by William Cain
Her mind returns to the lifeless body of Elsie. She actually feels a little bad for her. But that’s the risk you take in this business. Everyone’s on edge, ready to fall off the cliff, even if you’re just “associated.” Face it: Anyone closely connected to Biggie is always in danger.
She throws the murder of Elsie out of her mind and puts the Porsche into gear.
Chapter 7 Reggi
August
If you’re going through hell, keep going. Winston Churchill
Reggi wakes up thinking about the night before. The get-together at Shirley and Ben’s place went a little too late. She should probably ring them today and apologize. But she wasn’t the only one staying late. There were others. The newest member, Ken Jones, was there. She noticed him glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Maybe Ben and Shirley wanted the evening to go like that, late. Maybe it was planned. I worry too much about other people’s feelings, she thinks as she leaves the covers and slips on her house shoes.
While in the bathroom, she washes her hands and scrubs her face, then applies lotion liberally, rubbing it in. After combing her hair, she takes a look in the mirror. She likes what she sees. “I have incredible DNA. Not rich, and I’ve lost almost everything, but I have the Best. DNA. Ever,” she muses. She’s not overweight, but could, and perhaps should, lose five pounds. She looks down and notices her skinny legs. It’s her family trademark—chicken legs. Smiling, she again looks at herself, pats herself under her chin, and notices, reflected in the mirror, the cabinet in the walk-in closet.
Going to the cabinet, she opens the door to the safe they had put in when she and Joe built the place. Opening it, she pulls out the Glock36. Over the years, she’s become proficient with loading and shooting it. She’s not very accurate, but her aim is just good enough. She decides to head out to the shooting range later inside Heritage Hills and take a few shots to give herself some practice and exercise the pistol. She’ll clean it before she puts it back into the safe.
Holding the pistol, she walks back into the bathroom silently, looks up, and aims the barrel towards her image reflecting back at her. She remains in this position until her arm begins to ache, and then slowly drops the weapon to her side, continuing to stare at herself for more than just a few moments. When she breaks her concentration, she replaces the Glock, closes the safe door, and turns toward the kitchen to make her morning cup of coffee.
Seated at the breakfast table, she looks into the cup and begins to relive the trip to the Italian Amalfi coast she and Joe took years ago. There, they stayed in a room by the sea that Joe especially arranged just for them. They unpacked and had the most glorious vacation of their lives. The Hotel San Pietro is by far the most luxurious place they had ever stayed in. That was a while ago. That was before Joe became ill. That was when they had money.
Continuing to stare into her coffee without touching it, she visualizes Joe across from her at the table and she really wants to tell him off. She imagines she begins a familiar lecture, “If we had saved more, and planned better, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. We didn’t belong in places like the Hotel San Pietro,” she calmly says, “Did we?”
And Joe, gaping, gives her that guilty look. He wants to tell her that they both made these decisions, that they’re both to blame, but he knows what’s coming next.
She lets this sink in as she watches his reaction. After a few moments, she speaks out loud, bitterly, talking to no one, “And country clubs, did we really need to do that, Joe?” with an emphasis on “Joe.” “Always the best…all the time. And you’d say to me that it was all for me. That you wanted to make me happy. You know what I think? You wanted to make you happy!” She ends this short prelude with a sneer.
She imagines he looks away. This accusatory conversation has been drummed up many times in recent months. It always ends the same way, with her blaming him, and he just taking it. He worries so much, and he can’t think straight anymore. So he keeps his mouth shut tight and listens. She’ll run out of things to say when she exhausts herself.
She sees him avoiding her angry stare and hisses, “Look at me!! You are pathetic when you do that! Look at me! You aren’t a man. You can’t even take responsibility for your own actions. We are broke, and it’s because of you. You can’t handle money, and you can’t handle your own family. You’re no good, no good at all, at meeting a budget of any type, and that’s why we’re here, like this. Broke, broke, broke,” she finishes, almost spitting the words out with that twisted, scornful, angry pity-face.
His head turns to her, and he opens his mouth, but she stops him short. “Don’t even bother. I’m not interested in your excuses. You know what you did. Why did I ever listen to you?! And now we’re stuck.” Then she stands and looks down on him, “You don’t have anything to say, do you? You can’t even get a job anymore. Even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do,” meaning he’s losing his mind. And he is, he knows it, and these last words hurt him the most.
Her voice starts to crack, and she forces tears to well up, knowing this is going to really make him feel two feet tall. She knows he can’t stand to see his wife cry. “I’m going out, I have to get out of here for a while,” she announces. Then she grabs her keys and imagines she’s heading for the garage.
When Reggi stops, exhausted, she finds she’s been mouthing the words again and twisting up her face, acting it out, and she notices her coffee must have been jarred as there’s a small spill on the table. But she no longer feels that these periods of acting out are bad or weird. She used to think that way. It is oddly interesting that she’s reading Joe’s thoughts, though; she never did that before. I must be getting better at this, she ponders as she takes her coffee to the microwave to warm it up.
Now she considers these episodes to be therapy of a sort.
They make her feel better.
Her thoughts turn to a man she hopes she’ll possibly spend the remainder of her life with—another life…a better life. Dwelling on this, she remembers a man from the club. He is probably the wealthiest member. His home—it’s enormous—is nearby in a small, private valley inside the Heritage Hills community. She doesn’t know that much about him, but does recall his name.
He’s Ken Jones.
Chapter 8 Frank
August
A good lawyer is a bad neighbor. French Proverb
Frank is sitting in his laywer's conference room with his tie loosened. He’s learned a lot of things the hard way, like keeping your mouth shut. Once the words leave your lips, you can’t get them back. He never should have told Frédérica about his lover from ten years ago. He did it to hurt her. And she used it against him in the divorce.
The last two years have been bad.
Frank had little reason to be happy. His wife left him, his dad was sick. But, he himself was healthy. He ate well and went to the gym every day. He did the church and volunteer thing—he tried. His business thrived.
Eventually his dad died—waking up penniless every day probably didn’t cause his Alzheimer’s, but constant worry over money accelerated it for sure. Frank cried a lot, he missed his wife Frédérica. At times he thought he was going to turn out like his natural father—a bum. He had a hard time keeping himself together, concentrating, and simply running his business. Frank gave up his guilty pleasure of smoking pot. He just lost interest. If it wasn’t for his son Frannie, there wouldn’t have been any joy in life at all.
Over these past two years, he slowly folded his arms around the idea of Frédérica leaving him. He reflected on his life with her and made a conscious choice to improve his standings with himself. In so doing, he developed a deeper love of family and strove for respect and honesty from and for himself and others. He became open to the idea of love again.
He grew.
◆◆◆
Frédérica walks into the conference room, dagger eyes and thick makeup. She’s wearing a short, tight skirt that shows off her centerfold curves. Gotta hand it to her, she
looks good, he thinks. Then he remembers the last twenty years, the cheating years, and his mind comes back to reality. Her attorney is behind her. A sniveling, grossly overweight, perspiring mess, Frank observes. Frédérica takes a seat first, directly across from him.
Staring at him, she began her usual, “Hello Francis, been using your hand a lot lately?” And Frank smiles back and remains silent. Loose lips sink ships, and it’s a life lesson Frank has come to accept and live by.
She’s a bitch. She didn’t fare well in the divorce. She wanted a lot. His attorney was good. But their son Frannie is grown now, he’s twenty-seven and working in the consulting business alongside his dad. No child support.
He has cash hidden in a safe at his office, she can’t get to it, and it’s a lot. He never told her about it, or where the safe is, but she knows he’s got cash hidden somewhere. So, he screwed her good. You don’t have to testify under oath during your divorce. It’s not a trial, and he speaks only through his attorney.
However, Frank was fair with the vast majority of things, including the business value. Everything was a 50/50 split, so she will walk away a rich, single woman. He just kept the cash in the safe to piss her off.
This proceeding takes a load off his mind, and his attorney comes in with copies of the settlement to sign. The next half hour will close a chapter in his life, and he’s looking forward to it.
Frank breathes easier these days. He’s gotten his mind wrapped around a life without her. He’s moved on. She doesn’t like it. The loser she moved in with broke up with her and kicked her out. She wanted to come back, and Frank said no. That was very satisfying and sad at the same time. He hopes she returns to Clermont-Savès in the south of France, but he doesn’t think she will. Frannie has a good relationship with his mother. It’s almost like they have a secret language between them. He thinks it’s a little weird.
He wears his clothes well. He looks great. At fifty-three, he feels fit and strong, with a full head of reddish, brown hair parted to the side, accentuating his looks. He’s happy. He’s dating. He’s good at sex, but not promiscuous. And he’s not rushing into anything, either. No, it’s going to take a special woman to make him say those three words. His next move is going to be permanent.
He lives by these words these days: “Be honest with the people you care for. They’ll always respect and trust you.”
After signing everything needed, he stands and shakes his attorney’s hand, then gives his middle finger to Frédérica.
“Nice touch, Frank. Our son will love to hear about that,” she says with her French accent on “love.”
Looking directly down at her, he replies, “When he asks me about it I’ll just say you deserved it. Then he’ll ask me what I mean. And I won’t tell him because you’re his mother, but I’ll leave him to figure it out. And he will.” He adds, tilting his head to one side, eyes wide open, “Comprende Vous?”
She is fuming.
He turns, walks out, and heads to his car. After he climbs into his BMW, he calls his mother to tell her he’s coming down in a few weeks to see her, sometime soon. Then he pulls away and heads for the office.
The world is suddenly a better place.
Chapter 9 Addie
August
Unless you love someone, nothing else makes sense. E.E. Cummings
Detective Henson approached the front door of the next house on her list. She and her partner Rob are canvassing the area, separately, in Heritage Hills to find neighbors who were home on that day in July and saw or heard anything relevant. It’s a long shot because the homes here are placed on winding roads far apart on large properties, she knows, but it’s part of the job and needs to be done; needs to be ruled out or ruled in.
After she rings the doorbell, she listens for the chime, and soon the owner answers. Addie shows the man her badge and explains why she’s there. She is then asked in and she begins her questions. When she’s done, she kindly thanks him and is shown the way out and moves on to the next house on the list.
When she arrives there, she begins the process over, and a woman answers the front door. Henson notes her physical attributes, as she does all people she interviews or meets. It’s just force of habit. She notices the woman is Caucasian, of average height, with brunette hair and slender build. She’s a senior, like most people living here, and appears to be in good shape.
Showing her badge and credentials to the woman, she says, “I am Detective Henson with Asheville P.D. We’re in the area today to ask a few questions concerning a crime on July 18th of this year. If you were home on that day, I’d like to speak with you.”
The woman smiles and then replies with a slight southern drawl, “I’m Reggi Thomas. Yes, I was home. I live here year round. Please, come in.” She shows her inside to the living room.
Addie asks to bother her for a glass of water and when she heads to the kitchen, Addie spends a few free moments to look at photographs, obviously of the woman’s family, that are placed on tables and dumbwaiters, or shelves, or hanging from the walls. Her eyes land on one with a middle-aged man and a younger one, and she decides they must be father and son. Looking again at the older man, she notices his physical characteristics also and finds him to be middle-aged, attractive, slim, and above average in height, with brown hair parted to one side. His arm is around the younger man’s shoulder. It’s a warm family photograph, and, from appearances, he has an engaging smile and relaxed manner.
While she’s looking at this, she begins to think, he is attractive, then she abruptly stops herself, stop acting like a schoolgirl, get your act together, Addie. Suddenly the front door opens again and the man from the photo materializes. He walks in with a bag of groceries, presumably. He stops when he sees her and their eyes lock. For a few moments, the two of them remain looking at each other. It’s not awkward, they don’t feel strange, but rather comfortable with an undercurrent of sorts.
The man sees her badge hanging out of her shirt pocket, then he breaks the silence and steps forward, smiling. He shifts the groceries to his left as he tells her softly, “I’m Frank Thomas. I’m Reggi’s son.”
Addie, still locked in and unblinking, sticks out her hand and replies, “And I’m Detective Adelaide Henson with Asheville P.D.” At that moment, Reggi Thomas walks in from the kitchen holding a glass of water.
“Frank! You’re late,” she declares. “I see you have met the police officer from Asheville. She’s investigating a crime that took place here last month.” She subtly notices them eyeing each other.
Frank sees Addie’s outstretched hand and takes it in his own. “Pleasure,” he replies, staring into her hazel-green eyes, and continues to hold her hand a little longer than normal. After he releases it, he adds, noticing her shouldered weapon, “So, you’re a cop?”
“Detective,” Addie responds and finally breaks eye contact. She finds she’s breathing a little too heavy and that she could really use that water, right now.
As she takes the offered glass from Reggi, Frank asks her, “Is my mom headed for the pokey? What’s her crime…too much hairspray?”
Addie gives him that “don’t be stupid” look and tells him, “A crime was committed on July 18th and we’re canvassing the area to find witnesses to unusual events, people, sounds, and the like.” She then turns to Reggi and asks, “Do you have a private room we can use? Unless Mr. Thomas was here on that date, I need to speak just with you, alone.”
Frank slightly winces at the “Mr. Thomas” label. He doesn’t hear that too often, and before Reggi can respond Frank offers, “I’ll leave the house for a walk. It’s nice out. How does thirty minutes sound?”
“That’s good, I’ll be done by then, thanks,” she replies and begins to open her notebook while fishing her pen from her pocket.
After Frank leaves, she finds she’s thinking about this son of Mrs. Thomas. It’s a little difficult to focus on the business at hand at first, but then she settles in and begins her routine questioning.
“Mrs. Thomas, what did you do on the 18th of July here? Errands, lunch with friends?” she asks.
The interview continues. It’s largely uneventful, and Mrs. Thomas doesn’t really have anything to contribute. However, Addie notices her behavior is a little strange. Not like a suspect or a guilty party, but just a little weird. At one point, Addie looks up to Mrs. Thomas after she asks her next question and finds the old lady staring into Addie’s eyes intently, and her mouth is open. She continues to stare until it becomes uncomfortable and Addie asks Mrs. Thomas if she heard her. The trance broken, Mrs. Thomas replies, “I daze off a lot.” She smiles, “What was it again?”
As the interview continues, Addie notes the time, and, absentmindedly or not, makes the interview consume the thirty minutes until Frank returns.
As he walks into the living room where his mother and the detective are seated, Addie looks up and announces, “Thank you, Mrs. Thomas. I think I have what I need, and I’ll take your leave.”
Reggi asks, “Frank, can you help Detective Henson to her car?” Mother knows best. She saw the looks they gave each other, how they talked to each other.
Outside, Frank opens her driver door and Addie stops before entering, “Do you live nearby? You don’t have a Southern accent.”
“I live in New York City with my son, also named Frank. I come down here often because my family is scattered around here, and it’s a nice getaway,” he replies. Frank then deftly looks over to her left hand and sees there’s no ring. When his gaze returns to her, he finds she’s just now looking up. She was probably checking out his ring finger and wondering the same thing he was.
When their eyes meet again, they freeze for that one slender moment. Frank feels excited being near her, and he thinks, or hopes, she feels the same way. Addie continues to look into his eyes, her lips slightly parted, and Frank considers kissing her, and she considers it also. They’re strongly attracted to each other, and neither knows why.