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

by Rich Foster

  She grew up poor. Her clothes came from the Salvation Army store in town or from the “charity of others” as the lady from the church would say. She learned to hate the word charity. Her mother never went to church but she allowed the Bible thumpers, as she referred to them, to pick Lilly up and take her to Sunday school. With a laugh her mother would say, “I’ll just stay here with Reverend Bed Sheets and his pillow of rest. At church she would see other girls in dresses adorned with ribbons and lace. No one in town was rich, but loving attention could make even a plain dress beautiful. She saw the way other mothers fussed over their children and by comparison she knew she was an inconvenience.

  Her mother taught her to hide her feelings. One day she had said, “Baby you think I like being stuck here like a pig? Life is what it is! You just have to accept it. So Lilly had learned to hide her feelings. When she was teased on the school playground she would hang her head in silence. A skinny girl with red hair and old clothes was an easy target. Children made themselves feel better at her expense. And when you did not have a father around the epitaph, “bastard” came to children’s lips too easily, while the Pentecostal minister referred to her as “that poor child of sin”.

  Lilly found that if she acted like she didn’t care, people would leave her alone. When she ignored the troubling things in life they eventually went away or they simply stopped being a bother to her. She had a lot of practice. She learned to be indifferent to the children’s taunts and shut out the pastor’s preaching. She became deaf to the whispers people made as she and her mother passed by when they were in town. She ignored the late night male laughter in her mother’s room, the clunking of the bed against the wall, and the way the cheap mobile home seemed to shake.

  By the time Lilly was in high school, they had moved to town and she had developed a cool aloofness. She had also bloomed in a way that made her desirable, if unavailable to the boys. Certain comments were made when she refused their advances but the teasing faded because tormentors can do nothing without a “tormentee.” She gave up on church, but the minister didn’t give up on her. In fact when her mother wasn’t home, he had come to call, with talk of showing her the “promised land.” He left in a hurry with the red mark of Lilly’s hand across his cheek and the knowledge that Lilly was not as compliant as he thought!

  Her salvation ended up being art. She took every drawing and art class available. She discovered a talent for composition and design and she moved away from graphic arts and into studying interior design. A teacher encouraged her to continue on in school and had helped her fill out financial aid and scholarship applications. She was accepted into the University.

  The day she graduated from high school she returned home from a class party to find an empty apartment and a note from her mother. It merely said, “I’m done. Good luck on the future.” The manager told her the rent was paid until the end of the month. The manager at the bar where her mother worked said that she and his night bartender had both quit. When she did not hear from them, she did what she had been taught to do and, “just let it go.”

  By September she was living in a rooming house in Denver. She enjoyed school and entered the interior design program with enthusiasm. She proved popular with the other students but eluded having close personal friends. During her senior year two events changed her life. She met Alan and she entered a design competition sponsored by the Denver Builders Association. The winning plan was used to decorate and furnish a model home at what was promoted as a posh new luxury housing development. Her design easily won. Once installed, it proved so popular that the developer asked her to redo the other models. When the newspaper ran a puff piece about her work, describing her as a “the wonder kid of design”, she hoped to hear from her mother. However, she never heard from her again. By the time she graduated from the university she had a steady flow of clients and a fiancée.

  Alan and she met in an abnormal psychology course. Both were filling out an elective and on some level both were looking for themselves. They were paired together in a work group to analyze a case study. They had to do an assessment, write out a therapeutic guideline and develop a treatment model. Alan was for deep reasoning and exploring the inner motivations. Lilly favored changing the environment. She believed that pleasant surroundings promoted mental health, advocating the use of light and color to effect change. He told her she was airy-fairy and that a sick bastard was a sick bastard no matter what color you painted the room. His failure to rile her was disconcerting. Lilly found he was charming though he talked too much. As they developed their case project they found they could work together and were willing to compromise. The project became a mixture of analysis and environmental modification. They received an “A” on their presentation. When Alan suggested they go to an upscale restaurant to celebrate, she had accepted by saying “a sick bastard is a sick bastard, no matter the color of the room. Let’s save money and go to the dining hall.” Somewhere between the soggy carrots, tough meat and jell-o dessert they found love.

  Lilly found herself quietly sobbing. The drawings of the Blain house were wet with her tears. It had been ages since she had cried for herself. Years of habit caused her to force the feelings back down. She had to take control, she told herself. Lately she seemed to be coming unglued. There was a stranger within who was both vaguely familiar yet fearfully new. Emotions had flown during the fight with Alan, which even now she refused to visit. Her feelings were a Pandora’s box, they were both dangerous and uncontrolled if let out. Wiping away the tears she told herself that Alan couldn’t have run out on her too. Something had to have happened to him.

  She went to the bathroom. Her eyeliner was smeared down her cheeks. The face she beheld was tired and edged with fear. She washed her face and held a wet paper towels to her eyes. After a few minutes they were less swollen and red, but her hand trembled as she replaced her eye make-up. Unable to steady her fingers to put her lipstick on evenly, she settled for wiping a shiny gloss across them with the tip of her finger.

  When she came out of the bathroom Charles Blain had arrived. He was looking over her drawings for the library; swatches of cloth and paint colors were attached to sample boards. He glanced up and said hello and then returned to the samples.

  “I like this one.” he said holding up a burgundy and maroon stripped fabric. “I think it goes well with the sconce glass.” Seeing her face, he stopped speaking and stared openly. “Is something wrong? I mean did something happen?” Lilly was silent for a moment then, looking away, she said, “It’s nothing.” He moved closer to her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Lilly, but you do look terrible!”

  Lilly, already on the ragged edge of emotions, exploded in tears. She turned and fell sobbing in his arms. He felt her clinging like a wounded child. Tears streamed down her face while perplexed, as to the cause, Charles patiently waited out the storm. Nearby was a conversational area for entertaining clients. As her sobbing abated he guided her to an easy chair and lowered her down. She sat with her face buried in her hands; still choking between sniffles and gasps. Charles handed her his handkerchief and went to the credenza where he poured out a generous dose of brandy into a snifter.

  “Here, drink this”, he said as he put the glass in her hands.

  She took it but trembled so hard he had to help move it to her lips. She coughed as she drank the brandy, and a little bit ran down the corner of her mouth. Both of her hands were occupied with the glass and the handkerchief, so responsively Charles wiped it away with the side of his finger. This action was in some way more intimate than holding her had been. Tear stained, and eyes smudged, Charles thought her more than beautiful. He thought her desirable. Within himself he felt stirrings of his own ambitions.

  “I’m sorry, Charles.” She paused as she caught her breath. “I’m just so frustrated and angry! This can’t be happening to me.”

  Charles showed uncommon patience and waited as another wave of crying f
looded in and then ebbed. In the lull he spoke, “What can I do to help?”

  “I don’t know. Alan’s gone…and the police have been crawling all over my house. They all but accused me of murder!”

  The pathos was too much for Charles’ playful spirit. The mental image of Lilly being led away in handcuffs was so ludicrous he burst out laughing. She swung her arm out at him and hit his shoulder with her fist. “Don’t laugh at me”, she blubbered.

  “But surely you are kidding? Why should they think you killed your husband?”

  “For the money.” she said with despair in her voice. “Last year I was pregnant. Alan and I were excited. As part of our planning for the future we had our attorney create a family trust. We also took out a half million-dollar life insurance policy. But I had a miscarriage; afterwards I forgot about the policy.”

  Charles was adrift on this sea of personal and random bits of information. He had enjoyed working with Lilly. He had thought her attractive, they had even shared a number of working lunches, but they had never talked about their personal lives.

  “So your husband, Alan, has taken a walk”, he said lightly. “Surely many a husband wanders off and the police don’t come knocking on the door.” Then showing the chasm that exists between the rich and the desperate he asked, “Besides, who would kill for half a million dollars?” Charles did not realize that to most people a half million was indeed a great deal of money and might be worth killing for.

  “There’s more. I lied!”

  “To whom and about what? Do you mean to say you really did kill your husband?”

  Charles was positively amused to know someone who might be accused of murder. For him life was a long series of pleasant diversions. This was completely novel to him. With difficulty he maintained an earnest expression.

  “To the police,” Lilly answered in a weary voice.

  Charles had lost all interest in the house designs for the moment. Suddenly, he found both Lilly and her problems far more interesting than his house.

  “Tell me what happened. And please start at the beginning.”

  Lilly poured her heart out to Charles. The anxiety of the past few days made her eager to talk and Charles attraction to Lilly made him an active listener. She told him of the fight and of finding the blood. When she told him of her deep fear because she couldn’t remember anything, she was baring her soul in a way she had seldom done. Charles kept her brandy glass steadily replenished. The drink steadied her and slowly the words came out more even, her body relaxed. He listened as she told of reporting Alan missing, followed by the worry he might lose his job. Charles suppressed his desire to laugh when she recounted lying about her husband being in bed. By nature he was a mischievous fellow and Lilly’s tale was like a good soap opera, or the game of “Clue.”

  He added a bit of brandy to her snifter as she told of her arrest for lying to the police. In the middle of a sentence, while she described being booked, she began to laugh. The spent emotions and the alcohol allowed her to see it as a stage farce.

  She giggled, “So, they have this little license plate thing in front of me and all I am thinking is smile, so it doesn’t look like my drivers license photo.”

  Charles allowed himself to laugh. She had relaxed to the point of being slightly loose. He moved the brandy away.

  “Why don’t we have a bite to eat? I think you need it, and you can save the rest for over lunch.”

  Lilly wasn’t drunk but she was feeling better than she had in days. A soft glow of well-being infused her.

  “I would like that.” Her problems seemed diminished in the telling.

  “I know a delightful French restaurant nearby.”

  “Do you mean, Pain de Vivre? I love that place”

  “Yes, the Bread of Life, what could be more fitting?”

  Outside it was a beautiful spring day. The sky seemed bluer and the leaves greener than they had in ages. Flowers lined window boxes and planters. The world seemed to cry out that all would be well. The restaurant was only a few blocks away so they decided to walk. Lilly proved slightly unsteady so Charles took her arm as they walked. On the way she set out to finish her tale but was distracted by the shops and people around her. Charles and she drifted off into conversation about more banal things. And soon they were laughing. At the last corner before the restaurant they waited for the walk light. When the light changed, they stepped out in front of an unmarked squad car. In the car Mick Delaney recognized her, but she was obviously too entertained to see him. Not without ambition himself, and eager to promote his career, he seized the opportunity. He turned right and parked the sedan, then got out and followed after them.

  Between the exercise and the warmth of the sun, Lilly and Charles arrived flushed and hungry at the restaurant gate. It was located in a charming old house. The roof was covered in mock thatch and the front yard had been converted to garden dining. A large maple tree cast mottled shade across the tables. They were shown to a table near the front of the patio.

  Delaney watched from across the street, as the unknown gentleman pulled out Mrs. Chandler’s chair for her. The talk appeared animated and occasionally Lilly’s laughter crossed the street to his ears. After a while they both became subdued as Lilly did most of the talking. At one point the man rested his hand on top of hers and said something. Delaney wished he were able to read lips. He could not stay any longer so he left them to their lunch and hurried back to the car to check in.

  He picked up the radio and checked in with the station. Candice, the dispatcher, had tried to raise him. He told her he had left his handheld in the squad car. She said there was a traffic accident involving a semi trailer truck but that other patrols had responded. Delaney asked to be patched through to Maddox. A moment later he heard the Sergeant’s gruff voice.

  “Maddox, here.”

  “Hey Sarge, its Delaney. You said to check the Chandler broad out and so far I’ve struck out. I heard nothing strange from the neighbors, or the people in her office building. If she has friends I didn’t find them. That is until I spotted her on the street a half hour ago. Chandler was with a man and they looked pretty chummy.”

  “What do you define as chummy?”

  “Well he had her arm in his. They walked right past me laughing. They took a patio table in a restaurant and it didn’t look much like a business lunch to me. She doesn’t seem too torn up about her husband. If I ever go missing I hope this isn’t the dame looking for me.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “I don’t know. I had to come back to the car to get the radio.”

  “Well go back and try to find out who he is. I’d like to check him out.”

  But when Delaney got back to the restaurant they were gone. He wandered over and entered the restaurant. They were not inside, nor the bathroom when he checked it out. Out on the patio he stopped the waiter.

  “Do you know who was at the table by the fence? I think I know him, but his name slipped my mind.”

  “No! They’ve both been in before but I don’t know their names.”

  “Are they regulars?”

  “Not really, both occasionally. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen them together.”

  “Did he pay with a credit card?”

  “What are you, a cop?” he asked suspiciously.

  Delaney discreetly flashed his badge, “Bingo!”

  “Well you’re out of luck it was all cash, but I can tell you this, the guy’s a good tipper.”

  “You hear anything interesting?”

  “Nah, you’re a cop. You know how it is, people shut up when the servants are near. What did the guy do?”

  “Nothing, we’re interested in the woman. I just wanted to know who the gentleman was. Keep it to yourself if they come back, will you?”

  The waiter said sure, but Delaney wasn’t convinced. If it sweetened the kid’s tip he’d probably speak up. What the heck, Delaney thought, we all have our little ambitions.

  CHAPTER FO
URTEEN

  Alan awoke itching his arm. At first he thought it was the brush he had been sleeping on. But he soon realized his back was itchy and so were his stomach and legs. A glance at his arms revealed a red-bubbled rash. Peeling off his clothes he found his neck, arms, legs and belly were all the same. He was covered in poison oak! He had seen patches of the green three lobed leaves as he worked his way up the river but thought he had avoided it. Obviously, he had not.

  He took the bundle of clothes down to the water and washed them in the stream. Returning to his camp, the fire needed tending and he warmed up as he gathered firewood, wandering around clad only in his sneakers. To dry his clothes out he spread them out on a large forked stick. By wedging the stick in the dirt and piling rocks around it the clothes were hanging so the sun warmed one side and the fire the other.

  He had a wistful thought of a clothes dryer, which led to thoughts of hot showers, and warm Jacuzzis. His thoughts then meandered through a variety of meals he would like to partake in. Somewhere between dreaming of powdered donuts and hot coffee the itching interrupted him. The rash on his arms was the worst because his sleeves had been pushed up as he hiked. The desire to start itching was hard to ignore. He tried brushing the skin very lightly but this brought only temporary relief, which was shortly followed by an even greater desire to scratch.