An Arm and a Leg Page 7

  She put the kettle on, pulled a tin of tea from her pantry, and got a mug from the cupboard. The answering machine’s blinking light caught her attention. One blink.

  She pressed the playback button and listened to the recorded voice of her boss Pastor Dan reiterating kind words of sympathy and suggesting she take more time off if needed.

  She called the church office and expressed her gratitude for her boss’s offer, then called various choir members and instrumentalists to ensure the music would be covered for the next two Sunday services. Having one less thing to worry about, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  Frankie walked to the mailbox beside her driveway and pulled out today’s offerings. She sauntered back to the house, rifling through flyers and sales junk to find one piece of actual mail—a letter from Collette’s owner. She tore open the envelope.

  Short and direct, the letter said her friend had met and married his soul mate while passing through Jackson Hole. He was in love; life was short; blah, blah, blah. The words at the bottom of the page, however, got Frankie’s undivided attention: The cat is my gift to you. Enjoy.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Frankie punched a number into her phone. But after one ring, a recorded voice announced she had reached a non-working number.

  “Great.” She glared up at Collette, who was perched in her favorite spot on top of the new six-foot high bookcase in the den. “We need to come to an understanding, at least until I can find you a new home.”

  The cat returned Frankie’s gaze. Their eyes locked, and a struggle of wills ensued. Frankie was first to blink. “Don’t let that go to your head.” The memory of Mom Blatney’s scolding words hung in the air. “I make the rules. My house, my rules.”

  Collette licked her lipless chops, stretched, yawned and closed her eyes. The gentle rumble of kitty snoring filled the room.

  ****

  The next morning Frankie made a list of things she had to do to finalize her brother’s affairs. A self-professed minimalist, Tim had lived alone. And unlike so many people Frankie knew, Tim had shown no interest in acquiring what he called stuff. He didn’t own any of the latest electronic toys, even if he could have afforded them—which he couldn’t. At least not yet. Instead, he’d purchased a used laptop out of sheer necessity while in medical school, and only recently broken down and bought a prepaid cell phone. As a result, the to-do list was heartrendingly short.

  In the absence of a credit history at the time her brother moved into his apartment, Frankie had cosigned his lease agreement. She retrieved her copy of the document from her files and jotted down the number for his landlord.

  “I’m glad to hear from you,” the landlord said. “I was going to call you this afternoon. Sorry about Tim. He was a good tenant, always paid his rent on time.” The man cleared his throat. “When do you think you could come get his things?”

  “I guess I didn’t realize there was a rush.”

  “Technically, there’s not. Tim’s paid up through the end of this month. I told the police as much when they came and searched the place a few days ago. But I have a potential renter who wants to look it over this weekend.”

  “Of course you do.” Frankie struggled to keep her voice steady. “But as you say, Tim was paid up through the end of the month.”

  “Sorry.” The landlord cleared his throat again. “But life goes on. I would have called Tim’s brother, but I don’t have a number for him.”

  “Tim’s brother?” Frankie sat bolt upright in the chair.

  “Yeah, he showed up a day or so, you know, after the police searched the apartment…said he needed to take a shower and pick out some clothes for Tim’s funeral. I let him and his friend in. They seemed like nice guys.”

  “I’m Tim’s only living relative. I don’t know who you let into the apartment, but neither of them was a family member.”

  “Umm.” The landlord stammered something unintelligible. “Oh man, I’m sorry about that. You want I should go check the place out to make sure nothing’s missing?”

  “No, I’ll be right over.”

  The landlord mumbled something again.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said so you’ll clean out the apartment this afternoon?”

  “As I said, I’ll be over in twenty minutes.” Frankie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And please don’t let anyone else in before I get there.”

  She grabbed her bag and Tim’s key ring, and headed for the door. Like snow flurries, new questions swirled in her mind, her focus so intense she didn’t remember the drive to Tim’s apartment.

  The investigating officers from Albuquerque Police Department, working with Deputy Rollins as a jurisdictional courtesy, had informed Frankie she could clear her brother’s things out of his apartment before his funeral. But she’d kept putting it off.

  Unlike in movies where the deceased’s will was immediately read to a gathering of sharp-faced heirs, she’d let several days slip by, unwilling to consign Tim’s life to the past tense. And now here she stood, rooted to the floor in front of his door, trying to dig up the courage to go through it.

  Frankie understood why people chose to leave untouched a deceased or divorced-but-still-loved-one’s stuff. She’d left the few things Stephen didn’t take with him where they lay for several weeks after he moved out. Things that would have no meaning to another soul—like his stained coffee cup. Even the washcloth he’d used during his last shower seemed almost sacred.

  But it was the remnants of his smell that proved to be the toughest thing to deal with. His shower gel fragrance clung to the walls of their shared bathroom, lying in wait to ambush her long after he’d left. That and the slowly dissipating smell of aftershave he’d spilled on the carpet had prompted her to move into a place of her own.

  She unlocked the door to Tim’s apartment. Although she’d steeled herself against the rush of emotion she knew would come with stepping into her brother’s space, she was totally unprepared for the scene that greeted her.

  Tim’s living room looked as if some deranged poltergeist had found its way into the apartment and invited all his mean little friends to come play. A dismantled chair and pile of sofa stuffing lay just inside the door. Clothes, papers, and books lay scattered everywhere. Pictures had been taken from the walls, their backs removed and tossed aside. Tim’s golf bag lay on the floor, half in and half out of the hall closet. Golf balls had poured from the bag’s slashed sides and rolled across the floor.

  Frankie stepped on a portion of torn newspaper, realizing too late that a golf ball had come to rest beneath it. She spent the next several seconds doing a frantic tango to regain her balance, nearly twisting her ankle in the process.

  The scene in the kitchen was of the same natural disaster motif. Torn cereal boxes had been emptied onto the floor. Cabinet doors hung open, their contents scattered onto the counter. A glass jar of spaghetti sauce lay broken on the floor, the dried tomato pulp resembling thick, coagulated blood.

  Senseless—did anyone really think something valuable would be hidden inside a jar of spaghetti sauce?

  Three fuzzy, blue-gray orbs sat in a bowl in the center of the tiny dinette. The smell of rotted fruit permeated the gnat-filled air. The stench, combined with the unending buzz of various species and sub-species of winged insects, filled Frankie’s senses. Her stomach tightened. She swallowed hard, pulled her phone from its holster and speed dialed emergency. Then she retraced her steps and stood just inside the front door to wait for the police.

  The responding officer photographed Tim’s apartment and dusted for fingerprints. Frankie gave her statement while he typed into a laptop, just as deputy Pritney had done at Kate’s café in Eagle Nest.

  “This obviously happened days ago,” the officer said. “Is there anyone who can verify whether or not anything is missing?”

  Frankie shook her head. “No. My brother lived alone and I’ve only been here one other time.”

  “Judging by the valuables sitting in pl
ain sight, this doesn’t look like a random break in. It looks like someone either held a grudge against your brother or was searching for something specific.”

  “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but Tim was murdered a few weeks ago. The landlord told me two guys talked him into letting them into the apartment just after the police searched the place.”

  “We’ll check with the neighbors and the landlord to see if anyone saw anything. Hopefully, someone can give us a description of the guys.” The officer studied the doorjamb. “No sign of forced entry. Who else had a key?”

  “Other than Tim and the landlord, I don’t know of anyone.”

  The officer wrapped up the interview. Though the expression on his face told Frankie not to hold her breath for results, his words assured her someone would look into the break in. He gathered his things and left while Frankie began the task of cleaning up.

  Among the books and papers scattered on Tim’s desk, she found a notebook with the logo Flatte and Flatte Financial Services embossed in white letters on its dark blue, nylon cover. She sat cross legged on the floor, opened the notebook, and thumbed through the papers in it. The corner of a business envelope caught her eye. She opened it and withdrew a letter several pages in length, written in Tim’s neat cursive.

  Dated a couple of months earlier, the letter recounted memories from their childhood. Frankie alternately laughed and cried at her brother’s descriptions of their shared antics. At the bottom of the final page, beneath his signature and in a different colored ink, Tim had added a final paragraph:

  By now you’ve read my journal and know what kind of mess I got myself into. I know you’ll do the right thing with the funds and information I’m leaving. I pray you’ll forgive me. I thought at the time I was doing a good thing.

  Journal? Funds? Forgive him for what?

  A sense of urgency sent Frankie through the living room and kitchen again. But failing to find a notebook, binder, or anything Tim might have used as a journal there, she moved on to his bedroom.

  The act of stepping into her dead brother’s personal space was almost more than she could bear. Wave after wave of fresh grief washed over her as she went through Tim’s closet and chest of drawers. She put useable clothing into a plastic bag for donation, while anything too worn went into a trash bag. She made several trips to her car with important papers and other things she wanted to keep.

  Tim’s twin mattress had been dragged from the bed and cut open. Clumps of its stuffing lay all around, as if a tiny mattress factory had exploded in the small space.

  On the floor, just under the edge of the bed frame, lay Tim’s laptop. Briefly wondering why the police hadn’t taken it during the initial search, she put it and its power cord into the carrying case she’d found in the top of the closet.

  She’d just emptied the refrigerator of two cans of beer and one bottle of salad dressing when a couple of men from the charity showed up. Frankie explained what had happened and asked them to look around for anything useable.

  The men thanked her and rummaged through the apartment. They left as the landlord showed up—a short man who appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties.

  “Have the police talked to you yet?” Frankie said.

  “Yeah, two of them came to see me a while ago.”

  “Do you know anything about all of this?” Frankie moved her hand in an arch.

  “All’s I know is what I told the police. A couple of guys came by asking me to let them in the apartment. One said he was Tim’s brother. He said his buddy had picked him up at the airport and brought him here rather than to a motel or to your place.”

  “To my place?”

  “Yeah. He said his sister had moved into a new place and didn’t have any furniture yet.”

  Frankie’s breath caught in her throat. Who besides Tim had known that? Maybe he’d mentioned it to someone at work. She searched her memory for anyone she might have told, but came up blank. Stephen had been right—she didn’t have anyone to tell.

  “Did you describe the guys to the police?”

  The landlord nodded his head furiously. “I told them everything I could remember.”

  “Was there anything remarkable about them, anything that caught your eye?”

  “Not much. Like I told the cops, the one that did all the talking had a kind of pockmarked face, like his skin used to be bad. And the shorter one had a smooth, baby face. They seemed like nice guys.”

  “So you’ve said.” Frankie held her arms rigid at her sides, her hands clenched into fists. “And on the strength of their word you let them into Tim’s apartment.”

  The landlord held his hands up palms outward, as if to ward off a blow. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll return Tim’s cleaning deposit to you. I’ll cover the cost of having the carpets cleaned and all this junk hauled off.”

  “Yes, you will.” Frankie put the apartment key into the landlord’s open palm, slipped the strap of Tim’s laptop case over her shoulder, turned on her heel and left.

  While still a few steps from her car, her attention was caught by the roar of a vehicle gunning its motor somewhere nearby. Tires squealed, and Frankie turned in time to see an old, dark blue Chevy Camaro headed toward her. Although the driver wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, her impression was of a young man. He turned his head away from her as he sped away.

  Could be a coincidence. But unless more than one resident of Albuquerque owned a vehicle of the exact model, make, and color, it had been the same car she’d seen several times over the past few days.

  Maybe the driver was a plainclothes detective who’d been ordered to keep track of her in case she decided to leave town. Or maybe the Raton sheriff’s office had requested the Albuquerque police watch her in hopes she’d lead them to a den of thieves and cutthroats. But would a detective wear a baseball cap? Or drive a twenty year-old Chevy?

  Okay, not the police. Perhaps a con man who’d found out she lived alone and was intent on scamming her…or a pervert trying to suss out where she lived. Whatever it was, nothing about it felt good.

  Maybe she should call the police. Frankie shook her head and snorted. She could just imagine how that scenario would play out:

  Police: Do you know the driver of the vehicle?

  Frankie: No.

  Police: When did you first notice you were being followed?

  Frankie: A couple of days ago.

  Police: Has the driver threatened you in any way, either physically or verbally?

  Frankie: No.

  Police: Has he made any effort to speak to you or contact you in any way?

  Frankie: No.

  Police: Do you know why anyone would want to follow you?

  Frankie: No.

  An extended silence would be followed by something along the line of: Right. If you’ll give me your name and address, we’ll add you to our list of local nut jobs…

  No, the police would be no help at this point. But something wasn’t right. The knot in Frankie’s gut told her so. And Uncle Mike had driven into her head the importance of never ignoring her gut.

  Chapter Eleven

  Something was going on in Larry’s insides. Not his actual innards, like gizzard and guts, but the stuff inside people that made them write poetry or sing a love song. Something in him was shifting, changing. Sappy words like love and soul mate seemed to be growing into solid things—they weren’t just words any more.

  His face grew warm. That kind of hog’s wallow was typical of the Wuss-man. And it was all because of that O’Neil woman. She was working her way under his skin, making him think things he’d never thought before. Warm things. Soft things. Weak things.

  He got dizzy just thinking about the intimacies they shared. The way her hair fell over one eye, the sound of her humming while she worked in the yard, and her heart-pounding silhouette when she slipped into and out of her clothes. He found himself thinking about her constantly. Fantasizing about her.

  During the daytime he
watched her through binoculars from the living room window of the vacant house across the street. The lenses brought Frankie’s image so close it seemed he could reach out and touch her, could almost smell her.

  At night, dressed in black and wearing a dark ski mask, he parked a block down the street and walked to her house. He’d climb a huge old cottonwood tree a few feet from her bedroom window, where he’d sit, hunkered down among the thick lower branches.

  Once certain Frankie was asleep, he’d drop out of the tree, his fall cushioned by the bark mulch at the tree’s base, and return to his apartment for a frantic whiz, a dump, and a short sleep. He would set his alarm for five-thirty and be back in position in the empty house before she woke up.

  Watching her wander around her house at night was one of his favorite things to do. He loved seeing her prepare for bed. She sometimes forgot to close her venetian blinds and the sheer bedroom curtains were unable to completely blot out her form. It was at those times his imagination would run wild.

  He kept telling himself not to let his guard down and do something stupid. But he’d begun to crave the feeling that gripped his stomach as he sneaked around. He savored the way his pulse sped up at the risk of being seen by a nosey neighbor and reported to the police. Adrenaline made every sense pinpoint sharp. It made his heart beat like crazy and his thinking clear as glass.

  He’d not survived this long by ignoring the ping his gut sometimes sent his brain. At the age of sixteen it told him to get away from his sombitch of a stepfather; it had warned him to leave Amarillo; and now it was warning him to get the hell away from Bellamy.

  And it was definitely telling him to get away from Psycho Mel. The guy had proven over and over he couldn’t be trusted not to do something stupid. And there was no place in Larry’s plan for stupid.