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Combs wiped clots of mud off September’s phone, crumpled the paper towel, and dropped it into the garbage container hidden under her kitchen sink. In the short time he’d known her, she’d never been without her phone. Or her pets.
He hesitated only a moment before scrolling through recent calls. He could apologize later for intruding. September had always been a twitchy rabbit ready to bolt, the fallout of a stalker experience she refused to talk about. Someone so careful about locks and being responsible wouldn’t disappear without any explanation. Maybe her phone would offer a clue as to where she’d gone.
The phone logged his own call early that morning, and the one she’d made to 911 that brought him and Gonzales running later that same day.
September had also phoned All Creatures Veterinary Hospital. “That’s it,” he breathed, and his shoulders relaxed. Quickly, he hit re-dial and waited for the vet hospital to answer.
“September? Did you forget something? Doc Eugene’s getting ready to run Macy’s tests right now. He should be ready shortly.”
The clinic must have caller ID. He’d used September’s phone. He hesitated, not sure what to say to the chirpy young man. “I’m a friend of September’s. Is she on her way home?” Combs wondered what was wrong with Macy. Leaving him couldn’t have been easy.
“I guess so. She didn’t say. We expect her back anytime now. I left her a message on her home phone, too.”
“Tell her...” He smiled. “Tell her dinner’s almost ready.” Combs disconnected. Getting the meal ready would make up for his snooping and help take her mind off Macy’s health issues. He started to shut down the phone, but noted her most recent call to the radio station. “Huh. She’s talking to Fish again?”
She’d been adamant about quitting the Pet Peeves show, just when her notoriety would make it take off. That burned Fish’s butt, especially since September had dodged his calls for weeks. What made her decide to call him? He set aside the phone. Maybe she’d tell him later, but if he asked, she’d know he’d snooped.
He collected the beer cooler, carried it to her refrigerator—she called it ‘Macy’s Perch’—and loaded up the door with the beverage. Several covered bowls rested inside, each with plastic or foil covers, most small sizes that held a serving for one. He juggled a few, lifted lids, and moved some around. “Leftover, leftover, leftover, salad.” He made a face at the last. It had tomatoes. He hated tomatoes. Combs hoped September wouldn’t expect him to eat those red, nasty things.
A large covered dish on the bottom rack looked promising. Combs tipped up the foil. “Jackpot!” He carried the deep-dish lasagna, Anita’s specialty, to the oven. After debating temperatures and considering the fancy settings for duration, temperatures, bake/broil/who-knows, he made a guess and set the dish inside to heat. Bake-and-eat frozen pizza was his forte.
The blue flowers would soon wilt. She’d taken the trouble to get the bouquet. The least he could do was put them in a vase. Combs rummaged in one of the overhead cupboards, but didn’t see anything resembling a vase. She should have bought a vase when she got the flowers. He rinsed out the Son-of-a-Peach coffee mug that sat in the sink and congratulated himself on choosing a silly gift she’d actually use. He filled it with water, and stuck the handful of blossoms in the container before he carried it into the dining room and centered it on the table.
A phone tweedled. Combs searched his pocket, but it wasn’t his cell. He hurried back into the kitchen, and caught up September’s ringing phone before it went to voicemail. The caller I.D. said it was Mark. Must be her brother. He answered tentatively. He’d met the family only briefly during April’s arraignment, and probably was not their favorite person. “Hello?”
“Hi. Um, who’s this?” Mark had a pleasant unremarkable voice. “I think I mis-dialed.”
“No, wait. This is September’s phone. Are you her brother?”
“Yeah. Who’re you?” Suspicion clouded his voice. “Let me speak to her.”
“This is Jeff Combs. She’s not here right now.” He knew the stained glass windows in the room were also courtesy of the man on the phone.
“That cop.” Long pause.
His jaw tightened. “Right. I’m that cop.” That cop who had saved one of Mark’s sisters, September, and arrested the other. He waited. Combs crossed to the stained glass table, another Mark creation, to clean up the flower box debris.
Mark broke the silence. “Where is she? Is Aaron there?”
Combs paused. “I’m the only one here.”
Then a pause. “Look, sorry for being such a prick. September says you’re a good guy, and I trust her judgment. Aaron should have come home hours ago. It’s his night to cook—vegetarian goulash. He’s not answering his phone.”
The prickling at the back of Combs’ neck returned. “His truck’s here. But he’s not.” It must have taken a lot for Mark to admit his worry. “Maybe he’s with September?”
“Right, and she left her phone at the house? Why’d she do that? She and that phone are joined at the hand—or ear, I guess you could say. Besides, Aaron’s acting odd.” Mark sounded scared.
He put on his cop voice. “Odd how?”
“I’m coming over. You’re at my sister’s?” Sudden determination deepened the man’s voice. “Maybe he’s hurt. He won’t listen to me, I tell him and tell him to take it easy.” Combs could hear opening and closing doors as though the man retrieved his coat.
“Mark, I’ve already canvassed the grounds. Neither is here and her car is gone. September lost her phone in the garden, and I bet they’re together.” Combs gathered up the flower box garbage, crushed it together in one hand while cradling September’s cell in the other, and opened the wastebasket cupboard with his booted foot. “No reason for you to run over here, I’m sure Aaron will turn up soon.” He stuffed the trash into the basket, and bent to retrieve a card that had fallen out.
“You don’t understand.” Mark hesitated, and then explained in a rush. “Aaron forgets. He forgets a lot. Not only where he left his keys, or someone’s name. He forgets what he’s doing, right in the middle of stuff.” He plowed on, once started unable to stop the outpouring. “Aaron won’t see the doctor. Last week he turned on the burner and left the house, forgot about the oatmeal on the stove. He forgets to put on his pants and leaves the house in his boxers. Jesus, what am I going to do? Aaron’s losing his mind. And he’s using gas-powered chain saws and God knows what else. He could forget what he’s doing and cut off his freakin’ leg!”
Combs barely heard the other man. He stared at the crumpled hand-lettered anniversary card in his hand, block red letters screaming as they spelled out payback.
Her cello was gone. A bright lamp she loved, and the colorful carpet from the music room. An anniversary commemorated something special, to honor and celebrate a joyful wedding.
September’s wedding anniversary had been in June, and the anniversary of her husband’s death had passed weeks ago. The card was no celebration, the flowers were a taunt, a bullying threat born of anger and fed by obsession.
Payback.
He knew what that meant. He didn’t know the man’s name, but Combs knew exactly who and what this was about. So did September. No need to lock the door when the invader had already breached the walls.
He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Mark, your sister ever tell you anything about her stalker?”
“What are you talking about?” Incredulous. “You mean that business from when she lived in Chicago?”
“Don’t know, Mark, but it’s about time we found out.” He crossed to the oven and switched it off, and returned the lasagna to the refrigerator. He gazed longingly at the beer, and then closed the door. September was on the run, she wouldn’t be home any time soon, and he had no way to find her. But Mark might have a clue. “Can we get together? I’ll buy you a steak.”
“I’m a vegan, so’s Aaron.”
“So I’ll get you bean burritos. Give me an address. We need to talk.”
