The Stranger in the Attic

by Agnes Makoczy

  Chapter 53. The Bottle Of Rum

  Alfred closed the door behind Charlie and went straight to his stash of rum. The women were upstairs already. The lodger didn’t appear to be home, and he, Alfred, had a lot to think about.

  First and foremost, there was the bundle of documents now safely stashed in the garage. It had been enormous luck that he had managed to hold on to them during the scuffle. As terrifying as it was that the lunatic had finally hunted him down and blackmailed him, just as frightening it was to know that he now had the upper hand but had no idea what to do with it.

  A sensible man would go to the police. Pour his heart out, and let the professionals do the rest. He’d barely had the documents for a few days, and they were already tearing away at his soul. Would he actually be able to hold on to them for an extended period of time without going insane?

  If he managed to remain alive, that was. He had to assume that his tormentor hadn’t changed his feathers, and he would be just as capable of murder as he always had in the past.

  What bad luck. And here he had thought that he had moved so far away that nobody would ever find him. He took a long swig of rum. He wished he could confide in someone, but he had been carrying that shame around for so long that he didn’t feel like he could let go of it.

  Alfred stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that had been pinned to the bird’s feathers. Then he picked up the morning paper where some surprisingly decent photographs of the murderer’s notes were displayed on the front page.

  He placed his note next to the ones in the paper and stared at them for a while. At first sight, they were identical. Same type of paper, same Sharpie pen or similar marker. The letters also seemed to be the same, but he was no expert. A couple of the letters could be different.

  What did that mean? Had his tormentor seen the notes in the newspaper just like he had and copied them? Or was he the murderer? If he hadn’t been out for revenge, he would be now. Was Henrietta’s life in danger?

  He kept drinking the rum. He thought about his nemesis for a while, and then his thoughts veered to the lodger. He felt that he ought to tell the police about him. If what Henrietta told him was true, there was something wrong with the man.

  Well, he couldn’t allow him to live in his home, but if they dismissed him, there wouldn’t be enough money to eat and they would be right back where they had been before.

  Henrietta had flourished. He had been convinced that it was because she was eating well and had regained her faith in the future. But come to think about it, maybe Henrietta had taken a shine to the lodger, and that was what was putting color in her cheeks. That would explain why she had defended him. Did she truly believe him to be innocent?

  Alfred put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He couldn’t live like this. He had to send the man away. Allowing him to stay was like harboring a snake in his home. He could have a manly conversation with the lodger, but the thought terrified him. What did one say when confronting a man who one thought guilty of getting too close to one’s wife, but whose money one needed?

  Another swig of rum just confused the issue even more, and Alfred got angry. He banged his fist on the table. He was the man of the house. He had his pride. First thing in the morning he was going to show this man the door. Or, alternatively, he would go to the police and tell them he was the killer.

  He sat up straight in the chair. Now that was good. He liked the idea. He could kill two birds with one stone. Have the police remove the man, without him having to feel guilty about kicking him out and doing his civic duty.

  Convinced that he had solved the problem and determined to head for the police station as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning, he had one more swig of rum. Then he hid his bottle and stumbled upstairs. He stopped by the bedroom door and thought about asserting his spousal rights and entering despite not having been invited. After all, it was his room as well. But he chickened out. It had already been a long, long day, and what he needed was a good night’s rest.

  Chapter 54. Marlene

  Alfred lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. For a few minutes, alone in the narrow, hard, make-shift bed, it was easy to forget that he was a married man.

  As he drifted off to sleep, he remembered her, Marlene, the beautiful Marlene, her long, wavy, auburn hair, her lovely slender body, and that smile, that smile that—almost like Helen of Troy—had nearly managed to unleash a catastrophe, so many years ago.

  He hadn’t thought of her in years. He had tried so hard to forget her, and the sordid series of events that had caused so much heartache. Marlene, the beautiful Marlene.

  He remembered the last time, strolling along the pier, arm in arm, talking about the future. Except he hadn’t wanted to talk about the future. She was always begging for a commitment, but he liked things the way they were: Marlene, safely tucked away in her husband’s home, and he, He, free to see her whenever his desires required her to be there with him.

  She had begged him to help her. He writhed uncomfortably on the wrinkled sheets and tried to push the memories away. She had pleaded for her sanity, her life. Her husband had found out about the affair and swore to kill her, and all she wanted was to run away with him and be happy. Leave her abusive husband once and for all and be happy. Then, they walked back to her place where among sweaty sheets they made love, she, crying and he, Alfred, not caring that much at all about her sorrows. As usual, he enjoyed himself and was ready to turn to the wall to take a nap, when they heard the front door bang open and then shut.

  Alfred twisted and turned in his misery. Was he guilty of her death? In a way, yes. He knew the husband was mistreating her and getting more abusive as time went by. He knew she was another man’s wife, and their affair was causing the husband to go wild with jealousy. Should he have done something about it? Probably. The problem was that he had never cared that much about her, to begin with. A fondness, yes, but it had been a desire to possess her more than anything. Once he had accomplished that, just a few moments of pleasure were all that was left.

  Still, he could have saved her life, but at what cost?

  Alfred turned toward the back of the sofa and allowed a few drunken tears to fall on Celia’s extra pillow. How on earth was he going to fix this? He shivered miserably under the thin quilt, but after a long, long while, mercifully, he fell asleep.

  Chapter 55. The Walk In The Park

  The Monday after the funeral dawned sunny, and Henrietta walked Celia to the train station so that she could get back to school. Then, not having any desire to go back home, she went to the park and sat down on her favorite bench.

  It felt to Henrietta that things were coming to a head and that something was about to happen. This being able to sense things was new to her, and she didn’t quite yet trust feelings as such, but she could almost smell it. The end of harmony and the beginning of chaos. But where would it come from, and what shape would it take?

  She sat there pensively, holding her coat tightly against her chest, trying to navigate the quagmire of her emotions when something did happen. George Baxter sat down next to her.

  Startled out of her reverie, she looked up at George Baxter’s face—friendly today—and asked herself what he was doing there.

  “I noticed that you followed me after the funeral. Why was that, Henrietta?”

  “I don’t know,” she said simply. Her heart beat mercilessly in her chest as it always did when he looked at her like that. “I was curious, I suppose. Why did you go to the funeral?”

  “I didn’t. I was there to put flowers on my mother’s grave. Then I saw you and Mr. Jones, and I became intrigued. Whose funeral was it?”

  “Celia’s friend, the one I told you about.”

  “Henrietta, will you look at me?”

  “Yes?”

  “Aren’t we friends anymore?”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes. You seem to be moving away from me. You’re about to fall off the bench.”<
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  Henrietta began to tremble and squirmed back onto the bench. This man had a strange effect on her. She was scared to look at him because of his mesmerizing eyes but she didn’t want to look away. Instead, she stared at her feet and at the ever-increasing puddle of melting snow in which they sat.

  “Look at me, Henrietta,” the lodger said urgently. “I truly thought we were friends.” There was a sadness in his voice, but what could she do about it?

  “I’m a married woman,” she said softly, still looking down.

  “But we can still be friends, can’t we?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Baxter, I just don’t know.”

  George Baxter stood up from the bench and stepped in front of her. When she finally looked up, he was smiling.

  “Come on, Henrietta, let’s go for a walk.” He grabbed her hands and pulled her up. For a second, he was so close to her that she smelled his aftershave, and she inhaled. It was the moments like these that she cherished and that kept her tossing and turning in turmoil late into the night. She looked into his eyes.

  But he seemed unaware of the moment and Henrietta sighed, unfulfilled. Holding one of her arms by her elbow, he guided her to the path. He walked fast, with those long legs, and Henrietta struggled to keep up.

  “I feel that you have questions, Henrietta. Why not ask them?”

  “I’m afraid of questions, Mr. Baxter. And I’m even more afraid of answers.”

  The lodger chuckled. “Maybe I should ask the questions that I know are on your mind and then answer them for you. Would that help?”

  “Oh, Mr. Baxter, you’re toying with me,” Henrietta said.

  “Not at all, my dear. I’m trying to be helpful.”

  Henrietta walked with her lodger, arm in arm, in silence for a while, holding on to him tightly whenever the ground got slippery, and even though he had offered to ask questions, he never did, so she waited. Finally, he stopped by the frozen fountain and turned toward her.

  “A very long time ago, Henrietta, I was a happy child. I had a mother and a father, and several siblings. We went to school during the week, and to the park and the zoo and to eat ice-cream on the weekends. We were a very happy family.

  “Then, something happened. I was very young, as I told you, and I don’t remember much. But one day. Mom and dad didn’t come home. Instead, Aunt Ada came, angry, looking all put out for her troubles, to pick us up from school.

  “As far as I can remember, she rounded us up from the kindergartens and elementary school and we were taken to the church. The same one we used to go to on Sundays. Then, she left us there. Aunt Ada was a treasure. I never did see her again.

  “Father Perry was a kind priest, and he kept us at his own home until we were taken in by random families and separated. I barely remember my siblings, but I’ve spent my entire life looking for them. And would you believe it? I just found my little sister. She lives just a few blocks from here.”

  “Is that the young woman you met after the funeral?” Henrietta asked but bit her tongue knowing that she shouldn’t have asked.

  George Baxter laughed out loud. “So, you were curious about her. I knew it. I noticed that you were following me. Yes. She’s my sister. She doesn’t quite remember me, but I’ve found some photographs in the public library from when the parents died. There was a news article asking for witnesses to something—anything, with photographs of all of us. Her adoptive parents took many pictures of her around that time and she recognized herself.”

  “Does she have any idea what happened?”

  “No. Sadly not. Nor have I found my other sister or my brother. But I have time. I have the rest of my life to find them. And I’m never going to give up until I do.”

  “I have a question, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Tell me, my dear.”

  “You seem to have plenty of money. I mean, you don’t look like a pauper. Your clothes are nice, and you always have more than enough for the rent.”

  “It’s true. I’m quite well off. But why do you want to know?”

  “Well then, why did you move to my humble house into that rundown attic if you have enough money to live in your own home?”

  George Baxter turned toward Henrietta and grabbed her arms ever so gently, and he looked kindly into her eyes.

  “That’s a very long story, my dear,” he said, “but you see, like you, my mother had red hair.”

  Chapter 56. Arrested

  Henrietta and her lodger had just turned the corner of #9 when she noticed that two police cars were parked right in front of her house. She had a horrible sense of foreboding when she saw Alfred—standing at the top of the front steps next to Charlie—talking to an officer.

  What her mind didn’t know, her heart felt, and she turned to George Baxter and told him to run.

  “There’s something wrong. You must get out of here. Now.” She shoved him, trying to make him move, but he just stood there, staring at her.

  “I don’t understand. Why should I run?”

  “Because I have a feeling.”

  “What feeling, Henrietta? Don’t stare at me like that. Speak up.”

  “Oh, Mr. Baxter, they might think that you're the serial killer.”

  “What serial killer? The one that killed Celia’s friend? Are you insane?”

  “Please, go. I think the police are here for you.”

  “Henrietta, what have you done?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing. Nothing. Please get out of here before it’s too late.”

  All the while that Henrietta was trying to convince George to run, she was watching from the side of her eyes how Alfred was pointing in their direction, and how two burly officers took off at a steady jog to reach them.

  “Mr. Baxter, if you don’t leave now, you’ll be in trouble.”

  “What, Henrietta? Did you think I was the murderer, and so you ratted me out?”

  Henrietta shook her head with tears in her eyes.

  “Tell me, Henrietta, did you think I would be capable of doing harm to another human being?”

  She kept shaking her head, but the policemen had arrived, and they cuffed the lodger’s wrists and hauled him roughly away. She watched as they shoved her lodger into the patrol car and she watched as they slowly drove away, and all that time, it was his eyes that tore at her heart. He had looked so hurt, so confused.

  Why hadn’t she trusted him? Why had she told her husband those absurd things that she knew deep down were impossible to believe? Because she had been caught in a compromising situation, and that so-called pouring out of her heart had been her looking for an excuse for her behavior, one she hoped would make Alfred forgive her for having been in the arms of another man.

  Chapter 57. Gloating

  She hurried up the stairs. Alfred and Charlie were gloating, getting congratulations from one of the policemen.

  “There, Henrietta,” Alfred said, sounding pretty pleased with himself, “now we’ll be able to live in peace and quiet.”

  “What did you do, Alfred?”

  “Just my civic duty. I went to the police station first thing this morning and talked to Charlie’s friend, the Captain. I told him what you told me. They're quite satisfied that they have their man.”

  “Oh, how could you? What if he’s innocent?”

  “Nah, he isn’t. I’ve never liked him from the first day I lay my eyes on him.”

  “But you liked his money, didn’t you, you hypocrite?”

  “I won’t deny it, woman. I was glad to have better food on my table.”

  “Your table, Alfred? It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

  “Come on, don’t be like that.”

  “How would you like me to be? Not only have you sent an innocent man to jail, but again we have no money for food.”

  “We’ll survive.”

  “Oh, will we? How? Will you be getting a job, then? Because all this time that George Baxter has been here, I’ve worked myself to exhaustion. I’ve climbed those stairs to
the attic, two, three times a day, carrying heavy trays of food upstairs, and trash downstairs. And not only once did you offer to help. So, you tell me how you’re going to solve this.”

  Chapter 58. The Yellow Jeep

  Thursday night, two weeks later, an ugly yellow jeep with oversized wheels screeched to a sudden halt at the front door. Henrietta, who was just taking out the trash, got the shock of her life. Celia jumped cheerfully out of the jeep and ran to Henrietta, followed by the young man who had been driving.

  “MOM, surprise,” Celia chuckled, giving Henrietta an enormous hug. “What are you doing out here this late at night?”

  “Throwing out the trash, my dear.”

  “Isn’t dad supposed to do that?”

  “We’re not talking anymore. The downside is that he now refuses to even throw the trash out.”

  “Oh, MOM, that’s terrible. Whatever happened?”

  “He called the police on George Baxter, who’s now in jail.”

  “Nice Mr. Baxter? Why did he do that?”

  “Because he’s convinced that Mr. Baxter is the serial killer.”

  “The one that killed my friend Rosalie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s nonsense. I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “Good luck with that. In the meantime, the poor man’s in jail.”

  “Poor, nice, Mr. Baxter. Oh, look, mom, this is Johnny Huerta, a friend from school. He gave me a ride to keep me safe.”

  Henrietta raised her eyebrow at the young man. “Nice to meet you, Johnny Huerta, but this is a safe neighborhood.”

  “Not anymore, Mrs. Jones. We just heard. There’s been another murder,” the young man said.

  “Yes, mom, and that proves that Mr. Baxter can’t be the killer because he’s sitting in jail. You better go see him and tell him.”

  “Go where, to the jail?”

  “Yes. Why not? It’s just a couple of blocks from here. I can go with you. or both Johnny and I can go, so you’re not scared.”