UNAWARE: A Suspense Novel

by Susan P. Baker

  “Yep. That’s what they all say,” Bob said, winking at Paul who had his nose above the counter, checking out the food that would be their evening meal.

  Dena exchanged glances with Ellen. It was true. Luckily, Ellen had seen him first.

  Ellen uncorked the red wine and filled a water glass half-full for Bob. She held it out to him. “How’s this for motivation?”

  “Great.” He planted a kiss on her cheek. Taking the glass, he headed to the garage, Paul following behind him like his shadow. When Bob went through the door, he yelled to Dena, “I’m going to put the door up for what’s left of the light, okay?”

  “Sure,” Dena yelled back and closed the door behind him.

  Bob pressed the controls to the garage door opener. The heavy door groaned and began rising.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ALAN SELLERS

  A spike of adrenaline struck Sellers. He shivered. A man’s voice. Who was that? His muscles tensed.

  The garage door began opening, letting in a lot more light than just the overhead one from the garage door opener. He straightened up, making himself as small as he could, shrinking against the tool shelf, being quiet and careful he didn’t bump into anything.

  Someone’s feet scraped on the concrete floor. A car door opened. The car’s hood popped.

  His heart pounded. Blood rushed in his ears.

  Footsteps. The hood creaked. “Can I help, Uncle Bob?” a little voice said.

  “Let me see if I can figure out what’s wrong first, Paul.”

  Hair stood up on Sellers’ arms and on the back of his neck. About two feet separated the front-end of the car and his hiding place. He pulled his knife from his back pocket.

  A minute passed. Another. The boy asked some questions. Then it was quiet again. Sweat rolled down his forehead, burning into one eye. He didn’t dare wipe it away. His back pressed into the shelves. Only his eyelids and eyes moved.

  Another shiver ran across his shoulders and down his back. He listened for an indication the man was coming in his direction.

  He couldn’t just stand there and wait to be discovered. The time seemed to stretch from minutes to hours.

  If the man came to the door, Sellers would have to jump him. He’d be forced to cut the man and run like hell.

  More shuffling. Some scraping footsteps. A bit later, a door opened and an unfamiliar female voice called out. “Bob and Paul, dinner’s ready. Come wash up.”

  More footsteps and Dena Armstrong’s voice, “Did you figure out what’s wrong?”

  “Not yet,” the man replied. “I think it’s your carburetor. The float might be sticking or the choke adjustment is off. I’ll have to take the air cleaner off after dinner. Zack’s tools in there?”

  “Yes, most of them. A few are in his trunk, which, of course, is at the airport, but the good ones are in there. Want me to show you?”

  Another trickle of sweat ran down Sellers’ face.

  “I’ll find them after dinner. Let’s go in. Come on, Kid.”

  Another patter and scrape of footsteps.

  “Did Ellen tell you I made a chocolate pie?” The door closed.

  Sellers heard the murmur of voices behind the wall and relaxed a little. He moved away from the shelves. A pain stabbed between his shoulder blades. His head throbbed. That damn lawyer.

  The man was coming back after dinner and was sure to catch him in the tool room. He had to get the hell away from there.

  There was still plenty of daylight left. A glance at his watch told him it would be a long while until it got dark, but only half an hour until the man returned. That was too close.

  He crouched down on his hands and knees, glad he’d worn the old clothes. Pushing the door open a little wider, he looked out, but didn’t see anyone through the window to the kitchen. He edged his way out the door, closing it almost all the way like it had been when he was inside. Peeking around the car, he looked to see if anyone was watching through the window. He could see the tops of their heads. They must be sitting at the dinette table.

  Crawling between the car and the storage shelves on the inside walls of the garage, he came to the back of the car and, craning his neck, peeked through the rear window. Still no one at the kitchen door. He crawled to the edge of the garage door and looked out. No one there either. He looked over his shoulder at the window again. All clear. Straightening up, he stepped out of the garage and casually strolled diagonally across the front yard to the street. It was all he could do to keep from running back to his car. And now he had another worry. What if she missed the key before tomorrow?

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ALAN SELLERS

  Everything went down the same way on Wednesday morning as it had on Tuesday, except there were thundershowers on and off all day. Once again he heard her car pull into the driveway. He leaned as far back into the tool room as he could, his back rammed into the shelves like before. It was an involuntary reaction on his part. He knew she couldn’t see him. The door was almost closed.

  The car door opened and closed. He heard the little boy call her name. Then the little girl’s voice. When they went inside, someone locked the kitchen door. He hoped it hadn’t been dead-bolted.

  The stifling air made it hard to breathe in the tool closet. The maid, or whatever they called her, had the clothes dryer running. Hot air blew into the garage. An occasional gust of wind blowing in through the open garage door saved him from feeling like he would suffocate.

  The rain had come in handy. None of the neighborhood kids had been outside to see him slip from the bushes to the garage after the maid had opened the door. It was a snap, except his clothes were sopping wet. He had layered them, the old over the new. But all of them were wet. His skin itched. Chafed. Irritated.

  Holding his wristwatch up to the crack in the doorway, he could see that it was just after six o’clock. Only a few more hours. His fingers searched his back pocket for the fillet knife and the flashlight. They were still there.

  After he’d gotten home the night before, he’d honed the edge of his fillet knife until it was more than razor sharp. He was ready. As soon as he did her, he would hit the road and never look back. Unless he returned to do Ginny, but that, he’d decide on later.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  DENA

  “Could I persuade you to make some hamburgers for the kids?” Dena had changed from her rain-dampened clothes into a comfortable old bathrobe. All she wanted was to relax for a while before dinner, which she could do if Juliet would take care of dinner.

  “Sure,” Juliet answered, looking up from the TV show she watched with the kids. “Are you feeling all right? You’re already in your bedclothes, but Mr. Armstrong’s due home tonight, isn’t he?”

  Dena nodded. “Some friends came over last night and stayed far too late. I thought I’d make a salad for myself and later take a short nap and maybe a shower before he comes home.”

  “Want me to make dinner for all of you? I can make a nice Caesar salad with all the trimmings,” Juliet said.

  “That would be great,” Dena said, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Why don’t you let me cook more?” Juliet asked in her accented English, which had really improved since she’d started working for them. “I enjoy it so much. You do enough at the office. Now sit here in your rocker, read your evening paper, and let me mother you for a change.”

  That was all the persuasion Dena needed. Zack wasn’t around to scold her for not cooking. She did as she was told. “You’re a bit young to be my mother, but I’ll try to pretend, Juliet. Thanks.”

  “No need to thank me. That’s why you hired me. You said I’d be cooking along with everything else, but you hardly let me do it.”

  “It’s just I feel guilty if I don’t fix my family’s dinner.” What she meant was that Zack tried to make her feel guilty. She unrolled the newspaper.

  “Nonsense,” Juli
et said. “I’m going to the kitchen now, and I want you to call me if you need anything. Don’t even think about getting out of your chair.”

  “Yes, Juliet,” Dena said, like a child. She unfolded the paper to the front page. Nothing but bad news. For once, couldn’t the headlines boldly shout about something good? Propping her feet on the tiny footstool, Dena hoped she could make it through dinner without falling asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ALAN SELLERS

  He held his breath when the kitchen door opened and the now familiar tapping of the maid’s shoes struck the concrete garage floor. The dryer door hinges creaked when she opened it. The dryer came to a stop. She hummed an unfamiliar song.

  The maid should be going home soon. She always left sometime between six and seven. He wondered whether she stayed at the house later when the husband was out of town. She hadn’t the day before, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t that night. Not that it mattered, so long as she didn’t spend the night. He’d just try to relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. She would leave soon enough. He had all night to do what he’d come for.

  The waiting would drive some men crazy. There was nothing to do but stand in the dark room, not like waiting in his car in the daylight, with food, with drinks. But he could tough it out. He wasn’t like other men.

  He did feel a little jumpy from almost getting caught the previous night. Now, after the sun went down or after they closed the garage door, he would at least be able to sit in the doorway. Until dark, he had to stay out of sight. The only thing he could do was think, and he was running out of things he wanted to think about.

  Memories of the night his father had died kept flooding him. Not wanting to think about that night, or his father, Sellers kept promising himself the wait to get Mrs. Armstrong would be worth it. He needed to concentrate on that. Not his father. Not the night his father died. Not what he had done to his father.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  DENA

  Dena and the kids had their dinner on TV trays in the den. Juliet had delivered them ceremoniously. She’d made French fries to go with the hamburgers. The kids were excited and pretended it was a picnic. The Caesar salad that Juliet brought Dena was enormous.

  “This is just like the ones they make in the famous restaurants.” Dena squeezed Juliet’s arm in appreciation.

  “I told you I was a good cook, Ma’am.” She beamed at Dena. “You just have to let me do it more often. I don’t think in all these years you have let me cook for your family more than ten times. And never my own country’s specialties,” she added.

  “How did you learn to make the food look so good? Mine never turns out quite that appealing.”

  “I worked in a restaurant in my country when I was young.” Juliet’s expression as she put her hands on her hips and looked down at Dena was classic. “Don’t you remember?”

  As if Juliet wasn’t still young. “You’ve been with us so long, I really don’t. I guess I was just anxious at the time to find someone who would be good with a baby that I didn’t pay attention to anything else.”

  “You children like my hamburgers?” Juliet asked in a voice louder than the TV.

  “Yea,” Paul cheered.

  “What about you, Melissa?”

  “It’s good,” Melissa confirmed Paul’s comment without taking her eyes from the television.

  “And what about my French fries?” Juliet leaned over the children’s faces, getting between them and the TV.

  “I like ‘em really, really good,” Paul said with his mouth full.

  Juliet turned back to Dena. “And those are homemade, Mrs. Armstrong. Not those tasteless things you have in the freezer.”

  Dena had just forked a mouthful of salad into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. “I’m convinced. You don’t have to say another word. I’ll let you do most of the cooking. In fact, I’m going to be making a lot of other changes around here.” Her mind went to the sex the previous week with Zack. It had been good, but not enough of a reason to stay in a relationship that had run its course. And she didn’t want to be friends with benefits, either. She’d just have to regard it as goodbye sex.

  “Well, thank you, Ma’am. Anytime I don’t have an evening class, I will gladly stay to cook. I’m going back to the kitchen. Call me when you’re through, and I’ll come get the plates and finish up in the kitchen before I go.”

  Dena reached over and took her hand. “You’re a good girl, Juliet. If I haven’t told you lately, I really appreciate you.”

  “Thank you very much.” Juliet’s face flushed.

  Juliet had made her point. Dena was not superwoman. Yes, she needed Juliet, and any other help she could get. She would be taking it—taking care of herself and her children and her business. Alone. Without Zack and Lucas trying to control everything she did. Right now, she was going to eat, relax, be with the children awhile, and then get a nap. She might even begin the divorce discussion with Zack that night when he got home if he was up for it. If not, there was always tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ALAN SELLERS

  The light shining through the garage door cracks grew dim. The garage grew darker and would have been totally black but for the light from the kitchen. He had shifted his body so he could see out the tool room doorway. He’d nudged the door wider with the toe of his shoe after someone had put the garage door down. Time was growing short.

  Whoever had put the garage door down had closed the door to the kitchen, but had not locked it or shot the bolt. Amazing how everything seemed to fall into place, though it seemed like he’d been in the garage for half a century. A car had driven away quite some time ago. The maid. Now the lawyer and the children were alone in the house with him.

  He stroked the hilt of the knife in his back pocket. In his left front pocket, he carried a small flashlight with an extremely intense light. Patting his pocket, he reassured himself the flashlight was still there. Expelling a deep breath, Sellers brushed his damp hair back off his forehead. The heat had practically drained all the energy out of him. He knew he’d get his second wind the moment he made his move.

  The double layer of clothes hadn’t ever really dried from being in the rain that morning and now were damp, not only with rainwater but with sweat. The time couldn’t pass fast enough. He wouldn’t be any readier than right then. Too bad it was still so early.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  DENA

  After Juliet left, Dena gave up the idea of a nap and stayed in the den with the children and watched television. Later, she went into the kitchen and set out a tray with Kool-Aid® for the kids and a water glass filled with Texas Hill Country wine for herself. She was about to return to the den when she remembered the Oreos. She added them and a pile of napkins to the tray. A little voice inside her head told her she didn’t need to eat the Oreos, that she’d gained enough weight to last for the whole summer, that Zack wouldn’t like it, and then she remembered that soon she wouldn’t have to worry about what Zack would or wouldn’t like.

  Smiling like the proverbial cat, she walked back into the den and, setting the tray on the coffee table, sat down cross-legged on the floor between the kids. “I’m extending our picnic,” she told them. “Look what I’ve got for a snack.”

  Paul leaned over her shoulder and looked at the table. “Cookies!”

  “And Kool-Aid,” Melissa said with a broad smile. “Can we drink it in here, Mommy?”

  Dena looked from one to the other of them with mock seriousness and held up her fist. “Yes, but the first one to spill Kool-Aid on my carpet gets a knuckle sandwich. Okay?”

  “A knuckle sandwich.” Paul shrieked, laughing at his mother. “I don’t want one of those.”

  “Me, neither,” Melissa said. “We’ll be really careful, won’t we, Paul?”

  “Yep, we’ll be really, really careful, Mommy.”

  Dena scooted over to the coffee table and fil
led their glasses. “I know you will,” she said, handing a half-full glass to Paul and a quarter-full one to Melissa. She tossed a napkin down in front of each of them, pulled the lid off the cookie canister and, scooting back to her place on the floor, set it down between them. “Have an Oreo,” she said, grinning as she took one herself.

  They sat like that for a while, munching on Oreos and drinking their drinks. Dena didn’t worry about the effect of the sugary drinks or cookies, it being summertime, no school the next day. Just camp. She got up several times to refill her wineglass or go to the bathroom. Otherwise their time together was uninterrupted.

  She found herself laughing with the kids. Whether it was the influence of the wine or not, she didn’t know, but she was really enjoying herself. She tried not to think about how much of a headache she would have the following day.

  At nine o’clock, she turned off the TV. There was nothing on but cops-and-robbers unless she wanted to search Netflix for more children’s movies, which she didn’t. “Time to get ready for bed,” she announced, hoping the kids would go without a hassle.

  Paul stood and threw his arms around her neck. “I like watching TV with you, Mommy.” He put his little cheek up against hers. “I like to hear you laugh.”

  Dena hugged her son. “Oh, you little sweetheart, you.” She drew back and looked at the red Kool-Aid® and cookie crumbs lining his mouth and put her mouth to his neck and blew on it.

  Paul was giggling and struggling, and Melissa came up and wrapped her arms around her mother’s back. “Do me, do me,” Melissa hollered.

  Dena laid Melissa down on the floor and pulled up her shirt, blowing on Melissa’s tummy. Then she did Paul again, then Melissa. The house echoed with giggles and laughter.

  The doorbell rang.

  Dena straightened up. “Who could that be?” She looked at the kids. They looked back at her and shrugged their little shoulders. “Stay right here,” she told them. “Mommy will see who it is.”