Before She Knew Him

by Peter Swanson

  She thought she’d lost him but then spotted brake lights, a vehicle turning into the parking lot of the Owl’s Head. Hen slowed down. Instead of following him, she backed into a driveway across the road, immediately killing the engine and dousing her lights. It was a risk, but less of a risk, she thought, than following Matthew into the parking lot. And from there she had a good view. Matthew, after parking, had turned off his lights, and she waited for him to emerge from his car, but he didn’t. There was activity in front of the bar, even though the lights that illuminated the Owl’s Head sign had been turned off. She could see a small cluster of people standing around near the entrance, but she was too far to see what they really looked like. It did seem, however, that the few remaining people outside of the tavern might be members of the band. That was confirmed when she saw a drum kit being loaded into the back of a van. But Hen was most interested in Matthew, now sitting in his car on the outskirts of the lot. It seemed as though he had purposefully chosen the darkest spot in the lot. It was clear that he was there to watch someone, just as Hen was doing. But who? And where had he been coming from before he got his car, when he’d been on foot? It did occur to her that maybe he was coming from the Owl’s Head—it wasn’t far—and that he’d returned in his car so that he could follow someone.

  The van pulled out of the parking lot, then a woman got into a car by herself and left. A lanky figure with what looked like a large beard got into a long and boxy car. Matthew stayed put. She could just make out the outline of his head in the darkened car. The lights in the tavern dimmed, and Hen watched as a woman with long hair came out the front door and walked toward the long car, opened the passenger-side door, and got in. The car pulled out of the lot and headed west. Ten seconds passed, and Matthew’s headlights went on. He turned out of the parking lot, following them.

  Hen started her own car, glad to get the heater working again, and began to follow Matthew. His taillights—slanted circles—looked like widely spaced eyes. They were on Acton Road, heading toward Middleham, a neighboring town that was mostly farmhouses and pine forests. Hen tried to hang back, but Matthew was going slow. Still, would he possibly notice he was being followed, especially since he was following someone himself? Following two people, actually, since Hen had seen the woman get in the passenger seat. She decided to risk it, almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of the situation, tailing her neighbor in the middle of the night. But now that she was actually doing this, she badly wanted to know what was going on. She started to speculate, then stopped herself and concentrated on her driving, on keeping an eye on Matthew’s taillights. They turned off onto a winding side street that cut through wooded areas, so dark that Hen’s headlights seemed to barely cut through the blackness. She started to worry that this particular road—she hadn’t spotted the name—was too isolated and that Matthew really would realize he was being followed. She also started to worry that she was going to get lost; she hadn’t brought her phone with her, and it had been years since she’d gone anywhere without using GPS. But she also desperately wanted to know what Matthew was up to.

  After taking several hairpin turns, Hen drove over a crest, and suddenly the landscape opened up, with moonlit farmland on either side, and for a brief moment, she could see the taillights of both cars ahead of her. She slowed. Up ahead, the first car turned off the road, its lights illuminating what looked like an empty parking lot.

  Matthew passed by, and so did Hen, slow enough to see a posted wooden sign that looked like it was from the Massachusetts parks department. The sign had a map on it, and she guessed that the turnoff was into a small parking area that probably led to a hiking trail. She was turning her head back to see if the car Matthew was following had stopped in the lot, and she nearly sideswiped Matthew’s car. He had suddenly pulled up on the side of the road about a hundred yards down. She went around him, drove another hundred yards or so herself, and pulled into someone’s driveway, cutting her engine and the lights again.

  She sat for a moment in the car, putting her hand on her chest to feel her heart thumping beneath her pajama top. She shook her head and laughed out loud. What was she doing? She told herself she should turn the car around and drive back home. Who knew what was going on? It was probably some sordid love triangle; Matthew had been involved with some woman, or some man, and now he was checking up on them. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like he was stalking someone, just like he’d probably stalked Dustin Miller in Cambridge before killing him.

  Knowing it was stupid, she opened her car door and stepped out into the cold night, quickly shutting the door behind her to douse the interior light. She was still for a moment, a sharp wind pressing her pajamas against her body. She heard a noise, then watched as a slow-moving mammal came around the corner of the dark ranch house. They stared at each other, neither moving. As her eyes adjusted to the dark night, she could make out the fleshy tail and white face of a possum. As she opened the door and got back into the car, it hissed at her. It was time to go home. It had been a stupid idea, thinking she should sneak through the night to see what was happening in the parking lot.

  She pulled out of the driveway, turning back the way she had come. She put her high beams on once she’d passed Matthew’s car, still parked on the side of the road. She slowed down as she approached the parking area. The road curved, and for a moment, the light from her headlights illuminated the parked car in the lot. She could clearly make out Matthew—it had to be Matthew—stooping down by the car, peering through its window at the inhabitants.

  Hen kept driving, reaching into the cup holder to see if her phone was there, even though she’d already realized she left it at home. Should she call 911 when she got the chance? Was he planning on attacking whoever was in that car, or was he just spying on them? And if he was just spying, was it because he knew them, or was it just something he did? Was he a Peeping Tom?

  Her mind was moving so rapidly that she went the wrong way when she got back onto Acton Road and had to do a three-point turn. For some reason, now that she was returning, she was the most nervous she’d been all night. Her chest ached, and she caught herself chewing at the side of her thumb, an old habit. She couldn’t decide whether to call the police when she got home. Had she witnessed an attack about to happen? She didn’t really think that was the case. But Matthew was definitely stalking someone, for whatever reason.

  As she drove down Sycamore Street, she could make out the front porch lights, fully ablaze, at her house.

  When she got nearer, she saw Lloyd, standing on the porch in his robe. She pulled into the driveway, lowering her window as he came over. He looked both relieved and angry.

  “Where were you?”

  “Sorry,” Hen said. “I took a drive. I never thought you’d wake up.”

  “You left the kettle on.”

  “Oh, Jesus. I totally forgot.”

  “You’re still in your pajamas.”

  “I know, I know. Let’s go inside, it’s freezing. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Back inside, she hugged Lloyd and apologized again. He told her he’d been about thirty seconds away from calling the police, that he really thought something terrible might have happened.

  “I never would have left if I thought you’d wake up. I was wide-awake, and the stars outside were so pretty.”

  “This has nothing to do with our neighbor, does it?” Lloyd asked.

  “No,” Hen lied, not really sure why she was lying. “No, nothing. I was just driving around looking at the stars.”

  Chapter 10

  All night Matthew flitted in and out of sleep, the image of what he’d seen in Scott Doyle’s car exciting and enraging him.

  He’d pulled his car over on the side of the road, just past the entrance for the Pocumtuck State Park, then walked back to a spot where he could see Scott’s Dart parked under a large maple tree along the edge of the Pocumtuck lot. He’d almost turned back, but decided to take a risk, walking briskly down to the Dart to conf
irm what was happening. He just wanted to make sure it wasn’t something else, although what could it be? A heartfelt conversation? Were they doing drugs together?

  He crept up to the car, its windows closed and slightly fogged, but he could see through the back window. The waitress was on her knees, her head pressed awkwardly against the door farthest from Matthew, and Scott was behind her, his jeans down around his thighs. Matthew looked for all of three seconds, saw Scott’s pale ass frantically pumping, the Dart rocking slightly. Bile rose in the back of Matthew’s throat.

  A car swept past on Bingham Street, its headlights briefly touching the car. Matthew crouched, then jogged back to his own car.

  He wasn’t surprised by what he’d seen. He would have been more surprised if Scott had gone straight home after his gig. It wasn’t just that Scott was a typical predatory male who would obviously use whatever tiny amount of fame he got from his band to seduce anything in a skirt; it was also that Michelle was a victim, one of those women who believed in the goodness of the human race. She believed that her students cared about learning. She believed that the arc of the universe bent toward justice. And she believed that her fox-faced, untalented boyfriend would be true to her. Because of all these beliefs, Michelle was probably doomed, but Matthew did have an opportunity to do something about it.

  If he could find a way—a flawless way—to murder Scott Doyle, then he would do it. He would rescue Michelle.

  The next morning, before he went to work, Matthew FaceTimed with Mira.

  “I woke up this morning,” she said, “and couldn’t remember where I was. It took me five minutes to figure it out.”

  “What time does your flight get in?”

  “Late. I don’t know. I think I should be back home by midnight, though.”

  “I’ll stay up,” Matthew said.

  “Don’t be silly. Go to bed, then when I get home I can immediately crawl under the covers with you.”

  “Okay,” Matthew said. “I can’t wait.” He realized, saying the words, that it was true. As was always the case, he looked forward to Mira’s leaving, and he looked forward to her returning.

  At school that day he saw Michelle only once, when they walked past each other in the hall during the lunch hour. She clutched a thick sheaf of papers in a manila folder, and her face was flushed, as though she were in a hurry. But she stopped as soon as she saw Matthew.

  “Did you go last night?” she asked.

  “I actually did,” he said. “The band’s not bad.”

  She looked surprised. “No, they’re good, right?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Matthew said, and they both laughed. “No, I did think they were good. Scott has a nice voice.”

  Michelle lowered her voice and said, “Any women there throwing themselves at him?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t pay that much attention. I went for dinner, mainly, and stayed for a while to listen to the music, but . . .”

  “I was just kidding. Half kidding, as you know.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Well, that’s good. He told me it was a good turnout, that people stayed late.”

  “Hey, different topic,” Matthew said. “I haven’t asked you about your father for a while. How’s he doing?”

  “Not great. I’m going home to visit on Columbus Day weekend, and I keep wondering if I should go earlier.”

  “What does your mom say?”

  “My mom is delusional, unfortunately. She tells me he’s going to be fine and that I shouldn’t bother coming back at all.”

  Matthew couldn’t remember what type of cancer Michelle’s father had, just that it was serious. “You should go anyway,” he said. “Make Scott go with you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Michelle said. “I think he has a show that weekend, but even if he didn’t I’m sure he’d find some other excuse.”

  Students had started to fill the hallway, and Matthew realized lunch was nearly over. He and Michelle ended their conversation, and as Matthew returned to his classroom with just enough time left to eat his egg salad sandwich, he congratulated himself for getting the information he’d wanted to get from Michelle. Columbus Day weekend. That afternoon he’d go online to find out where the C-Beams were playing.

  Chapter 11

  Hen had slept very little. She kept imagining what it was going to feel like when she checked the news the next morning to discover that a couple had been found murdered in their car in Middleham. Then she’d try to convince herself that that wasn’t the case, and if, God forbid, it was, then at least she would know who’d done it. At least Matthew Dolamore wouldn’t get away with it.

  But the following morning there was nothing on any of the news sites she regularly checked. She did searches for “Middleham” and “murder” and nothing came up. She was relieved, of course, but told herself what she’d seen had been someone stalking someone else. Just because he hadn’t committed a crime last night didn’t mean he wasn’t going to.

  After Lloyd left for work, Hen called the Cambridge Police Department from her landline and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the Dustin Miller homicide.

  “Detective Martinez isn’t in yet. Can I put you through to another detective?”

  “I’d prefer to talk directly to him. Can I leave you my phone number?”

  The detective called her back twenty minutes later. “Can I help you?” he asked, and Hen thought he was probably eating breakfast while he spoke.

  “I have information that might pertain to the death of Dustin Miller.”

  “Okay. Can I get your name?”

  “It’s Henrietta Mazur, but I’d like to be anonymous. Not to you, but I’d rather my name not be made public in any way.”

  “I will do my best, I promise you, Ms. Mazur.”

  “You can call me Henrietta, or Hen.”

  “What information do you have, Henrietta?”

  She told him the story about going to dinner at her new neighbors’ and seeing a fencing trophy on view, and how that triggered a memory of having read about Dustin Miller’s unsolved murder. She told him she wouldn’t have thought too much about it except that Dustin had attended Sussex Hall and that was where her neighbor Matthew Dolamore was a teacher.

  “What makes you think that the trophy you saw didn’t just belong to your neighbor?”

  “Because I asked him if he fenced, and he said he didn’t, that he just liked the trophy. I think he said he bought it at a yard sale.”

  “And you didn’t believe him?”

  “There’s another thing. I went back to look at the trophy again, and it was gone.”

  “When did you go back?”

  “The dinner party was last Saturday night and I went back on Monday. Mira Dolamore, the wife, was there, and she gave me another tour of her house—”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “What did I tell her about why I was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told her I wanted another look at her house, at how she had decorated it. It wasn’t entirely untrue. We have the same house, the same design, I mean. But I really wanted to see the trophy again. There was writing on the base that I hadn’t been able to read the first time.”

  “But you saw some writing.”

  “I am almost positive that I saw the words ‘Junior Olympics.’”

  “Not completely positive.”

  “I’m positive. I saw them. I don’t know why I said ‘almost.’”

  “That’s okay,” the detective said. “So you went back, both because you wanted to look at your neighbors’ house again and because you wanted a second look at the trophy. Did you see it again?”

  “No, it was gone. It had been moved.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Hen was pacing. It was what she did when she talked on the phone. “I’m positive. It was there on Saturday and it was gone on Monday morning. He moved it or got rid of it, and I’m pretty sure it was because he’d seen the way I noticed
it.”

  “At the dinner party?”

  “Yes. I guess I stared at it for a little bit and asked him about it, and he noticed. I could sense that he noticed.”

  The detective coughed, then she could hear him sipping a drink, then he apologized. “Can I ask you why you noticed the fencing trophy in the first place? It’s not an incredibly uncommon object. Did you make the connection right away? How did you even know there was a fencing trophy taken from the scene of Dustin Miller’s homicide?”

  “You reported it, didn’t you?”

  “We did, yes, but that was a while ago. You just remembered reading about it?”

  Hen told him how she used to live in Cambridge and that she’d been interested in the crime. She left out that she’d lived right down the street from Dustin—she could hear Lloyd’s voice saying that it would be a huge coincidence to live on the same street as a murder victim and then the same street as the murderer—and she left out her obsession with the crime, with Dustin, really.

  “I think it was all in the back of my head,” she said, now looking out the second-floor window in the upstairs guest room. “The fencing trophy. Sussex Hall. And then I put it all together.”

  “So why are you just calling me now? Why didn’t you contact me on Monday or immediately after seeing the trophy on Saturday?”

  Hen had already decided to not tell the police detective about what she’d seen the night before. She knew it would make her sound crazy, following her neighbor in her car at midnight. She could tell him later, if she had to. “I just didn’t know if I was reading too much into it, but as the week went on I got more convinced. I also looked up some stories about the case and read about how Dustin Miller had been accused of rape when he was in high school. I thought it might all be connected.”