All The Deadly Secrets

by Carol Schaal

  * * *

  Nothing like the smell of pizza to bring on hunger pangs. I popped it in the oven at the condo to keep it warm, and Sarah arrived minutes later, laptop in hand. Looking through the online invoices took about 40 minutes, and we were both more than ready for a slice when the paperwork was finished.

  “Beer? Soda? Tea? Name your pleasure.”

  “Beer,” Sarah said, and I grabbed two bottles from the fridge and ferried them to the table. She stood in the kitchen and watched as I pulled the pizza from the oven and put two slices each on the plates I’d set out. “I’ll take those,” she said, and carried the plates to the dining area while I grabbed the napkins.

  We sat at the table, and I noticed that she waited for me to take a bite of pizza before she started on her slice. Great. Nothing like the fear of being poisoned to add spice to a gathering.

  We didn’t talk much for several minutes, savoring the veggie pizza and the calm of knowing we were on schedule with work. We each decided that two slices were plenty and sat, content, when we were full.

  “You want another beer? Or maybe something else to drink?” I asked, postponing what I was about to reveal.

  “I’m good,” Sarah said, and looked at me quizzically when I motioned to the two easy chairs in the front room and said, “Why don’t we sit over here, I have something to tell you.”

  She settled in and I sat on the edge of the other chair, leaned in and looked her in the eye. “This is hard for me, and I need to apologize in advance for what I am about to say.”

  “Oh, I, I knew this was coming.” Sarah sat up straight, chin lifted in defiance, like a condemned man preparing to die. “And I get it. You, you don’t need me around anymore.” Tears filled her eyes.

  I jumped up and grabbed her hand. “No, no, no. Oh, Sarah, I am so sorry if that’s what you’ve been thinking. No, that’s not it at all!”

  Sarah clutched my hand and looked up at me, eyes widening in surprise. I gently disengaged my hand from hers, went back and settled in my chair again, and reached down for my purse. I pulled out a newspaper clipping.

  “You’re the first person I’ve told this to up here,” I said, “and I’d prefer you keep it a secret, at least until I have a chance to tell other people myself.” I handed the clipping to her, watching her face intently.

  She glanced at the paper, looked up at me, then looked back down and read through the item slowly.

  “Who are these people?” she asked. “And what does it have to do with, with anything? I, I don’t understand.”

  The clipping I gave her was an obituary from the Tampa Bay Times, dated two years ago, for Andrew Kittner, who left behind his widow, Victoria Bannock Kittner, his parents, a sister, nephew, and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins. It did not mention the cause of death, saying only that Andrew “Drew” Kittner had died unexpectedly. The small photo with the obit showed a man who had a firm jawline, slight bump on his nose, and close-cut dark hair.

  I reached in my purse, pulled out a photograph of a bridal couple, and gave it to her. She looked closely at the picture, looked at the headshot on the obituary, and peered at the wedding photo again. “That’s you,” she said, “and that’s the man in the obituary.” A frown creased her forehead. “And your late husband’s name is Drew and, and …” The connection finally clicked. She held up the obituary in her other hand, read through it again.

  “You’re Victoria Kittner,” she said.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  She looked at me, still puzzled. “And you changed your name to Lauren Andrews.” I nodded again. “But why? I still don’t understand.” Several gulls screeched in the background, as though adding their own protest to my news.

  I held out my trembling hands, and she handed me the obituary and wedding photograph. I put the obituary clipping face down on the nearby end table and stared at the picture of Drew and me, so happy on our wedding day, then placed it over the obituary. Sarah sat quietly.

  “Drew was clearing up wind damage at our house. A tree was leaning against the roof after a tropical storm.” Tears were blurring my vision. I knew I couldn’t continue to talk, so I reached into purse again, pulled out a folded piece of paper. The official police report. Sarah reached over, silently, and took the paper from my hands.

  The officer’s report detailed the facts of the accident that took the life of my dear husband. In unemotional police terminology, the trooper said he had arrived in response to a 911 call and saw a body on the ground, a woman kneeling next to it. When he checked the body of the male, he wrote, he found no pulse or signs of life. Medics soon arrived in response to the 911 call, and they began CPR, but after several minutes they ended their efforts. The trooper called for the coroner and a detective. He wrote that the death appeared to be accidental, but it needed to be investigated.

  Sarah continued to read, and the memory of that day’s events came to me, unwelcome. It was drizzling. Drew was outside by an extension ladder, and I told him to hold off for a minute while I ran upstairs to put on a jacket. He handed me a small, sealed envelope, which I tucked in the pocket of my cargo shorts, thinking it was one of the love notes he frequently wrote me, and he gave me a bone-crushing hug and deep kiss. “Grab my windbreaker, too,” he said. “Love you, babe. Don’t ever forget that.”

  I had been the one who had called 911. When I walked into the backyard carrying Drew’s windbreaker, he was lying on the ground. I believe I screamed “No!” I knelt next to Drew and desperately tried to find signs of breathing. Nothing. I pressed my ear to his chest. Nothing. I got up, ran inside the house to retrieve my phone, unwilling to believe what I had seen.

  The official report said the subject apparently had been on the roof, reaching for a branch of the tree, and began to slip. It appeared, the report read, that the subject had grabbed a power line that ran next to the house, then his body had swung into the tree. The contact with the tree had grounded him, resulting in electrocution.

  Sarah’s voice interrupted my nightmare memory. “I am so so sorry,” she said, and I looked over to see tears glistening on her face. We both sat there, mute, until I was able to clear my throat and talk again.

  “There was a reason I changed my name,” I told her. “Two days after Drew died, the day before the funeral, one of his cousins came over to visit. I thought it was a condolence call, but that’s not what it was.”

  I stood up and walked toward the kitchen on shaky legs. “Do you want something more to drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger? Want to split another beer?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said, still holding the police report. She picked up the wedding picture, laid the police report gently upside down over Drew’s obituary, and returned the wedding picture, face up, to the stack.

  Sarah took a small sip of the glass of beer I handed her. I held my glass as if it were a lifeline. As hard as it was for me to retell the details of Drew’s death, the next part of the story left me both angry and feeling lost. It was in many ways even more difficult to talk about.

  As the calming sounds of a gentle breeze washed over the room, I told Sarah about the visit from Drew’s cousin, Raul, a pugnacious fireplug of a guy. He had walked into the living room, looked around to see if anyone else was present, and put his hands on his hips. I stepped back a bit, frightened, sensing menace.

  “I know some cops,” he said, “and I heard about the official report. I ain’t buying it. Drew’s an electrician. He never would have fallen like he did. He was pushed.”

  Raul pointed a finger at me, and I took another step back. Was he going to attack me?

  “I think you were up there, too, and you shoved him. I think you killed him. And I intend to tell the police that.” He narrowed his beady dark eyes, turned, and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him.

  “It didn’t end there,” I told Sarah. “Raul is a big drinker, and I think he leaked the fact to his pals that I was getting a big insurance payout. It blew up online, people leaving comments ab
out me. Some of my in-laws, people I thought were my friends, stopped talking to me. At the funeral, a few people refused to greet me. About a week later, someone used bright red spray paint and wrote ‘killer’ on my car.”

  Sarah gasped. I ended my recitation there and took a sip of beer.

  The night had turned full dark, and I saw Sarah look out the balcony slider and frown.

  “I’m really, really sorry to hear that,” Sarah said. “That’s a terrible thing.” She jumped up and aimed for the coat closet. “I’m sorry to cut this short. But I need to go, it’s slippery out there and, and I don’t like night driving.”

  Her abrupt move took me by surprise. I had hoped my big reveal would at least earn me a hug, maybe bring our friendship closer. So much for a confession, even a partial one.

  Sarah donned her coat and zipped it tight. As she started to head out the door, she stopped, turned, took a deep breath and raised a hand. “You can tell me more tomorrow, maybe, perhaps we can have coffee downtown. And I, I thank you for sharing the news with me. I promise to keep it quiet until, when you let other people here know.”

  She paused again, closed her eyes, then gave me a look I couldn’t read. “And maybe, while we’re talking, you, you can tell me what you were doing in my house yesterday.” She walked out the door, gently closing it behind her.

  28

  About 30 minutes after Sarah left, my phone buzzed. It was a call from her. I hesitated, wondering if she wanted to discuss my unauthorized visit to her house. Better, I thought, to get it over, and I answered the call.

  “Lauren, you need to get down here now! The shop is on fire! Fire trucks are, are everywhere!” Her voice was coming in quick bursts. “Oh my goodness, the place is, it’s burning. Please, come quick!” Her ragged breathing filled the line.

  I put my hand over my heart and inhaled deeply. “Sarah, I’m on my way. Where are you? How bad is it?” I could hear sirens in the background and pictured my lovely store crumbled into an ash heap.

  “Near Antonelli’s. Can’t, can’t get any closer. I can’t see how bad it is, the fire trucks are, they’re blocking the entire street. Oh, Lauren, I’m afraid it’s all burning down.” She broke off, crying.

  “Hang on, I’m leaving now. Be safe. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I put a sweatshirt on over my long-sleeved cotton shirt, threw on my coat, grabbed my purse, locked the condo’s front door, and took the elevator down to the underground parking area. As I neared the car door, I slipped on a patch of ice on the concrete. My arms windmilling, I managed to grab the door handle and right myself.

  “Stay calm,” I told myself, “stay calm.” The trip normally would take fifteen minutes but at 9 o’clock on a Tuesday night, traffic was sparse. I forced myself to drive at a somewhat legal speed, and in ten minutes I was in Alleton’s downtown district. Flashing red, blue, and white lights pulsed across the sky, and I could see a black cloud even in the winter’s dark and smell the bitter odor of burning wood and some sort of chemical.

  I pulled into a spot a quarter of a block from Antonelli’s, jumped out and rushed down the street, looking for Sarah. I spotted her Toyota sedan but no sign of her. I raced around the corner and stopped, craning to see around all the fire trucks parked on the street.

  The sight of Bathing Beauty’s front entrance, with no sign of fire damage, almost made me cry. I walked up to the firetruck stationed in front of the store but saw no firefighters. As I moved closer to the store, a man dressed in a yellow rubberized jacket came striding up to me.

  “Miss, you’ll have to stand back. Please, stay on the other side of the street.”

  I shook my head. “I’m the owner,” I cried. “You have to let me through. I need to know what’s going on. That’s my shop!”

  He held up a hand. “Okay, wait, don’t move. I’ll get the captain over here. But you need to stay right here. Oh, what’s your name?”

  I told him, and he walked a few feet away and lifted the walkie-talkie in his left hand to his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes on me. I heard the squawk of the walkie-talkie and saw his lips move but couldn’t make out what he was saying. In early January, I’d covered the front display window of the store in brown paper so shoppers could not peer into the shop and watch the renovations taking place. The fact that the paper was still there, all in one piece, made me relax a bit.

  The yellow-jacket guy ended his conversation and motioned me forward. “The captain will be here in a minute.”

  I plunked my purse on the ledge of the fire truck we were standing near and looked up and down the street for Sarah. A few people were standing outside, checking out the scene. I could see that more gusts of ash were rising from the back of the shop.

  An older man, also in a yellow jacket, this one creased with soot and dirt, showed up at my side. “Lauren? I’m Captain McDougall,” he said. We did not shake hands, as his gloves were covered with grime. “Let’s go around back, so you can see where the fire was. Sarah is there, she’s been asking for you.”

  I followed him down the sidewalk. Most of the shops had no space between them, so we had to walk past three stores until we reached the place where two stores were separated by a gap that led to the alley running behind the block of shops. Once in the alley, I could see a smaller fire truck at the rear of Bathing Beauty. A big trash bin, knocked on its side, blocked a portion of the alley. My nose burned from the acrid smell, and bits of ash landed on my jacket.

  “Careful,” said Captain McDougall as I tiptoed through the soot-encrusted gravel. Finally, I saw Sarah standing a few feet down the alley. And I could see the back of the shop.

  Sarah had caught sight of me and walked carefully around what appeared to be small pieces of burnt wood and bits of trash strewn around the alley. Her down jacket was covered with ash, her face was slashed with black streaks, and her hug came with an acrid smell of smoke. We stood, arms around each other’s waist, and looked at the rear entrance of the store. The back wall and door were blackened by smoke, and a rear window was smashed in.

  “They, the firemen won’t let us inside yet,” Sarah said, her voice hoarse from the fumes she had inhaled. “But it looks like, like all the fire was on the outside.” We hugged each other tightly, unsure of whether to be relieved or devastated.

  Captain McDougall, who had been conferring with another firefighter, came up and stood to my side. He motioned at the back door.

  “The fire started in that big bin,” he said, pointing at the heavy trash container I had tiptoed around earlier. “But you see those burned items on the ground?” We looked down and over at the blackened pieces of what appeared to be heavy cardboard lying on the ground around the bin. “Those were apparently stacked against the back of the store, and a secondary fire started there. That’s what reached the back door of your store.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “But, but we don’t ever leave boxes or trash behind the store,” she said.

  I knew what McDougall was going to say before the words left his lips. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said, sounding kind. “But someone did. And they started both fires. This was arson.”

  “Who would, who, oh dear, who would do that?” Sarah looked around at the mess in the alleyway, the black streaks on the shop, her shoulders sagging.

  “I don’t know,” McDougall said. “And I’ll need to talk to you about this tomorrow. For now, you need to get someone from your insurance company out here right away. And as soon as we clear this, I can let you look inside.”

  The yellow-jacket guy I had met earlier led Sarah and me to the chief’s car, parked farther down the alley. We settled in the back, and he turned up the heat. Sarah, bless her, had a card from the shop’s insurance company in her wallet, and called the emergency number. She knew the agent, and I could hear his loud voice over the phone, expressing his dismay.

  “He’ll be here in half an hour,” Sarah said when the call ended.

  The firefighter returned and handed coffee to
us. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Firefighter McDougall,” he said. I gave him a questioning look. “Yes, we’re related. Captain McDougall is my uncle. But trust me, he does not play favorites. If you look around, you’ll see that many of the other firefighters have left. It is my joy and privilege to stay and do his bidding until this scene is closed.”

  The captain, whose ears may have been burning, which is not a good joke to make around firefighters, opened the car’s back door. “It’s all clear now,” he said, “you can come with me and look around. Either of you have keys to the front door? It would be better if we went in that way.”

  We used my key, and once inside Sarah and I looked around. All the shelves were stocked, just as we had left them. The office area looked fine. As we neared the back of the store, the damage became more apparent. An open window, which Captain McDougall said had been broken by the heat of fire raging just below it, meant smoke and soot had entered that portion of the store.

  My initial reaction of euphoria at the lack of major damage quickly drained. I heard Sarah softly utter a curse word. The ceiling was blackened with soot. Two rows of botanical shower wash were covered with gray ash.

  And all we could smell was the pervasive stench of smoke.

  Keith Smithal, the insurance agent, arrived about half an hour later. He disappeared inside the shop, then joined us in the alley, where Sarah and I were huddling together. He looked at the small notebook in his hand and gave us the news Sarah and I had been dreading. From what he could tell, Smithal said, insurance would cover any damages, but we faced a major problem.

  “That smell of smoke is probably in your drywall and insulation,” he said. “In other words, the back quarter of this building will have to be replaced for you to have any chance of getting rid of the stink.”

  Sarah and I stayed outside, my body numb with the cold, and we moved out of the way occasionally as the younger McDougall scouted through some of the debris, while Smithal went to get some tools and boards out of his car to cover the back window. A tear frequently trickled down Sarah cheek, smearing the black soot that streaked her face. I stamped my feet and wondered if I’d ever be warm again.