Closet Full Of Bones

by A. J. Aalto

  He took out his phone and snapped twenty or so pictures of the area, and that settled some of the furious churning in is guts. Jagger flipped through the pictures to make sure he got at least a dozen clear ones then returned to the parking lot just as a young custodian was emptying one of the green metal garbage cans on the property. Jagger paused, considered him for a long beat, then decided it wasn’t quite time to question the staff yet. If the Hearth sisters were hiding a something here, he didn’t want to raise their alarm. Any more than you already have, he thought, remembering Gillian Hearth’s almost smug, “Drive safe, officer.”

  Knowing he’d be back soon, Jagger drove away, planning to be home in time to order himself a pizza and Buffalo wings and settle in to watch that night's baseball game.

  **

  Aaron Fletcher watched the last visitor of the evening drive away as he swung the cemetery gates closed for the night and locked up; a huge man, big shoulders, stony face. Probably a crook, Aaron thought. Everyone’s a crook these days. Aaron had never had a chance to be a happy idealist; he’d been raised a pessimist and he’d embraced that side of himself as he came into adulthood, pitying the starry-eyed optimists, thinking them naïve at best, bordering on stupid.

  That guy wasn’t stupid, Aaron noted. He’s not blissfully unaware of how shitty this planet is, and how shitty everyone on it is. That guy knows too much. Probably why he became a crook. This place is dog-eat-dog. And he looks like he’s not about to get eaten anytime soon.

  Pleased with his assessment and feeling wise beyond his years, Aaron finished collecting the garbage, locked up the shed, and hung the key ring in the office. He checked the time and made sure he was really alone before sidling up to Gillian Hearth’s locker and nudging it open.

  Never locks it, he thought sadly. Optimist. Trusting. He didn’t go as far as thinking her stupid. He liked her perky tits and her sweet, round ass far too much to think too far past them. She was All Right in Aaron’s books. A real catch. Maybe a bit old for him, though that wouldn’t matter much if she was on her hands and knees, now, would it? Fuck, no. And he thought he had a real shot with her, down the road. Not like that hairy moron, Bruce, with his pit stains and his ill-fitting shirts, clomping around with one boot's laces untied, stinking of the outdoors. She may confide in a guy like Bruce, she may even accept his help more readily than she had accepted any of Aaron’s early offerings, but she wouldn’t spread her legs for a caveman like that, not his Gillian. She was a class act. She deserved someone a tad more cultured than big, dumb Bruce Wertheimer.

  Aaron fantasized often about the day Gillian when would finally notice that cultured young man standing right in front of her, how grateful she’d be for all the pleasures he’d give her. He was patient. He could wait. She better not make him wait too long, but he thought that wouldn’t be a problem. Already, she was warming to him. After all, she’d been the first to sign his birthday card, her big, looping feminine script plastered diagonally across one side with a smiley face beneath it. A smiley face, really, love? he’d thought at the time, but then corrected himself. Nobody is perfect. And they were at work, he allowed. She had to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But cutesy little symbols were the mark of emotional immaturity, he thought. It was something they could work on together when the time came. That and her name. “Gillian” was so boring compared to her actual first name, the full name he’d seen on her employee records, the one on her pay stubs: Lacey G. Hearth. Why she was going by her middle name, Aaron couldn’t fathom. Lacey was a sexy name, a Hollywood starlet name, a fuck-me-now name.

  Shuffling through her locker, he was disappointed again. She didn’t keep much at work. Papers. Junk, as far as he could tell. A personalized pair of gardening gloves which didn’t look like they’d been worn, crammed next to a dirty pair that often had been. Bird-watching binoculars and a worn notebook — just like his dear Lacey to be enchanted by the delicate, flighty, small-boned creatures, so much like herself, a sign of self-obsession but something else they could train out of her in time. A pack of Dentyne gum. An open box of latex gloves; he’d seen her wear those when dealing with fertilizers, though that wasn’t really her job. He imagined her wearing them and stroking his cock, closed his eyes as a dizzying wave of hot lust rolled through him. Continuing his search, he found a baseball hat, faded and frayed along the brim. Chicago Cubs. She won’t be celebrating them anytime soon, he thought, though they were having a pretty good year so far.

  Aaron stole a single piece of peppermint gum and closed her locker.

  He spent the rest of his short shift jerking off in the bathroom, after which he cleaned up his mess, washed his hands, and went outside to wait for his ride.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Friday, October 31. 8:10 P.M.

  Six and a half miles from Constable Jagger’s bachelor apartment, there was a homemade vegetarian pizza in the Hearth sisters’ new special-delivery four-oven AGA stove, cheese bubbling, almost ready to come out. The stove was something Gillian had always wanted, had saved a significant portion of Greg’s insurance payout for, an extravagant luxury that she’d never dreamed she’d actually own someday. A big bag of paper plates waited on the kitchen counter with a pack of napkins. There was a checkered picnic blanket on the floor in the dining room, several large faux-fur throw cushions, and a bottle of root beer with two red plastic cups. Gillian had planned on telling Frankie about Bobby immediately, but when she arrived at the Higgins Point house, Frankie had been humming and pink-cheeked and happy. The serenity on her sister’s face had made her breath catch; she hadn’t seen Frankie this content in ages. And she looked well, not the least bit sick, not at all like poor Barb McIntyre.

  Maybe it can wait one night. I’ll let her have tonight, and break the news in the morning, she’d thought, listening to Frankie recount all the work she did this evening. Actual, physical labor — raking leaves, preparing for Halloween trick or treaters, building a fire in the fireplace, carrying in more wood for later that night — and Gillian gave her the “atta-girl” she was looking for. It can definitely wait.

  Now, settling in for a quiet night, Gillian knew she’d made the right choice. Frankie’s hands didn’t pick nervously at her skin or twist and snap her hair. The dog lay beside her chair and sometimes thumped his heavy tail on the floor when she shifted; mostly, he just slept. Frankie lounged, relaxed, staring at the fire, no doubt thinking of future artwork the way she often did when she got that far-away look on her face. Gillian had seen that look many times just before Frankie would light up and announce a new idea. She waited for it to come, but for now, there was just the dreamy look.

  “Our first official fire at the new place,” Frankie said, curled up in a wide rattan Papasan chair beside the hearth. The wood crackled pleasantly. “Too bad I don’t drink anymore. We could have had a toast to celebrate.”

  Gillian brought the big salad bowl full of leftover treats for trick or treating kids. “Celebrate with candy. Looks like we only got those two kids, and they were the neighbor’s grandchildren.”

  “More for me,” Frankie gloated, grabbing a handful of mini chocolate bars. She unwrapped one, said, “At least she stopped calling me names in Italian. Allowing the kids to come here for candy is a good sign, too, right? Cheers,” and popped it in her mouth, smiling as she chewed.

  “I guess we’re too far out for parents to think to bring them out here. Maybe we’d attract more if we decorated?” Gillian pictured the Halloween nights of her childhood, romping through the streets ahead of Dad, who hung back at the ends of people’s driveways and puffed on his cigar as she and Frankie flew from house to house. Blissful, carefree moments, excitedly chattering to one another about a full-sized chocolate bar or, better still, one of Mrs. Mason’s caramel apples with the jaunty little address tag on it so parents could track the treat and know it was safe. She smiled at the memory of Frankie’s every-year costume: the old crone. A long, white wig, a pointy black hat, a flowing black dress,
a long fake nose held on by an elastic band that inevitably snapped half way into the night. “Or had an open house? Maybe a fog machine?”

  “You and Henry,” Frankie said with a fond half-smirk. “You guys always did love this holiday. Give me Thanksgiving any day.”

  “You don’t even eat the turkey,” Gillian reminded her.

  “Tofurkey isn’t bad,” Frankie said through a mouthful of chocolate. “And I still make a mean mashed turnip casserole.”

  “Blech,” Gillian teased, winking. “Don’t fill up on chocolate, your dinner is—” Gillian caught herself and sighed, shoulders slumping. “Sorry, I sound like Mom again.”

  “You do,” Frankie said, rolling her eyes over at the front window, where night was a heavy blanket pricked with distant stars. “When do the curtains come?”

  “A couple weeks after we order them,” Gillian said, going to check the pizza. “Two slices?”

  “Three, please!” Frankie called.

  No lack of appetite, that’s got to be a good sign, right? Gillian put on her oven mitts and took out the pizza, delighted with the smell of crust and sauce and cheese and olives and pineapple, Frankie’s favorite. She heard a soft tapping in the dining room followed by more firm thumps. “What the hell are you doing in there?” she called.

  Frankie’s reply was mumbled and lost under more thumping.

  Gillian slid the pizza stone onto the stovetop and grabbed the pizza cutter and two plates. Usually, she would let the cheese set before cutting, but after the day’s stresses and at this late hour, she was starving. Hacking off two messy slices for herself and three for her sister, she took off the oven mitts and carried their dinner plates back into the dining room.

  Frankie had nailed the picnic blanket to the wide, bay window. It fit almost the entire width. Gillian nodded in approval. “Good plan.”

  “Didn’t like the night staring in at us,” Frankie said.

  “Well, it’s not the pattern I would have chosen for this room, but it’ll do for now.” She wanted to say Travis doesn’t know where this house is, but it sounded like a promise she couldn't make, and besides, she didn’t want to bring him up. “We’ve got lots of time to decide on curtains. Won’t be opening for customers until spring.”

  “I kinda like that plaid, actually,” Frankie said, admiring it with a cocked head as she took her plate from Gillian. “Looks good with the original color of this room.”

  “This boring tan?” Gillian gasped, choosing a pillow to sit on next to the big stone hearth. “You? Beige?”

  Frankie blew on the steam billowing off the pizza where the melted cheese had slid off. “I could live without every room being wildly dramatic, I suppose. It’s a soothing color.”

  “Will wonders never cease,” Gillian said, promptly burning her tongue on pizza sauce. She hissed and poured herself some root beer. “Ouch. Dammit.”

  “Dork,” Frankie said, and then made the exact same mistake with the cheese. She squeaked and her lips formed a perfect, surprised O.

  They shared a long laugh, which got them into a contagious loop of stress-busting giggles. When that wound down to dry titters and the occasional snort, Gillian said softly, “We can’t live like this much longer. I don’t know about you, but the anxiety is killing me.”

  Frankie nodded. “It’s my fault.”

  “Don’t go down that road,” Gillian said, though she didn’t entirely disagree. “You had no idea Travis would take the break up this badly. He wasn’t an out-and-out nut when you met him or you never would have dated him.”

  Frankie rocked forward in the Papasan chair. “Let’s go away for a while. We’ll pick up the kids at Henry’s and head down to Cape Hatteras, take up windsurfing.”

  “It’s almost November!” Gillian cried, though Frankie had a tempting idea, there. “It’s probably about sixty degrees there today.”

  “Okay, so we’ll go somewhere warm,” Frankie said. “Portugal. Madrid. You’ve got money. Where do you wanna take me?”

  Gillian fired a free pillow at her and her sister laughed. “How come I have to pay?”

  “I don’t have anything,” Frankie said, the duh heavily implied.

  They tentatively ate their pizza, their burnt tongues wary, and stared into the fire in companionable silence. Gillian thought she heard a knock at the door, but when she listened for a bit, there wasn’t any other noise until she recognized the rumbling of a distance train, quieter this evening, but this time with a whistle. Frankie poured herself some root beer and sighed.

  “Will you think I’m a bad person if I tell you I haven’t told Bobby about the new place and kinda don’t want to?” Frankie asked. “That part of me wants to just pack and move all my stuff here and not give her my forwarding address?”

  Sounds perfect, Gillian thought but bit her tongue. “Don’t see her for a while.”

  “How can I avoid it when she shows up at my house?” Frankie stared down at her plate and picked an olive off the cheese to pop it in her mouth. “Crouch down and not answer the door?”

  Gillian finished a slice so that her mouth would be too busy to say what she really wanted to say, and then swallowed and shrugged. “If you have to. Consider it a break for your sanity.”

  “At least no one has called or messaged in a while,” Frankie said. “I think. Honestly, I’ve stopped checking. I called Henry to check on the boys yesterday, and he said they’re doing great. I just left my phone in my purse. I think.” She frowned, and Gillian thought she’d get up and go searching for it, but she apparently thought better of it and leaned back, nestling into the round cushion of the Papasan chair. “Anyways, it’s been a relief to have the silence.”

  “Good,” Gillian said, genuinely pleased. “Leave it until morning. We’ll get a solid night’s rest, and tomorrow, we’ll treat ourselves to a cone before the Humboldt Dairy Bar closes up for the season. I heard a rumor they’re already out of Moose Tracks and aren’t making more until April.”

  “Dis-ahhh-stah,” Frankie expressed in her finest faux-posh accent, puckering her lips, and when she sipped her root beer from the red plastic cup, she flicked up her pinky finger. “I say, whatevah will one dooooooo all wintah in these deplorable conditions?”

  “Stay in and pet the dog?” Gillian suggested, doing just that.

  “Is that a coy euphemism for masturbation?”

  “No,” Gillian murmured. “If it were, I’d have said ‘pet the cat.’”

  “We don’t have a cat,” Frankie pointed out.

  “Then we’d better fucking get one,” popped out of Gill’s mouth before she could stop it and Frankie’s mouth made that surprised O again before she collapsed into giggles.

  “You don’t need to pet the cat, missy,” Frankie said when she’d collected herself. Her lips curled into a sly grin. “You’ve got your admirer.”

  Gillian propped an extra pillow against the stone hearth so she could lean back against it comfortably. She rolled her eyes grandly. “I have a what?”

  “Uh huh,” Frankie tossed her hair over her shoulder then whispered, “The married man. Tsk tsk, you naughty girl.”

  Gillian laughed. “Sounds scandalous.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “I’m forced to deny it,” Gillian said helplessly, “because I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, kid.”

  “Paul!” Frankie said, sitting up straight and flailing her hands with exasperation. “Good gawd, Gillian, how dense are you?”

  Gillian’s jaw fell open and then she laughed so hard that she nearly knocked her root beer over and dropped her pizza plate. “Francine! I'm not sleeping with Paul Langerbeins.”

  “Bull,” Frankie said crisply, “shit.”

  That started Gillian off again; she hadn’t laughed this much without alcohol being involved in a very long time. Tickled by her sister’s matter-of-fact expression and her eyes glowing with a mixture of lewd amusement and suspicion, she laughed until she had to dab her eyes with her napkin.
“For crying in the sink, Frankie, why would you think I’m sleeping with Mr. Langerbeins?”

  “Oh, is that what you’re calling him?” Frankie teased, eyes twinkling. “Is that what he likes you to call him in bed?” She lifted her voice to falsetto. “‘Oh, MISTER Langerbeins, how you do make me swoon!’”

  “Oh, you totally nailed it; that is exactly how I talk in the sack. Swoons galore.”

  “That should be the title of your autobiography. Swoons Galore: The Gillian Hearth Story.”

  “You are a ridiculous woman,” Gillian told her sister with a swell of affection.

  “So if you’re not sleeping with Paul, how come he’s always springing to your rescue, huh?” Frankie looked smug. “See? I can be a detective, too. Y’all aren’t smarter than me. Running around just the two of you in your little detective’s club.”

  “There’s no running around,” Gillian said, “and no detective club. He’s not springing to my rescue. The man can barely walk, he’s not springing anywhere.”

  “Do the bullet wounds in his hip make it hard for him to have sex?” Frankie chewed her bottom lip and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Is that why he’s not doing his wife?”

  “You don’t know he’s not having sex with his wife.”

  Frankie smirked. “Yes, I do.”

  “And just how do you know that?” Gillian challenged.

  “The hungry way he looks at you,” Frankie said. “He either wants to fuck you or eat you like a turkey drumstick, caveman-style.”

  “Oh, lordy, now I’m wishing we had booze,” Gillian said.

  “If it’s any comfort, he probably doesn’t want to fuck you caveman-style. Probably, with his wound, he needs you to be on top. Am I right?” Frankie’s eyes sparkled. “Does he like it when you’re on top?”

  “Stop it,” Gillian insisted through a lopsided grin. “I'm not now, nor will I ever be, sleeping with Paul Langerbeins. He’s a married man.”