by N L Westaway
He turned back and nodded, then waved.
She waved back, pleased with herself for being brave enough to help him with his meal planning, and for even talking to the man. “Lucky lady,” she said under her breath, smiling, surprising herself now that she had even considered the idea. Her smile dropped then when her reality slid back in, this time surprised that she had forgotten even for a moment why she was there. Then her thoughts turned to even more dreadful ones for what she would eventually have in store regarding speaking with her daughter.
Laura returned to the bakery, and luckily for her, she had found the supplies she had set out to retrieve from the grocery store. At least she had gotten that one of her tasks right.
She then spent the rest of the day working in the back helping to clean up, repair the damage she had caused, and remake any of the food she had ruined. Fortunately for her, it had been a slow day, and all she had left to do on her tasks was to move the remaining baked goods from out front in the display case into the refrigerated storage area in the back. And she was happy to do so, as it was just her now alone in the bakery.
She was heading to the back with the last of the large trays, when she heard the bell on the bakery door jingle. Funny, she thought she had locked the main door, but then she had gotten a lot of things wrong today.
“Hello,” a man’s voice call from the front area of the bakery.
A cold prickling crossed the back of Laura’s neck making the tiny hairs at the nape rise. It’s just nerves she told herself, and too much coffee. She secured the tray on a shelf in the walk-in fridge, then backed out and shut the door. She stepped towards the entryway to the front of the bakery and took in a deep breath before pushing through the swinging door to the front area.
“Laura—hello, again,” the man said, as she pushed open the door.
Laura stopped in the doorway holding the swinging door wide. With her other hand, she lifted a corner of her apron to dab at the sweat on her brow, then she brushed back the strands of her hair that had come lose from her bun. “Proff—Christian?” she said, surprised and confused, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “We’re closed… I just forgot to lock the door—we close at 4 p.m. on Sunday.”
“Oh,” he said, still standing there.
Her exhaustion had hit a breaking point about twenty minutes ago, and now the unease she was experiencing was causing her stomach to flip-flop and she suddenly felt nauseous. She was the only one left in the bakery. “Was there something… else, I could help you with?” She remained in the doorway, only the cash-counter and the display fridge separating them.
“I didn’t realize I had missed my opportunity before the closing.” He glanced around the shop and then to the empty display area.
Laura stood there still holding the swinging door open, unsure what to do or even what to say. She could feel the sweat building on her upper lip.
“You told me I should pick up some dessert… something light, you suggested.” He took a step closer.
“Right—yes, but I’m sorry we’re closed, like I said.” She glanced over her shoulder to the back kitchen, then glanced back to see he had stepped even closer, close enough that he could reach out and touch the glass of the display cabinet.
He made a grimacing, silly sort-of smile then, and said, “I don’t suppose you have anything in the back you can sell me? Or have I truly missed my chance?” He gave a sad smile then like a pouting child.
What the hell was the matter with her? Twenty years of evading a stalker—that’s what. She blew out a breath. “Yes—no—of course,” she said, feeling foolish once again. “Let me see what I can get for you from the fridge.” She turned and stepped back into the baking area, the door hitting her on the butt, giving her a startle as she surveyed the already cleaned baking tables. Then she went to the fridge. Inside she snatched up four of the small lemon filled parcel pastries she hadn’t ruined this morning. As she shut the fridge door, she heard the bell jingle again and recognized she had better lock the door after Christian was gone. She quickly placed the delicate pastries into a decorative light blue gift box with the bakery logo on the top. Then she pushed open the door again, to return to the front area and her unfortunately growing clientele. But the professor was gone, and there was no one else in the store.
Had that jingle been him leaving? “What the…?” she said, to the empty bakery. The nerve, she thought, coming in after hours, having her go and get him deserts already put away, for him to serve on his date. She let out a growl of frustration. “What a day,” she said, setting the box on the counter to move between the cash and the display case to go lock the door.
She pulled the blind down over the long skinny window of the front door. As she went to turn the lock, the door was suddenly pulled away from her. Laura screamed and shut her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her face. “Stop,” a voice said, grabbing her arms, causing Laura to scream again. Laura struggled against the hands holding her arms, then opened her eyes.
“Christian—what the hell?” she said, when she saw who was attempting to restrain her.
“Oh-my-gosh-I’m sorry,” he said, finally letting her go. “I just stepped outside to take a call. I am. So. Sorry.” He stepped back from her.
“You scared me half to death,” Laura scolded, pressing the palms of her hands to her chest, her nerves completely raw now. “Here,” she said then, turning back to the counter to grab up the box of pastries. She held them out in front of him.
He stared at the box. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he said, lifting his hands up as if she were pointing a gun at him. “It was such a bother.”
“No. It wasn’t. You just frightened me, is all.” Laura gave the box a light shake. “Please, just take them. I’m sorry—I’ve just had a rough 24-hours.”
Christian took the box from Laura’s hand. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing—please. Enjoy your dinner date,” she breathed out, the rawness of her nerves feeding her exhaustion.
“Thank you, Laura… and I’m sorry for the trouble,” he said, backing away and pushing out the door.
She just gave him a wave as she locked the door, she was too tired to do anything more. Then she shut the front area light off, the space still lit by the sun shining in through the large side-window of the bakery. She turned and made her way back to the baking area again, double checking that she had cleaned everything, and that all the perishable foods were safely tucked away in the refrigerators. Then she scooped up her satchel from the office and pulled her phone out to see if Gwen had called back.
There was one message, and she tapped the voicemail button to listen, and hit the speaker option, unsure of what she would hear. “Mom—Call me back,” was all there was from her daughter. She had hoped for more, but with her energy stores depleted, she was not sure she could manage the crucial conversation right now.
The phone rang in her hand startling her, taunting her with the urge to throw the thing across the room. The display showed the caller as ‘unknown’. Laura had had about enough of the unknown to last her a millennium, but in case it was an emergency, she answered. “Yes?”
“Laura?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes,” Laura said, again. “Who is this?”
“It’s Marlene—sorry, Hi, I forgot my phone at home, had to call for my messages using a landline. I’m at the university—the student pub, can you meet me here?”
Laura leaned against the nearest baking table. “Sure,” Laura said, totally wiped yet still needing to talk to her friend, and the pub was closer—at least, than that restaurant they had met at, so that was good. “I’m at the bakery, so I’ll see you in a few.”
“Great—see you soon,” Marlene said before hanging up.
Laura had never been into the pub though she had passed it on her many walks through the campus. On the way, she considered how odd it was that Marlene was at the pub, especially on a Sunday. What did she care though, sh
e just needed to see her friend.
Laura walked in through the entrance to the pub, it was as she imagined, all dark wood trim and smelling of stale beer. From the entrance hall leading to the main bar area, Laura could see several tables with a scattering of patrons drinking and chatting, though she was unable to see Marlene anywhere. There were several young men at the far side, mingling around a larger table of young women, the men it seemed were taking turns at throwing darts.
She proceeded forward, slowly, noting that the doors to the men’s and women’s bathrooms were situated midway up the hall, and she was unsure if perhaps she had come in through the wrong entrance. When she got closer to the opening to the main bar, she was relieved to hear Marlene’s laughter coming from further down around the corner at the end of the entry hall. Laura smiled at the welcoming sound as she approached, then she stopped a few feet from turning the corner, when she heard Marlene speak.
“She’s an interesting case,” Laura heard her say. “She thinks we’re friends—like our meetings aren’t anything other than two friends sitting and talking.”
Laura couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but despite the words cutting her, she took the last steps forward, showing herself to her so-called friend.
“Hey Laura—you remember…,” Marlene started to say.
“I trusted you—I told you things I’ve never told anyone,” Laura said, gripping the purse strap that crossed her chest.
“What? What’s wrong?” Marlene said.
As Marlene turned fully towards her, the image of the person Marlene had been speaking to, blurred in Laura’s vision. “Have you been analyzing me this whole time? I’d actually thought I’d found a friend, now I find that I’ve just been another client—unknowingly being analyzed. Doesn’t this go against some kind of moral code for practitioners?”
“What are you talking about?” Marlene questioned, bold confusion flooding her face.
“What did you discover—what deep dark secret do you think you’ve uncovered? That I’m a lonely woman who loves her daughter—more than her own happiness? Was I an interesting case study for you—is that it? Have you lectured about my interesting life, what it means to the psyche—what this does to a child? Or is it all about paranoia and delusions, that you’re teaching these days?”
“Why would you think that—we’re friends—I don’t treat friends,” Marlene said.
“Treat—you think I need treatment?” Laura said, throwing her hands in the air.
“No—that’s not what I mean,” Marlene said.
“’She’s an interesting case—thinks we’re friends’—isn’t that what you said to your colleague just now?” Laura threw back at her, gripping the strap of her purse again. That was when Laura recognized that the colleague Marlene had been talking to was Christian. Laura scowled at both of them.
“I wasn’t talking about you—not that it’s any of your business, but I was talking about a female police officer client of mine. She’s struggling with the idea of needing help, as you can imagine,” Marlene said, stepping closer to Laura.
“Right—you think I need help?” Laura stepped back.
“That’s not what I mean.”
Marlene was getting frustrated now; Laura could see that. Well join the club, she thought. “What do you mean then?” Laura asked. “Actually—I don’t want to know, this whatever-friendship—this is over.” Laura shot a glance at Christian. “And you,” Laura said, pointing at him, “I hope you choke on that meal.” She looked back to Marlene. “I should have known better—trusting people, trusting you. You do not understand what it’s like to run for most of your life. To be so broken down that you can’t even make friends.”
“Please calm down,” Marlene said, stepping forward again, this time with her hands up.
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Laura shouted. She didn’t care about Marlene’s colleague standing there, she didn’t care about anyone who could hear her. “You think I’m nuts, cuckoo, off my rocker, missing a few marbles, eh?” Laura stepped back away from Marlene again, she didn’t want her near her. “Why have I tried so hard all these years to be something I’m not? Why can’t I just be me?” Laura turned then and ran back up the hall.
“Laura don’t go,” she heard Marlene call, as she took off bolting out the door.
Chapter 16
Detective Franklin was relieved to be meeting Gwen at what had become their usual meet-up place, the diner.
Heading in, he spotted her at a booth nearest to the entrance. “Here,” he said, as he lowered himself into the seat across from her. “The originals. I made copies for the file—figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“Coffees?” the waitress asked, setting down another glass of ice water, as per usual.
“Please,” he told the woman.
“Yes,” Gwen said, “I don’t really want the coffee. But I just pulled an 18-hour shift, so I need it. I should eat too; I’ve barely had anything to eat all day, with the extra shift and being too restless waiting to meet with you.” As the waitress filled their cups, Gwen took the letters and shoved them into her knapsack. When the waitress left, she said, “I think my mother and Rachel knew each other—though she denies knowing anything about her or the letters. She left me a message… about my father—that he’s not dead—that she’d changed her last name,” Gwen blurted, letting out the breath it seemed she’d been holding.
“What—why?” was all he had in return.
“I was told my father was dead, but I think he’s the guy who’s been following Rachel in those letters—following us, this serial killer you’ve been tracking. My mother has been keeping us on the move all this time.” She took a sip of her coffee and winced. She normally added cream to her coffee he remembered, realizing she must have burned her lip.
“Here—drink this—the ice will help,” he said, pushing the glass of water closer to her.
“Thanks. I don’t know how you can drink it so hot.” She sipped the cold water, letting the ice at the top of the glass rest against her upper lip.
“Practice,” he said, and Gwen gave an attempt at a smile. “Did your mother say who your father was?”
“When I was younger, she’d told me his name was ‘Frank Jamison’, but I’m guessing now that it’s a lie too.”
“What else?” he pushed. He had been waiting a long time for a break in the case.
“I was already on a call site when she rang me back the first time. I told her to call you.” She sipped again. “I called her once more after I heard her message—but got voicemail. I can’t believe she kept this from me,” she said, letting out a clearly exasperated breath.
“You said you’d never seen the letters before, correct?” he steepled his fingers in front of his coffee cup.
“Ya, I couldn’t be sure exactly—but I think they were new to the trunk’s contents. There weren’t in there before my mother’s visit to see my grandmother. She’d been sick—my grandmother, she died actually—but yes, I’d never seen them before that,” Gwen said, as if clarifying for him.
He gave her an acknowledging nod. He had reviewed the letters thoroughly, the dates and places, they had all matched up to the reports on the serial killer’s movements. But at his previous meet-up with Gwen, he had left out telling her a crucial detail about Rachel’s parents, the fact that Rachel’s mother had recently been murdered.
“My mother liked to collect textbooks—and there was another book added to the collection in the trunk after that visit to my grandmother, as well,” Gwen said. “Written by Professor Michael Rampton.”
“That’s Rachel’s father,” he said. “Your mother must know Rachel—and I feel pretty certain she knows who this man is too.”
She nodded her understanding at him this time. He watched as she took another sip of water and then began rubbing at her temples.
“Rachel’s father was a bad man, Gwen,” he said, but he knew she had already figured as muc
h. “Whoever’s doing these killings—been following Rachel, possibly stalking your mother and you all these years, maybe this all has something to do with him,” he stated.
Gwen pulled something from the front zippered pocket of her knapsack then. “I found a couple photos of my mother in the trunk too,” she said, holding what he saw now was a tattered old photo. “But this one, I found it intriguing because I have never seen my mother with her hair down, or wild like this for that matter. It must have been taken before I was born,” she said, passing it on over to him.
He stared at the photo, then felt his usual stoic expression shift. It wasn’t because he recognized that he knew the girl in the photo, it was because the girl in the photo, was wearing… “My leather jacket,” he said, memories flooding through his brain. He flipped the photo over to see a date written on the back. “This was taken a few months after she’d disappeared—after I last saw her.” He glanced up at Gwen.
“Yooour jacket?” Gwen scrutinized, frowning then.
“Rachel and I… we… the last time I saw her… we… she…,” he stumbled out.
“Rachel?” Gwen questioned him, her eyes growing wide. “That’s my mother.”
“What?” he said. In that split-second moment he watched as Gwen’s expression changed from surprise suddenly to horror.
“Yer my father—it’s you!” she shouted, grabbing her knapsack, squirming out of her seat in the booth.
Speechless, he turned to watch as she pushed through the café door and then dash out of sight.
He had not understood her initial reaction, but then a unique kind of clarity had hit him. Gwen thinks you’re her father, he’d grasped, though her face shifting to that harrowed expression had clearly said… you’re a murderer. What was also clear to him now, was where Gwen would be heading… to her mother’s.
Chapter 17
Questions and panic spun in Gwen’s head the whole train ride out to Ann Arbor. She had almost wrenched her neck from checking back over her shoulder to see if he had followed her. She was running on adrenaline now, horribly aware that not only was her father alive, he was the detective she had trusted, her friend’s father, and was this serial killer who had terrorized Rachel and more than likely her mother for the past 20 years.