Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Oh, geez, now I’m talking to myself,” she adds. “Pathetic.”

  She pushes her weight off the wall with her foot and turns on a lamp before turning off the overhead light.

  There. The place seems a little cozier and more welcoming…although she still isn’t entirely comfortable. Turning up the heat will help…but that’s not all that’s missing.

  On the plane this afternoon, she felt anxious to get back to Philadelphia. Now she wonders why. This quiet place feels isolated compared to her old neighborhood.

  That’s not all. Something else is bothering her tonight, here. She can’t put her finger on what it is.

  She’s certainly used to coming home to an empty apartment. She’s been doing it all her adult life. In fact, she’s always reveled in it, after years of living under the tight reins of her parents, her nannies, and teachers at the Millwood Academy.

  Tonight, though, she feels uneasy about being alone.

  Guess what? You’re probably lonely. Admit it. You need someone to talk to. Someone other than Jimmy.

  Someone like Bradley, who hasn’t been back to Philly in over a month. He’s not one of her oldest friends—well, other than age-wise—but he is one of her fondest, ever since they met at his cousin’s society wedding and hit it off instantly as fellow pariahs.

  He was sitting alone, and so was she. The next thing she knew, they were laughing, then cutting up the dance floor.

  “How is it that we’ve never met before?” he asked as he whirled her around.

  “Oh, I don’t go to these things very often if I can help it—even if I happen to be invited. I’m the family black sheep.”

  “So am I!” he exclaimed delightedly. “Disowned eons ago. You?”

  “Not disowned, exactly. More like…”

  “Shunned?”

  “Exactly.” She didn’t bother to tell him that she was both shunnee, and shunner.

  “What was your crime?”

  “My parents couldn’t accept who I am, or my lifestyle.”

  “Same here! You’re gay, too? And in the theater?”

  “No…psychic.”

  “I love it!” he screamed.

  Bradley’s extended family—those in his own generation, anyway—have apparently felt no monetary obligation, though they do keep in touch. Not that anyone made an effort to speak to him at the wedding, Lucinda noticed.

  Yes, she misses Bradley, she acknowledges as she removes the rubber band from the bundle of mail in her hand and flips through it.

  She misses Cam Hastings, too. She’s away this week on a ski trip with her husband’s family—one that, as she privately admitted to Lucinda the last time they spoke, she wasn’t particularly looking forward to.

  Lucinda and Cam forged a fast friendship, the way people do when they’re thrown together under unique circumstances. Like boarding school, or summer camp, or…

  Or using psychic impressions to catch a serial killer.

  All in a day’s work for Lucinda. For Cam, not so much. She’d never talked to anyone about her so-called gift. Nor had Lucinda, really. Not on an intimate, note-comparing basis. It was a relief to both of them to realize that someone understood.

  Lucinda drove up to Montclair every couple of weeks throughout the fall to visit her and Mike and Tess. Then, just before Thanksgiving, Cam gave birth to a baby girl. She got busy, the weather got bad, Lucinda moved to her new place….

  She hasn’t seen the Hastings family since Christmastime, nor spoken to Cam in over a week.

  Thank God for Neal, Lucinda thinks as she throws her coat on a hook. He’s right here in Philly, and he’s not going anywhere—even though his wife Erma retired last June and has been begging him to do the same.

  “What would I do with myself if I retired?” he frequently asks Lucinda.

  “You’d relax, and spend time with your family.” Neal has six grandchildren, including a newborn, with yet another on the way.

  “I already spend time with them. Constantly. And I don’t like to relax. Relaxing makes me nervous.”

  Typical Neal.

  And typical me. Lucinda isn’t big on relaxation, either. She moved into this apartment mere weeks ago but has long since been unpacked, put away, organized, even decorated—if you can call hanging a few framed black-and-white prints on the wall decorating.

  There’s still a lot to do, but she’ll get it done. She’s always been full of nervous energy—fueled, no doubt, by liberal daily doses of caffeine and chocolate. Not the healthiest of habits, but hardly the worst.

  She makes a mental note to take her iPod out of her coat pocket later. She should return it to the docking station Bradley bought her for Christmas, after she mentioned that she was always losing track of it.

  What a waste to bring it to Curaçao. She had downloaded a couple of new playlists in advance of the trip, hoping to relax and tune in on the plane, on the beach, on the ocean-front balcony….

  But Jimmy likes to talk. A lot.

  Yes, cutting him loose was definitely the right thing to do.

  She kicks off her sneakers and leaves them beside several other scattered pairs on the mat next to the door. Then, carrying her luggage and the mail, flipping on a couple of lights to dispel the shadows, she detours to the kitchen. There, she sorts through the mail and finds a cardboard sleeve from an online media store, addressed to her.

  She orders books and DVDs from there pretty frequently, but not in the last week or so. Was something back ordered, and she forgot about it?

  She opens the envelope and pulls out a DVD.

  She reads the title aloud, perplexed. “Moonstruck?”

  She saw it years ago, and it’s on television all the time. She definitely didn’t order it. Must be a mistake.

  Looking at the invoice, she sees that it was ordered online through her account, and billed to the credit card she keeps on file there.

  Must be a mistake. She puts it aside to deal with later.

  The only other thing of interest is a letter from Norwegian Cruise lines.

  Lucinda’s eyes widen as she reads it.

  Well, how about that.

  Last summer, when she called customer service after she missed her scheduled Alaskan cruise, she’d been told that because she hadn’t purchased trip insurance, she was out the several thousand dollars she’d paid for seven days in a luxury suite.

  Looks like customer service was wrong.

  According to this letter, she’s been rebooked on a cruise for this summer, in the same luxury suite. All she has to do is call the customer service telephone number listed on the letterhead, give the reference number, and confirm the dates.

  I’ll do it right now, before I forget.

  She picks up the phone and dials the number.

  “Norwegian Cruise lines,” a cheerful male customer service rep says. “How may I help you?”

  “I just got a letter about rebooking an Alaskan cruise for this June because I had to cancel last year at the last minute. I was originally told that I wouldn’t be able to rebook, so I was a little surprised by this.”

  “When last year was your cruise scheduled?”

  “In August, on the Norwegian Star.”

  “We only sail to Alaska during the summer months, and we’re usually sold out through September. Whoever you spoke to should have explained that it was too late to rebook for last summer, but we can certainly get you on one of this summer’s first Alaskan sailings.”

  “Oh, well, she didn’t explain that. I thought it was a lost cause.”

  “I apologize. Do you have the name of the person you spoke to? I’d be happy to look into it for you.”

  “No—it’s all right.” Lucinda probably should have asked more questions. “Let’s just confirm the new date.”

  “I’ll be glad to do that for you. Do you have a reference number?”

  She gives it to him, hears him clicking away on a computer keyboard.

  All these months, she’d thought the trip
was a loss. Typical misinformed customer service reps.

  “All right, Ms. Sloan, we have you in suite 11520 on the Star, same as before. The new sail date is June fourteenth, and your confirmation number is IP061411520.”

  She grabs a pen and pad and jots it down. “Thank you. Do you need anything else from me?”

  “No, you’re all set. We’ll send your confirmation and your new ticket a few weeks before sailing. All you need to do is show up. You have a good night now.”

  “You, too.”

  Wow. That was easy. Thinking about Alaska in February isn’t particularly appealing, but she’ll definitely be looking forward to it by June. Too bad it’s such a long ways away.

  She grabs a Three Musketeers bar from the freezer before heading into the bedroom.

  Even without shoes, her footsteps seem to echo through the drafty rooms. The place has hardwood floors, high ceilings, and lots of tall windows that probably need draperies, if Lucinda can bring herself to obscure some of the scarce winter daylight.

  There’s no daylight now. There is moonlight, which she’d be able to see if she turned off the interior lights. But she won’t, of course, so there’s only glare on the glass.

  She’ll have to do something about the windows soon.

  And about the leaky faucet she can hear in the bathroom.

  Odd, because she could swear she turned it off tightly to stop the dripping before she left Friday night. She even used a wrench. Now, when she stops to examine the faucet, she finds that the handle turns easily.

  How did that happen?

  When she takes the wrench from the gilt-mirrored medicine cabinet and forces the handle as far back to the right as she can—the way she did Friday night—the dripping ceases.

  Frowning, she waits a few minutes to make sure.

  No drips.

  Wrapping her fingers around the handle, she tugs it hard enough to turn the faucet on, then turns it off just enough to stop the flow, the way one might if he or she were unaware of the leak.

  After a moment, a droplet of water plunks into the sink. Moments later, another.

  Okay, you don’t honestly believe someone came into the apartment while you were gone and used the sink, do you?

  Maybe it loosened on its own, then. Whatever.

  Shaking her head at her own dubious expression in the ugly gold-framed mirror, she tightens it once more, stashes the wrench in the cabinet again, and leaves the bathroom.

  Back in the hall, she turns up the heat on the thermostat, and hears a prompt hissing through the registers. There. That’s better. With the chill gone, and lights on, she’ll feel more at home.

  It’s really a nice apartment. Nicer than her last place. Just not Lucinda’s style. The crown moldings and antique fixtures—major selling points in the real estate ad, along with newly replaced wiring and—ha—upgraded plumbing—are a little too fussy for her taste. And the place has a musty yester-year smell she’s still getting used to. It reminds her of rainy days and old books and her grandmother’s cedar closet. Not unpleasant. Just…

  Not my style.

  It’s getting to be a refrain.

  The apartment, Jimmy…

  What is my style?

  No, she immediately cautions her wayward brain, don’t you dare go there again. Married men are not your style.

  In the bedroom, she turns on two more lamps, then drops her bag between the wicker hamper and the bureau.

  As she transfers her clothing from suitcase to laundry or drawer, she clenches the unwrapped candy bar between her front teeth. Every so often she bites into the crisp chocolate and frosty nougat, then expertly reaches out to catch the candy bar before it drops to the floor. In no time, she’s devoured the whole thing, her suitcase is empty…and she’s still feeling unsatisfied. Unsettled.

  Well, there’s a lot to do.

  I need to start a load of laundry. I need to check my e-mail. I need to find my charger and charge my BlackBerry.

  But before any of that, she needs another Three Musketeers. She starts for the kitchen again.

  Then, seeing something out of the corner of her eye, she stops short.

  Slowly, she turns back toward the bed.

  Lying in the center of the puffy white duvet is something that wasn’t there before she left on Friday.

  The truth hits her, hard, even before she steps closer to see what it is.

  Someone was in her apartment while she was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Lucinda doesn’t call Neal about the intrusion right away.

  She wants to—desperately—but she hates to disturb him at home, at night, on a holiday weekend.

  That’s part of the reason.

  The rest of it has to do with her own irresponsibility.

  She should have changed the locks when she moved into the apartment. Any fool knows to do that.

  Recklessly, she ignored that basic precaution.

  And now, she’s paying the price.

  She might as well deal with it on her own, the way she’s dealt with pretty much everything else that comes her way.

  This isn’t a leaky faucet, though. Nor is it a cupboard mouse, or a flat tire—both of which she has also recently handled on her own, thank you very much.

  This situation is far more disturbing. Maybe even dangerous.

  This time, she needs help.

  From whom?

  Not Bradley. He’s in New York.

  Not Cam. No need to alarm her yet.

  The police?

  Neal is the police. He’ll know what to do.

  At last she allows herself to pick up the phone and dial his number. Erma will answer, of course. She always does, usually on the first ring. She’s the chatty type. Neal hates the telephone.

  But it’s his gruff voice that greets Lucinda, and only after several rings.

  “Neal, I’m sorry to bother you….”

  “Are you okay?”

  Hell, no.

  “I am, but…somebody broke into my apartment while I was—”

  A piercing scream erupts in the background on Neal’s end of the line.

  “Hang on a second, Cin.” She hears a rustling against the receiver as he covers it with his hand. Then his voice, only slightly muffled, bellows, “Cut that out, Maeve! Poppy is on the phone!”

  He returns to the line with a brusque apology.

  “I didn’t realize you had the grandkids there,” Lucinda says, wishing she hadn’t disturbed him. “I’ll let you get back to babysitting, Neal, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it’s okay. Someone broke into your place, you said? How did they get in?”

  She hesitates. “I have no idea. I can’t tell.”

  But chances are, they had a key, unlocked the door, and walked right in.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I called you.”

  “A robbery should be reported, Cin.”

  “I know, but…it wasn’t a robbery. They didn’t take anything. They actually…left something.”

  “What is it?”

  Lucinda hesitates, looking at the scrapbook still sitting in the middle of her bed.

  “Maybe I should show it to you in person,” she tells Neal. “I know you’re busy, but maybe tomorrow, if—”

  “The hell with tomorrow. Come on over. Or do you need me to come there instead?”

  “No, I can come,” she says hastily. He has the kids, and anyway, she doesn’t want to spend another moment alone in this apartment.

  She hangs up the phone, still not entirely convinced she’s alone here, even though she’s checked all the closets, under the bed, and behind all the doors and the shower curtain—armed with a chef’s knife, trembling, like a soon-to-be victim in one of those teen slasher movies.

  The only difference is that the frightened females on-screen always, inexplicably, go from room to room in the dark.

  Not Lucinda.

  Every lamp, every overhead fixture, every bare closet bulb in the en
tire apartment is now ablaze.

  There are no more shadows. There is no place for the boogeyman to hide.

  But he was here.

  With a shudder, she grabs her coat and her keys, then remembers to pull on her gloves again before picking up the scrapbook. Years of working police investigations made her do that even before she touched it the first time. Fingerprints.

  Leafing through the album, she was initially bewildered by the chronology of photocopied newspaper clippings mounted to the thick paper pages—each one featuring a beautiful college-aged woman who had committed suicide.

  They appeared to have lived, and died, months, years, miles, worlds apart; Lucinda had no idea how they were connected to each other, much less to her.

  Then she spotted a familiar face in one of the photos, and the latter became clear.

  It was Cam’s sister, Ava Neary.

  Not far from Society Hill lies the leafy South Philadelphia neighborhood now known—post revitalization—as Pennsport.

  Lifelong resident Neal still refers to it by its bygone name, Two Street—when he isn’t reminiscing, fondly, about the “shanty town” of his distant youth. Or grumbling about the new crop of up-and-comers who have commandeered the early nineteenth century homes, installing solar panels, hot tubs, stainless steel, and granite.

  “The whole neighborhood is a construction zone,” he frequently complains to Lucinda. “A man can’t even drive down his own street because of all the contractors’ trucks parked all over the place.”

  Neal bristled when his elderly next door neighbors put their home on the market last fall. Tonight, after emerging from the subway and covering the short distance to Neal’s house, Lucinda notes the FOR SALE sign has disappeared from the adjacent lawn.

  Either the place sold, or the neighbors changed their minds about moving. For Neal’s sake, she hopes for the latter.

  A bracing wind stirs the tree branches overhead, heavy with the scent of wood smoke wafting from the Bullards’ brick chimney and most of the others in the neighborhood. Shivering and hugging the scrapbook against her chest, Lucinda remembers why she’s here.

  The same ripple of fear that had her constantly looking over her shoulder on the way over causes her to keep a furtive eye on the shadowy shrub border as she hurries to the front door of Neal’s modest two-story home.