London Undone

by Nan Higgins

  Her solitude was interrupted by the tinkle of bells signaling that a customer was coming into the shop.

  “Welcome to Hell!” she said and saw that it was not a punk or goth or hipster, her normal client base. It was a pretty woman around her age wearing yoga pants and a jean jacket with blond hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She stood in the doorway as if unable to move farther into the room. “Can I help you with something?”

  This seemed to jolt the customer, and she stepped toward a display of graphic T-shirts. “I’m just looking. I’ve been meaning to check out your store for a long time and just never made it in before.”

  “Glad you were able to stop by. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  London leaned against the counter in front of the cash register and regarded the woman. She seemed nervous, continuously looking over her shoulder. While London wasn’t exactly a stranger to shoplifters, it definitely wasn’t the norm around here, especially in the middle of the day in an otherwise empty shop. The customer glanced over her shoulder again, saw London watching her, and moved to a different display of magnets and postcards.

  There was something familiar about her, but London couldn’t place her. She moved to a pile of sweaters toward the middle of Hell so she could keep an eye on the stranger regardless of where she was and began to refold the already perfectly folded sweaters. Jasmine would have a fit if she could see me ruining her display.

  “Those T-shirts you looked at when you first came in are on clearance,” London said, and the woman jumped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just a little jittery sometimes.”

  London moved closer. “I’m sorry, do I know you? You look familiar, but I can’t place how we know each other.”

  The customer shook her head rapidly. “Oh, no. No, we’ve never met.”

  “Are you sure? I swear I know your face.”

  “I’m sure.” She began backing toward the entrance. “Thank you; you have lovely things, but I’m on my lunch hour. I need to get back to work.” She turned and made a sprint to the door, letting it close behind her with a thump and another tinkle of bells. London walked to the door and stepped out just in time to see her running and almost bumping into an elderly gentleman, then turning sharply down a side street in the distance.

  * * *

  “Shoplifter.” Diego nabbed one of the chips from London’s takeout box. “Definitely a shoplifter.”

  “That’s what I thought at first too,” said London, “but I don’t think so. She didn’t even seem that interested in the merch. It was almost like she was here to…”

  “To what?” Jasmine prompted.

  “To see me.” The thought gave her chills.

  Diego grinned. “Someone with a crush on you?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It could happen,” Diego said. “Why do you think I started helping out in here for free when I was fifteen?”

  “What?” London and Jasmine screeched together.

  “It’s true.” He sighed. “The day I found out you were a lesbian was the saddest of my life.” He clasped his hands over his heart. “My dream woman would never return my love, even when I got old enough to make things legal.”

  London blushed fiercely and laughed until she saw the appalled look on Jasmine’s face. “Anyway, can you guys keep an eye out for her? I need to know if she comes back.”

  “Of course, sugar.” Jasmine was still looking at Diego with disapproval.

  “Your security cameras still work?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I can go to the time Shoplifter Susie was here and take a screenshot to print out. I don’t know how good the photo will be, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Jasmine’s eyes widened with pride for her only child once again. “You know how to do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s those tuition dollars being put to good use,” London said.

  “Nah, I had that summer job at White Castle. When Ma found out how often we got robbed, she made me quit, but not before I learned how to grab a screenshot from some security tape.”

  * * *

  That evening, Grant and London sat down for a dinner of various cheeses, olives, fruit, and pita bread. And wine, of course; they couldn’t forget the wine. It was London’s night to make dinner, and she joked that this was her specialty.

  “Oh.” Grant set down the piece of pita he’d used to scoop up some feta cheese and sliced kalamata olives. “I forgot, this came for you today.” He reached to the stack of mail on the counter.

  London set down her wine glass and took the envelope with neat, printed words. “Oh my,” she whispered.

  “You know what it is?”

  “It’s my invitation to Thanksgiving dinner from Reggie’s mom.” She tore it open and found the gold card with autumn leaves decorating the edges that she’d received every year since she and Reggie had been together; this year, it was addressed to only her. The same neat handwriting appeared on the center of the card.

  London,

  I hope you know that you are and always will be a part of this family. It won’t be the same without Tate this year, we all know that. Still, we hope you will come and share the day with your family and let us love and care for you.

  I’d like to find a way to celebrate Tate as we give thanks for the time we had with him. If you have any ideas, please let me know. We will see you soon.

  Love,

  Betty

  London squeezed her eyes shut when she felt the burning sensation of tears. She hadn’t begun to think about how to get through the holidays without Tate. The prospect sent fresh waves of grief over her.

  “What is it?” Grant asked, and she handed the letter to him. He read it, then hugged her. When her tears subsided, he asked, “Are you going to go?”

  “I don’t know.” She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “I guess it depends on Reggie. I hadn’t even thought about Thanksgiving yet this year.”

  “Yeah, that’s not surprising. Do you think Reggie knows Betty reached out to you?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. But I can only go if Reggie’s okay with it.”

  “Well, if she’s not, you can always come have a Thanksgiving on the farm with me.” He said “on the farm” with a country twang.

  “That’s right. I forgot you go home for the holidays. I’m gonna miss your mug around here.”

  “Aw, shucks, Ma. I’ll be back before you can say ‘let the pigs out.’”

  * * *

  After dinner, London took a long bath and went to her room. She lay on her bed, looking at the card from Betty Williams. After several minutes and without giving herself a chance to think twice about it, she picked up her phone, chose the number she wanted, and pushed send.

  “Hello?” Reggie’s voice was thick.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry, were you asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  London pulled her phone back from her ear to check the time. “It’s eight thirty.”

  “Yes,” Reggie repeated. “I’m sick.” As if to punctuate this, she sneezed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She was absolutely mortified. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

  “No, go ahead and tell me why you called. Did you get another letter from your father?”

  “Oh. Uh, no, nothing that serious.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Reggie blew her nose. “So, what’s up?”

  “I got the invite to Thanksgiving today. You know, from your mom.” She rolled her eyes and wondered if she could be more awkward. “I just wanted to make sure it’s okay with you that I come before I say yes or no.”

  “London,” Reggie said, and in her sick voice, it sounded like “Luddid,” and London pressed her lips together so a giggle wouldn’t escape. “Of course it’s okay. Mom and I sent that invitation together. I’m surprised you even have to ask.”

  “Well, last time I was there, you weren’t so happy
to see me.”

  “Last time you were here, you didn’t give me any warning. This is different. It’s Thanksgiving, and you’re family; of course I want you there.”

  “Okay.” London hugged herself, thrilled that Reggie still considered her family, and that she’d get to keep this tradition. She hadn’t known how much it meant to her until she got the invitation. “I’ll come.”

  “Good.”

  “I really will let you go back to sleep now.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and London?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d buy some cold medicine if I were you.”

  London frowned. “Why is that?”

  “Because last night, our faces were very close together, and tonight, I sound like this.”

  * * *

  As if she’d been a real-life fortune teller, Reggie’s prediction came true. London woke the next morning with a scratchy throat and stuffy nose.

  “Dammit, Reggie!” she said, after a seven-sneeze jag. She dragged herself out of bed and went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Allergy medicine, Band-Aids, Neosporin, vitamins (when had she last taken those?), Tylenol, Tums. No cold or flu medicine at all.

  Coughing, she went into the kitchen to make some tea.

  Grant stuck his head out of his alcove. “You sound awful.”

  “I sound how I feel. Sorry to wake you. I’m just going to make some tea before I get into the shower.”

  “Choosing tea over coffee? Now I know you’re really sick.”

  “Because the sneezing and coughing left so much room for doubt.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, and the grouch factor.”

  “You’re not going to work today, are you?” He joined her in the kitchen.

  “It’s just a cold. I’ll live.”

  “Ugh. At least let me make some tea for you.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled down some choices. “Peppermint, Darjeeling, or chamomile?”

  “Peppermint, please.” She sat on the couch, her head throbbing. She pulled her phone from the pocket of her robe and found Jasmine in her contacts.

  “Hello, sugar!”

  London was always shocked at how perky Jasmine was in the morning. “Hey, Jas.”

  “You sound terrible.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Grant brought her a steaming cup of tea, and she mouthed a grateful “thank you.” “Listen, Jas, I’m all out of cold medicine, so I’m going to stop on the way in to work. I just wanted to give you a heads-up I’m going to be late, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “No.”

  London paused. “No?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You’re not coming to work today.”

  “I’m really okay; it’s just a cold, and—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Her perkiness was gone, and only no-nonsense Jasmine was on the phone now. “You’ll only come in here, wear yourself out when you should be resting, and get a bunch of germs all over everything in the process.”

  When Grant came back to the couch with his own cup of tea, he asked, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not allowed to go into my own store today.”

  “Who’s that?” Jasmine asked. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Grant.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  She handed Grant the phone. “She asked to talk to you.”

  She sipped her tea while they spoke. His face went from questioning concern to sheepish amusement. Several minutes went by with him saying the occasional, “Yes, ma’am.” Finally, he hung up and handed the phone back.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “I’ve been instructed to get you cold medicine and make sure you get the proper amount of rest and vitamin C.” He grinned.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “For the love of baby Jesus, I’m a grown woman.”

  “Tell that to Jasmine. And please, please let me be there when you do.”

  She sighed. “Well, if you have time before work to grab some meds for me, I actually would appreciate it. If not, I can go. And you definitely don’t need to babysit me all day.”

  “I’d love to babysit you, but I can’t. I have some meetings today that I can’t miss. But I’ll get you some meds and just have to trust you to look after your own self today.”

  * * *

  “Jeez, did you rob CVS?”

  Grant had dumped the plastic drugstore bag onto the blanket covering London’s legs. DayQuil, NyQuil, cough drops, Sudafed, vitamin C tablets, a thermometer, two additional varieties of tea, and a little ChapStick-shaped device that said to press to your nostril and inhale to relieve sinus pressure, lay atop the blanket.

  “I don’t want to give Jasmine any reason to hunt me down for not taking good enough care of you. I’m already nervous she’ll find out I’m not staying home today.” His eyes darted around the room as if he was scared someone was listening.

  London laughed as he walked toward the front door, and her laugh turned into a coughing jag.

  “Cough drops,” Grant ordered. “And one of the Quils. Day or Ny, I don’t care, but start taking one of them.”

  “I will.” Her voice was raspy. “Thank you for all of this.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll get home as soon as I finish these meetings, okay? Rest as much as you can. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Since the goal today was resting, London decided she’d take some NyQuil and save the daytime formula for tomorrow, when hopefully, Jasmine would release her to return to work. She took a dose, popped a cough drop in her mouth, and leaned back on the pillows Grant had placed behind her before leaving for the drugstore. She turned on the TV, flipped through the choices offered by Netflix, and stopped on Charmed, one of her old favorites. Less than halfway through the first episode, she dozed off.

  She awoke several hours later with her television asking her if she was still watching. She checked her phone and saw that not only was it nearly three o’clock, but she had received an email from diego.santiago@theosu.com. Curious, largely because she hadn’t given her email address to Diego, she opened it.

  London,

  I got the screenshot from the security camera today. Ma says you’re home sick, and I shouldn’t bother you, but I thought you’d want to have a copy of it. Plus, she doesn’t understand that an email is different from a phone call; you can open it and read it whenever you want, lol.

  Anyhow, I did a few screen captures. One is of her full body, and one is as clear a face shot as I could get. It’s fuzzy (remind me to talk to you about better cameras now that you’re making Hollywood money), but you can make out her features a little bit.

  Hope you feel better soon.

  Diego

  London pulled out her laptop to open the attachments so she could get a better look. The full body picture showed the trim woman she remembered glancing over her shoulder. She looked at it only for a moment before closing that picture and opening up the one showing the woman’s face.

  Once again, she looked familiar. But how did she know her? It certainly wasn’t from Cavan or Compass or any of Reggie’s Stonewall functions. The image was blurry, as Diego said, but it was clearer than expected. Using the mouse, she traced the woman’s features: small, almond-shaped eyes, fine nose, and thin lips.

  “How do I know you?” she asked aloud and promptly went into a coughing fit. When it ended, she realized more than enough time had elapsed for her to take another dose of NyQuil. She did so and once again leaned back on her glorious pile of pillows. She fell asleep looking at the stranger’s face.

  Twenty minutes later, she snapped awake and sat bolt upright. She ran her fingers across her mouse screen to wake her computer from its slumber. The woman stared at her, and London knew who she was.

  “Holy shit.”

  * * *

  Grant got home just as Detectives Harper and O’Connor were leaving and rushed to where Lond
on sat on the couch. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  London turned her computer to show Grant the grainy photos. “I figured out who the mystery shopper is. It’s Amanda Alexander, the woman Tate went on a date with.”

  Grant gasped. “The one who…”

  “Stood by while her buddies beat Tate to death. Yes.”

  Grant dropped down into a seated position with a loud thud. “I thought she was in jail.”

  London shrugged. “Apparently, she posted bail. She’s not allowed to contact anyone connected to Tate’s case, though. The detectives are taking the photos to the prosecutor to show she violated the terms of her release; they think they’ll be able to get her locked up until the trial.”

  Grant put his hand on her leg, and even through the thick blanket, she could feel how cold he was from being outside in the brisk November chill. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

  “What the hell was that woman doing in my shop?” she asked. He rubbed her leg and said nothing. “I didn’t even know she was out of jail until today.” She was shaken. She didn’t think Amanda Alexander posed a threat to her, but she realized today how vulnerable she was.

  “The detectives should’ve told you,” Grant said.

  “They tried.” When he seemed confused and surprised, she stared at the blanket. “I haven’t been answering their calls.”

  “But, why—”

  “I don’t know!” She realized how loud she was and lowered her voice. “I don’t know.” But she did. It was the same reason she’d changed the subject when Diego started talking about Tate’s funeral. She could talk about Tate as the living, vivacious person he used to be, but talking about his death made her feel cold in a way that seemed to promise she’d never be warm again.