by A. J. Aalto
“He’s been texting non-stop.” Frankie said.
“I see you’re finally locking the door like a normal person. Why didn’t you let me in? Where’s the dog?” Gillian asked, tossing her purse and key ring on the hall table. There was an odd smell in the air under the old church-wood scent, one that didn’t register at first because it was so unusual in this house: sweat. Frankie was surrounded by empty cans — ginger ale — several half-eaten sleeves of soda crackers, and a bottle of antacids. “Stomach bothering you?”
Frankie’s hand drifted to her face and Gillian noticed it tremble. “Seriously, like every ten seconds, another text.”
“Who?” Gillian said, her nose wrinkling. Oh, the break-up. Travis. “Just ignore him. He’ll get tired of it.”
“Did I do the right thing?” Frankie asked tiredly. “Maybe I made a mistake.”
“You should have stayed with him because he’s harassing you?” Gillian asked, narrowing her eyes. “That’s your logic here? Stay with Mr. Control Freak because then he’d… leave you alone?”
“No, of course not,” Frankie sighed. Her phone dinged. Her short, blunt fingernails dug into a spot on her cheek, picking; it was a nervous habit Gillian hadn’t seen her employ since she was a kid. “I know. It’s stupid. I just can’t take this.”
Gillian rolled up her sleeves and kicked off her shoes, and began picking up soggy wads of Kleenex and tossing them in the trash. “Don’t pick,” she said almost absently. “What have you taken for your stomach?”
“Nothing, just Tums.”
Gillian pointed at the phone, which dinged as if on cue. “Turn that to vibrate. Where are the munchkins?”
“At Henry’s,” Frankie said, and the relief in her voice was contagious. “He wanted them for an extra week and promised to take them to the zoo.”
Gillian nodded once that this was good. The air in here was toxic with tension, and her sister was a jittering bag of bad nerves; this was no atmosphere for two little boys. As much as she didn’t see eye-to-eye with her ex-brother-in-law, she was certain that Matthew and Kirk would be better off out of town with Henry Farmer for the time being. He’d take them to the track, of course, and give them an unfortunate lesson in losing a cartload of money on the ponies, but the boys loved the dust and action and animals. There were worse things to see.
“I’m opening at least one window,” Gillian said, “unless you’re prepared to put the air conditioning back on. It’s like a sweatbox in here.” She cracked the front window. They could watch that one, make sure no one was slipping through it. She lowered the blinds on it so no one from the yard could look in, locked the front door and put the chain on, then turned on the porch light. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she mentally chided. Do I think really think he’s lurking out there? Or have Frankie’s histrionics made me paranoid? She wasn’t sure.
Frankie was wringing her hands as Gillian took away the empty pop cans and crackers. “I’ll make you some dry toast, maybe get you some applesauce if you have it. You’ve got to eat something.”
“I’m too stressed. I could barely swallow a few crackers. My throat keeps tightening up.” Frankie sat up straight on the couch as a fair breeze pushed through the blinds, rattling the slats. “How do I know for sure I’ve done the right thing?”
Gillian paused on the way to the kitchen, showing her sister an encouraging smile. “Underneath the fear, how do you feel?”
Frankie thought about this, cocking her head and pushing damp strands of blonde hair off her forehead. The lamp beside her turned the strands into spun gold. “Free,” she said with a sheepish little laugh. “I can do whatever I want, now.”
You should always be able to do whatever you want, Gillian thought angrily, but she was careful not to say it. It was too soon to lecture Frankie; there would be plenty of time for that later. The red flags had been there. Maybe not right away, but Gillian had spent the last few months alarmed at the fast-tracking of the relationship and the increasing isolation of her baby sister from the family and her friends.
If Greg had been alive, he’d have sat Frankie down and pointed the signs out, and she would have listened to him. She’d always equated his badge with some secret precognitive abilities, like he could spot a bad apple immediately. Gillian knew this wasn’t true, or Greg would still be snoring away in bed beside her every night, drooling into his pillow. She used to hate that. Now she’d give anything to be washing his sleep-drool out of their pillowcases. For a moment, her grief returned full force, surprising in its ferocity. It had been like that since the funeral, even after three years, popping up out of nowhere, triggered by the silliest things. She almost gave over to it, her eyes stinging hotly.
Instead, she cleared her throat and glared at her baby sister’s phone, vibrating against the glass coffee table relentlessly. Another text. Another. Desperate for attention. Pushy. Gillian gave Frankie a questioning lift of her eyebrows to ask permission before touching the phone, then swiped it up off the table and silently read the texts, deleting them one at a time as she went through them.
Where are you? Delete.
Who’s with you? Are you alone? Delete.
I know you hear these. Delete.
What’s his name? Delete.
Why won’t you just answer me? You don’t have to talk, just tell me you’re okay. Are you okay? Delete.
I’m worried about you. Delete.
Should I call an ambulance?
This one made Gillian mutter, “ugh,” and roll her eyes before she caught herself, and she shook her head to tell Frankie to never mind. She deleted this text, too. The phone continued to shake in her hand, the texts marching before her eyes like soldiers positioning for war.
You need to get control over your mental problems. Delete.
You need to call me. Now. Delete. Gillian’s eyebrows crept up, feeling her anxiety rise. “Frankie, was he always so demanding?” she asked, but thinking back to their awkward, monitored fish-and-chips meal on that “sisters only” girl’s night, she supposed it was a silly question. Frankie didn’t answer, but her lips crumpled inward in silent acknowledgement.
This isn’t like you. I’m worried. Delete.
Are your pills screwing with you? Delete.
You’re not seeing things straight. Delete.
You can’t just turn off your feelings, baby. I know you better than that. Delete.
Gillian felt a chill wash through her. He seemed frantic. The texts kept coming with a vengeance, each question worded carefully to make her doubt her decision, doubt her options, doubt her own sanity.
“Holy shit, Frankie.” Where do you meet these guys?
“Right?” Frankie laughed breathlessly. “You probably thought I was exaggerating.”
Gillian had, in fact, assumed that her sister was being overdramatic, and admitted it with a guilty little smile. She glanced in the kitchen, where Frankie’s mostly-deaf, eighteen-year-old Golden Labrador lay sleeping under the little round oak table. “What would you be expected to do tonight, if you were still with him?”
“Expected,” Frankie said with a mid-air jab of her finger. “Exactly. He’d have it all planned. Watch something on TV, like NASCAR.”
Gillian said, “I never knew you liked racing.”
“I don’t,” Frankie said, “but Trav thought we should have things in common.”
“His things. What about your hobbies?”
“He said his were more interesting,” Frankie said, her eyes straying to her latest stained glass creation, a six foot orchid window, special-ordered by a customer from the fall craft festival.
“To him,” Gillian said with a disgusted laugh. “Because they’re his interests. And yours are interesting to you, so shouldn’t he make an effort if you made an effort?” Gillian stopped herself, hearing a lecturing brewing. “Sorry, I just heard mom’s voice coming out of my mouth. Did you?”
Frankie forgave that with a one-shouldered shrug. “After the race, we’d eat something super-healt
hy, because God forbid I gain weight, and take a bath at precisely ten, with the lavender salts of course, and then slip into something pretty…” She let that hang, but the sour lift of one corner of her lip told Gillian more than she wanted to know. “You know, he used to fill the bath for me, and get the nightie out, and light candles. At first, I thought it was really sweet. But after a while, it was like, hey what if I don’t want to take a bath? What if I don’t even want you to spend the night at my house?”
“Did you ever say that?” Gillian asked.
“No way. If I didn’t take a bath, he’d sulk.” She did a fair imitation of his voice. “Other girls would loooove it if their boyfriend paid them this much attention, and pampered them. There’s something wrong with you, you’re getting frigid in your old age. You’re letting yourself go. No pizza for you.”
The texts stopped coming in, and Gillian looked down at the phone in her palm. The last one was long-winded and rambling, littered with spelling mistakes, a single run-on sentence with no punctuation, peppered with demands, and a troubled Gillian didn’t waste time reading the whole damn thing. She put the phone back on the coffee table after briefly considering turning the vibrate function off.
“What do you want to do about this?” Gillian asked.
“Well, don’t think I’m crazy or anything,” Frankie said, “but I’ve spoken to a private investigator. Someone Bobby recommended.”
“Oh, not Bobby,” Gillian sighed, her shoulders falling. “Don’t bring her back into our lives. She called me this morning. I didn’t even listen to the voice mail. I can’t bear it.”
“She’d hired a detective before, after her mom died, remember?”
“Yes, she thought her mother was murdered. Olivia McIntyre died of a heart attack, not anything mysterious,” Gillian said with a sigh. “This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. Bobby’s made of drama.”
“But I knew she'd have a recommendation,” Frankie said, gathering up her wild blonde hair and wrapping it with a black, velvet elastic strewn with silk flowers. “Anyway, this investigator is going to check Travis out and see if there’s anything that I really need to worry about or if he’s all piss and wind.”
Smart, and better than hiding under the bed, waiting for this to be over. Frankie had a couple of his business cards on the coffee table, and Gillian scanned one quickly before slipping it in her pocket. She nodded that she’d drop it, though her guard dog instincts still wanted her pacing by the front door, protecting her sister.
“So. What do you want to do tonight?” Gillian asked, and forced her lips up in a bright smile, ignoring the burst of fury at Travis and hoping it did not show on her face.
“We need to talk paint colors for the bed and breakfast,” Frankie said happily, brightening. “I can’t believe you talked me into buying that ugly old pile of bricks.”
“It’s a steal at that price, and you know it,” Gillian said, echoing her sister’s excitement with a smile. “But we need to get in there and explore before we can pick a palette and start choosing drapes and bedding. If you could do anything else tonight, what would it be?”
Frankie’s cell phone started vibrating again, loud against the glass, over and over; she did a fairly good job of ignoring it, though her forehead grew lines with each buzz. Her hand drifted back to her face, to a new spot, this time on her chin. She scratched there, pick pick pick.
“Let’s not let that idiot ruin our night,” Gillian said.
Frankie nodded once, decisively. “I want to watch a movie with my sister, and eat pizza.” Frankie grinned, and though it wobbled a bit, she managed to keep it. “And garlic bread. And hey, I think the kids left some oatmeal cookies in the cupboard.”
“Pick out a movie, I’ll order,” Gillian said. “Ham and pineapple or pepperoni mushroom?”
Frankie took a deep breath, checked to make sure none of the texts were from her boys or her ex-husband, scratched at the spot on her chin, and said, “Surprise me. Life’s short.”
Gillian nodded again. “Don’t pick,” she said, and went to get the flyer for the pizza place.
Chapter Six
Sunday, October 26. 4:15 P.M.
Paul Langerbeins studied the woman before him with interest. She sat on the very edge of his client chair like she wasn’t committed to being there, ready to take flight at any moment. A contradictory determinedness in her gaze told him she wouldn’t; she had made her decision, had booked the appointment, had marched up those stairs, had opened his door, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d at least vented to him. There was self-assurance, there, a battered, wary resilience that had bolstered her through loss and tragedy that might have conquered some people. Gillian Hearth did not look conquered. Maybe a stubborn streak kept her upright.
He’d thought her cold at Detective Greg Ellis’s funeral, but he saw now he’d been wrong; pride had stayed her tears then, and pride stayed them now, though three years later the loss of Greg still showed flinching-fresh around her eyes. They were pale green, the kind that were likely to change with her mood or outfit, reflecting the things around and within her, light irises that were circled by a dark outline and strikingly framed by thick lashes and dark brows. She wore no make-up or jewelry. She was not looking to attract attention. Paul wondered if she’d ever been a make-up, hairdo, high-heels kind of woman. Greg’s partner Kenneth had once remarked that Gillian Ellis, as she was known then, was the kind of woman who seemed plain at first glance (no, “plain in public,” that’s what he’d said, and I’d been forced to wonder if Ken had ever seen her in private), but who could play up her natural beauty to stunning effect if she chose to do so. Paul thought it would take a lot for this hard woman before him to melt into a soft, playful vixen, but once his mind discovered that intriguing track, he found it difficult to remember why she was here. Her thick, espresso-dark hair was tamed by a simple tie-back. He wondered what it would look like spread across his desk, what it would feel like wound around his fist.
“You’re staring at my face,” Gillian noted, cutting through the bullshit and making him smile guiltily. “Is there a problem, Mr. Langerbeins?”
“I apologize. You don’t remember me, I take it?”
Gillian placed her thumb between her eyebrows and rubbed firmly a few times. Her right eye fluttered closed for a second. “I’m sorry, should I?”
“It’s been a long time, and you’ve been unwell, so I don’t expect you to,” he said. “We never met, not officially. I only saw you briefly, at Greg’s funeral. When the shooting happened, I was their new partner.”
“Right,” she said. “The Rookie.”
“Greg and Kenneth never called me anything but, and I’ve only got my initials on the business, so I don’t blame you for not knowing.”
Gillian swallowed and he heard a dry click in her throat. “Paul.”
His lips turned up in a pleased half-smile. “That’s right.”
“You were also injured…”
He bobbed a nod. “Took two in the hip. I walk like an old man now, but it could have been a lot worse.”
Greg took two in the head, and Kenneth had his chest blown out. They’ll never be old men. You’re damn right, it could have been worse. Paul felt like an asshole for having said it. As the rookie, he’d been out front, in the car, where he belonged, where he’d been ordered to stay. He’d worked through a nasty case of survivor’s guilt with the chaplain. If Gillian blamed him for not being there, for not being able to save her husband’s life, she didn’t show it.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked, and he felt her interest was sincere.
“Never mind me,” he said, “we’re here to talk about you and your sister.”
“How did you know I’ve been unwell?” she asked.
“Greg mentioned it once or twice. Had to take a few days off training at least a couple times for hospital trips? Confessed he was worried about a brain tumor.” Paul studied the pallid face of the woman before him, sizing up possible
strengths, calculating weaknesses. “How’d that turn out? Everything okay?”
“Headaches. Just the result of a neck and shoulder injury,” she said. “Do you mind terribly if we focus on why I’m here?”
“Of course. Tell me what I can do for you, Ms. Hearth? What have you come to me about?”
“My sister hired you to look into her ex-boyfriend, to make sure there’s nothing worrying in his past.” She could no longer seem to open her right eye for the pain, and Paul wondered if it was possible for her to drive home like this. He didn’t think Greg would like that. “She recently broke up with a man that I believe may be stalking her. I want to know for sure that he’s not.”
“You want me to keep tabs on him for a bit,” Paul said, noting the deep furrow of her brow. He turned off the banker’s lamp over his desk, letting the room’s overhead lighting stay. “Do you want a glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Does the pain get worse if you focus on it?”
Gillian let out a shaky breath and answered, “Yes. Maybe we should pick this up tomorrow. I’m sorry. I have a remedy at home. I didn’t expect…”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Paul stood. “I’ll give you a lift home, see that you get in all right. We’ll get you your remedy. I’ll sit with you for half an hour or so and look over your notes, jot down any questions I have. If your headache doesn’t go away, we’ll call it a day, pick up tomorrow.”
Gillian looked like she could have wept with relief, but Paul had gathered there was no way she’d show that sort of weakness in public, especially in front of a stranger. She collected herself, waited until she was sure she could speak without her voice betraying her emotions. “That sounds fine, thank you.”
She had not hidden her emotions well at all, not from Paul Langerbeins.
**
Red Maple Drive was so named long before the row of maples was planted, the only one of the fire lanes to have a name. A few land owners on Red Maple Drive had replaced their maple trees with frilly Russian Olives and the effect was magical, creating a burgundy and silver canopy where the road dipped behind a row of greenhouses. Gillian remembered, through her fog of pain, how Greg had loved their little sanctuary at the very end of the dead-end lane; surrounded by mature trees and their own small pebble beach, tucked away from the world. The front door was painted bright green and was hugged by matching honeysuckle vines, now overgrown, perfuming the night.