All The Dead Girls

by Tim Kizer

  Bluth wants twenty thousand dollars. You’ve got the cash. Just give him the damn money.

  He chortled. Bluth sincerely hoped that Frank Fowler would crap his pants and bring him twenty grand. There was a major disappointment in store for him.

  Wipe off the stains. You've been debating this longer than it would have taken you to simply go and do it. Go to the bathroom and eliminate them. Do it not because of the letter but for the sake of cleanliness.

  Frank stepped back into the house and headed for the bathroom.

  Bluth was clearly insane. Otherwise how would you explain his absurd accusations?

  ‘I know you killed her.’

  Besides, Bluth claimed he could prove it. He was crazy, and this letter should be regarded as a fantasy of a lunatic. He must have read about Kelly in the newspapers and decided to have some fun. He had found the Fowler residence address in the white pages; it wouldn’t have been very hard to do. And the neighbors had probably told him that Frank had wound up in the hospital after the car crash. Or he could have bumped into a newspaper report about the accident.

  Frank turned on the light in the bathroom and went inside. He tore off two squares of toilet paper from the roll, grabbed a window cleaner spray from the cabinet, and stepped to the tub. After staring pensively at the stains for half a minute, he squatted, sprayed the stains with the cleaner, and began to wipe them off with the toilet paper. Once the spots were gone, he flushed the paper and quickly left the room.

  But what about the twenty grand?

  He was not going to engage in charity, no siree! Forget about the twenty grand.

  Maybe Bluth was one of his neighbors? Some idiot neighbor who considered this to be a hilarious practical joke?

  By the way, another wacky memory had surfaced in his mind yesterday, when he dropped by the office on his way to the car dealership. He remembered buying a large safe a couple of months ago. The memory was triggered by the elegant Sentry executive safe in the office of the managing partner, who had invited Frank to talk about his recovery progress and the date of his return to work. The details bubbled up in the hours following his conversation with his boss: he and a man named Alex had bought that massive six-foot tall, steel-plated sucker on Craigslist at a very attractive price. When Frank came back home, he examined every square foot of his house, looking for the safe, but found nothing resembling the image that had popped up in his head. All he had was a small Quarter Master safe with a digital keypad in the study.

  Who was Alex? Frank hadn’t remembered that yet. Was he missing a leg? Frank had no clue. Did the safe have anything to do with Kelly? Most likely not.

  Frank entered the garage, climbed in behind the wheel, and started the engine.

  What if Bluth had actually seen something suspicious? He might have seen the killer: there was a high probability that the psycho had borrowed Kelly’s car to move the body out of here. Bluth had seen the killer handle the corpse, mistaken him for the owner of the house—and the happy thoughts of a big payday had begun to spin in his head. Mister Fowler had put his wife's body in the car! It must have been a body, that large human size sack had contained a dead body! And the dates matched, too: Kelly Fowler had disappeared the same day Frank Fowler had been carrying that huge tote around the house, hence Frank had murdered his wife. Let's write him a letter, scare the shit out of him, and score twenty grand.

  Bluth says he can prove that you killed her, buddy. What if he really can do it? He may be insane, but what if he does have proof? It is possible, isn't it? You must take that into account.

  He had just ripped that stupid letter to pieces and sent it down the sewer where it belonged. He might do exactly the same thing to Bluth when he came for the money. He would pulverize that moron, he would find a way.

  Admit for one second that it’s you who killed Kelly, buddy. Just admit to yourself, nobody can read your thoughts.

  He had not killed Kelly, and he was not going to admit it. He was not even going to think if he should admit. Screw Bluth and screw the stains. And you know what? He had changed his mind and now was heading to Olive Garden; he had forgotten when he had last dined there.

  Once he pulled out of the garage, Frank stepped on the brake pedal and waited for the garage door to descend all the way down. He wasn’t paranoid about someone sneaking in; it was just a sudden whim, okay?

  Someone knows you murdered your wife, pal. It doesn't matter whether it’s true or not. If Bluth has proof, you are in trouble.

  But he hadn’t killed Kelly! He hadn’t killed her and therefore nobody could have seen him do it or have proof that he’d done it.

  Bluth will call after this letter, and you ought to be ready for his call, partner. What are you going to do when you meet him?

  This scammer wouldn’t dare to call and there would be no meeting. Bluth was just playing a stupid practical joke on him—for shits and giggles as they say. The day Kelly had disappeared, he had come home around six o’clock, waited for Kelly till morning, then called Josephine and a couple of Kelly’s friends. No one had had anything useful to tell about Kelly’s whereabouts.

  How do you know what you did that day? Josephine told you, right?

  Yes, she had told him. And he had no reason to doubt her account of events.

  It's bullshit! You lied to Josephine, pal. You didn't wait for Kelly till morning; you murdered her and buried the body in the landfill. You killed your wife at six and were back on the couch by nine.

  He had called Josephine and Kelly's friends, but none of them had known where she had been. Two days later he and Josephine went to the police. His wife was murdered by a psycho; he used Kelly’s car to take the corpse out of the house. Later he buried the body, or burned it, or tossed it in the lake, or dumped it in the landfill.

  Bottom line: he didn’t care what the killer had done with the body; he hated jail; he respected the law; he did not kill his wife.

  Look, twenty grand is not that high a price for freedom, pal. You don’t have to provide for a spouse or a child now, so you surely can afford it.

  Arrested Development, a sitcom on Fox, that’s where he had heard the name ‘Michael Bluth.’ Seemed like the blackmailer was a fan of quirky comedy shows.

  Chapter 8.

  LAURA

  1.

  Laura Hutchinson had always suspected that Albert was not the sharpest tool in the shed. For example, would a smart man steal inventory from his employer, especially if it was not some pop-and-mom shop with no internal controls, but a fairly sophisticated enterprise? If she hadn’t been Albert’s boss, he would have been exposed and fired a long time ago. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have gotten this job in the first place, had she not been the boss. Why had she married him? Love is blind, as they say. It’s not very often that a man you fall in love with turns out an Einstein. Actually, it’s quite rare. Besides, Al obviously had good genes: he looked at least ten years younger than his age.

  However, no matter how great a lover Albert was, his latest peccadillo would be hard for her to ignore. Yes, if he thought that she would keep her mouth shut while he fucked around, he’d got another thing coming.

  Fire was burning in Laura’s heart as she drove to Amherst, the fire of resentment against her husband, who seemed to be having an affair. Why else would Al have taken two weeks off if not to hang out with some young babe with fake boobs? He wasn’t spending his time off with his family, that was the fact. Moreover, Albert had spent the last two nights away from home under the pretence of working on some project for his brother-in-law. Okay, Laura admitted that she was not twenty anymore, that her butt was not as tight and athletic as ten years ago when they had gotten married. However, everybody said she didn’t look a day over thirty five, which was a compliment for a forty-two-year old woman. And all her male friends told her she was hot.

  Today she was going to take a peek at the whore her husband might have been banging and to see who had a sexier ass and bigger breasts. Yesterday she had manage
d to sneak into Albert’s car and to write down the last three addresses he had entered into the GPS. Right now she was on her way to the address in Amherst, which was about half an hour away from her house in light traffic.

  And what did all that talk about moving out of state mean? A week ago, Albert had announced that he’d been thinking about leaving Buffalo.

  “My brother-in-law asked me if I want to run one of his businesses,” he said. “He’s got a dozen of them all over the East coast. I promised him to think about it.”

  She sat there motionless, stunned, her eyes fixed on his content face. She hoped he was joking.

  “Are you talking about leaving Buffalo?” she asked.

  “Yeah. But you don’t have to move if you don’t want to, that’s fine by me. I know how much you love your job, and it’s a great job. I’d hate for you to lose it because of me.”

  Her jaw dropped then and there. Did he just say he was going to take a break from their marriage, or in other words—to dump her?

  “I do love my job. And I can’t say I feel like leaving Buffalo,” she said. She adored her job: an executive position at a medium-sized hospital was not something you would easily throw away.

  “As I said, you don’t have to come with me. That job may not even last. I just want to try something new, to see what I’m capable of.”

  She had decided to refrain from making a scene. She had quickly regained calmness and continued leafing through the In Touch Weekly magazine that sat in her lap. It was her way of handling tough situations: pull yourself together, never lose self-control, pretend as if you don’t care. Turning hysterical rarely worked, if at all; it took restraint and patience to cope with men. She also kept in mind that men were obstinate and that their obstinacy was often irrational and senseless.

  Anyway, she would deal with this wacky idea of his later. Right now she was focused on tracking down his mistress.

  Speaking of work, she’d been tempted to discuss the issue of the inventory theft with Albert since she had found out about it two years ago, but for some reason she’d never acted on this desire. Well... Honestly, she knew the reason: Albert’s family seemed somewhat intimidating to her. Whenever Laura saw his sister Josephine, which had happened at least every other month in the past eight years, she had in her mind this image of a young girl growing up on a farm somewhere in upstate New York, who would help her parents prepare the product for the market by skinning the rabbits and beheading the chickens without batting an eye.

  2.

  Laura sat in her car, staring at the street in front of her. She had parked two blocks away from her final destination just in case Albert was at his lover’s place at the moment or was about to arrive there. She had begun to wish she had rented a car for this covert visit instead of driving her own.

  Laura wanted to let herself cry. She felt as if she was the unhappiest person in the world. Her husband was a real dick, and she didn’t have the resolve to say it to his face. She wasn’t afraid of getting beaten up; she was worried that Albert would simply shrug it off and go on with his day with not a care in his heart.

  Lord, why are you torturing Laura?

  Moron! Jerk! Imbecile! Oh what an idiot you are, Albert Hutchinson!

  Laura heaved a loud groan. She should have probably left Albert a year ago, when she had bumped into Roy Kirsch, a guy that had had a crush on her in college and become a successful owner of three restaurants in downtown Buffalo. Roy had been single and still had feelings for her after all these years.

  Laura sobbed and then looked in her purse mirror, concerned that the tears could ruin her makeup. Thankfully, her makeup was fine.

  Yes, she should consider divorcing Al. Their son was old enough to understand her reasons and would easily survive without seeing his father every day. He would probably be glad to have one fewer adult to give him hard time.

  Divorce. Only divorce would suit her. Why should she suffer from Albert's stupidity and unfaithfulness? She was an independent twenty-first century woman. He said he wanted to move out of state and didn’t give a damn if she followed him? Okay, let him go, but first she would divorce him. She had a great six-figure job here in Buffalo, she had no plans to relocate anywhere in the near future, and she didn’t appreciate being treated as a fall back woman.

  3.

  Laura grabbed the sun hat, which was part of her disguise along with the large sunglasses she had on, and got out of the car. She put on the hat, straightened up, and stood for a while, with her right elbow on the top of the car door, waiting for her leg muscles to wake up. Hot wind blew at her face, and she cringed slightly. Heat causes heavy sweating; you could begin to stink like a pig in an hour. Damned heat.

  Laura shut the door and headed towards the address from Albert’s GPS, scanning the curb for house numbers. When she was about five hundred feet away from her car, she noticed a man in the driveway, whose face seemed very familiar to her. To Laura’s excitement, the man was standing by the house she had been searching for. She started rummaging through her memory, hoping at least to recall where she had seen this man before. The man was gazing at the street, with a bottle of Pepsi in his hand, and Laura couldn’t tell whether he was about to leave or go inside.

  Where had she met him?

  Was he a friend of Al’s? Al’s relative? Was it even his house?

  Laura stepped onto the driveway and waved to the man, who had just taken another sip from his bottle.

  He seemed to be Albert's relative. Yes, now she was sure she had seen him at Al's older sister Josephine’s place last year. Josephine lived in a gorgeous house, by the way, thanks to her millionaire husband.

  When the man waved back to her, Laura finally remembered that this man was Albert's younger sister's husband—or his lookalike. What was Al’s younger sister’s name? Laura had forgotten it. She did remember that Al had only known his little sis for a couple of years.

  Laura hesitated for a few seconds, deciding if she should talk to the man. He might know why Al really wanted to move. And he might inadvertently blurt out some useful information if she probed him gently.

  “Hello,” Laura said with a charming smile. “How are you doing?”

  “I am fine,” the man replied. “How can I help you?”

  “I think I know you. You look like my husband’s brother-in-law. Are you in a hurry?”

  “No, I’m not. I was about to go inside. What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Albert Hutchinson. And I’m Laura.”

  “My name is Frank. Does it ring a bell to you?”

  Could she safely conclude now that Al had come to Amherst to visit his brother-in-law and not some homewrecker slut? He still could have a mistress though, just not at this address. And Frank might have heard something about her: men could be surprisingly reckless when it came to bragging about women they had slept with.

  Laura examined Frank's face and found that the mention of her husband’s name had erased all signs of joy and radiance it had previously had.

  What was Al’s younger sister name? Laura knew it had to be somewhere in the recesses of her memory.

  “Frank,” Laura repeated the name contemplatively. “I think I’m beginning to remember you.”

  Actually, it was a lie, but who cared?

  What did Frank do for a living? Laura had a hunch that Al had mentioned Frank’s occupation to her in the past, and if she put enough effort, she could probably recall it. But why waste time and effort, when you can simply ask? Besides, it wasn’t that important at the moment.

  “My husband has two sisters,” said Laura. “You look like the younger sister's husband. I must be boring you, I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, I know Albert.” Frank frowned. “You're right, I’m his brother-in-law.”

  If memory served her correctly, Al’s younger sister had gone missing a couple of weeks ago, and the police had been unable to find her yet. Poor woman, what were the chances that she was still alive? Probably slim to none.

>   “And you are married to Al's younger sister, right?” asked Laura. “I’ve never been in this neighborhood before, and I’m happy to see a familiar face.”

  Laura could sense that Frank was quickly losing interest in this conversation. She had been looking for a smooth way to ask him what he knew about Al’s dealings in Amherst, but her mind had been coming up blank. She couldn’t just start interrogating Frank out of the blue, you know.

  How close was Frank to Al’s older sister and her husband? Was he in the loop? Did he have any pull with Al’s family? Would he be able to change Al’s mind about moving?

  Laura hurried to formulate the thought she was going to articulate next as it began to seem that Frank was itching to split.

  “So you live here?” she waved at the house. “You have a nice house.”

  “Thank you, Laura. Yes, that’s my place.”

  How long was it going to take him to invite her inside?

  “Honestly, I don't remember that much about my wife’s family after I lost my memory,” said Frank.

  “How did you lose your memory if I may ask?”

  “I was in a bad car crash about two weeks ago. So please don’t be surprised that I didn’t recognize you. There are a million things that I still have to remember.” Frank smiled.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope you’re feeling fine. And it’s okay if you don't remember me. We haven’t been particularly close in the past. We might be after today.” Laura laughed softly. Then she quickly put on a serious air. “Al mentioned that your wife has been missing for a while. How have you been holding up?”

  “Yes, Kelly’s been missing for two weeks. I’m trying to deal with it one day at a time.”

  Kelly. Yes, Al’s younger stepsister’s name was Kelly.

  “I don’t know her very well, but I’m sure she is a great person,” Laura said with ostensible conviction in her voice. “I'm awfully sorry that it happened.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible. But we all hope she’ll be back.”