Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  “No. I want to hear what Carla had to say, but first let’s talk about Izzy’s call this morning. Your message sounded distant. I think you may have misunderstood.”

  You think?

  “I’m so sorry.” Blushing, Izzy took my hand between hers and said, “I must have sounded crazy, pushing Nicky so hard. I consider him family and sometimes I forget he’s not. I’m freaked out because my grandfather will be here on Monday for a visit. He doesn’t know yet.”

  Neither did I. I creased my brow, still struggling to follow. The doorbell rang. Nick answered, and a slim young man in his early twenties followed him through the foyer carrying two paper bags.

  Sweet-faced and well-groomed in a polo shirt and fitted jeans, the young man stopped under the living room arch and said, “Where should I put the tacos, Izzy?”

  “First come and meet Liz.” She bounced to his side and tugged him toward me, her face glowing with affection. “Liz, this is my fiancé, Jorge.”

  Fiancé. Well, I got the wedding invite right but miscast the groom. Relief flooded through me, then shame for doubting Nick.

  “Very nice to meet you, ma’am,” Jorge said, a shy smile on his face. He set the bags on the coffee table, and wrapped a loving arm around Izzy.

  “A complete pleasure, Jorge,” I said. A complete pleasure. Nick grinned at the young couple like a proud uncle. I tucked my hand under Nick’s elbow and said in a low voice, “You might have mentioned this to me a few days ago.”

  “I just found out myself. I was going to tell you, but clearing up Carla’s crazy accusations toward you took priority,” he said.

  “Don’t blame Nicky,” Izzy said. “Jorge and I kept our engagement a secret from everyone.” She pointed at the brown bags. “Can we tell you the whole story over lunch? Jorge brought tacos from Henry’s.”

  “I would like that a lot,” I said. “I’ll get some plates. We can eat in the dining room.”

  “Let us set the table,” Jorge said. “Izzy and I will get everything ready so you and Nick can talk.” He picked up the bags and scurried Izzy to the kitchen. I’d known the kid for less than five minutes yet he was scoring points by the second.

  When they were out of earshot I said to Nick, “When Izzy left you that message this morning, I thought—”

  “I know,” he said. “I heard it in your voice. That’s why I asked her to bring Jorge here so you could meet both of them. This is my fault for not introducing you to Izzy months ago.”

  “No, I’m sorry for letting my old fears creep into our relationship. Next time—”

  “I won’t try to manage you,” Nick said.

  “You manage me?”

  “I said try.”

  Stan appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Mr. Garfield, I’m taking a lunch break. The plaster in the second bathroom is drying. I’ll be back at two.”

  “We’ll see you then,” Nick said.

  After he left I said to Nick, “Stan calls you Mr. Garfield?”

  “Damn right he does. We had a long talk this morning. I’m not happy with the speed of your renovations or the budget he showed me. As Melvyn Douglas said in Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, ‘You’ve been taken to the cleaners, and you don’t even know your pants are off,’” Nick said. “Pending your approval, Stan quoted a new estimate to finish the whole job, and then I reduced the number by twenty percent. He promised the shower in your spare bathroom would be usable tonight. Your master bath will be completed by Wednesday, on budget.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “The full renovation on the second bathroom goes to another plumber.”

  “Did you bully him?” I pictured Stan on his way home instead of going to lunch. After he warned the plumber grapevine about Nick, I would never have a working shower in my own house again.

  “Not at all. We got along famously. I earned his respect by speaking tool.”

  “Tool?”

  “It’s a derivative language spoken by artisans. Ancient. Very—”

  “You can name all the thingies he carries in his toolbox.”

  “Correct.”

  Jorge and Izzy called us into the dining room. We sat around my oak table eating tacos while Izzy explained how she met Jorge in the UCLA library and they fell in love. Trapped in the lie she told her grandfather before she left Costa Rica last summer, Izzy let him assume she was still engaged to Nick. Now that her grandfather was on his way to the States for a visit, she had to reveal the truth—she and Jorge wanted to marry.

  “I don’t know how to tell him. Even my parents don’t know about Jorge yet.” She crumbled the last bite of her taco into the yellow wrapping on the plate. “After Jorge and I graduate, we want to move to Costa Rica. Nicky always talks about what a good psychologist you are. On Thursday, I asked him if maybe I could come to you for advice.” She looked across the table at me, pleading. “I love my grandfather. I don’t want him to be angry. What should I do?”

  Jorge reached for her hand. Their eyes searched my face as if their happiness depended on my answer.

  I gave them a comforting smile. “Be gentle. Sit your grandfather down in a private setting. A place you won’t be interrupted. Tell him you have something you need to talk about that may be difficult to understand. Reassure him that you love him, then tell him the truth.”

  “That I lied?” Izzy’s face creased in alarm.

  “You might not want to open with a confession,” I said gently. “I think it’s important for your grandfather to understand where you’re at right now. After you left home with Nick—a friend—you fell in love with Jorge. Focus on your feelings instead of past behavior. Avoid excuses. If he gets angry, resist the urge to fight or withdraw. The kindest thing you can do is to listen and to acknowledge how he feels about this new information. And until he arrives in town, try not to imagine a problem that doesn’t exist,” I said with a shamed glance at Nick. “Trust your heart, Izzy. Your whole family will be very happy for you. It’s clear to me how much you and Jorge love each other. Your grandfather will see it, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Your home is beautiful,” Izzy said as we rinsed off the lunch dishes in the kitchen. “And I love your yard.”

  “Thank you.” I glanced through the back window, beaming. “The lemon tree is my favorite. When I was a little girl, I felt positive I could pay my way to Disneyland with a lemonade stand if my dad would plant a tree for me. He did, and my mom and I made fresh lemonade every summer. I never quite got that stand going, though.”

  “I love fresh lemonade,” she said, drying her hands. “Is it okay if we make some?”

  “If you remember the measurements. It’s been years. I can’t be trusted without a cookbook.”

  “My mama taught me, too. If you get the sugar and a pitcher, I’ll put our men to work outside.” Izzy called over her shoulder into the dining room, “Jorge, Nicky—we need eight or ten of the fattest lemons from the tree.”

  Within minutes, we became a lemonade production line. Jorge sliced the fruit; Nick extracted the juice. Izzy made simple syrup in the pitcher with the sugar and hot water. I poured in cold water, then filled four glasses with ice.

  “Izzy gets the first taste—this was her idea,” I said. We watched in anticipation as she took a sip.

  She puckered her lips and shuddered. “Perfecto.”

  “Killer,” Jorge said after tasting. He glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I mean…I shouldn’t have…Izzy and Nick told me that you…Oh man, did I just mess up big time?”

  “Not at all,” I said, grinning at his clumsy apology. “I agree with you—about the lemonade, of course.”

  “Tell us what happened at the station this morning, Liz,” Nick said. “Are you off Pratt’s suspect list?”

  “For the moment.” I gave them a shortened version of my morning with Carla, ending with the damaged photo she had in evidence. “Why would Laycee’s killer smash an old wedding photo?”

  “Laycee’s husband had
a reason—he hated Jarret,” Nick said.

  “We already ruled out Forrest,” I said. “And if Kyle Stanger killed Laycee and left the symbol, why destroy the picture?”

  “Again—hated Jarret?” Nick said. “The photo meant something to the killer. Nothing else in the bedroom got trashed.”

  “What about your ex-husband’s girlfriend?” Jorge said. “Maybe she was jealous.”

  “I assume Detective Pratt queried Jarret about his love life. He dates around. There’s one woman I know of who’s infatuated with him. If a jealous lover killed Laycee and left the symbol, why smash the wedding photo, too? Our divorce happened years ago.”

  “But he kept the picture in his bedroom,” Izzy said. “Maybe this killer thought Laycee was you.”

  “Me?”

  “The photo of Laycee in the news looks just like you,” Izzy said. “I noticed the resemblance as soon as I met you.”

  “I can see it, too,” Jorge said. “You’re both pretty, same dark hair, same size.”

  “They have a point, Liz,” Nick said. “Remember, the moment I saw Laycee lying facedown in Jarret’s bed, I confused her for you. The curtains were drawn.”

  I downed my lemonade and set the glass down slowly, mulling their idea. Jarret joked about using me as a buffer when women got too close to him. Did one of them mistake Laycee for me? I wasted my morning visualizing Nick in an affair with Izzy though I knew nothing about her and little about their friendship. It wasn’t far-fetched to think one of Jarret’s women viewed me as competition. Wrong, but not far-fetched.

  “I’ll accept the jealousy angle,” I said, turning to Nick. “Carla accused me of killing Laycee out of jealousy. I practically accused Forrest of the same. Nick, you said Laycee was found lying facedown. It’s crazy to imagine a killer deciding it was me in the bed without seeing a face. Besides, any woman in Jarret’s bed might trigger a seriously unstable lover to commit a crime of passion.”

  “Schelz’s version of the symbol introduced the section on vengeance,” Nick said.

  “It fits the theory—retaliation for stealing Jarret.” I leaned on the counter. “Anger acted out with violence often connects to low self-esteem or a history of childhood abandonment.”

  “Leading us back to Margaret Smith again.” Nick put his glass down. “In essence, Schelz abandoned his children when he got sent to prison.”

  “Valid point. But even Gretchen didn’t know the mysterious Margaret.”

  “Yes, what about Gretchen?” Nick said.

  “She’s certainly infatuated with Jarret, but Gretchen would be able to tell Laycee and me apart—she saw us together at the gym Tuesday morning. What would Gretchen be doing at Jarret’s house that early? And how would she get in? From what Jarret told me, he doesn’t see her that often.”

  “Maybe he had a fan stalking him,” Jorge said.

  “The killer needed access to the house,” I said. “Kyle Stanger had a possible motive, opportunity, knowledge of the symbol, and Jarret’s security code. He could have bumped the photo off the nightstand by accident then stepped on it. Nick, do you remember anything else about the room?”

  He tapped his fingers to his mouth. “I saw Laycee facedown on the left side of the bed with her hand draped over the side, a sheet half covering her legs. A pink shirt, white pants, and purse were on a chair next to the nightstand.”

  An icy shiver ran through me. Laycee wore the pink Dodger T-shirt to the game. Gretchen saw me in an identical pink shirt that night.

  “What is it, Liz? You’re pale.”

  “I have to find Jarret’s parents,” I said. “Will you excuse me?”

  Izzy tugged at Jorge’s sleeve. “We have errands to do this afternoon. Let’s leave so Liz and Nick can be alone.”

  “Promise me you’ll call me right after you talk with your family,” I said to Izzy as we escorted them out to their cars.

  “I promise.” Izzy wrapped her arms around me. “Thank you, Liz. You’re a goddess.”

  I turned and pecked Jorge on the cheek. “Be patient with her family. You’re wonderful. They’ll love you.”

  “I hope so,” he said.

  “Cute couple,” I said to Nick as they drove away. “Izzy’s great. Now I understand why you helped her.”

  Stan returned from his lunch break. After I approved the updated renovation estimate, Nick followed the plumber upstairs. I headed to the den and dialed Marion Cooper, the only person other than Jarret who might have additional insight on Gretchen. No answer. I flipped on the TV to the Dodger game. The visiting team was at bat with two outs in the top of the ninth inning and no one on base. The Dodgers led ten to nothing. I watched the last batter strike out, giving the Dodgers the win.

  I puttered around, cleaning up the dirty glasses in the kitchen and taking out the garbage. I missed little Erzulie following me around. Being there without her made me realize how much she made our house a home. My phone signaled Jarret’s incoming text—he’d be home in forty minutes.

  Raucous laughter came from the top of the stairs then Nick’s voice. “Let’s hope anything that can go wrong, won’t.”

  “Not this time, Mr. G.,” Stan said. “I gave you my word.”

  “Assure Liz, not me.”

  Nick walked into the kitchen alone and smiling. “Looking good upstairs. The plaster in the spare bath is drying now. You can shower here tomorrow if you want to. On Monday, Stan’s putting in your new tub. After the tiles seal and dry, your master bathroom will be ready Wednesday.”

  “Thank you. That makes me very, very happy. I won’t be showering at the gym after Kyle gets busted for drugs or arrested for murder.”

  “You don’t accept the theory the killer mistook Laycee for you?”

  “Would you, if you were in my position? It would mean someone out there hates me, and right now only one guess comes to mind.” I told Nick about the matching T-shirts and Gretchen’s infatuation with Jarret.

  “Maybe it’s time to tell Carla your suspicions,” Nick said.

  “Not yet. If I accuse Gretchen on a hunch, I’d be doing to her what Jarret’s lawyer did to me. She saw me in the T-shirt, but so did thousands of other people at Dodger Stadium. I’m going to run up to Jarret’s to pick up Dad’s birthday gift. I’ll ask him about Gretchen again and give him the dirt I learned about Kyle. I’ll meet you at your house later.”

  Traffic moved quickly along Ventura Boulevard from my house through Sherman Oaks. My phone rang at the light at Beverly Glen Boulevard and I fumbled through my pocketbook, catching the call just before it went to voice mail.

  “Liz? It’s Marion Cooper. Yah, I hope it’s not too late to call you. I got your message last night. Bud and I spent all day at the county fair. We ate chicken-fried bacon and fried Twinkies. Can you imagine?” Her hearty chuckle trailed into a smoker’s cough.

  I imagined a heart attack and lung disease, but laughed with her nonetheless. “It sounds like you had a good time. Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Bud wanted to see the tractor pull and visit the animal barns. I held my nose all afternoon hiking past animal poop. He wanted to stay for the pageant but my feet were killing me.”

  Fascinating. “I won’t keep you for too long. Do you remember Jarret’s high school friend Gretchen Kressler?”

  “Gretchen? Yah. Sure. Jarret dated her the year before he left for college. We haven’t talked to her since you and Jarret became engaged,” she said. “Why?”

  Check off Gretchen’s claim of continuing friendship with Marion and Bud as a lie. “Before I answer, is or was there a family in the area named Schelz? Three children, one of them around Jarret’s age?”

  She paused. “Not that I can think of. When did they live here? Did you ask Jarret?”

  “They would have come sometime in the late eighties or early nineties. Jarret didn’t recognize the name. What about Margaret Smith from Bull Valley?”

  “Smith is Gretchen’s married name. Gretchen is a nickname for Margaret. She bega
n calling herself Margaret after she married Randy Smith from Bull Valley.” Her voice slowed with suspicion. “Why?”

  I tightened my hold on the steering wheel. The left turn lane at Sepulveda backed up a half block, giving me time to grasp at my fast-draining composure. “Jarret mentioned Gretchen to me last night. Will you tell me more about her? I’m surprised I didn’t hear about or meet her over the years.”

  “You can thank me for protecting both of you. Gretchen was a troubled, moody girl. I honestly don’t understand what my son saw in her. I warned her to stay away from Jarret after your engagement.”

  I dismissed moody—what teenage girl isn’t moody, and said, “Troubled how?”

  “Clingy and possessive,” Marion said. “Bud and I thought Gretchen was far too serious about Jarret. We tried our best to keep him busy, but she was always around. If she wasn’t with him, she called the house every hour looking for him.”

  “How did they get together? I thought Jarret lived and breathed baseball in high school.”

  “He did. But she was on the pep squad and, to be honest, I think she joined to be near him. Their teams practiced on the school field at the same times and, of course, the pep squad went to every game. We hoped for a breakup when he left for college and she stayed in town, but when he came home to visit us, she wouldn’t leave him alone. Once I woke up and found her in my kitchen, cooking Jarret breakfast. You don’t know how happy we were when he met you.”

  Or how devastated Gretchen must have been. Possessiveness led to jealousy, and jealousy could prompt irrational action. Carry a torch for twenty years? Absolutely. If she confused sex for love—as a teenaged girl might—her unresolved feelings could carry into adulthood. In fact, time and distance added to over-romanticizing an old relationship, especially if her marriage soured.

  “I never heard you talk about her,” I said.

  “You and Jarret were so happy together. I thought it best to put Gretchen in the past.”

  “Gretchen goes by her maiden name now. What happened to her marriage?” I said.

  “Randy left her for another woman last November,” Marion said. “We never tell Jarret anything about her. That first weekend he brought you home from college to meet us, Gretchen sat in her car in front of our house. Bud finally went out and told her to leave. After she married Randy, we thought her obsession with Jarret would be over, but she sent Jarret letters and birthday cards at our address for years. I threw everything away, unopened. It wasn’t easy to avoid her—Bull Valley is only a few miles away.”