The Mud Sisters

by Edie Claire

  “Wealth can be a very powerful lure,” Sheryl said quietly. “It’s more than just things. It’s the freedom to do what you want. To make other people do what you want. It’s travel around the world; it’s exhilaration. For women like us, it can be a fantasy come true.”

  Jamie blew out a breath; ran a hand through her tangled, windblown hair. “I can’t believe it,” she protested. “Not me.”

  “There are other possibilities,” Sheryl continued. “For some women, it’s the excitement of having a man who... well, it’s the thrill of living with a certain amount of danger.”

  Jamie frowned.

  “I know, I know,” Sheryl said apologetically, “the whole flying-bullets thing doesn’t work for me, either. But I know women who are into it, and... I’m just saying.”

  Vibration. Darkness. The smell of exhaust; the rumble of an engine. Tightness all around... so tight... no way to move. No air. No way to breathe...

  “Jamie? Are you okay?” Sheryl’s voice brought Jamie up from the abyss into which her mind had fallen—but only just. “Teagan’s coming back now.”

  A blast of frigid air shot through the Cruiser as Teagan quickly opened and slammed one of the rear doors. “Well, that took forever,” she said with forced cheerfulness as she buckled herself into the back seat. “We’re going to have to pay, again, to have it towed to a body shop in the North Hills tomorrow. But whatever. Nobody’s injured, right?”

  “That’s all that matters, honey,” Sheryl agreed. “Are we headed home, then?”

  Home.

  An L-shaped living room, the bed around the bend. A galley kitchen—what ghastly metal cabinets!—but functional enough. Windows that stuck. Hideous tan color on the walls. Nice new shower, never mind the cracked tiles around the sink...

  “My apartment!” Jamie cried.

  Sheryl stopped backing up the car and looked at her.

  Teagan leaned forward between the front seats. “What about it?”

  “I remember it! I think I did before, actually, in my office. But I forgot again.” Jamie reached into her coat pocket, felt the cold metal of her spare set of keys, and smiled. “I took these out of my desk,” she said proudly, displaying them. “I barely thought about it—I just knew they were there, and I grabbed them.” She turned to Teagan excitedly. “Do you realize what this means? I can go home!”

  Teagan’s smile disappeared. “Hold on, Jamie. I know you’re anxious to get home, but the fact is, you’re still in danger. Until the police have a name to follow up on, this guy is still out there. And he almost certainly knows where you live.”

  The window of sunshine that had warmed Jamie’s nightmare slammed shut again.

  “I didn’t mean I could go home for good,” she lied. “I only meant we could drop by. I could get some things. No offense, but I’d really, really like to wear my own clothes again.” Even as she spoke, Jamie squiggled her shoulders to relieve the ache of the offending bra. “Please, Teag? If you don’t mind, Sheryl? Five minutes is all I need, I swear. It’s only a couple miles away from here, within walking distance of La Veduta. That’s why I rented it. I never did get a car. Please?”

  A shiny steel-gray Benz, gleaming chrome, heated leather seats...

  Jamie squelched the vision with a fury.

  “I know where it is,” Teagan said uncertainly. “Richard looked up your address, and I’ve already left a voice message for the detective. I’m just not sure it’s safe for you to be there.”

  “It’s broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon!” Jamie protested. “And there are three of us!”

  “She has a point, Teagan,” Sheryl agreed. “Besides, seeing the place might help her remember the man’s name, and that would make her safe sooner than anything, right?”

  Collapsing on the bed... a queen mattress for once. Nice to have the space, since she wasn’t alone...

  STOP IT!

  Teagan breathed out heavily. “All right. Five minutes. But I’m going to try the number the detective gave me again and see if I can talk to a real person this time. They should know where you live already, anyway. They’ve had your name since yesterday!”

  While Teagan dialed—eventually hanging up again in disgust—Jamie hastened to direct Sheryl the short distance to the street she remembered, taking the back way up the mountain. When they reached the familiar building, an early twentieth century two-story wooden house now converted into three apartments, Jamie was surprised to find her emotions mixed. She had been so happy to recognize La Veduta... why was the sight of her apartment building not quite so positive? It wasn’t the height of luxury, but she’d had her own place for once, hadn’t she?

  “Not this driveway,” Jamie instructed Sheryl. “Go on around the block; you get to my carport from the alley around back.”

  The perfect place to hide the Benz.

  Teagan’s mother steered the cruiser onto the narrow gravel lane and parked under a makeshift but functional portico behind the house. “Well, this would at least keep off the snow and the bird poop!” Sheryl said cheerfully, sounding very much like a real estate agent.

  Jamie had no response. All lightness in her heart had evaporated. The back door of the house, which was the only entrance to her downstairs studio apartment, looked suddenly foreboding. She hesitated.

  “Still want to go in?” Teagan asked. “You don’t have to. At least not right now.”

  “I need to,” Jamie heard herself say as her hand moved toward the door handle. “I’ve got to get my stuff.” She stepped out of the car and walked the few paces to the back steps. Her head felt suddenly muzzy. Her nerves were on edge. What was wrong with her?

  The steps were slippery from the snow. She shivered from the cold, drew out her keys, and turned them in the lock.

  Nothing happened. She turned the keys again. This time, the knob rotated.

  It was open.

  Jamie’s muscles tensed. She always locked her door. Legend had it that some people lived in neighborhoods where you didn’t have to. If such places existed, she’d never seen one.

  Anger flared in her chest. She shoved open the door and stepped inside.

  A tiny table with two chairs stood against the wall immediately beyond the door. To the right was her galley kitchen, narrow enough that she could grab a box out of the cabinet on one side while closing a drawer with her foot on the other. Her eyes scanned the counter for anything unusual. But there was nothing to see. All the doors and drawers were neatly closed. Two empty cups and a plate sat in the sink. Her bananas had gone brown. The trash can stank.

  She noticed that both Sheryl and Teagan had shuffled into the small space she’d left behind her, trying to get out of the cold. She stepped out of their way and on into the narrow hall. On the right was the door to her bathroom. She glanced inside it only briefly, but then stopped and took a step back. Something was wrong.

  “Does everything look okay?” Teagan asked, sounding dubious. “Jamie?”

  Jamie continued to stare into the bathroom. “Not really,” she heard herself say tonelessly. “I’m not in the habit of leaving the seat up.”

  Teagan stepped forward and looked over her shoulder. “Was the back door locked?” she asked pointedly.

  Jamie didn’t answer the question. She walked past the bathroom and on down the narrow hall. The only other room in the apartment, her combined living room and bedroom, was just around the bend. She could see her bookcase in the corner, as well as the beat-up desk which housed her dinosaur of a laptop. The computer was still there. Not that any robber with half a brain would look twice at it. She had never owned anything worth stealing.

  Don’t you have a safe to put it in?

  Jamie halted at the memory.

  It was his voice.

  His.

  Hell no, why would I? she had replied with a laugh. I’ll just hide it in the drawer.

  “Jamie?” Teagan asked again, pestering her like a gnat. “Are you remembering something else? What’s going on with you?
”

  Jamie searched her brain frantically for a face to match the voice, but there was nothing else to see.

  You are so beautiful, Jamie.

  A shudder rocked her shoulders. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him. She could feel him all around this accursed place.

  I’m going to give you the world, Jamie.

  She heard herself laugh again. And I’m going to let you!

  Teagan was still talking, but Jamie wasn’t listening. She was back at La Veduta, in the kitchen after hours, chilling with Richard.

  Did you see the rocks around that woman’s neck? On a Tuesday night in Pittsburgh! Ordered three appetizers for two people, entrees, and desserts and barely touched any of it! They walked away and left a bottle of Verite La Joie Cab just sitting there... still two-thirds full!

  What a coup for you! Richard had responded pleasantly. Or did you let Tony snatch it up himself? Do NOT tell me that snotty little busboy made off with it!

  Tony took the wine, but that’s not the point! Where do people get money like that? How can you ever have so much you can blow it on something that stupid and really not give a damn?

  Richard had chuckled. Never been around people like these before, have you, love? Well, you’ll get used to it. Just smile and take advantage all you can...

  “Jamie!” Teagan’s voice broke through. “If you feel like anything is out of place, like anyone else has been in here, then we should leave right now!”

  Someone else had been here, Jamie thought grimly. That was why the place didn’t feel like hers anymore. But he wasn’t a burglar. She had let him in.

  Many times.

  “I’m just remembering some things,” she said at last. “But I’m okay. I don’t think I’ve been robbed or anything.”

  At least, not of her possessions.

  Her self-respect... her very soul... maybe.

  Let’s drive to Cleveland for dinner tonight. We can go to Pier W, or the Lola Bistro—maybe Hyde Park? You can order anything on the menu. We’ll call it “research.”

  Jamie’s teeth gritted. That was how it had started, wasn’t it? Expensive meals in other restaurants—assuaging her curiosity, whetting her desire to become more knowledgeable and competitive in the business. Just not other restaurants in Pittsburgh. He could be recognized here.

  Richard again, down in the kitchens, mincing fresh garlic. You’re infected, Jamie.

  Infected with what?

  Money lust, my dear. Sounds ugly, I know, but it happens to the best of us.

  Her anger had erupted. So what if I want more than I used to? Is that so wrong? I deserve more! I’ve got the brains. Half the people who drop hundreds a night here are idiots! They couldn’t pass calculus if their frivolous little lives depended on it, but they have the money and I don’t! You think that’s right?

  She had moved into this apartment happy as a clam.

  She had come to despise it.

  Come on, princess. His voice again. Why shouldn’t you have something nice to wear out? You’ll need it to blend in. And you know that you deserve it...

  Jamie shut her eyes tight, tried to see his face. His voice was everywhere, all around her, taunting her. She could see his waist, his hands, but not his face. Had she ever even wanted to look him in the eyes?

  Teagan began to harass her further, and Jamie snapped. “I’m remembering something, okay? Can you just be quiet for a second!”

  Things. They were like a drug to her. Things she’d never had, things she’d never dreamed of having. Never before had she encountered such profligate wealth, such careless privilege. La Veduta shoved it down her throat every damn day.

  She’d never taken gifts from men before. She’d always just said no.

  What he’d given her was worse than heroin.

  “I don’t know a name,” she said brusquely, answering the question she was sure that Teagan had asked already. “I just remember his being here. Let me get some clothes and we’ll leave.”

  She took a step forward into her living room and turned the corner toward her chest of drawers. She had not yet reached them when she heard Sheryl’s scream.

  Jamie whirled around. Sheryl and Teagan had moved behind her into the room. Sheryl was staring at the floor beside her TV table.

  Jamie moved forward toward them, and her heart stopped.

  Blood.

  The stain spread across her once-cream carpet. Large, amorphous, threatening. One dark pool to the side of her television. Smaller pools, drips, smears, crisscrossing well out into the room. The largest pool was so thick that dried-up clots adhered to the carpet fibers.

  “We have to get out of here,” Teagan said calmly, laying a hand on Jamie’s arm. “We have to leave right now.”

  Jamie’s brain raced in frantic circles, searching for some connection. Some voice, some image within her brain that could explain the horror before her.

  There was nothing.

  “You could have slaughtered a pig in here,” she heard her voice say, nonsensically.

  “Come on, Jamie,” Teagan ordered, pulling on her arm.

  “In a minute,” Jamie resisted, staring at the blood that could only be hers. How much? How long had she lain here? Her chin lifted resolutely. She turned and looked at her bed.

  Rumpled sheets. Brand new ones. A soft and fuzzy throw blanket to the side. Two wine glasses on the bedside table... one empty, one still half full.

  One significant bedding omission.

  “It happened here, Teag,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “He wrapped me up in my own damned bedspread.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Teagan had just thanked her mother for the ride home and shut the car door behind her when her cell phone rang. “Go on inside,” she urged Jamie, handing her the keys. “This may be the detective.”

  Jamie wordlessly took the keys and began trudging up the snow-covered walk. Teagan looked after her worriedly. Jamie had said nothing the whole way home. Her last words had been to complain to Teagan, after Teagan hustled her into the car and Sheryl drove away, that she hadn’t had the chance to get her clothes. She had seriously wanted to go back and get them.

  Teagan had tried to explain, gently, about the importance of not disturbing evidence at a crime scene, but her explanation hadn’t really mattered. Jamie wasn’t listening, and from the look of Sheryl’s pale face and glassy eyes, no amount of coercion would have made her turn the car around anyway.

  Teagan took a breath and answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Hansen? This is Detective Musser from Homicide. I’ve got two messages from you, here... you say there’s bloodstains in Ms. Fukas’ apartment?”

  Teagan repeated everything they had seen, cursing the way her hands shook as she held the phone. It was probably just the cold. She walked up to her front door while she was talking, but didn’t go inside. She didn’t want Jamie to overhear.

  “The unit was supposed to get out there this afternoon anyway—so we’ll take a look,” he assured. “We have her home and work addresses. You say there’s no one at the restaurant who can give us this guy’s name? Or a neighbor, maybe?”

  Teagan released a frustrated breath. “You can try, but I doubt it. She was obviously keeping the relationship a secret. But I do think she’s close to remembering it herself. Maybe if you talk to her again—”

  “I’ll be out to interview her as soon as I can,” he confirmed. “But under no circumstances should she set foot in that apartment again until we’ve finished with the place. After that, it’s up to her, but you understand she’s taking a risk just by being there. This guy has every motivation to try and shut her up before she remembers enough to nail him.”

  Teagan’s shoulders shivered. “Yes, I realize that. I’ll talk to her.”

  “It says here that you’re her caseworker and that she’s been living with you since her hospital discharge?”

  “Yes. We have a spare apartment.”

  “That’s fin
e as long as this guy doesn’t know where she is,” the detective said heavily. “But you need to be wary. He could have been watching her apartment for her to come back.”

  Teagan stamped her feet on the porch. She didn’t think her blood could get any colder. “I thought of that,” she said grimly, wishing she had thought of it before letting Jamie go back there in the first place. She had always assumed that the assault happened elsewhere—it never occurred to her that it could have happened in Jamie’s own home. But it should have. “I did think to keep an eye out as we drove home,” she reported. “I’m certain no one followed us.”

  “Could someone have gotten your license number while you were inside the apartment?”

  Teagan’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t thought of that, either. She was failing in her charge... on all counts. “My mother drove us,” she answered. “Her number wouldn’t lead him here, but—”

  “I’m not trying to alarm you,” the detective interrupted, “but it’s something to be aware of. If he’s having Ms. Fukas’ place watched, and he’s savvy, he could get your mother’s address. No need to panic, just have her be on guard. Any suspicious characters, call 911, then us. Same for you at your own house, regardless of whether or not you think you were followed.”

  Teagan felt ill. It was one thing dealing with violence at work. Bringing it home to one’s family was another. “We’ll do that,” she said weakly.

  “Good. As far as next of kin goes, you should know that our background check came up empty. Ms. Fukas signed herself out of foster care at age eighteen. Mother deceased; father listed as unknown on her birth certificate. Maternal grandparents declined custody with request for no contact... no other relatives identified. Never married. Looks like she’s on her own.”

  Not completely, Teagan amended silently. She has me.

  “Just tell her to hold tight until I get there,” the detective continued. “Under no circumstances should she attempt to contact this guy if she does remember him. She shouldn’t do anything, period, until I talk to her. Understood?”