I closed my eyes. Counted to three. When I opened them, the footprints remained, subtle, but as real as my wineglass. My mind slogged ahead, analyzing the implications of the depressions in the pile. Realizing that, if the shoeprints were real, then the person who’d left them must be real, too.
And that, oh man, that person might still be in the house.
I sat frozen, moving only my eyes, scanning the room. Seeing no one. Hearing nothing but a quiet refrigerator buzz floating in from the kitchen. Was someone hiding in the pantry? In a closet?
Well, if he was, he’d be sorry. Gripping the wine bottle, ready to clobber, I hopped to me feet, dashed to the coat closet, flung the door open. Faced my winter jackets, a cleaning bag with Charlie’s old cashmere coat. Skis. Boots. No intruder.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t in the house. I moved on, cautiously opening the pantry, linen and bedroom closets, checking under Charlie’s desk, beneath the bed, inside the cabinets under the sinks.
Finally, I decided that I was alone. Whoever had been in the house was gone. But what had he wanted? To rob me? I had very little of value—just standard stuff. Televisions and computers. A tea set from my mother’s mother. A couple of rings and bracelets Charlie had bought me. Was anything missing?
Again, I searched the house, scanning shelves, opening drawers. Nothing was gone. Nothing was even out of place. In fact, the house looked immaculate, neatly staged, ready for real estate showings.
Showings. Of course. There had been no strange intruder. Jerry O’Malley, my realtor, must have come by. Must have used the key from the lock box.
Except that he’d had no reason to come by. We hadn’t scheduled a showing that day. Had he brought a potential buyer by without an approved appointment? I stood in the living room, still clutching the wine bottle, studying the footprints. Following them in their circle, feeling my face get hot, resenting the invasion by a stranger inspecting my shower tiles for mold and my cupboard for crumbs and mouse turds.
Jerry had no business taking people through without permission. He wasn’t supposed to show up unexpectedly, leaving footprints.
Especially not on the same day that someone had slit Mrs. Marshall’s throat.
I downed my wine, clutched the empty glass and the half-empty bottle. Thought of Charlie. Pictured him stabbed to death just down the hall in the study. Would someone find my body there, too?
Enough. I needed to collect myself. I was in no danger. Mrs. Marshall’s killer, whoever it was, had no reason to harm me. And Charlie’s killer was dead, no threat to me or anyone else.
Fine. So what about the footprints?
Jerry. He’d simply taken someone through without permission.
I should take the key out of the lock box and tell Jerry and his bands of high-stepping carpet-crushing potential buyers to keep out.
Except, no. I had to sell. The place was riddled with my past. With Charlie. Even now, I sometimes heard his voice whispering my name, saw his shadow lingering near the wine rack. Smelled his aftershave wafting through the bedroom. As long as I stayed in the house, I would keep imagining Charlie’s presence and be unable to move on. And, two years after his death, it was time to move on.
All I had to do was make it clear to Jerry that he must not bring anyone by without first confirming the visit with me. Good. Settled. I’d email him right away. I took my glass and bottle to my laptop on the kitchen table. Opened my email account. Saw that Jerry had sent me about eight messages.
I’d read about three when I heard a key turn in the front door lock. Damn. I wasn’t imagining it. Someone had a key and was coming in. Jerry? Just in case it wasn’t, I pulled a butcher knife from a kitchen drawer with one hand, gripped the wine bottle in the other, and waited just inside the kitchen door. Ready to strike.
The scent of Chanel No. 5 wafted by.
“Think she’s awake?”
“She’s not in the living room.”
Good God.
I stepped into the hallway, the knife and bottle still in my fists. Met my three best friends, Jen, Becky, and Susan on their way to the kitchen. The rescue squad, the cheer-up team, showing up to make everything all right.
“Look at her. She’s pale as a frickin’ ghost.” Jen leaned close, eyeing me. I felt her breath on my face, heard the tiny whistle of air passing through her remodeled nose. “I bet she hasn’t eaten a fucking thing.” Not eating was unthinkable to Jen. She wore a size zero but ate—and talked—like a linebacker.
“At least she’s been drinking.” Becky entered the kitchen, nodded at my wine. “Most of a bottle’s gone.” My friends had an inexplicable habit of talking about me as if I weren’t there.
“Well, can you blame her?” Jen took the bottle from me, swirled it under the light to see how much was left. Produced a shopping bag with replacements. “Cabernet or Pinot?”
Susan walked by holding a bag of groceries. Without comment, she took the knife from my hand as she passed.
“Any of you ever hear of door bells?” I managed. “I thought you were burglars. I could have stabbed somebody—”
“Chill, Elle.” Jen took three glasses out of the cabinet. “You’re way too frickin’ tense.”
“We thought you might be lying down, so we didn’t want to bother you by ringing,” Becky explained. She had a key. Actually, they all did. I had keys to their houses, too. But those keys were supposed to be for emergencies, not for walking in any time at will, unexpectedly. I thought of Jerry. Apparently everyone I knew felt free to waltz into my house.
Jen put the wineglasses and a new bottle on the table, put her arms around me in a hug. Her synthetically enlarged breasts pressed against my chest. They were softer than I’d imagined. “Shit, Elle, what a nightmare. Thank God Becky told me what happened. Otherwise, I’d have found out by seeing you on goddamn TV news?”
Oh Lord. Was Jen in a snit because I’d talked to Becky first?
“Let it go, Jen,” Becky said. “Elle told me because I teach at the school. I needed to know.”
“I didn’t have a chance to call, Jen. I just got back from talking with the police—”
“Which you had no business doing without consulting me.” Susan unloaded her grocery bag onto my countertop. Swiss cheese, onions, French bread. “Now, tell me everything that you said to Stiles. Everything.” Eggs, peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms.
Jen poured wine. Becky passed the glasses around. Susan made a frittata. I sat at my kitchen table, surrounded by three people I’d loved since childhood, smelling dinner cooking. And I told them about finding the body, about running into creepy Stan. About Stiles’ interest in Ty Evans.
Susan stopped shredding cheese, turned to face me. “What? Ty Evans? For God’s sakes why?”
“Who the eff is Ty Evans?” Jen broke a chunk of crust off the bread, bit into it.
“Remember a few years ago, that kid who killed his father? That was him,” Becky said.
Jen shrugged, chewed. Didn’t remember.
But Susan wasn’t finished with me. Her hand ran through her hair, landed on her hip. “Elle, how did Ty’s name come up? Did Stiles ask you about him?”
She was interrogating me. I squirmed. No, Stiles hadn’t asked me about him. Not exactly.
She noticed. “Wait. So you brought up Ty’s name? I don’t get it. Was there a reason to associate him with Mrs. Marshall’s murder? Did you see him at the crime scene? Or hanging around the school? Had Mrs. Marshall recently mentioned him to you? Did you have any evidence implicating him at all?”
My face got hot. I already regretted mentioning him, and Susan’s questions made me feel even worse. “Susan, I had to say something. He’s a convicted killer who got out of jail just days before the murder. And he hated Mrs. Marshall. The whole time he was at Logan she repeatedly punished and humiliated him, made an example out of him. She suspended him every time she looked at him.”
Susan shook her head, picked up the cheese, and resumed grating. Vigorously. “Of all
people, Elle, you should know better. You know what it’s like to be unjustly accused.”
I did, yes.
Becky, Jen, and I stared at our wineglasses, silent. When Susan got mad, we regressed, became the little neighborhood girls she’d babysat thirty years earlier and behaved as if she were still in charge. But she wasn’t, and I resented her scolding me. I sat with my insides burning, trying to justify what I’d done. I hadn’t actually accused Ty Evans of anything. And, knowing that he’d had motive and opportunity, wasn’t I right to tell Stiles?
Maybe not. Maybe I was a rat.
Nobody spoke. Susan fried onions in butter. Becky cut mushrooms and tomatoes. Jen chewed on a chunk of red pepper.
They waited for me to say something. When I did, it was an attempt to justify myself. “Susan, he hated her. Everyone at the school knows that.”
Susan worked her spatula. “He might have hated her seven years ago. But that’s a long time ago—a third of his life. So the kid’s been locked up for all those years—misses high school and college and any chance for a normal life. Finally he gets out only to have the cops pounce on him about another murder.”
“Just because I mentioned him?”
“Believe me. It doesn’t take much once you’ve been convicted. The cops bring you in for everything.”
My stomach clenched. I’d messed up but couldn’t undo it. “Was I supposed to hide what I knew?”
“That’s my point. You don’t know anything. You had no business bringing up Ty’s name.”
She was right. I had no excuse. Shouldn’t have done it. My eyes felt swollen, head throbbed.
“Susan, don’t yell at her.” Becky put a hand on my arm.
“I’m not yelling.”
“She’s already had a horrific day.”
“Yes,” Jen agreed. “We came here to comfort her. Telling her what she shouldn’t have done won’t help. Whatever she did, she did. That’s the end of it.” The scent of Jen’s Chanel No. 5 mixed with fried onions.
I lifted my wineglass, tried to believe that I hadn’t done much harm. That if Ty were innocent, he’d be fine.
“Whoa!” Jen leaned over to look at my computer screen. “What’s this?” She began reading aloud. “‘We have lots to talk about. Drinks or dinner? You name the night, the sooner the better.’ Sizzle sizzle. Elle, why haven’t you told us about him? Who is this effing guy? JerrO?”
I’d forgotten about my email, had been reading it when I’d heard the key in my lock and grabbed a knife.
“He’s not a guy. He’s just my realtor.”
“Really.” Jen’s eyebrows raised. “Then ‘just’ your realtor ‘just’ has a thing for you.”
Six eyes stared at me, waiting for a reply.
“No, he doesn’t.” Did he? “He wants to get together to talk about the house.”
“He could talk about the house on the phone. The dude wants something more.”
“He’s hitting on you, Elle.”
Was he? “Look at another one,” I told Jen.
I got up, stood behind her as she opened one email, then another, and read them aloud. Jerry wanted to show me new staging ideas for my living room. Or to discuss market strategy. Or to review comparable properties and pricing. All kinds of reasons to have wine or cocktails, coffee or dinner.
“He’s certainly persistent.” Susan dumped chopped vegetables into the frying pan.
“And pushy.” Becky washed the cutting board.
“Of course he’s pushy,” Jen huffed. “The man’s in real estate.”
“They aren’t all pushy,” Becky said.
“Of course they are.” Jen brushed her bangs out of her eyes. The bangs were part of her new look, and she kept touching them, not used to them yet. “And if this guy wants Elle, he’ll keep pushing. He’ll do anything to try to get her.”
Yikes. “He’s not trying to get me.” I felt the need to defend him. “He only contacts me about the house.” But what if they were right? Had Jerry been trying to date me? Had I been too obtuse to notice? Would he really do “anything” to get me—like sneak into my house and leave shoeprints on my carpet?
“This one was just sent today.” Jen opened an email. “‘While we talk, we can have a picnic by the river. I’ll bring wine.’ You can’t think that’s just business, Elle. The guy is after your tail.”
A picnic? Seriously? I took a step back and rubbed my arms, felt crowded.
“So tell us about him.” Becky was drying the knife, putting it back in the drawer. “Is he cute?”
Cute? Jerry? I’d been focused on selling my house, not on my realtor’s looks. But I tried to decide. He was tall and beefy. His hair was graying, held in place with gel. His nose was imposing and prominent. Eyes light blue. Jaw strong. Lips full. Was he “cute”? Maybe, in a slick kind of way. I didn’t know.
“Cute isn’t everything.” Susan didn’t look up from the stove. She ought to know, married to Tim with his protruding belly and weak jaw. “More important, is he single?”
I conjured up Jerry’s left hand. Saw no ring. But that didn’t mean anything. Men took their rings off when it suited them. Lord knew Charlie had.
“He sounds single,” Jen said. “You can tell from the emails. He’s lonely and has tons of free time. Hell, he’s ready to get together with Elle any time of day, any day of the week. No wife would put up with that.”
“Okay.” Susan sprinkled cheese into the pan. “So he’s aggressive and single. And interested.”
“So?” Becky asked. “Why doesn’t she go out with him? No chemistry?”
“I think she ought to give him a chance.” Jen blew the bangs off her forehead. “Lord knows she could use a new man.”
“So what’s the problem?” Susan wiped her hands on a towel.
I emptied my wineglass. Then I told them about the lock box and the shoeprints.
Predictably, they wanted to see them. Susan lowered the heat on the stove, and we clustered in the hallway outside the living room, stooping, squatting, kneeling, even lying on the floor to get a better view of the indentations on the carpet.
“You’re sure they’re not yours?” Susan asked.
“Of course I’m sure. My feet aren’t that big. And I’d know if I’d walked there.”
“But it looks like you did walk there. There are at least two sets of prints.”
Oh, right. I’d forgotten that I’d walked around the living room, following the intruder’s trail. Even so, the first set was unexplained.
“I bet it’s him. Jerry. He’s obsessed and he’s stalking her.” Jen spoke with certainty. “She didn’t respond to his emails, so he’s escalating. Moving in on her, penetrating her territory whether she likes it or not.”
“Or,” Susan said, “if it’s him, he might have come in to measure the floor.”
“No way. Son of a bitch already has the measurements,” Jen argued. “When you list your house, they put room dimensions in the brochure—”
“Don’t be so literal, Jen. I meant he might have come in for innocent reasons.”
“If it was him,” Becky said.
“It was him.” Jen got up off the floor. “She should check her bedroom. See if anything’s amiss.”
Amiss?
“Like what? You think he stole her panties?” Becky climbed to her feet.
“Maybe. Or he left her a gift on them. Or on her towels or sheets. Sometimes these perverts get off by fantasizing about the person they’re stalking—”
“Jen—” Susan put up a hand.
“And they jerk off onto their stuff.”
“—that’s really enough.”
Yuck.
“Eww!” Becky winced.
“Who knew Jen was an expert on stalkers?” Susan asked.
“I watch all those effing crime shows. You can learn a lot.”
Susan didn’t comment. No doubt, she’d defended more than a few stalkers.
“So if he’s coming into the house and wandering around fantas
izing, what’s he going to do next?” Becky asked.
“Hold on.” Susan put a hand up. “We don’t know that he’s doing any of that.”
“But if he did. Do you think he’ll get violent?” Becky took hold of my wrist.
Violent? Jerry? I couldn’t imagine it.
Then again, I hadn’t imagined him coming into my house without permission.
“I don’t think Elle’s safe here.” Becky tightened her grip. “She needs to take the key out of that lock box to keep him from coming back.”
“No point,” Jen said. “Any good stalker would have made copies. If she wants to keep him out, she needs to change the locks.”
I did? We stood in a circle outside my living room. I looked at Susan. She usually had common sense. I expected her to say that, as far as we knew, Jerry was just a realtor. That, if he’d come into the house, it had likely been for benign reasons. That his emails were indicative not of an obsessed stalker, but of an aggressive salesman trying to schmooze his single, probably lonely widowed client.
But Susan didn’t say any of that. She shouted, “Oh shit,” and spun around, racing back to the kitchen.
The rest of us followed. The frittata wasn’t burned, but one side was dark and crispy. We sat at the table, eating and, by tacit agreement, not talking about Jerry, Ty Evans, the police, or Mrs. Marshall’s murder. Instead, we drank too much wine and focused on lighter topics. Susan’s three daughters and their teenage hormones, their unanimous dread of the new school year. The numbness of Jen’s nipples, an aftereffect of her recent enlargement surgery. And our upcoming circus classes.
Jen had conditions. “No way am I wearing an effing clown nose. Not after the money I spent getting this one remodeled.”
“It’s not a clown class,” Becky reminded her. “It’s tightrope, aerial work, and tumbling.”
“Tumbling? Jen, what if you tumble onto your new boobs?” Susan asked. “You better be careful.”
“Why, you think they’ll pop?” Becky chewed frittata.
“You guys are just jealous.” Jen sat straight, thrusting her chest out. “If I fall, they’ll cushion me.”
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