by Tim Kizer
But what if it was not blood? What if it was watercolor paint? Kelly had felt a creative urge, borrowed Kathy's watercolors, and accidentally dropped some paint on the bathroom floor. Let’s think it was merely red watercolor. The whole debate is pointless now anyway since you have eliminated the stains. And let’s agree that Kelly ran away with a lover. The police think so too. Josephine assured you that Kelly is an honest woman, but you don't believe it, do you?
Wait a second, buddy. Have you just remembered your father’s death?
Yes, it had finally come back to him: his dad had died from a heart attack five years ago. He was sixty six at that time.
And his mom. She died at sixty from a stroke while hiking in Yosemite a year after his dad had passed away. His parents had always loved the great outdoors.
But he digressed. He ought to concentrate on his wife.
Kelly could have run away to California to relax and work on her tan. Her lover could be giving her board surfing lessons right now. Kathy, on the other hand, was a little girl too young to have lovers. Kathy had been kidnapped and raped by a psycho.
He had been wrong about the stains. There had been no maniac. There had been no dead body in his house last month. Bluth had witnessed nothing and his entire story was a bluff. A great way to punish him would be to call that bluff.
By the way, do you recall catching your wife with a lover? It happened not very long ago, buddy. With any luck, you’ll remember that day before it’s too late.
2.
Who was this guy?
This question flashed in Marilyn's mind in the first few seconds of their meeting, and cold doubts seized her heart.
Who was he? And why had Frank never mentioned his name before?
“I'm Peter Warner. I'm a friend of Frank’s,” this man had told her on the phone. “Frank is asking you to go to Residence Inn on Anderson and Walden as soon as possible and wait for him there. He can't talk to you at the moment.”
Warner had called her one and a half hours ago, when she was sifting through her brother’s notepads. The fact that Warner had asked her to come to Residence Inn, the hotel Frank and she had last met, made her trust him. She would have probably trusted Warner anyway: why would a guy call himself Frank’s friend if was not Frank’s friend?
“What happened to him?” she asked, alarmed.
“I don’t want to discuss it on the phone,” said Peter. “Please go to Residence Inn, and I'll explain everything there. I'll be waiting for you at the entrance. Please hurry.”
She said “okay,” and Warner hung up. As she walked to the car, Marilyn dialed Frank’s cell phone number, but he didn't answer. He didn’t pick up his landline phone either. Marilyn concluded that either Frank was very busy, or all his phones were switched off or broken. It was possible that he was on his way to the hotel.
She got in her car and rushed to Residence Inn.
‘I'm Peter Warner. I 'm a friend of Frank's.’ He had to be Frank’s friend. He had her cell phone number; he was somehow connected with Frank. She ought to trust him.
And here he was. Peter Warner, a tall beefy man with short hair and large ears. He appeared to be about forty five years old.
Who the hell is he? By the way
Someone had to tell this guy he’d chosen the wrong hairstyle for those apelike ears of his.
“Hi, Marilyn,” said Warner with a smile that seemed completely fake to her, which prompted a new wave of doubts.
“Are you Peter Warner?” asked Marilyn.
“Yes, I’m Peter. Frank is waiting for us in another location. I'll drive you there.” He pointed at a Ford Explorer parked nearby. “Frank wants to see you. He asked me to give you a ride and I agreed. What else are friends for?” He laughed quietly.
“Where is he?” she asked as they approached Warner’s car. “Is he okay? Why didn't he call himself?”
“Don’t worry, he’s fine. It’s our buddy’s son’s birthday today, so we are having a little picnic at the beach. It was a last minute plan, you know. You’re going to have a good time, I promise.” Warner opened the front passenger door for Marilyn. “Have you been at Bennett Beach before? It’s a great place; you’ll love it.”
Marilyn loved picnics at the beach, especially in this gorgeous weather. Her doubts began to dissipate.
“Is Frank there already?” Marilyn climbed into the Explorer.
“Yes, he’s helping to set things up.”
Warner got behind the steering wheel and started the car.
“I love going to the beach,” he said. “Walking on the sand, swimming in the lake, eating sandwiches—the best way to relax, isn’t it?”
“Frank’s never taken me to these picnics before. He’s never even told me about them.”
“He used to bring his wife when she was around. But she’s gone now, I’m sure you know that.” He looked inquisitively at Marilyn. “You do know that his wife went missing a few weeks ago, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
Marilyn felt a bit uneasy. Frank shouldn't have paraded their relationship among his buddies. Hadn’t they agreed to be careful?
“What do you think happened to her?” asked Warner with a genuine interest in his voice. “Do you think she’s dead? Could she still be alive?”
Marilyn shrugged her shoulders.
No, Frank shouldn't have told his friends about her. Pretty soon the whole town would know he had been cheating on Kelly, and the police would be more than happy to encumber him with endless interrogations and searches. And her as well.
“So what do you think?” said Warner. “I think she’s dead. Some sex psycho must have killed her.”
Marilyn shrugged her shoulders again. She should remind Frank to be more careful. Had he ever heard about loose lips sinking ships? You can’t be a blabbermouth when your wife vanished under suspicious circumstances.
“I wish she were dead,” continued Warner. “She was quite a bitch; you know what I mean. Pretentious and selfish. Nobody liked her. Frank is lucky she’s gone.”
“How many people will be at the picnic?” asked Marilyn, trying to change the topic.
“Six. Frank, me, you, Charlie, and Steve with his wife.” Warner paused. “If Kelly were my wife, I’d pop her myself. Yes, I would, and I’d consider it a favor for humanity.”
Marilyn glanced at her watch. 1:26 pm. What would she talk to Frank’s friends about? She had never met Charlie or Steve; she had never even heard about them before from Frank.
“How long are we going to be there?”
“We plan to leave around nine.” Warner gave her an annoyed look. He was probably upset that she was ignoring his thoughts on Kelly.
“This bitch nagged at Frank every day, and I won't be surprised if it turns out that he killed her,” Warner said. “She deserved that.”
3.
Frank had a hunch it was Bluth when their eyes met and the guy headed in his direction. White male, probably in his late twenties, about 5’10”, wearing an Ed Hurdy T-shirt and plaid shorts.
Bluth had healthy strong legs, which meant he was not the one-legged man Frank had seen in that ancient dream while in a coma.
“Hi, Frank,” said the guy, reaching for a handshake.
“Hi,” said Frank, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Are you Michael Bluth?”
“Yeah.” Bluth pulled away his hand. “Okay. We're not friends anyway. You didn’t hurt my feelings, bro, just to let you know.” He was most likely referring to Frank having refused to shake his hand.
“Well, Mister Bluth, tell me what you want from me. I don't have much time.” Frank pointed at the empty chair on the opposite side of the table; Bluth, in turn, waived towards the parking lot and said, “I’d like to discuss our business privately. Let's talk in my car.”
“I don’t feel like talking in the car. Trust me, nobody’s going to eavesdrop on us.”
Bluth puckered his lips and fell to thinking for a few seconds.
“It's better to do it
in the car,” he said at last. “What difference does it make? I invited you, I decide where we talk.”
Frank shook his head.
“No one’s going to hear us unless we shout, okay?” he said. “Besides, I've ordered ice cream and I’m not leaving until I finish it.”
Bluth glared at him peevishly and gave Frank a reluctant nod.
“Okay, eat your ice cream.” He eased into the chair. “We'll talk here, but I have to tell you I'm not happy with it.”
“Thank you, Michael.” Frank sucked some soda through the straw from his cup.
“Did you bring the money?” Bluth asked in a low voice.
“No, I didn't.” Frank smiled.
Bluth scowled, his forehead glistening with sweat.
“Why?” he asked. He sounded puzzled, which amused Frank.
It must have been quite a shock for him.
“Was I supposed to bring it? Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?” Bluth narrowed his eyes and smirked. “Oh, I see. You like to joke, Frank. This is the wrong time for joking, bro.”
“What did I have to bring the money for?” Frank scooped a little ice cream with the spoon and put it in his mouth.
“You are playing an idiot, aren’t you? Okay, I’m a pretty patient person, you know.”
“So are you going to tell me what the money is for?”
“We had an agreement, bro. What do you think you're doing? Aren’t you a little too old for these stupid games?”
“I came here to discuss your letter,” said Frank. “Let's discuss it.”
Bluth looked around, set his elbows on the table to lean forward and bring his face closer to Frank’s eyes, and said in a low voice:
“I don't get it, bro. You didn't bring the money. Are you playing games with me? You’d better not play any games with me, man.”
Bluth wasn’t really an evil guy. He was just a little slow. Most importantly, Bluth posed no danger to him. Kelly was alive, nobody killed her, and nobody could have seen her body being taken out of the house.
Now that you recalled how your mother had died, it is time for you to remember catching Kelly with a lover. How and when did it happen, bro?
“Let's talk. I did come to meet you, didn’t I? What did you want to tell me? We’ve got nowhere to hurry,” said Frank.”And this is a really nice place to chat, isn’t it?”
Kelly had a lover, and Frank was absolutely certain about it because he had found the proof of his existence last year. The memory was fairly recent and couldn’t be buried too deep.
Relax, take a sip of soda, man.
“I guess you don't get it, Frank.”
“What don’t I get?”
By the way, it looked like he just remembered that George Frey was dead. The old man had really died. When had it happened? One and a half years ago, in the fall. October? Yes, in October. He was in his late sixties when he had kicked the bucket.
“You killed your wife. I saw it with my own eyes, and if you're not an idiot, you’ll understand what I 'm talking about.”
It's a pity that George died. How did he die? Do you remember that?
“I did what?” asked Frank in a fake surprised voice.
No, you don't remember. It might have been a heart attack. Men his age often die of heart attacks. And you were really sorry when he died. George was a good man. Maybe a little senile, but who cares?
“You killed your wife. You killed Kelly. I saw you take her body out of the house. I saw that with my own eyes.”
“I didn't kill her, bro,” Frank said softly. “I didn’t take her body out of the house. You mixed me with someone else. Do I look like a killer?” He cracked an innocent smile.
Hmm, there is another hole in your amnesia—Kelly's mother’s death. She died right after George Frey had passed away. What happened to her? Did she die of sadness?
“Frank, you...” Bluth interrupted himself for several seconds. “You're fucking with me, aren't you? You’d better stop this shit.”
Kelly's mother died in October; there were few people at her funeral. What was the cause of death? Another heart attack? Cancer? A fire?
“You invited me here, so let's discuss what you want,” said Frank.
What happened to Kelly's mother? A fire? Is it another small crack in your amnesia? Did Jane Frey burn to death?
Yes, she was killed in a fire, now he remembers it. Her house burned down about a month after George’s death. The old woman had been probably asleep and had died from carbon monoxide poisoning before the fire spread into her bedroom.
And a few months ago, you almost caught Kelly with a lover. Remember when and how you did it, Frank! It's very important; it will be one more piece of evidence that she’s alive and is having fun with her man somewhere on the beach.
“You love joking. I see.” Bluth's face turned gray. “Let's quit joking and talk business.”
Yes, Jane Frey was burned in her house. It was not a heart attack or cancer.
“I've already told you everything I was going to say,” continued Bluth. “I'm going to inform the police that you killed your wife if you don't cut this crap.”
“What crap? The only one who’s full of crap here is you, Mr. Bluth.”
Last year, you began to suspect that Kelly was hiding something from you, but you had no idea what it was all about. Then you saw something and decided that Kelly had found herself another man.
“I didn't kill anybody,” said Frank. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”
“I’m not confusing you with anybody, man. I saw you put her body in the car. It happened right before she went missing. I know you killed her. If police hear it, you’re toast. If you want me to keep my mouth shut, you just have to lend me twenty grand.”
Bluth appeared as if he actually believed what he was saying. Yeah, this moron was insane all right. Only insane people sincerely believe their fantasies.
You should focus of Kelly’s lover. Ignore this idiot and try to recall catching Kelly with a lover.
“Lend? You mean you’re going to pay this money back? What’s the term? What’s the interest rate? I could consider your request if you had collateral. Do you have collateral?”
Bluth bared his teeth in a sneering grin.
“You want to keep joking, huh?” he said. “That’s okay. Even though I don’t see anyone laughing. I have plenty of time. I'm not in a hurry.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only twelve. I’ve got all day, bro. You'll get tired of joking soon enough, man.”
“I'm not in a hurry either, bro.”
So, let’s concentrate on Kelly's lover. He had made a lot of progress in the several hours since this morning. With any luck, he could claw back a few more months of memories by the end of the day. He needed to crack the past year—that was where the juiciest secrets lay, according to his intuition. And something told him he was on the verge of a big discovery.
“Okay.” Frank scooped a spoonful of ice cream and put it in his mouth.
Kelly's lover. Frank had a hunch he had found out about Kelly’s cheating early last year. The hunch was tenuous, he felt unsure about the timeline, but the concept itself seemed genuine. The lover did exist.
Quick review. His father died five years ago, in August. His mother passed away four years ago, in September. He bought his Land Cruiser soon after his daughter was born. Kelly’s parents died two and a half years ago, within one month of each other.
Kathy would have been three and a half years old now if she were alive.
Don't think about Kathy, buddy. Stop reopening the old wounds; she is in the past, she is dead, she is just a phantom now.
Last year he had begun to suspect that Kelly had been hiding something from him. He had believed she’d found a lover.
Her cheating doesn’t prove that she wasn’t murdered in that bathroom back in April, buddy. The fact that she had a lover is irrelevant to her death. Psychos kill cheaters all the time.
“Well,” Bluth said. �
��Do you still want to keep acting like a fool? Have you changed your mind about the twenty grand yet?”
“I don't have that kind of cash, Mister Bluth. I can offer you ten dollars. How does ten bucks sound to you?”
Bluth cracked a crooked smile and said, “Okay, let’s eat ice-cream until you come to your senses. I'm very patient.”
Let’s focus on Kelly's lover.
What did that man do for a living? Was he married? Was he younger than Kelly? Did she give him money? Where did they meet to have sex? At this guy’s place? In hotels? How often did they see each other? Did Kelly have a personal bank account? Kelly must have been using her own savings since there had been no large withdrawals from their joint account this whole year and her bank card associated with the joint account had been disabled. How much money did Kelly have the day she disappeared and how long could it last her? Or was Kelly using Josephine’s credit card? Well, apparently not; otherwise, Josephine wouldn't be so damn frustrated about her vanishing.
How did Kelly and her lover support themselves? It was an important question because the less money they had, the sooner Kelly would come back. One could only hope that she would be back before that vindictive bitch Josephine had him killed. Josephine didn’t seem to be big on patience, which put him in a precarious position. What was the deadline? It looked like Josephine didn’t want to wait beyond the end of the month, so there you go. Kelly had better go on a spending spree pronto!
So, back to Kelly's lover. Was he wealthy? If he was rich, Kelly could stay on the loose for the rest of her life, which guaranteed that Josephine and the gang would finish him off. And don’t forget the police: there was still a real possibility that they would try to have him convicted for Kelly’s murder. Sure, the absence of the body would make it more difficult to put him in jail, but it would hardly prevent the prosecutors from taking a shot. One could easily imagine the newspaper headlines: “Husband person of interest in murder of wife,” “Frank Fowler charged with slaying wife,” “Bail denied in Kelly Fowler murder case.” He would be vilified, he would lose his job, and he would waste hundreds of thousands of dollars on lawyers. Then Kelly would emerge, rested and tanned, but it would be too late, of course.
