Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  Brett shifted awkwardly, water dripping from his hair. He swiped a hand through it while trying to determine the source of Serena’s panic.

  "I woke up" she explained, "and you weren’t here. I thought you left."

  Breathing easier, he nodded and held up a finger. "Hold on a sec."

  He disappeared into the bathroom and re-emerged a moment later in jeans, rubbing vigorously at his hair with the towel. On bare feet, he crossed the wooden floor and settled on the edge of the loveseat.

  "I’m not going anywhere without telling you first." He vowed in a sober voice.

  "Serena," he began. "I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to get up. The police will be here soon. I called them."

  Serena coughed. Now she remembered why she had called out to Brett. When she woke, she felt the warmth of the sun streak through the windows across her face and experienced a moment of surreal tranquility. Then, the night came crashing back in waves more vicious than those of the sea. She could not rid her mind of the sight of Alan’s lifeless eyes.

  She gazed out the window, scarred by the knowledge that Alan’s body was still out there. All along she had been seeking this closure−seeking confirmation about Alan’s fate, and now that she had the answers, she was more afraid than ever.

  "I know." She drew her legs down off the sofa.

  "Just get through this and—" Brett began.

  "—and wait for Alan’s murderer." She finished.

  "Dammit, Serena." His fist clenched. "You don’t know that he was murdered. Anything could have happened. He could have hit his head—"

  "I’m sure that’s what the police will tell us. I told you Brett, they’ve written it off, especially now that they have a toe to put a tag on." Serena winced at her analogy.

  Brett leaned forward, steeping his head into his cupped hands.

  "You’ve found what it is you came here for. Confirmation on your brother’s fate."

  He sat up, eyeing her incredulously. Her quick hand signal kept him from interrupting.

  "You probably want to get back to Boston," she continued. "Surely, you’ve neglected your business. The market’s been wild. I hope for your sake you aren’t heavy into technology stocks."

  Noticing that his scowl intensified, Serena rushed on. "You’ve shown me that I have no real ghosts, and I’m not afraid to climb the stairs at night thanks to you. I—I don’t even know where to begin to thank you, but I just want you to know that if you have to leave, I understand—"

  Brett reclined in his seat and hoisted an ankle over his knee. He studied her and waited. "Are you through?"

  She clutched the blanket beneath her chin. "Ummm hmmm."

  "First," he began, "I am capable of making my own decisions. Second, neither of us have a clue as to what Alan’s fate actually was. Yeah, sure we saw the outcome, but we need to find out why. Serena, if we don’t find out why, you may end up just like him, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen." He leaned forward. "Do you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder? Do you really feel safe right now?"

  His voice turned tender. "Are you trying to push me out the door? Is that what this is all about? Because if so, just say the word and I’ll be gone. I’ll try to protect you from a distance, but if you don’t want me around, if I remind you of—"

  Serena reached forward and touched the tips of her fingers to his lips.

  "For God’s sake," her glance lingered on his mouth, "shut up."

  Brett wondered if she was even aware of how she looked at him. Sometimes like a frightened child—more times like a hungry woman. One moment those sultry eyes were wide and innocent. Then without knowing it, they darkened with the promise of passion.

  He wanted her.

  God damn, he wanted her.

  Serena looked at him. "Brett," she whispered. "Please don’t go."

  His foot slipped off his knee. He stood and approached her, and for a moment, he just touched her with his eyes and watched her cheeks burn under the scrutiny.

  Finally, his hand lifted to stroke her blushed cheek, and then slipped further back into her hair.

  "Honey," he smiled. "I’m not going anywhere."

  "How do I explain you being here?" From the recesses of a gable window, Serena watched the white cruiser approach. It lumbered over a pothole as a spray of muddy water coated the fender.

  She turned around and crossed her arms.

  "You were right," she affirmed. "I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. If we’re going to catch this guy, I’m the only bait we have, and he isn’t going to bite if he thinks you’re hanging around."

  Brett joined her at the window, his frame filling the alcove.

  "As far as everyone knows," he said, "despite our differences, he was my brother. Naturally you called me when you found him." He looked at her, "But tonight you’ll be alone—” he paused, “—in theory."

  Watching the officers approach, Serena pushed herself off the wall and started towards the door. Her progress was halted by Brett’s grip on her arm.

  "In theory," he emphasized.

  She stared down at his hand as if it was a magical source of heat that infused whatever it touched.

  "I know I have a role to play," False conviction thickened her voice. "I mean, portraying that you are nothing but a pain in my ass and all." Her valiant effort to smile failed. "But just for the next few hours, please don’t leave me. I—I’m still afraid of him, if that makes any sense?"

  "I won’t leave," he vowed. "And he won’t hurt you anymore."

  Serena started towards the door with Brett trailing a few steps behind. Just before she responded to the emphatic knock, he added, "but I’ll play the role of pain in the ass with great eloquence."

  Officer Juenger frowned when Serena swung the door open.

  The grin that tickled her lips fell as the sight of this officer was just another sobering dose of reality. A reminder that last night was not a horrible nightmare that she would wake up from. She cleared her throat.

  "Mrs. Murphy." Office Juenger tipped the edge of his hat by reflex and twitched his head in the direction of his stout partner. "This is Officer Hennessy. Ah, we understand you have located your husband’s—you found your husband?"

  Serena’s voice hitched for a second. She nodded and stepped back to admit them. "Y-yes. That’s right. I called my brother in-law over. He’s been very concerned about his brother."

  Officer Juenger gestured towards Brett. "Yes, he’s been in the station several times. Can you take us to the bod—Mr. Murphy?"

  Brett stepped forward to inject, "Yes, I will. Mrs. Murphy doesn’t need to see this again."

  "Yes, Mrs. Murphy does need to see this again." She inserted. In part to convince herself, and also to play their role of staged hostility.

  Officer Jeunger’s winged eyebrow inclined, but he was already motioning his partner back down the stairs, apparently eager for this matter to conclude.

  Serena sat on a stool, her arms folded atop the bar, her head resting in the cradle they fashioned. One eye was exposed and she used it to peer at the clock. Ten-thirty. It was amazing how much could transpire in a few short hours of daylight.

  After having confirmed Alan’s location, a team was called in to haul up the corpse. Serena was asked to accompany them to the morgue where she officially identified the body, a recollection that now had her one eye piercing the thermostat. She had to keep reminding herself that others did not share the coldness she felt.

  Funeral arrangements were made, with Brett handling most of the details. And finally, about a half hour ago, with all paperwork signed, the matter was considered closed by Victory Cove’s finest.

  Tucking her head into the shelter of her arms, Serena allowed for the tears that pooled onto the wooden counter. The spell was brief. She sat up, swiped the tips of her fingers beneath her eyes, and stared at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  Where was the young O’Fl
anagan girl that used to run around the tavern, singing loud and off key while doing her parents bidding? The woman in the mirror seemed like an aged flower, trapped in the ground, waiting for a spring that would never come.

  The front door of the restaurant opened as Serena jolted and whirled to find Simon sauntering in, fluffing freshly fallen snow out of his hair. Catching her gaze, he paused and defensively glanced around him.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she stammered. "You’re early."

  "I told you I’d be late tomorrow, I’m trying to make up some of the time."

  "You don’t punch a clock here, Simon. Come in when you can, there’s no such thing as making up hours."

  Alighting from the stool, Serena slipped a strand of hair behind her ear. It was time to prepare for the lunch crowd.

  "What’s the matter with you?" Simon simpered. "You look like crap." He shrugged out of his black leather jacket and added. "No offense."

  "None taken." She pursed her lips as she lurched through the service panel.

  Simon followed; extracting a hanger from the closet and meticulously draping his jacket around it.

  "So, I repeat, what’s up? Is it that your delicious brother in-law won’t talk to you anymore?"

  Heat infused the back of her neck, but she did not respond to the taunt.

  Rambling after her into the kitchen, Simon persisted. "Did you and Becky have a fight?"

  Rooted in the midst of aluminum shelves and crates of potatoes, Serena rested one hand on a stack of lobster cages and used the other to press at a pain above her left eyebrow.

  "We found Alan’s body." It hurt to say that.

  Composure being Simon’s middle name, when he lost it, the affect was discomforting, like watching a child become disillusioned with their television hero. Puzzled by what she deemed an expression of pain and sorrow, she said, "Simon?"

  "Where?"

  "At the base of the cliffs,” she explained. “Beneath the lighthouse."

  "What do the police think happened?"

  "Th-they say it was an accident at sea. They’ve pronounced the case closed."

  Rolling his head around atop his neck until a satisfying crack sounded, Simon watched her.

  "Closed," he repeated. “So there you go. Now you can get on with your life, Serena.”

  "Rena! Where the hell is my lunch?"

  Cooper. Serena expelled her withheld breath.

  "That damn old bigot." Simon snarled. "His wife sure as hell doesn’t want him eating lunch at home, so she pawns him off on us. I can’t wait till the spring when he sets back out to sea."

  "Excuse me, Simon. I better get out there," Serena attempted to brush past him, but he stopped her with his voice.

  "I’m sorry about Alan, Serena."

  Not affording to look at his face, Serena nodded and plunged back into the tavern.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Unable to stand the subdued current running rampant through the tavern, Serena stepped out front. She appreciated the shock of arctic air. All night she listened to hushed conversations as patrons cast furtive glances in her direction. Alan’s name was dropped, typically with enhanced tales of resentment and exploitation, but the affect was unanimous—no one seemed to care that Alan Murphy was dead, and all feebly sought to hide their views from the proprietor of O’Flanagans.

  Stepping out from under the awning, she tilted her head up into the wind and felt tiny pinches of ice settle on her cheeks. In the wake of the swinging lantern she could see that the flurries were picking up in volume. The peaceful quiet of snowfall blanketed her−a welcome change from the din inside. Yet, something in the serene background was disturbing.

  Serena peered into the darkness beyond the sweeping glow of O’Flanagans, and scanned the row of parked cars on the opposite side of the street. At the end of the road, beyond the reach of the streetlight, she spotted John Morse’s pickup truck and felt her chest constrict.

  In reflex, her head inclined towards the third story windows where drawn shades muted the glow from within. She had left the inside stairwell unlocked so that Brett could enter unseen, and now she worried who else might creep up her stairs tonight. Fearing for Brett, and eager to be up there with him, she rushed back inside. The shock of the noise made her hesitate in the doorway as she motioned Rebecca over.

  "What’s up?" Rebecca blew a dangling red curl away from her eyes. Her hands were occupied by a loaded tray in one, a pitcher of beer in the other.

  "I—I don’t feel well," Serena improvised. "I’m sorry, I’ve got to run upstairs."

  "Yeah, well I don’t feel well either, but I’ve got to make a living."

  Serena jolted at the spite in her waitress’s voice. "You should have told me you were sick. Go home, Becky, we’ll manage."

  Rebecca pursed her scarlet lips and set the pitcher down on the closest table as the seated party eyed up the beer they did not order.

  "Oh, don’t play the role of benevolent boss with me." Rebecca attacked. "Everything always goes your way, and now you expect everyone to wallow in misery for you because you lost a husband you didn’t even love."

  Recovering from the shock, Serena felt heat rise to her cheeks. She reached for Rebecca’s arm, hauling her into the foyer to conceal them from the inquisitive customers.

  "Okay, let’s have it, Rebecca. What the hell has been up your ass the last few days?"

  Scarlet eyebrows inclined. Rebecca dropped the heavy tray down atop the gumball machine and planted her hands on her hips.

  "Did you ever stop to think that maybe I’m grieving, that maybe I’m in pain? Come on Serena, I know you’re not as naïve as you like to portray—you saw it all along, didn’t you?"

  Yes. Yes she had seen it all along. And only years of practiced ignorance had kept her from acknowledging the treachery. Wasn’t the smoldering scent of violet lingering in the tight entrance the same perfume that had filtered through her bedroom on several occasions?

  Hadn’t she always sensed Rebecca’s defense of Alan, her furtive glances at their photos? And the final assault—hadn’t Rebecca been visiting relatives during Alan’s last two month stint away?

  Yes. She had known all along, and in the end, could she blame Rebecca for acting upon something that she did not dissuade?

  "You’re right, I’m not as ignorant as some would choose to believe, Becky," Serena’s voice turned cold. "I suppose if you were a closer friend I would have gotten around to warning you about him, but I can only assume that your grief isn’t over Alan’s death, but the fact that you were robbed the opportunity to make him suffer for the pain he caused you."

  Bright red lips trembled, though Serena was unable to decide whether the woman was close to tears or ready to snarl. Reading the molten amber eyes, she concluded it was the latter of the two and fleetingly wondered if Rebecca had been robbed that opportunity after all.

  With this realization, Serena’s posture changed. It grew rigid. An eerie calmness possessed her as she whispered, "It was you."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It was you," she repeated. "You were in my house—you smashed the picture on the desk—you, you knew what he liked to drink, you knew what he liked to eat—you—"

  "Ladies, do you mind breaking up this coffee klatch," Simon huffed as he approached, "We’ve got business to attend to, and the natives are getting restless." His head tilted to indicate three tables loaded with intoxicated fishermen.

  Assessing the two females engaged in a stare down, Simon tapped a finger against his wristwatch. "Tick, tick, tick. Come on, let’s go."

  Rebecca blinked and glanced his way. "Go to hell, Simon." She hoisted the tray back onto her shoulder and skewed Serena with one final disparaging look. Rebecca turned to retrieve the discarded pitcher and found with slight surprise that it was empty.

  "Brett?"

  Serena kept her voice low as she crossed the living room floor, sweeping her gaze into the kitchen. Empty. Continuing down the hall, she repeated with h
ushed emphasis, "Brett?"

  "In here." Came the muted reply.

  Serena turned into his bedroom and located the tall silhouette against the window. She gave a secret sigh of relief. Brett had turned out the lights and drawn up the shade as she joined him with a muffled yelp of surprise.

  "What?" he asked.

  "John Morse’s pickup was just parked out there."

  "I know, I saw it."

  "Did you see him?" She craned her neck to peek up the far end of the street, but both night and the thickening curtain of snowfall obscured it.

  Brett reached for the back of his neck, massaging it. "No." he paused and frowned. "Hey, what are you doing up here this early? The bar doesn’t close for another hour or two, right?"

  "I—I was worried."

  "About what?"

  "I knew the stairwell door was unlocked," she said. "And I saw Morse’s pickup—and I knew you were up here—"

  He smiled, the first indication since she walked in that he had relaxed somewhat. "You were worried about me?"

  Witnessing the smug male expression, she crossed her arms.

  "Don’t go getting all full of yourself, Brett Murphy. Just because I might have felt a little pang of concern doesn’t mean that—"

  "You care about me?" he smiled, boosting himself off the wall.

  Serena drew in a swift breath when he strode up to her, and then expelled it irritably as he passed right by.

  "We both know there’s a killer still on the loose," she addressed his receding back. "Obviously I’m going to be anxious that I’ve left my loft unlocked. Hell, I should have just put a welcome sign out."

  Nearly charging into him when Brett stopped in the hallway, Serena found his brazen grin sexy and felt heat rise to her cheeks.

  "You care about me." he repeated with confidence, and then strolled into the kitchen, a soft whistle on his lips.

  "Listen," she snapped. "If your head hasn’t swollen up enough to block your hearing—" Ignoring his quiet chuckle, she proceeded. "I confronted Rebecca downstairs. I told her that I knew about her and Alan."