What She Forgot Page 11

  “You know, don’t you?” the man called out.

  But Deanna couldn’t bring herself to look back at him. Instead, she sprinted down the hall, her legs strangely loose at the knees. As she reached a corner in the hallway, she turned left and dared a glance back toward the elevator. The doors were closed. The man was gone.

  Deanna put a hand on the wall to steady herself, then sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. I’ve overreacted, she thought. Just first-day-on-the-job jitters. The guy probably thought I was someone he knew.

  Deanna had almost convinced herself it was nothing when she reached the office with the placard Blatch & Smalls. She reached for the knob. Her hand fell back to her side.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought. This is crazy! What was I thinking?

  Deanna turned sharply and jogged back toward the elevators, but as she drew nearer to them, her heart began to race. What if that man wasn’t harmless? What if he meant to assault me? What if he’s in the elevator now, waiting for me?

  The elevator dinged. Deanna’s heart pounded as the door began to open. There was a man inside. Deanna opened her mouth to scream ....

  Marcus Blatch stepped out. “Well, there you are, Ms. Deanna Young. And right on time.”

  “But ... but it’s eight minutes after nine,” she blurted nervously.

  Blatch grinned and echoed her words from yesterday. “Hey. Nobody’s perfect.”

  Like some kind of magic potion, Blatch’s presence turned off the sea of panic churning inside Deanna. She slipped into the calm harbor of the current moment as if on auto pilot.

  “Ready to get started on your new career?” Blatch teased.

  Deanna smiled guiltily. There was no turning back now. “Yes. As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DEANNA FOLLOWED BLATCH down the hall, relieved he hadn’t picked up on how unnerved she’d been when he’d stepped out of the elevator. As they rounded the corner, Deanna spotted a man kneeling in front of Blatch’s office, trying to pick the lock.

  Deanna stopped in her tracks. The man was dressed in a blue shirt and navy pants. Was he the man from the elevator?

  “Do you know that man?” Deanna half-whispered.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Blatch quipped. “Deanna Young, meet Detective Barney Smalls.”

  The man turned, tipped his fedora to Deanna, and smiled. Deanna nearly gasped in relief. The man bald, and in his late fifties. Definitely not the weirdo who’d nearly accosted her in the elevator. In fact, he reminded her a lot of her friend Larry, just a little thinner and tanner. He had Larry’s wise eyes, too, but with a markedly more hardened edge.

  Smalls extended a leathery, calloused hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Deanna Young.”

  As they shook hands, Blatch smiled, proud of himself. “I hired her for the Girl Friday position.”

  Smalls furrowed his brow. “But it’s only Tuesday.”

  Marcus groaned and turned to Deanna. “Sorry to say, his jokes don’t get any better.” He looked down at Smalls. “Lose your keys again?”

  Smalls finished jimmying the lock. “Just keeping myself in practice.” He opened the door, slipped a tool into his breast pocket, and with a bowing motion invited Deanna to enter. “After you, m’lady. Barney Smalls at your service.”

  “Thank you.” Deanna took a step toward the door.

  “But you can call me Smalls,” he added as she passed by.

  “Smalls,” Deanna said, as if tasting the word. “You can call me Deanna.”

  “And you can call me Blatch,” Blatch said.

  “Blatch and Smalls,” Deanna said hesitantly. She found the men’s casual banter soothing. The pair seemed genuine and fun-loving—two things that had been rarities in her life to date.

  “Not quite as fancy-sounding as Deanna Young,” Smalls said. “Now, that’s a name that belongs up in lights. And, pardon my saying so, you’ve got the looks of a movie star, about you. And that’s no joke.”

  So much for political correctness, Deanna thought. Still, she felt Smalls had meant no harm. He didn’t know—or perhaps he didn’t care—that his meat-and-potatoes values had disappeared in the 1950s. The open admiration in his eyes nearly made her blush. But then again, maybe it would keep him from examining her other credentials any further.

  “Come along, Charlize Theron,” Blatch quipped. “Take off your coat. Let’s see if you’ve got the movie-star acting chops to type and make coffee.”

  The three laughed in an easy, comfortable cadence usually reserved for longtime friends. For the first time ever, Deanna felt instantly at home.

  Deanna hung her jacket on the coat rack, then followed Blatch into a small kitchenette for a lesson on how to operate a Keurig. As he showed her where the K-cups and creamers were stored, Blatch’s casual confidence convinced Deanna the two P.I.s were good at their jobs.

  Her admiration turned into a stab of regret. What would they do if they found out I was a fraud? But then again, fraud involved lying about credentials one didn’t have. It wasn’t fraud to lie about credentials one did have, was it?

  Nervous, Deanna fumbled with the carton of K-cups. One dropped on the floor and rolled under the refrigerator. Deanna cringed. “Sorry. I’ll pay for it.”

  Blatch laughed and waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. Coffee is free. All you can drink. One of those many perks I was telling you about yesterday.”

  The coffee finished squirting from the Keurig machine into a chipped blue mug. Blatch picked up the K-cup carton and shook it into his hand. Nothing fell out. “I guess that was the last one. Here, you take it.” He offered Deanna the mug.

  “That’s okay. You take it. I had a cup earlier.” Deanna ponied up a smile. Even though she was jonesing for a coffee, she’d rather drink pond water than artificially flavored k-cup swill. New York’s expert baristas had made a coffee snob of her, after all.

  “You sure?” Blatch offered her the mug again. “You might need it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay then. Follow me.”

  Blatch led Deanna further down the hall to a large, open room that served as the main office. Smalls was at his desk reading The Tampa Times. He looked up from the paper. “Can you believe this?”

  “What?” Deanna asked.

  “They still haven’t found that mailman who went missing on Thursday.’”

  “Maybe he went postal,” Blatch quipped, trying to impress Deanna. He instantly felt like a jerk.

  Smalls shot Blatch a sour face. “Do us a favor. Leave the bad jokes to me. They don’t look good on you.”

  Blatch cringed and shot Deanna an apologetic look. Smalls looked down at the paper again and shook his head. “What would make a guy up and walk away from his wife and kids like that?”

  Deanna took a step toward Smalls. “There’s no one answer. But it’s usually some precipitating event. A last straw, if you will. Something so unbearable that the only thing more painful than leaving is staying.”

  “Whoa,” Smalls said, both eyebrows raised. “I was looking for something more along the lines of ‘his wife was a bitch.’”

  Blatch studied Deanna. “How do you know that?”

  Deanna flinched, then shrugged to cover it. “I watch Snapped on Netflix.”

  The three laughed. Smalls stood and grabbed his coffee mug. Blatch put up his hand. “If you’re going for coffee, we’re out.”

  Smalls grimaced and nodded at Deanna. “Well, if you’re not too busy being some kind of armchair psychoanalyst, think you could get us some more k-cups? Maybe a donut or two? I’m running on empty, here.”

  Deanna smiled. “Sure thing.”

  “Get enough for four,” Marcus said, handing her thirty dollars from his wallet. “We’ve got a new client coming in, and I can’t work on an empty stomach, either.”

  DEANNA SLURPED DOWN half of her Starbucks cappuccino, then backed up and pushed the glass door open with her butt. Her hands full with a cardboard tray of coff
ees and a bag of assorted muffins, she bustled down the sidewalk, gleeful to be put to work on such an easy task. Fetching coffee required no strategic chess game of words with megalomaniacs, no mincing words and dancing around tender egos, no bone-weary struggle to avoid offending someone.

  Nope. Just order the coffee. Wait until they call your name. Take it, deliver it. Done.

  How wonderful if life could be that simple, she thought as she crossed the street, oblivious to the man parked around the corner, watching her from his dark sedan.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE MAN SHRUNK DOWN in his seat as Deanna passed within thirty feet of his dark sedan. He sat up again after she walked by.

  What are you up to, Deanna?

  Who’s that coffee for?

  Did you make some new friends?

  No, no, no.

  You can’t do that.

  It’s not part of what I have planned for you.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  DEANNA GAVE A CURSORY nod to the three men seated around the conference table at Blatch & Smalls, then made her way to the breakroom to arrange the muffins on a plate before serving them.

  The third man must be the client, she thought as she searched through the cupboard for a serving dish. Unable to find one, she put the banana muffins on a cheap paper plate and poured the coffees into mugs, then set them all on a red plastic tray that looked as if it had been lifted from a cafeteria.

  Typical guys, Deanna thought as she carried the tray down the hall. As she reached the edge of the door to the conference room, she hesitated. She’d never been a secretary before. Was she supposed to join the men? Take notes? Deliver the goods and then make herself scarce?

  As she stood wavering in indecision, Deanna overheard the men’s conversation.

  “So this is the letter.”

  Deanna recognized the voice as Blatch’s.

  “Yes,” the client said.

  “Mind if I read it out loud, so Smalls can hear it?”

  “No. That’s fine.”

  “Okay. Here goes:

  To the Family of Jessica Snyder,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. Just like your Jessie.

  It was nothing personal. I just needed the practice.

  I hope you understand.

  If it helps, I’ll say, “I’m sorry.”

  Yours truly,

  Melody Young

  Deanna froze. The tray fell from her numb hands. In slow motion, muffins tumbled and coffee splattered against the walls. In shock, Deanna staggered into view of the men at the table.

  Bill Snyder looked up at Deanna. They recognized each other at the same time. They’d met less than an hour ago—in the elevator.

  “You!” Snyder yelled. “You’re Deanna Young, aren’t you?”

  Deanna gasped for air. This can’t be happening, she thought as she fumbled down the hall toward the front door, her hands feeling along the walls as if she were blind. It has to be another Melody Young. Not my mother!

  Doesn’t it? Still ....

  In a fog, Deanna grabbed her purse and coat as Snyder’s shouting echoed down the hallway as if it were chasing after her. “Your mother murdered my sister!”

  Deanna stopped for a moment at the reception desk, then opened the door and fled.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  DEANNA STUMBLED, WIDE-eyed but barely seeing, out of the office building and onto the sidewalk. In the back of her mind, she’d always wondered about Warren. Find a rich old man, give him a bath, put him in a draft. She’d tried to give her mother the benefit of a doubt about him.

  Now, she feared, the gossip had been true.

  My mother may really be a murderer. As the thought sunk in, another struck Deanna like a baseball bat. Dear God! If I’d only told the police about Warren, maybe they would’ve been able to stop my mother—and that poor man’s sister might still be alive!

  Deanna replayed the horrific scene over again in her mind. Snyder’s angry face. His voice screaming at her. “You! You’re Deanna Young, aren’t you? Your mother murdered my sister!” She remembered another detail and gasped.

  The letter in Blatch’s hand.

  It was on the same expensive, peach-linen stationery as the one she’d taken from her mailbox yesterday. The letter marked “Return to Sender.”

  The one tucked inside her purse.

  Deanna ducked into an alley, fished the envelope from her handbag and tore it open. Her heart pounded in her ears as she read:

  To the Family of Reginald Cane,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. Just like your Reggie.

  All the others I killed for sport. Reggie just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He saw something he shouldn’t have. He could recognize this lovely stationery you’re holding.

  It doesn’t matter now. But at that moment, I couldn’t take the chance. I needed to keep my options open.

  I hope you understand.

  If it helps, I’ll say, “I’m sorry.”

  Yours truly,

  Melody Young

  Deanna’s knees crumpled. She collapsed onto the red bricks lining the alleyway.

  She did it. She really did it.

  My mother is a serial killer!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER,” Deanna heard herself say. The voice was detached, robotic, and unrecognizable as her own. “You can’t sit here in an alley for the rest of your life.”

  She stared at the letter confessing to the murder of Reggie Cane. Ironically, her own lack of surprise was what surprised Deanna most. Some deep-seated part of her had always suspected her mother might be dangerous. Perhaps she’d witnessed Melody killing Warren when she was an infant. Could that be the reason she’d suppressed so many memories?

  Unlike some people who remembered every detail of their lives, Deanna was a master at forgetting. Except for a few seared-in moments in time, her past had disappeared behind her like ashes in the wind.

  Repression.

  That was the psychological term for it. The act of subverting to the unconscious any thoughts or desires deemed unacceptable to the conscious mind—ideas or deeds so unacceptable they must be secreted away, hidden, banished—forever out of reach of the repressor’s conscious awareness.

  Repression was a trick of the mind employed at some level by everyone. It enabled individuals to reduce their suffering and move on with their lives. But taken to the extreme, repression played a major role in many mental illnesses.

  Escape from reality too often and you may not be able to return, Deanna thought. Isn’t that what Larry had said?

  But there was no escaping it. The confession in her hand was irrefutably, undeniably real. Her earlier feeling of impending doom had been on the mark.

  Deanna stood up and brushed the grime from the back of her trench coat. She stared at the letter and laughed bitterly. Even from the grave Melody had found a way to haunt her—to ruin her chance of making a fresh start in St. Petersburg. Once the news hit, how would she ever be able to live down her mother’s infamy?

  Deanna leaned over and picked up her mother’s sunglasses from where she’d torn them from her face and flung them into the street.

  Why had I dared hope things could be different here?

  She folded the letter, placed it back in her purse, and punched a number on her cellphone.

  Chapter Thirty

  THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING, Blatch thought. The odds were too astronomical. But then again, the odds never did seem to be in his favor.

  Did Deanna know more than she let on? She couldn’t—could she? No. The look of horror on Deanna’s face had been too much to bear. It was the same look on Cathy’s face—right before .... No! Blatch shoved the memory away. No time for it now. He had work to do.

  He turned to face Snyder. “How do you know Deanna Young?”

  Snyder nearly spit the words. “I recognized her face in the elevator.”

  Blatch frowned. “Wh
at do you mean?”

  “After I got the letter, I did a Google search for Melody Young.” Snyder leaned back in his chair and reached into his shirt pocket. “I found this obituary. The bitch is dead, just like she said in her letter. The internet said she had a daughter, Deanna Young. That woman who ....”

  Snyder stopped midsentence and cocked his head at Blatch. “Wait a minute. You’re not working this case for her, are you?”

  “No,” Smalls said before Blatch could speak.

  “Then what’s she doing here?”

  Smalls stood and rested his knuckles on the conference table. “You let us worry about that, Mr. Snyder. And we promise to provide you with the same level of confidentiality.”

  Snyder bit his lip, then shoved the obituary across the table. Blatch picked it up and stared at the woman’s face. The photo must’ve been taken decades ago. Melody was almost a dead-ringer for Deanna.

  “Smug, smiling-faced bitch,” Snyder hissed. “Nothing but a B-movie bimbo whore.”

  “Take it easy,” Smalls said.

  Blatch handed the obit to Smalls and addressed Snyder. “Like I said before, people disappear all the time. It doesn’t necessarily mean they were murdered.”

  “Then what the hell does this letter mean?” Snyder snorted an angry breath through his nostrils. “Jessie was seventeen for God’s sake. She didn’t run away and start a new life!”

  Smalls put a hand on Snyder’s shoulder. “Let’s go through this a step at a time. We’ll start by authenticating the letter. Make sure it’s not some kind of prank.”

  Snyder shook his head. “A prank? Who would do something like that?”

  Smalls shrugged. “You said it yourself, son. This lady was a B-movie actress. Maybe one of her weirdo fans thought a spoof like this would make a good blog post. Increase his Twitter following with an exclusive—a scandal that would keep Melody’s memory alive and kicking.”