Death Grip

by Elaine Viets

  ‘And if you can’t and it’s too late, I want you to bring my baby home so she can sleep in the Forest cemetery next to her grandparents. Please don’t let Rosanna become nameless bones in the woods, a horror show for some hiker to trip over.’

  With those brave words, Lisa McKim dissolved into tears.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I woke up the next morning to a gentle spring rain. It was the kind of rainy morning that makes you want to roll over and go back to sleep. That’s exactly what I did, since I had the day off. I finally woke up again at ten a.m., brewed some coffee and took it upstairs to bed, where I luxuriated in the sound of the rain drumming softly on the roof.

  I washed my hair for my date with Chris that night and did my nails. The house was due for a cleaning, but what I really wanted to do was check out Mrs McKim’s intriguing thumb drive. It was still in my purse. I could practically feel it pulsing in there, sending out signals to me.

  I loaded the dishwasher and turned it on, then decided more cleaning would ruin my manicure. Besides, that tantalizing diary was calling my name. I put on another pot of coffee, and stuck the thumb drive into my iPad.

  Armed with a mug of hot coffee, I sat at my kitchen table and scrolled through Rosanna McKim’s diary to the first entry, about six months ago. It was a long email.

  Monday, October 7, 2019

  Dear Mom,

  You’ve always had my back, but now I need you to be my back-up. Like I told you last weekend, Briggs is really handsy. It’s like working for an octopus. And today he asked me out.

  ‘Wanna go on a bar crawl?’ he said. ‘I know some great dives.’ He acted like he expected me to be overjoyed. That was his idea of a first date. A bar crawl! And dive bars at that! What a lowlife.

  I told him no thanks. I wasn’t interested. I said it was a bad idea for an employee to date her employer. If he thinks I’m a housekeeper with benefits, he’s got another think coming. Anyway, he barely said anything to me the rest of the day. We avoided each other and that was fine with me. I went to bed about 10 p.m. and made sure I locked my door.

  I know what you’re going to say, Mom – I should come home this instant. I can have my old room while I look for another job.

  But jobs that pay like this one are hard to come by, especially when all I have is a degree in English Lit. If I quit, I’ll be hustling fries at Mickey D’s or pounding a cash register and making minimum wage – if I’m lucky. Plus this job includes room and board. So for now, I’ll avoid Fumble Fingers and keep on working. Don’t worry. I can handle him.

  But in case there’s a problem, I’m starting this diary to keep track of him on a daily basis. I’m backing it up in the cloud – and sending a copy to you – each week.

  Monday

  You already know about this day. B asked me out. I refused. No further contact.

  Tuesday

  B got up early and was out of the house all day. I went to bed early. NFC (no further contact).

  Wednesday

  Ditto

  Thursday

  B was very friendly this morning. Too friendly. He patted my shoulder and told me what a good job I was doing, and his hand slid down to my right boob. I removed it and told him to keep his hands off me. He apologized.

  B left the grounds after supper – about 6 p.m. – in his Beemer and came back about 8:30 with a girl. I could see the two of them out my kitchen window. I hid behind the curtain the way our nosy neighbor, Mrs Crane, used to watch our street. The girl was very thin and pale and looked underage. She wore a skimpy, shiny red dress and red heels. Her blonde hair hung down past her waist and needed a wash. She was tipsy and stumbled when she walked. Was she a sex worker? Was I being too harsh? Maybe she was just a poor girl who hung around dive bars.

  B took her upstairs and about thirty minutes later I heard her moaning, followed by muffled screams. They sounded like screams of pain. They were so loud, I heard them all the way back in my apartment. I was sure he was hurting that girl. I tried to go to bed but couldn’t sleep. I was too worried. The screams and moans lasted until after 1 a.m.

  I stayed awake until I heard a car in the drive at 1:21. The girl climbed into the back of an Uber, a black SUV. She seemed OK. Does Briggs like kinky sex? Was the girl’s screaming part of the thrill for him? None of my business, as long as the woman was safe. Once she was gone, I fell asleep.

  Friday

  B called me into his office and said he had a date with Desiree Gale Saturday night and he was bringing her home for a cold supper. He wanted lobster, a fresh fruit salad, and good chocolate, and I was to make sure the champagne was iced. Once I finished those duties, B said I could have Saturday night and Sunday off. I called Kevin. He was thrilled. Me too. I said I’d pack a bag and spend the weekend at his apartment.

  I spent the rest of the morning running around the Forest like crazy, buying lobster, greens, and fresh fruit from specialty shops. I stored the food in the fridge, then drove forty miles to Maplewood, all the way to the edge of St. Louis, to get the dark chocolate B likes from a shop called Kakao, which makes its own chocolate. I’ll have to get you some, Mom. It’s superb.

  By 4:15 p.m. I was in the kitchen pantry, bent over, stocking the lower shelves, when I felt something brushing my bottom. I swatted it and discovered I’d slapped Briggs’s hand. He’d slipped into the pantry when my back was turned. I stood up and said, ‘Do NOT touch me ever again!’ The miserable weasel backed away, saying, ‘Sorry! Sorry! It was an accident! I was trying to get a bottle of Burgundy.’ I didn’t like that sly grin on his face, but the Burgundy he wanted really was on the lower shelf. Thank gawd I have the weekend off and can spend quality time with Kevin.

  According to Rosanna’s diary, the next six weeks were variations on that first week. Briggs got up early one or two days a week and didn’t come home until late, usually at the beginning of the week. He often went prowling for women on either Wednesday or Thursday nights. The ones he brought back were nearly interchangeable – thin, pale, very young, with shabby clothes. All had long hair. Four were blondes, two were brunettes, one had lime green hair and another girl’s was baby pink.

  During their visits, Rosanna wrote that she could hear the women’s screams in her quarters at the back of the house. Rosanna thought they might be in real pain. She was unnerved and always waited anxiously until an Uber came and took the women home, usually around one or two in the morning. Rosanna convinced herself that these women were in Briggs’s home consensually, and hoped that those screams were partly fake.

  None of Briggs’s pick-ups stayed overnight, and all of the women – with the exception of Destiny, the hungry girl with the wool scarf around her neck who raided the kitchen for food – did not appear hurt. Briggs never had Rosanna prepare any food or refreshments for these visitors, and she was never allowed to clean Briggs’s bedroom after the encounters.

  Rosanna was always given the weekends off and she usually spent them with either Kevin or her mother. But as the weeks continued, the strange goings-on at Briggs’s home began to weigh on her.

  On Wednesday, January 15, she wrote:

  It’s one of B’s pick-up nights. He left the house after dinner, and I’m dreading his return. He’s going to bring home another pathetic, scrawny creature and abuse her, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t call the police, no matter how loud she screams. This is the Forest, and they’ll do whatever B wants and believe any fairytale he tells them. Looks like I’ll be up most of the night, waiting for that poor girl to leave.

  By March, she was writing, B brought another bone-thin bone-white girl home tonight. This one has pink hair. It’s 10:25 p.m. and she’s screaming her lungs out. I cannot take this much longer. I HAVE GOT TO FIND ANOTHER JOB!

  Rosanna spent the rest of the evening online, applying for work. None of those applications panned out.

  In the entries for the week before Rosanna disappeared, Briggs’s behavior grew more aggressive. He brought home two bedraggled wome
n, both dirty blondes, and I’m talking about the condition of their hair, not the color. Their screams kept her awake until three o’clock. The Uber driver arrived at 3:20 a.m. and took them both away. They were able to walk out of the house to the SUV. Thank gawd!

  On Friday, Rosanna’s last day before the barbecue, Briggs found the housekeeper alone in the linen closet at about ten a.m. She wrote:

  I thought I’d locked the door from the inside, but B must have a key. I was putting away a stack of fresh bedding when he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me – hard. His breath smelled like whiskey. I pushed him away, and shouted, ‘Don’t you EVER do that again!’

  He said, ‘Hey! I find you irresistible. Is that so bad? I couldn’t help myself. That’s a compliment.’ He had to be drunk. I was afraid to be alone with him in the linen closet. I made sure I’d backed out of there first. Then I said, ‘Inappropriate and unwanted touching is not a compliment. I’m putting you on notice. Touch me again and I’ll quit.’

  I ran to my quarters and made a cup of tea. My hands were shaking so badly I could hardly drink it. B sent a text saying he would pick up the meat for the barbecue after his lunch. I logged in all the supplies at 4:15 p.m. and texted Briggs at 5:02 p.m. that everything was ready for the barbecue. Then I packed and was out of there.

  The last entry in the diary was after Rosanna was fired for leaving the meat in the Range Rover. She was furious, and sent the texts that corroborated her story to her mother, then cashed her final paycheck and severance using her phone app, found a Caribbean cruise and hotel, bought a last-minute plane ticket to Fort Lauderdale, and texted her family and friends she was leaving. She wrote:

  It took me about half an hour to pack my things. I only had a few photos and some clothes here, and they fit into a suitcase and a gym bag. Briggs is knocking on my door. I assume he wants to say goodbye. I’m storing this and sending it to you, Mom. I’ll stay in touch.

  And that’s where Rosanna’s diary ends and the mystery begins.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Rosanna’s audio files were next, the ones she’d recorded on her cell phone. Now I would hear Briggs’s harassment in detail. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Reading the housekeeper’s diary already made me angry.

  My little iPad was grinding its gears, struggling with the huge file, when my cell phone rang. It was Jace, asking what I’d found on the thumb drive.

  ‘I just finished reading Rosanna’s diary,’ I told him, and gave him a summary. Jace took notes and asked me to repeat several points. ‘It’s time I had a serious talk with Mr Bellerive,’ he said.

  ‘Be careful, Jace,’ I said. ‘He’ll be filing a complaint about you before your car makes it through his gates.’

  ‘I’m not going to be a Forest lapdog,’ he said.

  ‘I admire your courage,’ I said.

  ‘And? What’s the rest of that sentence?’

  ‘I hope you have a job when this is all over.’

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘And Briggs will be in jail.’

  I hoped he was right. I wanted him to be right. But he was a seasoned cop and I’d lived in the Forest all my life. I knew money often trumped truth.

  A quick glance at the clock told me it was almost six o’clock. Time to get dressed – really get dressed – for my date with Chris. I spent time with my make-up. Not too much, just enough to give my face definition and color. I brushed my shoulder-length dark hair until it shone. Tonight, I was wearing it down, not pulled back in a practical ponytail.

  Then I opened my closet for my dinner dress. For too long, I’d regarded clothes as utilitarian slipcovers. But tonight I wasn’t going to wear black – not my plain black DI pantsuits, or even my favorite black cocktail dress. It was time to add some color to my life.

  I brought out my hot pink dress with the butterfly sleeves. The sleeves were banded in black and I liked how they moved when I walked. Paired with black heels and my favorite silver bracelet and earrings, it was a classic look.

  When the doorbell rang at precisely seven o’clock, I was ready.

  When I opened the door, Chris said, ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘So do you,’ I said. He wore a blue button-down shirt that looked like it had been made for him. No tie this time. His collar was open and I caught a glimpse of just the right amount of chest hair. I don’t like men who are manscaped or ones who are hairy beasts. Chris was just right. He smelled good, too: Old Spice and coffee. His hair looked newly cut.

  I could see he’d shined up his Mustang for the occasion. I was touched.

  My walkway was lined with spring flowers. The last of the red tulips and yellow daffodils were still blooming, and the redbud tree was a purple cloud.

  ‘Nice garden,’ he said. ‘Your work?’

  ‘No, can’t take any credit for it. My mom planted them. She was quite the gardener.’

  ‘So was my mom,’ he said. ‘And my grandmother. My grandfather was a plumber and a carpenter. He’d retired by the time I came along. I remember him sitting on his front porch, smoking cigars. He had a pewter smoke set. I still have it, even though I don’t smoke.’

  On the way to the restaurant Chris and I talked about our parents, and grandmothers – all the good memories we had. Then we shifted the conversation to our grandfathers and I think we were down to quirky first cousins by the time we got to Gringo Daze, the Forest’s most popular Mexican restaurant.

  Inside the big beige stucco building, soft Spanish guitar music played. The bar was crowded with locals, as usual. Eduardo, the owner, was on duty. He was a handsome, dark-haired man, lean as a bullfighter. He met us with a smile and two menus. My high heels tip-tapped across the Spanish tiles.

  Eduardo gave us a large table near the fountain. I was relieved to see that the table in the secluded alcove by the fountain was occupied by another couple. A young pair in their twenties. They were holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes as if there was no one else in the restaurant. I wasn’t ready for that kind of privacy.

  The server brought us chips and salsa and asked if we’d like guacamole. Chris looked at me and I said yes. We ordered drinks – a Dos Equis beer for Chris and a glass of chardonnay for me. Both came quickly, and the beer was in a frosted glass. By the time the server returned with the big, brown bowl of mashed avocados, we were ready to order. I wanted my usual – chicken fajitas. Chris ordered chile rellenos.

  The guacamole vanished before our entrées arrived. They were steaming hot, and my fajitas were sizzling in a little frying pan. I built my fajitas on the warm, soft tortilla, loading it with a carefully calibrated amount of salsa, guacamole, chicken, red and green peppers. I left out the onions.

  Chris took a bite of the chile rellenos and said, ‘This is perfect. Just the right amount of oregano. Have you ever made these?’

  ‘I’m not much of a cook,’ I said. ‘My default meal is scrambled eggs or roast chicken from the supermarket.’

  ‘Cooking bores you that much?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I like food – good food. But I’m not a good cook. I’m too easily distracted. I’ll whip up something and put it in the oven and then I’ll get wrapped up in a story on the internet and the next thing I know, I have a pan of burned food. I can turn a sauce into charcoal. I once burned boil-in-the-bag lima beans.’

  ‘Now you’re bragging,’ Chris said, and laughed.

  ‘Hey, it took me weeks to get burned plastic out of that pot,’ I said. ‘But I can’t resist penguin videos.’

  He took another drink of his beer, then said, ‘I know what you mean about distraction. For me, cooking is a different kind of distraction. I can forget about a bad scene at work by chopping vegetables and experimenting with different flavors. I enjoy the challenge of a new recipe. Back to my question: have you ever made chile rellenos?’

  He looked at my blank face and answered his own question. ‘Obviously not.

  ‘They start with poblanos.’ He pointed to his half-eaten pepper with his fork.

&n
bsp; ‘You char these big suckers until they’re black. After that, you stuff them while they’re hot into a zip-lock plastic bag so they steam. That makes them tender and easier to peel.’

  ‘How do you peel a poblano?’ I asked.

  ‘You have to remove most of the char on the outside. When you char them, your whole place smells like roasted poblanos, and that’s a smell they ought to bottle and sell as perfume.’ Now he was concentrating on finishing his poblano before it went cold.

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ I said.

  ‘It is. I’d like to cook for you, Angela. What kind of food do you like?’

  ‘Anything, really.’

  The server quietly removed our empty plates. I took another sip of wine. It was cold and dry, just the way I liked it.

  ‘Give me a hint,’ Chris said. ‘Do you like Thai, Chinese, Mexican, French, or good old Southern cooking?’

  ‘I like them all – but not too spicy or covered in sauces.’

  ‘How adventurous are you?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’ I said, and then wished I hadn’t.

  He laughed, and took another sip of beer. ‘You blush beautifully.’

  I struggled to get the conversation back on track. ‘I don’t eat crickets, ants or grasshoppers.’

  ‘And I don’t cook anything that can be killed with a can of Raid,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not a big fan of weird cuts like tongue, hearts, gizzards and sweetbreads,’ I said. ‘Or liver. I really hate liver.’

  ‘Even pate foie gras?’

  ‘I don’t believe in torturing geese.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He held up his frosty beer glass and said, ‘I solemnly swear that no geese will be force-fed for my dinners. All long-necked honkers will remain unharmed. But I can’t speak for the safety of any cows, fish and chickens.’

  I laughed. He looked so comical holding up his beer glass, I couldn’t help it.

  The server brought two orders of flan. ‘With the compliments of the owner,’ he said.