Out Of The Smoke

by Becca Jameson

  She started to arrange the books in front of the floor to ceiling built-in custom bookcases, but she swore she could hear him breathing as though he were still in the room. Every little noise in the house made her twist and imagine him behind her in the doorway. Or perhaps she just wished he were.

  She flushed with the confusion of which she would prefer. To have him stand over her and make her ache with need, or have him completely out of her sight to avoid the sensation.

  After several attempts to stack the thick texts by categories, she gave up altogether and opted to arrange them on the shelves alphabetically by title. If that didn’t work for him, she could always change it later.

  In about an hour, the room looked much more presentable. Well, at least a person could walk through it. Now to tackle the files.

  “Wow.” The expletive from the doorway made her spin around. How had he managed to sneak up on her?

  Alan came into the room on a whisper, his bare feet making no sound. He stood before the bookshelves and moved his head from left to right, top to bottom as he gazed at the arrangement. “Perfect.”

  “Glad you like it, ’cause those are the heaviest books I’ve ever had to manhandle into position. I’d hate to have to rearrange the buggers. I’ll start the filing now.”

  “Love it.” He wandered to the desk. “Mind if I work a bit at the computer while you sort?”

  “Not at all.” Liar. Sweat gathered on Liz’s palms as she considered his proximity.

  The clickety clack of the computer keys filled the room like a rhythmic beat that increased Liz’s pace. She gathered up all the folders lying around in their ragged manila covers and replaced them with fresh new jackets.

  “Damn,” Alan mumbled under his breath.

  Liz glanced up to see him fumbling with a calculator.

  “Sorry,” he raised his face, seemed to just realize he wasn’t alone. “Don’t suppose you’re good with math too?” He blew his bangs up at the rhetorical question and leaned back in his chair. “Set me in a two-hour law lecture any day of the week and I can keep up with the best of them, but God did not provide in the area of arithmetic.”

  “What are you trying to do?” What are you thinking, you dolt? She ambled over to the desk. “I might know a thing or two about figures.”

  Alan stared up at her. “Really?” He tipped his head to the side. “Hey, if you can make this add up, be my guest. No matter how many times I run the numbers, I get a different answer and my accountant doesn’t really care for my type of preparations.” He stood, held his arms up in defeat and motioned for her to take his spot.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe you just don’t have the knack for the keypad.” Riight. That’s it. “It’s all in the wrist.” Liz smiled up at him and started calculating the numbers in front of her.

  She zoned into a world she was extremely comfortable with, grabbed a sharpened pencil and jotted figures on a stack of Post-Its as she went along. She stuck the pencil behind her ear in between scribbles, barely gave the action a single thought until she finished and lifted her gaze back to the man hovering behind her.

  At least when she played with numbers she could almost erase the world around her for just a few minutes. She forgot everything but the soft breathing over her shoulder warming the side of her face, and the scent of mint and coffee. Now that she was done, it all slammed back into place and the jerk of her head sent the pencil careening to the floor behind her.

  “Oops,” she mumbled.

  “Jesus, you are full of surprises aren’t you?” Alan grabbed the paper in front of her and brought it closer to read before he glanced back up to stare at her. “I worked on this for half an hour, smartypants.” There was no condescension in his voice though, only shock.

  “Multi-talented,” she commented while she reluctantly pulled herself away from the comfort of his desk to return to filing. “Never underestimate the abilities of your cleaning staff.” Her attempt to make light of the accomplishment did not erase the look on Alan’s face.

  “Tell me again, why are you cleaning houses for a living? I haven’t believed you fit the part for one minute.” He furrowed his brow. His gaze burned a hole in her back as she crossed the room.

  “I enjoy my work.”

  Sure. Who wants to work at a computer when they can scrub floors and toilets for a living? Anyone without a social security card, that’s who.

  “Uh huh. You are one mysterious woman, you know that?”

  Liz merely turned and shrugged. If she hurried, perhaps she could print out some labels for all these folders, settle them in nice cozy slots in their new mahogany home, and get on with some other part of the house before she put her foot in her mouth.

  The shrill of the desk phone interrupted what Liz assumed was about to be a long line of questions.

  “Oh, thank goodness. My accountant. I’ve been waiting to hear from him all morning,” he mumbled as he reached for the phone.

  “Frank, you had me worried. Are we still on for tomorrow?” Alan relaxed into his huge leather chair.

  A pause ensued while she resumed the process of paper pushing.

  “You what? Is it bad?”

  Liz turned to glance at him. His eyes were huge and his brow furrowed even though his voice only mildly relayed the same sentiment.

  “Oh my God… Of course. I totally understand.” Clearly, he didn’t as he bit his lower lip with his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. “No. No. Don’t worry. Just get some rest and get well soon. Don’t worry about me… Yes… Okay… I’ll call you in a few days to check up on you.” He put the receiver back on the hook with surprising delicacy before he bellowed his next word, “Fuck.”

  Liz nearly dropped the stack of documents in her hands. Her head snapped around to face him again. For a moment, irrational fear encapsulated her.

  She attempted to calm her racing pulse as she forced air into her lungs. Even after two years, she was still skittish about men’s tempers.

  Alan jumped up and slammed a book onto the desk. The action was so fast that this time Liz cringed. Inadvertently, she scrunched against the bookcase and covered her face with her free hand. The impulse was so abrupt she hadn’t time to recognize the absurdity before it was too late. Holding her breath, Liz’s heart seemed to beat out of her chest.

  Flashes of her past sped through her mind. Her head swam with the memories and the sound of Matthew’s voice.

  “You bitch. What do you think you’re doing? Can’t you be quieter while you clean? I’ll show you…”

  “Liz?” Alan swiftly made his way around the desk to her side as she peaked between her fingers. All semblance of anger was gone. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry. I scared the hell out of you.” He gently grasped her arm with his long fingers. “You thought I was going to throw that book at you, didn’t you? Why would I do that?” His face was a mask of confusion. He took a step back, but then seemed to think twice and helped her sit in the chair across from his desk and scurried from the room.

  Moments later, he returned with a glass of water and handed it to her. His voice was soft. “That was my accountant. He fell off a ladder this morning and broke his leg in two places. They have to operate on it tomorrow.”

  Liz stared up at him. Why would that make someone so angry?

  “It’s April fourteenth. He was supposed to do my taxes in the morning.” Alan backed up and started to pace the room. He ran his hands through his thick black hair, causing it to fall in disarray about his face and across one eye. When he looked back at Liz, he continued, “I’m so sorry I scared you. I didn’t realize…” He turned to the window and leaned against the glass. “I’ll never find someone able to handle my account with such short notice. Who’s going to take on a job like this at the last minute?” he asked rhetorically while he stared out at the sunny day without seeing it.

  Of course, Liz knew the answer to his question.

  With a brief sigh, she walked over to the window and stood directly behind her new
boss.

  Please, God, don’t let me regret this decision.

  “I can do it,” she nearly whispered.

  *

  Alan turned toward the sweet voice, astonished by her offer, and leaned his back against the windowsill. “Of course you can.” He just shook his head. “Why am I not surprised? On top of everything else, you can do taxes too? Can you perform a heart transplant after that if I don’t like the results?” He smiled.

  Nothing should surprise him really. Liz hadn’t seemed to fit the part of a cleaning lady since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Oh, she was good at the job. It just didn’t seem to suit her. He had more questions than answers right now. Could she really do taxes?

  He knew two things for sure. First, she had not always cleaned houses for a living. Second, someone had scared the hell out of her in an abusive manner in her mysterious past.

  “Well… I…yes.” Liz bit her lower lip and stared up at Alan, her green eyes glistening. “I mean, no, of course I can’t operate on you, but I can do your taxes.”

  “How? Why? Never mind. You don’t have to explain.” Alan took a deep breath and forced a half smile. Clearly, she was more uncomfortable talking about her past than she was reliving it through his reckless bout of rage.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I actually have a degree in accounting. I don’t mean to put you on the spot though. You should try to find someone—”

  “I hardly see that happening at this hour.” Was he seriously going to hand his personal information over to this unbelievably interesting woman? Who in their right mind would do such a thing? His mind stuttered through those thoughts. His heart told him she was an angel.

  “It could take me a while to download all the state information for Minnesota and go through the local jargon. I’ve never done taxes in this state.” Liz glanced down at her hands and then past him out the window.

  “Right, of course. Each state is a little different. I guess you’ve only practiced in New York.” He needed to take a leap of faith here. The worst that could happen is he would have to file for an extension at the end of the day.

  Alan cautiously eased past his cleaning help/organizer/accountant and ambled over to his desk. “Of course I’ll pay you appropriately for the added work and experience. It may take us a while to get the job done. Do you have to be anywhere this evening? Or could you stay late?”

  “Yes. That’s no problem. I just have one request.” She ran her fingertips over the edge of his desk in a gentle manner that divulged the fact that she was more accustomed to desks than dustpans and she couldn’t wait to sit down behind this one again and do what she did best. Her eyes didn’t reach Alan’s face, or even his chest. They stayed focused on the mahogany wood beneath her dancing fingertips.

  “Anything. Anything at all.” He held his breath in wonder.

  “Please don’t tell anyone about this.” She looked up into his eyes imploringly.

  “Of course,” he barely whispered on his exhale. Why am I not surprised?

  Whatever secrets this dainty woman had hidden in her back pocket were not going to be exposed by him. Maybe one day she’d share her past with him, but he didn’t intend to push her.

  * * * *

  Matthew Martin reached absently for the phone on his desk, not bothering to glance at the caller ID. He quickly swallowed the bite of sandwich he’d been eating while working through lunch and pulled his gaze from the computer screen to concentrate on the caller. “Martin here.”

  “Is this Matthew Martin?” The formal voice made Matthew sit up and take notice.

  “It is.”

  “Sir, this is Graham Walker of the Minneapolis Police Department. Are you the spouse of Elizabeth Martin?” The officer’s voice was hopeful.

  “Yeesss. What’s this about?” It had been over two years. Did people really need to keep contacting him? He’d already done everything a grieving spouse was supposed to do and he just wanted to forget the selfish bitch for dying on him and move on. He didn’t need to keep pretending his life was a shambles in her absence.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to report that your wife has died.” Officer—what was his name? Walker?—sounded terribly bereft.

  “No shit, Sherlock.” When were these idiots going to stop bugging him to death?

  “Pardon me?”

  “Of, course she’s dead. I don’t need you to keep calling me to tell me that. What did you find now? A shoe? An arm? I truly don’t care anymore. I really wish you people would leave me alone so I can get on with my life.” Matthew was about to hang up the phone on this loser.

  “Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What we found was her body. Under a bridge in downtown Minneapolis.”

  The detective’s words made him freeze, his arm hanging over the receiver, and his lunch threatened to make a second appearance. “What?” Was this guy crazy? He must be mistaken.

  “She must have passed in her sleep last night. How long has it been since you last saw her?” The officer’s voice was growing very sympathetic.

  “Saw her?” What the hell was this all about?

  “Yes, how long has she been missing? I assume she was missing?” Graham cleared his voice, probably hoping he hadn’t said too much.

  “Missing? I hate to bust your bubble, man, but my wife died in 9/11. She was in the South Tower on the eighty-sixth floor.” Something about the officer’s words was niggling at Matthew.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Truly I am. There must be some mistake. Your wife’s name was Elizabeth Martin, correct?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure there are several people with that name. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Wait.” Matthew was scrambling to organize his thoughts. “What made you think this woman was my wife?”

  “Her purse. It was with her when she died. She has a Mr. Matthew Martin listed as next of kin with the number I dialed. The driver’s license is expired, but I don’t suppose she’s had a car for quite some time. The picture is smudged out, so I can’t confirm whether or not the woman matches the picture.”

  Matthew raised an eyebrow and stood to pace his office, yanking the base of the phone around dangling by the cord. “Are you telling me that you found a woman dead under a bridge this morning with my wife’s purse? Can you describe this purse, Walker?”

  The room was suddenly very hot. Even tugging on his tie to loosen the knot did not keep the sweat from running down his chest. Was it possible someone had Beth’s purse? No way. The authorities had assured him her entire floor in the South Tower had been obliterated. There’d never been anything recovered from that area, not one single body or even a sock. If Beth’s purse wasn’t harmed, then…God Almighty.

  “It’s a brown satchel-type purse made of imitation leather. Wait, I have it right here. Hang on a sec…” A clank indicated the officer had set the receiver down on the desk.

  Matthew was seething. His mind raced considering the possibilities. That fucking bitch! If she wasn’t dead he was going to personally kill her himself. By the time the detective returned to the phone, Matthew was about to punch a hole in the wall.

  “Sorry. I’m back. The tag inside is worn too much to tell the brand, but I can describe the contents for you…if you’d like.” Walker paused.

  “Sure. Go ahead.” Matthew tried to sound nonchalant. Inside his blood boiled as he tried to come up with a plausible explanation for what was happening here.

  “Lipstick, compact, really old compact, all used up.” A popping noise made Matthew squint as though that were going to help him hear better. “The lipstick is all gone too. Strange things to carry in a purse. But then again the owner of the purse seems to have lived quite some time as a bag lady. In my line of work, I’ve seen a lot of this. Homeless people tend to hang on to everything. Even after it is used up. Not that unusual really… Let’s see, there’s a lighter—”

  “My wife didn’t smoke,” Matthew interjected as though that mattered.

  “Gum wrappers�
��”

  “What kind?” She only chewed one kind of gum. A fact he knew because he hated listening to her smack it when she was nervous, which was all the time. He’d banned her from buying the shit, but that hadn’t stopped her apparently. Hell, what was he even thinking? His thoughts were a scrambled mess right now.

  “Double Mint.”

  Bingo. Matthew ran his free hand through his hair and winced at the pain he inflicted on himself when he pulled the strands too tight away from his head.

  “Hair bands. Just plain black bands. That’s weird.” The officer was at least as perplexed as Matthew.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The woman we found had very short hair. What would she need rubber bands for?” A pause and then, “Empty tissue package, receipt, ahh keys. Did your wife have a special key ring that might stand out?”

  “Yes, a rabbit’s foot. She said it brought good luck.” Obviously not for her. Unless…

  “Well, I have one pink rabbit’s foot in my hand. Could your wife’s purse have been stolen? Before 9/11 maybe?”

  “No.” She’d had it with her that day, he was sure of it.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. I think you’d better come here and identify the body. Just in case.” The apologetic voice dripped through the line.

  “I’ll be there on the next flight.” Matthew hoped he sounded more even keel than he currently felt.

  His head began to pound as he hung up the phone and considered the possibilities. Was it even remotely possible Beth had survived the collapse of the South Tower? If she did, what the hell was she doing in Minneapolis living under a bridge?

  The pencil in Matthew’s hand snapped in half and he glanced down to find his pinky bleeding from a lead puncture he hadn’t even realized he’d suffered. Impervious to the injury, he just stared at the growing drop of blood as though seeing someone else’s finger. The slight pain was masked entirely by the violent urge to kill someone.

  Chapter Four

  Several hours after Liz began to figure Alan’s taxes she struggled to keep her cool while he breathed over her shoulder for the umpteenth time. He’d given her the fancy chair and insisted she take center stage at the desktop computer, but it didn’t keep him from exhaling his warm breath in her left ear dozens of times an hour.