What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

  “Yeah, I know, they’re not everybody’s cup of tea.” Jodie smirked. “Looks like I’m not going to be famous anytime soon.” She rubbed her forehead. “Anyway, I better get going. I feel a migraine coming on. Just wanted to say sorry if I gave you a fright Friday night.”

  Deanna nodded. “It’s okay. Feel better. And thanks for the painting.”

  Jodie looked into Deanna’s eyes so deeply Deanna could almost see her pain. “You like it?” Jodie asked.

  Deanna glanced at the portrait of a blonde-haired woman, her eyes fixed in the distance. “Yes, actually I do. Is it my mother?”

  Jodie laughed. “No. It’s you, Dee. Only with your mother’s nose.”

  Deanna wanted to ask Jodie what she meant by that, but with Smalls waving at her like a madman, she let the question go. “Okay, Jodie. See you soon.”

  Jodie nodded. Smalls ducked into the bushes and Jodie slipped off into the night.

  “Something awfully creepy about that girl,” Larry said from behind Deanna.

  Deanna grabbed an umbrella from the stand. “She’s manic depressive, Larry. And just recently diagnosed as borderline schizophrenic.”

  Deanna took a step out the door. Larry grabbed her arm. “Be careful, Dee. They can be violent.”

  She turned to face him. “I know.”

  “Have you seen any evidence of Jodie acting aggressively?”

  Deanna pulled her arm from Larry’s grasp. “I saw her hack a raw chicken to bits. Does that count?”

  “It does if you’re the chicken,” Blatch said.

  Deanna’s brow creased with worry. “You think Jodie could have something to do with these missing people?”

  Blatch nodded. “I’ve got her as suspect C.”

  “C?” Larry asked.

  “Yeah. Bernstein is B. But don’t forget, if his fingerprints aren’t on those envelopes, Deanna, your mother is still suspect A.”

  “You ready, Princess Dee?” Smalls yelled impatiently from the front lawn.

  “Yes!” Deanna nodded at Blatch and Larry, then took a deep breath and stepped out into the night, her thoughts a jumble. Something Jodie had said felt like a missing puzzle piece trying to click into place. What was it?

  Looks like I’m not going to be famous anytime soon.

  As Deanna crossed the road to the seawall, the words nagged at her, teasing her memory, dancing just outside of her grasp. Jodie had said something similar earlier that week. Something about her mother ....

  She missed her glory days as Spidey Hawkins. She was always wishing she had one more shot at fame.

  Fame. The word caused Deanna’s heart to nearly skip a beat. Had her mother written those letters—murdered those people—for one last shot at glory?

  Deanna turned her face from the cold wind blowing off the bayou, her eyes stinging. She stumbled, half-blinded by tears, along the seawall, convinced more than ever that her mother really was a serial killer.

  Distracted, she didn’t notice the dark sedan parked around the corner, a block from her house. She didn’t hear the man creeping up behind her ... she didn’t smell his familiar cologne until his gloved hand covered her mouth, blinded her eyes, and smothered her screams.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  FROM HIS POSITION IN the ligustrum hedge, Smalls heard an odd sound in the distance to his right. Something akin to a cat’s yowl. He’d seen no sign of the black sedan, but just to be on the safe side, he texted Deanna. He counted down fifteen long, never-ending seconds. No response.

  “She’s in trouble!” Small yelled, and took off running in the direction of the noise.

  Larry sprung from his position nearby and ran for the front door. In his attempt to alert Blatch, the two men nearly collided with each other on the screened porch.

  “He went that way!” Larry yelled, pointing to the right. “He said Dee’s in trouble!”

  Blatch holstered his gun and ran, paying no heed to the pain shooting up his thigh from his banged-up knee. Larry kept pace behind him for fifty feet or so, but was soon gasping for breath. He bent over for a moment, sucked in a lungful of air, and pushed on at a slow jog.

  Up ahead, Smalls caught a glimpse of Deanna’s pale trench coat as it disappeared behind the hedgerow of the house on the corner. Deanna was off course. Something was definitely wrong. He glanced back and was glad to see the erratic beam of a flashlight coming up behind him. If this monster Bernstein had Deanna, he was going to need help bringing him down.

  Smalls raced up to the hedge and peeked around the corner. Deanna was scuffling with a man in the street. He had stuffed something in her mouth and was holding her from behind, making it impossible for her to land a blow, even though she was flailing her arms and legs like a wildcat. The passenger door of his sedan was already open, ready to receive his prey. He was dragging Deanna toward it.

  “Let her go!” Smalls yelled.

  The man looked up. Deanna took the opportunity to elbow him hard in the ribs. He grunted, then shoved Deanna into the open door. Her head hit the side of the car with a thunk. She went limp in his arms. He shoved her inside and tried to close the door, but as his hand reached for the handle, Smalls’ fist landed squarely on the side of his head.

  The man groaned, lost his grip, and staggered backward. In the dim light of the streetlamp, Smalls recognized him from his mugshot. No doubt about it. It was Bernstein all right.

  Smalls reached for his gun. Bernstein kicked him in the stomach. Smalls fell to his knees, wheezing and gasping, the air knocked out of him. Down but not out, he unhooked his gun from his side holster as he tried desperately to suck in a breath.

  But it was too late. Bernstein was standing above him, grinning like a demon from hell. “Ever tasted Gucci?” Bernstein taunted, his perfect white teeth nearly glowing in the dark. He laughed, then swung his leg back, preparing to kick Smalls’ head like a football.

  “No,” Smalls wheezed. He fixed his eyes coldly on Bernstein’s. “Ever ... tasted justice?”

  Bernstein’s grin faded. He lost his balance. “Bite me,” he hissed, and reset his stance. “I’m going to punt you into oblivion, old man.”

  But Bernstein never got the chance. As his leg swung back a second time, Blatch’s gun slammed down hard, stopping Bernstein cold with a butt to the back of his head. Bernstein crumpled to the ground in a heap.

  “Tastes sweet, don’t it?” Smalls said to Bernstein’s unconscious, bleeding face.

  Blatch helped Smalls to standing. “Where’s Deanna?” he asked, his eyes searching wildly.

  “In the car,” Smalls wheezed, then scowled. “Aww, shit. Get him!”

  Blatch turned to find Bernstein had stumbled to his feet and was hobbling toward the driver’s door of the sedan. Blatch pounced on him, grabbed his right arm, and twisted it behind his back.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Blatch hissed as he slammed Bernstein against the car’s hood.

  The sound of denting metal woke Deanna. She opened her eyes to find Bernstein’s twisted face glaring at her through the windshield. She screamed.

  “You slut!” Bernstein yelled, his spittle dotting the windshield. “You whore!”

  Blatch yanked Bernstein off the hood of the sedan just as Larry jogged up, huffing and puffing. The psychiatrist punched Bernstein in the face. “I’m sure Dr. Young has told you before. We don’t use that kind of language around here, you sniveling asshole excuse for a human being!”

  Bernstein started to speak, but winced with pain from his newly split bottom lip. Larry nodded at Deanna through the windshield, then looked over at Smalls. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Best therapy ever.”

  Smalls snorted and looked over at Blatch. “Okay, time to call the cops before Kojak here gets physical again.”

  “The cops?” Bernstein laughed sadistically, his white teeth smeared with blood. “What can you charge me with? I didn’t do anything.”

  Blatch jerked him by the handcuffs. “Sit on the curb, scumbag.”

>   “You got nothing on me. We were on a date. She bumped her head!”

  “Shut it,” Blatch said, and jerked Bernstein so hard he fell into the grass by the curb.

  “Cops are on their way,” Smalls said as Larry helped Deanna out of Bernstein’s car. Larry motioned to Blatch. “Hey, come take a look.”

  Blatch’s eyes widened with concern. “Is Deanna hurt?” He turned to Bernstein. “If she is—”

  “I’m fine,” Deanna said, rubbing her head. “Come look at this.”

  Larry shone his flashlight into the backseat of Bernstein’s car. Blatch came over. When he saw what the other three were looking at, he let out a low whistle. “Well, what have we here?”

  On the back floorboard of Bernstein’s sedan, half-tucked behind the passenger seat, was an opened Fed-Ex envelope. Next to it were wadded balls of peach-colored stationery.

  As the first red-and-blue lights appeared in the night, Smalls nodded over at Bernstein. “Forget stalking, you pervert. They’re gonna charge you with murder.”

  “Murder!” Bernstein screamed and kicked the street with his Gucci loafer. “You’re crazy! The whole lot of you are fucking crazy!”

  Smalls shrugged. “Tell it to the cops, slimeball. We’ll let them decide.”

  Chapter Seventy

  DEANNA CLOSED THE DOOR to the taxicab and leaned in the open window. “Goodbye, Larry, have a safe trip back to New York.”

  He searched her eyes. “Will I see you back at work, or not?”

  Deanna glanced down at the street, “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve still got a week of vacation to think it over. I know you’ll make the right decision.”

  “Thanks. And Larry?”

  “Yes.”

  Deanna smiled. “Don’t forget to feed my fish.”

  Larry grinned. “I won’t. Oh, and Deanna? For what it’s worth, I think you’re a natural at this detective work. Last night, you seemed as cool as a cucumber.”

  Deanna laughed. Larry had no idea how frazzled she’d been. “Just chalk it up to compartmentalization.”

  Larry threw his head back and laughed.

  As the cab pulled away, Larry’s familiar, comforting laugh tore at Deanna’s heart. If she did decide to stay in St. Petersburg, she would miss him dearly. He was her mentor, her therapist, and her good friend.

  Deanna stepped across the road and headed east along the seawall. As she passed the corner where Bernstein had tried to kidnap her the night before, she spotted a dark stain on the street. She wondered if it was blood, and if so, to whom it belonged. She’d gotten away with just a bump on the head during the stakeout last night. Larry was also unharmed. But in the blare of blue-and-red lights, she hadn’t thought to ask if anyone had gotten seriously injured.

  Still, of one thing she was certain. Both Blatch and Smalls had risked their lives for her. The idea that she could mean that much to anyone was so foreign to Deanna it made her wince with disbelief—and gratitude. She walked past the stain without crossing the street to examine it further. Instead, she turned her collar up against the chill in the air, and headed along the seawall to her job downtown.

  “’BOUT TIME YOU SHOWED up,” Smalls said as Deanna entered the main office. He flipped the newspaper in his hands around and held the headline up for Deanna to see.

  Arrest Made In Missing Snyder Girl Case

  The accompanying photo showed Bernstein in a pose definitely not suitable for any glamour magazine.

  “I’m glad it’s over,” Deanna said, slumping into Blatch’s empty chair. “How did you stay so calm through it all?”

  Smalls grinned. “This ain’t my first gym membership, hun.”

  “Where’s Blatch?”

  “Right here,” he said, entering the room. “Hey. Out of my chair.”

  Smalls grinned like a proud father. “Good work, you two.” He glanced down at the article making the front page of The Tampa Times and hit it with the back of his hand. “Of course, Bernstein’s denying he wrote the letters or sent the flowers you told them about, Deanna.” He gave her a wink. “But that’s what they all say. He killed them, all right. And we killed three birds with one stone.”

  Blatch and Deanna groaned at Smalls’ gallows humor.

  “Three?” Deanna asked.

  Smalls counted them off on his fingers. “Snyder. Cane. And publicity.” He jabbed a finger at the newspaper. “You can’t buy this kind of advertising.”

  Deanna shook her head. She wasn’t used to the way the men, especially Smalls, seesawed between horror and humor. She found herself perplexed. She wanted to feel disgust—to admonish Smalls for his utter lack of sensitivity. Instead, she found his shocking style ... healing. Perhaps laughter really did help wash away pain.

  “Listen,” Smalls said. “I’ll call our clients with the news, in case they haven’t heard.”

  The phone rang. Smalls grinned and wagged his eyebrows. “Looks like they heard. Blatch, help me grab the lines. Deanna, you get out of here. Go home and batten down the hatches.”

  “Why? You don’t want me here?”

  Smalls shook his head. “It’s not that. But I know how these things work. It won’t be long before someone leaks that those letters were signed by Melody Young. The doorstep that tip leads to now belongs to you. Go gather your wits and get ready to weather the media storm. At least now you can tell ’em she’s innocent.”

  Deanna bit her lip and smiled. “Maybe Mom will get her other fifteen minutes of fame after all.”

  THE SLIGHT CHILL IN the breeze gusting over Tampa Bay made for perfect trench-coat weather. Deanna smiled inside. The sun on her face and pelicans overhead sure beat shoveling snow.

  As she neared The Vinoy hotel, she felt renewed—victorious, even. Bernstein was in jail. Her mother was in the clear. And she could get accustomed to a daily walk along the coffee shops and boutiques lining Beach Boulevard. The city’s re-gentrification was nearly complete. Maybe she could get her own fresh start after all.

  Deanna stopped for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café and admired the view, never missing New York’s aggressive panhandlers, the blare of taxi horns, or the vague smell of urine. Compared to the Big Apple, everything in St. Pete seemed bright and clean. Shiny and new.

  Maybe that’s what she needed, too.

  A shiny, new life.

  THE POSTMAN WAS JUST slipping mail into her box when Deanna made it home. She waved and spoke to him as they passed on the sidewalk. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m still getting used to this route. I replaced Reggie Cane. Did you hear about him?”

  “Yes,” Deanna said solemnly.

  “He was a real cut-up, you know. Always had a funny story. You know, he told me one about your mother once. How she handed him a letter with a spider on it. He told us he screamed and nearly flipped his lid. Then they’d both laughed about it until they were out of breath. He said your mother was a real cut-up.”

  “That she was,” Deanna said. “That she was.”

  Deanna climbed the front steps and went inside, feeling better about her mother than she had in a long, long time. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay, she thought, taking a bottle of water from the nearly empty fridge.

  She shook her head. “I should seriously get some groceries.” She took a long chug of water, then grabbed her car keys and headed out the back door. The Corvette could use a spin. It was amazing how Marcus had gotten her car running in no time.

  Deanna smiled at the thought of his name. Marcus .... Then she tripped and fell headlong down the back steps.

  “Crap!” she cried out and looked around for the culprit. A hoe. She must’ve left it on the back steps. Angry it had scarred her boots, she picked the hoe up and tossed it out of the way. It landed in her mother’s favorite rose bush, breaking off a stem of blooms.

  “Damn it!”

  Deanna bent down to pick up the stem of roses and noticed an odd wad of mangled fur underneath the bush. She
jabbed the hoe at it and tugged it free. She studied the fur, then looked back where it had lain. Staring back at her was the empty eye socket of a rotting human skull.

  Terror tore through Deanna, short-circuiting her brain.

  Bernstein used my mother’s house as a graveyard—and I was supposed to be next!

  A familiar, maniacal laugh thundered deep within Deanna’s skull. The world began to spin, and she began tumbling, tumbling, tumbling—down a deep, dark well—into the waiting spider’s lair.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  “DEANNA! DEANNA!”

  Deanna awoke to find Mrs. Havenall patting her cheek. Deanna slowly raised herself onto one elbow, then glanced around wildly. There was no skull under the rosebush. No broken stem of flowers. The hoe was just where she’d left it. She’d imagined it all.

  Was I sleepwalking? Deanna thought. Or is it official? I’m just as crazy as my mother.

  Mrs. Havenall’s face was creased with worry. “You’re positively flushed, Deanna. Are you ill?”

  “No ... I don’t think so.”

  “You’ve been working too hard. Come over. I’ll make you some tea.”

  Confused and dizzy, Deanna was glad for the help. Creeped out by her hallucination, she didn’t want to be alone. She slowly got to her feet, and, leaning on her neighbor’s elbow, the pair made it to Mrs. Havenall’s back door.

  “Have a seat on the couch, hon,” Mrs. Havenall said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Where’s Jodie?” Deanna asked, wishing for vodka instead of tea.

  “Who knows?” She called back from the kitchen. “Oh! Jodie told me about you two’s plans to fix up the place—that she could have a studio in the garage apartment.”

  Deanna leaned back on the couch. “Yes, we were just knocking around ideas.”

  Mrs. Havenall returned with a tray and two warm cups of tea. “It makes me smile to think you two could be friends again.” She handed Deanna a cup and took a sip from her own. “Mmm. Not too hot. Go on, now. It’ll warm your innards.”