The House Guest

by Rosa Sophia

  But Millie didn’t care about her job anyway, so she rattled off the number, reciting it from memory. It didn’t matter to her if the woman on the other line had been able to write it down as quickly as Millie had been able to say it. “Have a good day,” she said insincerely. She hung up the phone, hard.

  How close was Allen to this strange woman?

  Millie crossed her big arms over her chest and made an unpleasant face. He hadn’t remembered to call her today. Millie concocted a horrid image in her mind of Allen in bed with some other woman. She would have to have a talk with him.

  After all, Millie refused to share her man and she would be damned if some whore would take him away from her. She slumped forward, scowled, and then lit another cigarette to get her through the afternoon.

  ***

  It was Friday. Kat had realized that only a moment ago. It was easy to forget what day it was when you had a thousand other things on your mind.

  She looked at the note on the table. Now she knew who Millie was. Millie Rosaro, to be exact. But why had she found this piece of paper right by Jonathan Stark’s body? Had Millie been lying about her possible relationship with Jonathan? Had they been friends or even lovers? If so, what reason did Millie have to lie about it?

  Another good question came to mind. Had Jonathan known the Maslin’s lawyer? Katherine tried not to think about it. After all, it was quite lucky she’d stumbled upon Allen’s office phone number. She really did need a lawyer, especially considering the mess she’d made of things the day before, when she’d crafted all those lies about being close to Jonathan and trying to convince him not to drink. It was likely that her act hadn’t been convincing at all. In which case, she was in big trouble. Even if they found out she hadn’t killed him, she’d still lied to the cops. Was that a punishable offense? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to doubt the possibility.

  Kat jumped when she heard footsteps in the next room. She tried to relax when the water pump came on.

  “Get a grip on yourself, Katherine,” she said aloud. “That’s only the shower running.” She put her fingers to her temples and rubbed them gently. “Someone’s just taking a shower.” She almost closed her eyes; she was exhausted. Instead, she stood up and went back to the coffeepot. This would be her third cup so far, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep even if she tried. Kat realized that she was actually afraid to close her eyes. Who knew what horrible dreams she might have if she dared to relax?

  Then again, she also knew that lack of sleep could lead to hallucinations. A friend of hers from college, a skinny kid who seemed almost too intelligent, had gotten curious one day and decided not to sleep for four days straight. That feat had made Kat feel less stupid for once, since he was the one who had acted like an idiot. He’d had a massive IQ, but apparently, it wasn’t big enough to change his mind about experimenting. He just had to know what long-term sleep deprivation was like.

  He never did it again. He claimed that his dead sister had come to visit him one night, and since then, he went to bed early and slept the typical eight hours. Kat didn’t know what was worse. Staying awake or sleeping.

  She sipped her coffee, and turned away from the coffeepot, suddenly under the impression that her grandmother would be standing by the kitchen table, staring at her disapprovingly. Luckily, she wasn’t there.

  Kat sat back down and listened to her stomach growl. Since it was such a hot day, she settled for a cold piece of pizza. Jake was taking a nap and Corry had gone to work. She had nothing to keep her company but her thoughts—or possibly her mother. Katherine picked up the telephone.

  ***

  The detective pushed open the door to a large bedroom in the Maslin house. But this room wasn’t used for sleeping. There were canvases everywhere and white sheets had been spread out over the wooden floors. There was paint on the sheets. The suspect was apparently an artist. Mike Andrews knew what artists were like. His ex-wife had been an artist. She left Mike to be with some pot-head who turned urinals upside down for a living. At least, that was how Mike had seen it.

  He scoffed at the largest painting in the room. It was some surrealist bullshit. There were a few strange headless men and an odd building. Right smack dab in the middle, there was a little boy with blond hair and blood on his face. Now that was strange. At the bottom of the canvas, a phrase had been written upside down. Mike cocked his head in order to look at it properly.

  It said, my son is dead, my John is dead.

  Mike Andrews frowned. Who was John? Did this Katherine Maslin really have a son, or was that phrase symbolic for something? He thought of how much he hated artists again.

  He forced himself to return to the subject at hand. The words were probably symbolic, but he would check into it. You could never be too sure. He leaned down and took a closer look at a brownish red stain on the floor. For a second, he had thought it was blood—but no, it was just paint.

  Perhaps Katherine had killed two people, not one. Perhaps she had murdered Jonathan Stark. And maybe she had also killed this John character. Mike would find out. And then Katherine Maslin would certainly go to prison.

  ***

  “It’s good to hear your voice again, Katherine.”

  “You too, Mama.” Kat sighed. “How’s everything?” She was stalling. She would do it for as long as she could. She didn’t want to talk about Jonathan Stark.

  “Elsinore died.”

  “My favorite cat? How?”

  “The neighbor’s dog got him. I told you those people were out to get me. They don’t like me.”

  Katherine wanted to say, I know how they feel, but she refrained.

  “So, have you given up this hunt of yours, dear?” her mother asked.

  “No. In fact, something happened.”

  “What?”

  “Have you seen the news yet?” There was a long pause. “Mama, Jonathan Stark is dead. I met him and I brought him to my house. Someone was after him. They came to my house and killed him in the middle of the night.” Her mother gasped. “It gets worse, Mama. They think I’m the killer.”

  “Come home, Kat. For Christ’s sake, come home. Come to my house in Georgia. Come home.”

  “I can’t, Mama. I can’t leave.”

  A while later, long after she’d hung up with her mother, Katherine picked up the coffeepot and nearly dropped it.

  Okay, so I’m a little edgy. Just a little.

  Footsteps again—My God, she thought. Who the hell is that? An image of Julie came through her mind. She thought of blood. She thought of John Maslin’s gray matter dashed across the floor of the barn. She hadn’t gone in that barn, even after moving into the house. One could barely step inside it. The ceilings were so badly caved that even considering entering could be a death sentence. Now that she knew what had happened in that barn—and now that she had seen it—Kat would have sooner burned down the entire building than set foot beyond its doors.

  “Ms. Maslin?”

  She jumped, spilling hot coffee all over her hand, and then shrieked. A moment later, Peter Edwards was helping her to the sink. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but she vaguely remembered feeling as though she were about to fall. Corry came in behind him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, Kat.” She put an arm around her best friend. “Officer Edwards came over to see how you were holding up.”

  “I’m all right, I’m fine,” Kat muttered. “I was just on the phone with Mama. We fought again. She said she wouldn’t put the killing past me, but I don’t think she meant it. But I’m fine, really.”

  “Are you sure?” the cop asked. He had one hand on her right arm and one on her left, steadying her.

  “Yes, you can let go.” She thrust her hands under the cold water of the sink. It held a different sort of jolt that caffeine couldn’t supply. It reminded her that she was alive. After she had rinsed the coffee off her skin, Kat leaned down and threw water in her face. She was sweltering hot.

  Officer Edwards r
an a hand through his short dark hair and leaned against the counter. He was wearing shorts that didn’t look good on him and oddly enough, sandals. Kat had never seen a policeman wearing sandals with a uniform before.

  “You actually came to see how I was?” she asked.

  “I did. I’m off duty right now, so this is not on the record. I also wanted to reassure you. They haven’t found anything linking you to the murder—yet.” Edwards paused. He looked at Kat, who pushed water through her hair and frowned. What the officer inquired next startled her. “Can you think of any reason why your boyfriend might want to kill Jonathan Stark?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Kat scoffed. “Jake wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Every possibility must be considered, Miss Maslin. Mind if I pour myself a glass of water?”

  “You can have coffee if you like.”

  The cop laughed. “It’s a little hot for that.” He took a glass out of the cabinet and filled it at the tap. “Anyway,” he continued, taking a big gulp. “You and Jake were the only ones in the house the night Stark was killed, correct?”

  “That’s what I thought at the time. God, too many damn people have died in that place.” She exchanged a glance with the officer, and she could tell he knew the sordid history of the Maslin house. Her family’s bloody past marred her record in its own way. Kat shivered at the idea of someone sneaking through her house. Whoever it was could have easily killed her as well.

  “Do you lock your doors at night?” Edwards asked.

  “I never do, but Jake does. He can get pretty paranoid.” Behind her, Corry sighed.

  “Kat, I’ve been telling you for years that you should be locking your doors at night. Remember what happened to my friend when I was in college? The guy beat her up and stole everything of value.” Corry crossed her arms over her chest. “She was lucky she wasn’t raped.”

  “Your friend is right, Katherine. Is it all right if I call you that?”

  “Fine,” Kat muttered.

  Edwards looked over at Corry. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Corry.”

  Edwards took another gulp of water. “Is it possible you were the last one to bed and you didn’t bother to lock the doors? Someone else may have gotten in.”

  “Does this mean I’m off the hook?” Kat inquired hopefully.

  “No, I’m afraid not. If enough evidence is found to raise a case against you, you could go to prison for a very long time.”

  “Do you think I did it?”

  “I don’t know. You seem like a very troubled person. And.” He hesitated. She was certain that he was trying to think of a way to say a particular phrase without offending her. “If you did do it,” he said, worriedly, “admitting to it would be best. Between you and me, if you started seeing a psychiatrist and got a damn good lawyer, once this thing went to court, you might be able to pull off a believable plea for insanity.”

  Kat felt her face flush. Does it really show that I’m a troubled person? Troubled as in what? Troubled as in…killer?

  “What are you trying to say, Officer? I’m not sure what you mean. Do you mean to say I’m insane? I don’t know which I find more disturbing—that or the fact that you seem to think that I killed Jonathan.”

  “I didn’t say you were insane.”

  “But you do think that I’m the killer, don’t you?”

  “You said it yourself, Katherine. You and Jonathan were fighting the night before. You said you always fought about his drinking. That could mean you fight about other things, too. One of the biggest killers is the urge for revenge.”

  “But revenge isn’t insane,” Kat countered, wishing she’d never told those lies in the first place. “Revenge is normal in human psychology.”

  “I didn’t say you were insane. I said that you should plead not guilty due to insanity, if you ever want to stay out of prison.”

  “That would be a lie. And you’re still suggesting that I did it.”

  Edwards sighed heavily. “I guess I am. But really, no one knows for sure. Except you.”

  That evening, Katherine fed Jonny’s dog, and then picked up the phone. She stared at the business card Corry had given her. As she read the card for what felt like the thousandth time, she remembered what Corry had told her about Janis Crow.

  The eccentric therapist had visited the Temple campus Corry had attended, bringing with her a unique perspective on psychology. The red-haired woman was a fiery spirit with colorful clothing and bright green eyes. She hurried into the room, apologizing for her lateness, her round form swaying. After the lecture, Corry had spoken with her. The two had gone out for lunch and discussed controversial topics of psychology, as well as their own lives.

  What Corry had revealed made Kat very apprehensive about meeting such a strange woman. Nevertheless, she dialed the number.

  “Janis Crow’s office.”

  “Hello, I’d like to make an appointment, please.” Katherine’s voice shuddered. Images of John’s death fluttered through her mind. She was making a big decision. She was choosing to expose her insecurities to a stranger.

  ***

  The morning of September fifth was dark and chilly. The last few days had been warm, but the temperature had quickly decreased. Winter was on its way. Mike Andrews climbed into the car with his wife and tried to turn on the heat. It wasn’t working. Gertrude sat beside him with her hands clasped in her lap. His wife was in her mid-fifties. People often wondered why Mike had married her, as they were ten years apart. She was still attractive, but she had the kind of good looks that were simply a reminder of her youth instead of a preserver of it. He loved his wife, even though she was a generally grumpy woman. He had decided when they’d first started dating that he knew where her unhappiness came from. Her childhood.

  “Michael, when are you going to get the damned heat fixed?” She sighed and buttoned her jacket. Then she mumbled something about winter coming early and how much she wanted to move to Hawaii.

  Gertrude was a teacher at the local elementary school, and that was where Mike dropped her off that morning. Then he went to the library. He usually went to there after taking his wife to work. He would check out a few good books and go home for a cup of coffee. But today was different. As soon as he stepped in the library, he remembered something Gertrude had told him. He went right for the Pennsylvania room, where they had an entire section devoted to old newspapers on microfilm.

  Mike’s wife had lived in some little town in Tinicum when she was growing up. He couldn’t remember the name of the place, but a few things she told him were stuck in his memory.

  “There was this little blond boy I used to see down by the creek…”

  His memory was skipping around, exhuming words and phrases that he wasn’t sure were connected to each other.

  Mike thought about it for a while, and then a realization dawned on him. He went to the nearest public computer, and searched for the first name that came to his mind. He clicked on a promising link and read an article.

  In the mid to late fifties, four brutal murders were committed in Ottsville, Pennsylvania, in Tinicum Township. Although a man was sent to prison for one of these crimes, there was and still is an unsolved element to the case.

  Mike kept reading. He remembered watching a forensics expert examine the body of Jonathan Stark. Then he recalled his wife talking about that man, telling Mike how she had lived right down the street from the Maslin house. She had been very young, but still remembered the little boy.

  Who was that blond kid that Gertrude had been talking about?

  Maslin, Maslin…Katherine Maslin. The heir to the house where four people had met their death. And the very estate that overlooked the road where the last man had disappeared. His remains had never been found.

  Jonathan Stark had been sent to prison for the murder of Timothy Nyce, the only crime out of the four—or possibly five—that had exhibited any evidence. If Stark had killed those men, he was probably the most i
ntelligent criminal Mike had ever come across. And if he hadn’t killed them, then the real murderer was a genius.

  Not many people were lucky enough or smart enough to get away with killing someone. It always caught up to you eventually. Mike liked to believe that karma was a real thing and that anyone who committed such a horrible sin would get their fair share of punishment.

  He printed out the entire article, then photocopied the newspapers that mentioned any important details about the original case against Jonathan Stark. He was beginning to wonder if there was any connection to the past killings and the death of Stark himself.

  How in hell had Katherine Maslin become friends with a convicted killer? She hadn’t even been alive when he’d been sent to prison. Had she tracked him down out of pure curiosity? Or had she hated him enough for disrupting the lives of her older family members that she had decided to take it upon herself to end his life? Had she even been friends with him in the first place?

  No matter how he thought about, none of it made any sense. There was no logical explanation. Mike wasn’t sure he would ever find one.

  That night, he and Gertrude climbed into bed around eight-thirty.

  “Turn off the light, will you, dear?” his wife asked.

  “No, wait. I was thinking we could talk.”

  “About what?”

  Mike scratched through his salt and pepper hair, then relaxed and turned on his side so he could face Gertrude. “About Jonathan Stark. He’s the guy who was found dead in the Maslin house.”

  Gertrude’s eyes widened. “It’s about time. It’s funny how people just end up where they started, isn’t it?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me about your childhood again. And about that blond kid.”

  “Who, John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there’s not much to tell.” Gertrude reached behind her and fluffed her pillow before nestling against it.

  “Tell me anyway. When did you first meet him? And how did you meet him?”