What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

  Deanna spotted her bra hanging off the lampshade on the side table and cringed. Then laughed. She hadn’t had so much fun since college. She pulled her bra from the lamp and noticed fresh cigarette butts in the ashtray. Camels. Her mother’s brand. Deanna’s pulse quickened. Then she remembered—Jodie also smoked Camels.

  Crazy night, Deanna thought, perusing the carnage of clothes. She smiled. Jodie might have her problems, but the girl still knew how to have a good time.

  DEANNA HAD ALREADY downed two cups of coffee and had just hung up the phone when Jodie stumbled into the dining room naked. She pushed a tangle of black hair from her face and grunted. “Ungh. Coffee.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” Deanna said, averting her eyes after catching a glimpse of Jodie’s half-skeletal frame. “Couldn’t you at least put on a sheet?”

  “Don’t like being wrapped up. Too confining. Coffee?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  As Jodie stumbled in that direction, Deanna got up and found the loose-fitting hippie dress Jodie had worn yesterday. She would have also collected her bra and panties, if she’d been wearing any.

  Deanna padded to the kitchen and helped Jodie slip the dress over her head. As she did so, Jodie kissed her on the cheek. Surprised, Deanna thought she saw an invitation for more simmering in Jodie’s liquid, sapphire eyes. She turned away and handed her the cup of coffee she’d poured.

  “Thanks. Kinda chilly in here.” Jodie wrapped both hands around the steaming mug.

  “This should help,” Deanna said, grabbing a sweater off the back of a chair and laying it across Jodie’s shoulders. “Better?”

  “Yeah.” Jodie held up her mug. “Good coffee.”

  Deanna smiled. “Hey, do you know anyone named G. F. Yosef?”

  “Huh?” Jodie grunted, still blinking back sleep. “Can I sit down before you start the inquisition?”

  Deanna laughed. “Of course.” She led Jodie to the living room and they sat on the couch. Jodie looked positively green. “Are you dizzy?” Deanna asked. “Do you need your meds?”

  “My meds?” Jodie raised one eyebrow. “No. I’m fine.” She took another slurp of coffee. “What was that name you asked about?”

  “Oh.” Deanna sat on the edge of the sofa cushion. “Well, you see, I was expecting a FedEx package yesterday. I just called to check on it and they said it had been delivered and signed for by G. F. Yosef.”

  “G. F. Yoself?” Jodie laughed. “As in go fuck yourself?”

  Deanna’s face paled. “You mean ... someone stole it?”

  “You’re surprised?” Jodie smirked. “What was in it, anyway?”

  “Just a letter. Why would anyone take that?”

  “People steal packages all the time.” Jodie shrugged. “Wake up, Dee. It’s the new make-ends-meet economy for people like me.”

  “Like you?”

  “Living on the fringe, as my mother says.”

  “Oh. But still, what would anyone want with a letter?”

  “You forget. Your mom was a celebrity. I don’t mean to sound crude or anything, but the value of memorabilia skyrockets once the celeb is ....” Jodie ran a finger across her throat.

  Deanna winced.

  “Posthumous memorabilia collecting is a thing, Dee. I saw this show once where this guy made a living dumpster diving for celebrity garbage. He got like five hundred dollars on eBay for a credit card receipt signed by Burges Meredith. Can you believe that shit?”

  Deanna shook her head. “That makes no sense, but then again it makes perfect sense. You may be right, Jodie. I ... I think someone may be stalking the house for stuff to sell. Or maybe to scare me.”

  “Scare you? No shit!” Jodie’s eyes grew wide. “Why do you think that?”

  “Someone keeps driving by and leaving—” Deanna jumped up from the couch and grabbed Jodie’s arm. “Follow me.”

  She led Jodie toward the dining room, toward the vase of cleomes that would prove her point. “There,” Deanna said, pointing at the table.

  “What?” Jodie asked. “Laptops?”

  Deanna looked again. The vase of flowers was gone. “I ... I ....” Deanna stuttered.

  Jodie grinned slyly. “Now who needs their meds?”

  “DON’T FORGET ABOUT the gallery opening tonight,” Jodie said as she left through the back door. “Starts at six.”

  “I won’t,” Deanna said. Her cellphone rang. She closed the door behind her and ran to catch the call.

  “Larry!” Deanna practically shouted into the phone.

  “Dee, you all right?”

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The letter. Someone took it. And ... I didn’t want to believe it, but ... I think someone may be stalking me.”

  “Aw shit! Dee, listen to me. I was calling because ... well, I’ve been waiting in my office .... It’s eleven-twenty. Joel Bernstein never showed up.”

  Deanna’s stomach went slack. She thought about the man in the black sedan at her mother’s funeral ... on the street outside her house. “You don’t think he ....”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Larry, the last time I saw Bernstein, he asked for a hug.”

  “You didn’t, of course,” Larry said confidently. He waited for her response. When one didn’t come, he lowered his voice and said, “Oh, Dee.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  DEANNA CLICKED OFF the phone with Larry. Her blood felt like ice water running through her veins.

  Joel Bernstein was unaccounted for. Could he be the man in the dark sedan?

  Deanna’s phone buzzed in her hand, startling her so badly she flung it across the room. She scrambled on her knees under the dining table to retrieve it. She didn’t recognize the number, but clicked the green answer button anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Why aren’t you at work?”

  The voice belonged to Barney Smalls. He didn’t sound too happy. Deanna cringed. “We’re working today?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be? You got the letter, right? So that means we’re working.”

  “Uh ... about that ....”

  “No excuses, princess. Get here by noon and I’ll only dock your pay half a day.” Smalls hung up the phone.

  Men! Deanna thought, suddenly angry. Psychotic jerks, every one of them! She stomped through the kitchen toward the hall, her finger on the redial button. She was about to call Smalls back when a shadowy movement caught her eye. Through the window panel in the front door, she spotted a man in a blue cap.

  The mailman! Deanna thought, and rushed to the door.

  She shoved it open just in time to see the mailman lay a Fed-Ex envelope on the mildewed cushions of the wicker chaise.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’ve been expecting that.”

  “I don’t usually do Fed-Ex,” he said. “But I just came from your neighbor’s house. Said they found it in their mailbox this morning.”

  “Mrs. Havenall?”

  “No. The other ones.” The mailman nodded in the other direction. “The Baileys. Told them I would deliver it, seeing as how I was coming this way anyway.”

  Deanna smiled. “Thank you so much. This letter is very important to me.”

  The mailman laughed. “They all are.” He handed Deanna a fistful of junk mail. “Except maybe these.”

  Deanna took the mail gratefully. “Thanks again. You don’t realize it, but you just made my day.”

  DEANNA’S HEELS CLICKED across the marble floor of the lobby of office building 22. Tucked under her arm was the Fed-Ex package in a Ziploc baggie, unopened. Smalls could scarcely complain about her messing up evidence this time. She rode the elevator to the second floor and marched into the office of Blatch & Smalls as if she owned the place.

  “Nice of you to make it,” Smalls quipped sourly. “No hurry, I guess, since its only your mother’s reputation at stake.”

  Blatch scowled. “You forget—”

  “Thanks, Marc
us,” Deanna said, showing him her open palm. “But I can defend myself.” She turned to Smalls. “For your information, the letter didn’t arrive until right after you called.”

  “Excuse me,” Smalls said sourly. “You didn’t open it, I hope.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She tossed the baggy containing the Fed-Ex envelope on his desk. “I may make a lot of mistakes, but not usually the same ones twice.”

  Smalls grinned. “Fair enough.” He looked over at Blatch. “Wish I could say the same for everybody.”

  Blatch’s eyes narrowed. Deanna wasn’t privy to their inside joke. But at the moment, she couldn’t care less. She turned to Smalls. “So, like you said. Let’s get to work.”

  Deanna marched back into the hall and hung up her jacket. When she returned to the main office, Blatch was standing over Smalls, who was seated at his desk. Both were staring at the Fed-Ex package. It was out of the baggie, but as yet unopened. The two men looked up at her.

  “What?” Deanna asked.

  Smalls nodded toward the package. “You sure you didn’t open this?”

  “I think I would’ve remembered if I had,” she said sourly. Then something in Smalls’ expression made her soften her attitude. “Why? What is it?”

  She joined Blatch and hovered over Smalls, who positioned a magnifying glass over the label on the envelope. “See here?” he said. “I think this label is a photocopy.”

  Deanna tilted her head. “Photocopy?”

  “Yeah.” Smalls set down the magnifying glass and turned his chair to face Blatch and Deanna. “I wouldn’t have even given it a second look except you said the package was late. Did you see Fed-Ex deliver it?”

  “No. The mailman did.”

  “Fuck,” Smalls said.

  “What?” Deanna said. “It’s no big deal. The package got delivered to the wrong address. To my neighbors next door. The Baileys. The mailman was just forwarding it for them.”

  Smalls studied Deanna for a moment, then asked, “How well do you know these ‘Baileys’?”

  BLATCH RANG THE DOORBELL to the Bailey residence and stepped back to make an even line with Deanna. The door cracked open with the safety chain still on. A little old man peered out of the narrow opening.

  “You’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses, are you?”

  Blatch stifled a smirk.

  “No, Mr. Bailey. I’m Deanna Young. Your neighbor.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry to hear about your mother. She was the best neighbor we ever had.”

  Deanna’s eyes widened with surprise. “You knew her?”

  “No.” The old man shook his head. “But she never made a peep. That’s what made her so great, you see.”

  Deanna let out a breath. “Right. Well, I wanted to thank you for having my Fed-Ex package sent over by the mailman.”

  The old man shrugged. “It was the neighborly thing to do.”

  “Do you remember when you received it?” Blatch asked.

  “No. I just noticed it in my box when I went to get the mail today. I didn’t check it yesterday, it being Thanksgiving. No mail delivery on holidays, you know.”

  “Right. Well, thank you for your time,” Blatch said.

  Deanna stepped forward. “One more question. Do you know someone named G. F. Yosef?”

  “No.” The man thought about it for a moment and laughed. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “Maybe. You see, I called Fed-Ex. They said he signed for the package yesterday.”

  Mr. Bailey smiled. “That sounds just like Tommy.”

  “Tommy?”

  “My son. He came over for dinner yesterday.”

  “Could we speak to him?”

  “Sorry. He left this morning. He’s probably halfway back to Miami by now.”

  “Would you mind giving us his number?”

  Mr. Bailey looked suspicious. “What’s this all about?”

  Deanna took another step closer. “I’m just trying to find out when the package was delivered yesterday. It’s important or I wouldn’t be bothering you on the holidays, Mr. Bailey.”

  “All right. Hold on. I’ll call him myself.”

  He closed the door. Blatch turned to Deanna. “You didn’t tell me you called Fed Ex.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you guys during Thanksgiving.”

  Blatch blew out a breath. “G. F. Yosef?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Blatch blanched. “What!”

  “That’s what the—”

  The door cracked open again. Mr. Bailey stuck his head out like a shriveled old turtle. “Tommy says he signed for your package yesterday around five-thirty. No harm done, I hope?”

  “No sir,” Deanna said. “I’m just surprised the Fed-Ex person didn’t catch it was the wrong address.”

  “Oh,” the old man said. “Tommy said it wasn’t Fed-Ex who delivered it. It was a man in a big black car. Maybe a Crown Vic.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  BARNEY SMALLS DUSTED the Fed-Ex envelope for latent prints, and was pleasantly surprised when the fine black powder on his brush revealed the crisp pattern of what appeared to be a thumb and forefinger. He was less pleasantly surprised when he compared them to a fingerprint card on file and discovered they belonged to Deanna Young.

  “I guess I never told her not to touch the Fed-Ex package,” Smalls muttered sourly, for no one’s amusement but his own. He cracked his knuckles. “Here goes nothing.” He carefully pulled the zippered tab opening, observing closely each zig and zag of the cardboard as it separated. When the envelope was half open, he peered inside. A peach-colored envelope peered back.

  Smalls turned the Fed-Ex package over and dumped its contents onto a clean sheet of butcher’s paper he’d laid across his desk. A bell chimed. Someone had opened the front door to the office. He looked up from his work.

  He’d been expecting Blatch and Deanna. He’d sent them on a reconnaissance mission—a small errand to get them out of his hair. The attraction between the pair was palpable. Smalls couldn’t decide whether to be happy for his partner or to slap him upside the head and lock him in a closet until rutting season was over. His history in such matters was still the subject of juicy, watercooler gossip at the SPPD.

  But when the door chimed, Smalls decided to keep his opinions to himself for once. It was none of his business—unless it began affecting their business. Besides, in true affairs of the heart, no third party in the world had enough power of persuasion to stop a disaster once it got traction.

  Smalls looked up from his desk as Marcus and Deanna walked in. Up to that second, Smalls had retained a niggling doubt that perhaps he’d just imagined their attraction to each other. But the heroic attempts by both to present stoic, all-business faces cinched the deal. Smalls pretended not to notice.

  “No recognizable prints on the outer envelope except yours, Miss Young,” Smalls delivered in his usual sarcastic tone.

  Deanna frowned. “I couldn’t exactly ask the mailman if I could borrow his gloves, now could I?”

  “Fair enough,” Smalls conceded. He picked up the peach envelope with the tips of his gloved fingers and said, “Shall we?”

  “Wait,” Blatch said. “First I think we should fill you in on what’s going on.”

  Smalls’ brow creased with curiosity. “What’s going on?”

  “Based on what Deanna’s told me, I think she may have someone stalking her.”

  Besides you? Smalls wanted to say, but decided to keep his mouth shut. “Stalking her?”

  “Yes,” Deanna said. “Do you know what kind of car Snyder drives?”

  “Snyder? A red Camaro. Why?”

  Deanna frowned. “I’ve seen a dark sedan driving by my place. He left flowers at my door.”

  What are you, jealous? Smalls wanted to say to Blatch, but sighed instead. “Ever heard of such a thing as a delivery service, genius?”

  Blatch ignored his partner’s sarcasm. “According to the Baileys, that letter in your hand was delivered to t
hem yesterday afternoon not by Fed-Ex, but by a man in a large black car. Maybe a Crown Vic.”

  Smalls’ eyebrow arched. “Okay. You got my attention. What else you got?”

  Blatch shot Deanna a glance, then spilled his news like a confession. “Wednesday night, I chased someone in a black sedan down the street in front of Deanna’s house.”

  Smalls pursed one side of his mouth and looked down at Blatch’s leg. “That explains the limp. I thought maybe it was from going down on one knee.”

  Blatch caught his meaning. His eyes narrowed. “This is serious, Smalls.”

  Smalls conceded with a nod. “I know. I just couldn’t resist.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Deanna asked.

  “Nothing,” the two men said in unison.

  Smalls leaned back in his chair and held up his gloved hands as if he were under arrest. “Okay, Deanna. So maybe you’ve got a stalker.” He drew his hands together and twiddled his thumbs. “Let’s approach this logically. Any idea who it might be?”

  “Maybe. An ex—” Deanna caught herself before she said the word patient. She clamped her jaws shut and chided herself. Keeping secret about being a psychologist was proving trickier than she’d bargained for.

  “So this ex,” Smalls said, “has he done anything to make you feel threatened?”

  Deanna shook her head softly. “Well, not exactly.”

  Smalls shot Deanna a wary glance. “Any other plausible explanations?”

  “I guess he could be a fan of my mother’s. The flowers came after her funeral, and then again on her birthday. But that doesn’t explain the Fed-Ex letter.”

  “Fans do weird things,” Smalls said. “Maybe he was after a souvenir. He checked it out and decided the letter didn’t make the cut for some reason.”

  “Maybe. But why go to the trouble of resealing it?”