The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

by Otto Penzler

  At ten o’clock on Friday morning, Kevin was once again in Lou Ferroni’s office in the FBI building.

  “Thanks to the publicity, we’ve been able to pretty much cover Miss Matthews’ activities on Saturday,” Agent Ferroni told him. “Several neighbors reported they saw her walking down the street at about two o’clock on Saturday. They agree that she was wearing a bright yellow raincoat and jeans and carrying a shoulder bag. We know the raincoat and bag are missing from her home. We don’t know what she did on Saturday afternoon, but we do know she had dinner alone at Antonio’s in Georgetown and went to the nine o’clock showing of the new Batman film at the Beacon Theater.” Bree had dinner alone on Saturday night, Kevin thought. So did I. And she genuinely likes those crazy Batman films. We’ve laughed about that. I can’t stand them, but I had promised to see that one with her.

  “No one seems to have seen Miss Matthews after that,” Ferroni continued. “But we do have one piece of information that we find significant. We’ve learned that the contractor she was suing was in the same movie theater that night at the same showing. He claims he drove directly home, but there’s no one to back up his story. He apparently separated from his wife recently.”

  Ferroni did not add that the contractor had mouthed off to a

  number of people about what he’d like to do to the dame who was hauling him into court over what he termed “some silly leak.” “We’re working on the theory that Miss Matthews did not get home that night. Was she in the habit of using the Metro instead of her car?”

  “The Metro or a cab if she was going directly from place to place. She said trying to park was too much of a nuisance.” Kevin could see that Ferroni was starting to believe that Richie Ombert, the contractor, was responsible for Bree’s disappearance. He thought of Ombert in court this past Monday. Surly. Aggravated. Noisily elated when the judge dismissed the complaint.

  He wasn’t acting, Kevin thought. He seemed genuinely surprised and relieved when Bree didn’t show up. No, Ombert is not the answer. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He suddenly felt as though he were being smothered. He had to get out of here. “There are no other leads?” he asked Ferroni.

  The FBI agent thought of the briefly considered theory that Bree Matthews had been abducted by a serial killer. “No,” he said firmly, then added, “How is Miss Matthews’ family? Has her father gone back to Connecticut?”

  “He had to. We’re in constant touch, but Bree’s grandmother had a mild heart attack Tuesday evening. One of those horrible coincidences. Bree’s mother is with her. You can imagine the state she’s in. That’s why Bree’s father went back.”

  Ferroni shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I thought we’d get good news.” He realized that in a way it would have been better if they thought the serial killer had Matthews. All the women he had abducted had lived for several weeks after disappearing. That would at least give them more time.

  Kevin got up. “I’m going to Bree’s house,” he said. “I’m going to call every one of the people in her phone book.”

  Ferroni raised his eyebrows.

  “I want to see if anyone spoke to her on Sunday,” Kevin said simply.

  “With all the publicity these last few days about her disappearance, any friend who spoke to her would have come forward, I’m sure of that,” Ferroni told him. “How do you think we traced her movements on Saturday?”

  Kevin did not answer.

  “What about her answering machine? Were there any messages on it?” Kevin asked.

  “Not from Sunday, or if there had been, they were erased,” Ferroni replied. “At first we thought it might be significant, but then we realized that she could have called in and gotten them just by using the machine’s code.”

  Kevin shook his head dejectedly. He had to get out of there. He had promised to phone Ica after his meeting with Ferroni but decided to wait and call her from Bree’s house instead. He realized he was frantic to be there, that somehow being around her things made him feel nearer to Bree.

  Her neighbor, the guy with the ponytail, was coming down the block when Kevin parked in front of the house. He was carrying a shopping bag from the bookstore. Their eyes met, but neither man spoke. Instead the neighbor nodded, then turned to go up his walk.

  Wouldn’t you think he’d have the decency to at least ask about Bree? Kevin thought bitterly. Too damn busy washing his windows or tending his lawn to give a damn about anyone else.

  Or maybe he’s embarrassed to ask. Afraid of what he’ll hear. Kevin took out the key Ica had given him, let himself in to the house, and phoned her.

  “Can you come over and help me?” he asked. “There’s something about this place that’s bugging me. Something’s just not quite right, and I can’t figure out what it is. Maybe you can help.” While he waited, he stared at the phone. Bree was one of the few women he had ever known who considered the phone an intrusion. “At home we always turned off the ringer at mealtime,” she had told him. “It’s so much more civilized.”

  So civilized that now we don’t know if anyone spoke to you on Sunday, Kevin thought. He looked around; there’s got to be a clue here somewhere, he told himself. Why was he so sure that the contractor wasn’t the answer to Bree’s disappearance?

  Restlessly he began to walk around the downstairs floor. He stopped at the door of the front room. The contrast to the cheery kitchen and den was striking. Here as in the dining room, because of the water damage, the furniture and carpet were covered with plastic and pushed to the center of the room.

  The wallpaper — or wall hanging (as Bree had insisted it be called) — a soft ivory with a faint stripe, was stained and bubbled.

  Kevin remembered how happy Bree had been when all the decorating was supposedly finished three months ago. They’d even talked around the subject of marriage, in the same sentence mentioning her town house and the marvelous old farmhouse he had bought for Virginia weekends.

  Too damn cautious to commit ourselves, Kevin thought bitterly. But not too cautious to have a fight over nothing. It had all been so silly.

  He thought about sitting with her in that same room, the warm ivories and reds and blues of the Persian carpet repeated up in the newly reupholstered couch and chairs. Bree had pointed to the vertical metal blinds.

  “I hate those damn things,” she had said. “The last one doesn’t even close properly, but I wanted to get everything else in before I choose draperies.”

  The blinds. He looked up.

  The doorbell rang, interrupting his train of thought. It was Ica. The handsome Jamaican woman’s face mirrored the misery he felt. “I haven’t slept two hours straight this week,” she said. “Looks to me as though you haven’t either.”

  Kevin nodded. “Ica, there’s something about this house that’s bothering me, something I ought to be noticing. Help me.”

  She nodded. “It’s funny you should say that, ’cause I felt that way too, but blamed it on finding the bed being made and the dishes done. But if Bree didn’t get home Saturday night, then that would explain those things. She never left the place untidy.”

  Together they walked up the stairs to the bedroom. Ica looked around uncertainly. “The room felt different when I got here Monday, different from the way it usually feels,” she said hesitantly.

  “In what way?” Kevin asked quickly.

  “It was . . . well, it was way too neat.” Ica walked over to the bed. “Those throw pillows, Bree just tossed them around, like the way they are now.”

  “What are you telling me?” Kevin asked. He grabbed her arm, aware that Ica was about to tell him what he needed to know.

  “This whole place felt just— too neat. I stripped the bed even though it was made because I wanted to change the sheets. I had to dig and pull the sheets and blanket loose, they were tucked in so tight. And the throw pillows on top of the quilt were all lined up against the headboard like little soldiers.”

  “Anything else? Please just keep talking, lea. We ma
y be getting somewhere,” Kevin begged.

  “Yes,” lea said excitedly. “Last week Bree had let a pot boil over. I scoured it as best I could and left a note for her to pick up some steel wool and scouring powder; I said I’d finish it when I came back. Monday morning that pot was sitting out on the stove, scrubbed clean as could be. I know my Bree. She never would have touched it. She told me those strong soaps made her hands break out. Come on, I’ll show it to you.”

  Together they ran down the stairs into the kitchen. From the cupboard she pulled out a gleaming pot. “There isn’t even a mark on the bottom,” she said. “You’d think it was practically brand new.” She looked excitedly at Kevin. “Things just weren’t right here. The bed was made too neatly. This pot is too clean.”

  “And . . . and the blind in the front window has been fixed,” Kevin shouted. “It’s lined up like the ones next door.”

  He didn’t know he had been about to say that, but suddenly he realized that was what had been bothering him all along. He had sensed the difference right away, but the effect had been so subtle, it had registered only in his subconscious. But now that he had brought it into focus, he thought of the neighbor, the quiet guy with the ponytail, the one who was always washing his windows or trimming his lawn or sweeping his walk.

  What did anyone know about him? If he rang the bell, Bree might have let him in. And he had offered to fix the blind — Bree had mentioned that. Kevin pulled Ferroni’s card from his pocket and handed it to lea. “I’m going next door. Tell Ferroni to get over here fast.”

  ‘Just one more book. That’s all we’ll have time for. Then you’ll leave me again, Mommy. Just like she did. Just like all of them did.” In the two hours she had been reading to him, Bree had watched Mensch regress from adoring to angry child. He’s working up the courage to kill me, she thought.

  He was sitting cross-legged beside her on the mat.

  “But I want to read all of them to you,” she said, her voice soothing, coaxing. “I know you’ll love them. Then tomorrow I could help you to paint the walls. We. could get it done so much faster if we work together. Then we could go away somewhere together, so I can keep reading to you.”

  He stood up abruptly. ‘You’re trying to trick me. You don’t want to go with me. You’re just like all the others.” He stared at her, his eyes shuttered and small with anger. “I saw your boyfriend go into your house a little while ago. He’s too nosy. It’s good that you’re wearing the jeans. I have to get your raincoat and shoulder bag.” He looked as if he was about to cry. “There’s no time for any more books,” he said sadly.

  He rushed out. I’m going to die, Bree thought. Frantically she tried to pull her arms and legs free of the restraints. Her right arm swung up and she realized that he’d forgotten to refasten the shackle to the wall. He had said Kevin was next door. She had heard that you can transfer thoughts. She closed her eyes and concentrated: Kevin, help me. Kevin, I need you.

  She had to play for time. She would have only one chance at him, one moment of surprise. She would swing at his head with the dangling shackle, try to stun him. But what good would that do? Save her for a few seconds? Then what? she thought despondently. How could she stop him?

  Her eyes fell on the stack of books. Maybe there was a way. She grabbed the first one and began tearing the pages, scattering the pieces, forcing them to flutter hither and yon across the bright yellow mattress.

  I must have known that today was the day, Mensch thought as he retrieved Bree’s raincoat and shoulder bag from the bedroom closet. I laid out jeans and the red sweater she was wearing that Saturday. When they find her it will be like all the others. And again they will ask that same question: Where was she for the days she had been missing? It would be fun to read about it. Everyone wanting to know, and only he would have the answer.

  As he came down the stairs, he stopped suddenly. The doorbell was ringing. The button was being held down. He laid down the pocketbook and the coat and stood frozen momentarily with uncertainty. Should he answer? Would it seem suspicious if he didn’t? No. Better to get rid of her, get her out of here fast, he decided.

  Mensch picked up the raincoat and rushed down the basement stairs.

  I know he’s in there, Kevin thought, but he’s not answering. I’ve got to get inside.

  Ica was running across the lawn. “Mr. Ferroni is on his way. He said to absolutely wait for him. Not to ring the bell anymore. He got all excited when I talked about everything being so neat. He said if it’s what he thinks it is, Bree will still be alive.”

  It seemed to Kevin that he could hear Bree crying out to him. He was overwhelmed by a sense of running out of time, by an awareness that he had to get into Mensch’s house immediately. He ran to the front window and strained to look in. Through the slats he could see the rigidly neat living room. Craning his head, he could see the stairway in the foyer. Then his blood froze. A woman’s leather shoulder bag was on the last step. Bree’s shoulder bag! He recognized it; he had given it to her for her birthday.

  Frantically he ran to the sidewalk where a refuse can stood waiting to be emptied. He dumped the contents onto the street, ran back with the can, and overturned it under the window. As Ica steadied it for him, he climbed up, then kicked in the window. As the glass shattered, he kicked away the knifelike edges and jumped into the room. He raced up the stairs, shouting Bree’s name.

  Finding no one there, he clattered down the stairs again, pausing only long enough to open the front door. “Tell the FBI I’m inside, Ica.”

  He raced through the rooms on the ground floor and still found no one.

  There was only one place left to search: the basement.

  Finally the ringing stopped. Whoever had been at the door had gone away. Mensch knew he had to hurry. The raincoat and a plastic bag over his arm, he strode across the basement, through the boiler room, and opened the door to the secret room.

  Then he froze. Bits of paper littered the yellow plastic. Matthews was tearing up the books, his baby books. “Stop it! ” he shrieked.

  His head hurt, his throat was closing. He had a pain in his chest. The room was a mess; he had to clean it up.

  He felt dizzy, almost as if he couldn’t breathe. It was as if the mess of papers was smothering him! He had to clean it up so he could breathe!

  Then he would kill her. Kill her slowly. He ran into the bathroom, grabbed the wastebasket, ran back and began scooping up the shredded paper and mangled books. His frenzied hands worked quickly, efficiently. In only minutes there wasn’t a single scrap left.

  He looked about him. Matthews was cowering against the mattress. He stood over her. “You’re a pig, just like my mommy. This is what I did to her.” He knelt beside her, the plastic bag in his hands. Then her hand swung up. The shackle on her wrist slammed into his face.

  He screamed, and for an instant he was stunned, then with a snarl he snapped his fingers around her throat.

  The basement was empty too. Where was she? Kevin thought desperately. He was about to run into the garage, when from somewhere behind the boiler room he heard Mensch howl in pain. And then there came a scream. A woman’s scream. Bree was screaming!

  An instant later, as August Mensch tightened his hands on Bree Matthews’ neck, he felt his head yanked back and then there was a violent punch that caused his knees to buckle. Dazed, he shook his head and then with a guttural cry sprang to his feet.

  Bree reached out and grabbed his ankle, pulling him off balance as Kevin caught him in a hammer grip around the throat.

  Moments later, pounding feet on the basement stairs announced the arrival of the FBI. One minute later Bree, now in the shelter of Kevin’s arms, watched as Mensch was manacled with chains at his waist and hands and legs, looking dazed.

  “Let’s see how you like being tied up,” she screamed at him.

  Two days later, Bree and Kevin stood together at her grandmother’s bedside in Connecticut. “The doctor said you’ll be fine, Gran,” Bree told
her.

  “Of course I’m fine. Forget the health talk. Let’s hear about your place. I bet you made that contractor squirm in court, didn’t you?”

  Bree grinned at Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, Gran, I decided to accept his settlement offer after all. I’ve finally realized that I really hate getting into fights.”

  This Is a Voice from Your Past

  from Chattahoochee Review

  Every woman gets a call like this sooner or later. The phone rings, a man says: “This is a voice from your past.” If you’re in the mood and the caller doesn’t find you in a room where other people are (particularly your husband), and if you have some time to spare, you might enjoy playing the game.

  “Who is this?” I said, when my call came.

  “Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Alvord’s class? Florida? Your senior year?”

  I paused. There had been a number of young men in my life in college, in Florida, in my senior year — and most of them were in Alvord’s class.

  This call — the first from Ricky — came just after I had given birth to my second daughter. I was living in California. I was in the kitchen cutting a hot dog into little greasy pieces for my two-year-old’s lunch and at the same time I felt my milk coming down, that sharp burning pain in both nipples, like an ooze of fire.

  ‘Janet?” His voice was husky, or he was whispering. “This is a serious voice from your past. You know who I am. I think of you all the time. And I work at the phone company, I get free calls, so don’t worry about this long-distance shit, I can talk to you all night if I want to.”

  “Tell me who you are,” I said, just stalling for time, but suddenly I knew and was truly astounded. I had thought of Ricky often in the kind of reveries in which we all engage when we count the lives that never were meant to be for us.