The next morning, well after rush hour had ceased, I made my way across town to pick up Addison. I’d awoken with Fred still resting safely between my thighs, knife gripped tightly in my left hand and a line of chocolaty drool dried to my face. Half of my hair was flat and half of my face had been red with couch indentations. No wonder no one had bothered with me during the night.
The sun glared hot through the window of my mid-size sedan, which smelled like a combination of fear and Subway sandwiches. Odd. I glanced around my car quickly. A-ha. Real Subway sandwiches. I had two wrapper-stuffed bags chilling on the floor of my back seat.
The drive north to the small town my parents lived in was going to be quick. It would be made quicker by the fact that I was second guessing my decision to stay there. Dead bodies didn’t seem so terrifying in the daylight. The Moyer residence, however, had been scary since the day I’d started my publication.
I don’t remember my father ever having much of a filter, but whatever decorum he clung to while raising us definitely disappeared with his 50s. His motto had always been to never leave things unsaid. When I was younger, this saying mostly applied to boys I liked, boys I didn’t and things Addison would do to ruffle my feathers. Like the time when we were six and she shaved the hair off of all of my teddy bears, claiming she was giving them a haircut. What was left were three bald bears, with stuffing oozing out. Actually, come to think of it, the motto’s application has remained fairly steady throughout the years.
While my dad’s own brutal honesty was mainly directed at my mother’s poor cooking, it occasionally spilled over into more uncomfortable topics, like his satisfaction with my mother after 30 years of marriage. I work in a pretty provocative line of business, but even I don’t have the stomach to handle thinking about my parents dancing the horizontal polka.
Addison lived in a cute suburb of the city, her building filled with artsy young professionals looking super hip in their skinny jeans and beanie caps. I pulled over to the curb and threw the car in park just outside. I was reaching for my phone to call her when she suddenly materialized at the passenger door. Sliding in, she tossed a duffle bag in the back seat and perched her sunglasses atop her head. “Good morning!” she chirped in her singsong fashion.
“Good would have been after noon,” I muttered, edging the car back onto the main road. “How long were you waiting downstairs? It’s freezing out.”
“Not long,” she responded breezily. “But do you think we could grab some coffee before we hit the road? I could use a little pick-me-up.”
“Late night?” I smirked. Pete was probably still asleep naked upstairs.
She ignored my question, replacing her sunglasses to their rightful spot on her nose and turned to peer distractedly out the passenger window.
Two extra-large cups of coffee later, we were back on the road and headed north. While she and I talked about the magazine, the upcoming Ryan Gosling flick and even what hue she should paint her bedroom, neither of us touched on Alec or the fact that we had both gifted a considerable bonus to the electric company this month due to sleeping with our lights on last night.
About three hours later, I pulled up to my parents’ brownstone situated on a nice little block just off of the interstate. My mother, who had called several times during the drive, said she’d have lunch waiting for us when we arrived. While probably not overly nutritious, it was bound to be more edible than whatever she’d throw together for dinner. No sooner had I killed the engine than the front door opened and 200 pounds of motherly spitfire stepped out. “I’ve been worried sick about you. I thought you’d get here much faster,” she called to me from the porch, her thick accent giving away her Boston roots.
“We’ve been driving for three hours, Ma,” I told her, stepping out of the car. “You called us six times.” Opening the back door, I lugged my suitcase onto the sidewalk and began rolling it towards the house.
“Well, I was just worried,” she reiterated, wiping her hands on her oversized sweatshirt before swiping them through her loose grays, eyes sparkling with an underlying fire. My mother was like a lioness. From a distance, she seemed completely sweet and controlled. You wanted to snuggle up in her lap. Once up close, it was too late to run away should she decide to go in for the kill.
“Hi,” I said, rolling past her, pausing just long enough to exchange a quick kiss on the cheek.
Addison was hot on my heels but paused to give my mother a long, warm hug. “Thanks for having us, Lou.”
Patting Addison on the back, my mother held the door open and ushered her inside. Before following us in, she glanced suspiciously around the neighborhood, checking for anyone who might have followed us.
“I can’t believe what happened to that nice, young man,” she said, shutting the door firmly once she was satisfied. “There’s nowhere I’d rather have my baby during the investigation than right-” pause, big wet kiss on the cheek, “here,” pause, big wet kiss on the other cheek. She turned and walked past us towards the kitchen. “I made up some sandwiches for lunch.”
My father entered the hallway from his sitting room and took the liberty of putting me in a headlock and dragging me to the kitchen, much to my protest. Thankfully, Addison had been initiated into our family years ago when our families were neighbors. Her parents have since moved to a warmer climate, but Addie is always welcome back to our block with open arms. Most people that live on our street have lived here since Addison and I were small. That’s the way it is with tiny Midwestern towns.
After only a few seconds of trying to squeeze out of dad’s iron grip, he let me go and gave me a bear hug, picking me up off the linoleum. “Good to see you kiddo,” he whispered against my ear.
“Good to see you too, Pop,” I whispered back, my breathing strained in his strong arms.
Dropping me back to the floor, he turned to Addison. “You too, young lady,” he said, scooping her up.
“Don, let the poor girls relax, they’re probably exhausted,” my mother chided, busily stacking sandwiches onto a platter. My dad placed Addison back on the floor, then gave us a wink and edged quietly out of the kitchen, back to the safety of his sitting room.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Addie and I went back and forth in conversation with my mother who continued to slather various pieces of bread with mayonnaise before slapping a thick slice of meat of unknown origin on top. When the small talk and local gossip ran out, my mother proudly picked up the tray holding our lunch and placed it neatly in front of us.
My father took his place at the head of the table while my mother sat to his right. Addison and I both situated ourselves to his left. After a quick blessing, dad shook his napkin out and placed it in his lap. Hesitantly, he reached for a smaller hunk of bread and meat. Eyeing my mother suspiciously, he kept his voice level. “Looks like leftovers.”
My mother’s chest puffed with pride as she picked up the platter and passed it across the table. “I made meatloaf for your father last night,” she crowed. “He said he liked it.”
“I said it wasn’t bad,” my father corrected, taking a bite.
Taking a few seconds to make sure he didn’t begin foaming at the mouth, I took a small nibble of my own sandwich but stayed silent. My father, who’d grown up in small-town Wisconsin, experienced real life in the big city of Boston after graduating high school. He and my mother met in a bar, fell in love and decided on a married family life in the Midwest. They still dabbled in their hippie ways for a number of years after moving back to dad’s tiny hometown, perhaps with greater vigor once they owned a home. Still, my brother’s birth had, had a sobering effect. My own birth had wiped out any remaining desires.
Having served as a police officer himself for many years, my dad would no doubt want to delve into all the gory details of the reason behind our stay this week. Still, there was another matter of business that I suspected he’d want to address as well. Talking about his sexual satisfaction with my mother was one thing. Working in a bu
siness he referred to as “porn” and “for free” was an entirely different matter. It was a subject of contention that never stayed dormant, usually coming to a head over shared meals. When I was trapped. Like a rat.
“You know we’re happy to have you,” my mother said slowly, picking up her sandwich. “And if you ever need to talk…” she let the sentence trail off into the darkness.
“Here we go,” I muttered to Addison under my breath.
My father, pulling on his poised cop face, took the opportunity to be frank. “Were you and that Alec kid knocking boots?”
Addie all but choked on her water.
“Don!” my mother scolded as her face reddened with embarrassment.
Ignoring her, my dad turned to face me. “Look honey,” he started, putting his large, calloused hand over mine, dropping the cop face into one of fatherly concern. “It’s not that your mother and I aren’t proud of what you do. But the type of business you’re in-” he faltered for a moment while my mother shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Clearing his throat he continued. “You just never really come visit us. We thought you might be upset because he was your…special…friend…” He coughed and shifted in his chair. “Jesus,” he muttered and then, just as hastily, gave himself the sign of the cross as an act of contrition.
I felt my face getting hot with anger, over his stab at my work. “What do you mean the type of business that I’m in?” I asked, willing my voice to not quaver.
“Oh boy,” Addie whispered under her breath. Leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed tightly against her chest, she gave my worried mother a Cheshire grin and waited for the fireworks. She’d seen my father and I argue many times. They weren’t really arguments so much as short bursts of screaming followed by a door slamming (usually mine).
Sighing heavily, my dad shrugged at me, then took another bite of his lunch. “Porn and stuff,” he replied easily, through chews.
“I do not work in porn.” My teeth were clenched so tightly that I could feel the veins in my neck bulging slightly.
“You photograph nude people,” he raised his hands in defense. “I’m not trying to start anything, I’m just telling you how it looks from an outside perspective.”
“From an outside perspective,” I repeated.
Now he was getting angry. Even when my brother announced he’d gotten his high school sweetheart Rachel pregnant when they were both 18, my dad had remained calm and collected. His own little girl was an entirely different matter. I could see the smoke starting to steam out of his ears. “Yeah, to other people,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Other people?” I was incredulous.
“How much did I spend on your education so that you could just repeat the things I said instead of forming your own words?” he exploded, standing up quickly and leaning over me, his face red and angry.
Pushing myself back from the table, I quickly leapt to my feet and stared him down before storming towards the hallway. “I do not work in porn!” I hollered over my shoulder.
“But the people are naked!” he roared back. “That makes it porn!”
“Not always!” I shouted back. “And when they are naked, everything X-rated is covered by food!”
At a loss for words, he managed only an angry howl, cut off abruptly by the slamming of my childhood bedroom door.
I’m not sure how long I laid on the lacy white bedspread, clutching a bald teddy bear to my chest as I fought off angry tears. Fingering the stitches my mother had sewn to keep the stuffing intact, I went through the conversation again in my head. Sure my dad been concerned for my emotional well-being, thinking I’d lost my…lover. I involuntarily shuddered thinking of Alec and I together. Nonetheless, did dad have to link everything back to my magazine? Why couldn’t he focus on the fact that I, too, had entered into public service, working crime scenes, my photographs helping to solve mysteries? For being a reformed hippie, he sure could be narrow-minded.
There was a soft knock on the door and my mother’s head poked in. “Care to talk?” she asked in a way that suggested I didn’t have much of a choice. While my father easily lost his cool with me, my mother was a rare breed, able to form all of her anger into “the look” which left her mind rational and thereby free for quiet, coherent conversation. In a way, it was far more frightening than my father. Frowning, I silently wished I’d inherited more genes from her side of the family, but moved over to make room for her on the bed. When I finally stirred up enough confidence to make eye contact, I was moved by the understanding reflecting from her eyes.
I sighed. “Ma, I-”
She raised her hand to silence me, then brushed my hair off my face and gave me a gentle kiss on the forehead. “He’s just worried,” she whispered, patting my hand vigorously. “He’s been trying to make connections within the MPD all day. Seems they got a new Captain. Your friend Barry keeps trying to patch him through but it’s not working.”
“He could just ask me for those connections,” I muttered. “I do work with the cops, too.”
“He didn’t want you to feel like he was checking up on you.” Her long, hard stare suggested that, that’s exactly what I would think he was doing.
“Maybe you’re right,” I groused, propping myself up on my elbow, still gripping my teddy bear tightly to my chest. “But why does every conversation eventually lead to the magazine? A few weeks ago on the phone, I was telling him about my trip to Chicago, which somehow turned into their underground drug cartels, which somehow turned into strippers with a drug problem, which eventually led to the publication.” I shook my head, bewildered.
She shrugged. “You kids have made some choices he wouldn’t have made for you.” With a quick pinch to my cheek, she added, “But you’re both adults. You live with your choices, not us.” After a moment, she frowned. “I suppose we do put up with your brother’s choices rather often.”
My niece, Riley, was 12 and often rode her bike to the warm comforts of grandma and grandpa’s house when she was grounded. Just last year, my brother had cut down the large maple tree she used to climb out her bedroom window starting at just age nine. It was a mystery to us how she managed to sneak out now that it was gone and all that was between her and their front lawn was a long, hard drop. Riley put a shot of life into my parents’ humdrum retired lives and, though they could both act annoyed and put out by her drama, they adored her.
There was another soft knock on the door before Addison poked her head in. “Lunch is getting cold.” Grinning, she pushed the door wide open and motioned for us to follow her back to the kitchen. Standing, my mother turned to me, offering a hand to help me up.
When we returned, my father was silently chewing his food, holding a particularly large sandwich with both hands. Joining him, the three of us sat around the table. He looked at me and nodded once, his face normal in color. We finished the rest of our meal in comfortable silence.
The week at my parents’ house had flown by. Being back in my old room, within which my parents had changed nothing, brought me a great feeling of comfort and safety. Addison, who originally intended to stay in my brother’s room, often ended up camped on my hardwood floor, cocooned tightly within layers of blankets. But despite our childhood surroundings packed with nothing but happy memories, both of us were unable to sleep much. It seemed that every time we tried, we were startled back to consciousness by Alec’s body lifeless behind our eyelids. Eventually, we would be pulled into slumber by pure exhaustion, the other’s soothing breath, or both.
We treated my parents to breakfast every morning, a surprise that had my father giddy with anticipation every time he awoke to something other than the usual smell of burning bacon and watered down coffee.
I’d spent plenty of quality time with Riley, Rachel and my brother, John — as often as was allowed, which was pretty often. Addison and I had helped rake their lawn and finished up various projects around their house. We finished our days lazily blowing bubbles from the porch swing or poin
ting out various shapes in the clouds as cool afternoons faded softly into crisper autumn evenings. Nothing can snap me into a reverie like the change of seasons, which was far more noticeable out in the country than back home in the suburbs.
Barry had called me a few days into our escape and informed me that we’d be allowed back into our offices by week’s end. The autopsy hadn’t turned up anything unusual he said, but they were still waiting on the toxicology report, which was known to take a bit longer. Thankfully he promised me, with a little too much enthusiasm, homicide had been ruled out, meaning that we’d be safe upon our return, for sure. My thoughts turned briefly to Fred, who I now knew was safely swimming about his bowl, waiting for me to come home. I’d had a horrible dream the night before that I returned to a ransacked apartment, Fred’s bowl broken into shards that were scattered across my floor. Sentimental for a fish? Perhaps. But while I’d managed to kill just about every plant that had entered my apartment — including a cactus — Fred was nearly seven and still going strong.
Before we hung up, I made Barry swear to remove the chair that Alec had been sitting in, not wanting to have to do it myself. He laughed but promised to take care of it.
Sunday evening following dinner, which had also been attended by my brother and his family, my mother handed Addison and I each a paper sack filled with leftovers. The spaghetti, while chewy, hadn’t been her worst endeavor in the kitchen and the berry crisp, which Rachel had prepared, was absolute heaven. After hugs, kisses and multiple goodbyes, Addison and I hopped into my car and drove back to the city. Neither of us spoke as we sped past dark, empty fields on the unlit stretch of highway, but sad songs played on every FM radio station all the way home.
Dropping her off at her apartment, I waved and waited for her to get all the way inside the secured entrance before I pulled away from the curb. We’d conference called Rory and Betsy a few minutes before we reached town to fill them in on Barry’s report and we had all agreed to meet at the warehouse at seven in the morning, before venturing inside together. While Rory and Betsy were the only ones who had any real work to do there tomorrow, Addison and I weren’t about to let them go in alone.
Allison Janda - Marian Moyer 01 - Sex, Murder & Killer Cupcakes Page 3