What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

  After a quick glance around, she was relieved to find she’d survived the night. Neither burgling intruders nor nightmarish spiders had done her in overnight. But then again, she’d given them little chance to. According to her cellphone alarm, it was 6:30 a.m. She’d barely gotten an hour or two of sleep. Groggy and grouchy, Deanna stumbled to the bathroom.

  Try as she might to train herself to be an early riser, it just wasn’t in Deanna’s nature. No matter how much she preferred to be one of those people up before dawn, her body resisted the notion. Her desire to beat the sunrise wasn’t from some notion to be more productive. It was because Deanna suspected that it was during the first inkling of morning light that the spiders came calling. Maybe if she was already up, they couldn’t get her ....

  Where are they? Deanna thought as she ransacked the kitchen in search of a coffee filter. She’d just about given up when she spied the box on the ledge above the built-in microwave. She stood on tiptoe and swiped her fingers at it, but only managed to edge the box further out of reach. Deanna jumped and swatted at it. The box fell to the floor and popped open.

  Spiders went flying everywhere.

  A high-pitched scream erupted from Deanna involuntarily, fueled by her phobic, irrational fear. Even after she realized the spiders were rubber, her heart continued to pound wildly in her chest.

  “Damned you, Melody!”

  But as she stooped to pick up the box of filters, Deanna felt bad about cursing her mother. Tons of people hated spiders. Arachnophobia wasn’t that uncommon. Maybe in her own, twisted way, her mother had been trying to help her overcome her irrational fear.

  Then Deanna remembered the letters, and considered another reason for the spider pranks.

  Could she have been trying to scare me to death?

  DEANNA SHOWERED, DRESSED, and fixed herself a mug of coffee. Detectives Blatch and Smalls would be arriving in little more than an hour. She dared a peek through the front blinds. In the dim, soft gray of morning, the dark sedan from last night was nowhere to be seen.

  Desperate for a moment of calm before the storm she had to face, Deanna slipped on her trench coat, grabbed her coffee mug, and cautiously slipped out the front door. She crossed the street to the seawall and sat, legs dangling, sipping her coffee and watching the sun rise over Coffee Pot Bayou.

  The morning was quiet and still, as if holding its breath in anticipation. Even Bird Island was silent. Come next spring, the miniature jungle of mangroves would be the nesting grounds of hundreds of squabbling brown pelicans, white ibis, and cormorants. But on this calm November morning, the island was as silent as the sun, which was just beginning to cast its pink glow on the horizon.

  A light breeze accompanied the sunrise. It swept across the bayou and toyed with Deanna’s curls, carrying with it earthy hints of turtle grass and richly tannic water. This was the scent Deanna most associated with her hometown of St. Petersburg—mainly because it was a scent unencumbered by bad memories.

  Deanna breathed it in deeply, then swung her legs from the seawall and stood. She wanted to get back inside the house before this lovely scent became tarnished, too—guilty by association with future memories of what would surely be a most unpleasant day ahead.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  THE BINOCULARS FOCUSED in on the woman in the trench coat.

  What’s she looking at? Is she thinking of her mother?

  Or is she thinking of me?

  I’ve got to get to her before someone else does.

  Let her know how I feel about her.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  DEANNA WAS STARING at it when the doorbell rang. She’d opened the side drawer of her mother’s desk and there it was—a box of fine linen stationery. The shade was labeled Delicate Peach.

  Deanna’s heart collided with her brain. Her mind squirreled with panic. Should I hide it? Hand it over? Lock the drawer and swallow the key?

  The doorbell rang again. Deanna clenched her jaw. No point. What will be, will be.

  She padded to the front door and opened it. Through the layers of lattice and screen, she spotted Barney Smalls. He was standing on the walkway in front of the steps that led up to the porch. His blue eyes peered at Deanna over a box of donuts stacked atop a largish cardboard box in his hands. His usually piercing eyes were toned down to a soft gaze, as if to say he’d come with his hat in his hand.

  Deanna opened the screen door and let him in.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know about your mother’s recent demise,” Smalls said as he poked his head in the door. “But I’m glad you decided to stay and work the case with us. After that hasty exit of yours, I wasn’t sure you would.”

  Deanna chewed her lip. “I wasn’t sure either. Where’s Blatch?”

  Smalls tilted his head sideways and back. “Right behind me.”

  Deanna glanced across the yard. Blatch was climbing out of a black, midsize Ford. To her, it looked a lot like the vehicle from last night. As Deanna considered that possibility, Smalls barged past her and into the house.

  “A bit of advice,” he said, marching toward the kitchen. Deanna turned and followed him. Smalls set the cardboard box atop the pile of mail on the counter.

  “Advice?” Deanna asked.

  “Yeah.” Smalls looked her in the eye. “If you want to work in a PI office, you’ve gotta grow a backbone. You can’t go collapsing every time some Tom, Dick, or Harry accuses your mother of murder.”

  Deanna nearly blanched. “What?” She studied the older man’s hard expression for a moment, flabbergasted at his callousness.

  Smalls winked, broke into a grin, and tapped her arm softly with his fist. “Too soon? Just trying to cheer you up, kid. I know this has gotta be hard. But you’ll get through it. You’ve got what they used to call ‘moxie.’”

  Deanna found Smalls’ attempt at humor a relief. Despite their inappropriateness, his comments weren’t laced with scorn or, worse yet, pity. In his eyes, she was still simply an employee, one of the gang. His casual demeanor was an oasis of normality in a totally abnormal situation, and she was grateful for it. She gave the older man half a smile. “Thanks.”

  “I hope you’re not starting in on her already, Smalls,” Blatch said, coming into the kitchen. “Go gently. Deanna’s not used to working with lunatics.”

  Smalls shot him a sideways grin. “You talking about us, or our two cases?”

  “Two?” Deanna asked, looking at Blatch.

  “Yeah. After Snyder left yesterday, we got a call. A new client with the same problem.”

  “Another missing person,” Smalls explained. “That post office worker we were talking about.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s good news,” Deanna said.

  “For us,” Blatch said. “Not so much for the postman.”

  “Yeah, business is booming,” Smalls quipped, and mimicked locking and loading a rifle. “Get it?”

  Blatch groaned and gave Deanna an apologetic grimace. “What say we get to work before he comes up with another one?”

  Deanna crinkled her nose and nodded. “Where should we start?”

  “How about by hiring a maid?” Smalls looked around at the heaps of newspapers and junk lining the walls and swamping the kitchen counters. He whistled long and low at the complete disarray. “Or better yet, a demolition service. You actually live here?”

  Blatch touched her arm. “I’d tell you he means well, but sometimes I’m not so sure myself.”

  Deanna pursed her lips into a tight smile, grateful for Blatch’s soft shoulder. But she knew Smalls was right. It was going to take a small army to clear out her mother’s mountains of hoarded garbage. “No. I don’t live here. I have a place in ... uh ... across town.”

  Smalls frowned, then spied the full coffee pot. “Mind if I grab a cup?”

  “No. Not at all,” Deanna said, then suddenly felt out of sorts. She did mind. The whole situation was surreal. Two strange men in her house—here to pilfer through her mother’s belongings to find evi
dence she was a murderer. The room began to spin. Deanna stumbled to the living room and flopped onto the couch.

  Blatch was at her side in an instant. “You okay?”

  “Yes. I guess I just need a minute to process this ... this ... whatever this is.”

  “I understand. Let me get you some coffee.” Blatch returned in a moment and offered Deanna a cup. “There you go.”

  “Thank you.” Deanna looked past Blatch. “What’s Smalls doing?”

  “Eating donuts and setting up his lab.”

  “His lab?”

  “That’s what he calls it. Rubber gloves. Evidence bags. Tweezers. Chemical tests. Routine stuff needed to search for evidence.”

  “Oh.” Deanna took a sip of coffee and set the cup on the side table.

  “Feeling better?”

  Deanna took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m ready to get started.”

  “Okay then. Let’s begin by locating samples of your mother’s stationery and handwriting.”

  Deanna winced. “I already found a box of it. It’s in her desk over there.” She nodded toward a delicate Victorian desk made of mahogany. “Top, side drawer.”

  Blatch walked over and opened the drawer. His left eyebrow arched when he saw the box of peach stationery. He looked up at Deanna. “Did you touch it?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’ll go get an evidence bag for it. It looks like it could be the same stationery. But right now we’ve only got a photocopy for comparison.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Snyder took the original letter with him. I guess he’s still not ready to trust us completely. Anyway, besides the stationery, we’ll need another sample for your mother’s handwriting for comparison. You happen to know of any other correspondence we can use? Preferably on that stationery?”

  It’s time to come clean, Deanna thought, chewing her lip. She had to tell Blatch about the letter she’d found in the mailbox. The one marked “Return to Sender.” The one confessing to the murder of a man named Reggie Cane. She’d hesitated on telling Blatch about it yesterday. She’d wanted to see his reaction face to face—to read his expression and know what he truly thought.

  At least, that’s the excuse she’d told herself.

  Deanna looked up at Blatch and nodded. “I think I can help you—on both counts.”

  BLATCH STARED AT THE envelope in Deanna’s hand, then locked eyes with her. “Were you the one who opened it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on. I need to get Smalls.”

  “I’m right here,” his partner said, entering the room. A hairnet covered Smalls’ bald head. His rubber-glove-clad hand held something between pinched fingers. It was a black, plastic spider. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Yes. My mother’s,” Deanna said.

  Smalls shook his head and handed Blatch a set of rubber gloves. “Put these on,” he said, then noticed the letter in Deanna’s hand. He froze. “What’ve you got there?”

  Deanna’s brow furrowed. “Another confession letter. I found it in my mailbox. It came back ‘return to sender.’”

  Smalls scowled. “And you opened it.”

  Deanna shrunk back into the sofa. “Yes.”

  Smalls dropped the spider and snatched the letter from Deanna’s hand. “Just for future reference, you contaminated a major piece of evidence, Miss Young.”

  Deanna cringed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Cut her a break,” Blatch said. He gave Smalls a sharp nod. “What does it say?”

  Smalls opened the letter and read it. “Cripes almighty.”

  “What?” Blatch said.

  “It’s basically the same as Snyder’s letter. But look at this.” He held the letter out for Blatch to see. “It’s confessing to the murder of Reginald Cane.”

  Blatch’s jaw went slack. “The missing mailman?”

  “One and the same.” Smalls grinned as if struck by a funny thought. He opened his mouth to speak. Blatch cut him off.

  “Say one word about raising Cane and I swear, Smalls, I’ll whack you over the head with one.”

  “Me?” Smalls looked taken aback. “Never!”

  Blatch turned to Deanna. “Sorry about that. But in this business, morbid humor is kind of a professional hazard.”

  Smalls studied Deanna. “So, this look like your mother’s writing?”

  Deanna hung her head. “I think so.”

  Smalls slipped the letter and envelope into an evidence bag and locked eyes with Deanna. “Well, Miss Young, I have to be frank. At this point, things aren’t looking too good for your mother.”

  Chapter Forty

  THE BINOCULARS LOWERED to reveal a pair of piercing, angry eyes.

  What does she think she’s doing—inviting strange men over to her house?

  She can’t do that.

  She belongs to me.

  I didn’t want to have to do this, Deanna. But you’re forcing me to.

  I’m going to have to show you who’s boss.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “SO, THAT’S IT?” DEANNA asked, flopping back down on the couch. “My mother really is a murderer?”

  Blatch sat down on the edge of the couch next to her. “Nothing’s certain yet.”

  Deanna bit her lip. “Smalls said it didn’t look good.”

  “That’s true. I won’t try to sugar coat it. But, believe it or not, the letters only qualify as circumstantial evidence. In a court of law, they may not be enough to remove all reasonable doubt.”

  Deanna’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “How can that be?”

  “Are you one-hundred percent positive that’s your mother’s handwriting on those letters?”

  “No. But, I mean, who else could have written them?”

  “That’s what we’re here to figure out. Right now, for all we know, the letters could have been written as a prank. Or by someone trying to frame your mother.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Smalls said, coming back into the room with what looked like a red tackle box in his hands. “More than likely it was your mother. But let’s let the fingerprints and handwriting do the talking.” He locked eyes with Deanna. “Where’s the best place to lift a print?”

  “How about that cigarette pack,” Blatch said, pointing to the side table.

  “Uh ... I’m afraid I touched that,” Deanna confessed.

  Smalls shot her a you’re killing me look. “Any place you haven’t pawed through yet?”

  “Excuse me,” Deanna said, ire rising in her voice. “I didn’t realize when I came home for my mother’s funeral that her home would turn out to be a crime scene, okay?”

  She stood up. “Here’s an idea. When you’re finished channeling your inner Dick Tracy—or maybe it’s you’re your inner Dick—follow me into the kitchen. Maybe you can lift some prints from the empty vodka bottles in there.”

  Smalls exchanged a raised eyebrow with Blatch, then both men burst out laughing. Smalls gave Deanna a nod of respect. “After you, m’lady.”

  DEANNA’S NOTION TURNED out to be a good one. Smalls lifted eight sets of prints from the vodka bottles. He packed them away as evidence while Blatch and Deanna sorted through tons of papers trying to find another sample of her mother’s handwriting.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s anything here,” Deanna said.

  “Did she ever write to you?” Blatch asked.

  “Actually, yes. But the letters are in my apartment in New York.”

  Blatch looked stunned. “You have an apartment in New York?”

  “Oh. It’s ... uh ... a family place. I spend summers there.”

  Blatch nodded slowly. “Could you get someone up there to overnight them here?”

  “Larry’s supposed to feed ... uh, take care of the place. Maybe he could do it.”

  Blatch’s heart flinched at hearing another man’s name. “Larry?”

  “Oh. Dr. Lawrence Filbert. He’s my uh ... uncle.”

  Blatch didn’t trust his voice to not convey his rel
ief at finding out Larry wasn’t Deanna’s husband or boyfriend, so he simply nodded.

  “So he’s got a key to your apartment,” Smalls said. “Anybody else got a key to this lovely establishment?”

  “No. Not anymore,” Deanna said, ignoring Smalls’ slight. “Mrs. Havenall had one when she was taking care of my mother, but she gave it back to me yesterday. Well, her daughter Jodie did.”

  “She and her daughter had a key?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. Just the one key.”

  Smalls studied Deanna’s face for a moment, then turned to Blatch. “We’ve gathered as much physical evidence as we can on the letter angle. Now we’ve gotta address motive and opportunity.”

  Blatch looked up from writing in a small notepad. “Right.”

  Smalls turned to Deanna. “Got any ideas why your mother would want to murder ... uh ... excuse me, speed the demise of either Jessica Snyder or Reginal Cane?”

  Deanna scowled. “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Mr. Smalls. Just with respect.”

  Smalls’ lips curled. “Point taken. So, any ideas on how she could pull it off and why?”

  “How? No,” Deanna said. “My mother was too frail to kill anyone.”

  Smalls’ left eyebrow arched. “You absolutely sure about that? Old ladies are a lot tougher than you think. When I worked fraud in Vegas, this nice little old lady fooled us good. She’d pumped iron until she could hold forty pounds of magnets in her purse like they were a feather pillow. She used a pocketbook full of magnets to scramble the brains of over fifty slot machines. Old gal raked in nearly a hundred grand before we figured it out.”

  Deanna pursed her lips. “Even if my mother had been strong enough, she suffered from agoraphobia.”

  Smalls’ brow furrowed. “Huh?”

  “Agoraphobia. She was afraid to leave the house.”

  Smalls nodded and held up an index finger. “That would be an excellent rebuttal in court—except for one thing.”