by A. J. Aalto
“I’ll pay for someone to tow my car,” she told the paper coolly in the quiet inside her Jeep as the rain drummed heavily on the roof, “and fix whatever stupid thing you did to it. That’s all you’re going to get out of me, asshole.”
By the time the taxi cab pulled in front of the store and Gillian Hearth was safely inside with her violet and her groceries, she felt once again in control.
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, October 28. 1:25 A.M.
Bobby McIntyre paused before walking into Frankie’s house with a cardboard tray of drive-thru coffee cups balanced on one hand, a book of wallpaper samples clamped tightly under that arm, standing at the dark side door, and with a flash of irritation, she knocked. Heat rose in her belly. Knocking, she thought, like a stranger has to. Have a few months apart reduced me to stranger status? In truth, it had been three years since she’d last been in Frankie’s social circle, though to Bobby, it felt more like last month. I always let people treat me like dirt. This was Bobby’s burden, she figured, and in her quest to teach people how to treat her properly, she often lost them. Nonetheless, she couldn't bear being treated poorly; she had to teach this lesson over and over again, it seemed, with each person who entered her life.
There was no response to her knock, even though Frankie’s cute little red Fiat was parked under the car port and a light was on in the bedroom.
In the bedroom. Her guts rolled unhappily. Maybe Frankie wasn’t coming to the door because she was… being entertained. Bobby got a cruel mental image of Frankie sprawled across her bed, Frankie in a gauzy robe and little else, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, giggling at some bumbling, half-naked oaf of a man. She knocked again, this time more forcefully.
Half of Frankie’s face appeared behind a twitching curtain on the door and then the locks tumbled and the hinge squeaked, and Bobby’s belly relaxed; Frankie was wearing fluffy white pajamas and a bewildered expression.
“Bobby, it’s almost one-thirty in the morning…”
“That’s why I brought coffee, honey,” Bobby laughed, advancing into the house, feeling embraced by the warmth of the place. “We’re going to need rocket fuel to get through all these samples.”
“You brought…” Frankie scratched her head. “Wallpaper samples?”
“You’re redecorating,” Bobby said, making a duh face and tapping her temple. “You thought I wouldn’t help out? Come on, goof. What are you thinking? Of course I’d help out.”
She went into the kitchen with the coffee, and left Frankie speechless in the hall, closing the door on the evening’s drizzle.
**
Frankie stared in disbelief at the back of Bobby’s head, her clipped-short, unnaturally red hair damp from the rain. She hadn’t seen Bobby this often in years, not since all the trouble began, then Bobby’s mother got sick and passed away, and Bobby went out west for a while, to Vancouver. Now, here she was, fishing around for a spoon in the kitchen drawers like she owned the place. It felt like a violation, but Frankie wondered if she was being oversensitive and prickly because of Travis. It’s hard to be objective when you’re being bombarded with disrespect, she thought. But why is she here this late at night?
Bobby put her hands in her pockets and rummaged, drawing out her sweetener packets, slapping them and ripping the paper and doctoring her own coffee first.
Frankie demanded, “Are you drunk?”
“Nah,” Bobby said, shooting her a smile over her shoulder. “I’ve been sober as long as you have. Didn’t you know?”
“Great,” Frankie said, tired, relieved, confused. “That’s great, really. Four months, huh?”
Bobby said, “Sixteen weeks and two days.”
Frankie sensed she was lying, but didn’t know why she’d bother, or why she should call Bobby out on it. Instead, she asked, “Did we make plans for tonight that I’m not remembering?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t put anything in your coffee,” Bobby said with her back turned. “I couldn’t remember how you take it.”
“Just a little almond milk,” Frankie said. “It’s awfully late.”
“Almond milk? What are you drinking that shit for? Are you still a vegetarian, like, for real? Christ.” Bobby laughed. “Don’t know why I’m surprised. Maybe if we’d kept in touch, I’d remember how you take your coffee.” Bobby opened the fridge to get the carton of vanilla almond milk. “I always brought you coffee, remember? Every Thursday before pottery class.”
“I’m sorry we’ve drifted a little,” Frankie began.
“A little? I didn’t even know about your bedroom remodel.” Bobby laughed, turning to her with the paper coffee cup, making sure the little plastic lid was on tight. “Almond milk, yuck.”
“I’ve always taken almond milk in my coffee,” Frankie said.
“It’s kind of a funny color,” Bobby remarked, looking into the coffee cup before putting the plastic lid back on. “The drive-thru must have made it too strong again. That place on the highway has really gone downhill. Does it taste okay?”
Frankie took the paper cup and smiled hesitantly. “I’m sure it’s fine. Look, I don’t think I have the stamina to look at wallpaper tonight, Bobby. I mean, it’s after midnight.”
“We used to party so hard, remember?” Bobby said, her eyes bright. “Late, late, late. You’re getting old, honey, jeeeeeezus. Drink your turbo juice.”
“I’ve had a hard few days, and I had a terrible date—”
“Is the coffee okay?” Bobby asked. “Hey, what date? Who was it this time? Another race car dude? I swear, you have the worst taste in men. Worse than your taste in coffee. Is it okay?”
Frankie sipped the coffee. “Yeah, it’s good, thanks. Kind of sweet. Did you add sweetener to mine too by accident?”
“Nope, no sweetener, I promise,” Bobby said, and though she gave a little laugh, her smile tightened. “Don’t want to add too many calories. Not for my Frankie. Gotta watch that teensy little waistline.”
Frankie relaxed and went to grab her purse. “Tell you what, let me pay you for the coffee, and tomorrow, I’ll take you out as my treat, and we’ll go over the wallpaper. Although, I gotta say, I don’t remember saying anything about wallpaper. I don’t think Gillian wants wallpaper at the new place.”
Bobby looked like she didn’t quite understand the language Frankie was speaking. “But you love wallpaper,” she insisted.
Frankie shrugged one shoulder and tried to hand her five dollars. It hung there limply in her hand between them, but Bobby made no move to take it, so Frankie set it on the counter top. “Not really. I used to. Years ago. It’s out of style, now. And this new place is Gillian’s as much as it is mine, so we’re making all the decisions together. I have to respect her input. Plus, it's got gorgeous wood paneling, it would be a crime to cover it up.”
Bobby’s forehead was one deep furrow. “You’re the one with the artistic instincts, honey, don’t let her steamroll over you like she always does.”
“Gillian?” Frankie laughed. “She’s the most supportive person I know.”
She knew it wasn't the right thing to say by the instant chill in the air and the way Bobby stiffened as though she’d been struck. Bobby’s head started bobbing, rapid nods, and her lips tucked inside her teeth like she was holding back words.
“Besides you, obviously,” Frankie said sincerely. “All these years, you’ve always been there for me. Especially when I…” The words stuck, and she swallowed hard and tried again. “When I was so desperate for help. I didn’t mean to invalidate that. God, I’m such a jerk when I’m tired. It’s late. That’s not an excuse, I’m sorry.”
Bobby’s smile returned, but it was wounded and wary. “Cut yourself some slack. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Finish your coffee, we’ll curl up on the couch for just a half an hour and flip through some swatches.”
I can’t ask her to go now, Frankie thought, and even though her shoulders ached with fatigue and her eyes were dry, she nodded. It’s only h
alf an hour. “Sure.”
“Don’t look so excited,” Bobby drawled. “You don’t have to decide on any—hell, I don’t fucking sell this shit. I just know how much you ooh and ahhh over flocked paisley and stuff. You deserve a little fun. I can help you chill out, relax.”
Bobby lifted her own coffee cup and toasted in Frankie’s direction. “Besides, I need to hear all about this horrendous date. See, this is what happens when you date men. Is Mr. Horrendous a vegetarian, too? Or, oh no… did he take you to a steakhouse?” Bobby gasped overdramatically and faux-swooned.
Frankie laughed exhaustedly, relieved that the awkward moment had passed and Bobby’s humor was returning. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Stuck like glue, me and you,” Bobby promised. “No matter what.”
Frankie sipped her coffee. It tasted too strong and far too sweet, but she didn’t want to upset Bobby further by refusing to drink it. Especially after rushing her out last time, and asking for her key back. Frankie plunked her tired ass on the couch and Bobby brought the wallpaper sample book, and for the next hour and a half, they imagined papered walls that would never exist, and matched complementary shades and patterns, and finally, Frankie fessed up about her disappointing dinner with a poet named Daniel, a cute vegan whom she’d met at her new class at the community college. The poet had turned out to be a dreadful bore, droning on about himself without showing the least bit of curiosity in Frankie or her interests or opinions. Frankie imagined that he saw her as nothing more than a glossy mirror in which he could admire his reflection. But the poetry class itself, now, that made Frankie happy. Bobby matched her enthusiasm — about the class, at least — and vowed to sign up for the same one so that Frankie would have a friendly face in class.
Frankie felt it would be impolite to tell her not to, and finished her coffee.
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, October 28. 1:30 A.M.
There was a lull in the downpour by the time Gillian made her final sweep around the Blymhill house, but the thunder had picked up, rattling windows in their old wooden frames, echoing across the big lake ominously. Gillian barely noticed. She was dreamily picturing furniture, mentally adding a throw rug here or an art piece there. The rooms designated for writers would have to be soundproofed. Or maybe not, she thought as the soft sound of a train went by, the rumble of the tracks brought to life by high winds. She closed her eyes and could hear the waves crashing on the boulder-strewn coast of Higgins Point. Lake Ontario was rowdy under the pressure of the storm; the music it made was surprisingly soothing. Would it be distracting to a writer, or inspiring? That would require more thought.
She saw one of the central bedrooms as a sitting room, imagining big wing-back chairs clustered near the fireplace. The late hour finally softened her excitement and Gillian began to think of sleep. She took her purse from the hall table and checked the time. After one. No more messages since that afternoon’s Shopping, whore?
She wondered, why am I a whore, exactly? She hadn’t been with a man since Greg died, and before that, only with him. Oh, there had been the occasional boyfriend in high school and college, but once she’d met Greg, all other men seemed infinitely less interesting. She figured that, in this case, “whore” was a random accusation and not an educated one. Travis Freeman’s ignorance was not a surprise.
When she hit the only bedroom with furniture — Mrs. Blymhill’s bed frame topped with a brand new mattress — she pulled an emergency candle and a lighter from her purse and set them on the small, sound wicker table next to a lamp that looked like it might be older than she was. Her overnight bag was by the bed, and a plastic bag full of sheets and towels. She set about making the bed and got drowsy halfway through. A nice drowsy. An at home drowsy. Tomorrow, after her breakfast appointment with Frankie and Mr. Langerbeins, she’d get home and start boxing her things and finding a realtor. Living in her little home on Red Maple Drive was starting to depress her; it was hard to let go of her memories of Greg, imprinted in every room, but it was harder still to live with the ghost of him. She wasn’t emotionally ready to let him go, to move on with life without him, but the opportunity had come up. It had been their one chance to snag this property, and she’d had to act fast.
She cracked one window a bit, and it thumped closed. She found a small chunk of wood on the sill and figured it was there to hold the window up. Wedging it under the heavy window frame, she managed to keep it open a crack for a cool breeze. Then she fluffed the blankets and crawled into bed. And instantly upon turning the lights off, she thought about Greg, and the day he’d died.
What she remembered most vividly were the dirty porch planks.
On the ride home from work, she’d been in a fog, cranky and sore, completely unaware that life was about to blow up in her face. A quick stop at the Food Mart for a pair of flank steaks and fresh asparagus and crusty Italian bread had taken ten minutes, and she was soon bouncing up and down the dusty back roads in her Jeep toward home. She turned the corner onto Red Maple Drive and the sight of three cop cars made her hit the brakes, her stomach dropping unpleasantly.
One hand turned down the volume on the radio by habit. They were parked outside her and Greg’s place; as a cop’s wife, she lived with the daily knowledge that any day could be Greg’s last. She hoped very much that her home alarm had just gone off, or they’d been burgled.
There were three men sitting in the wicker chairs on her front porch, waiting for her; two uniforms and one in plain clothes. The sergeant, Perkins, was the only one she knew, the only one who met her eye when she got out of the Jeep. She found her answers in his face before he could even speak.
She made it as far as the porch, still stupidly holding the bag of groceries, before grief punched her in the gut and she went down. She remembered how the sergeant had got down on the stairs beside her and told her when and how it had happened, how sorry he was, asking if he could call someone to come sit with her. She said the first name to come to her, the strongest person she knew, the only one as strong as Greg — Kenneth Koehler, Greg’s partner, their dearest friend — but, of course, he was dead, too. The sergeant had to repeat this several times before it sank in. Both of them. Both gone.
The porch planks under her hands were gritty with dried garden soil. They’d spent the weekend gardening. She hadn’t swept up yet. A pair of his dusty work boots still sat outside the front door, by the closest wicker chair, where he’d sat for a beer and kicked the boots off. The garden was only hers now, she’d thought. Who could possibly fill those boots? No one, not ever. She’d wept, then, staring at the dirty porch planks and wanting to die.
Both of them, gone. Just like that.
And now she was the strongest person she knew. Her alone. The sergeant had asked her if there was someone he could call. She’d asked the sergeant to call her sister to come, and sobbed into the grime on the stairs, not caring that the other officers, strangers to her, were watching, not listening to her sister’s Fiat kick gravel as she spun into the driveway, not hearing the comforting words that people try to offer to those who grieve. Gillian knew she’d never be the same.
The dark part of her mind asked, Would anyone mourn Travis Freeman with the same hopeless abandon? The same stunned devastation? Or would life in his absence go on very much as it was, perhaps a little easier, even a little brighter for some? Travis’s ex-wife wouldn't mourn. No, Susan Freeman wouldn't fall to the floor as though she could sink right through it. Frankie? Would there be tears on her pillow? Gillian didn’t think so.
But Frankie had cried for Mike Deacon.
And Frankie had cried for Gillian’s neck. Cried in the hospital. Cried at the physiotherapist’s office. Maybe Frankie was crying for Travis, or for the memory of their good times, or for the might-have-beens.
If so, she wouldn't confide that to Gillian.
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday, October 28. 8:00 A.M.
Cold cases had a way of gnawing away Constable
Dean Jagger’s appetite, and this one was only different in that the victim didn’t stir his sympathies: Mike Deacon, shady past of drugs, weapons charges, assault and battery. The last person to see him alive was his brother, Reggie, who was serving time at the SHU in Quebec for three counts of assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder; both of them had pages of domestic violence calls, most made by their own mother. Classy brothers, the Deacons.
Dean sat at the booth in the far corner of the Sunnyside Up diner, pretending interest in a triple stack of buttermilk pancakes with blueberry sauce. The waitress brought his decaffeinated coffee; he sipped it black.
The Hearth sisters looked nothing alike at first glance. The younger one had a heart-shaped face, soft curves in all the movie-star places. A wild blonde mass of curls dusted her shoulders like a mantle. Her wide brown eyes blinked often, as though they were prone to filling with tears; her makeup was subtle but seductive, heavy on the mascara, nude lips, pale rose cheeks.
The elder sister was interesting to look at, too, but at first he couldn’t pin down why. She was a bit too thin, a bit too plain. As an older sister (and surrogate mother for most of their life, as he understood), she’d been honed and hardened by the weight of early responsibility. Her fern green eyes were wary, guarded to the point of being unfriendly, under stern brows with an almost sinister arch. Freckles, the kind usually seen in natural red-heads, dusted her nose and cheeks and, he noticed on further examination, the length of her forearms. She wore a plain black t-shirt under a pale yellow cardigan with the sleeves pushed up, and worn-soft jeans.
The younger said something and the elder smiled down at her plate, laughed a little, and then shot a glance directly at him.