The Christine Murders

by Regina Fagan

  There were moments when he wished he had never seen Christine. He had tried to ignore her on that flight, pretend she wasn’t there, look the other way when she was nearby. But he simply couldn’t.

  She was so like Alyson. He had been successful for years burying memories of Alyson. He had been able to immerse himself in his work, building and enriching his business. And he had lived a respectable life here in San Francisco. He wasn’t popular, but he was respectable, and that was all that mattered to him.

  How strange, he thought, that a man of his class and breeding would be forced to earn respectability, especially from his own family. The only side they had ever known of him had been the dark side. That had always been there, of course, since his childhood, and after Alyson he had been plunged into a black pit of hell from which he was sure he would never again emerge. Yet he had. Eventually, he had fought his way back.

  He had been young and very new to America when he met Alyson. She had been sightseeing one afternoon in the deYoung Museum. She had been an art student, working part time in a gallery in the city. She wanted to go to England and France. She was fascinated by everything British and French, and she became fascinated by him as well, and had fallen in love with him.

  She was so lovely, and so full of life. Luther was deeply unsure of himself with women. He’d never had any success with the opposite sex; despite his good looks, his strange ways and violent temper were too well known for any woman to want to get close to him. But he was in a new country, and then he met Alyson, and he realized that he had never wanted anyone as desperately as he wanted her.

  They had begun to date, and Alyson soon taught him how to love. He had been awkward and shy at first, but with her he had learned and developed a charm and warmth that he would put to excellent use later in his business dealings and the few personal encounters he had with other women.

  Their dates at first were an innocent round of lunches and dinners, visits to museums and galleries, picnics along the coast, and evenings of theatre and ballet. And boating. Alyson had loved boating. He was just beginning to build his San Francisco business, but Luther had sufficient inherited money from his family to afford whatever he wanted. All he wanted in those days was to make his golden girl happy, and he had showered her with expensive gifts. Even The Gemstone, the handsome old Taylor cabin cruiser he had read about and bought and kept moored in Sausalito, had been a gift for Alyson. He had let her name it; Alyson loved jewelry, so The Gemstone was her choice.

  All too soon the relationship had started to fall apart, however. The gentle lovemaking Alyson had expertly taught him became increasingly too rough and had frightened and hurt her. Over and over Alyson complained that he had hurt her, and yet Luther admitted that he had enjoyed causing pain. It was all part of his need to own her.

  Soon she refused to make love with him any longer - and then came the awful night when she had told him she no longer wanted to see him. She told him he needed professional help. And then she had told him she’d met another man.

  He could not stand being told he needed help, not again. He was filled with rage. So he had killed her, strangling her with one of the beautiful silk scarves she loved so much and that he had bought for her. Then he’d taken her body, wrapped in a quilt, from her apartment in the middle of the night and driven down the coast, where he’d dumped her into the ocean. That had been risky, but nobody had seen him. He began to believe afterwards that he could do anything.

  Alyson’s body had been found three days later, but no one had ever tracked her murder to Luther. He had covered his tracks well, even cleaning and clearing her apartment of anything that might lead police to him. He and Alyson had existed very much in their own private world, essentially two loners, so there were no friends to remember him and point accusing fingers his way. Her parents were both dead; she had few girlfriends. Not even anyone at the gallery where she had worked knew anything about her private life or about Luther. He had asked her to keep things that way. He would not share her with anyone else. If she had indeed met another man or had become interested in anyone else, he never came forward. Luther wondered if she’d lied to him about that, just to hurt him even more. All the more reason for him to kill her, if that were so.

  Eventually he had resumed his life, vowing to avoid any future attachment to women. They were evil at heart. The voices had told him that. He had buried himself in his work, and had never gone near his little boat in Sausalito again either.

  He had been successful, leading his hermit existence. Until he saw Christine Lindsey. And those other blonde and beautiful women he had thought were Christine. He should never have been out looking for her the way he had been. Why had he done that?

  Now he sat in the cold darkness of his elegant penthouse. He was feeling uneasy again, and he knew the blackness was coming back, with the voices, playing dangerously close to the surface once more.

  Suddenly, he burst into tears that brought him to his knees on the plush carpet and finally reduced him to a helpless heap of misery and madness and pain. He had to have Christine. Maybe with her he could finally rid himself of the voices and all his past wrong doings. Maybe finally he could be a free, normal man. Maybe.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THURSDAY – OCTOBER 13th

  Bill parked Christine’s luggage in the foyer and bent to pick up Tommy, who was circling his legs in greeting. “Hey there, little guy, I’ve got something for you.” From a jacket pocket he produced a plastic bag with a chunk of roast beef, which he dangled in front of the cat’s face. “First Class leftovers. How does that sound to you?” The cat swiped a paw toward the bag. “Wait a minute,” Bill yelped. “Let’s be polite about this.” Holding the animal securely in one hand and the bag in the other, Bill went to the kitchen.

  Christine followed him. “How about a scotch, Billy?”

  “Scotch and water will be perfect.”

  Christine took out ice and glasses, watching Bill prepare his beef treat. “You’ll really spoil him with that, you know.”

  Bill had dumped the chunk of meat into Tommy’s dish and was cutting it into small pieces. The cat meowed loudly, butting his head against Bill’s legs. “Don’t tell me you don’t do the same thing with the leftovers, Chris. Listen to him! You’d think he hadn’t eaten in a month.”

  Christine dropped ice cubes in their glasses, added scotch, and finished with a splash of water. Bill took his drink and raised it in a toast. “Cheers, darling. To another good trip. Everything went pretty smoothly during this one.”

  “Cheers. Not bad at all. It was a good trip. And I did enough shopping to cover most of my Christmas list this year and maybe next.” She looked at her cat, hungrily gobbling up the meat. “He’s spoiled, forever.”

  “He deserves to be spoiled, sweet little guy,” Bill said. “Let’s sit down. I’m exhausted.”

  Just then Christine noticed the light on the answering machine. She pressed the play button to listen to the messages.

  There was one from Ted, as she’d expected.

  Then came the second message: “Christine, welcome home. This is Luther. I wasn’t sure whether you would be back tonight or tomorrow, but I think I got it right. Anyway, I wanted to let you know I hadn’t forgotten you. I’m sure you still have my number, so please call me. Or I’ll call you again. Why don’t you give me your cell number too? I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.” The message ended; there were no more after it.

  Christine turned the machine off and walked into the living room, frowning. Bill was already seated on the couch, staring at her. She had told him about hearing from Luther before the last trip.

  “My, how chummy we’re getting,” he said. “Well, it looks like you have the evening cut out for you. Ted and Luther both. What more could a girl ask for?”

  “No jokes, Billy, please,” Christine answered. She sat down next to him, kicking off her shoes. “Ted I can ignore, but what in hell am I supposed to do with t
his other character – Luther, no less. Who names a kid Luther?”

  “His parents did. But he looks like a Luther, doesn’t he?” Bill said. “He’s like some character from a bad TV reality show. I suppose you could just ignore him, leave the answering machine on all the time until he gives up – the nerve of him asking for your cell number! Ignoring sometimes works. I speak from experience, Chris, on both ends of that situation.”

  “No,” Christine answered. “I’m not going to hide behind an answering machine. I can’t do that, and it doesn’t fool anyone. No. I won’t return this call, but if he tries me again tomorrow I’m going to tell him very politely but firmly to get lost. Maybe not in so many words, but I intend to let him know that he’s picked the wrong woman.”

  “Good idea. It’s best to stop these guys right away. Although I guess you can’t blame the man for trying. Obviously, he likes you. A guy does what a guy does.” Bill removed his uniform jacket and tie. Tommy had come in from the kitchen, his meal completed, and jumped into Bill’s lap. “Ah, I’ve made a friend for life now, haven’t I?” He stroked the cat’s soft red fur. Next to him on the couch, Christine swirled her drink, lost deep in thought. “Cheer up, Christine. I wish I had your problem,” Bill said.

  “No, you don’t.” And she meant it. “There is something about this man that disturbs me.” It would be nice to meet someone she could care about for a change, someone she felt totally compatible with. But since it didn’t seem likely that was going to happen any time soon, she had resigned herself to being alone. “Believe me, Billy. As bad as it might seem to you, sometimes there’s a lot to be said for being alone.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  FRIDAY – OCTOBER 14th

  Christine woke earlier than she’d hoped to, having slept badly.

  The morning was foggy and cold, yet in spite of her fatigue, she dressed and drove down to the waterfront to run before breakfast. The vigorous exercise always helped when she was upset. Afterwards, with her cheeks tingling and her body shivering from the bone chill of the fog, she was nonetheless more optimistic about the day ahead.

  She needed something to keep her mind off last night’s telephone conversation with Ted. He had insisted on seeing her again, but Christine had refused. Still, she knew she hadn’t heard the last of him yet. He was becoming more forceful about having his way. He wasn’t the kind of man who would accept their breakup without a struggle.

  She prepared a breakfast of coffee and croissants and was enjoying her second cup when the phone rang – a distinctive three fast beeps, indicating it was coming from the lobby office. Knowing it could only be Ray downstairs, she picked up the call. “Hello, Ray, how are you?”

  “Fine, Miss Lindsey, Good Morning,” the building manager answered. “I have a delivery of flowers down here for you. May I bring them up?”

  Flowers again. Ted, of course. Would this ever stop? “Yes, Ray, please do, thank you,” she said. How in the world was she going to get her message across to this guy? Ted simply didn’t understand the meaning of no.

  ***

  The flowers, a huge exquisite display of pink and red roses arranged in a Waterford crystal vase, had come from the priciest florist in the city. Even for Ted, the entire gift seemed over the top and Christine was stunned. Now, damn it all, she would have to call him again to thank him; she couldn’t ignore something like this. Or could she? She shook her head, thinking how many women – or men like Billy – would be overjoyed getting a beautiful display like this. Why couldn’t she meet a man she really loved, someone she could fall head over heels in love with?

  She put the flowers on her coffee table. They were beautiful. Then she slipped the little card from the bouquet envelope and stared in disbelief at the message: “Welcome home, lovely Christine. Looking forward to seeing you again. Please call me. Love, Luther”

  She read the note several times. Certainly, this was a joke. Bill – it had to be Bill. He always loved a good joke. But no! He would never do a thing like this, go out and spend a small fortune on something he knew would very much upset her. Bill would never do this.

  Luther Ross-Wilkerson. The man was either crazy or terribly desperate. And what a fool she had been to leave her number for him. Once supplied with that listed number, it had been a simple matter for him, or anyone these days, to find her address on line.

  What was she supposed to do now? Call Luther and thank him? That would only encourage further familiarity from him. Maybe she could call the florist and ask them to pick up the display and take it back. The roses perfumed her entire apartment. The display was an extravagant gift, much too extravagant, and Christine resented this total stranger’s boldness and arrogance in sending such a thing to her.

  His next call came early in the evening.

  “Ah, Christine, you are home. I really thought I’d hear from you. I expect you’ve received my flowers? How are they? I wanted the best for you.” His voice was smooth, his tone self-confident and smug.

  Trying her hardest to hold back her anger, Christine forced herself to be calm. She despised confrontations, but something had to be done about Luther. “The roses in the very expensive crystal vase? Yes, I have them here. And I have to say this is a very expensive, lavish gift for someone you hardly know, Mr. Wilkerson.”

  When he spoke again, she noticed a subtle change. He sounded less secure now. “Didn’t you like them, Christine? I see you as a woman who would enjoy roses; most women do love roses. And really, I saw no harm in sending you such a gift.”

  Was it possible he was just a guy with a crush who didn’t know better?

  “The roses are more than beautiful,” she answered. “But don’t you understand that you don’t send roses in Waterford crystal to a woman you don’t even know. And I certainly don’t feel very comfortable about accepting such an expensive gift like this from you. I don’t know you, Luther. We met only once on a flight I was working.”

  He laughed softly. “Oh, but I told you, I feel as if I’ve known you forever. Please, give me a chance, Christine. I intended this gift to be a token of my feelings for you, for what we might have ahead of us. Please don’t take offense. I’m a man who enjoys giving lavish gifts, and you are a woman who deserves beautiful things.”

  Christine sat down, wondering how to get out of this. “Luther, I thank you for thinking so much of me. It was kind of you, more than kind. I don’t mean to sound harsh. But I told you the other day I am not looking to start a relationship with you, or with anyone right now. There is nothing ahead for us. I’m sorry if anything I may have said or done gave you another impression of me. I appreciate your kindness, and the roses are gorgeous. But can we end this now, please?”

  It was a long time before he spoke again. “It’s like before, isn’t it?”

  Now what was he saying? “Before? Before what? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you remember? The rejection . . . it’s starting again . . . I don’t like being hurt, can’t you understand that?” Then, very silently, he disconnected the call.

  The apartment was dark now, shadowy. Christine shivered, feeling suddenly queasy. It was cold, too. The fog had hardly lifted today, leaving the city locked in autumn gloom. She walked through the rooms, switching on lights to chase away the early dusk. She turned on the heat, welcoming the onrush of warm air. This was the worst part of the year, she always thought, when autumn began its descent into winter. The days would darken early, and the chill of the winter fog could be penetrating.

  She looked at the flowers. She didn’t know what to do with them. She didn’t want reminders of Luther here, yet part of her felt sorry for him. Maybe Bill was right. He was a lovesick man with a crush on her, and from what he’d said, she had obviously reminded him of someone in his past. He’d said something before about that. What was it? “Don’t do this to me again.” But the whole situation was creepy. There was something terribly eerie about him, and he had certainly unnerved her. Maybe he wa
s crazy. Should she report him to the police? But for what, sending her expensive roses in a crystal vase?

  She picked one perfect pink rose from the enormous bouquet and drank in the scent. They were lovely. How had she gotten herself involved in this mess? Turbulence and one spilled cup of coffee!

  She’d met all kinds of men in her work. There had even been a Saudi prince one time who had asked her to join his harem. Maybe Luther was just one more harmless nutty guy with a crush on her. It happened all the time to flight attendants. Men looked at “stewardesses” in their fancy uniforms and saw only glamour and romance, women who could fulfill all their dreams. Perhaps she was reading more into this than she should.

  She should just accept and enjoy this beautiful gift as what it was, something lovely from an admirer. One day she and Bill would be laughing themselves silly over the whole situation.

  She decided to relax, make something to eat, and stop worrying about Luther Ross-Wilkerson. There was nothing to fear really. He was odd, but he owned a respectable and well-known business right here in the city. She would let this all go, and in a few days he would realize he was wrong and forget about her. Maybe she could even interest him in one of her girlfriends, if need be.

  Yes, Luther Ross-Wilkerson and the spilled coffee incident would be just one more amusing story to add to so many that Christine and Bill and all their airline colleagues collected in the course of travelling the world and dealing with all sorts of people, from all over the globe.

  She smiled to herself. Maybe one day she would tell her children and grandchildren about this. But first she had to meet the one perfect man who could make that dream a reality.