Indeed, as soon as she stepped into the living room, she saw it. The front door wide open, and the bright light from the street illuminating the entrance as if it were daytime, outlining the furniture and deepening the shadows in the corners where the light didn’t reach.
A moving shadow startled her, and she looked to her right and almost screamed out loud before she realized that it was just her, reflected in the mirror. She looked at herself superstitiously, fearing that something might be lurking in the mirror behind her image. But it was just her, staring back at herself with large, frightened eyes, and a mop of graying, reddish, unruly hair.
It was snowing again. The street was covered in a white wonderland, sparkling, pristine, untouched, so perfectly clean before the world woke up and trampled it down. Flakes of snow danced and whirled inside the house lifted by the gusts of wind, forming puddles of water on the floor where they melted.
Her first instinct was fear, and her heart began its usual disorderly beat. She held her hand to her throat, feeling the uneven heartbeats pulsing under the skin. A dark room, an open front door, the muted silence of snow falling, and the puddles of water on the floor. An uncontrollable fear took hold of her as she looked around her and she began to shiver, rooted to the floor, unable to move, expecting danger to come at her from the darkest parts of the room, the ones in the shadows. But then she heard voices.
That was Alfred out there, and it must have been he who had gone outside and left the front door open. She was quite alarmed now. There was no reason—no good reason—why her husband should be out there in the snow in the middle of the night. Forgetting that she was too scared to move, she approached the door cautiously, almost on tiptoe. From here she could hear Alfred’s voice, and someone else, someone very angry, but she could not distinguish what they were saying.
Teeth chattering in her thin robe, she got even closer and then hid behind the curtain. From there—as plain as day—she could see Alfred, in his flannel pajamas and robe, talking to someone, gesticulating angrily, arguing with a man whose back was turned toward her. She couldn’t see his face.
Henrietta felt a rage well up inside her. Now she was angry too. She had always suspected that one day, Alfred would turn back into the hoodlum he had once been, because that disposition was there inside him, even if it was well hidden. And here was her proof.
Furious, completely losing her patience, and fed up with the interruption to her sleep, she got out from behind the curtain and walked to the open door.
Alfred and the man were arguing loudly, and the man had a rod in his right hand. It looked like a lead pipe. She had seen plenty of those in movies.
Well, she was good and fed up. Not thinking of her own safety, or of the consequences, she stepped out of the house and raised an accusing hand to those two troublesome men and yelled at them that she was going to call the police.
Both the stranger and her husband turned toward her, their faces, their bodies, frozen in the moment, surprised at the interruption, and then the man—without losing a second—took off running toward the park. Alfred, shivering from the cold, came into the house sheepishly, head down, and Henrietta slammed the door behind them. She didn’t even bother to say anything but went back upstairs. On heading toward her room, she noticed that the lodger had stopped talking to himself.
But she was past caring. The world had gone mad, and she wanted no part of it. She went back to her room and slammed her door. She tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t until the sun started rising, that she finally found herself relaxed enough to close her eyes and go to sleep.
Chapter 45. A Bottle Of Rum
Alfred entered the house sheepishly and took his wet, frozen slippers off. He stayed out of the way while his wife came and went furiously until she disappeared upstairs and slammed her bedroom door. Then, he went into the kitchen, found the bottle of rum which he had secreted on the top shelf behind some stuff they never used, and sat down at the table and put his head on his arms.
This was not good. The last thing he wanted to do in his life was to alienate Henrietta. He wanted to live in peace and harmony. The wife got upset from time to time, but he didn’t begrudge her that. He knew he had turned out to be a disappointment, and she didn’t deserve that.
She had been a good wife to him, and a good mother to Celia, who could thank Henrietta for her proper upbringing, her ambition, and her work ethics. She could have decided never to forgive him for bringing newborn baby Celia home, the illegitimate child that was born ten years after they had first gotten married. But she had never complained—not too loud, anyway, and never in front of the child. Instead, she had tended to her, had cared for her and taught her well.
Alfred knew he had a lot to be thankful for. He took a couple of sips of rum. He hated having disappointed her. But she didn’t even know the worst of it. And he had to make sure that she never did.
He needed a good hiding place. A really good one. The kind that would never be discovered, not even after his death. Another sip of rum didn’t clear his head, nor did it give him any bright ideas.
He could burn them. But it was safer not to. They incriminated him, but they also proved his innocence. Talk about a double-edged sword. And what good luck that in the tousle outside, he had managed to grab them and retain them. Against all odds.
Henrietta must never find out.
In his mind, he went through all the places around the house where such incriminating documents could be hidden. With the new lodger, the attic was out. Downstairs was out as well, because Henrietta was always around, organizing, remodeling, changing stuff around the place, and the same went for their floor, where they all slept.
Of course, there was the garage. Not a proper garage, really, as they had no car, but a keeper of discarded objects. There were forgotten boxes in there that had once belonged to his parents, and unwanted things that Henrietta had brought with her when they had married.
But there was one corner in there that would never be revisited. That was where they had placed the crib and the baby things after they had given up waiting for a pregnancy to happen. The baby never came, and year by year, Henrietta’s heart had grown colder and more despondent, until finally one day, she gave up.
As in a funeral, they had solemnly taken all the little things for that baby that never came, placed them in plastic boxes, or back into their original containers. The crib was covered in thick plastic, sealed up and propped up against the wall. Then it was forgotten.
Perhaps because too much rum had mellowed him, Alfred had another sip and shed a few sorry tears, for Henrietta, for him, for all their unfulfilled dreams. And for the baby that never came.
It was too late to go outside and hide the papers. Tonight, they would have to stay close to him. Tomorrow, when Henrietta went out shopping, he would sneak into the garage, hide the letters, and then sweep the floor that led to the little building. The last thing he wanted was for Henrietta to become suspicious because of footsteps leading to it.
He walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a sturdy Ziplock bag. Plastic never rots, he told himself. It would protect these papers forever. He placed the documents in the bag and held them tight in one hand. With the other, he shoved the bottle of rum back into its hiding place, and then he turned out the kitchen lights.
Slowly, sadly, he hobbled upstairs. He knew that Henrietta was disappointed in him, and it tore at his heart. He fluffed his pillow and pulled the comforter over his body. The lamps were out on the landing, but the streetlights flooded the room and shone in his eyes, and he turned his face to the back of the sofa looking for comfort in the darkness. He huddled there, feeling unloved. He remembered when he and Henrietta had first gotten married and how much they had loved each other.
The sounds of the night followed his memories for a while, but he was tired. It had been a very long day. Soon, very soon, his eyes closed, and he mercifully fell asleep.
Chapter 46. Rosalie Found
Ce
lia left for school, leaving a void behind. Henrietta—who always said that she didn’t like hugs—missed them already. Alfred moved back to Celia’s room, and things went back to normal. The new normal.
Sunday morning, she and Alfred were getting ready to go to church, when two terrible things happened at the same time. The doorbell rang, and right at that moment, they heard the Sunday Newsboy yelling under their window that there had been another murder.
The perfume bottle in Henrietta’s hand fell on the tile and broke into smithereens. A chill went through her body as a wave of premonition rushed through her. Rosalie, she thought. They’ve found Rosalie. Then she remembered Peter who had vanished at the same time, and she wondered if they had found his body as well.
She watched in a daze how Alfred opened the front door and greeted Charlie and then shoved him aside as he rushed down the slippery steps. She stared at Charlie who stared back at her. Charlie shrugged, pretending nonchalance, but you could tell he knew something.
“Come in, Charlie, and close the door. Don’t just stand there. You’re letting the cold air in.”
“But Mr. Jones?”
“He’ll be right back. I have a feeling that he rushed out for the paper. It’s his obsession.”
“The new murder,” he said.
“Yes. Do you have any news?”
“Just that. They found a new body this morning at dawn.”
“In the park?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Rosalie?” Henrietta walked slowly toward Charlie, looking into his eyes. Rosalie was very dear to Celia. Her heart beat wildly as she prayed in silence, knowing that it was too late to be heard. Charlie lowered his eyes, and she knew.
“It’s not official yet, but I was there with my friend Jeff, the one from the police, helping. You know they’re always shorthanded, especially now with all these murders, so they gave me a temporary job there to help out.”
“And you saw her?”
“Yes, Mrs. Jones. I saw her. There’s no mistaking her. I’ve known her for as long as I’ve known Celia, and that’s too many years to count.”
Henrietta nodded and looked away. Suddenly too weak in the knees, she went and sat down on the sofa.
“Another redhead,” she said, sadly.
“Yes. I noticed that she had cut her hair and dyed it red.”
“Foolish girl. She was pregnant.”
“I know. Celia told me.”
“What about Peter?”
“Peter’s not dead, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I thought they might have been kidnapped together,” Henrietta said. She was baffled. For the briefest moment, she had sensed the image of the young man, lying in a ditch alongside a nondescript country road outside of town, face bashed in, head lying in a puddle of dried blood. Nothing more than her imagination, then.
“The police think that it’s Peter who killed her.”
“That makes no sense. Did he kill those other women as well?”
“The police are considering that option.”
“But Charlie, you know him. Do you think he would be capable of murder?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Jones. He’s not such a nice guy. Rosalie always preferred bad boys. Everyone warned her about Peter.”
“What will happen now?”
“I don’t know. They’ll find him and arrest him, I suppose. And then, they’ll try to find out if he committed the other murders or not.”
Chapter 47. Peter
“Was there a note pinned to her dress?” Alfred asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Because, you know that if there was no note, it wasn’t our serial killer but a copycat.”
“How do you mean, Mr. Jones?”
“That Peter killed her because she got pregnant, and made it look like the serial killer did it.”
Henrietta served coffee and sweet buns. She sat at the table with Alfred and Charlie but had no interest in following their conversation. She felt like the desire to continue living had abandoned her. She felt the waves of depression coming and going and was thinking about heading upstairs to her bedroom. She was finding it harder and harder to be interested in staying alive. All she wanted to do was sleep and sleep. Maybe never wake up. She pulled herself up from the table and walked out of the kitchen in a daze, but she turned around when she heard what the men were talking about.
“This time there are two witnesses, Mr. Jones. They both said—after being interrogated separately—that they saw a tall, very slender, very strange man carrying a soft leather briefcase, slinking away from the area of the crime.”
Henrietta gasped. Peter was tall and slender, but not strange looking. Her gaze traveled upward, and an ugly thought entered her mind. George Baxter was tall and slender, and he was strange looking. He also had a soft leather briefcase.
She began walking up the stairs. Automatically. She climbed them slowly, one by one, as if mesmerized. A tall, strange, slender man. She was going to ask him. She had to find out.
She had to hold on to the banister because her knees were shaking so badly. Had the lodger not moved in around the time of the first murder? Was he not in the habit of going out late at night? Could it be him?
There had been an awful fog, Charlie had said, but they were sure they had seen someone walk away with a bag, a briefcase. A tall, strange looking, very slender man.
On the second floor, Henrietta rested. Why would the killer carry a briefcase? Alfred had asked, and Charlie’s answer had made so much sense. What better place to put the murder weapon and whatever else he needed to commit the crime?
Henrietta shook her head. Her lodger was an honorable man, a gentleman. He would never commit such horrible acts. Besides, he seemed to hate women. Would he bother going out in the middle of the night to murder redheads just because he hated women?
Then she shuddered. She remembered how George Baxter had touched her hair and admiringly noticed that it was red. Oh dear, she thought. Will he be wanting to kill me next?
Chapter 48. Confrontation
Terrified, but unable to control herself, she knocked on the lodger’s door and waited. She had to knock again and almost gave up when George Baxter opened the door.
“Mrs. Jones, Henrietta, what an unexpected surprise. Did I call you and don’t remember?” The lodger asked in a rather unfriendly tone. “You must know that I don’t like being interrupted when I’m working.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m so sorry. But I just had to tell you something.”
“Well, come in, then, come in and sit down. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
Henrietta stood in front of George Baxter, wringing her hands, and as he looked down at her with those penetrating dark eyes, she felt that her courage was deserting her. All she wanted to do was to turn around and run.
“Now you don’t look too good,” he said in a kinder tone, coming closer to her. “You must tell me what’s wrong.”
“There’s been another murder,” she blurted out and began crying.
“No, no, it’s not possible.” George Baxter became agitated and walked away from her, walked back and forth, muttering to himself. Then he went back to her and grabbed her gently by the arms.
“Henrietta, you must come and sit down and tell me everything.”
“Another redhead, in the park, but this time it was a friend of Celia’s, my stepdaughter Celia’s. She was pregnant.”
Henrietta sat there, crumpled in a heap of misery, and George Baxter sat down next to her and held her, making soothing noises. He felt warm and kind, and he smelled good, and Henrietta found the comforting soothing.
She finally detached herself, aware of the awkwardness of the moment. She got up and walked to the door. She turned around and looked back at George Baxter, who had comforted her so kindly and felt foolish at having suspected him.
When he walked up to her and got so close to her that she could feel his breath on her eyelids, she stopped crying and loo
ked up at his mysterious eyes. He smiled down at her and reached out with his hand. She allowed him to gently smooth down her hair and dry her tears. She smiled back.
Chapter 49. Intimacy
Alfred Jones, surprised by the wordless disappearance of his wife, chatted with Charlie for another few minutes, but then, unable to forget the look of distress on his wife’s face, got up, excused himself and went looking for her.
She wasn’t in the kitchen or in any of the downstairs rooms, so he mounted the steps, beginning to worry. He knocked politely on the bedroom door, but after getting no answer, he opened it and stuck his head in. Empty. Now he was getting worried. From there, he checked the bathroom and Celia’s room, and eventually, there was nowhere else to go.
Baffled, Alfred stood by the stairs, scratching his head. And then he heard her cry. It was very quiet, the cry. If he hadn’t been paying attention carefully, he would have missed it. And it was unmistakably her. He had to admit—sadly—that he knew her cry because he had heard it so often.
The sound seemed to come from upstairs, so he followed it. There was nothing on the next floor but empty rooms, and he went to them, opening them one by one and finding them empty.
There was only one place left where she could have gone. Here, her voice and that of another echoed in whispers, and he came to the startling conclusion that Henrietta was upstairs, crying with—and talking to—the lodger.
The blood froze in his veins. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about that, but it troubled him. Should he go and interrupt? Was this a private conversation? What a ridiculous notion, he thought, that his wife should have to go and cry on another man’s shoulder when he, the husband, was right there to console her.
The Stranger in the Attic Page 9
