The Vanishing Girls

by Callie Browning

  He wasn’t pleased with how she got results, but never before had any assistant put so much care into him or his business. It was so unfamiliar and profound that it filled him with a joy that felt like it was pried from deep within his shoes. She said she didn’t want to work there much longer, but maybe Eileen would be willing to stay with him. Provided he could get his head out of his ass and finally tell her how he felt.

  “I think this is my best work yet,” she effused as she floated into the office with two massive pink wreaths. The scent of lilies and roses wafted around her as she laid them on his desk.

  Holden was impressed. “They’re stunning.”

  “Why thank you. Oh, the postman came?”

  “Yeah, he left the letters on your desk. I know you have your system so I didn’t touch them.”

  “Aww. I’m not that uptight, but thank you,” she said, patting his hand warmly.

  Her smile almost made him melt. He’d come to realize that pleasing her had become his favourite hobby. He tucked his head and looked at his ledger, trying to hide the look on his face.

  As she sorted the letters, he noticed a square white one in her hands addressed to H. Davis Jr.

  “Just throw that in the garbage,” Holden said when he saw Eileen looking at it.

  She frowned and glanced at it before extending it to him. “It doesn’t seem like a chain letter.”

  He didn’t look up from his ledgers as he replied, “It’s an invitation. I never go so just throw it away.”

  “Oh…okay,” she said. She was about to throw it in the trash when she noticed the return address. “But…it’s from Paul.”

  Holden stopped writing for a moment and looked up at Eileen. The two wreaths on his desk lent a hazy, dreamlike glow to the office, making Eileen look like she were afloat on a pink cloud. Would going to the party really be so bad?

  He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s Paul’s birthday party, but he treats it more like an annual ball. Clifford loves that kind of thing. Would you like to come too?” As much as it pained him to invite Clifford, he knew it was necessary to keep the optics above board. Plus, Clifford never turned down a chance for free food and booze.

  Eileen grinned and bounced on her heels. “Yup. It’s tomorrow, but that’s okay. I’ve already got a pink dress that would be perfect.”

  * * *

  EILEEN COULDN’T SLEEP. She drank water, ate a slice of sweet bread and still couldn’t calm her mind. She’d had that dream again, the one where she was dragged out of bed.

  Eileen wanted to feel better, to feel less alone and afraid. There was only one person she could think of at that moment, one person who could lighten her mood and make her laugh. She leaned over the edge and felt around for the phone. Never before had the urge to hear Holden’s deep voice been so strong. She began dialling his number and then caught herself. It was almost midnight and she didn’t even have a plausible excuse for calling him so late. Plus, she didn’t know how — or with whom — he spent his nights. She slammed the phone back on its cradle, frustrated by the idea of him being with someone else. In an instant, her irritation turned to rage.

  Her brain ticked and before she knew what she was doing she pulled out the slip of paper she kept folded in the side pocket of her handbag, even though she had called the Cane Slasher’s number so often that she knew it by heart.

  Bitterness coursed through her. She hoped the phone woke everyone in his household. If she was right, and the number was residential, a wife or elderly grandmother wouldn’t want that annoying trill in their ears. She held her breath, praying that the odds were in her favour.

  The phone rang eight times before someone answered. But instead of a woman's sleepy mumble, a man’s drunken voice asked, “Is this Jesus?” Wind blew into the receiver, muffling his response as whistling frogs and crickets chirped so loudly that Eileen thought they were right inside the telephone.

  “Uh no…” Eileen was caught off guard but she quickly said, “I have an urgent person-to-person call from someone important. What’s your name, sir?”

  The man wept and said, “Um is an angel. The Lord sent you. This is a sign. I gonna stop drinking right now.” Glass smashed on the ground and echoed through the line as the man slurred, “See?”

  Eileen wrinkled her brow. If he was drunk, there was a good chance that he’d rat himself out. Her heart beat faster. Catching the serial killer might be so much easier than she thought.

  “Yes…that’s very good. But what’s your name?”

  “Them does call me Skunk,” he rasped with a drunken giggle.

  Eileen rolled her eyes. She didn't doubt that his nickname alluded to him always being drunk like a skunk. How clever, she thought sarcastically.

  “Where are you, Skunk? I can come and get you.”

  “But you know where I is,” came the petulant reply. “You is an angel.”

  “Yes, but I want you to tell me so I can make sure you get help.” In the background, a clock chimed loudly and Eileen’s heart beat so fast that she feared she would faint.

  Skunk stupsed. “You ain’t no angel. All you do is frig me up and make me throw 'way my rum for nothing.” And with that, he slammed the receiver down and ended the call.

  Despite not getting an answer, Eileen had heard enough to know that not only was Skunk not the killer, but he was at a payphone near the parliament building.

  Chapter 16

  Family Feud

  Paul’s home was an uptight Victorian affair that looked like a replica of Angela Channing’s house from Falcon Crest. It was set on a sprawling hilltop with an unencumbered view that spawned miles of shoreline on the west coast. The home was ablaze with lights and loud music poured through the windows as clusters of people in long black gowns and tuxedoes entered the mahogany double doors. Even from her vantage point in the cobbled stone courtyard, Eileen could see the huge jewels that sparkled on the necks of the female guests. She looked down at her knee-length dress with its sweetheart neckline. She sighed; this was the only nice dress she had. She stepped back, intent on turning around and going home, but bumped into something big and solid. Two hands held her arms and a voice said, “Careful, Eileen.”

  She twisted around and her words caught in her throat. Holden was handsomely decked out in an immaculate black suit that fit his body not unlike how a mango’s skin conforms to its shape.

  “You look…good,” she stammered. He chuckled and tugged on the lapels. “I’m out sharp tonight, aren’t I? He gestured to her figure-hugging dress, his eyes glittering as he took in her outfit. “You look beautiful.” She blushed and he struggles to take his eyes off her before he cleared his throat and held out his arm. “We can’t party out here so let’s head inside.”

  Her face flushed. She shook her head and muttered, “I’m not properly dressed. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

  “Codswallop! These stuffy bats have old money, but no style. Besides,” he said grimly, “Clifford is parking the van. No-one will question your ensemble when they see his.”

  Arm in arm, they joined the steady stream of people on the pathway that led to the foyer, Eileen tugging her hem as they walked. Soon they reached the mahogany doors where Paul was patting men’s shoulders and kissing women’s cheeks with unstoppered zeal.

  Backlit by the sparkling crystal chandelier, the difference between the brothers was more pronounced, perhaps because they were dressed in almost identical outfits. While Holden was broad-shouldered and warm, Paul was a curtailed version, lean and angular, his pinched features giving him an air of haughty austerity.

  He shook Holden’s hand enthusiastically and slapped him on the back. “Brother! I wondered when you’d come to see The Manor. I’ll give you the grand tour as soon as I finish greeting my guests.” His eyes flicked over Eileen’s curvy figure and her dress before he smiled and said, “Aha, is this the lady to whom we owe the pleasure of your company?” He hugged Eileen, then stepped back and pressed his forefinger against his lips.
“I must admit…something about you seems familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Jesus, Paul, you met her at Earl’s house.”

  Paul’s eyes scanned Eileen’s shapely figure greedily and he said, “No…I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll work it out soon enough,” Holden snapped. “We’ll be moving along now.”

  Paul’s smile faltered for a second before he plastered it back onto his face and patted Holden’s shoulder a bit too heavily. “Ever the diplomat, my brother.” Something in the distance caught Paul’s attention and his grin widened. “Ah. Here’s Clifford, colourful as usual.”

  Of all the outfits Eileen had ever seen on Clifford, this one was the most spectacular. A broad-rimmed tie-dyed hat, a lime green suit jacket, woolly leg warmers and a worn pair of jeans were paired with a beaded peace sign that bounced against Clifford’s bare chest as he ambled up the pathway.

  “Oye, this is a real shindig,” Clifford said as he sidled up behind them, hitching his pants higher on his slim waist. Paul beamed. Holden rolled his eyes. Eileen smirked.

  Clifford cracked his knuckles and surveyed the scene. Inside the foyer, waiters wafted through the crowd with canapé-laden silver trays high above their heads and a pianist played music in the corner of the massive room. “I shall be wining and dining ’til the cock crow.” He caught Holden’s stern face and added, “Or ’til you ready to leave, of course.”

  The three of them made their way through the crowd as the sounds of clinking glasses and clattering cutlery filled the air. Clifford waylaid a passing waiter, retrieving six fishcakes in the process. He popped one in his mouth before pressing two fishcakes into Holden’s hand. “Try these, boss, you gonna like them.”

  “If you say so, these things must burn like Hades’ ass.”

  “Nah, them taste good.” Clifford threw another in his mouth, chewed twice and swallowed.

  Holden raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take my chances with the crudités.” Clifford shrugged and ate another fishcake and handed the rest to Eileen. Holden plucked two tiny vegetable stacks from another waiter’s tray and tasted them, commenting that they were very flavourful. Clifford raised an eyebrow but said nothing as his eyes assessed the females at the party like a hungry man at a buffet. A full-figured woman with hair like Whitney Houston’s waved at Clifford from the other end of the terrace, beckoning him to come over. She was dripping in jewels and attitude, but her face glowed like a teenage girl’s when she saw him wink back at her.

  “Excusez moi, s’il vous plait, I’m being summoned.” He sauntered off like a cowboy into the sunset to join her, throwing a wink over his shoulder at Eileen. She laughed, wondering what these hoity-toity women could ever have in common with Clifford.

  Piano music floated through the doors from the large hall beyond the french doors that led outside to the terrace. The black and white marble floor glinted under the soft yellow light from the brass sconces that lined the terrace’s exterior walls.

  Eileen took in the decor, the beautiful tropical gardens, the bright moon. Eventually, his crudités eaten, Holden leaned over and asked, “Having a good time?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Good.” He cleared his throat and asked, “Something to drink?”

  “A Sprite, please.”

  Holden nodded and disappeared through the crowd. He returned shortly, bringing along a stocky gentleman that he introduced as John Wilson, a bank manager. Soon a handful of others, including Dorothy Greaves, the owner of Happy Home, joined as well. Dorothy looked even more pitiful than she had the last time Eileen had seen her, dressed as she was in a shapeless black dress and orthopaedic shoes. The older woman’s manicure was atrocious and her wig was in desperate need of a good washing. Eileen’s heart went out to the grieving woman.

  “My dear, I’m sorry I was so cold the last time we met. It was a very trying day.” Dorothy smiled and pulled Eileen into a hug.

  Eileen patted her back. “You don’t have to apologize. I know it can’t be easy.”

  “Yes…yes…” Dorothy’s eyes skimmed the crowd. “Is…Clifford here?”

  Eileen wrinkled her nose as she looked about for Clifford “I last saw him just off the terrace. I can go and get him if you’d like.”

  “Oh no,” Dorothy grabbed Eileen’s wrist and then fixed a tight smile on her face. She flexed her rose-coloured nails and said apologetically, “I just asked.” Eileen heard what Dorothy said but her grip had been too insistent for her query to be casual. Whether Dorothy liked it or not, Eileen would mention it to Clifford.

  The rest of the group was chattering away about all manner of things: investments, politics, history and art, traipsing seamlessly from one topic to the next. Eileen sucked it all in, glad that she had stayed.

  She glanced at Holden covertly as the night went on. His flushed cheeks, ready smile and hearty laugh looked strange on him, like a new outfit, but they suited him marvellously. She blushed and looked away when their eyes met. Out on the gazebo Clifford was holding court, a flock of chattering middle-aged women surrounding him and laughing out loud at everything he said. His gaudy outfit and outrageous antics were like catnip to those high society women in their baubles and silk gowns. One of them stroked his arm lightly, sipping champagne as she looked at him with star-crossed eyes. Eileen laughed and waved at him. He waved back at Eileen and motioned to her that he was coming over in a minute. In her periphery, she noticed Dorothy Greaves watching Clifford, her eyes inscrutable as she followed his every movement. Eileen looked away, deciding to finally try the fishcake that Clifford had given her earlier.

  “Oh my…” Eileen sputtered as she inspected the pillowy insides of her fishcake. Flecks of bright red scotch bonnet pepper stared back at her. Her eyes watered, and the burning sensation at the back of her throat made her cough. How on earth could Clifford enjoy anything so spicy?

  Holden looked at her in concern, a wordless question clear in his raised eyebrows.

  “Need water,” she mouthed to him as she stepped away.

  The bar was on the far end of the terrace, probably so the rich people won’t have to mingle with the help, thought Eileen wryly. Mouth still smarting, she retreated to a dimly lit section of the terrace, sipping the water and dabbing the tears that formed in her eyes. "These fishcakes really are as hot as Hades’ ass," she gasped.

  A long silhouette stretched across the black and white tiles and Eileen looked up to see Paul come through the french doors. For months that moment would replay itself in Eileen’s mind; the bass-like tremor of his shoes crossing the floor, the yellow light from the sconces casting half of him in shadow as he came toward her.

  Paul’s approach was viper-like; Eileen could tell that he had sought her out, waiting until she had slipped away to follow her.

  He stood at arm’s length, his face vaguely pensive as he tapped his fingers against his lips and said slowly, “You know, Charlene… I just remembered how I know you.”

  The look on his face made Eileen’s heart skitter to a stop. He smiled too sweetly and blinked too slowly, awaiting a reaction he was sure would come.

  She laughed giddily, “It’s Eileen. And I have one of those faces. We never met before.”

  Paul’s lips smiled, but his eyes hardened. He rested his hand on the wall, leaned in closer, his back hunched like a predator about to pounce as he put his mouth in line with her ear. His cologne and the brandy on his breath intermingled, nauseating her. Her face paled as Paul whispered, “You’re funny, even with your clothes on.”

  Eileen felt a shift then, the way every hair on her body rose like quills on a porcupine. She remembered his lips on her neck and breasts as he pressed into her over and over again. Her hand fluttered up and covered her cleavage that had suddenly grown cold in the evening air. Breathing became painful, unfamiliar. “Mr Davis, I always have my clothes on.” She stepped back and brushed against the brick wall behind her.

  “The last time I picked
you up from Buckworth Street, you didn’t.” She stared back at him, her eyes glassy with wet rage as he went on, “My brother and I don’t usually have the same taste. He’s such a fucking bore with his morals and all of that shit.” He looked her up and down with a poisonous smile. “But, I guess the apple never falls far from the pussy tree.”

  Eileen didn’t mean to cry, but she couldn’t help it. Tears ran down her flushed face until they dripped onto her hand that was still pressed against her chest. “Leave me alone.”

  “Oh… you want me to pay you,” Paul said as he fished around in his pocket. In a flash, he pulled out two twenties and fanned them in her face. Eileen squeezed her eyes closed. It wasn’t what Paul said that upset her. She'd started the night feeling insecure about her dress. She'd progressed to enjoying sophisticated conversation with cultured people. Now he’d found a way to cheapen her and drag her back to the lowest night of her life.

  In the blink of an eye, spittle flew from Paul’s mouth as a fist crashed into his jaw and a sickening crunch like a thunder clap echoed across the terrace. Paul fell to the ground as Holden stood over him. Both brothers were breathing heavily, their eyes riveted on each other as anger crackled between them. Paul touched his face, shifting his lower jaw from left to right trying to determine if it was broken. Holden’s hands were clenched and he bit into his lip, trying to quell the rage that moved through his body like a low frequency vibration. Eileen had experienced Holden’s crankiness, frustration and restlessness before. But she’d never known his anger, never witnessed the all-consuming furore that turned him into a broad-shouldered beast.