Hell to pay, p.24
Hell to Pay, page 24
“I’ll keep you posted on the party,” Eileen said, before giving Laurel and Isabel a last quick wave and heading out to the car.
Laurel sat at the kitchen table, gently bouncing Isabel in one arm while she finished her tea.
A birthday party for a one-year-old, at a general store, with a group of people old enough to be the child’s great-grandparents. What could be more festive?
“She means well,” Laurel said, knowing Isabel had no idea what she was talking about. “We’ll have fun, baby girl. You don’t know the difference between eight and eighty, so why should I dwell on it? We’ll have a very good time, I promise.”
Isabel began to fuss. It was feeding time, and that’s all that mattered in the universe.
TWELVE
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT, Laurel thought as she dressed the baby for a trip in the car, but satisfaction brought her back. It had been her father’s rejoinder to people he considered overly cautious, the ones who wanted to dampen your curiosity. And Laurel was very interested in the couple who’d bought their house and then, according to Eileen, disappeared without saying much about their departure. Perhaps they hadn’t made any friends in Strickland, a possibility that caused her to feel guilty. She should have visited them, she thought. She should have invited them into her and Jeremy’s life so they would at least know someone under the age of sixty. But she hadn’t, and the more she dwelled on it, the more she became confused about the whole episode. She and Jeremy obviously sold the house. They must have met the couple—why don’t you remember this, Laurel?—they had to have done the closing, surely they showed the house to the Dietzes. Her inability to remember all those things in any detail troubled her.
Putting her shoes on at the kitchen table with Isabel in her stroller, Laurel suddenly shuddered. Is this early-onset dementia? she wondered. Is this part of what’s going on with her, the anxiety and the dread? Even the dreams? She had not considered anything so terrifying, and she refused to believe it now. But something had fogged her memory. Pregnancy hormones? The exhaustion of writing a third novel?
“Everything is fine,” she said to Isabel, who waved her tiny hands in the air. She had permitted Laurel a morning’s respite from her perpetual baby needs, and Laurel hoped it would last another hour or two. She wanted to see the house in the woods, the one they’d lived in for a year after leaving New York, the one they’d sold ...with Laurel having so little memory of doing it.
“Let’s go,” she said, getting up and pushing the stroller to the front door. She carefully lifted it over the single step they had, and a few moments later she fastened Isabel snugly into her carrier in the back seat. “If anyone’s home, we can be a nice surprise. If not, we tried.”
Isabel found the words amusing for reasons only a baby can know, and she laughed as Laurel got in the driver’s seat and started the car.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, to herself more than to Isabel. “I wonder if it looks the same.”
She pulled out of the driveway and headed to her first home in Strickland, the one she and Jeremy had called their dream house. Remembering her nightmares and her apprehension, she wondered if it still was.
THIRTEEN
SHE KNEW THE HOUSE DIDN’T look the same as soon as she approached it on the road. The trees that once lined the front of the property, giving the home a sense of privacy, had been cut down, making it seem naked and exposed. It didn’t matter terribly, considering how isolated the property was, but the bareness of it shocked her. They’d almost driven past it the first time they’d seen it, hidden as it was behind a row of pines. There was no way anyone could miss it now. Without the trees it looked stark, as if it had been forced out of hiding and stranded in the open, as vulnerable as a rabbit on a freshly mowed lawn while hawks circled overhead.
Laurel chastised herself for thinking such dark thoughts, as she pulled into the small semi-circular driveway. She would have to back out—there was an older model Camry parked beneath the house’s old wooden carport. She hoped that meant someone was home, but it was possible the couple had two vehicles and one was gone.
“You wait here,” Laurel said, turning to look at Isabel. The baby was still calm, but not asleep. “I’ll be right back.”
Laurel got out of the car and walked around toward the house’s front door. She took a deep breath, scanning what she could see of the house and land. She suddenly remembered telling Scott to stop the car the first time they’d driven by. She remembered his insistence that the owner’s wouldn’t sell, despite the sign nearly obscured by tall weeds fronting an otherwise well-kept yard. She remembered going around back, with Jeremy and Scott following reluctantly behind. She remembered seeing the cat inside when she peered into the large back window. She remembered leaving a note for the homeowner, expressing an interest in the place. She’d been sticking the note on the front door when it had suddenly opened, and there stood ...
“May I help you?”
Laurel nearly jumped out of her skin. The woman who’d answered the door the first time was Eileen, introducing herself as the house’s caretaker. Today it was a young woman smiling down at her from just inside the kitchen, speaking through a screen.
Laurel walked up and looked through the mesh. The woman appeared to be younger, in her early twenties, Laurel judged. She was quite pretty, in a natural way—there was no makeup, no sense that the woman planned to spend her day doing anything outside of her home.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” began Laurel.
“You’re not bothering me,” replied the woman. “I was just doing laundry. But who are you?”
“My name is Laurel Calloway.”
She saw some kind of recognition in the woman’s expression, but not from knowing Laurel directly. They had never met, as far as she knew. Maybe she’s seen me in town, thought Laurel, or Eileen has told her about us—yes, that could be why she reacted to the name.
“I’m Julie LaSalle,” the woman replied. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
Ah, of course, thought Laurel. She knows my name from my books.
“I am,” said Laurel. “I’m also the person who used to live in this house.”
“I know that, silly!” said the woman, with unexpected familiarity. She opened the screen door. “Come in, please.”
“Let me get my daughter,” Laurel said.
Just before turning to get Isabel out of the back seat, she noticed Willie the cat inside. Something about it chilled her. She ignored the sensation and retrieved Isabel from her infant seat. Moments later she was inside, placing Isabel into her stroller and sitting next to her at the kitchen table. At least that’s not the same, she thought. The stove and cabinets remained, but the rest of the furniture she could see was different. She took it as confirmation she was not in a time warp.
“Would you like some coffee?” asked Julie. “It’s fresh.”
Laurel could smell the just-made coffee and immediately said yes. She sat at the table watching Julie prepare two cups.
“Creamer?”
“Yes, please.”
“I get our coffee from Luther’s. It’s the best.”
Of course you do, thought Laurel. Of course it’s the best.
“We do too, actually,” said Laurel. “Regular coffee tastes so bland after that. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Secret recipe, I guess,” said Julie. She walked over to the refrigerator, and Laurel noticed for the first time that she was barefoot.
“I have to admit I haven’t read your books,” Julie said, getting out a quart of Half-and-Half and taking it back to the counter. She poured a generous amount into each cup and stirred them with a spoon. “But they’re on my list!”
Laurel smiled. It was something she’d heard dozens of times. She knew not to believe it, or to be bothered by it.
“Is you husband at work?” asked Laurel. “Eileen mentioned a couple had bought the house.”
“He’s travelling,” replied Julie. “Boston for a few days.”
Laurel wanted to ask what he did for a living, but it could be seen as intrusive. “No children?” she asked instead.
Julie brought both cups to the table, put one in front of Laurel and sat across from her.
“We’re not quite ready,” she said. “But I understand your adorable daughter has a birthday coming up.”
How do you know so much? thought Laurel.
“Eileen told me,” said Julie, as if she’d read Laurel’s mind. “How exciting!”
Laurel sipped her coffee, taking very little of it this time. “I wanted to meet you—”
“And so you have!”
“And so I have.” Laurel waited a moment, trying to word her questions in a way that did not come off as invasive. “I was wondering, too, what happened to the Dietzes.”
Julie swallowed her coffee slowly, her eyes moving slightly to the side as if she were considering her answer.
“They moved.”
Obviously, thought Laurel. “Do you know where? Or why?”
Julie shrugged. “I don’t like to pry,” she said, the message none too subtle: Laurel was prying.
“So they just sold you the house and left?”
“Actually we bought the house through Scott Dunlop.”
Laurel was surprised, but knew she shouldn’t be.
“He said he’d been the realtor for the house before.”
Laurel caught herself shaking her head. “That’s not really the case,” she said. “We bought the house from the original owners, who’d moved to Philadelphia. We sold the house directly to the Dietzes.”
She did not add, as far as I know. Her memories of the sale were foggy, like so much else lately. The one thing she was certain of was that the Dietzes had bought the house, and the Calloways had built their new one.
“I don’t want to speak badly of Scott,” Laurel added, leaving out how much she’d disliked him. “Maybe he had some connection, and obviously he sold it to you.”
“Obviously.”
“And that’s the last you heard from the Dietzes?”
“Yes, really. They didn’t want to live here anymore—who knows why? Maybe it’s too isolated, maybe it's too quiet—”
Except for sounds coming from the basement, thought Laurel, and the barking of a dog.
“—but they sold, they moved, and they lived happily ever after, we hope.”
“I wish I’d gotten to know them,” Laurel said. “Did they leave a forwarding address, or a number?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of. You could ask Eileen. She knows everything.”
“I’ll do that,” said Laurel. Realizing she was not going to get much information from Julie LaSalle, she began formulating her exit plan. It would be rude to simply get up and leave.
Ask her to see the basement.
The thought came to her so abruptly it was as if someone had whispered it in her ear.
“You said you were doing laundry,” Laurel said. “Is the laundry room still downstairs?”
“Yes. The house isn’t big enough to move it up here. But you would know that.”
Laurel nodded. “Is there a chance I could see it?”
“The washing machine?”
“The basement.”
There was a moment of silence that lasted a little too long.
“Of course,” said Julie. “I’ll go with you.”
By this time Isabel had fallen asleep. The cat was nowhere to be seen. It was just the two women alone in the kitchen. They got up from the table, and Laurel followed Julie to the basement door.
I remember the stairs. I remember the light hanging from the ceiling.
Laurel flipped a light switch at the top of the staircase and led them down.
And there it was. That strange archway Laurel remembered, all bricked up as if to keep something out—or to keep it in.
I went to a brick. I pulled it out. I saw them staring back at me.
“Do you hear things at night?” Laurel asked, as they reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the basement proper. Laurel could see the three small windows at ground level were still boarded up.
“What things?” asked Julie, sounding decidedly less cheerful.
Laurel crept toward the brick wall, unaware that Julie had not followed her further into the room.
“I don’t know exactly,” said Laurel. “Scratching sounds.”
“It’s an old house, it makes noises.”
“This was more like … an animal trying to get out.”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“Or someone with a spoon … digging.”
“We’ve had mice, and a racoon once. No spoons.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy, doesn’t it?” said Laurel.
Julie said nothing, and Laurel began to think it really did sound crazy. What was she doing here? What did she think she would find?
The quiet was suddenly pierced by Isabel’s cry. She must have woken up, seen she was alone and started wailing. It was the perfect excuse at the perfect time.
Laurel turned toward the stairs and realized Julie had remained at the bottom of them, staying back while Laurel approached the wall. “I’d better go,” she said. “Once she starts crying, it won’t stop. She needs to go home.”
Julie turned around and headed quickly up the stairs, with Laurel hurrying behind her.
“Thank you for the coffee,” Laurel said, although she’d barely touched it.
She turned her attention to Isabel, assuring the baby that everything was fine. Within moments Isabel stopped crying. She had wanted her mother’s attention, and she had gotten it.
“Kevin and I would love to have you over for dinner sometime,” Julie said. “You and ...?”
“Jeremy.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Absolutely,” said Laurel, all but certain they would not meet again, at least not in this house. “We’ll touch base.”
Laurel said her goodbyes and was putting Isabel in the back seat when she heard the screen door open.
“I think this is yours,” Julie said.
Laurel closed the car door and turned around. She froze at the sight.
Julie stood in the doorway holding a leash.
A dog’s leash.
“I found it in the basement in a box the Dietzes left behind.”
Laurel asked the obvious question. “Why wouldn’t you think it was theirs?”
“I did. It was the only time I spoke to them after they moved. Mrs. Dietz called to see if our move-in had gone smoothly.”
But you don’t know where they went, or why they left.
“Do you have their phone number?”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Julie. “She called me.”
“But there are no dogs in Strickland,” said Laurel.
A dog can smell the Devil.
Julie shrugged. “I never noticed.” Holding the leash by her side, she added, “She said it wasn’t theirs, so it must be yours.”
Not knowing why she was doing it, Laurel held out her hand. “It’s not, but I’ll take it anyway. Maybe Jeremy knows something about it.”
The sound of Isabel crying from inside the car broke the moment. Julie handed Laurel the leash—a long, red leather strap with a choker chain attached. Laurel noticed a name tag dangling from it. She held it up to the light.
Max.
“Who’s Max?” she wondered aloud.
“Well,” said Julie, “whoever he is, he’s long gone.”
Laurel thanked the woman who now lived in their old house and got into her car, tossing the leash on the passenger seat. Within moments she was driving down the road. A familiar road she’d seen before ... several times ... in her dream. She came upon a stretch of it not far from the house and knew this was where she’d run over the woman. The woman with outstretched arms pleading for help. The woman who wanted her to know it wasn’t finished.
“What’s not finished?” Laurel said to herself, gripping the wheel as she peered at the empty road ahead. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Isabel began to cry again, and this time Laurel joined her.
FOURTEEN
“WHAT IS THAT?”
Jeremy had gotten home earlier than expected, which would normally be cause for minor celebration. He’d texted Laurel from work to say he was leaving on time for a change, and she’d decided to wait and make dinner with his help. It was an opportunity she never passed up. Isabel was napping in her nursery, giving Laurel some quiet time to obsess over the situation.
“It’s a leash,” Laurel replied.
“I can see that,” Jeremy said. He’d put his briefcase on the kitchen floor and was standing, hips on hands, by the table staring at a dog leash where a dinner plate would be. “But what is it doing here?”
Laurel was leaning against the stove, her arms crossed. “I got it from Julie LaSalle.”
Jeremy stared at her as if she’d spoken a foreign language he didn’t know. “Who is Julie LaSalle?”
“She and her husband Kevin are living in our house. Our old house, I should say.”
“What happened to the Dietzes?”
“I don’t know,” replied Laurel. “That’s another mystery I may not want solved.”
Jeremy sighed. “You’re being very opaque, Laurel. What exactly are you talking about?”
Laurel stepped to the table and ran her fingers over the red leather strap.
“I’m remembering things,” she said. “I think that’s what they are—memories.”
“As opposed to what?”
“Hallucinations.”
Jeremy tried to put his arms around her, but she maneuvered away from him.
“I thought I was losing my mind, but I don’t believe that’s what’s going on here.”
“I think you should call Poppy.”
“I don’t feel comfortable with her,” Laurel said.
Jeremy looked shocked by the statement. “Since when? She’s your therapist!”
“Who has been as dismissive in her own way as you are.”
