Tears of her own threatening, Scarlet quickly busied herself with clearing away the breakfast dishes.
“Would you do something for me?” Marilyn asked in a soft voice.
Scarlet turned to face her mother, “Name it.”
“Would you watch the movie for me?”
Scarlet bit her lip. “Gosh Mom, the third season? I thought we’d save that for next time.”
Wringing her hands, Marilyn replied, “No, not Twilight. I mean the adult movie Trent was talking about.”
Knowing all the color had drained from her face, Scarlet asked, “You want me to watch a porn movie my own sister may be in?”
With a note of desperation in her voice, Marilyn said, “I have to know. One way or the other, I have to know.”
This point could certainly be argued. The family had all but written poor Violet off. What difference did one more shenanigan make?
“Didn’t Trent seem pretty sure she was involved?” Scarlet reasoned.
Marilyn placed her hands out, palms upward. “Trent wants to believe she was involved.”
Suppressing the desire to ask her mother to analyze that statement for a moment, Scarlet instead voiced, “We don’t even know what the movie’s called.”
Pursing her very full lips together, Marilyn walked into the entrance hall and opened a desk drawer.
Holding up an index card, she read aloud, “The Love Farm.”
At a complete loss for words, Scarlet stared at her mother.
“It wasn’t too hard to find out,” Marilyn said tapping the card against an open hand. “You can just imagine the talk around town once they were discovered. When I overheard the name, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget.”
Typing the movie title into her iPhone, Scarlet said in a flat monotone, “Okay Mom, I’ll let you know.”
Putting the card back, Marilyn proclaimed, “You are such a lovely daughter. Besides, you young people watch this sort of thing all the time.”
Eyebrows raised, Scarlet said, “I assure you we don’t.”
In heightened spirits, Marilyn got back onto the subject of her prospective new home until the time came for Scarlet and Prudence’s departure.
“She wants you to do what?” Niles exclaimed amid Tom attempting to quell snorts of laughter.
“My Mother believes this type of viewing is commonplace for us twenty-somethings,” Scarlet replied with a wide grin.
Niles placed fingertips against his temples. “Now let me get this straight. Tom and I will actually be watching this high-grade movie while you’re hiding behind a throw pillow?”
Attempting to look solemn, Scarlet nodded her head.
Responding to his raised eyebrows, she explained, “I can’t watch my own sister do this, this stuff.”
No longer laughing but still breathing heavily under the weight of holding Prudence, Tom said, “Of course, we’ll do it. What else would we be doing on a Wednesday evening?” Turning to Niles, he added, “We’ll need to DVR American Idol.”
“Thank you so much,” Scarlet gushed.
Niles furrowed his brow playfully. “I haven’t been home yet. I’ll change into sweats, set the DVR for that ridiculously addictive show, and then we’ll be ready for our evening’s entertainment.”
“Perfect!” Scarlet agreed. “I’ll have pasta in pesto sauce ready to go.”
As promised, Scarlet had cereal bowls generously laden with cheese topped pesto pasta waiting when the two men returned.
In the middle of scrolling through the internet, Tom paused and looking upward as if the soon-to-be-mentioned man were dead, whispered, “Thank you, Max, for leaving the smart TV.”
Equipping her friends with the most recent photos available of her sister, Scarlet busied herself in the kitchen. She simultaneously smiled and cringed as intermixed sounds of horror and laughter traveled the short distance from the living room.
At the very moment, Tom screamed, “That’s her!” fast, and unnecessarily hard raps were delivered to Scarlet’s front door. Almost scalding herself with boiling water from the kettle, Scarlet took a second to decide which outburst should receive her immediate attention. Reasoning it should probably be the door, she looked through the peephole and saw two shiny police badges staring right back at her.
Feeling instantly guilty, heart racing and hands shaking, Scarlet opened the door.
“Ms. Oaks?” one of the two men asked.
Scarlet slowly nodded her head.
“I’m Detective Smyth, and this is my partner, Detective Williams. Would you mind if we came in and asked you a few questions?”
Finally finding her voice, Scarlet stammered, “I don’t normally … I never … it’s just that my sister, well my Mother asked me …”
A voice behind her said, “Scar, it’s not illegal to watch a porn movie.”
Lifting his chin slightly, Detective Williams volunteered, “Providing the actors are of legal age, it isn’t.”
Nodding at the men who had now appeared behind Scarlet, the two detectives introduced themselves once more.
Sensing Scarlet had lost the use of her limbs and vocal cords, Niles invited the detectives into her living room.
Tom went into the kitchen to finish making the tea Scarlet had started. Niles sat next to Scarlet on the couch, his arm protectively around her shoulders.
Lifting his suit pants up at the knee, Detective Smyth sat on the ottoman opposite Scarlet and Niles. Detective Williams, misjudging the height of Scarlet’s red velvet high back accent chair, almost fell to the floor.
Apologizing for the lack of furniture and then feeling silly for doing so, Scarlet held her breath, terrified to learn the reason for this visit.
“We’re investigating the murders of Miranda Steele and Velma Ordman, Ms. Oaks,” Detective Smyth began. “We think you may be able to help us.”
Niles’ vice-like grip on her shoulders relaxed, as did Scarlet’s temporary paralysis. Ever since her sister, Violet, had chosen to live life on the wild side, Scarlet and the rest of the family had feared they’d be hearing about her on the ten o’clock news.
Thanking Tom for the tea and waiting as the detectives did the same, Scarlet said, “I think there must be some mistake. I don’t even recognize those names.”
“We’re aware of that, Ms. Oaks,” Detective Williams, scooting forward in his low chair, replied. “It’s your call-in show we have some interest in.”
Tempted to say, I’m happy to hear it interests someone, Scarlet inwardly acknowledged nerves were making her silly and attempted to focus.
“Mending Men?” she asked, still sure there was some mistake.
Retrieving a small notebook from his pocket, Detective Williams flipped back a couple of pages. Then, head down, read, “On Monday, November seventeenth, you received a call from a man by the name of Stewart.”
Seeing Scarlet was struggling to remember, Detective Smyth said, “It was your first day on the new job, Ms. Oaks.”
Staring back at the handsome black man, Scarlet narrowed her eyes in thought. “He said I could call him Stew.”
At this, the detectives gave each other a sidelong glance.
Feeling as if she’d passed the first question on a test, Scarlet anxiously waited for more.
But surprisingly, no more came. What did come was an instruction and a warning.
Detective Smyth stood and placed his half-empty teacup on the coffee table. “He’s our primary person of interest at this time.”
Detective Williams stayed seated while writing, Scarlet couldn’t imagine what, in his little pad.
“Do you record your callers, Ms. Oaks?” Detective Williams asked as he pocketed his notepad.
Looking at Niles, who appeared as bewildered as she, Scarlet shook her head.
Standing to join his partner, Detective Williams continued, “We’d like you to record all your callers from now on. We’ll need to know if or when Stewart calls your show again.”
Handing her his card, De
tective Smyth said, “Please be on high alert and take extreme caution in your day to day business. We believe Stewart Steele may be the first serial killer the Bay Area’s seen in some forty plus years.”
“Hang on a minute!” Tom almost shouted as Detective Williams handed Scarlet his card. “Is that all you’re going to tell the poor girl? Record and beware.”
Both Detectives turned to look at Tom who stood sentinel in the archway leading to the entrance hall.
“We don’t have any concrete evidence, thus far,” Detective Williams replied calmly.
“You say he may be a serial killer, Is Scarlet’s life in danger?” Niles enquired from his place on the couch.
Detective Smyth gave a subtle, but still evident, sigh. Repeating the little lift at the knee of his suit pants, he resumed a seating position on the black leather ottoman.
Looking directly at Niles, he said, “From the evidence we have and his psychological background, we don’t believe he intends to harm Ms. Oaks.”
“Shouldn’t she have some sort of protection, just in case?” Niles beseeched.
“Sir,” Detective Williams began. “If we believed…”
“Oh no!” Scarlet interjected.
All eyes turned to her. In barely more than a whisper, she continued, “The wildflowers on my car. The first time could have been a mistake, but it happened twice with the same flowers.”
Retrieving his notebook, Detective Williams asked, “Do you remember what type of wildflower, Ms. Oaks?”
Unable to form the words, Niles said for her, “Franciscan Wildflowers.”
Detective Williams, returned, with more realization of its low proximity, to the high back velvet chair. “You are aware I presume, of the connection that flower has to the two murder victims.”
“Yes, my Grandmother read me the article from the paper,” Scarlet responded in a small voice.
Shifting himself towards the couch edge, Niles suggested with some force, “It could just be a coincidence, though. That particular wildflower is very common to this area.”
“In our line of work, we don’t believe in coincidences,” Detective Smyth said while retrieving a similar sized notebook to his partners.
Niles, biting his lower lip, marveled at how Policemen voiced these proclamations with a straight face.
Detective Smyth, pen poised, said, “This new information is cause for concern Ms. Oaks. Arrangements will be made to have you under twenty-four-hour surveillance. But rest assured you will never know we’re there.”
“I’m going to be watched, and I won’t be able to see who’s watching me?” Scarlet asked with a note of hysteria in her voice.
Blue eyes softening slightly, Williams explained, “We understand it’s an intrusion Ms. Oaks, but it is most likely Stewart left those flowers on your car.”
Deep in the recesses of her psyche, Scarlet had known this to be a reality. Hearing it from strange men with shiny shoes and badges was another thing.
The next hour was spent wracking her brain for dates, times, and locations of finding the flowers. She, Niles, and Tom then had to part with professional and personal details until, finally, the detectives took their leave.
With a necessary lowering of his head, Detective Smyth walked through the arched doorway. “We’ll return tomorrow with a photo of our suspect.”
Forcing out a thank you when she wanted to scream, I don’t want to see it, Scarlet closed the front door on the departing detectives.
“I don’t care what those men said,” Tom whispered, observing Niles head for the kitchen. “Those flowers could just be a coincidence.”
Fiddling with the neckline of Prudence’s homemade dress, Scarlet admitted, “I didn’t tell them everything.”
What and why came back to her in stereo.
The, what was from Niles, returning to the living room with three teacups entangled through his fingers. The, why, was a gentler inquiry from Tom, who now occupied the blond-haired Detective’s seat.
Niles carefully placed the cups on the table in front of Scarlet, then pulled a packet of Oreos from his sweat pants pocket.
“Was it relevant to the case?” Niles asked with feigned casualness.
Scarlet absentmindedly pulled an Oreo apart and began licking at the cream center. “No not really… well maybe.”
“Scar …” Niles encouraged.
Moving Prudence from her lap and reaching for a teacup, Scarlet explained, “I’m supposed to give advice to these men using sports analogies. You know I’m no sports expert. Plus …” she added with a slight whine in her voice, “It was my first night on the show.”
“Totally understandable,” Tom soothed, sliding to his knees and reaching for a couple of cookies.
“Absolutely,” Niles agreed.
From behind a teacup, held possessively in both hands, Scarlet took a deep breath. “I think he killed those women because of the advice I gave him.”
Peaks and valleys of optimism and despair flowed into the wee hours. Niles, having the last word and hoping it was one of reason, coaxed an exhausted Scarlet and her, clearly pained to be up so late, pig into bed.
Hours later, in the throes of a startlingly real nightmare, Scarlet awoke to Prudence’s high-pitched squeals. Taking a minute to absorb the reality of being at home rather than a studio filled with Mending Men listeners, Scarlet stumbled out of bed. Bleary-eyed, she watched Prudence, charade style, tell her there was someone at the front door.
Having assumed it to be Niles and Tom, Scarlet was met with a mirrored look of surprise from an attractive, ebony skinned detective. Now fully awake, Scarlet embarrassingly assessed Smyth’s surprise didn’t derive from whom he saw, but more what he saw.
Mumbling an invitation to enter, she stole a glance in the hall mirror. Masses of dark hair were practically standing on end, no doubt from the amount of times she’d run her hands through it in frustration. Her eyes were panda like from not removing yesterday’s eye makeup, and she was wearing a nightshirt she’d had since she was a teenager.
Self-consciously aware of how the length was only appropriate for her former thirteen-year-old self, Scarlet stood behind her antique wooden coat rack.
Detective Smyth lowered his head to view Scarlet’s face, now nestled between a fake fur collar and a navy-blue scarf. Pulling at a strand of wool, which had attached itself to her decidedly clumpy mascara, Scarlet asked the detective to make himself comfortable while she changed.
Attempting to conceal a smile, Detective Smyth nodded and moved into the living room.
Crossing paths with Prudence in the corridor, Scarlet entered the sanctity of her bedroom. Wishing, not for the first time, she were one of those organized women who hung their clothes in a closet, she scrambled for something to wear.
Laundry bound items were kicked aside before Scarlet finally settled on skinny jeans and an old faded sweatshirt Max hadn’t deemed worthy of taking.
While gargling with baking soda mouthwash, she dipped a q-tip into moisturizer and expertly wiped it under both eyes. The morning panda look wasn’t new to Scarlet.
Throwing clothes from floor to bed, in search of her flip flops, she gave up and settled for slippers.
Finding Detective Smyth studying a framed photograph of Mother Teresa, hanging alone and glorious above the fireplace, Scarlet informed him, “My grandmother met her in India in nineteen ninety-five.”
The Detective turned to face her. “That must have been just a couple of years before she died.”
Impressed, Scarlet said, “Yes, she died in nineteen ninety-seven.”
Revealing even white teeth, the Detective looked down at Scarlet’s feet. “Ballet and Winnie the Pooh characters.”
Following his gaze to her slippers, Scarlet said, “I’m not sure Eeyore ever did ballet.”
Smyth laughed, “No, I don’t believe he did. I was referring to your nightshirt.”
Feeling her face color, Scarlet blurted, “Would you like tea or coffee?”
“I noticed you and your friends drink tea, how about we stick with that?” the detective replied rubbing his large hands together.
“Tea it is,” Scarlet mumbled, rushing to the kitchen.
Detective Smyth followed her. “I want to apologize if we were a tad abrupt last night, Ms. Oaks. Sometimes our ultimate goal takes precedence over our humaneness.”
A cup in each hand, Scarlet turned from the sink and took note of his face, despite having seen it for hours the night before. Flawless skin was pulled taught across round cheekbones. A full mouth sat beneath a perfectly formed nose, and dark eyes appeared to penetrate whatever they observed.
Busying herself with the electric kettle, Scarlet said, “You were fine. I’m sorry I was so scattered.”
Receiving no argument to this statement, she continued in a small voice, “My life’s been a little topsy-turvy lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Smyth replied with a frown. “I can tell you, judging by the amount of time that’s passed since Mr. Steele made contact, that it’s highly unlikely you’ll be bothered by him again.”
Scarlet momentarily closed her eyes. “Thank God.”
The detective moved a couple of steps towards her. “Highly unlikely, but not impossible, Ms. Oaks.”
Biting her lower lip, Scarlet turned her back to him and poured the now boiled water into a teapot.
“I do need to show you his photograph,” Smyth continued to Scarlet’s back.
Placing one of Rose’s hand-knitted cozies over the pot, Scarlet kept her hands firmly around its multicolored warmth. “Yes, of course.”
Observing Scarlet’s unaltered stance, Smyth asked, “Could we sit down perhaps?”
Robotically organizing cups on a tray, Scarlet led the way into her living room.
“Do you mind?” the detective asked, motioning to the spot next to Scarlet on the couch.
Shaking her head, Scarlet watched the signature pull at the knees of his pants, then felt suddenly small as he lowered himself down next to her.
Scarlet Oaks and the Serial Caller Page 11