by Laura Alden
“Go to work,” Millie said, moving her reading glasses from the top of her head to her nose. She made a few fast squiggly notes. Shorthand, I realized. How pretty it was. “With your permission,” she said, “I’ll talk to Oliver. See what I can see. Today is Wednesday . . .” She turned to her laptop and tapped keys. “My schedule is full today and I’m not due back to Tarver until next Monday. Will that be soon enough?”
“Oh.” Somehow I’d thought she’d be able to pull Oliver out of his classroom, have a cozy chat, and figure it all out before lunchtime. “Well, sure. If that’s the soonest you can, that’s the soonest you can.”
Millie studied my face. I don’t know what she saw, but she said, “I’ll see if I can fit him in today. Not a full session, but we can get comfortable with each other. That will help for Monday.”
The tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. “Thank you.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” She smiled, back to being a fairy godmother. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how things went.”
I thanked her again and left, worry seeping back into those cracks and crevices. Tomorrow. It suddenly seemed like a million miles away.
• • •
Lois and I and a young man named Cody sat around the table in the workroom. Yvonne said she’d rather not do interviews, if I didn’t mind. Lois had put her hand on her heart and promised to be good, but I was starting to think that her definition of good and mine were quite different.
Cody looked around. “Like, this is where you sort all the books and stuff?”
“And stuff,” Lois said. “Absolutely. We do lots of stuff back here.”
Lois had taken against the boy even before he’d walked into the store. She’d noticed him walking down the sidewalk a few minutes before his interview. “Another fine piece of youth,” she’d said, pointing. “Why on earth do they buy pants that long if they’re just going to let them drag in the dirt? And all that black. They think they’re in New York, or what?”
I’d looked up from the stack of special orders I was sorting. “He’s clean-shaven and his hair’s combed.”
She’d snorted. “A five-year-old can do that much.”
I’d started to point out that five-year-olds don’t shave when he’d walked in the door. Now the interview was five minutes old and going south fast. “So,” I said heartily, smiling as sincerely as I could. “What makes you want to work in a children’s bookstore, Cody?”
“Uh . . .” He pulled at his lower lip. “I need a job, like, real bad. My mom says she’s not making any more of my car payments until I start doing something.”
Lois leaned forward. “So you know how to read?”
“Well, yeah. Like, I graduated high school, you know. It’s on my application.”
Before Lois could get going on her soapbox about the current state of public schools, I asked, “What reading have you done outside of school assignments?”
“Uh.” More lip pulling. “I guess there’s a couple of those graphic novel things that I read once.”
“Have you read any Harry Potter books?”
“Nah. They’re too long. I don’t got time for that. I saw the movies, though.” His face gained some animation. “Like that first movie was cool, you know, when the chess pieces came alive and—”
“You didn’t read any of the books?” Lois asked.
“Nah. Are they any good?”
“How about the Percy Jackson books?” I asked. “The Lightning Thief? The Last Olympian?”
“You mean like the video game? I didn’t know they’d made a book out of it.”
I laid a hand on Lois’s arm. “Thanks so much for your time, Cody. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”
“Uh, yeah. You’re that PTA president, right? I hear you guys got a wicked curse going. That’s fierce, man, fierce.”
“There’s no such thing as a curse,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever.” Cody inched forward on his chair. “And you’re the one who keeps finding dead people, right? What do they look like? Do they look like they’ve been murdered, you know, all bug-eyed and scared?” He widened his eyes and made them stick out as far as they could. “Or do they look more like they’re sleeping? My buddy and I have this bet, see. I figure murdered people got to look scared.”
I stared at the table. At the pad of paper I’d brought in. At the blank paper.
Don’t listen to him. Don’t go back in time. Don’t relive the awful horror of finding your friend Sam strangled to death. Don’t see the red blood staining Dennis’s shirt, don’t see his too-still chest. Don’t, don’t, don’t.
Lois stood up. “We’re done, kid. Don’t call us, we’ll call you, okay?”
“But she hasn’t said which—”
“Out!”
“Oh, man, this sucks,” Cody muttered. “I was so close.” But he slouched to his feet and scuffed out.
“You okay?” Lois asked.
“Fine,” I said automatically. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. But I’ll make you a mug of chamomile that’ll fix you up fast.” She patted my shoulder. “Come with me. We’ll drink tea and make fun of him the rest of the afternoon. I can’t wait to tell Yvonne what he said about Percy Jackson.”
I got to my feet and trailed after her.
Don’t go back. Don’t see it. Don’t relive it.
But, of course, I did.
• • •
Since it was Wednesday and Richard was done giving his seminar, I stayed late at the store. When Richard had the kids on a weeknight he was dutiful about dropping them off at school the next morning, dressed and breakfasted, their homework done. There was no reason for me to worry about them. None at all.
Not so very long ago, Evan and I had spent Wednesday evenings together. Those nights had passed quickly, but now that I was footloose and fancy-free, I’d begun working late, long past closing time. A salad from the Green Tractor served well enough for dinner, and I hardly ever spilled dressing on anything important.
And it turned out that I liked working late. The store, dark and quiet, felt comfortable around me. The shelves were filled with books I knew and loved, books waiting for new owners to pick them up and take them home.
I shook away the thought. The concept felt right, but it wasn’t something I’d risk saying out loud in a public setting.
When I finished my To Do list—or at least finished the tasks I had a realistic chance of completing—I got up and turned off my office light. I’d been in there so long I hadn’t realized that the sun had set long ago. Shelves and books were lit only by what was trickling in through the front windows, streetlight leftovers.
Huh.
Since it was unlikely that I’d get through the mostly dark store without crashing into something, I flicked on the rear bank of overhead lights. Immediately, I was distracted by the new crop of early-reader books Yvonne had put out, and it took me a good fifteen minutes to make my way to the back entrance. I reached for the light switch, turned it to off . . . but nothing happened.
Huh.
I flicked it a few times, but the lights stayed on. Bugger. I tramped back through the store, turned the lights off at the other switch, hoped I’d be smart enough to remember to get the broken switch replaced soon, and picked my way carefully across the darkness.
When I opened the door, I finally recognized the faint noise that I’d been hearing for the last two hours and hadn’t paid much attention to.
Rain.
Which meant wet.
I liked being wet just fine when it was intentional, but not so much when it was forced upon me. “Rats,” I said.
The rain continued down.
“Double rats.”
I stared into the alley. The sole city streetlight was burned out, and the only other illumination came from a few business owners who left the lights over their alley entrances on all night. The asphalt seemed to attract any stray ray of light and absorb it without reflect
ing it back. What if this alley was something out of a Dean Koontz novel and it was going to suck in every last particle of light in Rynwood, in Wisconsin, in the country, in the world . . . ?
“Stop that,” I muttered, and yanked my imagination out of the dark and stupid direction it wanted to go. “Butterflies, kittens, and rainbows.” Much better. “Sunshine, ice cream, and—”
The sound of footsteps interrupted my positive thoughts. “Lou?” I called. “Is that you?” The sound stopped. “Hello?”
I peered into the rain, trying to see who it was. Suddenly, all the odd events of the last few days piled up together in my memory. The hang-up phone calls. The footsteps I’d heard Saturday morning.
Fear sizzled down my throat. I shrank back into the doorway and felt for the knob. If I could get out my keys without making a sound, I could get inside and call the police. Gus would come to my rescue, and . . .
And the guy would be long gone and I’d look like an idiot. Gus would be nice about having to come out in the rain, but I’d feel head-patted.
I hated that feeling.
So instead, I sank into a crouch and crab walked down the single step. Moving silently in my sensible shoes, I skirted the side of the building, stayed low while moving around my car, and edged behind the Dumpster we used for cardboard recycling. From here, I had a sight line that would let me see anyone walking down the alley.
Rain dripped off the roof and down the back of my neck. I put up the collar of my light coat and wished I’d ignored Marina’s scoffing when I’d wanted to buy a jacket with a hood.
I stayed down and waited. Soon, my thighs started screaming at me to “Stand up; we’re not used to this!” but I ignored them.
The rain came down.
I waited. He was out there. I knew he was. All I had to do was wait. I could wait; waiting was something moms did every day.
More rain.
My thighs screamed louder.
More waiting.
When my calf muscles had cramped almost to the point of no return, the footsteps came again, shuffling forward through the river of rain now sheeting off the asphalt.
There he was. I saw a foot, a leg, a second foot and leg, a rain-coated body, and . . .
My right foot slipped. I fell forward, my shoulder crashing hard against the Dumpster, the thudding noise reverberating off the buildings, the concrete, the asphalt. The figure turned my way. I gasped.
It was Staci Yost.
• • •
We stood in the store’s kitchenette. I’d rummaged through the cabinets and come up with a handful of clean dish towels. Staci was rubbing at her hair with a terry-cloth rooster and apologizing like crazy.
“I was so horrible to you at Dad’s visitation. Ryan tried to stop me, I know he did, but I wouldn’t listen. All those things I said, it would serve me right if you never forgave me. I’m sorry, Beth, I really am. I can’t believe I was so mean to you in front of all those people!”
Murmuring something about grief and the pain of loss, I handed her another towel.
“Look at you,” Staci said. “You should be yelling at me for being such a jerk. Instead you’re helping me dry off.”
I took our wet towels, hung them over the edge of the sink, and tried to think of something to say. I wasn’t mad at all; I was just relieved that the person in the alley hadn’t been a man with a stocking mask over his face and a gun in his hand.
“Anyway,” Staci went on, “I’ve wanted to apologize ever since. But every time I picked up the phone, I just didn’t know what to say, so I hung up.”
“You called?”
She dragged her fingers through her wet hair. “Ow. I guess I called a few times. Here and at your house, too. I’m really sorry. You probably thought I was a stalker or something. You know, like that woman who was after my dad.”
The world, which had been moving at a rapid clip complete with sounds, smells, and textures, came to a sudden and very quiet stop. “What woman?”
“Dad—” A small noise came out of her, a tiny whimper of pain. I started to move toward her, to offer what comfort I could, but she shook her head and stepped back. “I’m good. It’s okay, thanks. Dad said some woman kept bugging him. He thought it was funny, I think.”
“Bugging him about what?”
She shrugged. “He never said. Because of client confidentiality maybe? Not sure. But I don’t think he took her very seriously. He said any woman who wore that much jewelry wasn’t to be trusted. And then he’d laugh.” Her smile came and went so fast, I wasn’t sure I’d even seen it.
“Did you tell the police about this woman?”
“Well, no. There wasn’t anything I could tell them, not really.” She blotted the ends of her hair with the towel. “Do you think I should?”
“You never know what will be important in a police investigation.” Then, because that had sounded far too Richard-like, I added, “If you want, I could talk to Chief Eiseley. Tell him what you said and ask him if he thinks you should talk to the sheriff’s office.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?” Staci’s eyes looked moist. “After what I said?”
I handed her a plaid towel. “Here, your hair still looks wet.” Surely no one could cry with a plaid towel on her head. “That’s nothing compared to what my kids put me through every day.”
What might have been a sob was swallowed up by a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth. And my mom says I’m the one who turned her hair gray, so I guess what goes around comes around.”
I was pretty sure it had been my sister Darlene who’d been the cause of my mother’s hair change, with some blame laid at the feet of my sister Kathy, and a little bit at my brother Tim’s door. I’d been the quiet kid, the good kid, and I couldn’t remember doing a thing that would have cost my parents any sleep. Well, except for the time in high school when I snuck out to go to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. That might have worried them a little. And there was the time that—
“So I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Staci said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me both for making a scene at the visitation and for scaring the crap out of you.”
I bowed. “Lady Staci of the Yost, thou art forgiven.”
She curtsied in return. “Thank you, Lady Beth of the Kennedys. Your kindness is deep and boundless and you set a shining example as our PTA’s president.”
I smiled. She was sweet. Misguided, deluded, and wrong, but sweet. I shooed her off home and swore on a stack of Hunger Games books that I wouldn’t mention the incident to a soul. But as I got into my car and started home, there was a click in my head. Staci had been the hang-up caller, but tonight was the first time she’d come to talk to me in person.
Whose footsteps, then, had I heard last Saturday?
• • •
The next morning was Thursday, the day before the tell-your-husband-and-Gus-or-I-will deadline I’d given Summer, and I’d spent more time than I should have wondering if I’d done the right thing. Had I been too hard on her? Auntie May thought I hadn’t been hard enough. Did such a thing as a happy medium really exist?
Half an hour before the store opened, I was sitting at my desk, drumming my fingers on a stack of invoices, thinking about footsteps and dogs and gunshots and the reasons behind murder. Sure, TV and newspapers and radio were heavy with reports of people committing murder for horribly banal reasons, but that all seemed far removed from Rynwood, Wisconsin. No one in my town would kill for something so trivial as a pair of sneakers.
At least that’s what I wanted to think, and until I was proved wrong I’d continue to think that way.
Then, before my brain could talk my hand out of it, I picked up the phone and dialed Summer’s number. After the standard good-morning-how-are-you’s, I girded my mental loins. “Have you had a chance to talk to your husband?” I asked. “I need to see Gus today, and I could give him a heads-up on your situation.”
“Um, about that,” she said. “Brett’s been really busy. There hasn’t be
en a good time to talk to him.”
I rested my head against the back of the chair. “Okay, but don’t forget that you promised you’d tell him about the casino by Friday noon. That gives you the rest of today and all tonight to find time.”
“Sure, but he’s got this big presentation at work Friday morning, and I don’t want to bug him with anything until that’s done. He’ll be up late working on it, and I don’t want to distract him. If this presentation goes well it could mean a big promotion.”
“Summer . . .”
“This weekend,” she said quickly. “I’ll do it this weekend. We’ll have lots of quiet time on Sunday. His parents are taking the kids to the zoo and we’ll have all afternoon.”
I sighed. I should tell her that every day she delayed telling Brett about her trip with Destiny would be a day filled with unnecessary anxiety. Instead, I said, “I’m calling Gus on Monday, even if you haven’t told your husband.”
“Sunday afternoon,” Summer promised. “I’ll sit him down and tell him all about it.”
And since I wanted to believe her, I did.
“Hey, have you heard the rumors about a curse on the PTA?” she asked. “About how there’s all these deaths, that it’s turning dangerous to be in it. That maybe it’s time to dissolve the group, or something. Makes you wonder, you know?”
When I didn’t say anything, she gave a short giggle. “You don’t think there’s anything to this curse thing, do you?”
“No,” I said shortly. “I don’t.” And I hung up. After I said good-bye, of course. There’s no excuse for rudeness.
Later that morning, when I was getting a headache-by-invoice, the phone rang. Paoze’s voice called out, “I will get it, Mrs. Kennedy,” but a moment later he appeared in the office doorway. “It is a Dr. Jefferson. Would you like to take the call?”
I snatched up the phone. “Millie, how are you this morning?”
“As fine as caffeine can make me,” she said. “Do you have a minute?”
I shoved aside the papers, catalogs, and files on my desk and reached for pen and paper. “All the time in the world.”
“Spoken like a good parent. Now. Oliver and I had a nice chat yesterday.”