by A. J. Aalto
“I wish you’d made an appointment, constable,” Langerbeins said, limping back to his desk.
Jagger had run a check on him, not surprised to find that Langerbeins was a former cop, but intrigued to find that he’d been present at Constable Greg Ellis’s shooting as a rookie, and had been wounded himself. After a year on administrative leave, he’d quit the force to work on his own. Now, he was working for the Hearth sisters. Jagger wondered what that was all about, and if there was any connection to his case.
“I won’t take up more than a few minutes of your time, Mr. Langerbeins. May I call you Paul?”
“Sure thing,” Paul said, easing into his chair with one leg stiff in front of him. “Have a seat.”
“I’m looking into the disappearance of Mike Deacon,” Jagger said. “Don’t know if you ever met old Ray Sauffs, but he retired recently, and I inherited this one off his desk, so to speak.”
“Never had the pleasure,” Paul said. “And I’m afraid the name Mike Deacon doesn’t mean anything to me, either. Should it?”
“He’s been missing for over three years now,” Dean said. “He was Frankie Farmer’s fiancé at the time he disappeared. His car turned up at the bottom of the canal when they drained the locks for winter, but there was no body in it.”
Paul ruminated, chewing the inside of his mouth, brow lowered, his extended foot tapping the edge of the desk rhythmically. “Strange. My client is a suspect?”
“I’m just doing my due diligence. You understand.”
“Yeah, sure,” Paul said lightly, though his eyes were dark with displeasure. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you in the way of information, officer. Never heard anything about this missing fellow.”
“But she has hired you,” Dean said, not a question.
Paul smiled briefly, a mere flicker. “I can tell you that much, but my clients enjoy a certain amount of confidentiality. I can tell you she hasn’t hired me in any way relating to this Mike fellow. What was his full name? I’d like to make a note.”
Dean read him the information, including date of birth. “I hope if you come across anything that might be helpful to me, you’ll not hesitate to call?”
“I’m not the sort to hinder an investigation, officer,” Paul said. “I’ve been in your shoes, however briefly. I’d be there still if I could. I have a feeling, though, that your time would be better spent elsewhere. Frankie Farmer is…”
Dean watched Paul’s face patiently as Paul struggled to find just the right word.
He finally decided on, “Flighty.” And then, “Delicate. I don’t see her knockin’ anyone off. I really don’t. And if she had, I doubt she’d be terribly good at hiding it.”
Dean nodded, biding his time, trying to put Paul at ease with a considerate look before he dropped his next question. “And the elder sister? Gillian?”
It was the slightest twitch, but Dean caught it; tightening around the lips, a micro-expression of doubt.
“She’s a formidable woman,” Paul said carefully, “but physically frail.”
“How so?”
“Injuries,” Paul said. “Before her husband died, she had a fall of some sort. Bad, I take it. Nerve damage. I’ve seen one of her headaches strike. It left her vulnerable, unable to take care of herself or anything else.”
“Yet she works a physically demanding job, I understand?”
Paul made an uncertain noise. “I take it she has a lot of muscle on her crew, and that she’s the design end of things. Ordering, delegating. I don’t doubt she gets out there and gets her hands dirty, but…” He let out a soft chuckle. “The idea of that woman being able to make a full grown man disappear?”
Dean noted the language, Paul’s avoidance of the word murder or corpse or anything of the sort. He nodded and took note of this. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Mind if I call, if I have any further questions?”
Paul handed him a card and said, “I’ll help if I can.” But he didn’t look to sure.
Neither was Constable Jagger.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday, October 29. 10:00 A.M.
“Holy smokes,” Gillian said, backing away from the linen closet next to the bathroom. “Mrs. Blymhill kept her urine.”
“Oh god! Oh babe. No!” Frankie squealed with horror, opened one of the four unmarked jars, and sniffed it. “Well, it’s not Listerine.” She gagged and went into the bathroom with the cleaning caddy, leaving Gillian to deal with the pee jars. A minute later, she backed out of the room, laughing with playful horror.
“What is it now?” Gillian asked, using the clean back of her wrist to push back the hair band keeping her brunette bangs off her face.
“Do not open that,” Frankie advised. “Ever.” She meeped and shut the bathroom door.
“What’s in there?”
Frankie shook her head rapidly, lips crammed together, eyebrows high with surprise. “I say we nail this door shut, drywall over it, and pretend it was never here. I can erase it from my memory and everything will be fine.”
“It can’t be worse than mason jars full of old urine,” Gillian stated, confident.
Frankie looked equally confident. “Wanna bet?”
Gillian strode forward and took the doorknob, and Frankie tried to hold the door shut. “Babe, trust me. Don’t even.”
Gillian muscled into the bathroom and went to check under the sink. “We have to clean this place u—“ Her brain refused to comprehend what she was seeing for a moment, and then she finished, “up,” and let her slam the door again. “Were those dead rats?”
“A lot.” Frankie nodded, chin bobbing. “A lot of dead rats.”
“Also in jars,” Gillian said, mystified. “She must have been mentally ill. Who keeps dead rats?”
“No normal person.” Frankie was rubbing her arms like she had caught a chill, looking at her sister with a concerned crease across her brow. “You wanna quit for the day?”
“I wonder why the family or the neighbors didn’t say something to someone, get her some help?” Gillian wondered sadly.
Frankie said, “That Italian lady next door keeps saying something that sounds like ‘striga’ or 'stringy' at me. That must mean ‘crazy lady’s relative’ or something.”
Gillian gave a patient sigh. “Instead of calling her ‘that Italian lady next door,’ why don’t you go introduce yourself and find out what her name is? Then she can see what a sweet girl you are. She might even tell you what she's saying.”
“Uh huh,” she made her yeah-right face.
“You feeling sick again?” Gillian asked. “Your color is off.”
“Up late, too much coffee. Didn’t sleep well. Don’t be mad.” She made puppy eyes. “I called Bobby.”
Gillian blew out harshly. “Why in the world would you call Bobby?”
“She’s my friend,” Frankie said. “And she hooked us up with Paul. She’s back in town for a bit taking care of her sister, remember Barb? Barb’s been seriously ill. Bobby’s just helping out, and she wanted to reconnect.”
“Bobby can’t help us,” Gillian said, trying to stay calm. “Bobby is a mess, she can’t even help herself. We don’t need Bobby.”
“You don’t need Bobby. You don’t need anyone.” Frankie’s voice rocketed to screechy suddenly.
Gillian’s mouth popped open, but she remained quiet, waiting to see if this was the beginning of a full blown meltdown or if her baby sister would get it under control. “Sometimes, I need to check in with her,” Frankie said. “It makes me feel better to see that she’s got her shit back together.”
Gillian flashed back on Bobby on hands and knees and the bottom of Frankie’s stairs, sobbing and retching as she scrubbed the floor, the water and chlorine mixture spilling across concrete, the sponge stained red. “And does she? Have her shit together, I mean?”
Frankie hesitated long enough for Gillian to know the answer was no. Gillian moved into the kitchen to wash her hands thoroughly, open the
blinds to let the afternoon sun warm the room, and put on the kettle for tea. Frankie got herself a soda from the fridge and glanced at the fruit and vegetables that Gillian had brought in before closing the fridge door, finding nothing of interest.
Gillian made tea, sipped her drink, and asked blandly, “Don’t you owe Bobby some money?”
“Don’t do that.” Frankie sighed. “I owe Bobby a lot more than money. We both do.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything,” Gillian said carefully, setting her mug down. “I never wanted Bobby involved. You did that.” Gillian felt her temper stirring. “You involved her. The minute I was out cold, you called her. Knowing when someone can’t handle something, that’s an important call to make. She was unstable before this whole mess, and she sure as shit never got less unstable after the fact. You should have never expected Bobby McIntyre to help you.”
“What should I have done instead? You tell me,” Frankie said exasperatedly.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you. Why do I have to tell you?” Gillian exploded. “Because you fuck up every choice you’ve ever made? You should have cleaned up after yourself. You don’t call your unpredictable mine-field of a friend and get her to come over at midnight and clean-up a problem like that. That’s not what you do. Dammit, Frankie, she was dented and bruised before you made that call. Thinking her best friend had been responsible for a death? Thinking the only person she trusted wasn’t who she thought you were?”
“It wasn’t me who pushed him,” Frankie blurted; her eyes flew wide and it looked like she wished she could have gobbled her words right back up.
Gillian’s voice dropped to barely a breath. “I came because you called me.”
“I know, Gillian, I’m sorry.”
“You begged me to come.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“You were screaming into the phone.”
“Gillian, I’m sorry.”
“You were locked in that bathroom when I bust through the back door and I had no idea what I was facing. I had no idea he was armed. I had no idea he was going to turn on me. You didn’t warn me.” Gillian’s hands shook with rage. “He had a knife. I had a split second to react. And I did.” She stood up, needing to leave the kitchen as soon as humanly possible, no longer able to breathe in this place, no longer able to stand another second looking at her sister’s haunted face.
“It was him or me, Frankie. And I’m still standing. You’ve got some nerve trying to make me feel guilty about that.” Gillian’s hands shook, her fists clenched, knuckles red going to white. “You practically threw me to him. You knew I’d come running. You knew he was dangerous.”
“I should have called the police!” Frankie said, her voice breaking. “911, or Greg, anyone but you. But you were my first thought, you’re always my first thought—”
“And here we are.” Gillian felt the first warning throb of another wicked migraine behind her left eye and blinked rapidly. She turned to look at the nearest lamp, the one plugged in on the floor in an otherwise empty living room; the glow of the light seemed to swim and grow. It was going to be a bad one. “And when I came to, and there was an ambulance, and EMTs, I thought — silly me — that you’d done the logical thing and called police. The whole ride to the hospital, I figured there was another ambulance for Mike Deacon, and other EMTs helping him. After all, our tango down the stairs was self defense. I had nothing to hide, Frankie. I was fighting back to save my life. Calling the cops would have been the right thing. Instead, what did you and Bobby do?”
“I can’t say sorry enough,” Frankie barely breathed.
“You know what? Call Bobby if you want. I wash my hands of it,” Gillian said. “You’re a grown-up, you continue to make your own bad decisions. I can’t keep saving you from yourself, Frankie. But don't discuss me with her. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t discuss what's-his-face.”
“Travis.”
Gillian inhaled sharply, held her temper in check, and let her breath out slowly, pressing two fingers to her throbbing eyebrow. “Don’t say that name to me. Don’t say that name to Bobby. Don’t speak it ever again, not to anyone.”
“I won’t, Gillian, I’m sorry.” Frankie started to cry and crumpled so she could cover her face with her hands. “I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry.”
“We’ll get through it,” Gillian said, But only if Bobby keeps her mouth shut. She can’t leave town soon enough. Oh God, how do I get rid of her? She patted the counter top until her hand landed on her purse, digging out the bottle of aspirin that contained not-aspirin, dry-swallowing two. The pain radiated from her spine, warmed her shoulder, arched up the back of her neck and settled behind her eye. She’d been gifted these headaches the night Mike attacked Frankie, the night he’d flown backwards down the basement steps, snatching at the last moment a handful of Gillian’s sweater and pulling her down with him. The nerve damage from her fall would be with her forever, the surgeon warned, the headaches her new companion.
“I need to lie down,” Gillian said softly. “Lock up front, side, and back if you’re not sleeping here tonight, please.”
“I will,” Frankie said through her tears, but Gillian didn’t hear it. She was blindly feeling her way down the hall to her new bedroom.
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday, October 30. 12:55 P.M.
It was a perfect site. A lonely site. The kind of place that human feet rarely tread. A leafy spot in the spring and summer, clogged by vines and rocks, teeming with insects. A place to sit and remember. Difficult to get to, but, to her, worth the hike. It was a ten minute walk from the last hydro pole marked with a splotch of blue spray paint; not her marking, but this, she had measured. It mattered, though she knew the path by heart, could find the site in the dark if she needed to.
She struck out from the car, boots crunching gravel in the morning quiet, adjusting the backpack until it rested evenly between both shoulders. Her camera swung around her neck as she walked; one hand steadied it against her chest as she took in her surroundings. Her stride was confident for the first half hour, and there was new power in her legs as she cleared the cemetery and hiked past the bright orange plastic snow fence and into the woods proper. The path worn into the earth between the trees was uneven and smelled pungently of loam and warm soil. At the first fork she took a left, towards shadier ground. At the next bend she ducked into a gulch and crossed a patch of long grass. The weeds tugged at her legs, but she plunged through and came out in another little-used path, this one grown-over and clogged with tree branches. Insects hummed in the air and clouds of gnats found the sunny spots where the tree canopy parted. She paused to swipe at the dark bangs clinging to her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand and looked around. A patch of birch indicated she was on the right track as she left the path behind completely.
Now, the walk became difficult and the terrain jagged. More than once, a jutting stone nearly turned her ankle. Though she had brought her cell phone as far as the car, she couldn’t risk bringing it to the site; she’d turned it off and left it in the glove box. Getting lost or injured in the woods, even on an unseasonably warm, late October morning, could be very bad, but her need to be there, to see that the site remained undisturbed, drove her forward. Where the fallen leaves and dry pine needles from last fall weren’t piled, her boots hit the root-bound earth with a hollow thump. She counted her steps past the last hydro line — twelve, twenty, forty— and then took a sharp right into deep cover.
The sprawling, ugly bush had a wintery collection of fat, red rosehips on bare branches already, and where there were leaves, they were yellow and dotted with black spot, but the rose stole her breath regardless. When she was clear of the buckthorn branches, she let her backpack slide off her shoulders and set it on the ground to unzip it. She got out the journal and a pen, and took a few notes that meant nothing: the date, the time, the weather, and a few local birds that she wasn’t actually seeing. On
this quiet morning, there was little bird activity in the trees, but no one else was here to know it. She got out the bird-watching manual, thumbed through it, folded a corner on a random page. Circled a random, common bird. It didn’t matter. Her eyes never left the rose bush.
Rosa rugosa rubra, a wild rose. There were a few others that sprawled in this area, but this one hadn’t grown wild. She’d planted it in the fall three years ago. It had advanced on the woods quite a bit despite the shade, nurtured by the perfect mix of fertilizer and forest compost. And, of course, the torso.
She put away her fake bird-watching journal and put the camera to her eye, aiming up into the trees. Nothing but a couple of squirrels, but she took some close-ups of these anyway. Nature photography and bird-watching, her two fake interests, though no one could prove that. She had dozens of books on both subjects, some well-worn, some close to her bed. Coffee table books that she flipped through without looking at the pictures, laying the book on her lap and turning pages while she watched TV. Even the closest observer would think her interest was real. Frankie surely did. The masquerade might never play out, the alibi never needed, but she was always prepared for anything.
Bird watching. That’s why she was here.
For a moment, she allowed herself to stare at the rose bush. There were dry leaves impaled on several of the branches, and her fingers itched to tidy them away, but she dare not touch it. There was no valid reason to do so. Besides, the rosa rugosa rubra had wicked thorns, and not just here and there, but completely covering the branches. The last thing she needed was to bleed here. She knew that every time she came, she left a trace of herself behind; the trick was to limit those traces to things that could be explained.
The rat poison sprinkled over the torso had kept the wildlife from digging up and carrying away the bones. There were no signs of paw prints or scrounging, nor any signs of people having trekked this far into the wild brush, away from the paths. She took several pictures of the late blooming rose, admiring the plump red rose hips. She got one extreme close-up of the ground underneath, just to make sure the ground hadn’t heaved and thrust up any secrets.