The Death of Alan Chandler (The Red Lake Series Book 1)

by Rich Foster

  Ahead the road curved and blue sky opened up. He was about to ease off on the gas, when the jeep hit a pothole. The car lurched as the front wheel slammed in and then bounded out of the hole. Alan’s cup slipped out of his hand. It bounced on the steering wheel. The top popped off dumping hot coffee into his lap. Convulsively, his leg straightened and inadvertently floored the gas pedal.

  Unfortunately, a young deer trotted into the road. Alan jerked the wheel to the right. If he hit the deer, his life would have turned out differently, doubtlessly, the deer would die but he would have been safe. However, life is made of such instances and Alan missed the deer which wheeled around and bounded safely up the hill, as for his Jeep, the tires hit the road’s shoulder.

  Time slowed, almost stopped. Thoughts flashed through his mind in rapid succession. Lousy potholes! It just kills the alignment. At least I missed the stupid deer! Damn, that coffee’s hot!! Oh crap! I’m going off the road, pull to the left. Oh my God!

  He missed the curve, and still accelerating the jeep launched itself into space. It soared outward as blue sky filled the windshield, then he began to drop. Alan felt weightless.

  I don't want to die like this!

  When the vehicle landed ninety feet down the slope, the tires exploded on impact. The rims of the wheels flattened. Small pieces of the car let go. His world went mad as the air bag exploded in his face. The vehicle careened down the slope in a shower of gravel, pitching one way and then tilting up on two wheel hubs the other. With a violent jolt the jeep slammed broadside into a boulder. The passenger side of the car crumpled. The Jeep rolled up over the rock, flipped and landed on the roof, which gave way. The shattered windshield showered him with pieces of shattered safety glass. Alan was spun around wildly and tossed like a rag doll. Then the car slammed into another rock and was upright again. In the gap between the crumpled roof and the hood he saw the roaring river loom larger but then it disappeared behind a broad rock ledge. The jeep skidded across the outcropping as the undercarriage screeched across the granite shelf. The front wheels dropped off the precipitous edge where the Jeep stopped, teetering above the water thirty feet below. The driver door hung open but let out unto space. The other door was twisted permanently shut. Glass shards covered the seats.

  Amid the destruction Eagles still screamed, “Get over it!” Numbly and without thought Alan turned off the key and silence fell. Dazed and battered, he felt his heart pound. He listened to the shower of loose gravel that continued to skid down the slope and the rush of water below.

  His rucksack lay by his feet. He reached for the pack and the car ominously shifted. Terrified by the possible fall he moved toward the back squeezing between the seat backs. Then where the roof was still higher he climbed over the back seat into the cargo area and tried the hatch. It was jammed despite the window having survived. Terror overtook him as he looked up the long, steep slope he descended. Claustrophobia gripped him, he needed to be out of the car! He lay back and gave the door a kick, instead of giving way, the car lost its purchase and with a howl slid off the edge, to plunge nose first into the water thirty-five feet below.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Late Sunday night, before Alan left, Lilly heard Alan moving about the house. But her memory was grossly impaired by a hangover. It was common for Alan to roam late at night, however, it was uncommon for them to have a hideous no holds barred fight before they went to bed.

  At some point a car, tires angrily squealed rubber in the street. Awakened, she inexplicably found herself sucking on her knuckle and quietly sobbing. She buried her face in the pillow only to find the gingham cover wet with her tears. Vaguely, as if in a dream, she recalled fighting with Alan. But under the soporific effect of being drunk her memories were scattered. Soon her breathing became shallow and regular. By the time Alan’s jeep reached the end of their street she was fast asleep again.

  The fight was the sort of vicious marital discord which gives rise to domestic violence and homicide. It raged for over an hour, at increasing decibels, climaxed by the sound of shattering glass. If the Chandler's neighbors were home earlier they would have certainly called the police. Few people would have tolerated the length of the fight, fearing when or how it might conclude. However the neighbors furthest from the Chandler’s kitchen were elderly and deaf once they removed their hearing aids for the night. On the nearer side, the Chan’s were gone to the movies. They arrived home late because the dense fog made driving slow and treacherous.

  The Chan’s heard the last five minutes of the fight. Though the words were indiscernible, it was not difficult to hear the raw violence in their tones. Hearing high-pitched obscenity laced screaming, Mrs. Chan told herself that couldn’t possibly be Mrs. Chandler. She peered out her window at the Chandler house, but it was muted by the fog. She thought of calling the police, but hesitated, the Chandlers seeming to be such nice people. Besides, she didn’t wish to be involved. Then the noise of shattering glass began. Her hand lingered near the phone as she struggled over whether or not to call the police. Finally, she dialed 911, but as it rang silence fell on the neighborhood.

  “911 what is your emergency?”

  Mrs. Chan said, “I’m sorry, it was nothing.”

  Then she hung up the phone, turned off the lights, and went up to bed.

  The fight had begun as a petty quarrel. Alan and Lilly seldom fought and when they did things were usually quickly and amicably resolved. But not Sunday night! A rather slight disagreement over whether or not to accept the Denton’s dinner invitation escalated into a conflagration of such acrimony that both gave voice to thoughts, which would have best been left unspoken.

  Lilly was not given to tempers, despite the stereotype that accompanies red hair. People who knew her would agree she was slow to anger. Many would not believe she ever was angry, so well masked was any irritation on her part. With Alan however, the irritation could be laid bare. She expressed her dissatisfaction with him in cool precise phrases, which needled rather than directly provoked him. After all, she sacrificed so much for him?

  Alan was the hotter of the two and though also slow to lose his temper he could be explosive at times. More than once Lilly slunk away as Alan vented at a recalcitrant store clerk. Even then she realized his was a controlled rage, it was a tool to achieve his end, not simply the slash and burn. He used it to manipulate events.

  But Sunday night there was a difference. Perhaps it was a chemical imbalance. Maybe it could be blamed on the full moon or too much stress. Most likely it could be blamed on the alcohol, which had certainly fueled their fight. Alan expressed his disdain of the Denton’s, declaring Bob Denton pompous and self-aggrandizing. To this Lilly fundamentally, but silently agreed. However, when he dismissively described Sally Denton as a shallow simple creature who never had an original thought in her head, Lilly found herself on the attack. An attack on her friends, was an assault upon her own judgment. “Who was he?” she asked “to play God and pass judgment on others?”

  Alan’s tendency to do precisely that, fueled her anger, as did her despair about the increasing frequency of his panic attacks. Whatever the cause, they dashed past the quarrel stage and leapt into verbal attacks on the other. They enumerated shortcomings. Characteristics, they normally found charming, they vilified. Small slights, presumably forgotten, rushed to the forefront of their memories. The fight was emotionally destructive. As if in symbolism of the fracture in their relationship it ended as dishes flew through the air and shattered against the wall. Parts of the dishes bounced, skipped and shattered into smaller fragments on the floor. Lastly, a bottle of red wine floated through the air, spraying its contents across the room and exploded through the glass kitchen cabinet door. In shocked silence the fight ended.

  Upon waking Monday morning, as the first light of day filtered through the windows, Lilly noticed Alan’s absence. His side of the bed lay undisturbed. She vaguely recalled the fight with lingering rancor. She rose, slipped a robe around her naked body, and wen
t into the bathroom where she took two aspirins and an Alka-seltzer. Then she went in search of Alan.

  The master bedroom let out onto the upstairs hallway. The hall in turn opened on a landing above the foyer below. No scent of fresh coffee reached her. She paused at the top of the stairs but no sounds came from the kitchen. The house was silent. She opened the guest room door at the end of the hall. Sometimes one or the other would sleep there, if they were sick or restless. The bed lay undisturbed. Lilly descended the wood stairs. On the ground floor the living room and study were vacant too.

  When she entered the kitchen she was completely baffled and stared with shock and dismay. For a moment she thought there had been a break in. Shattered dishes littered the floor. In fact it seemed as if it were a majority of the plates, bowls, and saucers in the house. The room stank of stale wine.

  She recalled drinking wine, far more than she would normally allow herself. In fact she got herself roaring drunk. A plaque on her kitchen wall read, “There is truth in wine.” The words troubled her sensing she found some very angry truths the night before, but though she remembered the anger, the why, eluded her.

  Angry with herself for losing control, she jerked a the paper towel spool, it rolled off out of control. Clenching the wad in her hand she bent to wipe up the puddle of wine by her feet. But it smeared, and was not wine.

  What was it? She sniffed the towel, Definitely not wine? Something metallic smelling, something familiar? Blood!

  Her mouth fell agape. Lilly was completely perplexed. Why was there was blood on the floor? The blood was mixed with wine, but the wine remained wet and whereas the blood was largely dried. And it's not a little blood! The smear ran across the linoleum in a great swirled sweep. Some of the shattered dishes were splattered dark red with congealing blood on their edges. The glass door of one kitchen cabinet was shattered, and jagged shards dangled from the opening.

  Lilly tried to fathom it, but she could not make sense of the scene before her. She tried to recall how the evening ended, but it was a blank. She looked down at her arms expecting to see cuts but her pale skin was unblemished. Fear of the unknown gnawed at her consciousness. But try as she might, nothing came back to her.

  She moved as if a victim of shell shock, Perhaps by restoring order to the kitchen she might restore order to her thoughts. And so, began to clean. She swept the broken stoneware into a pile an knelt to fill the dustpan. The wine and blood stained her robe. The kitchen wastebasket was quickly filled and yet more lay on the floor. Lilly carted the heavy load out to the row of trashcans beside the garage. With a grunt she up ended the wastebasket. Its contents clattered into the can. The noise crashed about in her head causing nausea to sweep over her. Afraid of being sick she leaned her head against the garage wall. When she looked up Mrs. Chan stood near her car, the keys in one hand and the other shaded her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” she called.

  Lilly swung her hand back and forth. “I’m feeling sick this morning, but it’ll pass.”

  Without waiting for more questions Lilly, picked up the wastebasket and hurried inside.

  She half filled the trashcan again, then filled a bucket with hot water and scrubbed the floor. Not all of the blood was dry; in spots it still felt sticky on the sponge. The metallic odor filled her nose, and threatened to make her sick. She felt the bile on the side of her tongue. She choked down the urge. The blood was not easily cleaned up. She wiped the floor with paper towels and threw them in the trash. Then she washed the floor three times before she felt it was clean. As for herself she felt in need of a similar cleansing.

  Parts of their acrimony and recriminations crept back to her to niggle at her conscience. But what had happened during the night? She slowly recalled throwing things at Alan. In her mind she could hear the crashing of the plates and see him duck and sway as dishes flew past. A few blows he deflected with his forearm. But there had been no blood. Then there was nothing! Lilly felt akin to one of those lost souls in the newspaper whose photo was captioned by, “Do you know who this person is? They are suffering from amnesia.”

  With an effort Lilly made life go on. She got coffee beans from the freezer. A note was taped to the coffee pot. She pulled it off. After reading it her anger smouldered, she crushed the note in her hands and dropped it in the trash. She proceeded to grind up the coffee beans and fill the coffee maker. The machine hissed and perked. While she waited, she pulled the note out of the trash and flattened it out. She read it again and again, hoping for enlightenment about the night before. But the terse message sent a moments anguish through her.

  'I’ve gone away to sort things out. I’m sorry. I will call. Alan.'

  Whether he meant he was sorry for needing to go away or sorry for the things said the night before was unclear. In fact the whole note was obtuse since it didn’t say where or for how long he was going. Lilly could do nothing but wait. Irritated her coffee was not ready, she dropped the note in the trash and went upstairs to shower and dress.

  I wonder if he took a suitcase? She found Alan’s overnight bag gone. Evidently, he was away for some time but he hadn’t moved out. Impatience and frustration overwhelmed her, she desperately wanted was to be held. Of course I want him back! The fight was stupid. All could be forgiven. After all, she loved Alan didn’t she? With this thought in mind she picked up the phone and called him. The phone rang, but then an electronic voice said the customer was not available or outside service. Lilly broke the connection.

  The bathroom filled with steam. Hot water cascaded and swirled down her body. A small vortex formed where it pooled and disappeared down the drain. Lilly let the water massage her back, while in her mind the thought passed, Yes Alan I do love you. By the time she stepped out of the shower the aroma of brewed coffee had permeated to the house. She hurried downstairs and returned with a mug, sipping it occasionally as she applied her make-up. Going toward the closet for clothes she caught sight of the bedside clock and her activity became frantic. Almost ten o’clock? I've a meeting at ten thirty! Thoughts of Alan passed to the back of her mind amid her mad rush for the door.

  Lilly worked as an interior designer. Back before she and Alan left Denver she had a spacious downtown office and a clientele of loyal customers. There were steady referrals. Her clients admired her sense of taste. By the time she finished they felt the ideas were their own, but Lilly had been such an inspiration her fee’s were justified. In fact, the work from first conception to last drapery pleat was Lilly’s. Her talent lay in her seeming passivity, while she absorbed the client’s character, assessed their needs and created a space which answered those desires. She would firmly stick to her vision, but not by edict, rather, she guided the customer to her way of thinking by firm but unnoticed perseverance. Letters of recommendation and thanks adorned her office wall. They were filled with adjectives and phrases such as, “a delight, an absolute pleasure, wonderfully unique, and very understanding.”

  It was going so well, but then Alan insisted on relocating. Reluctantly she agreed to move to Beaumont. Despite her past success it proved difficult to start over. The styles, which worked so well in Denver never seemed to fit Beaumont. And perhaps because she struggled with living in Beaumont she found equal trouble finding a “Beaumont style”. In fact, after an initial rush of projects, she was reduced to just one client.

  Lilly and Charles worked together for several months. Financial need drove her to please this client. Now, as she pulled her Miata into his drive with five minutes to spare, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. After a quick glance in the mirror to check her make-up, she slipped out of the car.

  Charles Blain, watched from the drawing room window. He liked the fluid ease by which Lilly seemed to float up out of the small car. He inwardly smiled, as she ran her fingers through her hair and walked toward the house.

  Charles inherited from his mother. The estate covered twenty acres along the river a short drive from town. He was a trust fund baby and did not need to work, n
onetheless he dabbled in a variety of business ventures. His efforts were usually short lived but of highly focused intensity and they seemed to invariably end financially successful.

  A business associate from Denver referred him to Lilly, praising both her and her sense of style. Charles hired her before they ever met, having only spoken on the phone. When she expressed a little surprise at his willingness to take her “sight unseen’ so to speak, he simply replied, “I usually know what I like!”

  At their first meeting he had not moved. Studying the house, that first morning she thought it to be vapid and generic. When her client opened the door and extended his cool, dry, satiny hand she was inclined to think he was the same. He’ll tend toward the traditional, the safe, the old boys club atmosphere, she thought. She was mistaken.

  The house was plebeian on its exterior, but the interior was well thought out. The layout flowed well. Its windows framed excellent views. The rooms were generous and well proportioned. It was a canvass awaiting its artist. Lilly grew excited at the possibilities, which spilled before her. However, she held her thoughts in check while expressing enthusiasm for the house itself. She made small conversation, awaiting her client’s denouement in taste.

  Charles Blain was patrician on his exterior. His attire was immaculate, dressed in a formal gray suit, muted by the faintest pin stripe, a hard starched white shirt, a corporately correct tie of fashion. A dash of gray by his temples added a final touch. He was the prototypical business tycoon. His style was polite but firm. His attire was immaculate and his voice inspired confidence. He was handsome in the style of Hollywood leading man from the forties, without the prettiness or coarseness of stars today. She estimated his age at forty, perhaps a little more. He probably frequented a gym, to judge from his physique, and Lilly mentally noted to design one into the house.