The Abduction of Mary Rose (19 page)

"Sure you were. Here, let me take Molly. You get the door. I need a coffee."

"Me too." She had to admit, Charlotte was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise heavy-air day. You couldn't be with Debbie Banks and not carry some of her pain away with you. It didn't help that she'd intruded on that pain. "How are you?

"I'm good, mostly," Charlotte said, letting a grateful, but indignant Molly out of the cage. "Have you taken Molly to the vet?"

"No. We just went for a little drive."

In the kitchen, Charlotte slipped out of her blue nylon jacket with the gym logo on the pocket, a tiny barbell, and draped it over the back of her chair. "You didn't call me back," she said matter-of-factly. Smiling, but still accusatory.

Naomi plugged in the kettle and got the Maxwell House instant out of the cupboard. "I know. I'm sorry. I owe you an explanation."

"Hey, I didn't just fall off a turnip truck. I know why. You want to avoid Mom, and you think having lunch with me is a lousy idea for that reason. I get it."

Naomi shrugged lightly, spooned the coffee into their cups. "Something like that."

"Something?"

The water began to boil and Naomi poured it over the grounds, releasing the aroma of roasted coffee into the room. They made great instant these days. "Actually, exactly like that. Everything seems so complicated ever since Mom died. I guess I always knew your mom had no love for me, but I never realized how deep it went."
Sure you did, you always knew, you just didn't know why.

"You wanna know the truth, I don't get it myself. I was shocked when I read Aunt Lili's obit, and I'm not the only one. Poor Dad he felt horrible. We all did. Mom can be difficult, believe me, I know. But I've never known her to be so vindictive. Maybe she's in the change or something."

Naomi smiled indulgently as she set their coffees on the table and sat down across from her cousin.

"No, I don't think that's it, Charlotte. Never mind, I'm glad you're here. It's good to see you. How are things with you? What's happening in your life? You said you were good mostly? "

"Same ole, same ole. Well, a few changes. I have my own apartment now, so my mother doesn't have to know my comings and goings, or that I stopped by, or anything else I don't want her to know. So you don't have to worry. I just want you to know I'm really sorry about all this. I've been thinking about you a lot and wondering if maybe I can do something to help."

"I appreciate the offer. But I'm doing okay."

"Your vibe belies your words, my dear."

My vibe. A new age terminology. But, in truth, she’s not that far off. I am feeling stressed out right now.
"Okay, granted, I've been better," she conceded. "I guess I just miss Mom."

"That's a given. You guys were close. But it's more than that, isn't it? Even more than finding out you were adopted. You seem haunted." She glanced at the chair propped under the back door knob, and frowned, but made no comment.

Charlotte was more than a little perceptive.
Wonder what she'd say if I told her I thought a killer was stalking me. Or that I'd heard a young girl's cries when I was at the cemetery. A girl who'd been dead for nearly three decades. But what would be the point of that? It wouldn't help anything, and it would freak her out. Or she'd think I was losing my grip. And maybe she'd be right. Not, that that wasn't true. I'm fine. I'm perfectly okay. Or I will be when they put that monster away.

Ever since she found Molly shut up in the bureau drawer, she'd been a nervous wreck, jumping at every sound, looking over her shoulder and finding no one there. Last night she was sure she'd heard someone outside her kitchen window, but when she moved the curtain aside to look, there was only the darkness to greet her, and her own ghostly reflection in the glass. Even turning out the light had revealed nothing ominous, no one lurking outside her back window. Once, she thought she saw the doorknob turn, but she was no longer certain about that either.

Unable to sleep, she even found herself getting up in the middle of the night, padding about the house checking on doors and windows she'd already checked, to be sure they were locked, that the chair was wedged firmly under the back door knob. And there was also that knife under her pillow. Would she even have the guts to actually use it if it came down to that? Hardly surprising if she looked 'haunted'.

She needed to find out who he was, she told herself again. That single thought was becoming a mantra for her.
Find him. Put him behind bars.
Until that happened, nothing would change. The situation could only get worse, dire. She wasn't fool enough to think a killer couldn't find a way into this house if he really wanted to. He'd already proven that much. But he hadn't hurt her, had he? Not yet, she thought. Could be the right opportunity just hadn't presented itself.

"Naomi? Hey, where did you go?"

"What? Oh, sorry, Charlotte. What were you saying?"

"I asked if you've gotten any leads on the bad guys."

"Oh, no. Nothing definite. You look good, Char. Love that sweater. Blue's your colour. And you should always wear jewelry."

"Thanks. But you're changing the subject."

Naomi smiled. "Matching lipstick and fingernail polish, too," she teased, knowing Charlotte had never been one for any kind of adornment. Her disinterest in fashion drove Edna nuts. Times changed. Maybe there was a lover in the picture. Lucky her. She'd always been pretty sure Charlotte was gay. And she understood her reluctance to come out of the closet, considering Edna was on the other side of the closet door. "You're in fantastic shape. I was thinking I should start back at the gym."

"If you need it, it doesn't show. But I'd love having you in my aerobics class."

"Sounds like fun. But I'm more a yoga kind of girl," she grinned.

"We have a yoga class."

"One of these days I'll surprise you and show up. But I do want us to have lunch sometime soon. And that's a promise. Just as soon as…."

"Forget lunch. We'll go someplace nice for dinner. My treat. Maybe Top of the Town. They've got a great blues singer this month, from Montreal. Really, she's terrific. Joanne LaRoche. You'll love her."

"Sounds good," Naomi said, meaning it in that moment. "But it'll be my treat."

Does that sound like I'm rubbing it in because Mom left me the bulk of her estate? Frank said Edna had already started legal proceedings to fight the will in court.

Against Frank's advice, Naomi was seriously considering offering an even split. But now she wondered if even that would satisfy Edna?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Naomi was just getting out of the shower when the phone rang downstairs. With yet another promise to get herself a cell phone one of these days, she raced downstairs, tying her robe about her as she went, and grabbed the receiver with a damp hand as Debbie Banks was beginning to leave a message.

She hadn't found anything about the auto body shop online so she was headed for the library, having made arrangements to drop Molly off at a pet daycare for a couple of hours. Better than leaving her in the car.

"Mrs. Banks, Debbie, sorry. I was in the shower. Did you think of something?"

"Uh, maybe, I don't know. When I was at the doctor's yesterday, someone broke into the house. I called the police."

"What?" A cold sensation passed through her. Had her visit put Debbie Banks in danger?

"Yes, they broke a back window and crawled inside. Nothing was taken but my photo albums were all out of place, and drawers had been gone through, some left open. Like whoever it was was looking for something in particular. I have no idea what. The neighbour's dog set to barking like crazy, but my neighbour, Mrs. Cross, said she didn't see anyone."

 
He must have followed me yesterday.

"Maybe he didn't know what he was looking for either, Debbie," Naomi said. "If it was who we're both thinking of, I think he was just blindly looking for anything that might connect him to your husband. Sounds like he's getting a little paranoid. Your photo albums, huh? Are there any pictures of your husband with male friends that you can recall?"

"None I've ever seen. Like I said, Norman wasn't one for going out with the boys. He was a family man. But I did wonder if looking at his high school yearbook would be of any help. It's around here someplace. If I come across it, I'll take a quick look through, but I doubt I'll find anything of significance. No reason I would. I didn't know Normie then. I'm on my way into town and if I find it, I'll drop it off."

Naomi thanked her, and told her to come ahead. She was suddenly afraid for the woman. Would he pay her another visit? Wondering if, in a weak moment, Norman Banks had confided his sin to his wife. With a sense of time running out, her eye drifted to the little clown on the coffee table and she saw it again rocking to and fro on its parallel bars, imagined the hand that had set it in motion. Hands capable of beating a woman to death. She suddenly knew he would not have left fingerprints on the clown, or the doorknob or Debbie Banks' photo albums or anything else had touched. He would have worn gloves. He was no novice at not getting caught.

She might have passed him on the street over the years. Seen him in a grocery store lineup, or at the post office. What kind of work did he do in his regular life? Who sees him, talks to him every day, and has no idea of the monster behind the mask.

Who are you?

* * *

After Debbie Banks had come and gone, leaving her with the yearbook, Naomi drove to the library, returning home a short time later with Molly in the carrier and a scanned page from a 1979 city directory in her purse, along with a borrowed copy of Eric Grant's book, "Freakhead". She was curious. He'd sent her a note of apology and asked her to lunch. He’d included his email and phone number, which she didn't respond to, but neither did she throw the note away. She was hardly ready for a new relationship right now, and even if she was, she definitely didn't think becoming involved with Eric Grant was a good idea. But she couldn't deny the warm flush that came to her cheeks when she read his note.

The Body Shop, which turned out to be the actual name of the company, was listed in the directories from 1962 to 1984, always on Pine Street. It was possible Norman Banks and his pal had worked together at this place. She'd been excited to see the proprietor's name, Craig Kelly, included in the listing. Would he remember who worked for him back then? He might, especially if they were long term employees.

Thumbing through the phone book, something kept niggling at the back of her mind. Some important detail she had overlooked or forgotten, something in her subconscious trying to surface like a fish in murky water. But before it could, a woman answered the telephone. Naomi asked to speak to Craig Kelly.

"Mr. Kelly hasn't lived here in ten years," the woman said stiffly. "We're divorced. Who's calling please?"

Naomi introduced herself, told her she was trying to reach one of his old employees. A personal matter.

"Last I heard, Craig's in Mexico. I heard he's into stealing cars. Well, he probably doesn't steal them himself, he's too old for that. But he does the body work. I can't swear to that, 'course, just what I heard. Sorry I can't be of more help."

"You wouldn't happen to know who might have an address?" Naomi prodded, almost wincing as she did.

"Like I said, I haven't seen him in ten years. Who you looking for?"

"I uh, don't know his name. But he worked for your husband in the mid to late eighties, I believe?"

"Are you serious? You want me to remember who worked for my ex-husband, what, nearly thirty years ago? And you don't know his name?" She gave a laugh that sounded like a bark.

Naomi thanked her and hung up. That worked out well, she thought facetiously. Everyone had their story. To quote Tolstoy, "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." A bitter woman with an axe to grind? she wondered. Or was her ex actually mixed up in some car ring in Mexico. Either way, it had nothing to do with her. Another dead-end. Lives change in nearly three decades. People moved away, got divorced, died. She had to change tracks; this one was going nowhere. She was beginning to feel like that guy who flung himself on his horse and rode off in all directions.

Does he feel me gaining on him?
She hoped so. She hoped he was having a problem sleeping these days. She knew he'd be making new plans, since his first one had been foiled. She tried not to envision a scenario wherein he would kill her and dump her body somewhere so remote it would never be found. That way, her DNA could never be matched with his, which would let him run free for all time, hurting others as he chose. Not the preferred ending, from Naomi's point of view.

And she was having a lot less confidence in that knife under her pillow. False sense of security there. He'd probably use it on her. She'd have to think more on this. Think smarter. She needed a plan.

Definitely needed a plan.

In the meantime, there were still a couple of things she could follow up on. But first, she'd eat something. Not that she was all that hungry, but it was important to stay healthy. With Molly contentedly eating her dinner, she opened up a can of tomato soup for herself. At the whine of the electric can-opener Molly looked up from her dish.

"Don't worry," she grinned, "I'm not having anything more exciting than your tuna. But you can lick the bowl." Molly loved anything tomato.

Even as she poured the tomato soup into a small pot, added a little milk and set the pot on the stove, her mind kept trying to grasp that forgotten detail, that nugget of information, but it stayed just out of her reach, like a word on the tip of your tongue. Whatever it was continued to nag her even as she set out her bowl and a few crackers on a plate, poured herself a glass of milk. It'll come, she thought. Don't try to force it.

She decided to make some notes to herself, retrieved a writing tablet and pen from the kitchen drawer and sat down at the table. In one column, she wrote:
What I know for sure. (Or at least believe.)
It was a short list, ending with the break-in of Debbie Banks' house on the same day she'd been to see her. She'd been hugely relieved when Debbie told her she was taking a little time to visit with her daughter out in British Columbia. The police had the number and would call when her husband's body was signed for release, so she could give Norman a proper burial. At least she'd be safe for the time being, Naomi thought, grateful not to have to worry about him showing up again and hurting her, or worse.

Sighing, she set the pen down and read over what she'd written. Norman Banks was murdered because he'd become a threat. Proof: none. But Mr. Banks did have her story on his person when they found him. And that was Norman Banks' voice on the tape. If not proof, then a hell of a coincidence. And she didn't believe in coincidences. She munched on a cracker, sipped her milk.

One thing was a definite. She knew a lot more now than she did when she read her mother's obituary in the paper, dear Aunt Edna's work. At thoughts of her aunt, the niggling piece of missing information began niggling again. Harder this time. Biting, clawing. Wanting out. I know something else. Why can't I remember?

It was when she absent-mindedly reached up to take the tiny gold earrings out of her ears that she did. And it was like the breath was knocked out of her.

In the same instant she caught a whiff of something burning and jumped up from the chair. The soup. The pop … pop … pop sounds sent her flying to the stove as the scorched acrid stench filled the kitchen. Grabbing a potholder from the drawer, she lifted the furiously boiling red liquid off the burner.

* * *

 
Debbie Banks didn't miss the relief in Naomi Water's voice when she told her she was going out West to visit her daughter, and knew she'd been scared for her. She appreciated the concern. Although she, herself, had been surprised and alarmed that someone broke into her home and gone through her things, she wasn't really afraid. Mad? Hell, yes. But she didn't care enough to be afraid. Life without Normie seemed like a long grey corridor of loneliness, she thought, as she packed slacks, blouses and underclothes into the small blue suitcase lying open on the bed.

Naomi Waters seemed like such a nice young woman, determined to find her mother's killer, who she believes also murdered Norman. She'd hoped she might find some clue in the yearbook. She wouldn't have thought of it if someone hadn't broken in and gone through her photo albums. She went through them herself in case she'd forgotten some picture taken of him with a friend, but there was nothing. And then she thought of the yearbook. It had taken her a while to find it.

Balancing precariously on the next to the top rung of the ladder, feeling a weakness in her limbs, she rifled through the mess on the shelf in their bedroom, sure that was where she'd seen it at one time. Norman had been something of a packrat and she had to move aside old bottles he'd saved, a pair of ancient binoculars, decks of cards no one used, flashlights minus batteries, a broken watch, old hats from work bearing the Harris Woodworking logo, before she found it. She'd pretty much left this shelf to him, ignoring the chaos, his minor fault.

Maybe that wasn't his worse fault
. She immediately banished the traitorous thought. Normie wouldn't hurt a fly. It was in part his gentleness that drew her to him. Her own father had been a violent man, an abuser, and she wanted a different sort of man for herself, and her kids. She often heard that women are drawn to what they know; it hadn't worked that way for her.

She had found the book under a pile of old car magazines, pulled it out and blew off the dust. Sitting down on the bed with the book in her lap, slowly she began turning the glossy pages, some coloured, many black and white. Photos of softball teams, cheerleaders, school musicals, prizes for leaders in academics, of the prom held in the school gymnasium, festive with gold and red ribbons, balloons. A band was playing on the stage, and the grads were frozen in various poses of dancing and laughing. They all looked so young and beautiful, the world their oyster.

Normie wasn't a part of the celebration. He never went to his prom, said he was too shy to ask anyone. His shyness. Another of the things she'd loved about him. She had thought she might come across a picture and it would be the other man and she would somehow know. She found nothing of course. How could she?

I want you, you son-of-a-bitch. I want you to pay for what you did to Normie. To all of us.
She idly picked up his pillow and pressed it to her face and breathed in the faint scent of her husband, mingled with the hint of Old Spice he preferred to the more trendy brands. It faded a little more every day. Soon it would fade altogether. Too overcome with grief to sustain the anger, she could only weep and rock, and bury her face deeper into the pillow.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Leaving Norman Banks' high school yearbook sitting on the coffee table beside the little clown, Naomi left the house, Molly in tow. Not exactly changing tracks, just boarding farther back on the track. She'd get to the book later.

The fitness centre was a cacophony of noise, from the thumping music to the pounding of feet at various speeds on treadmills, bikes and other machines, a constant rumble of motors. The smell of sweat, dirty socks and perfume tinged the high energy air. The air-conditioning was on full blast. Underneath it all, there was talking and laughing. Socializing was a big part of hitting the gym for many of its patrons.

Some of the laughter was coming from the far corner of the room where Charlotte was working with one of the members, an overweight, sweet-faced woman in blue sweats who apparently found a lot to laugh at, mainly herself. The woman let out an exaggerated groan and flopped full out on the mat. Charlotte laughed too. She was helping her with her sit-ups, showing her a couple of variations that would be easier for her, but still effective. Naomi stood a short distance away so as not to interfere with their session.

"Lizbeth, use those stomach muscles when you curl up," Charlotte said. "Even if you just raise up off the mat a couple of inches, that will strengthen your abs and lessen the strain on your back."

Lizbeth followed her instructions without complaint.

"Good, good, but don't forget to breathe."

The woman made a self-deprecating joke Naomi didn't hear, that earned another laugh from Charlotte. Seconds later the woman gave another exhausted grunt and flopped back again. Charlotte grinned, shook her head and tossed her a small towel to wipe her sweaty forehead.

None of the women were paying any attention to the middle-aged man who was sitting on a bench a few feet away from them, performing bicep curls with heavy free weights and watching Charlotte in the wall mirror. Charlotte in her black tights and white sweatshirt, lean, taut body. His eyes swept over the long legs in their black leotard, a reflex more than anything else. He had other things on his mind. He was losing his cool, not like him, had to get it together. No one knew anything. The Weaz was dead. He'd searched his house and hadn't found anything that would tie them together, although he could have missed it. A photo, a note. Had he ever written the Weaz a note? He couldn't remember, but he didn't think so. He wasn't one for writing notes. Even if there was something, what did that prove? Without her, in the flesh, it was all circumstantial. He should have gone back that night and taken care of the problem.

His left arm was mid-curl when he saw her and his heart leapt as if he had seen a ghost. A slight turn of his head in the mirror and there she was. The vision of her standing there sucked the strength out of him and sent his rhythm off. The sweat turned cold on his flesh but he did not turn his face from the mirror. At first he thought he must be hallucinating. Because he'd been thinking about her, she had appeared, like some kind of phantom. But she was real enough. Wearing dark slacks and a suede jacket, long dark hair loose about her shoulders.

It's like that bitch waited all these years to crawl up out of the grave to get him. To get him through her kid. Well, it wasn't gonna happen. Rage born of fear made him unconsciously speed up his routine up, down, up, down … arm muscles bulging, relaxing, bulging, the blue and gold tattooed owl's eye on his right upper arm opening, narrowing, like a thing alive, ready to sweep from its flesh canvas, bringing hot blood to his face and drawing soft animal grunts from his core. When she didn't look in his direction he began to breathe again.

She and the fitness instructor were hugging now, talking. It was not the first time he'd seen her in person, or heard her voice. A voice he would already have silenced had he not been interrupted that night. Later, he'd thought the doorbell ringing might have been a good thing. Safer for him if he could scare her into backing off. Everyone in River's End had read that article in the local rag. The Weaz's death would be looked at closer, maybe connections made.

So what? Let 'em prove it, he thought now, emboldened in his fury.
Just because she didn't look at you doesn't mean she doesn't know who you are. Doesn't see you here.
Fear washed through him like an icy bath. How dare she taunt him, thinking she's so damn clever, visiting his dreams, playing head games with him. Well, he'd show her who the master of games was; she'd be sorry she ever messed with him. He'd make the little bitch disappear forever.

"She's your daughter," he could almost hear the Weaz say. The thought generated the same surge of anger he'd felt the first time he'd heard him say it. To Mac, she was nothing but a crime scene with his prints all over it.

Keeping his head down, he feigned adjusting his weightlifting gloves as he continued to watch her in the mirror. She was a looker, you had to say that for her. He saw something of his mother in her, but she didn't really look like his mother; his mother had been a blond, and not tall, but something. Maybe in the walk, the curve of her brow.