The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  The office complex was clean, with a tiny restroom and a galley kitchen, both near the rear exit. A counter separated Beth’s work station from a cramped waiting area with two chairs. Steve’s private office was arranged so that each could see the other. Convenient not to have to hunt for him if he had a call, but somewhat creepy to know he might be watching Beth at any time... or all the time.

  Steve—married some dozen years—never seemed interested in Beth, but he often looked in her direction. Maybe the riverboat painting behind her desk was the object of his attention, or possibly he was just resting his eyes from the computer screen. If Steve’s desk were over where it should be, centered in front of the built-in credenza, Beth wouldn’t be in his line of sight at all. She could only hope. Of course, to be fair, the only way Steve could see anyone entering the office—if Beth was not at her work station—was to have his desk exactly where it sat presently.

  Steve was always civil and moderately considerate—he even lowered the toilet seat before exiting their shared restroom—but he lacked people skills. His personality could be characterized by one word—missing. Yet this distinction did not put off any of his clients; in fact, it almost seemed to be a selling point. If a CPA was all business, clients figured they could trust him with their finances. If he was a gregarious gad-about, maybe he was reckless with their money. Ha. Gregarious he’s not.

  Beth had just started the coffee pot when her boss entered the back door from the parking area used by all the workers in that retail strip. Steve nodded, his only acknowledgement of her burglary trauma and two days off. She could tell he’d noticed her bruise, because his eyes—despite coming back to it three times—seemed unable to comprehend somehow.

  Thin, pale arms extended from his short-sleeved buttoned shirt after he shrugged off his medium weight jacket. His narrow shoulders sloped out to a rotund middle and his essential body shape was a bit like the old six-ounce bottle of cola.

  Steve deposited his briefcase and laptop in the office and stood in his doorway watching the wall clock above the riverboat painting. When the minute hand reached straight-up eight o’clock, it made a slight whirring noise. Hearing that, Steve nodded again and then went to his desk. That was Beth’s signal to unlock the front door.

  Nobody there, of course. Not during that time of year. Though at several peak weeks of tax season, they opened at seven-thirty, and Steve sometimes arranged for a temp to cover lunches and help with the increased workload.

  Beth spent the first couple of hours just catching up with messages, organizing mail, filing, and other minor to do items Steve had left with sticky notes.

  About ten-fifteen, Steve got his customary mid-morning coffee, which always distracted Beth since he passed so close to her desk. It amazed her that Steve was seemingly able to separate nearly every individual strand of his wispy, sparse hair and array it so carefully across his pale scalp. He was obviously obsessive, though no one could be fooled into thinking the man had a full head of hair. Beth idly wondered what he’d look like if he just shaved off that scraggly mess, but then she shuddered. Not before lunch. He had a bland but pleasant face. If transplanted to a head with normal hair and a body with more typical proportions, it might qualify Steve as an average-looking guy. But, in truth, average was way out of his grasp.

  He’d paused with his coffee mug and hovered briefly. Steve’s eyes often blinked at such times. “I did some checking yesterday... about which aspects of home burglary losses might be deductible, tax-wise.”

  Beth looked up. She hadn’t expected a consoling hug, of course, but not even a word about her ordeal? Nope. Just the business aspects.

  “I’m not an insurance agent, but it looks like you’re out of luck as a renter unless the loss is greater than the policy’s deductible. Assuming you even have that kind of insurance.”

  Steve didn’t actually ask, so Beth didn’t volunteer that she did not have renter’s insurance.

  “Tax-wise, of course, the renter gets no relief for such a theft loss. And no expenses related to that loss.” He paused. “Unless you moved to another town and got a new job more than a certain number of miles away, all because of the loss. Then you might have a deduction.”

  Huh? Move? New job? Was she about to be let go?

  “Now, the landlord might have tax deductions for losses if there was damage to his property. But that wouldn’t help you any.”

  “Steve, there was no damage. He whacked me on the face.” She pointed to her bruise, which was already considerably better. “He stole something small, probably a book. None of my books have enough value to trip any threshold... for insurance or the IRS.”

  “Oh.” Steve took a long, slow sip of his coffee and headed back toward his office with no further comment.

  Beth watched him move awkwardly away. Steve was obviously uncomfortable dealing with someone who might express emotions, yet, somehow, this morning he actually seemed slightly disappointed that Beth was so outwardly calm. Inwardly, of course, was a different matter entirely. Maybe they’d both feel better if she just sobbed at her desk for about fifteen minutes. Not gonna happen.

  The day moved at a glacial pace and every time Beth looked up, she thought she caught Steve watching her. Was anything showing? She wore her usual office apparel—nice slacks with medium heels and a buttoned blouse from the racks at major clothing stores. She never showed any cleavage at work, and on the rare occasions she wore skirts, they were always knee-length. What was Steve looking at? Beth decided the next morning before her boss arrived, she’d take down the riverboat painting or move the clock. One way to find out what Steve had been staring at.

  Beth occupied the hours with filing, billing, and calling about appointments, but her mind wandered elsewhere—robbery, stalker, and Shane’s possible visit. In the annals of sudden visits from ex-boyfriends, surely there was a rule against him popping up when everything else was completely haywire. Maybe not.

  After five o’clock, as Beth drove from work, she again felt that weird sensation—being followed. Didn’t see anybody behind her in traffic. There were shorter ways to get home—west on Highland Drive— but instead, she continued south on Highway 70 until it reached I-40 and then she headed back west. At least nine miles out of her way, but she had to know if anybody followed.

  As she approached the exit for Highway 231—Dock Road to the north—she decided not to turn north toward her Old Highlands neighborhood. Instead, she exited south toward the Verdeville Mall. She pulled into the immense surrounding parking lot and tried to find some shade. Couldn’t. It was warm, but she left the windows all the way up.

  After a few moments she was about to leave the lot when a large, dark sedan pulled up nearby. That was unusual because she’d purposefully parked far from any other vehicles. Beth mashed the all-lock button and squinted into the bright setting sun. She couldn’t see who was in that car but she could tell it was a man’s voice. And Beth thought she heard her name!

  There was something vaguely familiar about that voice—as faint as it was—but Beth didn’t stick around to listen. She floored the accelerator and peeled out. Without taking time to check her rear-view mirror, Beth drove straight toward the entrance to the food court, which was starting its main supper traffic—approaching five-thirty p.m.

  She stayed in her vehicle, motor running, both hands on the wheel and fingers clinched so tightly, her knuckles were white. When Beth finally turned her head to look for the dark sedan, she thought she saw it in the distance heading for the east-bound I-40 ramp.

  Though she’d considered stopping for a quick supper, Beth didn’t figure she could chew anything besides her fingernails. She remained in her Dodge for at least five more minutes, motor running in case she needed a quick escape. Something Shane had always emphasized was to think ahead to the escape... whether in heavy traffic, a bar fight, or outside the food court with some creepy stalker.

  Eventually, she moved from that spot and monitored her mirrors all the way home.
She made two deliberate wrong turns in case anybody was following.

  ****

  Beth had earlier phoned for Connie, but it went to voicemail. She was already home with the doors locked—and re-checked—and the curtains drawn tight, when Connie called her back.

  “What’s up, Beth?”

  “You feel like watching a movie on TV? Or something? Got a DVD you haven’t seen yet?”

  The concern was evident in Connie’s voice. “Beth, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “At home. I’m okay... just rattled again.” She took a deep breath, and her eyes burned. “Actually, I’m rattled still, but it’s because I’m being followed.”

  “You mean that feeling from the other night?”

  “No, this afternoon, coming home. I thought I lost him when I detoured down to the mall, but the creep followed me and pulled in right next to me in the parking lot!”

  “Are you hurt? Did he... ?”

  “No, I’m okay. He never got out of his car. But I thought I heard him say my name.” She shuddered.

  “Beth, I’ll be right there.” There was a slight pause. “You want me to bring anything besides a movie? Maybe some supper?”

  “I don’t think I can eat right now.”

  “Well, I’m starving, so I’ll grab something on the way. I’ll bring double in case you change your mind.” Connie noisily gathered up her things. “I’ll be right there. Keep your phone handy in case you need to dial 9-1-1.”

  “Uh, that’s not terribly comforting, Connie. You don’t think he’s coming here, do you?”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant.”

  So what does she mean?

  Connie didn’t explain. “I’ll be there before you get a chance to pull out the sweet tea.”

  But Beth didn’t even enter her kitchen; she remained on her couch with her knees drawn up and watched the front door.

  Connie arrived sixteen minutes later... rather good time from her neighborhood northeast of old downtown. And that included a stop for a small bucket of grilled chicken and sides. She left the food in her car and hurried toward the house.

  Beth had been waiting near her front window and whipped open the door as soon as her friend reached the stoop. They hugged urgently. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “I don’t know. I just get so scared lately.” Beth tried to back up their embrace so she could close the door.

  “You go on in. Let me get some things from the car.”

  For a moment, Beth didn’t release her grasp. Then she mouthed “okay,” and watched Connie closely.

  After Connie hustled inside with the food, Beth slammed the door and bolted both locks.

  “This mall thing’s totally got you spooked.”

  Beth nodded.

  “Any idea at all who it is?”

  It took a moment for Beth to phrase it. “Some man who knows my name.”

  “And recognizes that old relic you drive. Nobody else in Verdeville has a white car like that. People could follow you from five miles away.” Sometimes Connie was considerably less than comforting—at times she made bad things feel even worse.

  Beth groaned.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I just meant to say the guy following you knows your name and your car.”

  “And probably where I work, since he obviously knew where to intercept me.”

  “That ought to narrow things down.”

  Beth sat at the kitchen table and stared out the rear window.

  “Your bruise looks a lot better today.” Connie laid out the meal components. “You hungry yet?”

  Beth was too distracted to reply.

  “Where do you keep your paper plates?”

  Beth pointed to the tiny reach-in pantry.

  Connie served both plates and slid one in front of her friend. “Eat something. Even a bite will make you feel better.”

  Beth nibbled on a drumstick.

  “What you need to do is to think about something else altogether. I’ll turn on the news.” Connie flipped to a Nashville station which was in the middle of a report on the State Senate race. She watched for a few moments and then muted it. “Are you following that Durocher race?”

  “Huh? Oh, not really. I know she’s running but seems no way qualified.”

  “Exactly. That’s the big buzz right now. Nancy’s down at least ten points in the polls and everybody says it’s because she’s got no experience of any kind... except high society.”

  “Maybe that’s enough these days.”

  “Well, everybody says Nancy’s just an ambitious rich witch who’d do anything to get elected.” Connie thoroughly chewed some breast meat. “What do you think about Senator Fitch?”

  Beth looked into her eyes. “This is just to distract me from my scaredy-cat stuff, right? I mean, you don’t actually care about Durocher challenging Fitch, do you?”

  A shred of white meat showed in Connie’s self conscious grin. “Not too much. Although I will say I’ve met Joe Fitch a few times, and he’s a real good guy. For a politician, I mean.”

  “Well, I read a recent profile piece—in a new Nashville magazine, I think—with research on both sides of her family... mom and dad.” Beth pointed to a photo displayed behind the newscaster onscreen. “Durocher’s ancestors were powerful and obscenely wealthy and got that way over the dead bodies of other folks.”

  “Didn’t we all.” Connie laughed.

  After nibbling on her supper, Beth felt settled somewhat. Of course, it was Connie’s company more than the chicken. Beth realized it was partly the solitude which had gotten to her. Some folks did quite well by themselves, but she wasn’t meant to be alone. With Shane by her side, she’d never felt frightened or isolated.

  Connie watched her face. “What’cha thinking?”

  Beth closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. Better to change the subject. “Well, I’ve got all my books back.” She moved toward the living space. “Can’t swear about the exact order within each group, but they’re definitely on the proper shelves.”

  “And we still have that empty spot right here on the middle shelf next to these college books.” Connie leaned over and poked it with her flawless nails. “And you’re certain there was a book there?”

  When Beth nodded, her chin jutted slightly.

  “Looks like it always did to me.” Connie peered again at the case. “So what’s missing?”

  Beth started shaking her head but stopped. “Remember when we were in that photography class? I took some pictures of you standing in front of that book case.”

  “Yeah... over a year ago. It was that awful dress for my cousin’s wedding.” Wisely, Connie had not trusted the clerk’s flattery at the bridal boutique, so she brought over the dress and shoes to show Beth. “I mean, tangerine is not my color.”

  “But that plunging neckline certainly showed off your girls.”

  Connie touched her own bosom briefly and smiled with the memory. “Of course, that was an über special bra, too.”

  “Didn’t matter to those dozen guys who danced with you.” Beth’s hand made a swirling motion. “And as you danced, those side slits certainly showcased your legs.” Beth had been asked to dance, but she’d declined. Didn’t feel right.

  “You’re the one with killer legs, girlfriend. But yeah, two of those guys asked me out later.”

  It was true, Beth assessed modestly: her own legs were much nicer than Connie’s. Of course, her exceptionally social friend had the larger bra and—since the divorce—blonde hair.

  “Where are those photos? If they’re handy, maybe we can see the book titles.”

  “I’ll look.” Beth went to her bedroom, rummaged around briefly and returned. “Tah-dah! Top of the filing cabinet.”

  Connie grabbed them quickly. “Gosh, I did show some cleavage!” She grinned as she handed back the photos one by one.

  “You’re not even looking at the books, are you?”

  She offered a cheesy smile. “Forgot. Lemme have them again.�
��

  “While you’re admiring your figure in tangerine taffeta, I’ll hunt down a magnifying glass. All I can see now is the color and size of the books.”

  “I’ll start looking in here.” Connie knelt and ran her nail tips over the spines of each book.

  Beth left but returned quickly with a large magnifying glass in two pieces. “Handle broke off.”

  “Let me look. The pix on top show more of the bookcase.”

  Beth read out the book titles, shelf by shelf, and Connie followed along on the magnified images.

  “Stop!” Connie’s imperative startled both of them. “I got one in the picture that you didn’t say.”

  “Which one?”

  “Uh, says Date Book.” Connie squinted and moved the glass in and out. “Can’t make out the year.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll read them off to you. Only have four.” She started with the years when she realized. “Three! One’s missing. That stinky idiot took my day planner from college!” Beth pulled out the three remaining volumes from her years at California State, Long Beach during 2001 to 2005.

  “Are you sure? A day planner?”

  Beth nodded. “Pretty much like these other three, except the missing one was a different size and color. I used them for all four years of college, minus my first semester.” She checked the dates on the ones present. “The missing one’s from 2002. That’s the last half of my freshman year and first part of sophomore.”

  “Why would a burglar take one day planner but leave the others?”

  “Why would he want any of my day planners?”

  “What kind of things are in it?”

  “Absolute junk.” Beth groaned softly. “Test dates, deadlines for papers. A few notes about who I was dating at the time... and maybe where we went.”

  “This was before you met Shane, I take it.”

  “Actually, Shane and I started dating late in my junior year.”

  “You ever date anybody famous?”

  Beth shook her head. “Only in my dreams.”

  “Anybody in the Mob?”