Before She Knew Him

by Peter Swanson

  While he ate, he began the process of finding out everything he could about his neighbor. She, or maybe the husband, had obviously called the police. It was the fencing trophy, of course. Hen (who didn’t really look like a hen; she was a fox, the exact opposite) was the one who’d spotted it, who somehow knew about its connection with Dustin Miller. And now she’d brought the police to him, something that had never happened to him in his entire life. It had gone okay, he thought, or as well as it possibly could have. He did wonder why the detective hadn’t asked to look around or asked anything about the trophy. He assumed that was because it would have made it far too obvious that he’d been turned in by his neighbor. And, of course, Matthew could have refused, could have asked that a search warrant be provided. No, it was clear that it was nothing more than a fishing expedition. And with the trophy gone, the police would have nothing to connect him with Dustin Miller.

  Matthew did a search using “Henrietta,” “Lloyd,” and “wedding” and instantly got a wedding page. Henrietta Mazur and Lloyd Harding were their full names. He almost did a search for “Henrietta Harding” but realized there was a much better chance that she hadn’t changed her name and searched for “Henrietta Mazur” instead. Because of her illustrations, she was all over the internet. She had her own website, plus she was on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. There were surprisingly few pictures of her, but there were multiple images of her work: dark, intricate etchings that Matthew found intriguing. Many were from children’s books, but he found a Boston gallery that had thumbnail pictures of some of her original artwork, and Matthew studied them. He didn’t know too much about art, but thought that they might be brilliant. Genius, almost. His favorite was an etching of a family eating dinner—mom and dad and three pretty girls. There was a large roast on the table, and all the family members were eating pieces of it greedily, some with juice dripping down their chins. Underneath the table, although it wasn’t obvious at first look, one of the girls was missing a leg, severed just under the knee. It looked freshly bandaged. The title of the etching was “Christmas that year came and went most pleasantly.”

  Henrietta Mazur’s art was so interesting that Matthew, for a time, forgot why he was researching her in the first place. He found himself studying several of her pieces and beginning to wonder how much a signed print would cost. He could already imagine one hanging in his office.

  Before shutting down his computer, he did one more search, using “Henrietta Mazur” and looking to see if there were any news stories about her. There was one gallery announcement, from eight years ago, and then there was a story about a Henrietta Mazur who had been involved in an incident at Camden College about fifteen years earlier. Matthew almost skipped it, thinking it was another Henrietta Mazur, but the phrase “Ms. Mazur, an art major who had won several awards in high school for her dark and arresting sketches and paintings” made it clear that it was his neighbor. She had been charged with criminal assault for attacking a fellow student. Matthew read all the stories he could find. It wasn’t entirely clear what had transpired, but the basics were that Henrietta had had some sort of breakdown and had become convinced that a fellow student was trying to kill her. She’d raised these concerns with both her college adviser and the local police, but then she’d attacked the other student herself, winding up in a psychiatric hospital and then court. Reading the articles, Matthew got the strange feeling that, even though it was clear the young Henrietta had had a break with reality, maybe she’d been right. One of the articles had a picture of the other girl in the case—Daphne Myers—and Matthew recognized something in Daphne’s dead eyes, even through the pixelated image on the screen.

  And now Henrietta Mazur was after him, sending cops his way, probably spying on him. It occurred to Matthew that Henrietta’s criminal past could help him, if it came to it. He suddenly wasn’t nervous. He felt strangely calm and just a little bit excited that his new neighbor seemed to suspect who he really was.

  That evening Matthew’s brother called.

  “When’s Mira getting back?” Richard asked.

  “Later tonight.”

  “Too bad. I was going to come over again. I have something to show you.”

  The last time Richard had said those words, he’d shown Matthew a truly disturbing website.

  “Why are you showing me this?” Matthew had asked.

  “Relax. They’re just actors. I’m showing you because can you imagine if Dad had been alive when the internet was around? He would’ve thrived on this stuff, don’t you think?”

  “Sounds like you’re thriving on it yourself.”

  “This shit, not really. I’m just showing you because I was thinking of Dad. Remember how we used to think he was one of a kind, you know, a true original, like Dracula or Frankenstein.”

  “I don’t really remember that.”

  “Well, I thought it. And now it’s pretty clear that there’s a whole shitload of men out there who think just like Dad. Enough to support a website like this. It’s a strange world, Matthew.”

  Richard had been almost thoughtful that time. He’d drunk too much, though, and Matthew had caught him masturbating the next morning in the living room, the laptop open on his lap, a look of shame and happiness in his eyes.

  “What is it you wanted to show me?” Matthew asked on the phone.

  “I met someone.”

  “Oh, yeah. Has she met you yet?”

  “Not in the flesh, but we’ve exchanged a few messages. I wanted to show you some of the pictures she posts.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. When’s Mira leaving again?”

  “Not for a while, Richard. You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

  Richard laughed, but said he’d be fine, and that was the end of the conversation. Despite being disgusted by his brother, Matthew worried about him all the time. And it wasn’t just worry about his brother; he worried about what he might do. He knew, more than anyone, just what the Dolamores were capable of.

  When Mira returned that night Matthew was already in bed.

  “Shh, keep sleeping,” she said as she slid in next to him, looping a hand around his chest and squeezing him toward her.

  “Welcome home,” he said.

  “Your heart’s racing. You okay?”

  “I’m just so happy to see you,” he said, turning and kissing her on her neck. She was wearing a T-shirt with nothing on underneath, and he slid a hand between her legs. She shifted, opening her legs for him. Quickly, before the feeling went away, he slid on top of her, pressing his face into the pillow next to her neck. He thought of his neighbor, what she might sound like if he were doing the same thing to her, then quickly pushed the thought away.

  “That was a surprise,” Mira said, after he had rolled away from her, and they were in the same position as before, Mira up against his back, her hand around his chest.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “It was a long trip,” Matthew said.

  Mira laughed. “Not really, but I’m glad you think it was.”

  “What are you doing Columbus Day weekend?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Wanna go away for a night?” he asked. “Maybe up to that hotel in Portsmouth?”

  “The one with the clam dip?”

  He laughed. “Yes, the one with the good clam dip. You would remember that part.”

  “I remember the rest, too. Yes, I’d love it.”

  “I’ll book it tomorrow,” Matthew said.

  Before they fell asleep, Mira said, “Your heart rate is back to normal.”

  Chapter 15

  Detective Martinez called just as Lloyd, home from the office, was rooting through the refrigerator.

  “Can you hold on a moment?” Hen said, then told Lloyd it was her agent and she needed to talk with him in her office. Hen raced up the stairs, wondering if it had bee
n obvious that she was lying. Once in her tiny office—the place where she struggled with all forms of paperwork—she said into the phone, “Yes?”

  “I wanted to let you know that I visited your neighbor and we talked.”

  “And?”

  The detective paused, and Hen knew that he was about to report that nothing was going to be done. “And he’s a person of interest, that’s all I can say right now.”

  “Oh,” Hen said. “You think he’s guilty?”

  Detective Martinez laughed. “No, I didn’t say that. Frankly, the interview produced nothing, really, but he was aware of the situation between Dustin Miller and Courtney Cheigh, so you’ve provided some valuable information. I’m calling to thank you for the tip.”

  “It wasn’t just a tip. He’s guilty, you know.”

  “Even if he did have a fencing trophy, it could have—”

  “It’s not just that,” Hen said, pushing her foot against the office door to make sure it was completely closed. “I know he did it. I followed him the other night, and he was stalking someone else. Hunting him.”

  “When was this?” the detective said.

  Hen told him the whole story, about following Matthew while he followed the couple in the car.

  “What makes you think that that behavior had anything to do with what happened with Dustin Miller?” the detective asked after she’d finished her story.

  “I think it proves he’s some kind of serial killer, or at least a serial stalker. There’s something wrong with him. He’s creepy.”

  “Trust me when I tell you that there are many creepy people out there. But most of them are not murderers.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Hen said, “but some of them are murderers, right?”

  There was a lengthy pause, and for a moment, Hen thought the detective had hung up. Then he said, “There are many reasons he could have been following someone, very few of which would have anything to do with Dustin Miller.”

  “Yes, I know. But it was suspicious.”

  Another pause, and then, “Can I ask you to do me a favor, Hen?”

  “Sure,” she said, knowing what it would be.

  “Let us take it from here, okay? If your neighbor is guilty of murder, then we’ll get him, but it’s not going to be helpful to us if you’re following him around. And it could be dangerous for you.”

  “Sure,” Hen said. “I understand.”

  “You promise, then?”

  Hen laughed. “I pinkie-swear promise.”

  “I’m serious,” he said. “It’s not just for your safety, but it could compromise the investigation. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Hen said. She nearly added his name—it was Iggy, wasn’t it?—but it just didn’t feel right.

  “Okay,” the detective said. “Thanks. And feel free to call me anytime if you think of anything else. I’ll keep you updated as well if anything comes up.”

  “Thanks,” Hen said.

  Back downstairs, Lloyd asked, “Who was on the phone?”

  “I told you. My agent. My original contract for the Lore book called for eight illustrations plus the cover, and now it’s up to twelve illustrations.”

  “Have you done them all?”

  “Almost.”

  “Are they paying you more?”

  “They are. It’s more to do with the time commitment. I’m supposed to have started on book two already, and I haven’t even read it. How was your day?”

  “Pretty good,” he said, his standard response.

  She got herself a glass of wine and pulled out chicken breasts, plus a head of broccoli, for dinner.

  “Have you thought any more about Columbus Day weekend?” Lloyd asked, and for a moment Hen panicked, trying to recall their previous conversation. Then she remembered.

  “Rob’s party,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “Um, probably not, Lloyd, if that’s okay?” she said.

  Rob was Lloyd’s best friend from college. He lived just over the Massachusetts–New York state line, about two and a half hours away, and he had a bonfire party every Columbus Day weekend. Hen had been many times in the past. She’d even had fun a few of those times, but Rob was a professional pothead and Hen had quit smoking ten years earlier. She occasionally missed the way her brain exploded with new ideas when she smoked, but she certainly didn’t miss the crushing paranoia. Or the stupid conversations.

  “That’s okay,” Lloyd said.

  “You’ll spend the night, right?” Hen asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’ll go next year.”

  “You don’t have to. I know he’s not your favorite person.”

  “I don’t have anything against Rob. I just don’t really have anything to say to him. And I miss Joanna.”

  Joanna had been Rob’s longtime girlfriend, a funnier, smarter, more sarcastic version of Rob. Hen hadn’t been surprised when she’d moved out of their drafty farmhouse and gotten her own place in the Pioneer Valley, but, still, she missed her presence. Without her there, Lloyd and Rob quickly morphed back to their college personalities, and Hen felt like she was standing just outside of their pocket of pot smoke and dumb jokes, looking in.

  “We all miss Joanna,” Lloyd said. “Do you need me to do anything?”

  Hen slid the slightly rubbery broccoli his way and asked him to cut it up.

  After dinner, while Lloyd watched the Red Sox game, Hen went to her laptop and looked up the website for the C-Beams again. She was now somewhat convinced that the lead singer for that band—they’d been playing at the Owl’s Head on the night she followed Matthew—was the bearded man whom Matthew had been following. It would make perfect sense. He’d clearly been part of the band—she’d witnessed him helping the drummer load up his van—or, at the very least, associated with them. Hen was now assuming that Matthew had gone to the Owl’s Head to watch the C-Beams play, and then he went home, got his car, and came back to follow the lead singer, one of the last to leave the bar. The question, of course, was why?

  His name was Scott Doyle, and Hen tried to find out more about him. She wondered, for example, if he had some connection to Sussex Hall. Was he a previous student? Maybe Matthew saw himself as a vigilante, killing off his most immoral students long after they’d left school. But all she could find out about Scott was information pertaining to his band. He had a Twitter account, but all he ever posted there was either links to his songs or plugs for upcoming performances. The C-Beams’ next show, coincidentally, was the Saturday night of Columbus Day weekend, the same night as Rob’s bonfire party. It wasn’t at the Owl’s Head, but at a bar called the Rusty Scupper on the North Shore. Maybe she’d drive there that night, just peek in. It would give her something to do for the night she was alone. And if she got a chance to speak with Scott Doyle, then she could ask him if he’d gone to Sussex Hall or if he had any connection with Matthew Dolamore. Because if he did, she genuinely believed he was in trouble.

  And what if Matthew was there himself? What if he saw her? Well, then, so what? It would be a coincidence. And maybe it would stop her neighbor from committing another murder.

  “Get out of there!” Lloyd was yelling at the television. His groan immediately afterward told her that he’d just witnessed a long fly out instead of a home run.

  Chapter 16

  “I’ve had too much already, Matthew,” Mira said.

  “It’s not like we have too far to go to our room,” he said. “We could also get dessert, if you’d prefer?”

  “Ugh, I couldn’t eat another bite. One more drink, okay? But only if you have one.”

  Matthew ordered a Rusty Nail for Mira and a second Guinness for himself. They were in the bar of the Portsmouth Arms, a four-story boutique inn on a pretty cobblestone street in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Columbus Day weekend had started with a cold, stinging rain coming off the Atlantic, but by four o’clock on Saturday the skies had cleared, and the sun had appeared briefly to pa
int the city in a mellow pink light. Matthew and Mira had taken a walk along the waterfront, then returned to the hotel for drinks and the restaurant’s signature clam dip. They’d split the prime rib special, a bottle of wine primarily finished by Mira, and now she was sipping a Rusty Nail.

  “What’s in this? It’s good,” Mira asked, her voice slurry. She wasn’t much of a drinker, although, oddly, she loved the taste of alcohol. Two drinks was her regular limit.

  “Scotch and Drambuie.” Matthew sipped at his beer as well, planning on dumping it into the nearby hanging plant if he got a chance. He was going to drive down to New Essex tonight, and he needed to stay sober.

  “Okay, now I’m done,” Mira said, finishing her drink, ice clicking against her teeth.

  “Me, too.” Matthew slid both of the glasses toward the bartender and asked for the check. Mira didn’t notice that his beer glass was more than half full.

  In their hotel room, she pulled her jeans down around her ankles and sat heavily on the made-up bed. “The room’s spinning,” she said.

  Matthew helped remove the rest of her clothes and tucked her in under the covers, making sure to pull the sheets loose at the bottom of the bed. He didn’t think there really was a chance of Mira’s waking up, but if anything was going to wake her, it would be so that she could kick her feet free from the covers.

  Matthew opened the window a little—the radiator in the room was hissing and crackling, and it was far too hot—then went to his suitcase and pulled out the few things he thought he might need: the stun gun, the telescopic baton, the jackknife, his vinyl gloves, and the fleece cap that would cover all his hair. Just touching each object was making his heart race. Slow down, he told himself. It might not happen tonight. It probably won’t. But he knew that if the opportunity arose, if he managed to be alone with Scott Doyle . . . he did a silent dance, crouching and pumping his fist repeatedly, just to expel some of his nervous energy. Then he breathed in through his nostrils and put his coat on.