She Loves Me Not

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Maybe he will, and maybe she’ll never hear from him again. The latter might be preferable, even if it means losing a potential commission. All she wants to do right now is curl up on the couch with a cup of hot coffee and the remote control, and stay there for the rest of the afternoon. The rest of the week, maybe, if this crummy weather keeps up.

  She spent all her days on the couch watching daytime television during the bleak winter months when she was recovering from her surgery. Though she’d never admit it at the office, or even to her daughters, she kind of misses Judge Judy, the soaps, and QVC.

  Leaning into the back seat to retrieve her leather briefcase, Isabel sees Mr. Gabriel’s black canvas shoulder bag on the floor beside it.

  Terrific. She may be hearing from him sooner than she wants to.

  She takes his bag with her as she wades up the snowy driveway to the house, her feet already numb and her shoes most likely ruined. Dammit again. Turning the key in the side door deadbolt, she decides that the first thing she’ll do—after she changes into a pair of warm slippers—is find the phone number for the plow guy.

  No, she amends, as she sets her briefcase and Mr. Gabriel’s bag on the bench inside the mudroom, the first thing she’ll do is call his house in Boston to see if his wife can track him down. He left over an hour ago, but maybe he stopped for lunch and hasn’t gone very far. If he doesn’t want to turn around and come back for his bag, she can always FedEx it tomorrow.

  Isabel kicks off her wet shoes and wiggles her frozen toes on the slate tile floor, then opens her briefcase to find the client sheet she wrote up for Mr. Gabriel earlier. She uses her cell phone to dial the long-distance number, sitting on the bench to peel off her soaked stockings as it rings on the other end.

  “Service,” a male voice says abruptly in her ear.

  She hesitates. Service? What the heck?

  “Is this the Gabriel residence?” she asks.

  “This is Frank’s Auto Parts. You got the wrong—”

  “This isn’t 617-555-3987?”

  “Right number, wrong place.” He hangs up.

  Isabel looks more closely at the phone number to see if there’s an eight she might have mistaken for a three, or a seven that might really be a one . . .

  Nope. She wrote it very carefully.

  Now what?

  She glances at his bag, hoping there isn’t anything important inside of it. It certainly isn’t very heavy. In fact, it almost feels empty.

  Well, maybe there’s some contact information inside. Something like an office telephone number, or a cell phone number.

  Should she look?

  It wouldn’t be snooping. She’s simply trying to figure out how to contact the man.

  Holding the bag gingerly on her lap, Isabel slowly slides the zipper tab toward the opposite strap. If the contact information isn’t handy—say, on a business card stuck in a plastic compartment inside—she won’t go through his things. She’ll just wait for him to call her.

  You could do that anyway, she reminds herself.

  But the bag is already unzipped, and she can’t deny that she’s dying to look inside to see what she can find out about the enigmatic Mr. Gabriel.

  Isabel pulls the bag open, peers into it . . . and gasps.

  When Rose turns the corner onto Shorewood Lane, the first thing she notices is Leslie’s car parked in front of the house. Driving closer, she sees that Hitch’s truck is right in front of it.

  The front door of the house is ajar.

  She pulls up at the curb and, leaving the keys in the car, rushes up the porch steps, glancing over at Christine’s driveway as she goes. It’s empty.

  Rose bursts into the house, hoping against hope that she’ll find Leo and Jenna waiting to greet her.

  Only Cupid dashes into the hall, barking wildly, tail wagging excitedly. Rose brushes past him, her heart pounding.

  “Rose?” Leslie emerges from the kitchen, cordless phone in hand. “I was just trying to page you.”

  Hitch is right on her heels. “I got your message from this morning. Rose, is everything okay? Where are the kids?”

  “I don’t know,” Rose wails as a fresh wave of panic washes over her. “I left them here with my neighbor when I got called into work.”

  “Not that creepy guy next door?”

  “What creepy guy next door?” Hitch asks Leslie.

  “The one who came out yesterday when the police were here, to see what was going on. There was something about him that I didn’t—”

  “The police were here yesterday?” Hitch interrupts. “Why? Rose, what the heck is going on?”

  “It’s a long story . . .” Her mind is whirling. She leans against the wall for support. What should she do next? Where can they be?

  Calm down. Maybe Christine just took them out for a little while. Maybe they’ll be back any second.

  Rose takes a deep breath. If it weren’t for the strange things that have happened around here in the last few days, she’d never suspect that anything might be amiss. But right now, she can’t shake the terrible suspicion that Christine Kirkmayer has kidnapped her children.

  That’s ridiculous. She’s a good person. You wouldn’t trust just anybody with the children.

  Well, what if somebody abducted Christine and the kids?

  But why would anybody do that?

  Then again, why would anybody make prank calls in the middle of the night, and break in here to leave the sound machine on at full blast?

  “Which neighbor had the kids, Rose?” Leslie is asking. “Please say it’s not that guy.”

  “It’s his wife, Les. She was so sweet, and she offered to babysit, and—”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I did! I called both of you but when nobody was home I called Christine.”

  “Dad has the flu—I had to bring him to the doctor first thing this morning,” Hitch says apologetically. “The second I got the message that you needed a favor, I tried to call you back, and when I didn’t get you, I came over. I got here about a half hour ago, and the front door was unlocked.”

  The knot of fear tightens in Rose’s gut. She looks from Hitch’s concerned gaze to Leslie’s frightened one and asks, “What should I do?”

  “Call the police,” her sister-in-law says promptly. “Or the FBI. Kidnapping is a federal offense.”

  “Wait a minute, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Hitch lays a gentle hand on Rose’s arm. “Maybe your neighbor just took the kids out to eat.”

  “And maybe she’s a psychotic killer. Her husband sure as hell acted like one.”

  Dazed, Rose asks Leslie, “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but Rose, I’m telling you, that guy gives me the creeps.” Leslie has tears in her eyes. “If he did anything to Jenna and Leo I’ll—”

  “Cut it out, Leslie!” Hitch says harshly. “Rose said she didn’t leave the kids with him, and it isn’t helping to stand here speculating about worst-case scenarios.”

  Leslie clamps her mouth shut, but glares at him, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. She goes into the kitchen, phone in hand, dialing.

  “Who are you calling?” Rose asks.

  “The police.”

  Rose nods. A strangled sob escapes her.

  “Look, it’s going to be okay, Rose.” Hitch puts his arm. around her trembling shoulders. “Trust me.”

  She finds herself leaning against him, grateful for his rock-solid bulk beside her. It’s how she used to feel with Sam at her side.

  She looks up at Hitch. “You really think it’s going to be okay?”

  “I know it is.”

  Rose wants more than anything to believe him.

  Duct tape.

  Why the hell would he need duct tape?

  Isabel drops it back into the bag and tosses the bag on the mudroom bench, recoiling as though she’s just found it filled with live roaches.

  As the bag lands, something falls out
of the side pocket and clatters on the tile floor.

  It’s only a pen.

  Good.

  There’s nothing ominous about a pen.

  There shouldn’t be anything ominous about duct tape, either. Plenty of people use it. Electricians, plumbers, mechanics . . .

  Serial killers.

  She laughs aloud, albeit nervously, at the ridiculous thought. It’s a strange, hollow sound in the empty house.

  What she needs is to make some tea, turn on the television, and forget about the unnerving Mr. Gabriel. She never should have looked into his bag in the first place. She deserves to have her imagination run away from her.

  Isabel bends to retrieve the blue and white plastic pen from beneath the bench. About to tuck it back into the bag, she catches sight of the inscription on the side.

  Milligan’s Cafe On the Bay.

  There’s a phone number, too. One that has a 631 area code.

  She’s certain she’s dialed it before. It must be a new one for a section of Massachusetts, but she doesn’t know anyone there, really.

  Frowning, she tosses the pen into the bag, leaves the bag in the mudroom, and heads for the front hall.

  She’s halfway up the stairs when it strikes her.

  The 631 area code doesn’t belong to Boston.

  It’s Long Island.

  So?

  Isabel is doing her best to remain rational, but after the duct tape discovery, it isn’t easy.

  Maybe he’s visited someone on the Island, or been there on vacation.

  Or maybe her fleeting suspicion yesterday was correct, and he lied about coming from Boston in the first place.

  But why?

  One thing is certain. Potential commission or not, Isabel is through with Mr. Gabriel.

  Chapter Seven

  “Can I have more M&Ms, Chwistine?” Leo asks from the back seat.

  “Sure, sweetie.” She takes the open bag from the console and reaches behind her to hand it to him without taking her eyes off the road. It’s still raining like crazy and she’s out on Sunrise Highway.

  “I don’t know if he should have more,” Jenna says worriedly, strapped in beside him. “Mom says you get a tummy ache if you eat too much chocolate.”

  “She does not,” Leo protests, his mouth crammed full of candy.

  “Yes, she does! You’re lying! Christine, he’s lying!” Jenna says as urgently as if Leo were teetering on the rail of the Triborough Bridge.

  Now what? What does she say to that? How does she respond without taking sides?

  She has definitely gained new respect for Rose—in fact, for all mothers, including her own. She figured this babysitting experience would be a good opportunity to find out what it’s like to have children, and she still wants some of her own, desperately. But she has to admit, after a few hours of nonstop chatter with frequent eruptions, blatant sibling rivalry, crumbs, spills, and stains, she’s looking forward to turning the kids back over to their mom.

  Christine is spared having to conjure an appropriate response to the lying accusation, as the kids have seamlessly moved on to an argument about who got the better toy in their fast food kid’s meal. From what Christine could tell, they both consisted of pieces of colored plastic that were ostensibly meant to be saved, and more pieces collected so that an actual toy could be assembled.

  “Can we stop for ice cweam on the way home?” Leo interrupts the toy argument to ask, as they pass the Carvel shop.

  “Maybe later,” Christine says, pushing back a twinge of guilt. A glance at the dashboard clock tells her their mother should be arriving home shortly.

  “Please, Christine? Just one quick sundae?” Jenna begs.

  “Not right now, sweetie. We need to get back before Mommy does.”

  Christine wonders belatedly if maybe she should have paged Rose, or even called her at the bookstore to tell her she was taking the kids out for lunch and to rent some videos at Blockbuster. She made the decision impulsively, when she found herself on the verge of having to play yet another game of Candyland. At the time, anything seemed preferable. Even lugging two children from place to place in a drenching downpour.

  She figured they’d be back long before now, having underestimated the amount of time they’d spend deciding where to eat, what to order, where to sit, which movies to rent, and which snacks to get from the bulk candy bins, not to mention tracking down public rest rooms everywhere they went.

  In one of them, Christine discovered that she got her period after all.

  Late, but unmistakably here.

  Now all she wants to do is go home and cry, as she does every month when this happens. She really let herself think that this time there might have been a chance.

  Pushing the bitter disappointment from her mind, she turns the Volvo onto Shorewood Lane, saying, “When we get inside we’ll clean up the mess you guys made in the—”

  “Look, the police are back!” Jenna calls out abruptly.

  “Yay! The powice!” Leo chimes in. “Maybe the powice guy will wet me sit in his car again.”

  Christine stares in dread at the patrol car parked in front of the Larrabee residence, along with three other vehicles, one of which belongs to Rose.

  The fried chicken sandwich and onion rings she swallowed earlier begin to churn in her stomach as she instinctively slows the car.

  “Did something happen to Mommy?” Jenna asks fearfully.

  “Of course not,” Christine says with a certainty she doesn’t feel. “Mommy’s fine.”

  “Uncle Hitch is here,” Jenna says as Christine passes the house and turns into her own driveway. “And Aunt Leslie, too.”

  “They-o’s Mommy!” Leo shouts as Rose bolts out onto the porch next door.

  Christine exhales in relief. Thank goodness. Thank goodness nothing has happened to Rose. For a moment she was certain—

  “She’s crying!” Jenna fumbles with her seat belt.

  Numb, Christine sits with her hands frozen on the wheel, watching Rose dash across the muddy grass toward her car.

  “Thank God!” she sobs, throwing the back door open. “Thank God you two are all right!”

  “Who, us?” Leo’s innocent question is swallowed by his mother’s fierce embrace.

  “Rose, was there another break-in?” Christine asks as Rose hauls Jenna toward her across the seat to hug her, too. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on?” Rose turns on her, her voice trembling. “You disappear with my children and you ask what’s going on? Where the hell were you?”

  Christine is stunned. The greasy contents of her stomach pitch and roll. The police are here because of her?

  “Hell is a bad word,” Jenna informs her mother.

  Rose ignores her, glaring at Christine. “How could you have taken off with my children? I didn’t give you permission to drive them anywhere, in your car, without their booster seats—”

  “I thought—I didn’t think—I mean . . . my car has built-in booster seats,” Christine says lamely, on the verge of tears. “I would never drive them someplace without booster seats.”

  “Where were you?” Rose’s voice is shrill.

  The children are silent, watching their mother with enormous eyes.

  “I just took them out to lunch and to get a movie. I’m so sorry, Rose. I didn’t—”

  “You left the door unlocked. After everything that happened yesterday, you left the door unlocked. Anyone could have walked in.”

  “I couldn’t lock it. I didn’t have a key, and—”

  “I didn’t have a spare key to give you. And anyway, this isn’t about the door. It’s about you taking my children.”

  How the hell could you have been so stupid? She’s right. You just went without thinking.

  She repeats, “I’m so sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to scare you. And I never thought about yesterday when I left the door unlocked. I figured it’s a safe neighborhood, and we weren’t going to be gone long, and . . . I screwed up. I
know.”

  “Everything okay, Mrs. Larrabee?” a male voice calls from the porch next door.

  Christine looks up to see a uniformed police officer keeping a watchful eye on them.

  “They’re fine,” Rose calls back. She pulls both children out of the car. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  “My toy!” Leo protests. “I want my toy!”

  Rose ignores his plea, trudging across the lawn with him squirming in her arms. Jenna trails along beside her, the bag of videos dangling from her hand. The little girl shoots a last wary glance at Christine over her shoulder as they walk up the porch steps.

  Rose doesn’t even look back.

  “That cop thinks I’m an idiot,” Rose tells Hitch, who has sat with her at the kitchen table since the police officer finished taking his report and left twenty minutes ago.

  “He does not,” Hitch says, but he doesn’t sound very convincing.

  The officer—the same one who was here yesterday when she found the sound machine blasting—seemed almost amused when the children came into the house utterly unscathed, arguing about which video they were going to watch first. He questioned them about what went on while they were out with Christine, and actually laughed when Jenna accused Leo of stealing her Barbie doll in McDonald’s.

  “I have kids, too,” he told Rose, in parting. “I know how it is. My wife freaks out over every little thing.”

  Freaks out.

  Every little thing.

  “He definitely thinks I’m an idiot,” she tells Hitch again. “I swear, it’s going to take an armed robbery at the store for me to ever call the Laurel Bay Police Department again.”

  A shadow passes over his face. “Don’t even say that. And anyway, you did what any mother would do. Just be glad the kids are all right.”

  They sure are. They each ate a big bowl of ice cream before going out to walk Cupid with Leslie, who has promised to stay with them until Rose gets home again.

  “I have to go back to work,” she says reluctantly, rubbing her aching neck.

  “Why don’t you just call and tell them you can’t come back today?” Hitch asks.

  “There’s no one to call. I was in the store alone today. I just locked the door and rushed out of there. I left the lights on, and the money drawer in the register—if Luke finds out, he’ll be livid.”