"You wouldn't happen to know who might have an address?" Naomi prodded, almost wincing as she did.
"Like I said, I haven't seen him in ten years. Who you looking for?"
"I uh, don't know his name. But he worked for your husband in the mid to late eighties, I believe?"
"Are you serious? You want me to remember who worked for my ex-husband, what, nearly thirty years ago? And you don't know his name?" She gave a laugh that sounded like a bark.
Naomi thanked her and hung up. That worked out well, she thought facetiously. Everyone had their story. To quote Tolstoy, "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." A bitter woman with an axe to grind? she wondered. Or was her ex actually mixed up in some car ring in Mexico. Either way, it had nothing to do with her. Another dead-end. Lives change in nearly three decades. People moved away, got divorced, died. She had to change tracks; this one was going nowhere. She was beginning to feel like that guy who flung himself on his horse and rode off in all directions.
Does he feel me gaining on him? She hoped so. She hoped he was having a problem sleeping these days. She knew he'd be making new plans, since his first one had been foiled. She tried not to envision a scenario wherein he would kill her and dump her body somewhere so remote it would never be found. That way, her DNA could never be matched with his, which would let him run free for all time, hurting others as he chose. Not the preferred ending, from Naomi's point of view.
And she was having a lot less confidence in that knife under her pillow. False sense of security there. He'd probably use it on her. She'd have to think more on this. Think smarter. She needed a plan.
Definitely needed a plan.
In the meantime, there were still a couple of things she could follow up on. But first, she'd eat something. Not that she was all that hungry, but it was important to stay healthy. With Molly contentedly eating her dinner, she opened up a can of tomato soup for herself. At the whine of the electric can-opener Molly looked up from her dish.
"Don't worry," she grinned, "I'm not having anything more exciting than your tuna. But you can lick the bowl." Molly loved anything tomato.
Even as she poured the tomato soup into a small pot, added a little milk and set the pot on the stove, her mind kept trying to grasp that forgotten detail, that nugget of information, but it stayed just out of her reach, like a word on the tip of your tongue. Whatever it was continued to nag her even as she set out her bowl and a few crackers on a plate, poured herself a glass of milk. It'll come, she thought. Don't try to force it.
She decided to make some notes to herself, retrieved a writing tablet and pen from the kitchen drawer and sat down at the table. In one column, she wrote: What I know for sure. (Or at least believe.) It was a short list, ending with the break-in of Debbie Banks' house on the same day she'd been to see her. She'd been hugely relieved when Debbie told her she was taking a little time to visit with her daughter out in British Columbia. The police had the number and would call when her husband's body was signed for release, so she could give Norman a proper burial. At least she'd be safe for the time being, Naomi thought, grateful not to have to worry about him showing up again and hurting her, or worse.
Sighing, she set the pen down and read over what she'd written. Norman Banks was murdered because he'd become a threat. Proof: none. But Mr. Banks did have her story on his person when they found him. And that was Norman Banks' voice on the tape. If not proof, then a hell of a coincidence. And she didn't believe in coincidences. She munched on a cracker, sipped her milk.
One thing was a definite. She knew a lot more now than she did when she read her mother's obituary in the paper, dear Aunt Edna's work. At thoughts of her aunt, the niggling piece of missing information began niggling again. Harder this time. Biting, clawing. Wanting out. I know something else. Why can't I remember?
It was when she absent-mindedly reached up to take the tiny gold earrings out of her ears that she did. And it was like the breath was knocked out of her.
In the same instant she caught a whiff of something burning and jumped up from the chair. The soup. The pop … pop … pop sounds sent her flying to the stove as the scorched acrid stench filled the kitchen. Grabbing a potholder from the drawer, she lifted the furiously boiling red liquid off the burner.
* * *
Debbie Banks didn't miss the relief in Naomi Water's voice when she told her she was going out West to visit her daughter, and knew she'd been scared for her. She appreciated the concern. Although she, herself, had been surprised and alarmed that someone broke into her home and gone through her things, she wasn't really afraid. Mad? Hell, yes. But she didn't care enough to be afraid. Life without Normie seemed like a long grey corridor of loneliness, she thought, as she packed slacks, blouses and underclothes into the small blue suitcase lying open on the bed.
Naomi Waters seemed like such a nice young woman, determined to find her mother's killer, who she believes also murdered Norman. She'd hoped she might find some clue in the yearbook. She wouldn't have thought of it if someone hadn't broken in and gone through her photo albums. She went through them herself in case she'd forgotten some picture taken of him with a friend, but there was nothing. And then she thought of the yearbook. It had taken her a while to find it.
Balancing precariously on the next to the top rung of the ladder, feeling a weakness in her limbs, she rifled through the mess on the shelf in their bedroom, sure that was where she'd seen it at one time. Norman had been something of a packrat and she had to move aside old bottles he'd saved, a pair of ancient binoculars, decks of cards no one used, flashlights minus batteries, a broken watch, old hats from work bearing the Harris Woodworking logo, before she found it. She'd pretty much left this shelf to him, ignoring the chaos, his minor fault.
Maybe that wasn't his worse fault. She immediately banished the traitorous thought. Normie wouldn't hurt a fly. It was in part his gentleness that drew her to him. Her own father had been a violent man, an abuser, and she wanted a different sort of man for herself, and her kids. She often heard that women are drawn to what they know; it hadn't worked that way for her.
She had found the book under a pile of old car magazines, pulled it out and blew off the dust. Sitting down on the bed with the book in her lap, slowly she began turning the glossy pages, some coloured, many black and white. Photos of softball teams, cheerleaders, school musicals, prizes for leaders in academics, of the prom held in the school gymnasium, festive with gold and red ribbons, balloons. A band was playing on the stage, and the grads were frozen in various poses of dancing and laughing. They all looked so young and beautiful, the world their oyster.
Normie wasn't a part of the celebration. He never went to his prom, said he was too shy to ask anyone. His shyness. Another of the things she'd loved about him. She had thought she might come across a picture and it would be the other man and she would somehow know. She found nothing of course. How could she?
I want you, you son-of-a-bitch. I want you to pay for what you did to Normie. To all of us. She idly picked up his pillow and pressed it to her face and breathed in the faint scent of her husband, mingled with the hint of Old Spice he preferred to the more trendy brands. It faded a little more every day. Soon it would fade altogether. Too overcome with grief to sustain the anger, she could only weep and rock, and bury her face deeper into the pillow.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Leaving Norman Banks' high school yearbook sitting on the coffee table beside the little clown, Naomi left the house, Molly in tow. Not exactly changing tracks, just boarding farther back on the track. She'd get to the book later.
The fitness centre was a cacophony of noise, from the thumping music to the pounding of feet at various speeds on treadmills, bikes and other machines, a constant rumble of motors. The smell of sweat, dirty socks and perfume tinged the high energy air. The air-conditioning was on full blast. Underneath it all, there was talking and laughing. Socializing was a big part of hitting the gym for man
y of its patrons.
Some of the laughter was coming from the far corner of the room where Charlotte was working with one of the members, an overweight, sweet-faced woman in blue sweats who apparently found a lot to laugh at, mainly herself. The woman let out an exaggerated groan and flopped full out on the mat. Charlotte laughed too. She was helping her with her sit-ups, showing her a couple of variations that would be easier for her, but still effective. Naomi stood a short distance away so as not to interfere with their session.
"Lizbeth, use those stomach muscles when you curl up," Charlotte said. "Even if you just raise up off the mat a couple of inches, that will strengthen your abs and lessen the strain on your back."
Lizbeth followed her instructions without complaint.
"Good, good, but don't forget to breathe."
The woman made a self-deprecating joke Naomi didn't hear, that earned another laugh from Charlotte. Seconds later the woman gave another exhausted grunt and flopped back again. Charlotte grinned, shook her head and tossed her a small towel to wipe her sweaty forehead.
None of the women were paying any attention to the middle-aged man who was sitting on a bench a few feet away from them, performing bicep curls with heavy free weights and watching Charlotte in the wall mirror. Charlotte in her black tights and white sweatshirt, lean, taut body. His eyes swept over the long legs in their black leotard, a reflex more than anything else. He had other things on his mind. He was losing his cool, not like him, had to get it together. No one knew anything. The Weaz was dead. He'd searched his house and hadn't found anything that would tie them together, although he could have missed it. A photo, a note. Had he ever written the Weaz a note? He couldn't remember, but he didn't think so. He wasn't one for writing notes. Even if there was something, what did that prove? Without her, in the flesh, it was all circumstantial. He should have gone back that night and taken care of the problem.
His left arm was mid-curl when he saw her and his heart leapt as if he had seen a ghost. A slight turn of his head in the mirror and there she was. The vision of her standing there sucked the strength out of him and sent his rhythm off. The sweat turned cold on his flesh but he did not turn his face from the mirror. At first he thought he must be hallucinating. Because he'd been thinking about her, she had appeared, like some kind of phantom. But she was real enough. Wearing dark slacks and a suede jacket, long dark hair loose about her shoulders.
It's like that bitch waited all these years to crawl up out of the grave to get him. To get him through her kid. Well, it wasn't gonna happen. Rage born of fear made him unconsciously speed up his routine up, down, up, down … arm muscles bulging, relaxing, bulging, the blue and gold tattooed owl's eye on his right upper arm opening, narrowing, like a thing alive, ready to sweep from its flesh canvas, bringing hot blood to his face and drawing soft animal grunts from his core. When she didn't look in his direction he began to breathe again.
She and the fitness instructor were hugging now, talking. It was not the first time he'd seen her in person, or heard her voice. A voice he would already have silenced had he not been interrupted that night. Later, he'd thought the doorbell ringing might have been a good thing. Safer for him if he could scare her into backing off. Everyone in River's End had read that article in the local rag. The Weaz's death would be looked at closer, maybe connections made.
So what? Let 'em prove it, he thought now, emboldened in his fury. Just because she didn't look at you doesn't mean she doesn't know who you are. Doesn't see you here. Fear washed through him like an icy bath. How dare she taunt him, thinking she's so damn clever, visiting his dreams, playing head games with him. Well, he'd show her who the master of games was; she'd be sorry she ever messed with him. He'd make the little bitch disappear forever.
"She's your daughter," he could almost hear the Weaz say. The thought generated the same surge of anger he'd felt the first time he'd heard him say it. To Mac, she was nothing but a crime scene with his prints all over it.
Keeping his head down, he feigned adjusting his weightlifting gloves as he continued to watch her in the mirror. She was a looker, you had to say that for her. He saw something of his mother in her, but she didn't really look like his mother; his mother had been a blond, and not tall, but something. Maybe in the walk, the curve of her brow.
His mother died of a drug overdose when he was thirteen, and years before that his old man took off with some bimbo. He barely remembered him. His unmarried paternal aunt took him in, a good enough old broad, Gladys, and an easy touch. He pretty much came and went as he pleased growing up. She died a couple of years ago, left him a few dollars, along with the house, which was falling down and not worth a hell of a lot. He had it up for sale. He used to visit now and then to stay on her good side, but the chatter grated on his nerves, and he hated the dark furniture, the heavy drapes and the smell of camphor and dead roses that seemed embedded in the walls. He never thought of her as a mother, just an old lady who gave him a place to stay and something to eat.
"Takin' a break, Mac?" one of the male trainers grinned down at him, startling him out of his unpleasant reverie. The guy was heading for the showers toting an armload of towels. "You're lookin' a little flushed, dude."
"Yeah," he replied, forcing a chuckle. "Must be old age." But his heart was thumping in a way that had nothing to do with the workout. Why was she here? What the hell was going on?
The two women left a few minutes later, heads together, talking. Charlotte, as he'd heard the instructor called, glanced in his direction as she passed him, smiled briefly, then looked away. Were they talking about him? Mocking him?
He did another set of bicep reps, the owl eye winking and opening with each curl, uncurl. He'd got the tattoo when he was sixteen, just walking down the street one night when he saw a gallery of tattoos in a dirty storefront window and the one of the owl's eye spoke to him. One woman he'd dated a few times said she didn't like the tattoo, always felt like the eye was watching her. It made him laugh.
Made him feel good.
Chapter Thirty
They ordered coffee and muffins at a Tim Horton's drive-thru and Naomi drove the two miles out to Little River beach because she wanted some privacy when she talked to Charlotte. A few weeks from now this place would be packed, but now there were only a few cars in the parking area.
A lone young man in a blue jacket and dark pants was walking along the far end of the beach taking photographs, hair blowing in the warm ocean breeze.
She parked the car near a grassy knoll away from the actual parking area. They peeled the lids off their coffees, sipped and watched the big waves rolling in, crashing over rocks and sand, bleached driftwood, the beach a sweeping blue flared skirt with a long stretch of foamy hem.
Naomi was acutely aware of Charlotte waiting for her to say something, tell her why she was here. She cracked the car windows open and let in the smell of salty sea air, the raucous cries and mewling of the gulls.
It was a perfect day, blue skies, fluffy white clouds. The kind of day that inspired pleasant thoughts that relaxed you. But not today, not for her. The woman at the Pet Care Centre was surprised to see Naomi back with Molly so soon, but there'd been no problem leaving her, even if Naomi did feel guilty walking away.
"Good idea, this," Charlotte said cheerfully beside her. "I was surprised when you showed up today, but really glad to see you. Timing was great too, I was due for a break. And if I'm a little later getting back, so be it. I'm working through till ten tonight. I love these blueberry muffins. They're still warm. Great idea, this, Naomi. The ocean is so beautiful. It would never occur to me to drive out here on my own."
Charlotte knew they weren't here just to look at the ocean. Naomi heard it in her voice. A mild curiosity, a certain wariness.
"Charlotte, I need to ask you something."
"Oh? So it's not my radiant personality that brought you to the centre today."
"That's part of it," Naomi smiled and touched Charlotte's arm affectionately. "B
ut…."
"If it's the will, I think we've pretty much convinced Mom to give up on—"
"No, no, that's not it. I need to ask you about that crescent moon you were wearing when you were at the house."
"Crescent moon? Oh, the pendant, you mean." She reached down inside her sweatshirt and drew it out. "What about it?" Charlotte asked.
Just then, another car drove up beside them and a young woman and two little boys got out. The boys raced for the beach, armed with plastic pails and shovels. The woman, wearing blue capris and a tee-shirt, followed behind, a jacket slung over her arm and clutching a paperback.
Naomi turned back to Charlotte, trying to conceal the horror and confusion that swept through her as she looked at the pendant. She'd only had a sense of it before, but now she knew it was the same one, or one very similar to the pendant Mary Rose was wearing in the school photo. "Could you take it off for a minute, please. I'd like to look at it."
Charlotte shrugged. "Sure." Looking puzzled, she undid the clasp on the slim, braided leather lace and placed the whole in Naomi's hand. "You really do like it. Hey, I'd give it to you gladly but it's not mine."
"Oh?" While she considered this statement, she turned the little crescent moon over in her hand. On the back, the letters SISIP were etched into the hand-carved bone. She ran her thumb over the shape of the letters. Her heart was beating double time. Dear God. Was it possible?
As she pondered the significance of the letters, a fluttery movement caught her eye. She looked up to see a seagull perched on the hood of the car, looking nervously in at them out of one beady eye. She should have brought treats. Sorry, little gull. It hopped from foot to foot, fluttered its wings. Then flew away.
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 14
