a hive of conversation, laughter, the clattering of cutlery. In the background, Helen Ready sang I am Woman.
Caroline straightened her shoulders, and looking neither left nor right, made her way down the aisle past occupied blue-leather upholstered booths toward the swinging doors that she'd been told led into the kitchen. Just as she got there, the doors flung open and Caroline had to jump out of the way to avoid two waitresses coming through, balancing orders on their upturned palms. Caroline mumbled her apologies. The red-haired one with the ponytail grinned at her, said 'no problem'.
On entering the kitchen, she could feel the heat from the grill on the other side of the windowed partition. Heard the sizzle of things frying.
Was she late? Glancing at the big round clock on the wall, she saw that she still had ten minutes before she was to start, and breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn't be good to be late on her first day.
She could see people working behind the partition. Two men, one with his back to her, the other an older black man in a cook's hat, a shade whiter than his hair, and an older woman with a flushed face and wearing a blue and white head scarf. This was Ethel Crookshank who, she would learn, had been there since Frank's opened, over a decade ago. Ethel would become a friend to Caroline.
Now, giving Caroline a wave, Ethel came out from behind the partition and introduced her to the others. "This is Caroline Hill," she said.
Ethel had a nice smile and soft, greenish gray eyes, crinkled at the corners.
The introductions were brief, a few people calling out to her, "Welcome, Caroline," no time for more. The black man, who Ethel introduced as Ron, gave her a wink and flashed a gold tooth as he set out steaming plates of food onto the stainless steel counter. Someone tossed her an apron and pointed her to the dishwasher.
If she'd felt anxious before, now she was stricken with panic. At the hospital, she'd washed dishes manually. She had liked immersing her hands in the hot, sudsy water, washing and drying and putting away. She knew how to do that. Knew where everything went.
As she stood there staring at the contraption, the red-haired waitress burst through the swinging doors calling out for an order of pancakes with bacon.
"Don't look so scared, honey," a male voice said beside Caroline. "You'll do okay. I'm Mike Handratty, assistant cook."
He'd had his back to her when Ethel introduced her, and was the only one she hadn't met. He held out his hand to her and Caroline tentatively put out her own, which was immediately swallowed up in his damp, hot grasp. She tried to smile but her face felt stiff. "I'm Caroline Hill," she said.
"Yeah, we heard. Well, Caroline Hill," he said, moving toward the dishwasher, giving it a little tap on the side, "You have to let it know who's boss. Just like a woman. Ha ha."
He finally let her hand go, and she resisted the urge to wipe it on her apron.
She knew the 'just like a woman' comment was a joke and although she didn't see the humor in it, the stiff smile remained.
Caroline took in his light brown, tight curly hair, his quick movements as he showed her how to use the dishwasher. He pointed to the shelves where she was to stack the thick, cream-colored plates and cups and saucers when they were clean. The knives, forks and spoons went in the special plastic racks in the drawers, the same as at the hospital, except those at the hospital were blue, while these were a tan color.
Caroline followed his directions exactly, scraping the bits of food from the dirty dishes on the bus trays into the garbage can, then stacking them carefully into the machine, standing the plates up in their proper slots, the cups and saucers in theirs. She poured in the measured amount of liquid soap, shut the door and pressed the button he had indicated. At once, water rushed into the machine and she couldn't suppress a smile of relief at her success.
The man named Mike Handratty laughed, and Caroline heard the mocking sound in the laugh, but she said nothing. "See?" he said. "You'll soon be an old pro at this, Carrie. It ain't exactly rocket science, honey."
She didn't like him calling her honey, or Carrie, which was not her name, but again she said nothing. When he turned to walk away, he gave her backside a slap and she whirled around, startled, feeling the burn through her skirt. But he was already crossing the floor to the big freezer against the pale yellow wall, paying her no further attention. Seconds later he disappeared behind the partition.
Caroline turned back to the dirty dishes, scraping more bits of food from them into the garbage can, her face still hot. She had not liked him touching her, but told herself he was just being friendly, a jokester kind of person.
Sometimes the ward-attendants would give you a hug or call you honey, as if you were a small child, and she didn't mind mostly. They were just being nice. Which was much better then when they weren't. But he had not made her feel child-like. No, that would not describe the feeling he gave her.
And no one had ever called her Carrie before either. Carrie was not her name. She was sure it was a very fine name, but it was not hers. Her name was Caroline, handed down to her from her maternal grandmother who died when Caroline was five, and it was like a light went out in her small world when she did.
Much had been taken from Caroline in her life. In the hospital, there was little that belonged to you. They were locked away, or other patients stole them from you when your back was turned, and insisted the thing was theirs. But you always had a right to your own name.
Not that she wasn't grateful for the man's help. He had been nice to her and made her first morning at work easier.
Late in the day, the crowd had thinned to one or two customers and Ethel Crookshank brought Caroline out a plate of steaming food and told her to sit in the last booth, closest to the kitchen.
"Hot chicken sandwich and a glass of milk," she smiled, setting it on the table. "You look like you could use a few morsels. You did well for your first day, Caroline. Dig in. I don't think you had any lunch, did you?"
"That's okay. I wasn't hungry."
"Well, ya gotta eat. You've been here since nine o'clock. I'd be dead. Go ahead. Enjoy."
And she did enjoy it, down to the last gravy-soaked french fry and green pea. "Thank you," she said, cutting through the bread and chicken with her fork and knife.
Nurse Addison was right; the food was delicious and though she was very hungry she tried not to eat it too fast like some of the patients at the hospital did, just stuffing everything into their mouths like starving pigs. It wasn't their fault though.
Caroline was still feeling the surprise of the landlady knocking on her door to say, not that she was mad at her for telling the detectives she'd heard noises in there, but that she was sorry for not letting her know someone had been working in there. The landlady was nice. She was her friend.
Ethel brought her a piece of apple pie and slid into the booth, facing her. "Think yo
u'll be happy with us, Caroline?"
"I'm already happy. Thank you." She picked up her fork and started in on the pie.
Ethel grinned. "Part of your earnings. God knows we'll never get rich working here, but at least we won't go hungry." She patted her tummy and grinned. Then her face grew thoughtful. "Listen, don't let that Mike give you no problem, Caroline. You give him what for if he bothers you, okay?"
"Okay," she replied softly, then set her forkful of pie down because she couldn't swallow past the lump in her throat. She blinked back hot tears and dropped her gaze, and hated herself for being so stupid.
"I've left you a couple of fresh uniforms at the cash," Ethel said, as if she didn't notice her tears. "They're in a plastic bag. I think they'll fit okay. You're no bigger 'n a minute. It'll be your responsibility to keep them laundered. Shame to get grease on that nice skirt." Then Ethel gave Caroline's arm a slight pat, and slid out of the booth. "Night, now, honey. Take care on the way home. See you in the morning."
The owner, Frank, was at the cashier's counter; he was saying goodnight to Ethel, who was on her way out the door, wrapping a scarf around her neck. She said something to him, and he turned and gave Caroline a nod and a grin. She'd had little contact with him so far; he was a big, stern-looking man but with a Santa Claus belly and a few wisps of gray hair combed over his baldness. He seemed nice.
She worked till seven-thirty. When she left, every dish was clean and in its place on the shelf, and the stainless steel counters and dishwasher gleamed.
Out in the restaurant, a waitress who was filling salt and pepper-shakers, sugar-bowls and napkin-holders, called back to her. "Time to call it a day, kiddo. I'm headin' out. You don't want to get locked in here by yourself." She laughed.
Through the big front windows, Caroline could see that it was already starting to get dark out.
Thirteen
Caroline's job was going well, and really wasn't all that different than what she had been doing at the hospital. She had mastered the dishwasher. Everyone was kind to her here at Frank's restaurant, and she was already feeling very much at home.
The only fly in the ointment was Mike Handratty, who sometimes made lewd comments in her ear that made her cheeks grow hot, while he was always very careful to say them softly enough so that no one else could hear. But he hadn't done enough to persuade her to confront him. Though he continued to call her Carrie, or sweetheart or honey, he hadn't put his hands on her again. So she just kept telling herself he meant nothing by it, and tried to ignore him. She liked her job and didn't want to make trouble.
She liked her room, too. Loved that it was her room. It welcomed her as if she had always lived here, wrapping itself around her like her cozy yellow robe.
Since her shopping outing with Mrs. Bannister, she'd bought a pretty antique white lace tablecloth for the table, and a framed picture of a farmhouse by a stream and hung it on the wall. Gazing at the scene always brought her a sense of peace, as if she might have lived there in another lifetime. Some people believed we've been here before, lived other lives, and no one could say for sure it wasn't so, could they?
Occasionally, Caroline would pass another tenant in the hallway or on the stairs and they would say hello to one another, and smile. The lady across the hall was petite and white-haired, always with a hello. She never did run into the piano man though, and had not heard his piano for several nights now. She missed his music. And then Mrs. Bannister told her his mother was ill and he'd gone to stay with her for a few days. She was pleased to know he hadn't gone for good.
She was sleeping better lately, even without the pills. Although now and then she would wake in the night, and imagine she was still at Bayshore. Then, she would slip out of bed, put on her robe and open her door to look out into the silent dim hallway to be sure being here in her own room that she paid for with her own money, wasn't really just a dream. Then she would come back inside, locking the door after her, satisfied that she was indeed a free woman. Everyone once in a while she felt like a child set loose at a circus, clutching a handful of tickets to all the rides.
Not that she was very adventurous. Her circle of travel extended to walking back and forth to work, stopping at shops along the way, especially Goldman's bookstore, and the grocery store that carried all she needed to sustain herself, and kept her within three blocks of her building. On her days off she would sit on a bench in the park and read, the birds and the murmur of the water fountain in the background.
Every now and then when she came home with a bag of groceries, Mrs. Bannister would meet her at the door and tell her she was paying a higher price for her purchases than she would if she shopped at Creighton's Mall downtown, but that would mean she would have to take a bus to get there. Which she planned to do. Soon.
If occasionally, as she walked along the sidewalk, she sensed someone watching her, she mostly ignored it and told herself it was just her imagination, that she was still becoming accustomed to being on the outside that was all it was. Because always, when she turned around, there would be no one there.
Fourteen
Detective Tom O'Neal was at his desk going through murder files from the last ten years. There were very few, none unsolved, but for these last two. Which didn't mean a lot because the killer could have been transient, passing through, something he and Glen had already talked about. But his gut told him the killer was still in St. Simeon, maybe already stalking his next victim.
Two women, beaten, raped and strangled. Both with blue eyes and dark hair. Coincidence? Seemed unlikely. Young, attractive women who he was guessing had simply had the misfortune to cross the killer's path. Were they substitutes for someone who'd betrayed him, or at least as he perceived it? A girlfriend? A mother?
He was, of course, speculating. But you had to start somewhere. They were pulling in all known sex offenders in the area, but the interviews had turned up no one of interest. He slid another crime photo of the victim out of the folder, looked at it for a long time.
Why would the killer put himself at risk, he wondered, by dragging Lorraine Winters' body into an alley in the early morning hours? Someone could easily have spotted him. City workers, someone working the night shift, jogging in the park. It was obvious that he drove her there because he needed a ride back from wherever he'd killed her. But why take her with him? Or at least leave her in the car? The trunk would have been the obvious place.
He'd run it by his partner.
"Symbolic maybe?" Aiken said. "Telling the world she's an Alley cat. A whore."
"You're assuming he's that clever."
Lorraine Winters, the latest victim had been at Delveccio's with a girlfriend from work earlier that night. A kind of celebration of Winters' good news.
"She got a call from an agent and she was getting ready to head for L.A. for a screen test," Deborah Miller, the honey-blond said, trying to hold back the tears. Despite the swollen eyes and red nose, she was an attractive young woman, a girl-next-door type. "She was planning to move there," she told him.
He asked her if anyone had offered to buy them a drink, but no one had. They spoke to none of the male patrons, only to each other. "She was so excited about the screen test. We both were. That's all we talked about. Lorraine was gorgeous, but she also had major talent. She could sing and dance as well as act, a triple threat. She played the lead in all our school plays and musicals. Being an actress was her dream, and she was hungry to make it a reality. She was always sending out photos and resumes. I knew it was just a matter of time."
They were sitting in his office. She began to cry again, and O'Neal slid the box of tissues sitting on the desk, toward her. He waited until she got herself together, then he asked her if she recalled anyone in the bar that night who looked at all suspicious. "I need you to think carefully. Someone sitting alone, maybe."
"No. No one. At least I didn't notice."
"Anyone hanging around the parking lot when you left?"
"Not that I saw. We hugged g
ood-bye and I wished her luck." She looked about to crumble again, but didn't. Staring off into space, she said, "I can't believe she's gone."
He asked about boyfriends, anyone she might be leaving behind on her rise to stardom. Someone who might have felt resentful at being cast aside. But there was no one, she said, her friend was totally devoted to her career. Casual dates now and again but that was it. No one special.
That didn't mean it worked both ways, though, did it? he thought now, closing the folder. Maybe one of those 'casual' dates took things seriously. Felt spurned when he found out she was leaving town. Leaving him. But hate her enough to kill her? Well, someone did, that was damn sure.
"Please find whoever did this to my friend, Detective," Deborah Miller had said before she left the office. "And put him where he can never hurt anyone else."
Night Corridor Page 7
