“Josephine, if you’re in a hurry, you are free to leave. I’ll be fine on my own. Thanks a lot for the ride,” he said, sitting down on the sofa. “As long as I know where the kitchen and restroom are, I’m okay.” Frank smiled.
He stretched his legs and looked at Josephine, who was standing in the middle of the room with an expression of hesitation on her face.
“Did you notice how clean the house is?” she asked.
Frank quickly scanned around and nodded. Only now did he realize that the living room appeared to have been freshly vacuumed and dusted.
“The housemaid was here yesterday to clean the house up. I hate dirt. Kelly hates dirt, too.”
“How did she open the door?”
Oh, Marilyn Hancock! Only she could make Frank Fowler feel better! Why was he so damn bored?
“Kelly gave me a key a while ago. Just in case.”
Frank asked himself if Josephine was the reason of his boredom. His suspicion seemed to be correct. As minutes passed by, he grew more and more comfortable with the idea that he had the right to tell Josephine to go pound sand since she had probably stopped being his relative. She couldn’t be his sister-in-law if he wasn’t married. Till death do us part, you know.
A spark of righteous indignation ran along his body: what the hell was Mrs. Buckhaus doing here? Why was he wasting his time on her?
“Well, I’m going to hit the road and let you get to know your house without my nagging,” said Josephine. “If you need any help, call me.” She turned around and headed for the front door. Frank stood up and went after Josephine to walk her to her car.
“Please, think about the therapist,” Josephine said as they descended the porch steps. “Kelly means so much to us. We must find her no matter what it takes.”
“She means a lot to me, too. I’ll think about the therapist, Josephine.”
Josephine gave him a long piercing look and replied, “Thank you, Frank.” A few moments later she was on her way home.
4.
The next morning Frank made his first significant discovery inside his house. He was lying on the bathroom floor with a bottle of Aspirin in his left hand and was about to burst out giggling when he thought that he must be quite a spectacle at this moment: a grown man stretched on his stomach, delving into the tight space under the beautiful clawfoot bathtub.
Where the hell was that damn cap?
He slightly winced as he realized that he might have to go look for the flashlight in case the bottle cap had run away further than he’d thought. He would have really hated to waste so much time on this stupid cap.
Where was it? Where was that little sucker hiding?
There. There it was.
He saw the cap the same moment he noticed the blood stains.
The three blood stains under the tub, a few inches away from its right front leg. The stains were small, each roughly the size of a nickel.
And why did you decide that it is...
Because the stains are dark red. You can clearly see their color against the beige floor tile—three dark red splatter stains, and if it's not blood, then what is it?
It wasn’t paint because he didn’t remember painting anything in the last several months. Well, that was a weak argument. A better argument was the fact that the stains were easy to scrape off: he had just scratched one of them with his nail and managed to get some blood on the tip of his finger. He brought the stained finger close to his eyes and carefully examined it. The blood had obviously dried up a long time ago, and now he was staring at a bunch of tiny brownish particles, which resembled scales of a microscopic fish.
Frank wiped the blood off his finger with his thumb and peered at the stains.
Yes, it was blood. Well, for the sake of argument, he would assume that it was blood.
He picked up the cap and screwed it back on the bottle. Then he put Aspirin aside and rolled on his right side to take a more comfortable position, all the while gazing at the stains. A few seconds later, he started chuckling: look at this thirty-seven-year-old accountant lazing around on the bathroom floor and studying brown spots under the tub. He is looking at them and thinking...
About Kelly. Frank Fowler was thinking about Kelly, because he believed it was her blood. Could he even prove it was blood in the first place? Yes, if those CSI television shows weren’t lying, detecting the presence of blood was fairly simple. Was he going to do the testing?
Fat chance. People had gotten death sentences with less material evidence. Hell, they’d gotten death sentences with no material evidence at all!
Okay, let’s recap. Three blood stains. Under the bathtub. Long dried up. They had to be at least nine days old as it had been nine days since the car crash. Except for the housemaid, no one had been inside the house during his stay in the hospital, and he hadn’t spilt anything dark red (blood, my dear friend, blood) here after his return home.
Could the housemaid have left those stains?
It’s possible, but let’s not drag the cleaning lady into this, okay? Not everything is the maid’s fault, partner.
What had he been doing in the bathroom in the first place?
He had come here to get an Aspirin pill for his headache. He opened the bottle, put the tablet in his mouth, washed it down with half a glass of water, and dropped the cap. And eventually stumbled upon the blood stains.
The stains had to be two weeks old. Why? Kelly had been killed about two weeks ago, that was why. She was murdered, there could be no doubts about it anymore. The psycho stabbed her to death while she was taking a shower two weeks ago in this bathroom. Yes, the killer must have used a knife at some point; otherwise, there would have been no stains.
Well, buddy, you’re beginning to make progress!
Kelly was taking a shower, the psycho entered the steam filled room—just like in those slasher movies—and a terrible tragedy occurred—yes, just like in the movies. The killer thrust his knife into her smooth naked body a dozen times, and Kelly died.
Frank took a deep breath.
What imagination you have, pal! With the help of a mere three stains you managed to reconstruct the whole crime scenario. Bravo, Sherlock!
What else but blood could it be? Brown, easy to scrape off. It wasn’t watercolor because they didn’t have watercolors in the house. Kathy might have had them, but Kelly had probably given them away when she had lost hope that their daughter would be found alive. Frank had no doubt that whoever had left these stains had not been Kathy. Could Kelly have spilled watercolor in the bathroom a few weeks ago? He didn’t think so. What would have caused it to happen? Why would she have run around the house with watercolors?
Okay, he would assume for now that the stains had appeared here this year and they were not watercolor.
What did he have so far? He had concluded that Kelly was dead and that she had been murdered by a psycho. On the twenty fourth of April she filled the tub with hot water and eased into it, anticipating an hour of serene bliss, unaware that the killer had already slunk into the house, cold sweat rolling down his degenerate face. She was humming a Lady Gaga song while the maniac hid behind the door, his erection rock hard. It was a sexual maniac who had gotten bored with sex and was itching to murder a woman, just for the thrills. Kelly was lying in the tub, with her eyes shut, having no idea that her death was near. The psycho rushed into the bathroom, repeatedly stabbed Kelly with a knife, and then... Then he took her away. Why? Why did he not leave the body in the bathroom and go home?
Frank remembered he was going to wash his face and stepped to the sink.
So why did the maniac take Kelly’s body? And how did he get it out of the house?
The latter worried Frank the most. How did the killer manage to sneak the corpse out of here in broad daylight without being noticed by anybody? He had to have known the neighborhood well in order to pull it off, hadn’t he? How long had he cased the house before striking?
The cold water freshened up Frank’s face, making hi
m feel reinvigorated. Frank put an Aspirin pill in his palm and left the bathroom.
How did the psycho take the corpse out of the house? He must have killed her between eight in the morning, when Frank had gone to work, and half past five in the afternoon, when he returned home. The killer left the house while the sun was still up, so why did the neighbors not see him? It has to be hard to miss a man carrying a human-sized bag, right? Why nobody asked him, “Hey mister, do you need help with that suspicious looking sack on your shoulder?” Why nobody reported seeing that man to the police, when it became known that Kelly had gone missing?
How and why. Why do you care how the killer moved the body to his car, buddy? He did it somehow, and you need not sweat over it. Why don't you just enjoy having this burden off your shoulders? Look on the bright side. Kelly's gone! She’s never coming back, you are free. She’s not going to take your house in the divorce, which was probably a matter of time, if you are realistic about it. You saved yourself a lot of money in alimony you won’t have to pay. Kelly is dead, and the stains prove that irrefutably. Enjoy your freedom, Frank!
But how the hell did that bastard take the body out of the house?
Frank took another Aspirin pill and walked out onto the terrace. It was breakfast time, and he felt like having some chow mein. He was entertaining the idea of walking the three miles that separated his house from the nearest Chinese restaurant.
Are you hungry, pal?
Yes, he was hungry. He should leave now.
So, the maniac took the corpse out of the house. He didn't want to leave a mess behind; he washed the blood off the walls, wrapped the body in a plastic sheet (he had to wrap it really tight to prevent blood from spilling on the floor), and sneaked it out of the house. He took the corpse out in order to avoid rumors about a psycho killer prowling the streets of Buffalo, which would have led people to panic and install additional locks on their doors. He had gotten used to careless women, and rumors could have made them more vigilant.
How did this guy move the body out of the house?
When Frank’s eyes fell on the mailbox, he realized he had forgotten to check his mail yesterday. As he walked to the mailbox, he came up with a great theory of how the killer had taken the corpse out of the house. In principle, it wasn’t that difficult: the psycho could have carried the body into the garage through the inside garage door, put it in the trunk of Kelly’s car, and then driven the car to the dumping location. A simple and plausible solution, right? No miracles required. The whole ordeal would have taken about an hour: thirty minutes to clean the bathroom and thirty minutes to wrap the body in plastic and bring it to the garage. Absolutely doable. Plus fifteen minutes to murder Kelly. The killer had come here at nine in the evening and left at a quarter past ten. Was it possible that Kelly had taken a shower at nine? Sure.
Frank nodded to himself and opened the mailbox.
That psycho was smart. Very smart.
5.
The interesting thing about memory is the fact that you can’t really force yourself to remember something you’ve forgotten; you have to wait for it to pop up naturally in the course of time. Similarly, you can’t shut an unwanted recollection out at will; memory is a disobedient bitch, and if it wants to torture you with one of the items stored in it, there is no way out for you: all you can do is endure humbly whatever it throws at you.
Frank had been in no hurry to remember Kelly, but his memory ignored his commands and, as he stuck his hand inside the mailbox, took him four and half years back, to that day in late August when he had met Kelly.
They were both on vacation in Saint Pete Beach, a lovely tourist destination on the west coast of Florida, which, according to the brochure, was the home to award-winning beaches. The air was humid and smelt of salt there.
The hotel that they stayed at—what was its name? They stayed at the same hotel, right?
Four Seasons... Its name was Four Seasons. His room was on the third floor, and Kelly’s on the fourth. They met at the pool two days after Kelly had arrived. It turned out that Kelly lived in Rochester, less than ninety minutes away from Buffalo. One thing led to another, they exchanged phone numbers, and for the next week they were inseparable like conjoined twins. They had sex like there was no tomorrow; they couldn’t get enough of each other. Those were the most romantic ten days of his life.
A week after coming back home from Florida, he had his first conversation with Kelly’s father George. The old man happened to hold his daughter’s cell-phone when Frank called and was sufficiently curious to answer it. He must have been one of those overprotective fathers who monitor their daughters’ friends to make sure they don’t pal around with drunks or junkies.
By the way, was George missing a leg? And why the hell was that important anyway?
“George speaking,” Frank heard a pleasant baritone.
“How are you doing, George?” Frank replied. He wondered if Kelly had changed her number. “Can I talk to Kelly?”
Thankfully, the number was still good, and Frank spent the next five minutes chatting to George Frey, who probed him in a soft and subtle manner about his relationship with Kelly. Frank didn’t mind the interrogation: George deserved to have an idea what kind of people his daughter’s potential suitors were.
Four months later Frank proposed to Kelly.
He remembered asking her about the second of February. It was easy for him to remember this date because the day and the month were the same number.
“What about the second of February?” asked Kelly.
“I think it’s a good day for the wedding.” He smiled. “I’d like to make it official before you change your mind.”
“It’s only two months away. I guess we’re out of the running for the wedding of the year.”
“I hope you didn’t have anything planned for that day.”
No, Kelly was absolutely free on the second of February.
A few minutes later, she dialed her parents’ number and told them the exciting news. George and Jane Frey were ecstatic.
He wasn’t imagining it, was he? Could he swear he wasn’t mistaking a scene from some romantic comedy for an episode from his life?
If his memory served him correctly (which was a big ‘if’), it all had happened exactly like this. He suggested a date for their wedding and it was the second of February, the nice-looking 02.02. And Kelly agreed with his idea.
They had gotten married on the second of February, a little more than four years ago.
Why did he marry Kelly after knowing her for less than five months? Was it smart of him to make such an important decision in a hurry? Shouldn’t he have waited for, say, a year?
Who said it had to be a year? Why should he have waited? If a woman is good in bed, if she is hot, why not marry her? Kelly was definitely hot, at least in Frank’s eyes, which was all that mattered. And he knew she didn’t marry him for money because he wasn’t a millionaire (and still isn’t, unfortunately).
For the record, in order to avoid appearing shallow, he must note that he also appreciated Kelly being an interesting person to talk to.
So you have remembered the date of your wedding, buddy? Good job! You have managed to have dug all the way to that fateful date. Or did Josephine mention the second of February when she visited you in the hospital? Did you recall it on your own or with the help of your sister-in-law? Strain your memory, bud; you should have learned how to do it by now.
His parents must have asked him, “Aren’t things moving too fast? Have you thought this through?”
Did they ask that?
Yes, his father asked if he had thought it all through. Walt Fowler explained to him how much damage marrying the wrong woman could cause a man. He cited examples of men who had turned into bitter penniless wrecks just because they had tied the knot with brides from hell.
“Think long and hard so you won’t have to pull your hair out later,” said Walt.
And Frank replied, “I feel as if I've known her
for years.”
Yes, that's what he told his father, a corny cliché. He felt as if he’d known Kelly for years—it probably was the truth, however.
“Are you sure she’s not lazy?” asked his mother. Undoubtedly, she asked him this question.
“She’s not lazy at all,” he answered. “She loves to vacuum, too.”
“I hope she doesn’t make more money than you,” remarked his father. “Otherwise she’ll boss you around.”
His dad did say it. He loved to underscore that a man was to maintain his independence from a woman, especially in financial matters. He was pleased to hear that Frank would be independent from his wife in this regard.
What was Andrew's opinion about Kelly?
By the way, Andrew’s twin sons will turn fourteen this July. Don’t forget to buy presents, buddy.
Proud of his straightforwardness that bordered on tactlessness, Andrew commented on Kelly’s breasts and buttocks and asked him to share all the juicy sex details.
“Go for one child,” Andrew also said. “Two kids will drive you insane, just look at me.”
Did his mom and dad meet Kelly's parents? Most likely they did. And what did his father say about Kelly's parents?
Have you dug that deep into your memory, pal? Do you recall it?
The second of February. They had tied the knot that day... or some other day. Okay, it didn’t really matter; he could look his wedding day up on his Marriage Certificate when he had spare time. He had no desire to rummage through his files for the Certificate right now, and it was the right choice. His marriage to Kelly was a thing of the past. That era of his life had gone up in flames and was of no interest to him at the present moment. Let historians bother with it. He knew for sure that he had gotten married to Kelly on an autumn day four years ago—and that was enough for him.
Some day in August they had met at Four Seasons; some day in August they had gone to bed buzzed and horny; and some day in September he had dialed her number and talked to George Frey.
Did Mom and Dad like George Frey? How about Kelly's mother? What was her name? How old was she now, assuming she was still alive?
Kizer, Tim Page 10