Don't Go Home

by Janelle Taylor

  By fear.

  Or just by not knowing where to go and why it would be different than it was right where you were.

  “You’ll have to direct me to your house,” Matthew said.

  Mia blinked and looked out the window. She’d been so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized they’d gotten off the exit for Baywater.

  “Just make a left up here, then your first right,” Mia told him. “I’m the second house on the right.”

  As they neared her house, Mia saw someone—a man—knocking on the front door. He then leaned over the shrubbery to peer in the living room window, stepping on her impatiens. He almost fell into the bushes.

  Was it the postman? No, it was Sunday.

  Well, then who—

  It was Norman Newman.

  “Dammit!” she snapped.

  “What is it?” Matthew asked, alarm in his voice. “Do you know this person?”

  “I hate to say this, but he’s a bit of a creep,” Mia said. “We work together at the middle school, and he’s been asking me out nonstop for months. He’s the sort of guy who won’t take no for an answer.”

  As Matthew pulled into the driveway, he stared at Norman, who suddenly turned around at the sound of the approaching car. Matthew quickly parked and stepped out. “Can I help you?” Matthew directed toward Norman.

  Mia hurried out of the car herself. Matthew’s expression was ice-cold, and Norman looked upset and nervous.

  Norman narrowed his eyes at Matthew. “No, you most certainly cannot,” he all but spit out. “I don’t know you.”

  “Well then, what can I do for you, Norman?” Mia asked, her voice impatient.

  Norman turned to Mia. “I was in your neighborhood visiting a sick friend, and I thought I’d drop by with some scones and coffee so that we could finish our discussion from the other evening. But”—he slid a glare at Matthew—“I see you’re busy.”

  She sighed. “Norman, we finished our conversation,” Mia said, crossing her arms over her chest in a defensive stance.

  “Well, perhaps you’re right, Mia,” Norman said, “since I don’t know what further proof I need that you lied.” He fixed Matthew with a venomous stare.

  Mia felt Matthew tense beside her. “Norman, I’m going to tell you again. The woman you saw in Center City last week wasn’t me, but my twin sister. If you don’t believe me, well, I’m sorry, then. The truth is all I can give you.”

  Norman slid his beady-eyed gaze from Matthew to Mia. “Good day, Mia.”

  “Good day, Norman,” she said angrily, and he stared at her hard for a moment before turning on his heel and heading back down the walk.

  “Gee, I’m surprised you keep turning him down for dates,” Matthew commented, his voice edged with something that Mia couldn’t quite name.

  Mia reached into her purse for her house keys. “I used to think he was just a nice guy with a harmless crush. But lately, he’s been a little too intense.”

  Matthew followed her up the three steps to the porch. “What was that all about, him seeing Margot in Center City and thinking it was you?”

  Mia unlocked the front door. “Oh, he called the other night in a huff, sure I’ve been lying to him about not dating because he thought he saw me with a couple of different men in the city last week. I told him it was my twin he saw, but he accused me of lying.”

  Matthew’s eyes widened. “So this guy Norman hangs out in Center City bars,” he said slowly, “and he thought that Margot, who he saw with other men, was you—a woman he wants to date.”

  Doorknob in hand, Mia froze. “Oh, my God.”

  “Let’s head inside and talk this through,” Matthew said.

  But Mia couldn’t move a muscle. Was this all her fault? Had she angered Norman so terribly that he’d snapped? Had he seen Margot with Robert last Saturday night and waited in the parking lot to confront them? Had Margot come into contact with Norman that night? Thought he was some psycho? Perhaps she’d gotten away from Norman, and then Norman had waited for Robert to come out of Chumley’s—so that he could kill his supposed competition.

  Oh, God.

  This is all my fault, Mia thought, her legs trembling. I’m the reason that Matthew’s brother is dead. I’m the reason that my sister is scared out of her mind and hiding who knows where, worried sick.

  “Mia?”

  Matthew caught her just as her knees buckled. He threw open the front door, then scooped an arm under her knees and another around her shoulders and lifted her into his arms.

  The breath drained out of her, Mia turned her face to the street to gulp in a shot of air.

  Norman Newman was standing in the middle of the street, staring at her with absolute hatred in his eyes.

  A half hour later, the door to Mia’s bedroom opened, and she finally emerged.

  Matthew breathed a sigh of relief. After that episode with Norman whatever his name was, Mia had completely collapsed. He’d carried her into her bedroom and laid her down on her bed, and she’d immediately turned away from him, her eyes closed. She’d refused to talk to him, refused to answer even yes or no questions as to whether or not she was all right.

  What the hell had happened?

  One minute, they’d been about to discuss whether this Norman character could have freaked bad enough to—

  Oh, man.

  If Norman had snapped because he thought the woman he wanted was seeing other men—and lying to him about it—Mia’s meltdown was very likely a result of blaming herself for his actions.

  Damn. When was Matthew going to learn to think before he blurted?

  As Mia walked into the living room, her expression was devoid of any emotion. Amid the colorful décor, the overstuffed red sofa and chair, the multicolored throw rug, the collection of candles on the mantel, Mia, in her white T-shirt, her face pale, looked even more wan, more delicate.

  “Mia, I think you’ve had just about enough for one day. Why don’t you just take it easy today? Relax here and not think about—”

  “I’m fine, Matthew,” she said, sitting down across from him on an overstuffed chair.

  “You don’t look fine,” he said.

  Her eyes welled with tears, and he mentally cursed himself. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, Matthew,” she said. “Look, I’m upset. To realize that Norman is a suspect—a major suspect—that I might be the reason for ...”

  “Mia, you’re not the reason for anything anyone does,” Matthew said. “Norman is responsible for his feelings and for his actions. Do you hear me?”

  She looked up at him, bit her lip, and nodded. And then she burst into tears.

  He was beside her in a second, kneeling down next to her chair. “Mia, what I’m saying is the truth. You’re not responsible for someone else’s actions, feelings, behavior—anything. That person is.”

  It had taken him years to come to believe that.

  “But ... if it wasn’t for me, Norman wouldn’t have—”

  “Mia, first of all, we don’t know that Norman did anything,” Matthew pointed out. “And secondly, there’s no such thing as ‘if it wasn’t for me.’ Norman is responsible for what he does. Not you.”

  Mia leaned back in the chair and seemed to breathe a bit easier. Good. She had to believe in what he was saying. Or misplaced guilt and worry and fear would have a field day with her.

  Matthew knew that all too well.

  For years, he’d blamed himself for his parents’ marital troubles. If only he’d been quieter, smarter, better at sports, better behaved, more like the neighbor’s kid, maybe his father would have come home after work, instead of hanging out in bars, drinking and picking up women. Maybe if he hadn’t snored as a kid, his father would have slept at home, instead of ... somewhere else.

  He’d learned that way of thinking from his mother, who’d blamed herself the same way. If only she’d been prettier, thinner, a better cook, a better housewife, more interesting, more this, more that. She’d worked hersel
f to the bone to become what she thought would make her husband happy. But nothing had.

  Nothing ever would.

  Because you were never responsible for someone else’s actions. That person was. It had been too late for his mother to learn that.

  It wasn’t too late for Mia.

  “I’m really okay, Matthew,” she said. “I’m not about to let Norman destroy me because of his jealousy—or because of what he might or might not have done. Anyway, I’ll worry if I have reason to.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mia,” he said, covering her hand with his own.

  She looked down at his hand atop hers. “Let me go put on my own clothes and splash some cold water on my face, and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  He missed the warm softness of her hand as she got up and headed back into her bedroom. She was a strong woman, stronger than she realized.

  She returned to the living room in white pants and a pale pink T-shirt, her hair loosely twisted in a bun at the back of her head with some sort of short stick. She looked like a woman, like summer.

  God, she was beautiful.

  “I just want you to know I appreciate the perspective check,” she said, sitting back down on the overstuffed chair. “I feel a lot better.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear that. Do you feel comfortable talking about this Norman character and how he might fit in, or would you rather skip him for the time being and concentrate on the widows?”

  “Let’s talk about Norman,” Mia said. “As long as I keep my mind on what’s important—the truth and not my own worries—I’ll be fine.”

  And so over two more cups of coffee, Mia filled him in on everything to do with Norman Newman and his bad habit of not taking no for an answer.

  “I think we should trail Norman tonight,” Matthew suggested. “See if he heads over to Center City. I want to watch him for a while; then we’ll let him see you with me, and we’ll see how he reacts, what he does.”

  Mia paled. “But, Matthew, that could put you in danger.”

  “I’m about six inches taller and a lot more muscular than that weeble,” Matthew said. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mia. Besides, he can’t ambush me when I’m looking out for him.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t like it, but all right.”

  “See, we didn’t have to spend much time talking about that jerk, after all.”

  “He makes me so angry!” she said, sparks in her eyes. “How dare he keep coming around when I’ve told him I don’t date.”

  “Some people have big trouble with the word no,” Matthew said darkly. “It’s nothing to take lightly.”

  “It’s so strange—lately, I’ve resorted to what I consider downright rudeness to keep him at bay, but even a bad attitude on my part doesn’t deter him. He just keeps coming back.”

  “Because it’s not really about you,” Matthew said. “He doesn’t hear you or see you. He only knows what he wants. It’s a sickness.”

  Mia was quiet, and Matthew wondered if he’d said the wrong thing again.

  “That sounds a little too familiar,” Mia finally said. “I had a husband like that.”

  Matthew looked away, wanting to give her some privacy, yet also wanting to know more. Why had she married a man “like that”?

  For the same reason your mother married a man like your father, Matthew was thinking. Letitia Gray had fancied herself in love at a time in her life when she’d been weak and desperately in need of love and support. And Matthew’s father’s strength—his false bravado and big mouth and overconfidence—seemed qualities to admire.

  His mother had always said that the marriage wasn’t a mistake, that after all, she got to have two beautiful children. Matthew had taken some comfort in her comfort in that.

  “Let’s move on to the first of the widows, Lisa Ann Cole,” Matthew said.

  She glanced at him for a long moment, then got up and went into another room and returned with a heavy phone book. She flipped through some pages. “Here she is, Lisa Ann Cole, 253 Berry Street. That’s on the other side of Baywater, one of the cross streets for the library.”

  “I think we should tell her and the others the truth,” Matthew said, “that we’re looking into my brother’s death and checking into other unsolved murders that occurred during the past six months.”

  Mia nodded. “Our visit isn’t going to be easy on the widows. Let’s be as gentle with our questions as possible.”

  “But let’s not forget that one of them could very well be a cold-blooded killer,” Matthew reminded her. “We should also be very careful and very sly.”

  Mia paled again.

  Chapter Nine

  “That no good son of a bitch! He can rot in his grave for all I care.”

  As the widow Cole ranted on about her late husband, Mia tried to adopt a neutral expression. It wasn’t easy.

  “I was going to divorce the jerk anyway,” Lisa Ann Cole continued as she handed Mia and Matthew each a cup of coffee. “Sugar?” she asked, holding out the bowl with a bright smile.

  Mia shot a quick glance at Matthew; if he was as shocked as she was, you would never know it.

  “He got his just deserts,” Lisa Ann trilled as she dropped a cube of sugar into her own cup. “That ass was cheating on me for years. Why I didn’t throw his sorry butt out of here when I first found out is beyond me.” She shook her head, then continued on about how much weight her husband had gained and how surprised she was that he’d managed to cheat on her with any woman, given his “roly-poly” stomach. “I mean, you should see that thing swaying in the breeze under his stained tank tops.”

  “Um, Mrs. Cole—” Mia began.

  “Please, call me Lisa Ann,” the woman said, readjusting the polka-dot scarf around her neck. “I’m thinking of going by Lisann—just one word. Sounds almost foreign, doesn’t it? Exotic.”

  Mia smiled tightly. “Lisa—Lisann, could you tell us about the night that your husband—that you lost your husband?”

  The widow leaned back against the sofa and sipped her coffee. In her early thirties, Lisa Ann Cole was attractive in a harsh way. Her pretty blue eyes were rimmed with black kohl and a lot of mascara, and her blusher and lipstick were quite bright. Thin and angular, she favored animal prints for her clothes and furnishings. Her blouse was leopard print, and so were the pillows and throw on the sofa. So were her high-heeled pumps.

  “Well,” Lisa Ann said, putting down her coffee cup. She reached into her purse and reapplied a coat of lipstick. “The police came over around nine o’clock or so that night back in February. Sat me down and told me they’d found Jimmy dead in the parking lot of a bar out in Center City.”

  “Can you remember any of the details they might have shared with you?” Matthew asked.

  The widow leaned forward and smiled flirtatiously at Matthew. Mia mentally rolled her eyes. From the moment they’d arrived, the widow had all but draped herself at Matthew’s feet. She’d directed all her niceties to him: Would you like a cup of coffee, Matt? You don’t mind if I call you Matt, do you, honey? Matthew is so formal. My James’s mother always called him James, but the minute I met him, I called him Jimmy. Would you like a piece of pound cake, Matty? Some cookies? They’re just store bought, but you can’t bake better than Entemann’s can. Giggle. Twirl of beads at her neck. Lick of the lips.

  It wasn’t that Mia didn’t get it. Matthew was one handsome man. Exceptionally handsome, actually.

  So was she jealous? Of what? Of another woman fawning and fussing over him? That made no sense.

  “There really weren’t too many details,” Lisa Ann said. “Jimmy had just left the bar, one of his usuals in the city, and he’d been heading toward his car in the parking lot when he got jumped. Hit over the head several times with a heavy object, a lug wrench, most likely. Poor Jimmy. The cops said he probably didn’t even know what hit him.” She brightened for a moment. “Hey, that’s almost funny, ain’t it?”

  Mia sud
denly felt very sorry for Lisa Ann Cole. The woman put on a great act, but inside, there was a very sad, very troubled heart beating.

  “Lisann,” Matthew said, “do you recall if your husband was robbed?”

  “Nah, I got all the stuff that had been in his wallet. He had sixty bucks and a bunch of credit cards. His cheap watch that no one would want. And his wedding ring, which I guess wasn’t worth much, but still, it’s fourteen-karat gold.”

  “Lisann, we really appreciate your taking the time to talk to us,” Matthew said.

  The widow smiled and leaned forward again, offering Matthew a view of her freckled cleavage. “Sure thing, sweetie. I’m sorry about your brother.”

  Matthew stood and Mia shot up, too.

  “Yes, thank you very much, Lisann,” Mia said, extending her hand. The widow grasped it with both of her hands, then walked her guests to the door.

  “Oh, you know what was always interesting to me about that night?” Lisann said at the door.

  “What’s that?” Matthew asked.

  “His wedding ring,” Lisann said. She reached into her cleavage and pulled out a gold wedding ring on a long chain around her neck. “Jimmy never wore his wedding ring. I mean, never. Not for years. He always kept it in his wallet. I used to get on him about it when we first got married, then got sick of hearing myself yell without getting any results.”

  Mia glanced at Matthew. She could tell he was as eager for what the widow was about to say as she was.

  “Strangest thing,” Lisann said, eyeing the ring. “The night he was killed, the police said he was wearing his wedding ring. Right there on the third finger of his left hand. Ain’t that interesting?”

  “Yes, it certainly is,” Matthew said. “Very interesting.”

  Lisa Ann seemed lost in her thoughts. “He never wore it, but there it was on his finger.”

  “I think it means he wore his ring more than you think he did,” Mia offered the widow. “When he was away from home and missing you.”

  The widow’s face broke into a shy smile. “Huh. You really think so? That’s something, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” Mia said. “It’s something.”