Inside the Executive's Pocket Page 16

  “Tell me about the letters,” I said, changing the subject, sensing that I might be getting thrown out soon.

  She lit another cigarette, blowing the smoke above her head, not even toward the window anymore. “What letters?”

  “The letters in your locker that Jay wrote you.”

  “You mean the one that came out in my trial? I’ll tell you the same thing I told that prosector. I didn’t know a thing about that letter. Never saw it until it was entered into evidence.” She sipped her iced tea then went back to her cigarette. “The one I saw at my trial was typed out. Anyone could have written it. Probably Bruce put that there too. Now that I know he was the one who staged my locker.”

  “So, you’re saying Jay didn’t write you those letters?”

  “Not that I ever knew about, no.”

  “And you didn’t have an affair with him?”

  Rebecca coughed, low and rumbly at first then hard and loud like she was trying to rid her lungs of 40 years of a bad habit. She set her cigarette into one of the grooves in the ashtray, her hands shaking as she stretched her neck out again and again. Coughing, she fumbled with the drawer of the coffee table, finally managing to get it open.

  There was only one thing in there, a dark brown, glass spray bottle. “My PTSD,” she explained, taking one deep breath after another. She sprayed her neck and body with whatever was in the sprayer. “If I catch it soon enough, I can calm myself down.” It was a strong scent, kind of like bay leaves mixed with something else. I leaned away from it.

  “What is that?”

  She sprayed the air in front of her, taking a couple short inhales into the mist. “Mostly laurel oil. Whenever I feel one of my attacks coming on, I spray a little. It’s a natural way to calm down and ward off my PTSD.”

  My face must have looked confused because she went on. “Doctors won’t tell you about it. No sir. They want you to spend money on Big Pharma crap. I discovered this on my own. Mostly on account of us not having good insurance, so I have to try stuff that doesn’t cost a million dollars a pill. Once I even tried acupuncture. Crap. Therapy? Double crap. But this stuff actually works. You have to get it special ordered from New York, ‘cause I’ve tried others, and this is the only stuff that does the trick.”

  After a minute, her shaking and coughing stopped, and she relaxed into the couch cushions again like nothing weird just happened here. “You relive stuff with ghosts, huh? Lucky you. So do I, every damn day, most nights too. Did you have fun in the Dead Forest? I didn’t.”

  “I haven’t channeled through the murder part of the incident yet,” I said, my voice sheepish.

  “Don’t.”

  I turned my head to the side. I thought she hadn’t remembered anything.

  “I mean, suit yourself. But I wouldn’t. No chance in hell and not for all the money on earth,” she said, looking up at the ceiling then down at her cigarette again. “I don’t know if what you’re saying is for real. I don’t know anything about a channeling. But I do know, whatever happened that night caused this PTSD. Don’t do it. Just don’t.”

  She continued, picking up her lit cigarette again, puffing on it to get it going. “If you really did see me that day, then you know. I didn’t smoke before the incident. My mother died from lung cancer when I was seven. She was a chain smoker. And I swore I wouldn’t do it. Right after that night. Right after. In fact, I think my dad and stepmom were driving me home from the hospital and I had them stop by 7-Eleven. Bought my first pack.” She grabbed one of the stuffed animals, held it close. “I have never been the same.”

  “Yes, I really saw you in the channeling,” I said. “So I know you’re lying about the smoking. You smoked back then too. But then, I’m guessing that was a test.”

  “I didn’t smoke as much, though,” she snapped. “That incident turned me into a chain smoker. But you’re right. That was a test. Tell me what else you saw in that… channeling of yours.”

  “I mostly have questions from it,” I said, deciding to save the things that had set off her PTSD until the end. “Why did Curtis hate Jay?”

  “I have no idea. Jay was very controlling back then and Curtis and I did not like to be controlled. We joined that club because Sylvia said it would enlighten our minds. It enlightened us to the fact that that club sucked.”

  “If you hated the club, why didn’t you just leave it?”

  She took a few quick breaths, stretching her neck out again. “Once you became a member, it was pretty hard to leave. At least, that’s what the rumor was. There were a lot of thugs in the club, believe it or not, some even lived at Jay’s. I think they were his personal goons or something. It was part of the reason Curtis and I made those movies.” She ran a hand through her dark hair. “As it turns out, the movies also made a lot of money. Don’t get me wrong. But, we were hoping to get kicked out of the club.”

  She took a shallow breath, looked at the door, then reached for her spray. I decided it was time to ask her the tougher questions now. Eyeing the door was probably a sign she was going to ask me to leave soon.

  “Was Curtis hurting you?”

  She sprayed the air around her face, throwing me a questioning look.

  I went on. “In my channeling, you tried to hide a torn t-shirt, and Sylvia told me she was worried that Curtis might have been hurting you.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Never touched you?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Let me just get this straight for my files…”

  “Your files?” she said, staring straight ahead at the mist droplets. “You sure you’re a medium and not a cop? You have to tell me if you’re a cop, right? Are you a cop?”

  I sat forward. “I’m not a cop. But, I have to ask because I saw those letters and they mentioned you and Jay reenacting scenes from your movie on the second of September. The time Sylvia was out of town. But you’re saying nothing happened between you and Jay? You didn’t have an affair?”

  I moved out of the way right before she sprayed the air around herself again. The smell of bay leaves mixed with the cigarette smoke created a strange burning forest kind of a scent. “I already answered these questions in court,” she said, coughing. “I think I’m done here.”

  I stood up. “I was also wondering about the key. You never answered me about that. Sylvia had the key in her pocket. You didn’t even have pockets. You were in a green dress.”

  “You’re crazy. And, you need to go.” She sprayed in my direction now and I jumped back.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m going to leave you my number in case you want to call and talk about this another time,” I said, trying to stay as far away from whatever that spray was as possible. “I’m willing to answer any questions you might have about that night. I mean, Sylvia will. Maybe between the two of you, you can figure it out.” I didn’t mention the fact Sylvia thought Rebecca killed her. And, I wasn’t sure myself. I knew she was lying about a lot of things here, and avoiding even more.

  Rebecca didn’t offer me a piece of paper, didn’t grab her phone to exchange contact information. So I riffled through my purse and pulled out an old Walmart receipt and a pen, scribbling my name and number on the back and, when she didn’t reach for it, placed it on the coffee table next to the ashtray.

  She walked me to the door, a dazed look on her face now, and I felt my usual pang of guilt, knowing I was the one who put it there.

  My eye stopped on a stack of about five paintings resting along the wood paneling by the door. They were even darker than the other stacks. A blackbird with a greasy coat and dark beady eyes against a misty gray background. The bird had a huge, crusty, yellow beak.

  She watched my every move, finger on her spray.

  I needed to see this particular stack of paintings.

  “You’re a talented artist,” I said, lifting the blackbird painting back. The one behind it was even stranger, a bigger bird, angrier, darker. It was almost the same size as the woman standing
next to it. I pulled that one toward me, too, ready to see the next one, but she put her hand on mine and stopped me.

  “How much?” I quickly asked so she’d let me browse.

  “You want to buy one?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, you won’t want any of those,” she said. “And they’re not for sale, anyway. They’re my newest ones. But my ‘field of flowers’ collection is in the back if you want something prettier and more… uplifting. Goes with any decor.”

  As soon as she took her hand off of mine, I pulled back the painting of the bird. The one behind it was a close-up of a child’s hand gripping a limp mouse.

  My heart raced and my hands shook as I tried to get my phone out of my pocket to click some photos. “These would look perfect in my h-house.”

  When I saw the last painting, I held in an actual scream. It was a man in a hat wearing a plague doctor mask. A foggy kind of mist wafted all around him. No mistaking it. These were just like the scrapbook.

  “Why did you paint these?” I stammered, taking another photo.

  “I don’t know. Images come to me, sometimes in dreams. Why?”

  “Images come to me too.”

  Chapter 21

  Interesting

  I threw open the scrapbook as soon as I got home. Same looking person, same plague doctor mask. Black clothing, black hat, circular metal pieces for eyes, a long thick beak over the mouth area.

  The paintings were straight from the scrapbooks, down to the close-up of Jackson’s grandfather holding a dead mouse. Were the paintings a sign I was heading in the right direction as far as the curse went? Or were they a sign I shouldn’t go any further?

  I tossed my notebook onto the dining table next to the scrapbook and sat down. I needed to write every bizarre part of my encounter with Rebecca into it before I forgot. Every detail. The way the police botched the investigation. Rebecca’s reactions to my questions. The PTSD spray. The changing of the subjects.

  Just like Justin, it seemed like she was avoiding questions about the incident. She hadn’t answered much, and she was definitely hiding stuff.

  And then there were those paintings…

  Jackson appeared by my side as I scrolled through the photos on my phone.

  He looked over my shoulder. “Interesting,” he said in his professor tone, the one I hated because he drew out every syllable like there was hidden meaning to what he was saying that needed to be explored. Sure, I only said “interesting,” but did you hear how I drew it out? The layers and depth are immeasurable.

  “Rebecca painted these,” I said.

  “Interesting,” he said again.

  I bit back my irritation. “Is that all you have to say? Interesting?”

  He tugged on his ghostly beard. “I can’t say much else. I wasn’t allowed to go, remember? But Rebecca does seem to be tied to the curse. I’m not sure why.”

  I told him about my meeting with her, filling him in on everything from the weird spray to how she thought Bruce had been the one to type the notes out and slip them into her locker. “I’m going to see him again about it. It makes sense. He told Sylvia he saw Rebecca with the notes. Told her where to look for them, too. Top shelf, way in the back.”

  Jackson opened his mouth like he was about to say something…

  “Don’t say ‘interesting,’” I said, cutting him off. “And yes, I know none of this makes sense. I’m just going to keep digging up stuff until it does. People are hiding things and I don’t know why.”

  “You should try to find that x-rated movie while you’re digging up things,” he suggested. “What was it called? Small Town Vets Do It Doggie Style?”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Merely interested in research. You know the old saying, ‘you can take the professor out of the university…’”

  “…but he’ll still be just as creepy?” I offered.

  Jackson had actually been my professor way back when, which didn’t seem nearly as creepy at the time as it did to me now. It was hard for me to believe I left Justin for my professor about twelve years ago.

  “I wouldn’t even know where to look for a movie like that, and no, I don’t want suggestions.”

  That was definitely something I didn’t want in my internet search history in case I ever came up missing and the police shared my last searches with my mother.

  “I should’ve pressed Rebecca harder about the torn shirt in her locker and the key. Especially the key. How did police confiscate a key from her jeans if she wasn’t wearing any?”

  “My, my, that is interesting. Was she nude? The girl must have a real talent for hiding keys. We must find that movie now…”

  I ignored my perverted ex who was enjoying the key mystery a little too much. I didn’t bother to remind him she hadn’t been nude.

  “I just think there’s a lot she’s hiding,” I said.

  “More than a key?” he asked. “Very talented indeed.”

  My phone rang and I rushed across the room to get it.

  “I gave her my number. It has to be Rebecca,” I said, looking down at the number that I didn’t recognize. “Or spam.”

  Jackson sat on the couch while I froze over the phone. I should’ve prepared something to say to her. I really didn’t think she’d call me back this quickly.

  I picked up the phone just before my answering machine took over, and put it on speaker so my ex could hear.

  The voice on the other end was shaky and old sounding. “Leave my wife alone. You hear?”

  I almost dropped the phone. I was taken off guard. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “This is Leonard Grayson, Rebecca’s husband. You wanna tell me why I came home from a hard day’s work and found my wife curled up in a ball by the front door? I saw your number on a Walmart receipt. So I thought I’d call and ask you myself.”

  I didn’t answer, even though he gave me plenty of time to do that.

  “She told me what happened. You comin’ over here uninvited, causing all sorts of problems and stress.”

  I quickly regrouped. “I’m so sorry. Causing her stress was never my intention. I didn’t know your wife was upset by my visit…”

  It was a lie. I did know.

  “She isn’t stable, you hear me? I have spent years… years trying to keep her happy and stable. I don’t know what she saw that night at the drive-in, but whenever she thinks about it… it changes her. And reliving it with you, talking about it, it’s just gonna make it all come back. She’s not calling you. We are ripping up your number. She has awful PTSD. You know that. She is not well.”

  He drew out his words when he spoke, enunciating every syllable, making me feel like I was talking to an old prospector in a low budget horror movie. A man who had taken on the responsibility of keeping the monster chained up in his closet so the town would be safe. And now, we all needed to do exactly as he said because he knew the monster, and what it was capable of.

  This never ended well for the town.

  I continued, in my calmest voice. “She seemed fine when I left. Even tried to sell me one of her Field of Flower paintings. But now that I know how upset she is, I won’t come back.”

  “Make sure you don’t. You hear? She is not well.” He hung up.

  My ex leaned into the couch cushions. “Sounds like you should’ve splurged on a Field of Flower painting, probably the most expensive one.”

  “You’re always relying on money to get you out of things.” I stared at the phone I was still clutching in my hand as I processed the strange conversation. “I would use money too, if I had any. A painting here. A makeup party there. I should get more deductions at the least.”

  I put the phone back in its charging station, noticing the little light on my answering machine was flashing.

  Even though I’d been using one the whole time I’d been living at Gate House because I didn’t have cellphone service, I still wasn’t used to it yet.

  I clicked the button
and waited.

  One recorded message. Monday 1:04 pm. Beeeeep.

  “Hey Carly. It’s Justin. Not sure where you’re at. Tried your cell. Tried calling the Purple Pony too. Rosalie’s not answering the phone there either…”

  I racked my brain, trying to think if I’d forgotten any plans.

  He went on. “Look, I’ve got Rosalie’s cousin, Jean Bellerton, down at the police station. She’s not arrested. She’s claiming she saw a…” He paused to clear his throat a little. “A polar bear just outside the bed and breakfast. She says it was kind of small but vicious looking…”

  Beeeeep.

  My answering machine never gave people enough time to leave a message.

  I picked up the phone and called him back on his cell. He sounded exhausted. “I told Rosalie’s cousin that I doubted she saw a polar bear here in Wisconsin, but it didn’t make a difference. She doesn’t want to go back to the bed and breakfast.”

  “Look,” I said, under my breath. “We both know what that polar bear was all about, and I’m not letting Paula Henkel win.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure.”

  “But I did get in touch with Rosalie,” he said. “She told me she doesn’t have room for her cousin, but that you offered to take her in at Gate House, which was really nice of you. I could bring her up if you want. Poor woman’s a retired gym teacher on a fixed income…”

  “With a duffle bag full of wooden stakes,” I said.

  I thought about that one. I was farther from the Dead Forest. And it was only for a few days. Maybe, I could also pry her for information. “Okay, but make sure she knows this is only for a few days.”

  I hung up.

  Jackson’s mouth hung open. “Carly doll, I think you may have forgotten to consult me on that one before you invited someone to stay at Gate House.”

  “Interesting,” I said, drawing out each syllable.