The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  Wolfsbrook, New Hampshire, is a good-sized suburb full of middle- and upper-class money, and the elementary school has four kindergarten rooms, each staffed with a teacher and at least one assistant. This keeps the class sizes under twenty students. And Mrs. Jocasta apparently remembers each one of hers, because she greets my daughter by name when we reach the door.

  “Good morning, Alyssa,” the teacher says brightly. She’s a pretty woman in her early thirties, with thick strawberry-blond hair and a very white smile. “Can you find your name on your cubby and hang up your backpack? If you need help, just ask Mrs. Field.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Jocasta. I can read my name,” Alyssa says with a proud smile. For a minute I think she’ll dash into the room without a backwards glance, and my heart will break a little, but she turns and throws her arms around my waist. “Bye, Mommy,” she says.

  I squeeze her back and lean down for a kiss. “Bye, munchkin,” I say, my voice just a little bit unsteady. “I’ll be here when you’re done, and you can tell me all about your first day of school. Remember, don’t go outside without me, okay?”

  “I won’t. Love you! Bye!” She breaks off, then turns and waves from the doorway.

  I wave back. “I love you too!”

  With that, she vanishes into the cloud of giggles and chatters and brightly colored everything that is kindergarten.

  “I think Alyssa will be just fine, Mrs. Bauman.”

  I jump a little when Mrs. Jocasta speaks. I’d almost forgotten she was there, but she’s regarding me with a patient smile — probably the same one she wears for every parent leaving their precious darlings in a classroom for the first time. “It’s Ms. Bauman. Call me Celine, actually,” I say. “And thank you. I know she will be.”

  Mrs. Jocasta doesn’t react to my lack of marital status or ask questions about Alyssa’s father, and I’m grateful for that. He’s a long, complicated story. She just gives me another smile, and says, “Celine, then. I look forward to having her in my class.”

  I make an appropriate response, something along the lines of thank you and goodbye and see you after school. My eyes are misting up, and I have to walk away before I give in to the urge to grab my daughter and take her home, declare that she’s not ready to start school yet when I’m the one who isn’t ready for this.

  Once I get outside and away from the crowds, I’m more or less okay. I notice that the creepy movie-star woman is gone, or at least not at the fence any more, but there’s something else on my mind now — where I have to go next.

  Most of the time I’m grateful that my job is so flexible. I don’t have to be in the office much, and making the adjustments to bring Alyssa to school and pick her up hasn’t been a problem. But right now I almost wish I had a more traditional job, because I might’ve used it as an excuse not to go to the funeral. This isn’t going to be easy.

  I didn’t know her well, but I knew her enough. And now, Rosalie Phillips is never going to see her thirtieth birthday.

  Chapter 2

  It’s 9:30 when I arrive at the Baker-Lindstrom Funeral Home, the preferred choice of burial services among the wealthier and older families of Wolfsbrook. The rest of us usually opted for the less-stuffy atmosphere of Morris and Sons across town, where the few funerals I’d attended in my life had been held. All except one, but I try not to think about that funeral. The one I almost didn’t make it through.

  This place feels more like a golf course than a funeral home, complete with well-tended grounds and gardens, and a parking lot that’s smooth as black glass. Like the elementary school lot, this one is nearly full. But it’s not only cars gathered outside. There are knots of people in dark, formal dress huddled here and there, holding subdued conversations under the bright September sun.

  Rosalie’s family has opted for a compressed mourning period. One day only, calling hours from nine to eleven, graveside funeral at 11:30. On the surface it looks almost callous, as if they want to get this over with and move on with their lives. But I suspect in this case it’s overwhelming grief and shock, and the need to spend as little time as possible being actively reminded of their tragedy. Not just because she was only twenty-eight, but because of the way she died.

  Four days ago, Rosalie Phillips jumped off the top of a cliff at Juniper State Park and Reservoir, deliberately swan-diving to the end of her life.

  No one knows why she did it. She was happily engaged, at the start of a promising career, and in the middle of planning her parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. She was healthy and fit, loved the outdoors, and had spent a lot of weekends hiking that park since high school. But even with those slim-to-none chances of an accident, it was clearly a suicide. Because she’d left a note.

  Chills invade my blood as I park my gray Montego next to a bright yellow pickup, and I grip the steering wheel hard as they subside. My own shock at hearing about Rosalie has kept me insulated from deeper emotions, but now I’m starting to feel weak and small. Almost terrified. A girl I knew is lying dead in that building, less than a hundred feet away from me. And she chose to be dead.

  That’s when I realize it’s not just horror and sadness I’m feeling. Most of this brick of emotion that’s lodged in my throat and trying to choke me is guilt. But I have to get through this somehow.

  I have to remember that unlike the one before this, Rosalie’s death isn’t my fault.

  I manage to pull myself together and climb out of the car, scanning the parking lot for a familiar red Fiat. Just as I spot the vehicle three rows away and head toward it, the front door opens and Jill Mazer emerges, wearing a black short-sleeved pantsuit with her usually scattered brown hair tamed into a neat bun.

  I’m so relieved to see her that I almost manage a smile. She hugs me, and the tears I’m trying to hold back come closer than ever to falling. “Thank you so much for coming,” I say. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

  “Of course I did. What are friends for?” Jill squeezes my hand briefly and nods toward the funeral home. “Do you want to go right in, or …?”

  “In a minute,” I say on a shaky breath. I really am grateful that she’s here. She grew up in the city — Oslow, where most of us went to the state university after high school — and she’d only met Rosalie once or twice. But Jill and I clicked instantly during the first semester of sophomore year at college, while we were in English Comp II together, and we’d been best friends ever since. She’d even moved to Wolfsbrook after graduation, and she lived just a few blocks from me and Alyssa.

  With my daughter’s father out of the picture, she’d been a real godsend.

  Jill gives me a sympathetic smile. “You look awful,” she says. “Are you sure you want to do this? Maybe we should go somewhere and get coffee instead.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.” I sniffle once, making a lie out of the statement, but I’m still determined to hold it together. At least long enough to find Rosalie’s parents and offer my condolences — for all the good it’ll do them. “God, I hate funerals,” I say.

  Jill nods solemnly. “Me too. Remember that girl Joan, back in college?”

  Oh, God. Hearing that name is like a punch in the face. I close my eyes and hope I don’t look as guilty as I feel — which is just as strong as the day of her funeral, when I sat in the back row trying to avoid everyone’s gazes, convinced I might as well be wearing a neon sign that flashed I KILLED HER to the world.

  I never told Jill, or anyone else, what happened. At first I was too scared, and then … well, I just couldn’t. Some secrets only get bigger and stronger with time, until they’re so big that they’re sure to kill you on the way out. And one way or another, they’ll follow you to the grave.

  “Yes, I remember,” I finally say in a strained tone that sounds mostly like sorrow. “Were you there, too?” I couldn’t recall seeing Jill that day, but we hadn’t met each other yet. The thing with Joan happened toward the end of freshman year.

  Jill shakes her head. “I didn’t
really know her that well,” she says. “I went to the calling hours the night before, because everybody was going, but I had an Intro to Law exam the morning of the funeral. Believe me, the calling hours were sad enough.”

  It’s my turn to nod numbly. I force my thoughts away from the past and square my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s get this over with,” I say.

  We cross the rest of the parking lot together and step onto the long sidewalk leading to the funeral home entrance. Rows of small brass urns with bright flowers growing out of them line both sides of the marble walkway, with twin expanses of emerald-green grass rolling out past the flowers to the tree-lined borders of the property. More knots of people dot the grass and the various shaded benches as they wait anxiously for the main event to begin.

  For some reason, the whole scene makes me think about how much funerals and weddings have in common. A large gathering of relatives and friends at an elegant venue, an air of solemn anticipation, lots of people crying, a traditional ceremony followed by a second gathering for food and reminiscing. But they’re at opposite ends of the spectrum — one is for beginnings, another for endings.

  The thought of the wedding Rosalie will never have tightens my throat.

  As Jill and I head up the sidewalk, a trio of young women emerge from the open doors of the funeral home and head toward us. They’re all high school classmates, and I recognize them as some of Rosalie’s good friends. In fact, the one in the middle, Missy Wilson, might’ve been her best friend, or close to it.

  Missy was also prone to histrionics, the drama queen of Wolfsbrook High. And it looks like she hasn’t lost any of her flair for the dramatic. She wails at the top of her lungs as she wobbles on three-inch spiked heels, leaning on the other two for support as tears stream from her reddened eyes.

  I feel bad for remembering what she was like and ascribing it to her now. Her grief is probably genuine. But she’s also Making A Scene, and I can’t help thinking that she loves the attention despite her actual sorrow for her friend.

  Missy spots me and hones in like a guided missile, her face crumpling all over again as she teeters toward me and flings her arms out. “Oh, Celine!” she cries. “I’m so glad you came. Isn’t it just awful?”

  Before I can stop it, I’m folded into a cloud of slender limbs and expensive perfume, and I have to hug her back.

  “Hi, Missy,” I finally say when I manage to extricate myself. The other two, Liza and Georgette, are hanging back and wringing their hands like chorus girls in a tragic stage play. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  It’s not exactly her loss, I think with a twinge of spite, and hate myself for it. I’m not supposed to think ill of others — if nothing else, my mother has drilled that into me. But I can’t help it. She’s so over-the-top, and some of it is definitely calculated. She’ll probably milk sympathy out of Rosalie’s death for years.

  “God. I still can’t believe it,” Missy says, producing a lace handkerchief from somewhere to dab at her eyes. “Did you know that she asked her to go with me that day? She really did,” she adds with the air of someone who’s already told this story dozens of times and embellished it with every telling. “But I had a hair appointment with Rafael, and I’d made it months ago. It’s just so hard to book him, you know? Oh, I should have cancelled my appointment anyway!”

  She dissolves into loud wailing again, and both Liza and Georgette surge forward to brace her against collapse.

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat, careful not to say that’s awful or anything else she’d view as a condemnation of her character. Honestly, I didn’t believe Missy Wilson had set foot in Juniper Park — or any large outdoor space, for that matter — in her entire life, but who knows? Maybe Rosalie really did ask her to come out. Not that she’d ever have agreed to do it, regardless of any fancy hair appointments.

  As Missy struggles to pull herself together, I look around the grounds, hoping Rosalie’s parents might come out for air so I can give my condolences and leave. I dread the idea of entering that building. I’m not surprised when I don’t spot them … but I’m struck breathless when I notice a different familiar figure standing by one of the outdoor cigarette stations.

  It’s the woman I saw at the elementary school this morning. Still wearing dark glasses and red lipstick, but with a black cocktail dress and patent leather flats instead of the white robe and strappy heels.

  She seems to be staring straight at me.

  Jill nudges me. “What’s wrong?” she says under her breath. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I start to reply, but then I realize Missy is talking again. And the few words I catch from her make my heart stop and drive all thoughts of the mystery woman from my head: “ … he woke up last night.”

  “What?” I whisper, gaping at her. “What did you say?”

  The look she gives me is part miserable, part insulted. She still isn’t happy unless people are hanging on her every word, just like high school. “I said, if only she’d held on for three more days, she could’ve told Brad how she felt. He woke up last night.” Missy narrows her eyes slightly. “Didn’t you know that? I thought you and Brad were an item for a while.”

  Oh, God, I can’t breathe. Brad is awake?

  “She just loved him so much,” Missy simpers through the dizzying rush in my head. “I mean, nobody ever knew. She was only with him for a week in college, and even I thought she’d gotten over him forever ago. She was marrying Reid, after all. But she left that note, saying how she couldn’t live without Brad, and it’s all so … Celine? Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine,” I croak desperately. “I just … need to sit down.”

  Jill puts an arm around me and starts dragging me toward a shaded bench, leaving Missy and her chorus girls standing there, looking hurt and confused. I try to murmur something about catching up with them later, but I don’t think what leaves my mouth makes any sense. I can’t think straight. Something inside me is shattering to pieces, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be fixed again.

  Brad Dowling has been in a coma for just over five years. No one ever thought he’d wake up, least of all me. In fact, I’d built my life around knowing he was never coming back. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Hoping for a miracle would’ve destroyed me. But now that the miracle has happened, I have no idea what to do.

  One way or another, my carefully constructed, mostly stable little life is about to fall apart.

  Chapter 3

  You can’t tell him, Celine. You just can’t.

  Jill is right — at least for now. That’s what she said to me once I managed to catch my breath and purge the flood of memories I’d kept locked away for so long. If Brad really is awake after all this time, he’ll have a lot to deal with. There’s also the fact that his parents are sure to be there with him, and they despise me. Blame me for the accident. They might not let me see him.

  And honestly, there’s a good chance Missy is full of shit, and he’s not really awake.

  Whether or not it’s true, I couldn’t face Rosalie’s parents or the rest of the funeral. Jill and I had gone for coffee, and then headed our separate ways to work — her to the legal office of Lindstrom, Gores and Carolin, and me to Hughes Real Estate. I hadn’t stayed long at the office, though. I had a showing this afternoon, and then I’d cleared the rest of the day to pick up Alyssa and celebrate her first day of school.

  Now I’m parked in the driveway of my problem-child listing: a five-bedroom, three-bath Victorian with all the bells and whistles that’s been on the market for over two years. The sellers, Mr. and Mrs. Quintaine, have been the most challenging clients I’ve ever worked with. They put the house up a week before they moved to Florida, demanding a selling price of four hundred thousand and not a penny less. Since then they’ve turned down every purchase offer like clockwork, up to and including one for three hundred and ninety-five thousand.

  Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this one, or why the Quintaines haven’t go
ne looking for a new agent who didn’t beg them to consider knocking a lousy five grand off the asking price. But I suppose it’s because of the twelve thousand dollar payday I’ll get if I ever manage to sell this place.

  Promptly at noon, a car slows and pulls into the driveway behind me — an electric blue two-door Lexus sports model with tinted windows, gleaming and showroom-new. At least it looks like the buyer can afford this place. I only know her name, Hannah Byers, and that she’s new to Wolfsbrook. She called me directly yesterday morning to set up the appointment, saying she’d found my name and number online as the listing agent.

  I put on my welcoming smile and get out of the car, briefcase in hand. But when the Lexus door opens and Hannah Byers emerges, the smile freezes into a shocked grimace on my face.

  It’s her. The woman I saw at the school this morning, and again at the funeral. She’s still in the little black dress and pumps, sunglasses in place, with a red Hermès purse that matches her red lips curved into an uncertain smile.

  “Hello,” she calls as she closes the car door and glides toward me. “Are you Celine Bauman?”

  For a moment I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer. The vague unease I felt when I first saw her returns, stronger this time, and my hind brain tries to tell me that she’s stalking me. But that’s ridiculous. I know I’m just worked up about my daughter starting school, and the funeral, and the news about Brad. Especially that.

  “Yes, that’s right. You must be Hannah Byers,” I say, and the normal sound of my own voice breaks through the paranoia. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she says, stopping to take the hand I extend. Hers is very small, and very cold. “I have to say, I’m very excited to see this house.”

  She doesn’t look excited. In fact, she looks almost terrified. But I’ve worked with plenty of nervous buyers, so there’s nothing alarming about that, at least. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” I say. “This really is a fabulous home, with too many features to include in the listing. Do you want to wait for your agent? If not, we can go ahead and start looking around.”