by Judy Clemens
“Is there a reason you need to?”
He was quiet for a moment, looking at his hand, which he brought up to brush over his face. Then he stood, slowly turning toward her and stepping out into the aisle. Casey took a deep breath through her nose.
“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “Whether you’re coming from Hollywood or Broadway, or…other places…because obviously your career—or part of it—has been this one we share.” His voice was low. Even. “But I’m telling you now. If you’re here to cause trouble for me, it’s going to be bad for you.” He watched her. “Do you understand?”
“What kind of trouble do you think I’m here to cause?”
His eye twitched. “If you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you, am I?” He took a step toward her. “But I am going to tell you this. What you’re up to…I’m onto you. I know what you’re doing. And when I catch you at it…” His lip rose, and Casey flexed her fingers, ready. But when he moved, it was toward the stage, backing up, still facing her.
“You can go,” he said. “And when you do, you tell your friends this. Thomas Black is not afraid of them. And if they think sending a…a scrawny little woman to do their dirty work is going to change things, they can think again. I’m doing the best I can, and when I have what they want, I’ll get it to them. It should be soon. You tell them that.”
Casey stared at him.
“Go on. Give them the news. I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear it.”
Casey watched him for a moment longer before turning and making her way up the aisle, feeling his eyes on her back with every silent step, ready to turn should he come after her. She went out the double doors and stepped to the side, leaning back on the wall. Out the front door she could see Eric, waiting for her on the bench. Leila was nowhere in sight.
Obviously Thomas was in something over his head. The men expected something from him, and from what she’d heard, it was most likely money. It could’ve been something else, drugs, maybe. But she’d put her money on cash. Did Thomas think she was in league with Taffy and Bone? Or some other entity? Another group of bad guys. Or law enforcement.
She stepped back to the double doors, putting her eye to the crack between them.
Thomas stood with his back to her, hands flat on the stage, his head lowered. As she watched he pushed himself up, ran his hands through his hair, and turned around, straightening his shoulders and grabbing his briefcase before making his way up the aisle.
Casey quickly walked out the front door, attempting a smile as Eric stood to meet her.
“What did he want?”
Casey hesitated. Should she tell him about the two men? Did he already know about them? Or should she let Thomas deal with his own problems without making Eric feel more involved, or even responsible?
“Oh, nothing much.” Casey looked up at the sky, clear that night. “He just wanted to talk about how he perceives my role.”
Eric gave her a questioning look, but didn’t push it.
“Where’s Leila?”
He shrugged. “Gone. You still want to walk home alone?”
She jerked her thumb to the right. “My place is this way, and your car is the other. I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure.”
She glanced back at the theater, where Thomas remained, probably watching her through the large windows. She repressed a shiver.
“I’m sure,” she said. “You go on home.”
Eric nodded, his eyes darting toward the theater. “All right. You’d let me know if…”
“I’m fine, Eric. He just wanted to talk about…things.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away. “All right. Goodnight then, Casey.”
“Goodnight, Eric.”
He strode away, head bent, back arched.
Casey turned and walked as quickly as she could in the opposite direction.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rosemary and Lillian were still sitting on the porch when Casey got to The Nesting Place. They must have moved at some point since the afternoon, because Rosemary was now in her normal clothes—if a bright purple velour tracksuit with rhinestones could be called normal—instead of her Dobak. Her phone was at her ear. “Yes, dear, she’s home now. Safe and sound. All right. Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Casey gestured at the phone. “Eric?”
“He just wanted to be sure…”
Casey shook her head and turned, looking out at the street over the railing of the porch. “He didn’t have to worry.”
“I know that. You have no trouble taking care of yourself.”
Something in her voice made Casey turn. Rosemary had reached across to Lillian’s chair and grabbed her hand, and their hands hung there now, suspended between them.
“What?” Casey said.
Rosemary shook her head, her lips a tight line, and Lillian looked down at her lap.
“Did something happen?”
Lillian’s head rose slowly. “No. No, honey. Not since last week.” The lines on her face stood out in exaggerated hills and valleys, shadowed by dim porch light.
Ellen, ultimately, had not been able to take care of herself.
Casey took a step forward. “Ellen said the people here in Clymer would soon have work again.”
The women exchanged a look, and Rosemary cleared her throat. “You know about that?”
“Eric told me.” One of the few things he had told her. “At least that’s what he thought Ellen meant.” She looked at the women, so fragile in their wicker chairs, holding onto each other, facing their pain as a duo. She hated to cause them more. But they knew things. They had to. And if she could get it out of them, she might be able to make some sense of things.
She pulled a chair around in front of them and sat forward, her elbows on her knees. “You don’t think Ellen killed herself.”
“No,” Lillian said, her eyes sparking. “We know she didn’t. She wouldn’t have. We told Chief Reardon—”
“I know. I talked to him.” Her face burned as she remembered the conversation, and hoped her anger wasn’t apparent in the darkness of the porch. “Ellen told Eric—and the manager of the Pizzeria—that a change was coming. People would be working and there would be no reason for Home Sweet Home to continue serving meals. Eric and I…” She hesitated, hoping the women could take what she had to say. “We went to see Karl.”
Lillian inhaled sharply, and Rosemary’s eyes flashed in the contours of her face. “And he patted you on the head and told you everything was fine?”
Casey could see that that kind of behavior was nothing new. “Pretty much. He basically said Ellen couldn’t possibly have been talking about HomeMaker, and that we should let her—and the factory—rest in peace.”
Lillian yanked her hand from Rosemary’s, made as if to stand, but sank back into her chair. “That man…”
Casey chose her words carefully. “We searched Ellen’s desk and Eric’s computer for any clue to what she’d been talking about, but there was nothing.” She looked at Rosemary. “What did she tell you?”
Rosemary shook her head, her mouth a straight, tight line. “Nothing more than what you know.”
“It’s important, Rosemary.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” The words came out harsh and sharp, and Rosemary closed her eyes, visibly getting herself under control. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. Really. I understand. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to.” She took a breath, looking out over the porch railing, then back at Rosemary. “I need to look in Ellen’s house.”
Rosemary met her eyes. “You think she hid something there.”
“It’s possible. It’s also possible that if someone did…kill her…that they found it and took it with them. But there was no sign of anyone ransacking the place, was there?”
“If there had been,” Rosemary said, “it wouldn’t have looked like
a suicide. And they needed it to.”
The horror of those words hung in the air.
“There was nothing to make anyone think otherwise,” Rosemary said. “One coffee mug on the table. Her own prescription from Wayne’s Pharmacy, just the fingerprints that would be expected…”
Casey spoke gently. “Do you have a key to her house?”
Rosemary looked at Lillian, who had checked herself out of the conversation. “We do.”
“And may I use it?”
“It will help Ellen? Her children?”
“I think so.” Casey sat up straighter. “And possibly the whole town.”
Rosemary thought for only a few moments. “Of course you may use it. Do you want it now?”
“No. A light in her house would only cause people—” like Chief Reardon “—to come see what was going on. I’ll have to wait until morning.” And hope their visit to Willems didn’t spur any other late-night visitors to Ellen’s house. But then, if they’d already cleared out what they wanted, they wouldn’t be back. On the other hand—
“Actually, maybe I will take it now.”
Rosemary studied her face briefly before rising from her seat. “I’ll go get it.”
Casey looked down at her clothes. Jeans. Dark blue shirt. About as inconspicuous as anything she had. They would have to do.
Rosemary returned, and Casey held out her hand.
“I’ll drive you,” Rosemary said.
“No. I mean, thank you, but it would be better if I walked. And went alone.”
“But—”
“Please.”
Rosemary didn’t like it, Casey could see, but eventually held out the key ring, a miniature Shamu, from when Seaworld still had a home in Cleveland. Casey took the key, but Rosemary didn’t let go of the charm. “You’ll be careful?”
“I’ll be fine. There’s no alarm, is there?”
“Who can afford one of those in this town? Besides, we don’t need them.” The irony of her statement hung in the air between them.
“Okay.” Casey looked at Lillian, who still wouldn’t join the conversation. “And Rosemary?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Don’t tell Eric. The last thing he needs is to be in Ellen’s house, doing this.”
Rosemary’s face tightened, but she nodded.
Casey shoved the key into her pocket and stood on the top step. “So. I guess it would be good if I knew where exactly Ellen lived.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ellen’s house stood dark and silent. Casey waited in the backyard, in the shadow of the garage, by the alley that ran behind the row of homes. Casey had biked past this house before being confronted by Chief Reardon that morning. She had had no idea that the house belonged to Ellen—hadn’t even taken any special notice of it—and wondered if that was why the chief had been suspicious. But even if that were the case, he must have been keeping tabs on her to even notice where she was riding.
The houses on either side of Ellen’s were mostly dark, as well. The one to the right had a light on in an upstairs room on the far side of the house, but the downstairs looked quiet. From the other, on the opposite side, came the bluish flickering of television from the side window. Casey hoped the occupants would be glued to whatever inane program was on so they wouldn’t notice her entering Ellen’s back door.
She didn’t see any dogs in either backyard, waiting for an excuse to charge from a corner, barking. Perhaps people would think the dogs were chasing a squirrel, but…
The breeze blew gently, teasing wisps of hair across her face. The air was warmer tonight, but still Casey felt chilled. The home of a dead woman, whether by her own hand or someone else’s, wouldn’t exactly be Casey’s choice for a place to hang out. But if Ellen didn’t kill herself, her children—as well as her friends, parents, and Casey herself—needed to know.
Keeping to the shadows, Casey slowly made her way to the back door. No dogs barked. No gravel crunched under her feet. She eased open the screen door—which squeaked too loudly—got out the key, and opened the door. Stepping inside, she closed the door quietly.
To her chagrin, the back door opened directly into the kitchen. The room where Ellen Schneider had lost her life. Casey breathed through her mouth, trying not to picture the woman in the chair, or the pill bottle. She flipped on the flashlight Rosemary had given her and, keeping it low, checked out the room.
Everything was clean. Sparkling. The kitchen looked scrubbed from top to bottom. No sign that anyone had died there. Or that anyone had lived there, for that matter. No dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the counter. She opened the fridge, bathing herself briefly in the light. And no food in the refrigerator.
She closed the door and stood, sensing the atmosphere. Only the usual nighttime sounds. The hum of the refrigerator beside her. The ticking of a clock. Nothing to say there were any people present.
“Kinda spooky, isn’t it?”
Casey spun around, the beam of her flashlight impaling Death to the back door. Well, not impaling, exactly, as the light traveled through Death without any sign of actually hitting anything.
“You are impossible,” Casey hissed.
“No. Oh, well, maybe for you.” Death moved to stand by the chair where Ellen had died. “Such a shame, you know?”
“Yes,” she whispered harshly. “I know. Now are you going to help out here, or just be a nuisance?”
“Oh, you know me.” Death disappeared into the next room.
Casey moved slowly around the kitchen, hampered by the necessity for using the flashlight. She opened drawers and cupboards, checked the empty freezer, and sifted through canisters of flour and sugar, which hadn’t been removed with the rest of the perishable food. She discovered Ellen’s junk drawer and took some time going through it. Nothing but loose batteries, expired coupons, rubber bands, and lidless pens. No notes, photos, computer disks, or anything that could possibly be compromising or informative.
Confident she’d searched every possible hiding spot, she moved on to the living room. Death sat on the sofa eating a caramel apple, feet up on the coffee table. Casey took a moment to stand to the side of the window and peer outside. Nothing moved. The television still flickered at the neighbors’. No additional lights had been turned on.
Satisfied that her presence was as yet undetected, she began another search, this time under sofa cushions—asking Death ever so politely to please move—inside the TV console, inside DVD cases, and inside the pottery pieces on the decorative shelf. Nothing there, and nothing behind the curtains.
She stifled a yawn and glanced at her watch. Almost eleven. Not that late, but with the sleep she’d been getting it felt much later. She’d have to speed up.
With Death lurking in the doorway, crunching happily, Casey rifled through the medicine cabinet and detergent-scented linen closet in the bathroom. Nothing. She walked down the hallway, pausing at a child’s bedroom. A boy’s. Sports wallpaper, with a life-sized football player taking up most of one wall, and a Cleveland Indians bedspread. She stepped into the room. “Would a mother hide incriminating evidence in her child’s room?”
Death considered this. “Perhaps if it were something that wouldn’t explode, smell, or catch on fire. On second thought, forget the smell thing. Ten-year-old boys aren’t exactly odorfree.”
Casey decided Ellen wouldn’t have risked it, and left, thinking she could always come back if she didn’t find anything else. She was moving toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway when she heard a door open. She snapped off her flashlight and froze, glancing back at Death, who had, of course, disappeared. A light came on in the living room, spilling toward her, and she tiptoed backward, entering the bedroom. Her sight, having adjusted partially to the darkness with her use of only a flashlight, allowed her to see the layout of the room. Moving quickly but silently, she walked to the far side of the room and crouched behind the bed, her heart beating so loudly she was afraid whoever was out there would hear it.
> Padding footsteps reached her ears, and she waited, holding her breath, as they came directly to the bedroom. The overhead light flipped on.
Casey blinked sudden sweat from her eyes and hunched even farther over her knees, trying to peer under the bed at the same time she tried to become invisible. The person hesitated in the doorway, but soon walked in, feet scuffing on the carpet. A drawer opened, and Casey could hear the person displacing clothes. A huff of disappointment, and then another drawer, followed by more searching.
The person went through four drawers before turning to the closet, fortunately on the other side of the room. Another light clicked on, and Casey listened to boxes being pulled from a shelf and opened, and hangers scraping along the pole as clothes were gone through.
Casey’s legs were cramping from her curled-up position, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. Why hadn’t she found a hiding place where she could stand up, ready to defend herself? As it was, she’d be lucky if her legs would hold her when she finally got up. This was no position from which to fight.
Taking advantage of the next exchange of one box for another, Casey slid her legs backward, so she was lying flat on her stomach. The cramps eased, and she winced as the blood began to circulate again. She placed her hands flat on the ground by her shoulders, ready to propel her upright.
The closet light went off, and the intruder sighed loudly. A man, Casey thought. The closet door shut, and the footsteps came closer to the bed. Casey tensed, ready to rocket upward. The bed sagged as the man sat on its edge. Casey longed to look up over the top, but he was so close. She held her position, trying to see his shoes under the edge of the comforter, in case she recognized them. All she could see was a dark heel. Nothing revealing.
The man sighed again, and the bed squeaked as he stood up. Casey squinted, trying to slide under the bed and at the same time see the shoes as he turned around. It was hard to tell, the fringes of the comforter disguising the shoes.
Suddenly, she was no longer looking at shoes, but at knees, and then a face as he looked under the bed. His eyes went wide and he fell backward, yelling and propelling himself toward the closet, crab-like.
