by A. J. Aalto
The bay window looked out on the massive covered porch that wrapped around both sides of the house. Wicker furniture was still strewn here and there, old but in fairly good condition. A porch swing that faced the lake had begun to sway erratically as the wind picked up.
“Sure you want to stay here tonight?” Bruce asked. “Might lose power.”
“I’ve got a date,” Frankie said, planting her hands on her hips. “You’re on your own, Gill. Oh, that reminds me... a Nancy Shaw from Those Buns Dough called?”
Gillian glanced up at Bruce and they both burst out laughing.
“What?” Frankie said, cracking a smile. “That’s what the bakery is called.”
“I know,” Gillian said, feeling like the heat might be getting to her. She giggled helplessly, struggling to pull it together. “They’re going to supply our continental breakfast options. I’ll call her as soon as I’m back from the grocery store.” She washed her hands and arms, patted her neck with a cool washcloth, and gathered up her purse and phone. “Back soon.”
Chapter Ten
Monday, October 27. 11:00 A.M.
Delia Slepsky of 226 Azure Lane leaned over the sink to look out her kitchen's bay window, the one George and his buddies had installed, brand-spanking new and crowded with potted herbs.
“There’s that car again, third time gone by. Funny little thing. Stands out, don’t it?”
George gave an affirmative murmur behind his newspaper. His coffee had gotten cold, but he wasn’t about to get up in the middle of the international column.
“I don’t know what kind it is,” Delia mused. “Course, what I know about cars could fill a sow’s ear—are you listening, dear? A sow’s ear—but I bet you don’t neither. If it ain’t in the newspaper, you ain’t seen it. Right, dear? If I had a dollar for every newspaper you bought.” She shook her head. “I could probably afford to buy one of them zippy cars. Travis will know what it is. Even from a description by a dummy like me.”
“You’re no dummy, Delia,” George Slepsky said, not about to let that opportunity get by him.
Delia cast him a little smile and came to fetch his cup. She dumped his cold coffee and rinsed the mug. “Yes sir, Travis knows all about cars. Even funny little foreign cars like that one.”
George kept his teeth together when his wife got onto the subject of the man who lived in the brick bungalow across the road. Thirty years younger than Delia, Travis Freeman was, but she spoke like she had a real shot with him, if she could ever be rid of her simple, plodding husband. Let her think it, George thought, unperturbed. Delia asked for so little. He’d leave her to her smitten school-girl daydreams, and he would have his about the Channel Nine weather lady. Boy howdy, would he.
“You wouldn’t know,” she said. “You’re not about cars. More like to know about vermin, you. Ain’t that right dear? Yeah, shown a handful of droppings, no one picks up on a brand of vermin like my George. Don’t I always say it at bridge, though? Don’t I?”
George flipped the page. He had not the slightest idea what his wife said about him to the ladies at bridge, and he thought it was probably better that way.
“Travis can build a car from parts, did he ever tell you? Break one back down again, too. Handy skill for a man to have, I suppose. Real grease-monkey, a pro. Always so helpful, too. Saved us a fortune on the Ford, ain’t he a doll?”
George kept quiet on that one, too, even though Delia likely expected a rant about the front yard or the junk cars in Travis Freeman’s double-wide driveway. George had plenty to say on the state of his neighbor’s yard, even in his less talkative moods. This time, he didn’t take the bait. He said, “Is there more coffee?”
“Asked me to keep a look out,” she said, touching the pot to see if it was still hot. It wasn’t. She began a new brew, pulling the coffee maker closer to the sink so she could watch the street. She’d always loved a kitchen that faced the street. Every home she’d owned, George had made sure the kitchen, where Delia spent most of her time happily puttering, faced the street; besides baking cookies neither of them should eat, being the unofficial neighborhood watch was Delia’s passion.
The coffee began to perk and drip, and Delia went back to the sink, folding both arms against the counter and leaning against it so she could keep one eye on the view, and one on her husband. The way she was standing popped one of her generous hips to the side. George remembered how those hips had driven him wild in their courting days; after four kids and forty years together, those hips still had the power to distract him mightily, boy, did they ever. He went back to his paper, smiling fondly.
“Asked me to tell him if any suspicious cars went by or stopped near his place,” Delia said. “Weird thing to ask, right? Something’s up. He said to watch for a red Fiat, but I don’t think this is one of those. It’s red, all right, but it doesn’t look French. Looks like one of them little British deals. You know, he wouldn’t say why he wanted me to watch.”
“Probably as you’re so good at it, darlin’.”
“But then, he wouldn’t want to involve us in his troubles, the doll.”
George sighed and turned a page. Travis was a doll, all right. Everything about him was fake, plastic. Even his smiles weren’t quite right, though George couldn’t quite put a finger on why. Unnerving. Like it was just playacting. If he'd known the term uncanny valley existed, he'd have said Travis was at the bottom of it.
“He looked troubled, and why shouldn’t he?” Delia huffed. “With that rat of an ex-wife nabbing his babies away, stealing all his money, slashing his tires, and now this horrible ex-girlfriend causing trouble, too.”
That caused a corner of the newspaper to twitch down enough for George’s bushy brow to show. “The little blonde piece?”
“That’s her, the tramp. Cheating on him, stealing all his hard-earned money.”
If his ex-wife stole it all, how could there be any money left for the ex-girlfriend to steal, that’s what George wanted to know. It sounded like a load of horseshit to him. The young man just liked to play victim to sympathetic ears like Delia’s, or any other sucker who'd buy his line of crap. Travis had tried it on George, too, but George didn’t truck with sniveling baby-men. He’d grumbled that Travis should “man the fuck up,” exactly his words, and that had put an end to the whining right quick.
When George didn’t agree with her, Delia jumped to the man’s defense. “Well, you can tell how hard he works for his money, works hard for every cent, just look at him.” She flapped a hand at the street as though Travis were standing there. Delia always had appreciated the physique of a man who did hard physical labor for a living. Oh yes. George had shown off his own physique in his pest control uniform to catch Delia’s eye decades before, snagged himself a chatty little redhead, a real firecracker. Now, her hair was dyed to keep the red up, and while baby-making had put a bit of weight on her frame, age hadn’t slowed her mouth or her spirit one bit.
“Now this car, this weird foreign thing,” she continued. “Parked down the street for only a minute, earlier, see? Now it’s come again. A fourth time. Tinted windows, well, I ask you, who needs that, but tramps and drug dealers?”
George tried to keep the smile out of his voice. “Your windows are tinted, darlin’.”
“So tramps and drug dealers don’t see me with my diamonds.” She clutched the necklace at her throat, ten karat gold with a genuine diamond chip in a heart, a gift from her coworkers upon retirement. “Can’t be too careful.”
“Of course not, muffin,” George said good-naturedly, even if it was by rote.
“I thought I could make out a baseball hat on the driver,” Delia said, leaning over the sink again so far that her large bosom grazed the bubbles from the washing up. “Worn low to cover her face, but definitely a girl.”
“If the windows are tinted, how’d you see that?”
“Well the front one isn’t that tinted or a body couldn’t drive, George!” She poured him another coffee, bringing it to
him grudgingly, like he hadn’t quite earned her service. “Honestly! It would be nice not to have to explain every little thing, all day, every day!”
But then what would you run your ever-loving motor mouth about, darlin’? George was careful not to say it, smiling up at her as he sipped the coffee. She swiped with her tea towel at imaginary coffee drips all around him then flounced back to the sink in an exasperated manner. He watched her hips as she went, and said, “Yes, Delia.”
“I’d better mark down the time,” she said, turning her grocery shopping list over and checking her watch before making a note.
**
Delia thought Travis would like her report. He’d give her one of those big smiles that made the laugh lines on his cheeks, but never around his eyes. Nope, his smiles never quite touched his eyes, poor doll. And that’s exactly what she’d tell the police detectives when they came to call just one week later.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, October 27. 12:30 P.M.
At twelve-thirty, when Gillian pulled into the parking lot at the grocery store, it wasn’t raining yet, but the sky was lowering, growling warningly overhead, and a haze was sapping colors in every direction, lending the world a faded, muted facsimile of itself. The sun had slipped behind a battalion of clouds the color of a fresh bruise. At quarter to one, as she stood at the florist’s counter picking out a potted African violet to cheer up Frankie, she glanced out the plate glass to see that the rain had started to speckle car windshields outside. No more working in the herb garden today, she thought.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Thinking it was Nancy from Those Buns Dough calling back, she took her phone out and tried to answer. But it wasn’t a call. Just a text. Blocked number.
Shopping, whore?
She blinked rapidly at it, taken aback. Her first instinct was to look around and see who might be watching her, but her pride stopped her. She did not like being toyed with or controlled. Pretending it didn’t faze her one bit, she forwarded the message to Paul Langerbeins with a quick follow-up text that asked, Level of one to ten, how worried should I be?
Paul texted back, Are you in a public place? And then, Do you need me to come?
Feeling silly, she told him not to come. He, in turn, advised her to not delete any messages she might receive. Paul wanted to see each one, and their date and time, for his records. He suggested they might need to speak to the police.
Gillian felt her guts contract, and she nearly responded, knee-jerk, with a “no.” She forced herself to put the phone away in her pocket, inhaled deeply, and pretended interest in the price of avocados.
She took her time, not eager to be out in the downpour, equally reluctant to leave the imagined safety of the store, where staff and customers provided something like cover. Gillian put kale, bananas, and apples into her cart. The cereal aisle came next, and when she reached for a box of cornflakes, something flashed in the corner of her eye; she nearly jumped out of her skin, her heart hammering hard.
It was just a kid darting away from his mother’s cart. Gillian smiled at him and turned the corner. Dread told her she’d find Travis Freeman in the dairy section, waiting for her. Why, dummy? she chided. What would he want with you?
Brushing these fears away, she popped to the pharmacy section and added enough sleeping pills to her basket to see her through an apocalypse, shaking her head at her paranoia. This nonsense with Travis was really too much. Now she was losing sleep over this jerk? He’s not going to do anything. All jaw, no jab, as her father used to say.
In the paper goods section, she selected a birthday card for her coworker, Aaron, thinking everyone on the cemetery crew could sign it before Friday. She browsed for a new paperback, a breezy romance with a beach scene on the cover; God, how it made her want to escape. And she would, for a little while, curled on the couch with herbal tea and a cookie and some reading. Tonight’s big plans. It wouldn’t be as relaxing as her and Frankie’s recent trip to the Florida Keys, but it would have to do.
She lingered in the candy aisle, debating on whether or not to risk adding a small chocolate bar to her evening just this once, and decided against it, taking her groceries to the register. Her phone vibrated against her butt, or she thought it had, but when she dug it out to glance at it, there was neither a text nor a missed call. Phantom buzz, she thought. Now you’re jumping at ghosts.
She queued behind two people in the express lane — an older man and a teenage girl — and chanced another glance at the parking lot while she waited. The storm hadn’t fully rolled in yet, but tiny drops were hitting the broad front windows, building in intensity. The older man finished his purchase, and the line moved forward a few paces. Gillian scanned the parking lot for Travis’s black truck, and an anxious little quiver began in her belly.
Stop it, she told herself. It’s not like he’s everywhere. You can leave the fucking house without him being right behind you.
But her nerves didn’t want to take her word for it, and the nape of her neck prickled like she was being watched. She refused to look over her shoulder, stubbornly tallying up her purchases and calculating tax as a way to keep her mind busy. And so what if he was? she challenged herself. What if he was standing right in front of you? So what? He’s just some guy, not a monster or a bear. He hasn't got claws or fangs; he’s just a man.
Her nerves didn’t buy that, either, though they had absolutely no proof that he was dangerous in the least. A pest, perhaps. Pushy, absolutely. And you’re overreacting like some silly flake, so get a grip, she demanded, taking a quiet, deep inhale and letting it out slowly. The teenager paid for her Coke and Pringles, and Gillian put her things down for the cashier, declined the offer of a plastic bag, and pulled her cloth tote out of her jacket pocket. While the cashier rang her items through the till, Gillian’s eyes strayed with almost helpless curiosity to the parking lot again, this time seeking out her Jeep.
There was something on the windshield. A little thing on any other day, but it made her guts freeze to slush. A piece of paper was tucked under the wiper blades. A brochure? A take-out menu? Who does that kind of advertising in the rain? She was sure it hadn’t been there when she parked, and taking a quick look confirmed that no other cars had one.
“Ma’am?” the cashier was saying.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gillian tried to focus on what the woman said, but her pulse was roaring in her ears. She opened her wallet and said, “Debit,” hoping that answered her question. She had to plug in her PIN code twice, because her fingers had become stupidly clumsy. She gathered up her things, wishing she could linger, not wanting to go out there. Trying to seem nonchalant while her heart hammered, she pulled out her phone, pulled up Paul’s number, her thumb hovering over the dial as she left the store.
The rain was coming down harder, and Gillian was torn between hurrying to the Jeep to keep from getting drenched, or drag her feet to stay close to the store in case of trouble. She kept her thumb over Paul’s number as she approached her car, balancing the violet in one hand and the tote bag over her wrist, knowing she wasn’t being nearly careful enough and hearing Greg in her head: Always keep your dominant hand free, babe.
For a moment, the memory of her husband steeled her, and she remembered who she was, remembered all she’d picked up from him. She put the grocery bag down on the wet asphalt next to the Jeep and did a quick spot check around her for people, movement, danger. Then she unlocked the car, set the violet inside, threw her purse in, and did another spot check before moving the grocery bag to the car. One hand still on the phone, she slid into the driver’s seat, got in, and locked up.
Taking a long, deep breath, she put her phone down in the cup holder and stared at the piece of paper.
She heard herself say aloud, “I’m not even going to look at that,” before she knew she was going to speak, and the decision made her feel in control, powerful. She admitted to herself that since Greg had died, she had felt alone and scared more often than not. She reac
hed in the back seat for her box of tissues and snatched several up to pat her face dry. She was dripping wet and cold and tired from the jittery hyper-vigilance that seemed to ebb and flow every day now. She needed a hot bath and an escape into her new book.
She tried to start the car but nothing happened. She tried again. Not a single thing. She didn’t have a second of doubt that this was Travis’s toying with her car. Somehow, he'd done something without her or anyone else noticing.
Was he watching for her reaction? Did he want to see tears? Fear? Anger? He’s not going to get any of that, Gillian thought.
She called a cab, calmly, coolly, and then called Bruce. When he answered, she said calmly, “All done at the new place?”
“Got the last of the carpet in the dumpster just as the sky opened up,” he said cheerfully. “I locked up. Frankie’s off on her date. Sure you’re gonna want to be here tonight?”
“Yeah,” she said, soothed by the normalcy of the conversation. She felt herself smiling. “I want to get a feel for the place before Frankie and I make any decorating decisions. You know, where the light strikes at different times of the day, stuff like that.”
“No sunlight now, lady,” Bruce said with a chuckle. “Clouds. You’re out of luck, there.”
“Still,” she said, watching for the taxi cab. “I got a card for Aaron’s birthday. We’ll pass it around, sign it tomorrow?”
“That creepy new guy?” Bruce said gruffly. “Better let him think it was my idea. I shouldn’t like to give him too many ideas, you know?”
“He’s creepy?” Gillian said, laughing with surprise. “Seems harmless to me.”
“Then you ain’t payin’ attention, Gills. But then, you never do, eh?” he teased. “Gotta jet. Make sure you lock up tonight. I shoved your extra key through the mail slot. See you in the morning.”
“Bright and early,” she said in lieu of goodbye.
Gillian dropped her phone in her pocket, stared at the paper under her windshield wiper; it was becoming sodden and transparent, and she could now see words scrawled in blue ink. Two words, repeated over and over. You’ll pay. You’ll pay. You’ll pay. You’ll pay.