The road system was probably much more complex than that, but what Allie knew allowed her to find the offices for the phone and utilities companies without too much trouble. She got both put in her name after paying hefty deposits at each location. She reminded herself that she could afford it. Then, she breezed into Winn-Dixie and bought enough groceries to lend her refrigerator and cabinets an air of prosperity
She returned to her neighborhood feeling successful and productive. The neighbor whose mailbox she’d barely missed the night before lay bikini clad on a lawn chair in her front yard. She didn’t jump up and run inside when Allie drove by, but her eyes widened, and it was obvious that her fight-or-flight response kicked in. Allie gave her a friendly wave, as she passed.
Her good humor faltered when she pulled up in front of the house and saw her sandy coffee cup on her front stoop. She’d last had it when she found the body at the jetty. Did she drop it there? She couldn’t say why its sudden appearance made her so wary. Maybe Joe found it and brought it back. He would know it belonged to her and that she treasured it. Or maybe a neighbor found it. Allie didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood—unless you counted that Caroline woman—but they’d probably recognize Lou’s picture. Still, something didn’t feel right.
She passed it off to a delayed reaction to finding a body floating in the surf. She was acting as paranoid as if she’d witnessed the murder instead of having the bad luck to stumble on the body afterward. She’d seen nothing; she knew nothing. She posed a threat to no one. Still, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. She brought the cup inside and put it on the kitchen windowsill, glancing at it periodically, as she unpacked the groceries.
The rest of the day passed without incident. She made a duty phone call to her mother. Yes, she arrived safely. The car ran fine. Her car was the one good thing coming out of her marriage to Garrison. A Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited with power everything and a ten-CD changer in the back. In a rare moment of good sense early in her marriage, she persuaded Garrison to put the Jeep in her name. A few months later, Garrison received his posting to Brussels, and since her Jeep sat snugly in her parents’ garage during her two years in Europe, it still looked and drove like a brand new car.
For a change, Vivian made no mention of Allie’s divorce, and Allie made no mention of the body at the jetty. Maybe Vivian would never know. She hung up the phone, relieved that she’d gotten off so lightly. Her parents were still in the dark about her breakup with Garrison, and Allie did not intend to change that. Every time she thought about Brussels, she burned with shame. She’d made a deal with Garrison at the end. She wouldn’t blab to anyone in Brussels about what happened, and he would give her an uncontested divorce. The divorce took time, and Garrison didn’t let Allie out of his sight until he held the final decree in his hand.
Right in the midst of that legal mess, Allie got the call from her parents telling her Lou had died. Allie knew Lou had Hodgkin’s disease, but her aunt’s letters were so upbeat that Allie never suspected the disease had advanced to that point. The first time it landed Lou in the hospital, not long after Garrison’s posting to Belgium, Allie tried to talk him into coming back to the states. Not only did he refuse to come with her, but he also refused to let her fly back alone. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he’d told her. “The woman doesn’t need you there. She has a life of her own, friends her own age. You’re not fifteen anymore, for God’s sake. She doesn’t need you hanging on to her all the time.” And Allie believed him. She had believed him about so many things.
After the call from her parents, Allie sank into complete despondency. When she couldn’t get a flight back in time for the funeral, she took to her bed unable to make the slightest decision, at least until she received a letter from Lou’s attorney enclosing a note from Lou dated two weeks before she died. Across the sealed envelope was Allie’s name. She recognized her aunt’s bold scrawl. It took Allie twenty-four hours to pluck up the courage to open it. When she did, her hands shook so badly, she almost couldn’t make out the words.
Allie, sweetheart, I know you are grieving right now. I don’t want to add to that, but I’d like to say a few things. You know me. I always have to have the last word.
I don’t have to tell you that you’re a daughter to me, as much as if I’d nurtured you in my body for nine long months and given birth to you. I don’t have to say it, but I will because I like saying it, and I can do anything I want. And so can you, sweetheart. Listen to my words, Allie. So. Can. You. I know things weren’t going well between you and Garrison before you left for Europe. You didn’t say anything, but I could tell. Everything might be fine now, and if it is, I’m glad for you. If you’re still having problems, well, I have to say it. You don’t have to stay with him. Contrary to what your parents think, getting a divorce isn’t a sin, and neither is staying in a bad marriage a virtue. I decided that when I divorced your uncle all those years ago and, next to loving you, that divorce was the best thing I ever did. It might sound scary to you right now, but trust me. You can make it on your own.
The house is yours, of course, along with some money to help ease your way. For you, Allie, not for your parents or your brother. Get that clear in your mind. They’ll try to bully you out of it, but you stand fast.
If you and Garrison make a go of it, I hope you’ll both use the house as a sanctuary, a place to escape whatever you need to get away from. If not, I hope it will be your home. I feel like it always was.
I never had any kids of my own, but I never felt the lack because of you. I only hope that someday you have a child who means as much to you as you’ve meant to me. You always were and are the best thing in my life. I love you, sweetheart. Don’t grieve too long. It isn’t healthy, and it’s certainly not what I want for you. LIVE, Allie. Fully live every moment of every day. That’s what makes life worth the trouble. It’s what I wish for you.”
Two days later, Allie boarded a flight bound for Atlanta, a brief stopover on her way to Cape Canaveral. Her divorce scandalized her parents. Her father shook his head and made tut-tut noises. Her mother cross-examined her, but Allie told them only that it was a mutual decision, too embarrassed to say more. It all hit the fan when they learned that Allie was Lou’s sole heir. They were equally astounded that Lou left anything to inherit.
It took Allie twenty-four hours to pack her car and flee down to Cape Canaveral with her mother’s “How can you be so selfish?” ringing in her ears. At least on this call, she could hang up the phone with only one, “Allison, please think about what you’re doing. This selfishness does not become you.”
She shoved the phone back in her purse and turned her attention to more pleasant things. She began spreading her meager possessions around the house. Her books wouldn’t fit on the bookshelves with her aunt’s, so she stacked them on the floor beside it. She replaced her aunt’s photos of Allie with her own framed pictures of Lou and that, more than anything else, seemed to mark the house as hers.
She emptied two drawers in the dresser for her underclothes but left the rest. She crammed her aunt’s things into one of her other drawers. She couldn’t bear to pack anything away yet.
Again at loose ends, she fed the dog and took it for a brief walk. It trembled a little less violently as she snapped on the leash, which Allie considered great progress. Back inside, she made something to eat and took her dinner into the living room. She cast a glance at her aunt’s photo albums on the side table, but she couldn’t stroll down memory lane yet. In the end, she curled up with a book, but after a few minutes, she put it down and let herself out the back door.
The night was glorious. Standing on tiptoes to see over the dunes, she could make out the frothy tops of breakers backlit by a narrow arc of moon hanging low in the east. A million stars dotted the sky, sparkling like diamond chips strewn across black velvet. On the horizon, she saw the lights of shrimp boats out casting their nets, as they would until dawn. Underlying it all pulsed the ceaseless whoosh and hiss of the waves a
s they made their way to shore, only to be pulled back out to sea again. Few lights marred the perfect dark. Because the beach was a prime egg-laying location for the massive sea turtles, the residents were used to showing no lights on the east side during the summer and fall months. Most of them adhered to the practice yearlong.
Suddenly, she wanted to be on the beach, to feel the sand under her bare feet. As she started down the steps leading to the water, she thought she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye. Some movement. She froze, trying to focus on the blackness, but she couldn’t see anything. Imagination? As she turned back to the house, she saw the coffee cup through her kitchen window, and a finger of ice shot up her back. Imagination or not, a woman’s body—a murdered woman’s body—had washed up to shore less than two miles down the beach. The killer might not be anywhere near here, but she wasn’t willing to take that chance. She hurried back inside, locking the door behind her.
*
Sleep brought with it snatches of nightmares, hideous dreams with dead women floating around her feet in murky water and grabbing at her ankles. Then they were coming after her, racing her to the house. Allie ran inside and threw the deadbolt on the door, but she could hear them trying to force their way in. She let out a scream and sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding in terror. She heard it again. A thud, then a sound like someone jiggling the back doorknob. Allie clutched the covers to her chest. Someone was trying to get into the house.
Chapter 4
The house’s only phone was in the kitchen. So was her cell phone. Allie slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the end of the hallway. When she peeked around the corner, she almost screamed again. A face peered in through the glass window of her back door. A man, his face red and puffy. It twisted into a grotesque mask of horror when he saw Allie. He turned and fled.
She was having none of it. What if he came back? The dog had vanished. Weren’t they supposed to bark or something at intruders?
In the kitchen, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. It seemed like an hour before the patrol car pulled up in front of her house, but it was probably only half that. Still, she’d be dead and cold when they arrived if her prowler was a mad killer. She felt somewhat mollified when she saw Sheryl climb out from behind the wheel. At least Sheryl would take her seriously.
Allie opened the door before Sheryl reached the stoop. “He’s gone,” she said, her voice breathless.
“I know. I found him wandering in the street and took him home.” Sheryl pushed past Allie into the house.
“You did what?”
“It was only old Feelie. He lives a few houses down. He was drunk. Thought this house was his. I told his wife to keep him on a short leash for a while.”
Allie followed Sheryl into the kitchen and watched as she helped herself to a leftover cup of cold coffee. “Who exactly is old Feelie?”
Sheryl chugged the coffee and made a face. Then, she rinsed her cup and put it in the sink. “Tom Feelers. Gets a few under his belt, and he can’t find his own house with a road map. Scared to death of his wife. Once he downs enough, he tiptoes home with his shoes in his hand. Trying to sneak in, I guess. He’s harmless.”
Allie looked at her in exasperation. “He scared the hell out of me.”
Sheryl grinned. “Bet he won’t next time. Welcome home,” she said, grazing Allie’s shoulder with her knuckle, as she let herself out the front door.
Easy for her to say, but Allie knew sleep would be a long time coming.
*
It came, but it didn’t last long enough. Visions of hideous faces leering in her back door supplanted drowned women in her dreams. By the time she awoke, her sheets were twisted into knots, and both pillows were on the floor.
She could have turned over and gone back to sleep, but the flat face was staring at her again. She could feel it. Once she opened one eye and confirmed it, she was wide-awake. She moved slowly, pulling herself into a sitting position. The dog backed away, but it didn’t run. “Good morning, dog,” she said in her most soothing voice. The dog continued to look at her, its head tilted a bit to one side.
“Good doggie,” she said, holding out her hand for it to sniff. “Good Spook.”
At the sound of its name, the dog perked up a bit. Allie took a chance and reached to stroke its head, half-afraid it would bite her. Apparently, the gesture terrified the pup, and he jumped off the bed and ran.
She couldn’t understand why the dog was so quick to warm up to Sheryl and was still afraid of her. She considered herself a nice person, always kind to old people and animals. Granted, she hadn’t been around many of either, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like them.
At least the dog followed her into the kitchen. Allie dumped an entire can of food into the bowl—Sheryl’s orders—and put it on the floor in the dining room. Spook finished again in record time and then went to the back door, whining.
Allie still wore her nightshirt, and she hadn’t had her coffee. There were limits to what she would do for an animal. She opened the back door a few inches and let the dog slip outside. Surely, it wouldn’t go far, and traffic this time of the morning was nonexistent. While she waited for the coffee to drip, she glanced at the glass-topped kitchen door. Some curtains might be in order. The front door provided more privacy because it had frosted jalousies. A peeping Tom might see an outline through the glass there, but it wasn’t a picture frame like the back.
When the coffee finished dripping, Allie changed into a pair of cut-offs and a jersey and went outside to look for the dog. It wasn’t in the yard around the house. She started to worry until the neighbor she met the other night returned, Spook tucked under one arm like a football.
The woman wore her pajamas, with her hair sticking up at strange angles. Her face still wore pillow creases, and she clearly wasn’t happy. “He was in my flowerbed,” she said. “Good thing I caught him. Who knows where he would have taken off to?” She handed him off to Allie. “You might want to keep a closer eye on him. We’ve sold our house. Us and the people next door. They’ll be tearing them down soon, and those heavy equipment operators will run right over a little guy like this one. They’ll never see him.”
Allie’s apology died on her lips. “Tearing them down? What do you mean, tearing them down?”
The woman appeared embarrassed. “I hear they’re going to build condos here. Or maybe it’s apartments.” She shrugged. “Lots of folks are selling. Not only us,” she added, her voice defensive. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t raze the whole street before long.”
She was gone before Allie could ask her anything else. Condos? She knew that condos had sprung up farther south near Cocoa Beach, but in Cape Canaveral?
She took the dog inside and dropped it on the couch. “You’re grounded.”
Half an hour later, she climbed in the car. She refused to drink one more cup of bad coffee, and civilization had finally come to Cocoa Beach in the form of a Starbucks, built near Ron Jon’s Surf Shop. Lou had told her that Ron Jon’s, now part of a huge, multi-block mega complex, started out in the early 1960s as a tiny store in a rundown strip mall on the corner of 520 and A1A. Now, it was a beachgoers’ institution, with signs directing travelers to the store from as far away as the Georgia border. One day she would go inside and see what all the hoopla was about, but right now, she was on a mission.
She parked in the underground garage, nearly swooning with pleasure when she walked into Starbucks and smelled the coffee. It took her twenty minutes to fight her way through the crowd up to the register, but who cared? Once she convinced the girl that, yes, she really wanted a plain coffee, it went fast. Minutes later, she headed back to her car with a pound of ground Sumatra tucked under her arm and a cardboard container of brewed coffee in her other hand. As she rounded the corner, she caught sight of a tall, light-haired man hurrying away. She hesitated for only an instant before she sprinted after him into the parking deck. No one. She leaned weakly against the entrance
wall. Was someone following her, or was her imagination working overtime?
No one lurked among the parked cars or hid under her Jeep. She checked the backseat and under the car before she got in and locked the doors. With her heart still pounding in her ears, she started the Jeep and eased out of the garage. She spotted no one behind her when she turned off A1A. It wasn’t until she almost rear-ended the car in front of her that she realized the absurdity of what she was doing. If this stalker was the one who returned her coffee cup, he didn’t have to follow her; he already knew where she lived.
She had recovered enough to wave at her sunbathing neighbor when she passed her house and got a finger wave in return. The woman didn’t seem particularly worried about Allie attacking her anymore, but Allie began to wonder if her neighbor knew about skin cancer?
She planned to meet Sheryl at Lester’s, a bar down on Highway 520. She spent an hour doing her hair and makeup and searching through her clothes for something suitable for a casual evening on the town. Almost everything she owned was too heavy and dressy for Florida. She finally settled on white linen slacks and a pale blue silk top, knowing the linen slacks would look like they’d been slept in after five minutes, but hoping the cool blue of the top would tone down her sunburn. Finally, she locked the house and headed out to meet Sheryl.
Lester’s wasn’t exactly a dive, but it wasn’t far off the mark. The tavern was sandwiched between a twenty-four-hour do-it-yourself laundry and a cheesy-looking Chinese restaurant in a strip mall on the right-hand side of Highway 520, its exterior as plain as mud. Inside, a long bar stretched down the length of the room. The wall behind it was mirrored, fronted by tiered shelves like a terraced booze farm. Along the other side of the long room were wooden booths. A row of chrome and Formica-topped tables and chairs divided the room, circa 1950, shabby enough to be the original furnishings.
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