“It’s about time!” she snapped, taken aback for a moment by the freshly showered, very clean-cut Sam. He smelled good and his hair was brushed back, revealing a slightly younger face than he was wearing the last time she saw him. He even looked respectable in his clean plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“Sorry,” he said, moving past her, a red metal toolbox in hand. “I needed a shower after hauling the fish in. I thought you’d be madder at me if I came in stinking the house out than you would if I was late.”
She shut the door quietly and followed him in without saying he was right.
“What the…?” Sam stood at the entrance to the kitchen, taking in the mess. The stove parts all over the ground and the pages of the manual spread out for Ali to read were one thing, but what really took his eye was the mess of flour and the pantry contents that had practically spilled out all over the room.
“I don't claim to be a tidy cook,” Ali said, turning sideways to scoot past him, “but I always clean up after myself.”
“I would hope so.” He wiped a hand over his hair and hesitantly stepped into the fray. Ali watched for the first ten minutes in perfect silence, wondering if she should just leave and go sit on the couch—maybe watch him from afar so she could record his mannerisms and really fatten out her evil murdering character—but every time she went to move, something stopped her. Maybe it was his ass. But she didn’t want to admit to herself that she was checking it out. That seemed too creepy, given that he might have murdered his wife and most definitely was going to murder her protagonist.
“So?” she prompted. “Is it fixed yet?”
Sam backed his head out of the giant oven and scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t think so.”
“That doesn't sound very reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to.” He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. “I think it’s cooked its last turkey, if you get my meaning.”
“So it’s toast?”
“Something like that,” he said, and Ali was certain she saw a glint of a smile in the corner of his eye. “I’ll call Mrs. Denver and see what she wants to do.” Sam’s eyes went to the silver bowl on the counter. “Is that for the party tomorrow?”
“It was.” Ali sighed, dipping her finger in the batter and tasting it. “I can probably use Di’s oven.”
“I wouldn't even ask.” Sam squatted down again to pack up the stove’s limbs and organs. “Di usually has that thing running twenty-four-seven in the days leading up to the party. She won’t have time for you to bake a cake that size.”
“That size?” Ali looked around to see if the picture of what she planned to make was sitting out. It wasn’t, so how did he know what size the cake would be? “What makes you think it’ll be big?”
“You wouldn't need that much batter if it wasn’t,” he stated.
“Oh.”
He stood there looking at her for a moment, that hint of a smile returning under the crinkles beside his eyes, his lip even lifting slightly on one side as if it might pull his cheeks upward. “You can use my oven.” The words came as if they’d been choked out—as if he considered them, refused them, and then forced them out anyway. Ali didn’t get to show her look of horror because as soon as he said it, he squatted down to retrieve his red toolbox and avoided eye contact. “I’ll preheat it for you, and you can take it on over in half an hour. I won’t be in until later today, so you can have the place to yourself.”
“That’s very… um…” Generous? she thought. Maybe too generous? Or was it? She didn't know much about this guy aside from what others had said, but he didn't strike her as the neighborly type.
“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” he stated before turning away and fleeing the scene.
Ali picked up the phone immediately and called Di. “He told me to use his oven!” she announced before Di could say hello.
“Who?”
“Sam!” Ali sat up on the island counter, her heart in her throat. “He told me to use his oven.”
“Oh, so I take it Mrs. Denver's has kicked the bucket then—”
“That’s not the point!” Ali demanded. “Should I do it?”
“Do what?”
“Use his oven?”
“Why wouldn't you?”
“Because he’s mean and cranky and—”
“And also a generally very charitable man, petal. You just need to give him time, I told you that. He’ll warm up to you.”
Ali’s shoulders dropped as, shouting above the voice of concern—that thought Sam was a murderer—another told her she was mean and judgmental.
“Just be sure to keep an eye on the cake. That old oven of his is temperamental. I used it last year and it burned my turkey. First time in twenty years I burned a turkey.”
Ali laughed. “Okay then. I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks, Di.”
“Anytime, petal. And be mindful of that ghost.”
“Ghost?” Ali said, only realizing after she said it what Di had meant. “Oh. So it’s real? Have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen… things,” she said, although Ali got the sense that Di hadn’t wanted to admit that. “No one can ever say for sure what they saw. It’s always just a feeling, you get me?”
“Yeah.” Ali thought about that day she saw Sam’s paintings. “I get you.”
“But not to worry, petal,” she added in a happier voice, “no spirit I ever heard of caused anyone harm. They’re just reflections of the past, is all.”
“Right,” Ali said, but if Sam’s past was anything like her own past, no matter how far you ran, it could still hurt.
Filling a Well
As promised, Sam left the front door unlocked and Ali walked in to his house with a giant baking tray in hand. She laid it on the counter, noting the vast differences in the kitchen before averting her snooping eyes, then left to go grab the second cake tin. Where her kitchen had a small cabinet with cups on hooks, and plates lined up, Sam’s had a counter that wrapped the entire back wall and the sides, with a giant island in the middle and a wooden frame above, showing off both the ancient and new pots in his collection. A shiny silver oven sat where her iron one was, and an eight-burner stove had its own special place on the opposite side of the kitchen.
Ali put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. This was the kitchen of a man that cooked. She thought maybe Sarah had designed it when she was alive, but surely they hadn't been married long enough for that, and even then, a multitude of herbs and spices all around the room, both dry and fresh, gave Ali the feeling that Sam used this space often.
Once the cake trays were safely in the toasty oven, and with no obvious signs of Sam returning, she wandered into the living room to start making assumptions about this man. As Di had told her, Mrs. Denver’s house was an exact replica of Sam’s, decor aside. Sam’s house wasn't cluttered like old Mrs. Denver’s, as if he hadn’t yet accumulated a lifetime of personal effects; it was clean, orderly, but also kind of manly. There was not an inch of floral wallpaper in sight, and yet there were also no animal heads or mounted fish. It smelled nice, like furniture polish, and Ali couldn't see so much as a speck of dust, not even under the beige leather sofa.
Ali sat down in the worn wingback chair and put her feet up on the stool, which was just slightly too far away for her legs to reach without sliding down a bit. She thought about moving it closer but didn't want to disturb anything in Sam’s home. She felt like an intruder, even though he’d told her to come here. In fact, he quite possibly even lit the fire for that exact reason. Sam didn’t strike Ali as the kind of guy that wasted money on wood if he wasn’t planning to be home for the day, so she had to assume it was for her, which made it impossible to see him as a bad guy.
In the magazine rack beside the chair, there were a few aged copies of Fishing Weekly and a very weathered copy of a John Grisham novel. That, in itself, probably said a lot about Sam, but Ali wasn’t sure what. She returned the reading material to its original order and sat b
ack in the chair, taking in the room. Though there were few ornaments or trinkets around, in what little Sam stored in view, Ali could get a good sense of his personality. There were no photos, only a few painted images of landscapes, which told her Sam quite possibly didn't like to reflect on the past. Either that, or he didn't have a happy one. The throw pillows and knitted blanket on the sofa, along with the plush neutral rug over the hardwood floors, told Ali that Sam was a lounge-room kind of guy. He spent a lot of time in this room, even though she couldn’t see a TV.
As Ali turned in the chair to look for one, the wall of books caught her eye. Thinking back to the fact that he owned a bookstore, it was no surprise to see a lot of books, but on walking over to inspect the titles, she was surprised to see that most of them were worn on the spines from overuse, and not one of them seemed like the kind of book that overgrown jerk would read. There was everything from romance to young adult and even horror, which made Ali wonder if these were the read-and-not-bought copies from the store.
One thing was for sure, the lack of a TV and the abundance of books did speak volumes about what kind of man he used to be, maybe before he became cold and heartless. Ali didn't think anyone with this many books could possibly be all that bad. She felt herself soften toward him just a little.
Being the opportunist she was, as the batter slowly rose its way to becoming a cake, she took a moment to shut her eyes and see if she could feel a ghostly presence. The room was warm with the generous fire, and even with the only sounds being the hum of the oven and the ticking clock on the mantel, Ali couldn't feel so much as an eerie draft. She knew from the news article that Sarah had been found at the “base of the stairs”—to put it politely, when “hanged from the stairs” was a better description—but she wasn’t sure which ones: the third floor? Maybe. Or the stairs by the entrance way?
Her feet were moving toward them before her mind gave permission. Ali stood there in the foyer waiting to feel something odd. But all she felt was silly. Ghosts weren't real, and as much as she wanted to have a supernatural experience to fatten out her writing, she just wasn't naive enough to stand here waiting for it.
As she headed back to the kitchen to check on the cake, a door off to the side of the foyer creaked in the wind—the same door that, in her house, was just an opening to the turret. Ali stopped in her tracks and stood dead still, listening for a breeze. Curiosity rattled inside of her and though she knew snooping was wrong, the investigative writer took hold and opened that door.
White light streamed down from the windows higher up, brightening a completely round room, its iron staircase running in a spiral through two floors of richly-stained bookshelves. Though the space was large, it wasn’t roomy, as if the tube of books had been placed here purely to house the staircase. Linking the intricate iron detailing on it with a description from the article, Ali knew this was where Sarah died. She could feel it. It wasn't a chill or an eerie presence, it was her gut talking. “Found dead at the base of the iron staircase by her husband Samuel.”
Ali’s eyes went up the center to the intricate ceiling pattern on the top floor, wondering how Sarah could have fallen through the tunnel without catching her limbs on the railing. And yet the writer in her could so easily picture two bare feet dangling just a few inches above the hardwood floors, swinging slightly as Sarah choked to death by the rope around her neck. It gave Ali shivers, made her want to leave the house and never come back. She couldn’t understand how Sam could have stayed in this house after his wife died here—how he could pass this room every day and not fall to pieces. It was clean in here too, as if someone dusted and swept it regularly instead of avoiding it, like Ali would. What kind of a man could live like this?
Unless, of course, he truly was guilty and lived easily with the ghosts of his past.
Ali heard Sam’s car pull up in the drive, so she backed out of the room quickly and shut the door, dying of curiosity to find out what was up on the top floor—if it was just shelves like the lower floor, or if there was a fireplace and a nice chair for reading. Or maybe a corpse. She would have to find an excuse to come back here one day. That wicked tube of a library was way too interesting not to see again.
Sam came in just as Ali opened the oven to check the cake again. She played it magically cool as she greeted him.
“Everything working properly?” he asked, tossing his mail on the counter as he sorted through it.
“Fine,” Ali said, closing the oven. She gasped quietly when Sam picked up a sharp gold blade, exhaling slowly when he slipped it into a letter. “So, um, what are you cooking for the party?”
“Nothing,” he stated.
Ali waited, but he didn’t elaborate. And then the absence of pumpkins outside of his house and the fact that his was the only house in the street that didn’t look festive sunk in. “Not the Halloween type, huh?”
“No.” He tossed the mail down and pressed his hands onto the counter, leaning into them. “Not the talking type either.”
Ali took that with a nod of acceptance and closed her mouth. There was an awkward silence then, until Sam broke it with news on the oven. “Mrs. Denver has ordered some replacement parts for the oven. They won’t be here for a month,” Sam said, “but I assume you'll be gone by then—”
“I wasn't planning to be,” she cut in.
Sam stopped talking on an “Oh.” He cleared his throat and moved to the sink for a glass of water. “How… how long were you planning to stay?”
“Not sure. Until I finish my book, I guess.”
“What are you reading?” This question seemed to change Sam a little, wake him up and make him seem almost communicable.
“I’m not reading, actually.” Ali braved a step closer and stopped at the end of the counter. “I’m writing one.”
He placed his glass in the sink and looked out the window, nodding. “Right. I forgot Mrs. Denver had said you’re a writer.”
“So,” Ali started, “do you like to read?” She saw his shoulders lift with a small but audible laugh.
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“What are you reading right now?”
He laughed again and bowed his head, as if hesitant to answer. “You’ll laugh.”
“Why would I?”
“Because most people do.”
“Well, try me.” Ali moved another step closer without being noticed.
Sam spun around and leaned on the edge of the sink, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s a Nicholas Sparks one. The Notebook.”
He was right, Ali realized. She would laugh. She did laugh. “You don’t strike me as a romance guy.” But then, she’d made a lot of assumptions about Sam today and wished she could erase them all and just find out who he really was.
“I’m multifaceted, and so are my reading tastes,” he stated simply. “You could fill a well with what people don't know about me.”
While that could have fueled her concerns about his past, instead, Ali found him more interesting. She just couldn't look into his hazel eyes, especially when they crinkled as he smiled like that, and see a murderer. She did see a man in a lot of pain though, but that didn't show through until his smile withered away, as if he felt like to smile was to dishonor his pain.
“You paint,” she stated in a soft, friendly voice. “I bet not many people know that.”
The smile returned a little, even though he tried to fight it. “No. Not many people know that.”
“Do you sell them?” Ali asked, nodding to a painting on the wall, pretty sure it was one of his, even though she had no way of knowing that.
“Some.” He studied the painting for a moment before looking down at his feet and crossing his ankles. “It pays the bills.”
“You must be pretty good then?” she offered, but she already knew he was.
“I have my good days and bad days. Like any artist.” Sam turned away again and opened the cupboard over the stove. “Would you like coffee?”
“I’d love
some.”
He nodded, avoiding eye contact as though the simple kindness of offering a coffee had left him vulnerable.
“Or, you know,” Ali said, “if you want me to go, I can just come back later and check on the cake.”
Sam put the coffee cups down and turned to face her, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his light denim jeans. “I give that impression, don’t I?”
“Kinda.” She laughed softly, shrugging.
“For what it’s worth”—he scratched his brow, squinting one eye shut, which Ali could see was a nervous gesture—“I don’t mind if you stay. I’m just not used to company and it’s been a long time since I’ve been around a stranger.”
“So, are you saying you just don't know how to behave?”
“Something like that.” He nodded once and turned to make the coffee, finding it easier to be himself when he didn't have to make eye contact.
“They told me you’d take some getting used to.”
“Who did?”
“People.” Ali shrugged again. “Apparently you're really not as scary as you act.”
Sam laughed. “You think I’m scary?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Not that I know of.” He reached up and grabbed a jar from the cupboard. “Sugar?”
“One, thanks.” A slightly lengthy silence settled in the room, so Ali looked around for a point of conversation, spotting the fishing rod behind her in the mud room. Fishing was one thing she knew plenty about. “So, what’d you catch today? Anything edible?”
Sam glanced back, unsure what she meant, then followed her head gesture to the fishing rod, and smiled. “Yeah. Mostly edible—got five big ones for dinner. And for dessert there were a few boots and an old tin can.”
Ali laughed. “Well, minus the fish, that’s what I usually catch too.”
This time, Ali heard Sam laugh for real. It was a short, small laugh, but it opened the gateway to their first real conversation. After a while, Sam asked how she knew so much about fishing, so she told him about her father and how much he’d loved fishing before he died. There was a connection between Sam and Ali as they spoke of fish, but as soon as death came up, Sam withdrew a little.
Dead and Gone Page 7
