by Beth Aldrich
My dad Cary has a full head of silver-blond hair and mahogany eyes—such a stark contrast to my little Morgan with his curly, black hair and deep, curious blue eyes. When they’re together, they don’t look related at all, but their sassiness aligns. He looks more like my aunt Ellen, curls and all.
“Just keep it G-rated, Pops,” I order, offering a pleading grin.
“Have you seen the phony vomit your son and I left in the bathroom? We’ve kinda misplaced it.”
Morgan runs through the kitchen, still wearing his school outfit splattered with paint, to find Barney, who is standing next to me. He loves that dog just as much as I do. With his luscious, cashmere-soft coat and fluffy, long ears, Barney is one good-looking animal, if I do say so myself. But more than that, my dog has been my best friend for ten years. It’s a shame the poor guy always gets blamed for Morgan’s practical jokes.
My parents always tell me I’ve met my match in Barney, from our love of long walks on the beach near our house in the morning to how I talk to him about Steven when the tears are flowing—even though he can’t answer me. I have a strong sense of connection to him, almost as if he understands every word I say and promises to keep my secrets. When things get back to normal, I want to learn more about dog whisperers and how they tap into a dog’s thoughts and actions—it’s fascinating.
My father has met his match in my tiny fair-haired mom, Karen, with her quick wit, energy, and sense of adventure. They’re always on the go, traveling, hiking, taking classes, and solving crossword puzzles. Since Dad’s heart attack a little over a year ago, they’ve been following a structured daily diet and a brisk walking program—giving even us older “kids” a run for our money. With the events over the past two days, I should get moving with them again, in case I need outrun a crazy man.
My cell phone rings. “Hold on, Dad, let me grab this. Hello?”
“Mrs. Ryan,” a familiar voice starts. “This is Principal Osborne from Kyle and Morgan’s school. Do you have a second?”
“Sure, what is it?” My digital watch illuminates 4:00 p.m. I hope Morgan didn’t play a prank on another student after school again.
As I wrinkle my forehead, my mom looks over with raised eyebrows, hoping to find out who’s calling and why I seem concerned.
“Someone must have come in today after your sons were picked up and dropped off an envelope with your name on it. Ordinarily we wouldn’t think anything of it, but it just seemed odd that it just showed up on the receptionist’s desk.” He pauses, waiting for my signal to continue. I’m frozen. I can pierce the silence on the line with a pin. My voice has stopped dead. “We haven’t opened it, but would like you to come in and pick it up from the front desk.”
His chilly tone signals to me that he hasn’t forgotten the time he hit on me at the school holiday party. I shut him down immediately. I didn’t have my wedding ring on because I was working in the kitchen all day, so he must have assumed I was separated from Steven. Even though my husband doesn’t attend school events or parent-teacher conferences, I found it rather unethical and odd that an administrator would hit on a parent. I was certain that somehow word had gotten around that Steven had some sort of fling with his secretary, so he must’ve assumed… to this day he acts odd around me as if I was the one who led him on.
“Wow, uh… um…” My throat dries up, and my hands sweat. Dizziness takes hold of me as I set my teacup on the counter and grip a chair for balance. These notes keep flying in like fireworks. Bam, bam, bam.
I motion to Mom and Dad and cover the phone while I lean my elbows on the counter for balance. “Can you guys take the boys to your house for some dinner? I’ll be over later. I need to take care of something first—it’s about another letter. I’ll fill you in when I get back.”
“Sure, sport,” my dad says. He and Mom gather the boys and head to the door, but he looks back at me, studying my body language and raising one eyebrow, a curious look on his face. I give him a thumbs-up to ease his concerns and blow the boys kisses as we wave goodbye. Barney trots over to my side and looks up at me as he leans on my leg. The heat coming from his body warms me from the inside out.
“Well, see, that’s the thing,” Mr. Osborne explains. “We never get deliveries for parents here. No one was expecting it, and it’s just not customary for us to be collecting mail for you.”
“I have no clue why another… I mean, why would an envelope addressed to me come to the school, delivered by someone I don’t know?” While I wait for his response, I make my way over to the sink to rinse out my empty mug. I’m not about to explain my recent stalker threat to him. The fewer people who know about it the better. Could Mr. Osborne be the jerk floating around our house? He knows a lot about our family, where we live, and he definitely has an ax to grind.
Out the window, dark storm clouds roll in, blotting out any sunshine in sight. The forceful rustling of the leaves outside reminds me to double-check the latches on the windows once more. There’s my paranoia again!
Maybe this envelope is from another parent? Stop kidding yourself, Betsy, you know darn well who delivered that note: the obsessive stalker.
Pressing, Mr. Osborne continues, “All that into consideration, please, Mrs. Ryan, come to the school right away. Good day.” The phone clicks off, and I roll my eyes. Well, he told me, didn’t he? Mrs. Ryan? Ha, he used to call me Betsy. How times have changed. He needs to move on.
CRACK!
The booming thunder causes me to jump, and I almost trip over Barney, who’s still standing at my feet. He’s scared, too.
I grab my purse, apply pink-tinted lip balm as I slip on my damp loafers, and head toward the door, making sure I have my keys so I can quickly run to the car. I glance over and tell Barney, “Mom is going back out into the rain.” He swallows a groan, then reclines on his fluffy dog bed and starts gnawing on his rawhide. I’ll take that as an Okay.
Half-walking, half-running on the polished floors—because there’s no running in the school hallway after all—I draw in some air as I approach the front office, making a mental note on my to-do list to join my parents on their fitness walks.
“Here you go.” The school secretary hands me the rain-sodden envelope, looking up at me with flushed cheeks, smiling apologetically. “Thank you for coming in right away, Mrs. Ryan. I’m sorry we had to make you come back today, given the horrible weather.”
“No problem-o,” I lie. “It’s no big deal. Sorry to bother you. I’ll tell them to deliver it to me next time.” Throwing around fibs when it’s related to my safety and security is justified today. I flash an awkward smile and dart out the door, successfully avoiding contact with Mr. Osborne. As I rush back down the hall, the flyers posted on the bulletin board whisk up and down on their thumbtacks.
Who would leave this note? Of course, it was the stalker. But why leave it at my sons’ school? I clench my teeth and fight off a mixture of heat and shivers as I hurry back to the shelter of my car, stepping over fallen branches and acorns.
The perspiration wells up in my armpits, joining the rain spots and tears from earlier today. This stalker can try to mess with my head, but when he gets my kids involved, then he’s poking the bear—the frightened, ferocious Mother Bear, no less. I’ll wait until I’m sitting down in my kitchen to open this envelope. I don’t want fury to drive me home.
I stare, unblinking, at the road ahead, trying to figure out how I can share this with Steven. I hope to have more answers about these notes before he comes home from San Francisco in a few days. He doesn’t need another reason to get upset, especially after our fight about a possible move to the West Coast. One of many fights these days. Sometimes life is easier when he’s on the road. There are fewer disagreements, and I don’t have to prepare elaborate meals. As a chef, it’s nice to eat mac-and-cheese and sliced apples for dinner, on occasion.
I understand he can’t pick up and leave to come home and wonder who wrote some mysterious notes, but the load of carrying the worry about t
he baby and a stalker is more than I can handle. I’m trying to believe that I’m safe, but given the fact that we don’t know the identity of the stalker means the police can’t make much headway on my case, which leaves it up to me to figure out who would do this. No, I decide; telling Steven can wait.
I let out a long, desperate sigh and collapse back into my reliable leather chair, dropping my handbag to the floor. The soft blanket falls to join my purse as Barney runs over with his Pooh toy and curls around my feet, making the throw his resting spot. “Hey boy, do you want to go out?”
Chuff, snort. He drops his toy to look up at me. I imagine him saying, Yes, Mom. Let’s go potty! I shoot my dog a quizzical look, tilting my head, wondering, If he could talk, would he say that? He wags his tail and walks to the door.
Barney is very attached to the little Winnie the Pooh stuffed toy Kyle gave him when he was a toddler. One day I heard Kyle say, “Barney, I want to give this to you.” I swear I saw the dog nod his head, but I didn’t think much about it. I find it funny how animals and children communicate despite a “language” barrier. I smile at the chubby bear and remember the A. A. Milne quote—one of my favorites, about promising to be braver and smarter than you seem and think.
Maybe keeping this in mind will help me stop looking over my shoulder and think straight so I can push out the fear—I can’t let this stalker harm us. As I shake my head, I grab an umbrella and head out for a walk. “Let’s go potty outside, Barney.” Rain, here we come again.
I jiggle the excess rain out of my umbrella, set it down, and grab a towel to dry Barney’s paws. Please wait, puppy. He’s patient while I get the job done. We connect eyes as he licks my chin. He loves to be petted, scratched, or rubbed in any way, even to clean mud from his paws.
“There ya go, big guy,” I mumble, patting his back to let him know he’s done. “Now, Barney, let’s look at those rotten notes again and see what we’re up against.” He seems to nod in agreement and follows me over to the kitchen table. I push the plantation shutters closed to shield from prying eyes and get down to business. I often wonder if other people talk to their dog like I do—and if they do, I wonder if they wait for a response.
“Okay, so the first envelope came last night. After our post-dinner walk, I found it taped to the side door, remember? That was the gross one about ‘watching me.’” I twist my face in disgust. “Then envelope number two arrived at my doctor’s office this afternoon, and that’s the one where the creep said he wants my baby. Who does this guy think he is? Ugh.” Barney chimes in with a chuff-chuff.
Trying to temper the uneasiness in my stomach and shield Barney from my distress, I continue to use a Mommy singsong voice, much like when he was a puppy. He responds favorably to it, and it brings my tension down a notch.
“And now, today, envelope number three lands at the school office. Let’s open it together—this guy deserves detention!” Looking down at Barney, I see him shift his weight and then sit at attention while I open the envelope.
It’s remarkable how Barney’s anticipation matches mine as I start to open the seal. I wish Steven had that same patience with me. Lately, he’s too preoccupied to notice me the way he did when we first got married over twelve years ago. I remember when he was so proud of the elaborate meals I’d create for hundreds of people, but now he barely notices if the dishes are done. I used to blame it on his long hours at work, but these days, I’m not so sure.
With both elbows on the table, I prepare myself for the next mental blow to the gut. It can’t get any worse than what he’s already written.
It turns out I’m wrong.
“Okay, this one is horrible. Barney, you will not believe it. It says, I’m watching the boys. What the heck! Who has the time to run around town and track pregnant women and their children?” Again, my maternal instinct kicks in to protect even my dog, from the face value of what I’m reading and saying—but a cold wash of tremors dances over my skin. I grab my wool cardigan from the back of the chair and slip it on.
As I fling the note across the table, I raise my voice, trembling. “This is the last straw!”
Barney backs up two steps, then takes an erect seated position again, and continues to keep an eye on me.
Bang!
“What was that?” Not expecting Barney to answer me, I look to him anyway, as we then direct our attention to the banging noise outside, almost as if someone slammed the side gate. I tiptoe slowly across the thick, brown area rug, over to the window, and peek through a small slit in the blinds. Barney moans and runs to curl around my legs. He’s shaking. “What is it, boy?”
I wish I knew what he was thinking and what caused that noise. The storm may have stripped some of the bark or old branches from the tree on the side of the house. I can check later when we go for our walk. I see nothing outside, but that doesn’t stop the goose bumps as they go all the way up to my neck.
“Maybe two deep breaths will help, but breathing won’t stop a madman, that’s for sure. Barney, let’s hope the tree is our only threat at this moment. I don’t feel like going outside to confront anyone right now. Do you?”
Tap-tap-tap.
A jolt of sudden jitters. The knock at the side door causes me to jump. Step by step, Barney follows my lead as we go to see who’s at the door. I see my former landscaper, Freddie. His green baseball hat hides his long, black ponytail and shadows his pitch-black eyes. The lack of his signature smile pushes my pulse higher as I place my foot by the bottom of the door to prevent him from pushing it in—and slowly unlatch the bolt lock.
“Hey, Freddie, what’s up?”
“Mrs. Ryan, do you know of any neighbors who need landscaping?”
My guilt for firing him and switching to a larger landscape design company, headed up by Antonio, over a year ago, bubbles up as I search for something to say. “Freddie, I asked everyone on my block. I noticed the Swansons are using your service, right?”
“Yeah, but I need more work.” His fixed expression accentuates his need.
“I understand. Let me see what I can do. By the way, how did you get inside my locked gate?
“The key.”
“Oh, you still have my key?” What if he made copies of it? I must change those locks.
“Yeah… here ya go.” He hands me a tinged version of my once polished key—it has seen its share of mud and grime.
“Thank you, Freddie. I’ll send out another note this week. Anything else?” The hammering in my veins clouds my hearing.
His eyes narrow in on me. “No… but why can’t I work here again?”
His cold stare and rigid stance forces me to repeat myself. “I told you, Freddie, my husband wanted to go in a different direction and work with a larger company who could also install our hardscapes and fountain. I hope you understand.” I fake a glance at the clock on the stove. “Oh, shoot, I almost forgot. I need to take a call in a few minutes. Can I let you go and circle back later if I know of anyone who needs your service?” My crooked grin doesn’t encourage him.
He bows his head then raises it again with eyes narrowed and utters, “Thank you.”
I watch him leave through the side gate and listen as it clicks locked. I shut the door and flick the lock.
“Barney, that was a close one. He seemed really agitated.” Add Freddie to the list of suspects, and get a locksmith to change the side gate lock.
The throbbing in my ankles forces me to sit down at the table again. I look around my kitchen and adjoining living room, finally fixating on a spot near the ceiling, wondering, If my former landscaper is the stalker, would he really knock on my door? Is he that gutsy? Upon closer inspection, I realize I’m staring at a spider weaving a thread around a tiny fly. Horrified by the sight, and the symbolism, I get up and grab a few tissues to rid the murder scene from my kitchen.
Not sure what to say, I wait, looking down at Barney, hoping he has an opinion about what just happened. All I get is a woof. I need to hang out with more human friends.
“I wish Steven were here, Doggy Boy, he’d know what to do—or at the least he’d be able to protect us. That’s one thing about him, he’s a bruiser.” My chest tightens and a cold disregard rests on my skin as I think about my husband and if he’s having lunch with anyone pretty, right now. I never used to be so insecure, but I guess one “innocent” kiss between a husband and his secretary will do that do a person.
As soon as I reach down and feel Barney’s soft fur between my fingertips, the pull on my shoulders subsides. “We need to sort this out, buddy. I don’t like having to manually slow down my heart rate every five minutes.”
He wags his little butt in agreement. It’s nice to have someone who agrees with me for a change.
What’s my connection to this stalker, and what would motivate him or her to do this to me? It couldn’t simply be because I fired someone who works in my yard, could it? In detective shows, the bad guy always has a motive, whether he’s seeking revenge or has his own maniacal reasons for plotting to kill someone. Kill someone? What if? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Betsy, get a hold of yourself. Don’t jump to conclusions!
I wish somebody could give me the answers and push this incessant pulse of panic out of my nervous system. I start to walk around the living room to fluff and rearrange the pillows on the couch. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to restack those magazines into a neat little pile, too…
Out of the blue I remember Murder, She Wrote, my favorite mystery television show growing up. I watched the reruns, but the show is timeless.
The show’s star, Angela Lansbury, played the lead character, Jessica Fletcher, a murder mystery writer. Each episode would present a police investigation surrounding a killing, and since Jessica was an expert at writing murder mysteries, they’d always consult with her for clues. At the end of each episode, she’d plunk on her old-fashioned computer, writing the mystery story of the current crime she’d just helped solve. It was a great concept and so satisfying to watch her help decipher the cases each week. We knew some poor soul would get whacked, but Jessica would make us feel better through her wit and charm—not to mention save the day.
