CHAPTER TWELVE
Sydney frowned at her slightly puffy reflection in the bathroom medicine chest mirror. This is what you get for that third glass of pinot grigio last night, she thought. She'd already gone downstairs and started up the Mr. Coffee machine. She'd also phoned the network.
George Camper was a head honcho in publicity. Forwarding fan letters and handling special requests were among his department's responsibilities. If someone from the network had sent Elizabeth Grogen and the Dvoraks flowers on her behalf, George would have known about it.
But the network was operating with a Sunday skeletal staff this morning, and nobody knew anything. They'd given her George's home phone number. Sydney had called there and left a message.
With her hair pulled back in a scrunchie, Sydney put some Visine drops in her eyes and then washed her face. She was still haunted by the thought she'd had last night--that perhaps there was a connection between the dead robin on her pillow and Angela's bizarre death.
Drying off her face, she heard the water dripping and glanced over at the sink. The hollow dripping sound wasn't coming from there. She gazed at the closed shower curtain with the map of the world on it. The curtain billowed in and out slightly--almost as if it were breathing. The dripping sound got steadier--then abruptly stopped. Sydney pulled back the curtain and saw the beaded water drops around the tub's drain. One last drop clung to the faucet. Suddenly, something crept out of the drain.
Sydney gasped and bumped into the sink as she recoiled. It took her a moment to realize it was a medium-size spider. But the black crawly thing had still scared the hell out of her. With a shaky hand, she gathered up some toilet paper, then swiped up the spider and flushed it down the toilet. She gave it a second flush, just to be sure.
She wondered if maybe that dead bird had more to do with this creepy town house than with Angela Gannon's death.
Opening the bathroom door, she hadn't expected to see anyone, and there stood Eli in his pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. Sydney gasped. "Good God, Eli, you scared the you-know-what out of me."
"Sorry," he muttered sleepily.
She caught her breath. At least he was talking to her now.
"You done in there?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
She nodded, but remained in the bathroom doorway. "Are we okay?"
"I guess so," Eli replied. "Sorry about dropping those f-bombs on you last night."
She let out a stunned little laugh. "You're just lucky you didn't end up with a mouthful of Dial. I've never heard you use that kind of language." She patted his shoulder. "Anyway, I'm sorry I accused you of putting that bird on my bed. It really unnerved me to find it there. Maybe that sort of thing happens when you live this close to the water--or in a friggin' haunted house."
Eli cracked a smile. "So friggin' is okay to use?"
She kissed his forehead. "Only in front of me--and sparingly. Anyway, we're all forgiven, right?"
Eli nodded, then he slid his arms around her. "I called Dad last night," he said. With his face in her shoulder, his voice was slightly muffled. "He told me you tried to get Brad and Tim out here for a visit. Thanks for trying, Mom."
Sydney held him tightly. "Well, I'm sorry I wasn't able to pull it off."
After a few moments, Eli squirmed a little. "Mom, I got to pee."
She pulled away and mussed his hair. "How about homemade waffles for breakfast? I haven't broken out the waffle iron in months."
"Sounds good, Mom," Eli replied, ducking into the bathroom.
Sydney's first attempt at making a waffle in three months was a disaster. One side was burnt black, the other side nearly raw. She unplugged the waffle iron. "Eli?" she called. "Honey, a little delay to breakfast! It'll be about another fifteen minutes."
"No sweat!" Eli answered from upstairs. "Don't knock yourself out, Mom, because I really don't think..." She couldn't hear the rest, because his voice was fading, and the phone rang.
She checked the caller ID and saw it was George Camper, calling back. She grabbed the cordless. "Hello, George?"
"Hi, Sydney."
"Thanks for getting back to me. Sorry to bother you at home."
"No problem, Sydney. What can I do for you?"
"I wasn't sure if you knew anything about this or not, but last week this couple from Movers & Shakers, Leah Dvorak and Jared McGinty, the ones who stopped the robbery at the Thai restaurant--"
"Yeah, I heard they were murdered," George finished for her. "That's just awful. What a tragedy..."
"Yes, well, last night I found out Angela Gannon committed suicide, at least the police seem to think it might have been a suicide. She's the woman I interviewed who talked that man out of jumping from that office building ledge in Chicago."
"Oh, sure, I remember that story. The girl's dead?"
"Yes," Sydney said. "You didn't know?"
"No, I hadn't heard anything, Sydney. God, that's terrible. In one week, you lost three of your Movers & Shakers people. Were you--um, thinking about doing some kind of posthumous tribute or something?"
"No." Sydney hesitated. He'd already answered her question: he didn't know about Angela's death. Still, she had to ask. "Listen, George, do you think someone in your office might have sent flowers to the Dvoraks and to Angela's sister on my behalf?"
"I'm not sure I understand, Sydney."
"I've gotten notes from the Dvoraks and Angela's sister, thanking me for the flowers--and I didn't send any. Do you think someone in your department--or any other department--might have sent flowers to these people and signed my name on the card?"
"Not in my department," George replied. "I can't think of anyone at the network who would have done that. The folks in Legal have names and addresses on file from when your interview subjects sign the waivers making sure we don't get sued. But I really doubt anyone in Legal sent the next of kin flowers. Besides, they wouldn't have the addresses of the relatives."
"No, of course they wouldn't," Sydney heard herself say.
"Is there anything else I could do for you, Sydney?"
Numb, Sydney sat down at the tall cafe table in the corner of her kitchen. If no one from the network had sent flowers in her name to the Dvoraks and Angela's sister, then who had? Who would have the addresses of the deceased's relatives?
"Sydney, are you still there?"
"Yes, George," she said. "Um, thanks for your help."
"No worries," he said. "I'm sorry about your Movers & Shakers friends. Let me know if there's anything I can do."
"I will. Thanks, George," she murmured. Then Sydney clicked off the phone.
She sat there in a stupor for a moment until she could smell bacon burning. She put down the cordless phone, quickly got to her feet, and hurried to the stove. "Eli!" she called, removing the bacon from the grill with a set of tongs. "We're having our bacon extra crisp! Is that okay with you?"
There was no response from upstairs.
"Honey? Eli?"
Switching off the stove, she headed up the hallway to the foyer. Sydney stopped abruptly when she saw a piece of paper taped to the banister newel post:
I didn't want to bug you while you're on the phone. I decided to go to the beach like I was telling you. I'll get something to eat at the bakery. Be back around 3.
Love, Eli.
Dressed in khaki shorts, gym shoes, and a white T-shirt that had CHICAGO POLICE and their insignia on it, Eli carried a backpack as he shuffled along the sidewalk. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and Madison Park beach was a mob scene. A few boom boxes competed with the ice cream truck that played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" over and over. Eli couldn't see any grass on the sloping lawn leading down to the water--just blankets and people, lots of nearly naked people. He noticed one cute teenage girl in a yellow bikini that he liked. She was doing a sexy little dance and squealing--very loudly. Then he saw she had a cigarette in her hand, and he decided between the squealing and the smoking, she was probably a jerk. So Eli moved on, bypassing the beach--even though
in his backpack he had a beach blanket, his trunks, and a tube of sunblock.
Passing restaurants, shops, and then the bakery, he walked to the bus stop. His timing was perfect. Eli could see the Number 11 coming up the street. He dug into his pocket for bus fare and Vera Cormier's Christmas card.
The bus came to a stop in front of him and then the door whooshed open. Eli stepped aboard, and dropped his fare into the receptacle. He showed the bus driver Vera's Christmas theme return address sticker on the envelope. "I need to go to this address," Eli said. "Could you tell me where I should transfer and on what line?"
The driver was a thin black woman in her late thirties. She had auburn hair and wore sunglasses. "Sure, handsome," she said with a smile. "Just park it right behind me there in the handicapped area, and I'll tell you what to do. I know that place. It's nice. Visiting a grandparent?"
A dark-skinned man with a green Izod polo shirt and sunglasses stepped in after him. The man threw some money into the machine and then brushed past Eli. He took a seat near the back of the bus.
Eli glanced at him for a moment before he sat down in the handicapped area. "Um, yes," he said to the driver, as the bus started moving again. "I'm visiting my grandmother. And I've never been there before."
Eli had called Evergreen Point Manor early this morning, while his mother had been downstairs in her office. He'd asked if Vera Cormier still lived there. The operator had told him yes, and would he like to be connected to her extension?
"Um, no thanks," Eli had whispered into the phone. "I'd like to surprise her. How--um, how's she doing, by the way?" He'd imagined going all that way to meet with some loopy old lady who couldn't even talk. "Is she okay?"
"Vera? Oh, Vera's great. She'll outlive us all."
Eli had thanked the operator, then hung up. It might have been easier to talk with the old lady on the phone, but he remembered something his mother had told him about interviewing people. She'd said online and phone interviews were okay in a pinch, but it was best to do it in person, one-on-one.
He glanced around at some of the other passengers on the bus, and his gazed stopped on the man with the green shirt seated near the back. He looked so familiar. With his dark hair and olive complexion, he looked like an Italian actor in The Sopranos.
Gazing at him, Eli remembered something else his mother had said--about her stalker. He was an olive-skinned man, possibly Latino, medium build, and with an eye infection of some sort. This guy on the bus still had on his sunglasses. He wasn't wearing a Felix Hernandez Mariners shirt, but otherwise the guy totally fit the description of this stalker.
Eli kept studying the man, who stared out the bus window. Eli hadn't seen the guy in the Mariners number 59 shirt yesterday. So why did this man on the bus seem so familiar?
Suddenly, the man turned and faced him.
Eli quickly looked away. He remembered him now: the man he'd almost collided with at the fun fair, the one who stood and stared at him. For a while, Eli had thought the guy was following him. He'd even screamed at someone else in a beige top, thinking it had been that man. Then he'd realized his mistake and figured if that man had indeed been following him, he must have given up.
Eli stole a glance at the stranger near the back of the bus, and he realized something.
The man hadn't given up at all.
"MARCO...POLO! MARCO...POLO!" The kids were screaming in the shallow water near the shore. Shrieking, flailing their arms, another swarm of wet children raced by her, and she was sprinkled with water.
Sydney wandered along the shore, looking at all the swimmers, as well as the sunbathers on the grass. The beach was packed, but she didn't see Eli anywhere. There had been a few false alarms, boys who looked like Eli from behind or at a distance, but no Eli.
Craning her neck, Sydney stood on her tiptoes for a better look at a large raft tied to poles in the deep water. It was crammed with people, many of them standing in line to use one of the two diving boards. She couldn't tell from here if Eli was among them.
"Attention, swimmers!" a lifeguard announced into a bullhorn. He got up from the little bench on his observation perch. "Eli McCloud, please report to the lifeguard station at the beach house. Eli McCloud, please report to the lifeguard station at the beach house."
Sydney waved and mouthed thank you to the lifeguard, and he waved back at her. Then she threaded around all the blankets and sunbathers over toward the beach house. If only she'd caught a glimpse of Eli as he'd left the apartment. Then she would have known which pair of swim trunks he had on, and it might have been easier to spot him.
She felt so frustrated--and anxious. She couldn't really be angry at Eli for leaving the way he had. Obviously, when he'd called down to her while she'd been on the phone, he must have said something about skipping the big breakfast for this beach trip. Why wasn't she listening to him?
She'd warned Eli last night about her stalker. But he hadn't taken her too seriously. And why should he have? He didn't know she was worried about more than just this stranger in a Mariners number 59 T-shirt.
In his note, he'd said he would return at three o'clock. That was two and a half hours from now.
Standing by the lifeguard station, Sydney shielded her eyes from the sun. She scanned all the faces and body types, thinking there was still a chance she'd see Eli. She kept hoping that he'd emerge from the crowd and come toward her.
But she had an awful feeling Eli wasn't anywhere near here.
Eli waited for the swarthy man in the green shirt to take off his sunglasses. He wanted to see if one of his eyes was infected. But the man's glasses stayed on.
Eli remembered a ValuCo price tag had been sticking out of the sleeve of the guy's beige jacket at the fun fair yesterday. Obviously the guy had picked it up in a hurry so he could cover his Mariners 59 T-shirt. Maybe he'd grabbed the baseball cap, too; anything to alter his appearance--just in case his target had started to catch on to him.
The closer they got to downtown Seattle, the more the bus filled up, and now people were standing. The bus driver announced they were in a free-ride zone, and people started getting on and off through a door closer to where that man sat--as well as the one up front.
No one had asked Eli to give up the handicap seat, thank God. He'd been able to sit there while the driver told him where to transfer for the bus to Evergreen Point Manor.
A woman in the back pulled the Stop cord for the driver. Eli watched her get out of her seat and waddle over to the bus's back door. Eli stood up. "This isn't your stop yet, honey," the driver told him.
"I know," Eli whispered. He held onto a pole and leaned close to her. "There a creepy guy in a green shirt back there. He's got sunglasses on. I think he's been following me."
Her eyes searched in the rearview mirror. "Looks normal enough," she said. "What--is he a pervert or something? Want me to radio it in?"
"No, but I'd really like to lose him."
As she pulled over to the next stop, Eli moved closer to the door. Casually glancing back, he saw the man get to his feet. He shuffled past a few passengers in the aisle, then stood behind the woman at the back door.
No one was at the stop as the bus ground to a halt. And no one stood behind Eli at the front door. It whooshed open. He took another step toward the door, then crouched down and turned to the driver. "Has that guy stepped off yet?" he whispered.
Her focus shifted up to the rearview mirror. She kept one hand on the door lever. "One second...okay..."
Eli heard that whoosh sound again, and the doors closed right behind him. He felt the draft on the back of his legs.
Grinning, the bus driver started to pull into traffic. The man in the green shirt pounded on the rear door to get back in. Eli spied him through the window. He looked so pissed off. He was running alongside the bus.
"Hey, stop!" yelled a woman passenger. "Stop, driver! Somebody wants to get on!"
The driver picked up speed. "Like the song says, 'It's Too Late, Baby!'"
"
Thank you," Eli whispered, and he returned to his seat.
The transfer stop to the Number 41 was only a few blocks from where they'd ditched the creepy guy in the green shirt. So while Eli waited in the bus shelter, he kept a lookout for the strange man. He felt bad for not taking his mom more seriously when she'd said she might have a stalker. But his mom was wrong about one thing: this weird guy wasn't stalking her; he was stalking him.
The bus driver on the Number 41 wasn't nearly as nice as the lady driver on the Number 11. He was a pasty-faced guy in his forties. When Eli asked if this was the bus to Evergreen Point Manor, the driver nodded tiredly. "Your stop's Northeast 125th. You'll walk three blocks north from there."
"Um, how will I know if--"
"I'll announce it," he interrupted. "You got about twenty minutes. Take a seat."
Eli did as he was told. He found an empty seat. But at the first stop on I-5, the bus filled up with a score of noisy, obnoxious teenagers who kept screaming and laughing. A big woman with BO ended up sitting next to him, and she talked loudly on her cell phone the whole time. It was all Eli could do not to rip it out of her hand and hurl it out the window. The noise died down when most of the people got off at Northgate Shopping Mall. His stop was two stops later.
It was an industrial park area bordering on a big forest. The buildings housed medical and dental offices, as well as some insurance company branches. Every building looked the same: cold, sterile, and boring--each with a big parking lot. Eli couldn't find Evergreen Court Northeast. He wandered around for fifteen minutes until he saw a bus pull into another parking area beyond some trees. Then he noticed the big stone slab with raised lettering on it at the edge of the lot:
EVERGREEN POINT MANOR
A Seniors Community Since 1998
There was also a sunflower carved in the stone. That must have been their symbol, because the same sunflower was stenciled on the orange awning over the front door. The drab three-story building was beige with tan trim and a lot of balconies--probably with views of the boring industrial park. A couple of woman with walkers slowly lumbered toward the front entrance. Eli was amazed to see one bundled up in a sweatsuit, and the other had a sweater on--in this warm weather. Two elderly men sat on a bench by the door. One wore a hat and a sweater; his buddy appeared to have dressed for a golf game, only his shirt was inside out and he held onto a cane. "Hey there, sport!" the hat-wearing old man on the bench called to him. His friend with the cane waved and smiled.
Final Breath Page 20