by N L Westaway
Ya, this guy needed help alright, she had thought even before reading the articles, and he was surely mentally disturbed, being both a stalker and a murderer. But the only references she had found in the article on murder and stalking together, had been those where the stalker was seeking attention from the person they stalked, or where they killed the person they were stalking. And there had been nothing in any of the other articles that referred to serial murders and stalking.
She had spent a considerable amount of time back then pondering why he might be following her, why he was killing for her, and how she might ever escape him. What had she done to incite this person to do such things? What could have motivated her stalker? Had she done something to this man that had warranted this behavior and focus on her? Laura had speculated about it all. Knowing that someone was watching you, following you, and well, killing for you, was not something the average person had to deal with.
A rapid knocking at the door downstairs ripped Laura’s attention from her thoughts. Startled, she got up from the floor with the photocopy still in her hand. She left her bedroom and took the stairs slower this time and each step one at a time. The knocking on the door sounded again, louder this time and more rapid. “Who is it?” Laura called out from the first floor as she left the stairs.
“Laura?” she heard a familiar voice say, “It’s Marlene!”
Laura dropped the papers on the dining table and then dashed to the door. She unlocked all the security and flung it open.
“Oh, thank goodness—I was beginning to worry,” Marlene said.
“Come on in,” Laura said, gesturing for her friend to come in. “Worried? Here, come sit at the table.”
“My first appointment got cancelled so I have the morning free, and I was going to stop in to see you at the bakery—I called first, but they said you were home sick.” Marlene pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I was going to message you this morning—I wanted to say sorry again for my behavior the other night,” Laura said, sliding into the chair she had been seated at earlier.
“My gawd—I thought we’d had fun—no?”
“Yes, it’s just…” Laura started to say, when Marlene cut in.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” she said, as she crossed her legs. “Now, I’ve come to check on you. I am a doctor after all.”
Laura felt herself flush.
“Or were you just playing hooky—I’m not intruding—am I?” Marlene uncrossed her legs.
“No—I’m not sick, and nooo you’re not intruding either. Truthfully, I am grateful you are here,” Laura said. “Can I make you some coffee?”
“That would be perfect,” Marlene said. “
Laura got up from the table to get the coffee maker going.
“What’s this?” Marlene asked.
Laura glanced back at her.
Marlene turned the stapled papers her way. “You’re reading about the Mullen Study on stalking—what for?”
Laura flipped the switch on the coffee maker and then took in a long breath to summon up her courage. “I need to tell you something,” she said. “I’ve wanted to tell you before—I guess I just wasn’t ready. And I’ve never told anyone about this.”
“What happened—what’s going on?” Marlene asked, her expression shifting to one of intense concern, one Laura was sure her friend used often when dealing with patients.
“There’s a reason that the guy staring at me at the bar upset me so much, it’s not just that I’m terrible with men—I mean I am, but there’s more to it.” Laura then doled out the short version of events from the first town she’d lived in when Gwen was born and all the way up to the place they’d lived in before moving to Ann Arbor, explaining the stalking, the running, the postcards and now this latest stalking token, the coaster. She had left out the parts of the message that mentioned the murders, worried Marlene would judge her for not going to the police about the killings and the link she had to them. She had managed only enough courage to share this much and had felt relief at getting any of it out at all.
“Do you still have the postcards?” Marlene asked.
“No, I got rid of them, burned them—soon after I’d read each one.” Laura pulled in a deep breath. “I didn’t want them anywhere near us—needed them gone.” Laura blew out the breath.
“Does your daughter know?” Marlene asked, leaning forward in her chair to put a hand on Laura’s.
“No, but I plan to write Gwen a letter, outlining and explaining everything, why we had to move so much. I never told her before because I didn’t want to scare her, plus I didn’t know how to tell her.”
Marlene patted Laura’s hand. “We’ve talked about a lot of stuff, meeting for the past three years—sharing coffees and pastries. You’re the reason I’m twenty pounds heavier than when we first met.” Marlene gave a little laugh. “But please, know that when I say you can tell me anything—I mean it. I am sorry you felt you had to keep this from me. And I agree, Laura, it is time to tell your daughter. A letter is good, but make sure to give her time to digest it although. She’s going to have a lot of questions.”
Chapter 13
Friday morning, early, Gwen was on the train out to Ann Arbor. The morning, despite being July, was exceptionally warm, and Gwen had chosen to wear cut-off jean shorts and one of her t-shirts with the paramedic logo on it, and she had put her shoulder-length hair in a ponytail. She had texted her mother saying she was coming for a visit, and her mother had responded with,
Two visits in one month. I must have won the lottery.
Her mother had also written that she needed to run an errand for the bakery this morning but would be back most likely by the time Gwen got to the house.
Gwen had wanted to get another look at those letters, and she wanted to talk to her mother about their time in Charleston. Plus, she was interested to know if her mother remembered the police officer from her hometown who had recently been murdered.
Gwen arrived to find the house empty, though she was met by the blissful air-conditioning and a delicious aroma of freshly baked cookies as she came through the front door. In the kitchen, she found a few dozen of her favorite cookies cooling on racks. She grabbed one, then took several bites as she headed up the stairs to the second floor. She wasn’t sure how much time she had, so she headed for her mother’s room and straight to the back of the walk-in closet.
Her mother had never dated, that Gwen recalled, and with her father deceased, her hope was that they might be love letters from him to her mother. She had wanted to know more about her father, but like the topic of her grandparents, her mother had not liked discussing the past or her husband. She had told Gwen it was just too painful and that there really was not much to tell. They had been young; he was gone before she had even known she was pregnant and then all her focus had been on Gwen and taking care of their little family. The thin information had been enough for Gwen at the time, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t still curious.
Locating the letters, she picked up the stack only to find there were two black and white photos beneath them. The first appeared to be her mother, a clear younger version of the woman Gwen knew. The other was of her mother holding a baby wrapped in a floral print blanket, she guessed was her. Her mother had shown her a few other baby pictures of herself with the same blanket as this newborn baby was swaddled in.
“Gweeeen?” She heard her mother’s voice call from downstairs, and no Dolly this time, she was grateful. She swiftly grabbed up the letters and shoved them and the two photos into her knapsack before leaving the bedroom closet. Descending the stairs and then setting her knapsack on the dining table, Gwen could hear her mother’s voice and the familiar voice of Mrs. Gregson the neighbor, as they chatted at the front door.
“Hi Mrs. Gregson,” Gwen said, rounding into the hallway. The older woman was in navy jogging shorts and a white oversized tank top and she wore a matching navy visor. She had great legs for
a woman her age, as both she and her husband fancied themselves professional walkers as they were out each morning and evening walking the neighborhood. “How’s Mr. Gregson?” Gwen’s mom turned to grin at her. The old woman was sweet, a bit of a nosy neighbor but in a good way. She had a tendency to share the goings-on of the other neighbors, and Gwen’s mother liked that someone else was keeping an eye on their little community.
“Hello, Dear. Oh, you know Mr. Gregson—he likes to keep a close eye on things around here. I was just checking on your mother to see how she was doing after her fall.” She wiped the side of her face using a tissue, clearing away sweat from the now growing heat and her usual exercise.
“What—you fell?” Gwen said, moving in to get a closer look at her mother, checking for any visible bruises or cuts.
“Yes—I slipped the other night. The pathway lights were out, and it was wet, but I’m just fine.” She widened her eyes at Gwen, then turned back to the neighbor. “Thank you, again Mrs. Gregson for checking on me—nice to know someone is keeping a watchful eye.” She smiled at the neighbor.
“Alright then. Nice to see you Gwen,” Mrs. Gregson said, with a wave as she turned and left the front step, then continued her walk up the path at a swift pace.
Gwen’s mother closed the front door and locked it, then turned to face her.
“So, what’s this about a fall?” Gwen asked again, this time with her hands on her hips.
Her mother shook her head as she moved passed Gwen towards the kitchen. “I’m fine, really,” she said. “So, what brings you by to see your old mum for a second visit so soon?” Always the baker, Gwen’s mom donned her apron over her faded knee-length denim shorts and white t-shirt, then began transferring cookies from the racks to a large plastic container. “You mentioned your friend Scott last visit, so I made an extra batch for you to take home.”
Gwen grabbed another cookie off one of the cooling racks. “Thanks. He’s going to die when he tastes them.” She kissed her mother on the cheek. “Can’t a daughter visit her mom?”
“Yeees,” her mother said, placing the last of the cookies into the container before sealing it up.
“I thought I left my grey hoodie here, but I must have tossed it?” Gwen shrugged.
“That old ratty thing? I got rid of it after you moved out,” she said, removing the apron and hanging it on the hook near the door to the laundry room. “You could have just asked me about it on the phone.”
“Gwen nodded, then said,” Well, I did have something else I wanted to ask you about.”
“Everything okay?” her mother asked, crossing the kitchen to open the fridge. “Can I make you some breakfast—or are you full now from the cookies you’ve eaten?” She examined the contents of the fridge, shaking the container of almond milk as if to check what was left.
“Ya-ya, I just wanted to ask you about when we lived in Illinois—Charleston.” Gwen slid her hands into the front pockets of her jean shorts.
“What about it? We weren’t there long,” her mother said, shutting the fridge door.
“How familiar are you with the ‘Professor Murders’?” Gwen had not expected to go directly to the topic, but it had been weighing on her mind. “Do you remember hearing about the murder in Charleston—the one at Eastern Illinois University?” she added, being more direct.
Her mother leaned a hip against the counter. “Yes. I remember it.”
“Was that when we lived there?” Gwen tightened her ponytail.
“Yes,” her mother said, crossing her arms.
Gwen moved to lean a hip against the counter too, mirroring her mother. “Wasn’t that the same university we did our nutrition course at?”
“Yes—what’s this all about, Gwen?” her mother uncrossed her arms and straightened. Then she took one of the mugs off the dish rack next to the sink, turned the tap on, filled it with water and took a sip.
“Detective Franklin gave Scott and me the rundown on the case, told us about the last murder before things went cold—the one in Charleston. There’s been another killing, but this time it was a cop—not a professor. And it’s the same MO.” Gwen crossed her arms then. “And you might know the guy.”
Her mother lowered the mug nearly dropping it when she hit the edge of the counter with it. “You think… I might know the killer?” she gasped out, settling the mug next to the sink.
“Nooo, Mom, the guy who was killed,” Gwen said, straightening then, letting out a chuckle.
As if flustered, her mother smoothed back her already-tidy pulled back hair. “How would I know this person who was murdered?”
“He was a cop from your hometown,” Gwen said. “Bradly Stinson.”
Without a reply, her mother picked up the mug again and moved across the kitchen to sit down at the dining table.
Gwen followed her to the table.
“I didn’t know him,” her mother said, “but from what I remember, people thought he was an ass.” She took another sip from the mug.
“Ya—that’s what I’ve heard too,” Gwen said, followed by a laugh. “I should get going.” She grabbed up her knapsack off the table.
“Your visits are so quick—can’t you stay?” her mother asked, getting up from the table.
“I’ll come back for another longer visit soon—I promise,” Gwen said, going in for a hug.
“Don’t forget your cookies this time,” her mother said, hugging her a little tighter.
Unlike the arrival at her mother’s place, Gwen’s place was not empty when she arrived home. Having been given an emergency key, Scott had obviously used it to let himself in, because there he was, planted on her couch in mid-battle in some alien invasion game on her Xbox. “Welcome home,” he said, as she locked the front door. “You gotta try this new game I just got.”
“Tell me again, why it is that you always come here to play on my Xbox—when you have your own, aaaand you have the bigger apartment?” Gwen removed the container of cookies from her knapsack and set it on the small counter in the kitchen area of her studio apartment. Then she set her bag on the tiny counter-height island that took up most of the floor space in the kitchen.
“You’ve got the comfy couch and the bigger TV,” he said, fingers clacking away on the buttons of the control. “You know that.” He turned a quick glance her way, then turned back to the game in play.
The tan three-seater couch doubled as her bed at night. She had scored both the pull-out couch and the big TV from her mom’s boss at the bakery. The boss and her husband had renovated and redone their living room after their two kids had gone off to college. The Xbox had been a splurge housewarming gift from her mother. Gwen figured it was her mother’s hope she would be staying home playing video games versus going out in the evenings drinking, etc. And it had worked out that way, but she had never told her mom that. With working part-time and going to school, she’d not had time for much else than the occasional video game or meal at the diner. Even now, with all the shifts she’d been doing, the only person she really got to see was Scott. But she was cool with that, he was great company, and their friendship was important to her.
“Right,” she said, pulling out one of the stools from under the tiny island. Like the couch, the island too had a dual purpose, functioning as a two-person dining table. “I have cookies,” she added, before pulling the letters free from her bag.
The noise from the game came to an abrupt halt, and Scott was up off the couch and over to the kitchen before she even sat down.
“You’ve been telling me about these cookies for as long as I’ve known you—about time you shared the goods,” Scott said, popping the lid on the container, grabbing up a cookie and taking a bite. “I can’t believe you forgot them last time. Good thing you made a second visit.”
“Mom made extra for you.” Gwen sat down on the stool.
“Wandwan?” Scott asked through a mouthful of cookie. He chewed then swallowed. “Oh man—these are amazing
. Think your mom would adopt me?” He shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth, closing his eyes as if savoring what Gwen already knew to be heaven in a cookie.
“Didn’t Detective Franklin already do that?” she asked, joking, and setting her knapsack on the floor next to her.
“Ya, but he can’t bake,” Scott said, grabbing up two more cookies before returning to the couch. “Make sure you tell your mom thanks—next time you talk to her.”
“That will make her day—I’m sure,” Gwen said, directing her attention back to the stack of letters.
They were bunched together by a thick rubber band that looked older than the letters. She gingerly removed the rotting tan coloured band and tossed it in the kitchen waste basket. The top envelope was faced down in the pile, and when she flipped it, she noted it had a faded post mark from April 1998, and was addressed to Muriel Rampton in Cambridge, Massachusetts. So much for love letters, Gwen mused. She moved through the stack to find they were all addressed to the same person, but the top letter was the only one that had been previously opened, the rest, thirteen in total, had surprisingly not been.
She removed and unfolded the one-page letter from the first envelope and found it addressed ‘Dear Mother’. The handwriting appeared to be her mother’s, and she figured the Muriel on the envelope to be her grandmother, but as Gwen read through the letter, her heart pained over the words that had been written, then she was hit unexpectedly with a wave of puzzlement as she reached the end and saw the signature. She believed she had been reading her mother’s words, but the letter had not been from her mother, it had been signed, ‘Love Rachel’.