by A. J. Aalto
Dean’s breath caught, and though he should have looked away, he didn't. Her smile dissolved, but not before completing its unexpected assault on his nerves. Caught staring, he feigned an embarrassed and apologetic half-smile and went back to his pancakes.
She wasn’t fooled; when he glanced over a full ten minutes later, she was still monitoring him. Instead of flattering her ego, he’d set off this one’s warning bells. In his peripheral vision, he could see the younger sister talking animatedly on and on, gesturing wildly with tiny hands, setting off crystalline tinkling he could hear from a charm bracelet under loose, chiffon blouse sleeves.
The elder was now perfectly still, staring straight ahead at her sister, a pose that gave away absolutely nothing. She appeared to be listening to her sister’s monologue, but he was willing to bet that the bulk of her focus was still on him. Time to go. He would learn nothing else that morning.
But he was wrong about that. He wove through the tables, purposefully setting his path so he’d be sidelined by a waitress with a full tray, backtracking closer to the sisters’ booth near the window. The elder turned her face only enough so that she could glance down at his ankle. On his way past, he heard the older sister’s silken voice.
“Drive safe, officer.”
He did not look back.
**
Frankie was gabbing excitedly. “You should let me paint you one. The irises. Hello?” She waved her hands some more. “I could do a big one. I need this. I need a project. The work will take my mind off things.” Her hands told the same story, as Frankie’s hands were wont to do. Busy, busy, busy, they never rested. “I’m only happy when I’m plunging into a new piece, you know that.”
Gillian made an appeasing noise, which Frankie must have taken as agreement. She began excitedly planning the new piece. Frankie worked predominantly in stained glass and bronze these days, making windows, garden sculptures, lamp shades, and wind chimes. She ground to a halt during her talk about dimensions. “Gillian?”
“Roses,” Gillian said. “Pink. Dark pink.”
“But you said you wanted to paint your bedroom purple,” Frankie said. “The irises would match your walls.”
“Rosa rugosa rubra, if you need to look them up for reference.”
“Those single, open ones with all the thorns?” Frankie’s nose wrinkled with disapproval. “They’re not even pretty.”
Gillian shrugged with one shoulder, the bulk of her peripheral focus on the man who was watching her. “I like them.”
“I know you do.” Frankie sipped her diet Coke. “You already have tons of photos of them on your walls at the cottage.”
“Yes I do.” Gillian glanced down at the familiar standard-issue shoes of the man passing their table, spotted the telltale bulge of an ankle holster under his pant hem, and said under her breath, “Drive safe, officer…”
Frankie stopped gesticulating with her hands, which fell in a nested ball in her lap. Her lips barely moved. “A cop?”
Gillian smiled calmly behind her tea cup and nodded once, slowly. She knew she should have kept her teeth together and said nothing, but the temptation had been irresistible. He hadn’t reacted, but he’d heard her. She knew the moment he dodged the waitress as an excuse to get closer to her table that he’d be listening extra closely. The whole act was mildly amusing, even as it stirred her concern.
Frankie asked, “He wasn’t watching us?”
“Of course not,” she lied easily. “He has no reason to. How are your fries?”
“I have no appetite,” Frankie said. “Ugh, I had the worst dinner last night. That Devin guy—“
“Daniel?”
“Right, jeez, why did I think it was Devin? Where’s my head today?” Frankie tapped her temple and her earrings tinkled prettily. “He insisted on Indian food, and it just didn’t sit right. Then I had a late coffee, and I was sick all night.”
“Food poisoning? Or just something a bit off?” Gillian shook her head with an exasperated smile that said what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you. “Why did you order fries and a diet Coke for breakfast if you threw up all night?”
Frankie dipped a fry in ketchup and chewed with mock rebellion at her sister, smiling around the potato. “Force of habit?”
“Junk food habit,” Gillian teased. “I don’t know how you’re so skinny. I thought vegetarians were supposed to be healthy.”
“Only the boring ones,” Frankie said, sucking a French fry in mock fellatio.
Gillian accused, “Half the stuff you put in your mouth isn’t even technically food.”
“No, you misheard me,” Frankie said mischievously. “My date didn’t go well.”
Gillian snort-laughed and shook her head. “Such a pig.”
Frankie wiggled her eyebrows and then pointed behind Gillian to indicate their private investigator was here. Gillian finished her tea as Paul Langerbeins limped over to join them. The sisters fell into a quiet discussion about the weather forecast for the week as Paul got comfortable in the booth beside Gillian.
Gillian handed him a menu. When the waitress returned, she refilled Gillian’s tea. Paul ordered coffee, black, and a bran muffin.
“Mr. Excitement,” Frankie commented. “Settle down there, wild man.”
Paul took out a pad and pencil, getting right down to business, though there was a softening around the corners of his eyes that might have been humor. “This is about as wild as I get,” Paul promised them. “Got some more questions for you. Both of you.” He jotted the date and time on his legal pad and then asked Gillian, “Any more communication?”
Frankie gave Gillian a stern what-does-that-mean glare which Gillian ignored. “No, not at all.”
“And you, Frankie?” Paul asked, and when she pulled out a list and her phone to show him texts and emails and missed calls, he took all the information down. He asked to listen to the voice mails, and Frankie put in her password and handed him her phone. He listened, his long, serious face unhappy; since he always looked this way, Gillian found it difficult to gauge his reaction. His hand didn’t stop as he recorded things in his notes. She was tempted to read them over his shoulder, but figured Frankie would share anything particularly worrisome with her later. As a rule, the sisters did not keep secrets.
“Tell me about how you met Travis Freeman,” Paul asked.
Frankie said, “Online dating. I know, it’s lame, but since I graduated school, I’ve been so busy with the boys and work that I don’t get out to meet new people. Our profiles matched up and he seemed great.”
“Isn’t online dating dangerous?” Gillian asked.
Paul see-sawed his hand. “There are smart ways of going about it. Do you mind if I ask how your profiles matched up?”
“Well,” Frankie said, squinting like she was trying to remember ancient history, “we both liked tribal drums, eclectic dining experiences, world travel, astrology and star gazing, studying art and architecture—”
Gillian choked on her green tea and grabbed a napkin to dab at the front of her sweater. “Travis Freeman likes that stuff?” she said, dripping disbelief. “He said that?”
Frankie looked like a deer in the headlights for a second, caught out like she’d been the one lying, and then threw her head back and laughed wildly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she exploded merrily. “I totally bought that, too. He didn’t like any of that while we were actually dating.”
“He tailored his profile to attract you,” Paul guessed.
Frankie used one forefinger to fish-hook her own cheek then rolled her eyes and sighed. “I feel like a dummy.”
When the waitress came to check on Frankie’s soda, Gillian decided she was hungrier than she’d estimated and ordered a carrot and raisin muffin.
Paul said, “You’re certainly not dumb. Tell me about how the relationship progressed.”
“I just wanted a casual dating situation,” Frankie explained. “A movie on Friday night. Someone to have dinner with. Nothing serious.”
&nbs
p; “He got serious,” Paul guessed.
“Fast,” she said. “Within a few weeks, it felt like we were already married. He wanted to stay overnight every night. Sorry, dude, but I like having my bed to myself. Maybe that’s not sexy or romantic—”
“That doesn’t matter,” Gillian said gently. “You have every right to sleep alone, if that’s what you choose to do.”
“He started leaving stuff behind at my house, which I’d throw in a grocery bag and return to him, and he would say ‘just leave it in the closet,’” Frankie said.
“What sorts of things did he bring?” Paul asked.
The waitress brought Frankie another soda and Gillian’s muffin. Once she disappeared, Frankie went on.
“At first, he’d leave his sweatshirt behind or a pair of gloves.” She shrugged. “As you do. No big deal. But then, after he fixed the lock on my front door, he left one of his tool boxes behind. It was always in my way, because that’s where the kids take their muddy boots off on the tray, there. I asked him a bunch of times to take it back home with him, but then I found it downstairs in my laundry area. I thought that was weird. And after that, I found his deodorant and a toothbrush in my bathroom and I never saw him bring those in.” She gave an exhausted little huff. “They just appeared like magic. Did he smuggle them in, in his pockets? Every time I turned around, it was looking more and more like our house, but I wasn’t sure how to tell him to slow down without hurting his feelings, and I figured there wasn’t much harm in it.” She nibbled a French fry, sipped her diet Coke, but her slim hand hovered over her belly and she pushed them away. “When I finally did try to gather up his things for him and left them by the back door, he got really upset. Like I was trying to break up. I just wanted my space back. I’m not looking for a new roommate.”
Paul was nodding. “Fast-tracking a relationship like that is a red flag.”
“Have you found something about him that we should be concerned about?” Gillian asked.
Paul was about to speak when Frankie’s phone jingled.
“Speak of the devil,” Frankie sighed.
Paul asked, “Have you changed your phone number yet?”
“I’ll do it today,” Frankie said with a nod. “Should have done it already.”
Frankie’s phone jingled again and then Gillian’s vibrated at her hip. She drew her phone out and showed Paul the text. If she doesn’t need me, why would she let me keep the key to the garage and keep my tools there?
Paul asked, “Is this true?”
Frankie said, “No. I asked for that key back ten times. I told him to put it in the mailbox. He said that wasn’t safe to do that and he’d have to give it to me in person.”
Gillian sighed. “Another attempt to manipulate and control.”
Paul nodded. “From this point forward, zero contact from you, Frankie. You’re going to change your number; landline, too. We’re going to change the locks on your house and garage door. And if he does get any message through to you, you're to ignore it completely.”
Frankie looked to Gillian, who nodded firmly.
Gillian texted to Travis. She’d like the key back. Leave it in the mailbox. Your tools will be on my porch. Don’t knock. No one wants to speak to you. You have until Wednesday to retrieve them. If you don’t, I’ll give them to charity.
Frankie was peering across the table at her sister’s phone. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Why?” Gillian asked. “I’m not going to be afraid of him.”
“Shouldn’t you be?” Frankie said, her voice getting breathy again. Her fingers fluttered to the hollow of her throat.
Gillian frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. You think he’d try to hurt me just for suggesting he gives me the key to your garage?”
Paul made an uncertain noise. “You’re taking control. He won’t like that.”
Gillian laughed bitterly. “Tough shit. I should care what he likes? He can go fuck himself.” She felt her own eyebrows rise, and she glanced around at the suddenly curious looks from the other diner patrons. “Sorry.” She smoothed the mother of pearl buttons on the front of her cardigan, tucked her hair behind her ear, and repeated to Paul, “Sorry. I’m just fed up.”
“Understandable,” Paul said. “But don’t let your anger fog your judgment. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this man coming to your house to get his tools.”
“I won’t be home,” she promised. “I’m moving to the new place as soon as possible.”
“You should get a dog, Gillian,” Paul suggested.
“We have a dog,” Gillian said. “Doogie can move in when Frankie does.”
“Let’s try not to make him focus his anger on you,” Paul suggested.
Frankie nodded and pointed as though he’d taken the words right out of her mouth. “Yeah, he already thinks this whole break-up was your idea.”
“Whoa,” Paul said, “hold up. Why does he think it has anything to do with Gillian?”
Frankie shifted uncomfortably. “When I started feeling trapped in my relationship with Travis, I asked Gillian what she would do in my situation. And she gave me her honest opinion, that’s all. I…” She wrapped a finger in her hair and snapped it. “I wrote this in my diary. I’ve always kept one, I write in it faithfully every night. Purging my thoughts on paper helps me sleep. Anyway, I wrote Gillian’s words down, and my feelings, and weighed things.”
Gillian’s hand froze in the act of pulling the top off her muffin, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “You write everything down?” Her eyes asked: everything?
Frankie nodded. “One night, I found him sitting up late on the couch, drinking a beer, reading my diary like it was just the most normal thing in the world to be snooping in someone’s personal, private thoughts.”
Gillian swallowed hard and tried to remember when she had bought Frankie’s last gift of a pretty, new journal. Had it been Christmas of last year? Her birthday in June? No, she thought. It had been a long time ago. An off-holiday thing. We’d been in that cute little shop in Ancaster, and we had seen those gorgeous leather diaries with the silk ties. I bought her the green one with the pattern stamped on the front. Was it two Novembers ago, now? No, three. Right after the first snow. We’d gone to see Webster’s Falls, to see if it had ice on it yet, and to take pictures. Her painting from that trip sold at the winter fair in Toronto for five grand. She was so proud. That would have been months before Mike Deacon proposed to Frankie, before Bobby’s obsession with Frankie, before the accident and the fall, and months before Greg’s death.
Surely, Frankie had filled the leather one long ago and was working on a new one? Gillian thought hopefully.
Paul was saying, “It’s important that he is given no access to you whatsoever, Frankie. Complete radio silence, understood?”
“But that makes my sister the only available focus of his rage,” Frankie said.
And that’s a part I’m willing to play, Gillian thought. As I have before. “I’ll be fine.”
“You might be surprised at how wide a net he throws,” Paul said. “New boyfriends might get calls, old friends, family, coworkers, clients, anyone he can reach with threats or attempts to embarrass you.”
“Paul, is there anything specific about this guy we need to be worried about?”
Paul shook his head. “That depends. What did he learn from that diary?”
The green leather one, Gillian worried silently. Would she still have it? And then, though Gillian had never before considered violating her sister’s personal property, I need to get that diary. It needs to be in my possession so I can dispose of it properly.
Frankie picked at her fries.
Paul studied them and advised, “If there were secrets in there, you might expect him to use them to punish either one of you. He may run a smear campaign. Are you both ready to withstand someone gossiping about you all over town? He’s done this before, when his ex-wife Susan left him and took the kids. He started a website advertis
ing her services as a prostitute, with her real phone number. She was getting calls from prospective johns for over a year, no matter how often she changed her number. A restraining order did almost nothing to stop him; Susan claims Travis started using his friends to harass her when he wanted to look like he was keeping his nose clean.”
Gillian’s world got very, very small, and though she felt she hid it well, her head swam dizzily and tiny stars danced before her eyes. He couldn’t know everything. He couldn’t possibly know. Frankie wouldn’t write everything down. But when she searched her baby sister’s face, she saw panic, a doe-eyed horror and so much regret that she thought Frankie might vomit.
Gillian didn’t dare pick up her tea cup now for fear of her shaking hand giving her away. “All families have secrets, Mr. Langerbeins. But there shouldn’t be anything in there that would cause a storm.”
“Certainly no storm we can’t handle,” Frankie said with forced brightness, though the blush on her cheeks showed like a doll’s painted circles on a face gone milk-pale.
Gillian didn’t think Paul believed them, but he paid the check and left them to finish their lunch. They did so in perfect, stunned silence.
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday, October 28. 3:05 P.M.
Gillian brought Aaron’s birthday card to the back office of the greenhouse, popping her head in to say hi to Bruce and get him to sign. She was trying hard not to wonder where Frankie kept her old diaries, or if she didn’t keep them at all. Maybe she threw them away when they were filled up.
Stop it. Just ask her, she chided herself. Gillian left the birthday card on the desk and went out with her clipboard to have a brief chat with the crew about what winter clean-up remained. They struck out through Pleasant Pines Cemetery, feeling the chill as October slid closer to November. It was still two days until Halloween, and, finally, autumn was beginning to feel less like summer. Focusing on work helped clear Gillian’s head, and Bruce’s sturdy presence at her side brought her back down to earth, grounded her, made her feel safe. She pointed out the left rear quadrant of the grounds, where two vehicles and a wood chipper were just visible through the old growth trees. They passed a crew on break for their lunches, eating hot dogs next to a particularly flat, table-like headstone.
