Fade to Black

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She adjusts her dark glasses so that they sit higher on her nose and glances at the people strolling past the old sea captains’ mansions, most now converted to stores, that line the tree-shaded street.

  What is up with this crowd?

  Then she sees a white banner stretched across the street ahead, and realizes why there’s so much action here today.

  FIRST ANNUAL BACK-TO-SCHOOL SIDEWALK SALE DAYS, AUGUST 24–29

  No wonder.

  The sooner she gets home, the better.

  She eyes the crowds of strangers with trepidation.

  Not that a stalker seems likely to be hunting for back-to-school bargains.

  The thought nearly makes her smile before she catches herself and remembers that there’s nothing funny about a stalker. Nothing funny at all about the premise of her would-be killer lurking somewhere in this innocuous small-town street scene.

  The light changes and the cars in front of her move forward. Elizabeth makes a right onto Center Street, breathing an audible sigh of relief as she leaves the business district behind.

  She notices whitecaps out on the water today. How she longs to roll down her car window and let that brisk ocean breeze whip through her hair, the way she used to back in California.

  But that would be far too dangerous.

  It would leave her vulnerable to anyone who wanted to reach inside the open window and grab her.

  Even before the card and the phone call, she had never gone anywhere with the windows rolled down or the car doors unlocked. She isn’t about to start now, not after what’s happened.

  She chews her lower lip as she continues along Center Street, not willing to let the fear suck her in again.

  She had been doing so well all morning, at the fabric store on Route 136 in neighboring Warren. It had been fun, picking out the fabric for Manny’s costumes, along with purple sequins to jazz up the prince outfit and black felt to make into spots for the frog suit.

  She had taken a course in costume design back when she’d first arrived in L.A., young and eager to learn the business from the ground up. Of course, Brawley had been irritated about that, and she hadn’t enrolled in any other classes after the costume one was over. It was too expensive, he said, and it cut into their time together. Then he talked her into earning some cash to help pay her share of the rent....

  God, why did I ever listen to that jerk? she wonders now, then shakes her head.

  Brawley Johnson is long ago and far away, literally part of another lifetime—the one before Mallory Eden, even. It’s amazing that she can still look back on their time together and feel so angry, so frustrated, at the way he had treated her—and the way she had put up with him for so long.

  But he had been her first love—her only love, really. There had been no one after him; at least, no one serious. She was too caught up in her career by then, and besides, where did a wealthy, famous woman meet a nice, normal man?

  Lord knew, she needed nice and normal after Brawley, with his jealous rages and accusations and smothering attention.

  But he was all she had after Gran died. They were two kids alone together in a strange place, and she had clung to him in the beginning as fervently as he had clung to her in the end.

  Brawley Johnson.

  God.

  What got her started thinking about him anyway?

  She makes a right-hand turn onto Green Garden Way and frowns, filled with a growing sense of uneasiness as she follows the curving street around toward her house.

  Something’s wrong.

  The knowledge takes hold despite the reasonable voice in her head that says there’s nothing to worry about.

  It’s broad daylight, a beautiful, sunny summer afternoon.

  She passes a neighbor hanging clothes on the line in her side yard, and another putting his garbage cans by the curb.

  Children are romping on a front lawn, and an elderly woman is walking her black Labrador retriever in the street.

  Still …

  Something’s wrong.

  She pulls into her driveway, knowing that she should be reassured by the sight of her house looking exactly the way she left it two hours earlier.

  She really should mow and water the lawn, she thinks vaguely, noticing that it’s looking straggly and brown. She’ll do it later … if she can convince herself to leave the safety of the house again.

  She can’t shake the feeling of apprehension as she parks the car in her usual spot, grabs her shopping bag with a shaking hand, and opens the door to step out.

  She glances toward the Minellis’ house, almost hoping to see Pamela bounding toward her across the grass.

  But it appears deserted, though the windows are open, as always, and the back door is probably unlocked, as Pamela has told her it often is.

  “Frank’s always bugging me about leaving it open, but Windmere Cove couldn’t be any safer. And I just don’t like to bother bringing keys with me when I go out. I have enough stuff to lug around with the two kids,” Pamela has said to Elizabeth.

  Pamela would be at the sidewalk sale if anyone would be. She loves to shop.

  And Frank must be at work.

  Normally, she’s thrilled when she can come and go without risking a run-in with her neighbors.

  And you are today, she tells herself firmly. The last thing you need is for Pamela to come buzzing around, chattering about this, that, and the other. For all you know, she’ll mention one of those newspaper articles or television segments about Mallory Eden and then what will you do?

  Well, okay, that isn’t very likely. Her neighbor’s conversation always revolves around herself, her kids, and her husband.

  Pamela has never shown the slightest interest in current events or the entertainment industry. For all Elizabeth knows, she doesn’t even know who Brad Pitt or Sharon Stone are, and she’s most likely never even heard of Mallory Eden.

  Her sandals make a hollow clicking noise on the blacktop as she moves from the car to the door, her key ready in one hand, her purse and the shopping bag tucked under her opposite arm. She unlocks the first dead bolt, then sticks a second key into a second dead bolt with expert efficiency. Finally, she puts the last key into the knob, turns it, and pushes the door open.

  She’s taken several steps into the kitchen before she realizes that she was right.

  Something is very, very wrong.

  Elizabeth lets out a high, shrill, involuntary scream.

  Manny’s worn sneakers practically skip along the cracked sidewalk of Pine Street as he hurries home from day camp.

  He can’t wait to call Elizabeth and tell her about his first day of rehearsal for the Labor Day play. It went great, and afterward, two of the teenage drama counselors told him he was doing a fantastic job. He promised them he’d know all his lines by the weekend and have his costume ready in time for dress rehearsals next week.

  He still can’t believe he will get to be the star of the show after all—and it’s all because of Elizabeth.

  He wishes he could do something nice for her, to show her how grateful he is … not just because she’s making his costumes, but because she really cares about him.

  Maybe he should pick her some flowers in the vacant lot behind the house. There used to be a factory there, but it burned down a few years ago. Manny was glad when that happened. The factory was a big ugly yellow brick building with broken windows, and it blocked the view of the water from Manny’s bedroom.

  Now he can see, in the distance beyond the rooftops of of Center Street, Narragansett Bay. And in the vacant lot, growing among the scattered bricks and shards of glass from the factory, are the most beautiful wildflowers. They continue to grow even though the ground is getting dry and dusty because it hasn’t rained in weeks.

  Elizabeth would probably like a nice bouquet, Manny decides. She always smells like flowers, so she must like them.

  He never knows when he’s going to see her, but he’ll pick some flowers just in case she shows up at th
e park later today.

  He wishes he knew where she lives, but she has never told him, and he hasn’t dared to ask. There are a lot of things she doesn’t seem to want to talk about, and Manny knows enough not to be nosy about her life.

  Sometimes he wonders if she’s some kind of magical fairy godmother who appears only to him, like the one in the Labor Day play. He wonders about it even though he knows it’s not true, because after all, he doesn’t believe in magic.

  If magic were a real thing, he would be able to make a wish, snap his fingers, and, poof! Elizabeth would be his mom. She would find him a nice daddy, and they would take him away somewhere, to some beautiful tropical island, where they would kiss him all the time and tell him how much they love him, and give him lots of brothers and sisters—but only after he’s had them, his parents, all to himself for a while.

  Manny sighs.

  Too bad he doesn’t believe in magic.

  He’s almost in front of his house, but instead of continuing on along the sidewalk, he turns and scoots down a dark alley lined with garbage cans and rusty car parts. He pops out at the edge of the vacant lot and scrambles over a crumbling stone wall, dropping to the dusty, weed-choked ground on the other side.

  A huge rat scurries out of his path as he heads for the prettiest patch of wildflowers.

  Manny doesn’t mind rats as long as they’re not in the house, and they haven’t been, except for once, before the exterminator came, a few summers ago. But they’re common in the rubble from the factory, and along the rocky waterfront beyond Center Street, where he and his friends used to play pirate.

  Manny picks some purple flowers with yellow centers, then some feathery white things on long stems. He’s making his way toward a low-growing patch of deep pink blossoms, when he hears a noise behind him.

  He turns and sees her.

  His mother.

  “Hi, Manny,” she says, coming a little closer, then stopping a few feet away.

  She’s wearing a grimy-looking tank top, rubber sandals, and cutoff black shorts. Her bony white arms and legs are covered with red marks. Her face is all discolored and sunken, especially beneath her eyes, and her dark hair hangs in limp clumps around her shoulders.

  He says nothing, just stares at her.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, taking another step toward him. She smiles, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

  “Picking flowers,” he mumbles.

  “For who? Grammy?”

  He shakes his head.

  His mother walks closer, her face less friendly. Her dark pupils are oddly big and round.

  “Who are they for?”

  He shrugs.

  “They’re for that lady, right? Elizabeth?”

  “How did you know her name?”

  “I heard you talking to her at the playground.”

  “You were spying on me?”

  “You’re my son, Manny. It’s not spying. I’m keeping an eye on you. Somebody has to.”

  He takes a step backward, still clutching the flowers.

  “You know, Manny, I’m still your mother. I feel real bad that I haven’t been around much for you …”

  You’ve never been around for me.

  “… and I’m working real hard to get myself together so that I can come and get you.”

  Come and get you.

  The words sound ominous, and he forces back a shudder.

  “Pretty soon you and me are going to be together, Manny. Won’t that be nice? I’ll get us a place to live, someplace nice. Would you like that?”

  “No,” he says, taking another step backward. “I don’t want to live with you.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “What are you talking about? I’m your mother. You’re my son. You belong with me.”

  “No.” He shakes his head stubbornly and kicks his toe against the dusty ground.

  “Who are those flowers for?”

  Something keeps him from telling her the truth. He bites down hard on his upper lip with his lower teeth to keep from blurting it out.

  “They’re for Elizabeth, aren’t they.” It isn’t a question.

  “No.”

  “Yes, they are. You’re giving her flowers. You never gave me flowers, Manny. And I’m your mother.”

  Oh, yeah? Well, I’m your son. You never gave me anything.

  He just looks at her, unwilling to let his angry thoughts escape aloud.

  She stands there, watching him, for a long time.

  Then she says, “I’m coming to get you, Manny. As soon as I can.”

  “Grammy and Gramps won’t let you take me away.”

  “So? You’re my son. I can take you if I want to.”

  “They won’t let you,” he repeats.

  And neither will Elizabeth.

  “Who says I’m going to ask them for their permission?”

  “You have to. You can’t just take me. Grammy and Gramps are my guardians.”

  “They won’t be for long. Your grandfather’s pretty sick, Manny. He can’t work anymore, and neither can your grandmother, with her hands all mangled from that arthritis. They’re going to lose their house. And you’re not going to have a place to live, except with me.”

  “I don’t want to live with you.”

  “Too bad.”

  He glares at her.

  She glares back.

  With a sudden, impulsive movement, he reaches out and flings the wildflower bouquet squarely in her face, so that the stems hit her and then scatter on the ground.

  “There!” he yells, hating her. “There! I gave you flowers. Are you happy now?”

  And he turns and runs toward home as fast as he can.

  “Do you have any idea who would have done this?”

  Elizabeth shakes her head mutely, sitting on the couch with her head buried in her hands. She can’t bear to look at the living room, with the open drawers and toppled lamps and cushions tossed haphazardly on the floor.

  It’s no better than the rest of the house. Every inch of it has been disturbed by the intruder, who got in by breaking a basement window, then kicking in the door leading up into the house, which she has always kept locked.

  Frank Minelli’s footsteps come closer, and she feels him sitting beside her.

  “Don’t worry, Elizabeth,” he says, his voice calm. “You already said nothing has been stolen. You’re lucky. Some people come home to a break-in and every valuable thing they own has vanished.”

  She nods, unable to stop the trembling that has seized her whole body.

  “There’s been a rash of break-ins like this in Windmere Cove lately,” Frank goes on. “It’s probably kids.”

  She lifts her head, looks at him. “You mean people’s houses are being ransacked without anything being stolen?”

  “Well, most of the time, something is missing,” he admits. “Jewelry, or spare cash … you’re sure everything is here?”

  She nods. She has no jewelry. She left all her diamonds and rubies and emeralds behind in Malibu.

  And her cash … it’s in the safe deposit box at the bank.

  There’s nothing of value in the house.

  And, fortunately, nothing that reveals her true identity. So if it really was just a random break-in, she’s safe.

  But it wasn’t.

  She knows it wasn’t.

  It was her stalker, making himself known. He’s come back to torment her before he kills her.

  Her teeth are chattering and she clenches them together so Frank won’t hear.

  He’s still talking. “It’s a good thing I was home and heard you scream, Elizabeth. Otherwise, you’d be here all upset and alone until a patrol car could get here. Are you sure you don’t want me to call them and have someone come over and file a report?”

  “I’m positive,” she says emphatically. “Nothing is missing, so—”

  “You really should file—”

  “I said no. I appreciate that you came running over, but I didn’t cal
l you here officially. You’re my neighbor, Frank, and you’re not on duty. You happen to be a cop, but that doesn’t mean you—”

  “I know, I know. Look, Elizabeth, this is your business. I just want to make sure you feel safe. A woman living all alone …”

  “I’m fine. I feel safe.”

  Does she sound unconvincing?

  She must.

  He’s looking dubiously at her, rubbing his lip beneath his mustache between his thumb and forefinger, as though he’s trying to think of something he can say that will help to make her feel better.

  “If you want me to stay here tonight, I’d be glad to” is what he comes up with.

  She blurts out, “No!”

  Looking only slightly taken aback, he goes on. “I meant so you wouldn’t have to be alone here tonight, after what happened. After all, I am a cop. I have a gun. And I’m sure Pamela wouldn’t mind....”

  “No,” she says again less vehemently, “it’s okay. I don’t need you to do that. I’ll be fine.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “Frank?”

  It’s Pamela’s voice, coming faintly from outside, in the direction of the Minellis’ yard.

  “she’s back,” he says.

  “she’s looking for you,” Elizabeth tells him. “Go ahead.”

  He stands. “Are you—”

  “I’m fine.” She can’t help being irritated with his persistence, though she knows he’s only trying to help.

  Can’t he understand she just needs to be left alone, as soon as possible?

  “Frank? Where are you?” Pamela’s voice is growing louder.

  “Okay,” he says, heading for the door. “As long as you’re okay, I’ll go. But if you need anything, or if you notice anything unusual, I’m right next door. And I’m off tonight, so I’ll be around. If you want me to fix that basement window, I—”

  “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.” Then, realizing she’s bordering on rude, she forces herself to add politely, “But thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Finally, he’s gone.