Closet Full Of Bones

by A. J. Aalto

  Then she loaded her overnight bag in the truck, went back for the flowers, locked up the Red Maple house, and joined Bruce in the truck’s cab, where the heater was blasting and the seat warmer was cozy on her rump. She rested the cut glass vase between her thighs and ignored Bruce giving her serious side-eye about it.

  Will I be seeing you tomorrow? Gillian texted to Nancy, the owner of Those Buns Dough.

  Nancy texted back, I can bring a dozen assorted loaves for around four? Rye, pumpernickel, white, twelve grain, etc?

  Gillian texted back, Yes please, and a tub of the chocolate chunk cookie dough.

  “Can we drop by the department store real quick, first?” Gillian asked him, buckling up.

  “Sure, what for?”

  “Nancy from the bakery is bringing me samples, frozen dough that I can bake fresh in the mornings. Trouble is, Frankie got rid of her old chest freezer a few years back,” she said, staring out the passenger side window, “and I haven’t needed one at Red Maple, living on my own. But I’ll need one now, won’t I?”

  “Better have that delivered,” Bruce said. “There’s no way you and I are carrying a big chest freezer down those stairs. That Paul fellow you hired can’t help, what with his bad hip. You’re not holding up half a freezer with that shoulder of yours, lady. Not happening.”

  “And I’m going to need the biggest one they have,” she told him as the night rolled by outside the truck. Man sized. She’d get them to rush delivery. She wanted it tomorrow.

  Bruce took the on-ramp to the Queen Elizabeth Highway heading for the city, and Gillian began to place furniture in her mind.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sunday, November 2. 6:45 P.M.

  Travis Freeman was at Red Maple Drive when he saw the most marvelous thing he could have ever hoped for. It was as if the universe was presenting him a gift on a silver fucking platter.

  He’d driven past the whore’s street twice, casting only a glance down the dead end road to check if the truck, car, and van full of people carrying cases were there. He figured they were law enforcement types, and that the whore’s house was a temporary hot zone for him, but he couldn’t resist a peek. He wasn’t stupid enough to go down the firelane, though. He swung into the church parking lot two streets over and wandered the cemetery, pretending to pay his respects to a grave that had a perfect view of the street while keeping him relatively sheltered by the side of the church itself, at least from the direction of Red Maple. He’d been out in the cold, not feeling it in the least, for a good twenty minutes before the white van rolled to a stop at the intersection and sped away, followed by the black SUV. He returned to his car and waited for the blue truck he’d seen parked next to the whore’s Jeep at Pleasant Pines Cemetery a few times. A coworker, a big one. Travis wasn’t interested in him, either.

  With one hand, he took the big, black dildo out of his backpack and whapped it on his knee rhythmically to the beat of the song on the radio. He lifted it to his nose, but it only smelled faintly of rubber and some sort of antiseptic, probably a sex toy cleaner. No matter. He’d smelled enough cunts to know the whore’s fragrance.

  When he saw the blue truck go by, and spotted Gillian Hearth in the passenger seat, staring out at the night, he felt a hot jolt of glorious hatred, and squeezed the spongy dildo hard enough to whiten his knuckles. Rolling his tight shoulders to loosen them up, he waited until the truck had turned and disappeared before turning on his car and driving quickly to Red Maple, where most of the trees had shed their red leaves. Their claw-like limbs seemed to grab a nearly full moon. Travis parked beneath one, two doors down from the whore’s house. He was about to get out when a little crotch rocket style motorcycle zipped past him and pulled into the whore’s driveway. The lean guy who rode the bike without a helmet engaged the kickstand and bounced off the Kawasaki, bounding up to the front door with the energy of youth, and knocked on the front door, glancing around at the lack of exterior or interior lights.

  Travis waited. Watched. The biker opened the mailbox and fished around. Would she be stupid enough to leave a house key? Travis knew she wouldn’t. Not after his break-in. Not after the humiliating slap he’d given her. She’d be paranoid about security now.

  The twerp withdrew what looked like a little piece of paper. It was getting dark and harder to see. The biker must have thought so too, because he turned and tilted the paper under the moon glow to assist. Then he started back to the bike. Travis felt a momentary surge of anger; if he’d been a minute or two earlier, he’d know what that note was about. But then the universe’s gift came, and it was better than he could have hoped.

  A small shadow in a white t-shirt darted out from around the dark side of the house, a second young man, some blond twerp who looked all of twenty. A couple of the whore’s many suitors, Travis was sure, but that thought had barely formed when the blond guy threw himself bodily on the biker, lunging and throwing fists.

  Travis felt his mouth pop open and turn up into an amazed smile. The biker dropped the note and swung back, but the blond guy’s reactions were quick and merciless; Travis watched his elbow pump several times and then he stepped aside and the biker stumbled, clutching his midriff. Blood quickly seeped through his t-shirt, bright and stunning. The twerp held his knife down alongside his leg, carefully not dripping on his shoes or touching his jeans. Travis powered his window down a touch, but if any words had been exchanged, he’d missed them.

  The biker on the ground spewed a jet of blood and shuddered. The blond twerp looked down the street both ways, but far too quickly to take in too many details, in Travis’s opinion. Then the twerp delivered a finishing blow, sliding the knife into the biker’s throat, a clean shot delivered with precision, like he knew his anatomy. Without withdrawing the knife, the guy leaned over and hooked the slightly larger man under the shoulders and began dragging him across the driveway and into the cover of the dark back yard.

  Travis forgot he was holding a black dildo in his lap, forgot everything but what had just occurred in front of his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. He just couldn't believe it. A dead body in the whore’s yard. A fresh dead body. And only he and the twerp knew that she hadn’t murdered this one.

  Travis had yet to track Mike Deacon’s remains. From what he’d read in Frankie’s diaries, he knew that Frankie and Bobby McIntyre had put Deacon’s body in Frankie’s freezer until the EMS guys had taken Gillian away, and then left it there, not knowing what else to do, until Gillian was released from the hospital. After that, the details got fuzzy; Gillian Hearth was careful to keep her activities vague, so Frankie hadn’t had much to report to the page. But there was no doubt that Gillian had taken control of things the minute she was physically able, despite the sudden loss of her husband and the funeral arrangements and the mourning. Gillian was a stone cold bitch; Travis Freeman knew one when he saw one.

  And he knew something else, too. Felt it in his bones. Frankie had written in her diary that what Gillian did must have been self-defense. That Mike Deacon was dangerous, and that they’d struggled, and that he’d hurt Gillian a lot before she even hit the stairs or the cement floor.

  But Travis Freeman had no doubt that Gillian Hearth was capable of excising anyone from her life if she felt they no longer served her purposes, and getting rid of her sister’s men was not a problem for her. Not until now. Travis wasn’t going to let her get away with it. He was sure that Gillian had shoved Mike Deacon down the stairs. Purposefully. One hard shove. Maybe she felt she had no choice, Travis allowed. But in that moment, faced with a chance to get rid of someone she wanted out of her life for good, Gillian had acted. She had stepped forward and made it happen.

  If he could find Mike Deacon’s body, police could probably link it to the Hearth sisters. He had failed so far. No matter. There was a dead body in her yard right now. All he had to do was call it in.

  And yet, his hand stalled on his phone. Tapped the waterproof cover. Watched the twerp come back into the moonlight with
a garden hose. It surprised him into a soft, incredulous laugh. Kid, seriously? You’re just going to wash the blood down and… what? Walk away? Where was the body? Under a bush? Behind the garden shed?

  It didn’t occur to him until then to wonder just who these two young men were. The blond guy gave his boots and the bottom of his jeans a rinse, too. That water must have been damn cold, Travis figured, but he was trying. Stupid kid. He should have used his fists, not a damn knife. Who are you, boy? Why are you so quick to strike like that?

  Having put the hose away, the twerp picked up the note, got on the biker’s crotch rocket, double-checked what the note said, and took off. Travis was very tempted to go snooping around for the dead biker to see where he’d been dumped. It couldn’t be far.

  But that would be stupid. What if he got caught near it? What if he left evidence behind? No, that wouldn't do. He put Gillian’s dildo away in his backpack, his plans having changed dramatically. He needed to be seen for a while in public, just in case.

  He turned around with his lights off and drove out to the cross road, where he put on his lights and head for a pub called The Nimble Fiddler in Sugarloaf, a ten minute drive from Higgins Point. There was no rush. The time had come to give the whore a late night visit. He knew exactly where the Hearth sisters lived now; he’d followed Gillian home from the hospital the other day.

  He hadn’t been the only one.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sunday, Nov 2. 7:05 P.M.

  It was nearly a full hour that Paul Langerbeins had been sitting in the bakery across from the road from the Alibi Alley café in Derby Harbor. He should be in the café, but that wasn’t safe. So he watched her through the plate glass window of Those Buns Dough, staring into the plate glass window of the other building as Bobby McIntyre sobbed into her coffee.

  She’d pull herself together briefly, and then melt down again, using a napkin to cup under her leaky nose and hide her crumpling mouth. Earlier that day, he’d traced her using a partner (a guy called Beaner who did odd jobs) from Frankie’s house to the new house at Higgins Point, and back to Frankie’s. He wasn’t entirely sure how she’d learned the Higgins Point address, though he suspected he hadn’t been careful enough when bringing Gillian home from the hospital. No matter. It was almost over.

  Bobby seemed frantic at the last visit to Frankie’s, cupping her hands around her face to look in the windows, running the try the side door, then back to the front. Running, full speed, tripping over her feet in her frenzy. She’s lost her, Paul thought, somewhat relieved. He put in a call to Constable Cheryl Broderick regarding Bobby’s whereabouts, updating her when Bobby moved. He was waiting now to make sure she was picked up by cops.

  Nancy, the owner of Those Buns Dough, offered him another free cookie; he declined, though it was the first time he’d ever turned down a cookie. He’d been smelling bakery scents for over fifty minutes, and that once-wonderful fragrance was starting to be too much for him. She smiled at him, and repeated her offers of goodies, whatever he wanted; when she’d found out he was there doing a little security job for Gillian of Hearth House, she’d been quick to offer any help he needed. Paul promised he’d take a loaf of bread home to his wife. Looking satisfied, she toddled off to count her till for the evening. It was almost closing time for her. He’d have to go back to his car soon.

  He saw Bobby get up, take a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and go out to the empty patio, weaving among the wrought iron furniture until she got to a spot that pleased her before lighting up. Paul saw she’d left her purse on the table inside. Not many customers, but a strange thing to do. Her mind was elsewhere. He opened his phone, but paused, as she hadn’t gone anywhere; he hoped Cheryl would come herself and not send a patrol car, or that Bobby would go back inside before the cops arrived.

  It was not to be. A patrol car started up the street and Bobby dropped her cigarette and melted into the dark alley, abandoning her purse inside Alibi Alley. Paul dialed Cheryl to report her direction, at the same time launching out the front door as fast as he could on his bad hip, shouting to the cop and pointing.

  He knew it wouldn’t help. He texted Beaner, who was now sitting in his SUV in front of the big house at Higgins Point, standing guard. Watch for BMc. Beaner had photos taped to his dashboard: Bobby McIntyre, Travis Freeman, and, on a private recommendation from Bruce Wertheimer, Aaron Fletcher from the cemetery. Bruce had a gut feeling, and when he’d said that, the big, gruff lumberjack-type had looked a little spooked. Bruce had brought him a picture from the landscaping crew’s personnel files; the blond kid didn’t look scary. In fact, he looked fairly harmless. That dissonance between Big Bruce’s fear and the actual look of this Aaron kid was enough to convince Paul to add him to the watch list.

  The conversation had been brief, when Paul dropped by the cemetery looking for Gillian on Wednesday. She hadn’t been there, and Bruce had taken him into the office to talk. He’d started by saying, “Look, this might just be a little crush or something, but…” Paul had listened, had absorbed all the information, and had come away with a bad feeling.

  He added a simple text, Lost her in Derby Harbor, to Dean Jagger. Jagger had asked to be kept in the loop. All the loops.

  After a moment, he added, Going to the big house. Keep you posted. He got no reply but hadn’t really expected one.

  He paid Nancy in the bakery for a loaf of caraway rye, Julia’s favorite, knowing it would be treated with disdain, but trying anyway. He had no intention of giving up on mending his marriage; he’d been to therapy and marriage counseling — alone — every week for the last four months. The last time he’d asked Julia to come with him, she had paused before saying no. That was, in Paul’s eyes, a baby step forward. Someday, she would agree to go. It would take a while, but he was willing to be patient.

  He put the loaf in the passenger seat of his Audi and was surprised when his phone dinged twice with a single vibration, which indicated a text from Jagger. He checked it, and was surprised again. It wasn’t usual for cops to info-share with private investigators, but it seemed Jagger was in a talkative mood tonight.

  The flower shop has an online order listed for a bouquet of pink roses and purple and white Freesia, paid by MasterCard, by Aaron Fletcher on the first, the cop texted.

  Paul replied, Does GH know yet?

  Jagger answered, I'll tell her.

  Paul didn’t think that was good enough, but he texted, Great.

  He called Gillian. When she didn’t answer, he left a voice mail. “Hey, it’s Paul. You received flowers from Aaron at the cemetery crew. Jagger traced it. On my way to your new place. I have a man there. Black SUV. Name’s Beaner. No need to worry. If you need me at Red Maple instead, let me know.” He hung up and started north to Higgins Point.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sunday, November 2. 7:10 P.M.

  It wasn’t until Gillian took out her credit card to pay for the freezer that her sanity finally flooded back in and she came to her senses. She would put bread in this freezer. Food. For her clients. Because she was going to have a wonderful, successful business like she’d always dreamed. Her and Frankie. She had to fight for that future. They’d figure out their problems and they’d decorate the bed and breakfast, go antique shopping to fill the bedrooms, paint the walls, plan menus, and enjoy their beautiful future.

  But what about the diary? And Bobby’s big mouth? What about Mike Deacon? There is no future for you. Not if the police find out what happened.

  Bruce was browsing big screen TVs, pointing to several with a broad wink. “While you’ve got the plastic out, Sugar Mama,” he said leadingly.

  She managed a half-smile for him. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not gettin’ one.”

  “Party pooper,” he accused. “We better get back to the car soon. Cold tonight. Your flowers are going to freeze out there.”

  She handed the salesman her credit card and asked him about rush delivery. The freezer she wanted was sitting in the back, and
could be brought in the morning for an extra fee. Delighted, she paid for them to do so and gave them the address.

  Just for food. No matter what comes next. She pushed away the dark thoughts, cleared her mind, and reminded herself that she was not that person. She just wasn’t.

  Her phone vibrated silently again in her back pocket. She checked the display. Colin? She was supposed to see him tonight; with everything that had happened, it slipped her mind. She planned to call him back when she got some privacy.

  Another vibration alerted her to a message from Paul: the flowers had been sent by Aaron Fletcher. Gillian was hit by a one-two punch of relief and surprise. Aaron? She barely knew him. Bruce’s gut feeling about the kid had been right. She’d have to speak to Aaron and let him know that his attentions weren’t welcome. That was bound to be uncomfortable, but it was the least of her worries tonight. But what did he mean by SOON? Had it been just a clumsy romantic overture?

  “Pssst,” Bruce whispered.

  When she turned around again, he was holding a bedside lamp up in front of his face, its filmy, crimson shade hung with dangling crystal ribbon, and he slowly lowered it until just his eyes were showing. He wiggled giant, bushy eyebrows suggestively.

  Gillian let out an unintentional snort-laugh and motioned for him to bring it. She told the salesman, “Could you just add this on my bill?”

  “You’re gonna get this?” Bruce smiled bemusedly. “Not really your style, is it?”

  “For my sister.”

  “Ah yes!” He raised two fingers beside his head and motioned clicking a light bulb on with an imaginary pull chain. “It all becomes clear now.”

  “You do know how to cheer me up, big guy,” she admitted, shaking her head ruefully.

  “And that’s why you should marry me,” he said wistfully, giving her a faux-sad shrug and sigh. “Then alllll this could be yours.” He proceeded to rub his broad belly and chest with one giant hand. “Well, most of it. My heart belongs to poutine.”