Heart Strings

by Lynne Waite Chapman

  Mrs. Abernathy put a hand to her chin and turned to look at the china cabinet. “I cut out the notice. It’s here somewhere.” She turned to point at the bookshelf. “Yes, I put it in the back of my Bible. I don’t know why I saved it. Guess I thought Paul would want it when he came back. You can have it, if you want.” She pulled the Bible from the shelf.

  I accepted the flattened clipping. “It was after Roger was killed, that Paul moved out?”

  “Yes, the same day they found him. Found his ID card in his pocket.” Mrs. Abernathy tipped her head. “I remember when Paul helped him get that.”

  Horns blared outside the window and the breeze carried in a scent of exhaust fumes, while Mrs. Abernathy recounted her memories. “Paul was home in the morning. His apartment was right above mine so I could hear him. I thought he must have called in sick to work that day because he was still home at eleven-thirty.” She sighed heavily. “I was going to fix him a nice cup of tea when he came down to talk, but he never came. I even called on the phone but he didn’t answer.” She shrugged. “The next day, he was gone—even left his furniture. The super said he left a note saying to go ahead and rent the apartment.”

  Mrs. Abernathy finished her tea and set the cup aside. “I was surprised Paul didn’t stay around to arrange burial. I suppose they gave Roger a pauper’s funeral since he didn’t have anyone.” She folded her arms across her stomach and rocked back and forth. “I don’t understand why Paul left like that. I wonder where he is.”

  “He’s back in his hometown.” I pulled my phone from my bag. “I have a picture of him.” I scrolled through the images, and finding the one of Paul, handed it to Mrs. Abernathy. “He’s standing at the back, behind the two women.”

  Mrs. Abernathy squinted and adjusted her glasses. “Wait, let me focus. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, even with these expensive glasses. Cost me a fortune.”

  She leaned close and studied the image before raising her eyes to mine. “But that isn’t Paul.” She turned the phone toward me. “That man is Roger Hicks. It’s been five or six years and he’s all dressed up, but it’s Roger.” She shook her head. “Well, I declare, I thought he was dead.”

  My heart began beating so fast I struggled to catch my breath. Pieces of the puzzle clicked together. Roger Hicks murdered Paul and stole his identity.

  Mrs. Abernathy’s phone rang and she raised a finger. “Just a minute.” She reached for the receiver and, after a few words of greeting, covered the mouthpiece to whisper, “It’s my niece.”

  I stood and whispered. “I should be going. Thank you so much for your time, and the tea. I’ll let myself out.”

  She kept her hand over the mouthpiece. “Goodbye dear. When you catch up with Paul, tell him to write to me.” She turned to chat with her niece, and I slipped into the hall.

  I barely remember sprinting down the stairs and out to the street to flag a taxi.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  T he door swung open and I inhaled the fragrance of furniture polish and fabric softener. Home. I dropped my luggage on the floor and ran to open the back door to find Mason. He sat erect, in the center of the porch, as if expecting me at that moment. I scooped him into my arms and held him close, feeling his body vibrate.

  “Did you miss me? It’s nice to have someone welcome me home.”

  He stayed in my arms as I stepped back into the kitchen, then he pushed out, and set off to explore the house.

  I looked through the window toward Wallace’s house—no sign of him—and left voice mail messages for Anita and Clair before collapsing on the sofa. Having finished his exploration, Mason performed a graceful leap from the floor to my lap, made three circles, and laid down for a nap.

  “No sleeping.” I lifted his chin. “What do you think? Should I go to the police? That’s probably the smartest thing.” Mason blinked. “But that means no scoop, maybe no book. I’ve gone this far, why not get the whole story, right from the impostor’s mouth? I’ll catch him alone. Maybe he’ll talk to me. I might convince him he’ll be famous when I write his story.”

  Mason leapt to a chair and sat with his back to me. I felt a sudden urge to defend myself. “Don’t be silly. I know what I’m doing, and need to get started before I change my mind.”

  I jumped off the sofa, grabbed my keys, and retrieved the Smith & Wesson from the closet. With it securely in my handbag, I pushed aside the butterflies of concern, and left the house.

  Scenes from Perry Mason and Murder She Wrote played in my head, as I drove. Pulling to the curb a block from Cooper’s house, I surveyed the area. No vehicles in sight. I straightened my shoulders and marched to the front door. Just as my finger touched the doorbell, loud creaking and groaning sounded from nearby, causing me to gasp and stifle a scream. The garage door had begun its ascent, so I did my best to blend into the shadows.

  An older model black sedan backed into the street, my prey at the wheel. I let him drive half a block before I ran for the Chrysler.

  Paul seemed unaware of the vintage station wagon tailing him, as he drove out of town, and merged onto the interstate. I maintained a safe distance, keeping him in sight. Twenty minutes on the road, and I’d begun to wonder about my gas supply when Paul took the Warrenton exit. I followed until he pulled into a public lot, and I drove past to find a space on the street.

  Slumped down in my seat, I watched in the mirror as he got out and proceeded into an alley. I abandoned the Chrysler, power-walked to the entrance, and peeked into the alley in time to see Paul enter a warehouse. I jogged along the side of the alley to within six feet, crouched low, and crept to the door. Letters painted on the window in the door, read God Sheltered Recovery House.

  A quick look into the window revealed a dimly lit hallway. It appeared empty, so drawing a deep breath, I gently eased the door open, and slipped in. I tiptoed as quickly as possible to another door, with a larger window. Taking shallow breaths and willing my heartbeat to slow, I moved to peer through the window.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  T he harsh glare from an industrial lighting fixture illuminated the wood shop. Saws, drills, and hammers, rested on wooden tables. Sawdust and wood scraps littered the concrete floor. Thinking Paul—or Roger—had proceeded to a room at the back, I applied pressure to the door handle, but stilled as he reappeared from the side, carrying a length of wooden molding. He proceeded to a work bench about twenty feet from the door. I held my breath while he pulled up a stool, and picked up a square of sandpaper.

  His vigorous sanding created enough noise to cover the sound of my entrance. The crunching of each step echoed in my ears, but I was able to approach to within a few feet, while he worked intently. Finally sensing my presence, he lifted his eyes, startled.

  “Hey, Lauren, this is a surprise. What brings you here?” His words were pleasant, his eyes wary, and his hands still sanding.

  “Hello, Roger. I just returned from New York, talked to your neighbor. I know the truth.”

  He froze, his eyes boring into mine. Then he gave a short chuckle. “What do you mean by that?” He returned his attention to the board, methodically moving the sandpaper back and forth. “Is this some kind of joke? Perry put you up to it?”

  Pushing down an urgent desire to run, I forgot my preplanned script and spewed out the facts. Belatedly, I thought to scan the area for potential weapons, taking note of hammers and screwdrivers. I imagined him picking up the board and flinging it at me. Would I jump to the side?

  What was I doing here? Clenching my teeth to keep from shaking, I slowly slid my hand inside my shoulder bag, searching for the reassuring touch of the gun.

  Calmer, I continued. “I met Mrs. Abernathy. Do you remember her? She was quite fond of Paul. I showed her your picture. Imagine her surprise when she saw you—alive.”

  “What picture?” He spat out the words, dropped the sandpaper, and gripped the board tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

  “From the reunion. Don’t you remember? You tried
to avoid it but I managed to get a couple snapshots.”

  His chest expanded in deep breaths before he retrieved the sandpaper, and returned to the methodical back and forth motion.

  “Mrs. Abernathy read about your death in the newspaper, but it was Paul’s body they found, wasn’t it? She said Paul was good to you. Why’d you do it? For his money? His identity? Or was that an afterthought?”

  What am I doing? He could swing that board at me before I had a chance to aim my gun. I slid my right foot an inch back and followed with my left.

  “And wasn’t Paul the only friend you had?” Roger’s face flushed and his breathing seemed labored. I glanced around, planning an escape, but the strangest thing happened. Roger sort of deflated, as though someone had let air out of a balloon.

  He dropped the molding and bent over, burying his face in his hands. Not knowing whether to talk or to run, I waited in silence.

  It was an old, weary man who finally lifted his head. Face wet with tears and vacant eyes. His hoarse voice barely audible. “I was a drunk, living on the street, digging in garbage cans for food.

  Paul found me in the alley behind his building and tried to get me to go to a shelter, but I told him to keep out of my business.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I knew if I went to the shelter, they wouldn’t let me drink and they’d start hammering me to dry out.”

  He took a quick breath and steeled his face. “I thought he’d go away, but he sat down on a box in the alley and talked. Not about anything in particular, just talk—the weather, the birds.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “The new city buses. I hadn’t had a real conversation in a long time. It was nice. He knew when I was tired of talking, and he left.”

  Roger ran his hand over his face and continued with more energy. “A day or two later, when I was making my rounds, he was in the alley waiting for me. He had a McDonald’s bag with a couple of cold burgers in it. Said he bought too many and couldn’t eat them.” The smile grew as he spoke. “I believed him. Later I learned he never ate fast food. A real health nut.”

  Roger sighed and sat up straighter as the heavy burden of secrecy lifted. “Anyway, Paul came back every night to talk and bring me a burger. Pretty soon he convinced me to sleep in his spare room. Me, as dirty as I was. I hadn’t even thought of a bath in a year. My own room and a real bed. It was nice. So I slept there at night. I’d leave in the morning and walk the streets begging for money to spend on whiskey or whatever booze I could get. But I went back every night.”

  Roger visibly relaxed, so I released my grip on the gun. He looked at me for the first time since he’d begun his story. “It started to sink in that I had a home. I was welcome. There was one person in the world glad to see me. He told me about his life, his mother’s death and his father’s dementia. He didn’t have any family since his divorce.”

  “Pretty soon, Paul convinced me to change my ways. I didn’t drink as much because I spent most evenings talking to him. One day he took me downtown to a clinic and convinced me to go in. I still don’t know how he did it. I got dried out and went back to live with Paul. He found odd jobs for me around the apartment building, doing minor repairs. Then I got a job bagging groceries.”

  Roger squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath. “One day Paul didn’t show up at the apartment.” The tears had returned. “He didn’t come home all night. Next day, I went looking for him, traced his route to the office where he worked, all the way into the city, and started back. I looked down every alley and in every vacant building.”

  Roger’s voice became stronger and angry. “I found him beat to death, behind a deserted building. I sat down and cried. Stayed with him most of the night.”

  Roger raised his fist and shouted. ”The only person who cared about me was gone. He was good. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  I jumped and gripped the gun.

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “That was the way I thought I’d die. I almost bought a bottle to take away the pain, but I didn’t. I could hear him, ‘I spent too much time on you to watch you go back to being a wreck. You owe your life to me.’”

  Roger’s face relaxed. “So I made a decision in that alley. Paul loved Evelynton and talked about going back, and becoming a real estate agent. I decided I’d live the life he would have—if he’d had the chance.”

  I removed my hand from my bag, away from my gun, and breathed in my first full breath since I’d entered the room. “And you did. I don’t know how you managed it.”

  Roger stepped off the stool and stood in front of the bench. “I changed clothes with him, took his ID, and gave him mine. Roger Hicks was dead—and good riddance. Paul Cooper was alive.”

  He leaned against the bench, resting his hands on his hips as he boasted. “It was easy, I knew where he kept all his papers and cleaned out the checking account. I wrote a letter of resignation from his job—typed it and didn’t sign it. They didn’t care. He was just a number to them.”

  Roger paced back and forth in front of the bench. “That little old busybody was the only person who might cause a problem, so I packed up and moved out of the apartment. Lived in a little town in southern Indiana for a while, took the real estate course, and got my license. I came here, and I was Paul Cooper.”

  “You didn’t worry someone might guess?”

  He leaned toward me with a lopsided smile. “Nope. People want to believe what you tell them. I recognized a lot of faces from the yearbook and others just offered their names. Paul told me all kinds of high school stories and after so many years, nobody thinks it strange if you forget the details.”

  “It’s been a good life.” Roger’s gaze swept the room. “I found this place, a half-way house where I can help other guys like me. I teach them to work with wood, and they give the things they build to the needy. I help them make something of themselves.”

  Roger stopped and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You figured it out. How did you know?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The time in Evelynton has been better than all the years I lived before. I have a real life.”

  Despair crumpled his face as he leaned on the table and lowered himself onto the stool. “But that’s over now. You’ll tell the police. My wife.” He looked up at me. “Give me time to tell Missy, myself. She trusts me. This will destroy her.”

  His last words were muffled because he’d slumped over again, his head in his hands.

  I remained rooted in place, legs aching from standing, thoughts whirling through my head. How can I destroy this man’s life? Is he telling the truth? Is he lying? His story agreed with everything Mrs. Abernathy shared with me.

  I don’t know how long I stood before finding my voice. “I won’t tell anyone. I’m not sure what good it would do. It’s up to you to be truthful with your wife.”

  I backed toward the door. “I don’t know what I would do in your place. I’m going home and forget all about it.” That was a lie. I’d never forget.

  Cool night air hit me in the face as I burst into the alley and ran to the Chrysler. I rolled down the windows, and drove into the setting sun, toward home. Relief seemed to be carried in along with the breeze. I wasn’t crazy, Paul Cooper was indeed an impostor. Roger Hicks had assumed his identity. I broke through the Evelynton city limits and followed the street lights down Main Street.

  From a parking spot outside the police station, I stared at shadowed figures moving inside the illuminated windows. Could I destroy a man’s life—even a false one? Roger hadn’t killed Paul. Would it be my finger that sent him back to being Roger Hicks—homeless alcoholic? Would I be the one to destroy his new life?

  A brief gust of country music drifted from a passing carload of kids, while I made up my mind. I maneuvered the station wagon onto Main Street and guided it home.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  A ll my energy had seeped away and fatigue drove me to the sofa. I sank into it, dropping my bag on the floor. Roger’s sorrow had drained me as if
it’d been my own. He’d stolen Paul’s identity, but who’d been hurt? What good would it do to inform the police?

  True, the news would draw media attention and this was the story I’d always wanted to write. So much for my ticket out of here. I’m not tough enough.

  I snuggled into the cushions and rested my head on the back of the sofa. “Mason, where are you when I need a cuddle?” Did I leave him outside? He’s probably chasing moths.

  I was about to force myself up from the sofa to turn on a lamp when a throaty growl reverberated near the front door. I searched the shadows until my eyes focused on the furry ball, huddled under the corner table. Golden eyes reflected the limited light. “Here kitty, kitty. What are you doing under there?”

  Another growl bubbled up from deep within the cat. He didn’t acknowledge me, his attention riveted to the staircase. My stomach clenched and threatened to erupt as I recalled the unlocked back door. How could I have been so careless? I slowly turned in the direction of Mason’s gaze. The half-light revealed a shadowy figure and the metallic glint of a gun.

  Gasping for air, I slid to the floor and my shoved hand inside my bag, searching for my weapon. I tugged it free and swung it toward the intruder. I knew I should order him out of my house with a commanding voice, but words wouldn’t come.

  Before I uttered a sound, a shot rang out. I ducked as glass shattered behind me, and raised my head in time to see the shooter stumble down the stairs. Shafts of moonlight afforded glimpses of the dark clad figure bolting toward the kitchen. The screen door slammed.

  Pulse pounding, I scrambled to my feet, and ran through the dining room and kitchen, reaching the back door as he was tackled and taken to the ground.

  “Oh, for gosh sakes!” Wallace exclaimed, after he’d pinned the struggling figure and wrenched the gun from his hand. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?”

  I retrieved my cell, punched 911 to report the break-in, and ventured into the yard.