Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

  Maybe because she could always count on seeing Greg in a corner of the room, flirting with some girl young enough to be his daughter, played a part in that. “It’s business, Rach,” he’d always say. “I’m expected to mingle.”

  Past history, Rachael. And you were wrong to put up with it.

  At the hardware store, she took advantage of a sale on paint. She also found some pretty paper edged with marigolds for the pantry shelves. The kids were talking about coming for a visit at Christmas, and she wanted the place to look nice. Remembering how the windows rattled in that last storm, she tossed a package of putty into her cart.

  She’d reputtied windows when Greg was away on his business trips, even replaced one or two. She’d changed fuses, repaired the washing machine and once put a new chain on Jeff’s bike. No, she wasn’t quite as helpless as she’d thought.

  Stowing her parcels in the trunk, Rachael drove a block farther to the little dress boutique she passed to and from her lessons with Iris. No markdowns here. But she wanted something special to wear for the occasion. It was Iris’ night, after all.

  The store smelled pleasantly of pot-purri and designer clothes. Glass cases and brass adornments gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier.

  In the tiny, plush dressing room, she tried on several dresses, finally settling on a winter-white, floor-length wool and silk blend, straight cut, a modest slit up one side. With its high neck and three-quarter sleeves, her gold rope chain and the earrings Betty had given her, would go perfectly.

  “Absolutely elegant,” the elderly woman with the coifed platinum hair smiled, looking her over. “It’s so nice when a dress looks as the designed intended it to.”

  Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have lapped up a salesperson’s flattery so readily, but she had to admit, turning slightly in the full-length mirror, all that running had paid off. In more ways than one.

  God, she was behaving like a teenager on her first date. And forgetting that this wasn’t really to be a date at all. He’d said as much. And she certainly had no desire to make it anything more than that.

  So why are you going to so much trouble to impress him?

  It’s not for Peter; it’s for Iris. Right.

  Impulsively, she also treated herself to a new winter coat. Even on sale, it was more than she had ever paid for a coat in her life. Seal black with a hood, double-pleat in back, half belt. She felt wonderful in it. She ran her hand down the silky wool fabric as if it were an exotic pet. Beautiful detail, the woman said. She wore the coat home, refusing to let herself dwell on her dwindling bank balance.

  She was watching a rerun of Seinfeld, enjoying a cup of lemon tea, when the phone rang. It was just past ten, not late. She heard a new brightness in her ‘hello’.

  As the silence met her ear, her smile of greeting faded, the fragile good feelings drained away. And then came the whispered words that crept over her flesh like a thousand spiders.

  “Nice coat. You always did look sexy in black.”

  Twenty-Five

  At the police station next morning, Rachael spied Detective Chuck Mason, the older of the two detectives who’d come to the house the night someone hurled rocks through her windows. He was across the room talking to a middle-aged woman with frowsy blonde hair, in a red mini skirt. Although it was as hot as a sauna in here, the woman was hugging herself as if she were cold. Her mascara had run, giving her face a sad, raccoonish look. Rachael felt sorry for her.

  Seeing her, he passed the woman on to a colleague, and came over. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Warren. What can I do for you?”

  She told him about the phone calls. “I didn’t report them before because I really didn’t think there was anything the police could do about them.”

  “Well, you’re right on that count. There’s isn’t much we can do about anonymous phone calls. But it’s always a good idea to have the report on file just in case something … you might want to consider having your number changed. Or get caller I.D. That way we’ll know where the calls are originating from.”

  “I thought at first it was just a wrong number. But I’ve gotten a dozen calls now. Daytime. Middle of the night. Mostly hang-ups. Except for the last two.” She repeated the caller’s comments about her new coat.

  “He’s stalking you.”

  The very word stalking sent a thrill of fear through her.

  Rachael felt the detective assessing her, deciding how much of her story was concoction. Was she just another lonely woman, hungry for attention?

  There was something about Detective Mason that made her know she wouldn’t want to be pulled over on a dark street by him. She'd seen the way he’d looked at the blonde woman. He didn’t like women much. Maybe he thinks we’re all whores. Up this close, she detected signs of the drinker in him broken capillaries around the nose, hard eyes. Or maybe she wasn’t being fair and it was just job-burnout she saw.

  “Did he make any direct threats? Sit down, pleaseI’ll file a report.”

  “No, not in so many words. But dammit, I feltfeel threatened.” She sat in the chair he indicated. The woman with the sad eyes was no longer in sight.

  “You’re divorced?” Seeing her expression, he added, “Not idle curiosity, I promise. Just for the record.”

  “In the process,” she said. She hated the half-smile that crossed his face. He was congratulating himself on correctly guessing her marital status.

  “Maybe hubby’s not too happy about the way things are turning out. Maybe he wants to scare you into co…”

  “No, that’s not Greg’s style. And there’s something else. I think someone has been in my house when I’m not at home. Thingsfigurines, candles—appear to be moved around. And one day last week I came home to find the TV turned up full blast, every light in the house on.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t…?”

  “I’m not senile, Detective. Of course I’m sure.” She tried to soften her sharp reply with a smile that felt more like a grimace. “We had that bad storm, and I did wonder if maybe a sudden surge of power could cause appliances and lights to come on.”

  “Don’t know. Can’t say as I ever heard of it.”

  She paused. Then, “And my spare house-key went missing.”

  “Missing?” He jotted the information down. “You’re sure you didn’t give it to anyone.”

  Why did everything he said sound like an insult?

  “Actually, I did. I gave it to Peter Gardner who in turn gave it to Hartley McLeod. It was Mr. McLeod who replaced my broken windows.” She spoke slowly, as if speaking to a less than bright child. “When I called him he told me he put the key on the ledge over the door. It wasn’t there when I looked. I’ve been hoping he would come across the key in his overalls’ pocket or in his toolbox, but that hasn’t happened. Or maybe someone watched where he put the key, and simply took it.”

  “The Prichard kid, maybe? He’s practically your neighbor.”

  “No. II don’t think so.” She couldn’t have said why not.

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press it. “I assume you’ve had your locks changed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Anyway, it’s my guess he’ll tire of the game and move on to someone else. If he’s not rewarded.”

  “Rewarded?” she bristled.

  “Don’t get your panties in a knot, me darlin’. All I’m saying is don’t make it interesting for him. Hang up the second you know it’s him. And keep on hanging up. As far as those night calls, you could always unplug your phone.”

  Did he imagine she hadn’t thought of that? Or that I get some pleasure from some sicko’s phone calls.

  “I have two grown children. I’m expecting a grandchild. The call could be important.”

  “If it is, they’ll call back in the morning. It’s been my experience that no one calls in the wee hours with good news. And bad news ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

  He walked her outside. As she started down the steps, he called after her, “And
by the way, Ms. Warrendon’t be too sure about your husband’s style. Style’s change.”

  Feeling less than comforted by her talk with the detective, Rachael hurried along the snow-dusted sidewalk, gloveless hands buried deep in her pockets, November’s icy fingers reaching inside her thin coat. She would have been warmer in the new coat, but she had not been able bring herself to wear it. Not today. He had spoiled her enjoyment of it.

  Damn! She’d forgotten to tell the detective about the howling she’d heard outside her window last night. Like an animal in distress. Perhaps wounded? Had she dreamed it? She wasn’t sure. Just as well she didn’t mentioned it. He probably would have sluffed her off as a head case.

  The bare branches of trees lining the street clicked together like old bones as Rachael hurried to her car. The small parking area attached to the police station had been full, and she’d parked half a block away.

  The metal sign over the door of the dry-cleaning shop swayed precariously in the wind, creaking above her head as she walked beneath it. Out on the street, a teenager was executing some fancy moves on his skateboard.

  That increasingly familiar feeling of eyes on the back of her head, her made her look around. But there was only the boy on the skateboard behind her, presently performing an impressive three hundred and sixty-degree twirl in mid-air. Once inside her car, she locked the doors.

  'You always did look sexy in black.' Someone she knew?

  Even in Iris’ studio, working with the clay, she was unable to dismiss the dark thoughts from her mind. How could she? After all, it was Iris who had first warned her that she was in danger? For the first time, the work wasn’t having its usual calming effect.

  From time to time, she sensed Iris looking at her. She was glad when the lesson ended.

  That night, Rachael tossed and turned in the bed but sleep eluded her. She tried to read, but the words rang together in a meaningless jumble. When she did finally drift off, she dreamed of bloated corpses, disembodied voices whispering her name. Hands resembling starfish reached out for her, and when she tried to escape them, her legs would not move.

  ***

  He called her at midnight, then again at one. Her phone rang and rang in his ear. She’s there! I know she’s there. The bitch has unplugged the phone. He slammed the receiver down, furious.

  She shouldn’t ignore him. That was a big mistake. As he turned to leave the phone booth, he came face to face with a hulk in overalls and a soiled checkered shirt, a wide grin on his bulldog face.

  “Don’t break it, okay, buddy,” Nate said, brushing past him, giving off a stench of body odor and booze that made him want to heave his guts. “This is my office since the lightning knocked hell out of the phone. Been more’n a month now and they ain’t fixed it yet. Working late. Promised a guy I’d finish up a welding job on his snowmobile. Nate Prichard, by the way.”

  “Sorry, Nate. Didn’t mean to hold you up. Just calling to let the little woman know not to wait up. I’m working a little late myself tonight.” He winked conspiratorially, an afterthought. Nate responded as he’d anticipated. With a crude knowing laugh, the man waved him off.

  The two men had recognized each other. Brothers under the skin.

  Twenty-Six

  Despite the bad dreams and lack of sleep, Rachael rose next morning in a good mood and more determined than ever not let some sick jerk destroy her new-found serenity, the independence she’d worked so hard for. Sitting on the edge of the bed tying her sneakers, she decided to simply ignore the whole stalker business. If she got anymore calls, she’d just hang up, as Detective Mason had suggested.

  In spite of her resolve, she didn’t get very far on her morning run when she felt someone watching her. Darting a look over her shoulder, she lost her rhythm, stumbled and nearly fell.

  No one there. Just the trail of her own footprints reaching back along the stretch of beach. Other footprints pushed to the forefront of her mind. Those she had seen on the beach that first day. A man’s.

  Forget it, Rachael. Let it go. And on this perfect fall morning, with brilliant blue skies overhead, sun sparkling on the water, she managed to do just that.

  When she was gone from his view, he lowered the binoculars, picked up the squirming canvas bag at his feet and headed for her house.

  ***

  Iris sat in Doc Stetson’s office thumbing through a recent copy of Newsday waiting for the vet to finish checking Cleo over, and give her a booster shot. She absently turned a page, and suddenly, shockingly, there she was—the girl who had appeared to her during the seance, or whatever you wanted to call it, with Helen. For a moment she could not believe her own eyes. It can’t be the same girl, she told herself. But it was. Definitely her, absolutely no doubt about it in Iris’ mind.

  The headline screamed out at her: HIGH SCHOOL PROM ENDS IN MURDER:

  Against every instinct in her, Iris had given in to Helen’s pleadings. She knew how it was supposed to work. Her mother had owned an Ouija board that she and her friends sometimes used to scare themselves with, while Iris’ grandmother would sit in her chair, in a shadowy corner of the room, rocking, looking on in bemused detachment. A mother watching her children at play, her wrinkled old face bathed in mystery.

  Everyone always said she was the one with the ‘sight.’ But to Iris’ recollection, she took no part in these games.

  Iris could guess why not.

  At Helen’s urgings, she had asked the Ouija: “Is anyone here?” At first, as she’d expected, nothing happened. She’d hoped the effort alone would satisfy Helen.

  Iris asked the question a second time. Suddenly, beneath her fingertips, the planchette began to move. Iris clutched at the obvious explanation. It was Helen. Helen was making the pointer move with the pressure of her fingers. Unconsciously, no doubt, but still doing it.

  And then Iris had felt a change in the air around them and knew they were no longer alone in the room. Someonesomethinghad joined them.

  The feverish light in Helen’s eyes was brighter still, her face cast in an evangelical glow bordering on madness. “It says yes,” she whispered.

  Cleo meowed fretfully. She too had sensed the presence.

  “It says yes,” Helen repeated. “I knew she’d come. I knew.”

  But it wasn’t Heather who had entered their midst.

  The flame from the candle nearest them on the coffee table blew sideways, all but went out. Iris felt the coolness against her heart. Had a door opened somewhere in the house, letting in a draft? But she knew better.

  “Iris, ask her…” She clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off the question, making a choking sound in her throat. Tears seeped through closed lids, even as her fingers remained on the planchette. “Ask her if shesuffered. I need to know.”

  Iris had done as she asked. At once, the pointer began to move in a diagonal line toward the upper right corner of the board. Iris’ disbelieving eyes tracked its brief journey.

  It stopped at Yes. She knew then that it was not Helen causing the planchette to move. What mother would want the burden of knowing that her child died in a desperate fight for her life? Cruelly. Wasn’t it the first question people always asked after an unexpected death? Did my loved one suffer? All the while praying to hear the word No. Never felt a thing.

  “It’s not Heather,” Iris said, but Helen was beyond reasoning with. A righteous fury had filled her eyes. “Ask her who murdered her?”

  Knowing it was futile to try to convince her it wasn’t Heather, she asked the question. At once the air at her back had turned cold. Candles flickered and Iris felt an overwhelming urge to send the Ouija Board flying across the room, to end this dangerous game she had so foolishly agreed to play.