Chapter 19 Importantly
I nitially, Lauren silenced the device, but an immediate call back gave her reason enough to not ignore it further. She closed her eyes and raised the phone to the side of her face. I could see the number was unsaved, and she gave no indication of who was on the other side.
As the call connected, a loud scream echoed through the earpiece. I could tell there was a voice of reasoning trying to silence the noise, but Lauren quickly lowered the volume, cutting me off from hearing further.
“What’s wrong? Is he okay? Yes, I can. It will take me a little while, though. Can you put him on the phone?”
I eased to a stop and waited to see what she might do. Instead of panicking, she calmly began to assure the other person that everything was alright and that she would be there soon. Even with her words of solace, the ear-piercing sound from before made another attempt to escape from the phone, but then silence. Lauren lowered the screen in front of her, but it was clear the call had been disconnected before she could finish the conversation.
“I can go with you,” I said, when neither an invitation nor an explanation came as she slid the phone into her purse.
As if to gather all her strength, Lauren closed her eyes once again and let out a deep breath. “No, I’ve got it.”
“Is there something wrong?” My phrasing hinged on the fact that she was still sitting in the car, despite her promise of prompt arrival over the phone.
“No. Yes. Maybe. I can’t explain it.”
I could feel my own frustration starting to build as she began to shut down. Before, I had agreed to back off on the questions, but clearly there was something going on that changed the circumstances. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know, but not now.”
“Then when?” I said with a slight irritation in my voice.
“Joshua, I can’t handle this right now.”
I wanted to ask what she really meant—the phone call, being chased, us, or all of it—but I felt like I already knew. Someone or something else was more important than her own safety. “Will you be back?”
Lauren gave a half-shrug, unsure of where she might end up. “I’ve got to go,” she whispered before opening the car door. Watching as she walked around to my side, I took the hint and unbuckled to let myself out. When I stood up from the seat, Lauren began to slide past me without so much as a goodbye. Thinking back to the night before, I placed one hand along the car, then spun her around with the other. Finding a certain sadness in her eyes, I did not wait for her to speak and raked my hands through her hair as I pressed my lips to hers. For a moment, there was reluctancy in her kiss, but then her body fell into mine and our mouths gaped open with passion. Her tongue pressed into my mouth for a few sweet seconds, but then Lauren began to pull away.
Nothing else was to be said. Following the farewell kiss, she sat in the car and shut the door. The unavoidable thought that this might be the last time I saw Lauren troubled my mind, but what was I to do—pull her from the car, latch my arms around her, and tell her not to leave? The words debated between themselves as I discovered myself not going after Lauren but standing on the sidewalk in front of the store.
I continued watching her through the glass as she buckled up, hoping for divine intervention. And as if in answer, I found Lauren pulling her hand from the glove compartment with what I presumed to be a tissue to dry her tears. However, as she lifted it up, there was no napkin of any sort in her hand. Through the glass, it was difficult to determine much else until she turned to pull out on the street. It was at that moment I noticed the shining glare of what could only be a ring, residing on her left hand.
A sudden, sickening urge to vomit climbed my throat. In all our conversations, our intimate moments, and our openness, I never felt like there was another man in her life, especially a husband. No doubt, I wanted to deny what I thought I saw, but it was done. I had been an escape for a few fun days, to forget about the worries of the world and to let some argument blow over.
Yet, there had to be more to it. What about seeing Lauren outside her apartment? Had she made some grand return only to leave again without an explanation? Maybe she had decided, instead of kicking him out, to let him keep the apartment and had returned his clothes.
My head spun with the million possibilities as I came to myself still standing outside the door. Regardless of what Lauren was doing, I could not forget the fact that someone had been following us for the past few days. The only satisfaction I gained was the hope that Lauren would be safe from whomever if she distanced herself from me. Now that she was headed to some unknown destination, though, I hoped for her sake that the stalkers were paying enough attention to let her go. After all, they now knew my name and address.
The second thought traveled through my mind like a lightning bolt. If they knew where I lived, that meant they had likely paid my apartment a visit. But I doubted they would have been successful in breaking in without signaling a neighbor to call the police.
I turned to walk into the bookshop, unsure of what else to do. I could not follow Lauren without my car, nor did I suspect she wanted me to. And now that she was gone, I seemed to be at a loss to decide my next step, but that’s when it hit me.
Searching for my keys, I fumbled with the lock in a rush to get inside and back to the papers we had hidden. Opening the door, I headed toward the backroom in a run. Frantically, I tossed the top box to the ground as I pulled out the pile of papers I had stored for safekeeping. Amongst them, I found the old obituary that claimed Ms. Debbie, or Minnie, had died. The article had not named survivors, but luckily, I did not need it to. Instead, I turned on my laptop and took a seat at my desk with the obituary open beside it. A simple search would not be all that simple, though. Every inquiry for an author’s name was bound to create numerous hits that were strictly related to their book. Still, I entered her name with the addition of the word “husband.” I had another search still in mind, but I wanted to make sure just in case.
The list of links on my screen confirmed that I was correct to assume that the scope of my wording would be of no use. However, my second search for the funeral home was much more informative. A family-owned and operated business since the 1930s held the promise of at least cluing me into the situation at hand. Typing the number in my phone, I waited a few seconds until someone answered on the other end.
“Hello... Yes, I was wondering if you could help me... No, no one has died—well, I mean, that’s not why I’m calling.”
I could tell it was an elderly woman on the other end of the phone. Her voice was friendly, and she quickly took hold of the chance to talk, seeing that I was not calling for arrangements.
“My son is in the back. He’s been the owner since I passed it down to him ten years ago,” she rattled off upon hearing that I was not a local. “He’s always working and I told him that he needs to slow down.”
I let her talk for a few moments more, but soon my anxiety got the best of me. “Did you say you owned the funeral home before him?” Without stopping, I continued to talk, offering my question more as a rhetorical statement. “Do you remember Willow Murphy?” I already knew the whole thing was a hoax, but I really hoped this lady would help connect the pieces.
“Yes, quite strange and sad, really. I knew her before she became famous, you know. She was always such a sweet person, then she went and married Russell. I never cared for him much, and it seems like after he came along, I saw less and less of Willow. Then a few years later, she started writing, and after that, I only read about her in the papers. I can’t even tell you the last time I saw her.”
“Why didn’t you like Russell?” I inserted quickly.
“Oh,” she began. “He was a terrible person, if you ask me. I think he kept her to himself, except when she could do a book signing and bring home extra cash. But those were few and far between. I only know of two signings she ever did, but then he realized what the book was really about. Russell never supported her work, only the need for money. Between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he encouraged her to set the fire. I mean, what other way could she have gotten away from him besides dying?”
“Wait, what?” I said, pausing her so I could catch up.
“Oh, honey. You don’t know?” She continued before I could interject, but then again, I was more interested in hearing her point of view. “Their house went up in flames. Supposedly, he was working that night. But a little after midnight, a fire broke out in their bedroom. By the time the flames were extinguished, there wasn’t much left. We weren’t even presented with a body, just some ashes that were thought to be her remains. Do you know Russell didn’t even bother to come to the funeral?”
“No, but why not?”
“Like I said, I think he was involved. Besides, we never saw him after the fire.”
“Hmm. That definitely makes him suspicious. Do you know why she would have written about him in the first place?”
“Well, there were many rumors, but what I do know is that he was high up in the FBI. As the story goes, though, he had been doing some shady stuff on the side and got caught up with drugs himself. Willow confronted him, and, I daresay, he beat her for trying to make a stand. Supposedly, that’s why she started writing, as an escape. I’m not sure what her plan was. Maybe she thought that he would believe her when she said she was writing a fictional story, but people aren’t stupid. We all felt like the book was about him. Once suspicion fell on his lot, he decided she couldn’t go out in public anymore.”
“And you don’t know what happened to Russell?”
“No, but I have my ideas. He’s probably on the run, which proves his guilt, if you ask me.”
“And what about Ms. Debbie—I mean Willow?”
“What about her?” she questioned.
“Do you think she is actually dead?”
“Hmm . . . It’s kind of surprising you asked.”
“I just meant, you said yourself that they didn’t recover her body.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’ve always wondered if she was still out there and if the whole thing was a cover-up or an insurance grab.”
“Insurance? I thought she had money?”
“She did, but I’m sure Russell took as much as he could.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“Well, no, but if he was on the run from the FBI, he dang sure would need as much as he could get his hands on.”
“I see... Well, thank you for talking with me,” I said, having gathered enough details with no real desire to chat the rest of the day.
“Any time. Call me back if you need to know anything else.”
I ended the call and placed my phone on the desk. Everything I heard could have been just a story, yet somehow, it felt real. There were too many pieces that seemed to fit together for it to be explained in any other way.
I stood from the desk and instinctively walked to the back to tell Lauren what I had found out, but then I realized I was alone. The piercing sensation that I was by myself sank deep into my stomach. Having grown accustomed to being alone, Lauren becoming a part of my life seemed to reopen healed wounds, making deeper cuts.
Although Lauren had not given any indication of having left for good, the glimmer of a ring left me to believe she would likely not return. But those circumstances aside, my mind was swimming with questions about how I would know she was okay and that I was not wrong about who was following us.
There was nothing I could do about Lauren, at least for now, so I needed to concentrate on what I could control. In itself, that was not much, but I needed to find out what had happened to Russell. The lady on the phone said he disappeared, but perhaps, he had come out of hiding, and with a little persuasion, I might be able to coax him into reappearing once again.
All these ideas flitted through my head, but at the same time, I could not shake the thoughts of Lauren. Without her, I seemed to be at a loss. Having lost Ms. Debbie, my best friend and business partner, and now Lauren, who was I to share the adventure with.
Needing to clear my head, I decided to take a walk around the block. Whenever life had me down, walks were sometimes the only thing that helped. They gave me time to think, pray, or just relax, and today was definitely one for trying to ease my mind.
Making my way to the front, I stepped out onto the busy sidewalk and headed north, up and around the corner. This was the usual path I took for months after Brooke left. But instead of stopping at the ice-cream parlor, I continued past the shoppe without breaking stride.
My gaze seemed to project toward the ground as I passed, but hoping to renew my spirits, I lifted my head. After being greeted with a few strange faces, one familiar customer stopped to give their condolences for Ms. Debbie and asked when the bookstore would reopen. They were pleased to hear that next week was the plan, but no further than being cordial, we parted, and I continued my walk around the block.
It was only a few stores down that I found myself stopping once again. This time, my attention was drawn to the sports shop that had moved in a few months ago. Having not made my way inside since their opening, I decided to take a look around.
Adorning the walls to the right side was a vast array of college colors. On one side were yellows and blacks and, on the other, red and whites, with a center display of “A House Divided,” combining the clashing insignias. I thought how fitting it would have been to have gotten one of the middle shirts for Brooke, in part because of her insistence on wearing the yellow shirt I despised but also because she would likely never wear such non-matching tones.
Dismissing the thought, I looked over the arrangement of my alma mater’s colors. I never bought anything to display my school pride for two reasons: it had been ten years since I had graduated college, and I felt like a frat boy anytime I entertained the idea of sporting a jersey or even a tee. But today, I felt different. Instead of reliving my young adult years, I considered another motive.
Still tucked in the depths of my closet hung the yellow shirt that Brooke favored. After years of what-ifs and reluctant emotions, the time had come to finally move on, without Brooke and possibly without Lauren, and one way to do so would be to replace the oversized shirt with one of my own liking. I reached up and pulled the extra-large red tee from the wall and held it beside a corresponding yellow one. The yellow was a close match to the one I had, minus the years of wear and memories of sex with Brooke. However, I felt pleased as I turned to walk to the counter to pay for my new purchase.
The owner, who was working this shift, greeted me with a smile, then offered a discount, seeing that I was a neighboring store owner myself. In return, I gave him the same offer if he decided to check out any of the sports books we had.
Walking back into the sun, I peered into the bag, admiring the new shirt and considering how I might dispose of the old yellow one. I could burn it or toss it in the trash, but the hold it claimed over me went deeper. Either from memories or reality, the fabric still smelled of Brooke, so perhaps I should wash it first to remove any trace of her that was left inside its threads. Previously, I had considered having a one-night stand for that same purpose, but the idea remained only a thought. I had no desire to hook up with another girl as a means to mend my own problems because I knew well enough that it would likely make things worse. I never hated Brooke for what she did; I just had no way of moving on.
By the time I had centered my thoughts back on reality, I found myself standing in front of my store. Taped along the front and waving in the wind were a handful of Ms. Debbie’s funeral announcements. Unsure of how I missed them before or why customers would memorialize her in such a way, I pulled the handle and walked inside. However, the thought of not having locked the door before leaving never crossed my mind.