What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

  Stealing up on me, just when I let my guard down.

  By the time I felt its presence, it was always too late. I was already trapped—writhing in its grasp, its silken threads winding around me.

  Cinching my arms.

  Paralyzing my legs.

  Silencing my screams.

  Over and over I would tumble in the darkness, as if pitched into a well—plunging headlong into thick, black waters. Too thick to breathe ....

  Then it would come.

  That tingling feeling.

  Like goosebumps, but on the inside.

  Prickling my lungs.

  Tickling my stomach.

  Fibrillating my heart.

  It was joy.

  It was peace.

  It was where I wanted to be.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  BLATCH RANG DEANNA’S doorbell again, then tried the knob. It was locked. He searched the mailbox for a key. Inside, he found two letters on peach stationery. Both had been rerouted numerous times, only to come back stamped, Return to Sender.

  Blatch shook his head in frustration. He’d been wrong. Bernstein had sent the other letters after all. He put the envelopes back in the box and turned to go, but a noise from the back alley made him turn around again.

  Someone was starting a car. It sounded like Deanna’s Corvette.

  Blatch raced through the tangled side yard, then to the back steps. He spotted the hoe just in time to avoid stumbling over it. Behind the falling-down fence, a car was slowly driving by. Blatch burst through the dilapidated gate and into the alley.

  “Hiya, handsome,” Jodie said from the driver’s seat of her beat-up Geo Metro. She waved a fifty-dollar bill at him. “Wanna go have a drink?”

  Blatch looked up and down the alley. “Uh ... have you seen Deanna?”

  “No. I just stopped by my Mom’s. She gave me fifty bucks to go away.” She wagged her eyebrows at him. “How’s that for a fucked-up relationship?”

  Blatch ignored her remark and opened the garage door. Deanna’s Corvette was inside. A man’s laughter rang out from the house next door. Blatch turned to Jodie. “Your mother have company?”

  “Yeah. Cousin Charlie.” Jodie smirked salaciously. “Kissing Cousin Charlie.”

  A woman shrieked, prickling the hair on the back of Blatch’s neck. “Was that your mother?”

  Jodie nodded. “Even when she laughs, it sounds like she’s complaining.”

  “I need to find Deanna. I’m gonna go ask if they’ve seen her.”

  Jodie’s eyebrow raised an inch. “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jodie laughed. “Those two can get pretty hinky when they get kinky.”

  Blatch felt something deep in his gut. A hunch. The same kind he’d wished he’d listened to when he was with Cathy. He sprinted into Deanna’s yard and picked up the hoe.

  Jodie shot him a look and cut the engine. “What are you doing?”

  “Stay here,” Blatch whispered.

  “In this spider-infested place? Forget it!”

  Jodie picked up a shovel and followed behind Blatch. “We joining a garden club or something?”

  “No. Keep quiet.” Blatch didn’t have time to explain. Everything in his gut was telling him something wasn’t right at the Havenalls. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed Smalls. It went to voicemail. He left a quick message. “Listen. I got no time to explain. Get your ass to Deanna’s neighbor’s house ... and bring your gun.”

  Blatch tried the back door. It was locked. He turned to face Jodie behind him. She was smirking, dangling a key. He snatched the keys and put his finger to his lips. Jodie raised an eyebrow, but kept her mouth shut as Blatch silently unlocked the door. Blatch opened it a crack, then turned and put his palm up, a wordless instruction for Jodie to stay where she was. Jodie grinned and shook her head.

  Blatch sighed and gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to waste arguing the point. Instead, he carefully opened the door wider, then entered on tiptoe, creeping down the hall toward what sounded like muffled voices. From the edge of the hallway, he spied Mrs. Havenall. She was perched sidesaddle on the couch beside something wrapped in a white shroud. She was pressing a black pillow into one end of it.

  Blatch thought, How odd. Then he spied something beneath the black pillow. A tangle of blonde hair. He felt his heart clunk out of rhythm.

  “Let her go!” he yelled.

  Mrs. Havenall looked up at Blatch and smiled. “Here comes the idiot,” she said, shooting a glance at Charlie. He was sneaking up behind Blatch on his right.

  Before he could react, Blatch’s head jerked sideways from the blow. A second later, blood exploded everywhere.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  MRS. HAVENALL LAUGHED as Charlie’s fist smashed into Blatch’s ear. She watched the bumbling detective fall, but then found herself screaming in horror as a shovel came down on Charlie’s head.

  A spray of bright-red blood splattered the wall. Charlie fell in a heap next to Blatch.

  Mrs. Havenall let go of the pillow and jumped up. “Jodie! You idiot! What have you done?”

  Jodie didn’t answer. She saw the black pillow and the body in the white shroud. It didn’t take long for the pieces to click into place in her brain.

  Her mother had killed Deanna.

  Jodie shook her head slowly and aimed the shovel at her mother. “How could you?”

  Mrs. Havenall took a step toward her daughter. Jodie tightened her grip on the shovel.

  “Jodie, can’t you see, dear? I did this all for you. You’re Warren McMaster’s child. I can prove it! With Deanna gone, you get her house, the money, everything!”

  “You think I want any part of this?” Jodie screamed. “You’re sick!”

  Jodie raised the shovel, ready to smash her mother over the head if she took another step. Jodie stole another glance at Deanna. At the black pillow. More pieces fell into place.

  “Wait a minute. You did this to me, too, didn’t you?” she shrieked.

  “Of course not!” Mrs. Havenall said. “I love you!”

  Jodie’s eye caught a movement in the hallway behind her. She turned. A gun fired. The handle of the shovel splintered, sending it reeling from her grasp.

  “Oh! You saved me!” Mrs. Havenall cooed at the bald man holding a Glock.

  Smalls gave a quick nod to Mrs. Havenall, then rushed to Blatch’s side, unaware Deanna’s body lay on the couch. He shook his partner by the shoulder. Blatch opened his eyes and whispered, “It’s her.”

  Smalls turned in the direction of Blatch’s stare. But the information had come too late.

  Mrs. Havenall threw the pot of tea in Smalls’ face. The brew had cooled considerably, leaving Smalls drenched, but unharmed. As tea and plastic spiders flew everywhere, Mrs. Havenall ran for the door.

  “No!” Jodie yelled. She took a flying leap onto her mother’s back and the two women fell to the floor in a scramble of arms and legs. In a flash, Jodie had her mother pinned with her back to the floor.

  “Thanks for the assistance,” he said as he took over. He snatched a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “Hands behind your back, granny.”

  “You’re too late!” Mrs. Havenall grunted as Smalls slapped the cuffs on her wrists. “She’s dead! I win!”

  Smalls dropped her cuffed hands. “Who’s dead?”

  Still reeling from Charlie’s left-hook to his head, Blatch hauled himself from the floor. He stumbled over to the figure lying bundled on the couch. He knocked away the black pillow, afraid of what he’d find underneath.

  “Deanna!” Smalls yelled as he recognized her face.

  Deanna’s cheeks were ashen, her eyes closed. She wasn’t breathing.

  Blatch yanked the duct tape from her mouth, then leaned over and closed his mouth over her blue, torn lips. Tilting her head back and pinching her nose closed, he breathed into Deanna’s mouth until her chest rose, then fell again.

  Smalls
rubbed his forehead. “Come on, Deanna!”

  Jodie chewed her lip. “Is it working?”

  “No,” Blatch whispered hoarsely. He pressed his lips against Deanna’s and tried again. As he released her, Deanna wheezed. Her eyes opened and flashed momentarily with terror. Upon seeing Blatch, they relaxed.

  “Breathe,” Blatch instructed softly, pulling Deanna up into his arms.

  “Thank God!” Smalls nodded sharply at Deanna. “You heard the man. Breathe!”

  Deanna coughed and sucked in another lungful of air. Blatch held her, rubbing her back like a bundled baby. He whispered in her ear, “You’re safe now, Deanna. I’m so sorry I didn’t put this together sooner.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Leave the grunt work to me,” Smalls said gruffly. He sniffed back a tear and shrugged at Jodie. “Damned allergies.”

  As Blatch worked to unwind Deanna from her shroud, Smalls yanked Mrs. Havenall to her feet. “Gotta say, lady, your future ain’t lookin’ too bright.”

  Mrs. Havenall sneered. Smalls grinned and used his foot to poke the side of the unconscious, red-headed guy lying in a lump on the floor. “So who’s this chump?”

  Deanna wheezed. “A realtor.”

  Smalls shook his head. “Well, that figures.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  DEANNA CHOSE NOT TO be around when the forensics crew exhumed the bodies in her backyard. All told, they found four, just where Mrs. Havenall had told Deanna they’d be.

  When they pulled the last body from the fish pond, that of young Jessica Snyder, Deanna was arriving at the offices of Blatch & Smalls carrying a cardboard tray with three cups of steaming coffee. After saving her life, she figured she owed the two men at least one more decent cup, and one more day of secretarial services—on the house.

  Smalls looked up from his newspaper as she came in and sneered. “Late. As Usual.”

  Deanna started to grin, but a pinch of pain from the small tear on her lip reminded her to tone it down to a small smile. “Good morning to you, too.”

  Smalls winced in sympathy, then held up the newspaper. “Not bad for a day’s work.” He showed Deanna the headline:

  Serial-Killer Duo Nabbed

  He scowled. “Looks like I was wrong about Bernstein being the murderer.”

  Deanna shrugged. “It takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong.”

  Smalls shot her a sideways look. “Don’t pull any of your psychoanalysis crap on me.”

  Deanna laughed. “Fine.”

  “But don’t get me wrong,” Smalls said, jabbing a finger at the newspaper. “Bernstein’s still a pervert. And he’s not getting off easy again. Nope. This time, the witnesses to his crime aren’t gonna be so easy to dismiss.”

  Deanna nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

  “You know, Deanna, kidnapping carries up to thirty here in Florida. I have a feeling Bernstein won’t be bothering you ever again. By the time he gets out of prison, he’ll be too old to even get it up.”

  Deanna crinkled her nose. “Thanks for that visual.”

  Smalls laughed, then his face grew serious. “You know, Deanna, I’ve been thinking about that picture I saw at your house. The one with you in your father’s arms, when you were just a baby in a pink blanket.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It looks to me like he could’ve been suffering from glycol poisoning.”

  Deanna’s brow furrowed. “Glycol?”

  “Antifreeze. It can mimic the flu. If you want to find out for sure, we could exhume the body. Havenall could have killed him, too.”

  Or my mother could have, Deanna thought. Find a rich old man, give him a bath, put him in a draft. Deanna shrugged. “Nah. It’s okay.”

  Smalls shrugged. “Suit yourself. What about your mother’s ... uh ... nose?”

  “Let’s leave both my parents at rest, okay? There are enough bodies to bury as it is.” Deanna set a cup of take-out coffee on Smalls’ desk and smirked. “Besides, I’m sure my mother would be horrified at the prospect of being caught dead without her nose.”

  Smalls grinned. “Good one, Dee. You’re getting the hang of gallows humor. You sure we can’t convince you to stay?”

  Deanna smiled. “No. But I appreciate the offer.”

  Smalls gave her a sharp nod. “So tell me, hotshot. What we were paying you—bet it wasn’t half of what you make in the big city.”

  Deanna laughed. “More like a fifth.”

  “Ouch.” Smalls whistled. “By the way, doctor lady, I knew from day one that you were no secretary.”

  Deanna raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Dead giveaway. You can’t make coffee worth a damn.”

  Deanna laughed. “Now that’s not my fault. Nothing good ever came out of a K-cup.”

  Blatch walked in. She turned and handed him a coffee. He took the cup and set it on his desk. At the moment, he had no appetite even for that. “So when are you leaving?” he asked.

  “Saturday.”

  Blatch’s brow furrowed. “Two days from now. Is that enough time to wrap things up?”

  Depends on what we need to wrap up, Deanna thought, then shrugged. “I’ve got people working on things.”

  Smalls snickered. “I bet you do.”

  Deanna nearly rolled her eyes, but shook her head instead. Men had always been a mystery to her. Even after all that had just happened, that hadn’t changed.

  DEANNA WAS IN THE BACKYARD burying a little porcelain box under Warren’s rosebush when the doorbell rang. She hoped the small piece of her mother wrapped inside the box would forever enjoy the fragrant flowers her husband so generously offered.

  Deanna patted the earth firmly, then got up and padded to the front door. She was surprised to see Jodie Havenall standing there, her normally wild eyes tamed by sadness—and possibly sobriety.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  Jodie took one step inside the door, then turned and hung her arms around Deanna’s neck and sobbed. “Dee, I’m so sorry for what my mother’s done!”

  Deanna pulled back enough to look into Jodie’s eyes. “You’re not responsible for your mother’s deeds. And I’m not responsible for mine. Deal?”

  Jodie sniffed and smiled through her tears. “Deal.”

  “We’re sisters, you know,” Deanna said.

  Jodie grinned. “I know.” She let go of Deanna and wiped her cheek. “Who the hell would’ve ever figured that? We look like Mutt and Jeff together.”

  Deanna smiled, then her face grew serious. “I’m not staying. You know that, right?”

  Jodie nodded.

  Deanna chewed her lip. “I’ve been thinking about that story your mother told at Thanksgiving. About me sleepwalking—coming to your house all bloody. Do you think I ... you know, could have hurt—?”

  Jodie studied Deanna, her brow quizzical. “Dee, don’t you remember? You were having your first period. You came over because you were too scared to talk to your mother about it.”

  Deanna’s shoulders relaxed, as if a pair of leaden hands pressing down on them had suddenly let go. “Really?” She looked Jodie in the eye. “I know this sounds weird, but in a lot of ways, your mother was more of a mother to me than mine was.”

  Jodie gave her a sad smile. “We both know that’s not setting the bar very high.”

  Deanna glanced over at the stained couch—the spot where Mrs. Havenall had smothered her mother to death. A thought popped into her head. She turned back to Jodie and said, “Too dark. Use flash.”

  Jodie nodded, and pursed her lips into a smile.

  Deanna gave Jodie a hug. “Hey, you want to go for a ride with me?”

  Jodie shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

  DEANNA LAID AN APRICOT rose on her mother’s grave, then another on the grave beside it—that of her father, Warren McMasters.

  “Which of our mothers do you think killed him?” Jodie asked.

  “I’m hoping neither,” Deanna said. “I
choose to believe my mother really loved him.”

  Jodie smiled. “I’m cool with that. You hungry?”

  Deanna shot Jodie a look. “Are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s a change.”

  Jodie winked. “Must be something in the water.”

  Or something not in it, Deanna thought, and hoped Jodie would never know all the details of her mother’s poisonous plans for her.

  As for her own mother, Deanna decided that whether Melody Young married Warren McMasters for love or money—whether she gave him a bath and put him in a draft—no longer really mattered. She decided to remember them both as they were in the picture that was now packed away in her suitcase—Warren in his tux and her mother in her Miss Sunshine City ball gown. Because even though Deanna knew next to nothing about who her parents really were as people, she was certain that in that moment, they had been genuinely happy together, no matter how long that happiness had lasted.

  “LARRY? IT’S ME.”

  “How’s my favorite nutcase?”

  Deanna smiled and shifted her cellphone to her other ear. “Getting ready to fly back and report for duty.”

  “Really? I thought you said New York never felt like home.”

  “It doesn’t. But in a crowd of millions of neurotics, it’s an easy place to blend in.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes. I thought for a moment that I could reinvent myself by moving down here. That I could get a fresh start. Shed my old self. Make new friends.”

  “You don’t feel that way anymore?”

  “No.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “Me. I know now I’m just running away. I blamed my mother for my self-imposed isolation. The truth is, I avoided making friends because I didn’t want them to find out how broken I feel—felt. I wanted to wait until I felt more ... more normal, I suppose.”

  “And now?”

  “With my mother gone, I realized I’ve been acting no better than Bernstein, blaming her when I should’ve been blaming myself.”

  “I think that’s a bit harsh, Dee.”