Closet Full Of Bones Read online

  Closet Full of Bones

  By AJ Aalto

  Closet full of bones

  Copyright 2017 A.J. AALTO. All rights reserved.

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Dean Samed

  Edited by Rafe Brox

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction partially inspired by true events. All places, dates, times, and names have been altered to protect the victims, although it could be argued that there are no innocent parties in this tale. Thanks are due to the many individuals who confided in me during the course of this difficult situation; these individuals will be protected by the author and therefore cannot be thanked by name.

  For R., for her inspiration, patience, strength, and undying sense of humor.

  Chapter One

  Saturday, October 11. 3:00 A.M.

  She had the dump site picked out before she’d made up her mind to kill him. Not that she’d ever admit it aloud, but if she was honest with herself, the idea of his death began squirming like a night crawler in the back of her mind the moment he’d crossed her invisible but inflexible lines of impropriety.

  An imperious pre-dawn text. Such a small thing to become a death sentence.

  Such a small thing to most people. A pebble in a shoe. A minor nuisance, best forgotten. But it wasn’t the only pebble, and it wasn’t forgotten, and she wasn’t most people. Involving her had been Travis Freeman’s biggest mistake.

  The text came early enough to wake her from a paralyzing sleep, the type that always followed one of her savage, day-long migraines. Though the master bedroom was darkened by heavy blinds and drapes, she knew by the weight of her limbs that it must still be nighttime. She’d been dreaming of red wine, dark chocolate, and a man without a face, but this slipped away, the pleasant blur marred by electric rattling; hard plastic against oak and brass, the phone vibrated against the lamp’s metal base. Her hand shot out from under the pillow and fumbled for it, yanking it off its charger. Assuming it had to be an emergency of one sort or another, she felt for her glasses, knocking them off the nightstand, and they went skittering under the bed. She squinted at the phone’s bright backlight and tried to read the text through blurry eyes, cursing her poor vision as she moved the phone closer.

  For a moment, she was baffled by the sender’s name. It made no sense. At that intimate hour, in the privacy of her bedroom, a text from that name felt like a breach, an invasion, a perforation of a boundary that ought not to be pierced. This was a man she barely knew and certainly did not like. Her right eyebrow throbbed warningly. The text made her lips tighten into a pale line.

  You’re gonna tell Frankie to return my calls, Featherweight.

  It was the “you’re gonna,” that stirred anger behind the teeth, made her molars grind together until they squeaked. A slow roll of nausea woke her further and she slid upright in the sheets, pulling her knees up to her chest, leaning her sore head against the padded, velvet headboard. Her left hand drifted toward the lamp but stalled midway; experience had taught her that the low, dull ache in the back of her skull could easily roar back to life if she aggravated it with more light.

  More than the baffling new nickname for her, his “you’re gonna,” with its implied “or else,” tipped her mood from inconvenienced to indignant. Later, she would recall the thought, careful, boy, pressing into her mind, as though she could transmit it from her perennially pitch-black bedroom to wherever he was, this man who believed he knew her well enough to call her by a disparaging, patronizing epithet or intrude on her precious, hard-won sleep. She was sure she’d mentioned her migraines to him; politeness had forced her to find fodder for small talk on the rare occasions they’d crossed paths, and it was one of the few things she’d discovered they had in common.

  On the heels of her mental warning was a seconds-long consideration, might have to do something about this. She almost texted him back. Suspecting he was trying to stir trouble, though, she didn’t; she would be no man’s puppet. Games like his should be beneath notice. What would Dad say in his lucid moments? She whispered it in her black bedroom with a bittersweet smile. “Don’t feed anyone who doesn’t feed you.”

  Her heavy eyelids reminded her of the hour, and of the pointlessness of getting agitated by someone else’s break-up. A general weariness with Frankie’s ever-changing dramas won out. She trusted that Frankie was old enough to deal with her own issues; if not, she’d ask for help. Frankie always came to her for help. Until that happened, what could she do?

  She abandoned the phone on the empty pillow beside hers, the one that would forever belong to her beloved, though her lover was no longer there to warm that side of the bed. She nestled down under her heavy blankets, to return, hopefully, to the land of food she’d never again taste, of a lover she’d never again touch, of whimsical dreams where reality couldn't worry her. The last thing she needed, she thought as she drifted, was the trouble of trying to get rid of a problem that would probably resolve itself in time if left alone.

  But then she did wonder, just a little, if a second murder would be easier than the first.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday, October 11. 10:00 A.M.

  Alibi Alley was the only coffee shop in Derby Harbor, its tiny patio half-wedged into an alleyway between the bank and the old library, which now served as the shop’s winter abode. All summer long and into late fall, the wrought iron tables and chairs were pushed out onto the cobblestones and set with ashtrays and little vases of Gerbera daisies, because the owners of Alibi Alley — Misty and Gerald Volk — liked to imagine they were in Paris and not a small village near Lake Ontario. Mrs. Volk was a mystery buff, and also owned a tiny independent bookstore called Cozy Reads that held biannual murder mystery dinner theater productions in a long room above the shop. The Volks owned half the city’s real estate, but enjoyed dividing their time between the bookstore and café rather than dealing with boardrooms and stakeholders’ meetings. These were their retirement years, but they showed no signs of slowing down.

  Their grandniece, Evelyn, had been raised to respect hard work and the almighty dollar, and even at eighteen, she knew precisely what she wanted from life. Today, sitting at a café table as a cool autumn morning became a crisp afternoon, what she wanted from life was to pack up and actually go to Paris, to escape small town life, to study art and love in equal amounts. The only thing stopping her was the sale of one final piece of property, which her grandmother had left her, and which her lawyer, Mr. James, was helping her unload. The senior Volks did not want anything to do with the rundown old place. The pair of ladies sitting across from her at the small table crowded with legal documents, did.

  Frankie Farmer was the younger of the two sisters, and had been the last to arrive. She’d pulled up on a bicycle with a big floppy turquoise purse in a straw basket on the handlebars, looking out of breath and windswept in a lavender layered dress of chiffon with satin cuffs. Her bleached blonde hair was feathered a
la early-80's Farrah Fawcett around a pale, heart-shaped face with enormous brown eyes. She ditched the bike without a care against the café's railing and bounded to the table to give her sister, Gillian Hearth, a noisy smooch on the top of her head. Evelyn, adjusting her paisley ascot and making sure her jacket buttons were in place, watched this arrival with as much stiff disapproval as one of her age and eccentricity could muster. Frankie’s purse remained in the basket, open to the world, unzipped, contents flashing: a hairbrush that didn’t look to be used often, a red patent leather wallet, a big sketchbook.

  Across the road behind the older sister was Higgins River, the wide swath of water that spilled into Lake Ontario at Higgins Point, named for a valiant British soldier who fought in the War of 1812 and spent much of it rescuing his fellow military men from certain death. Valor Station, where the trains once stopped, was also named for Captain Higgins.

  Today, Higgins River provided a crisp blue but silent backdrop, not a ripple in sight. The wind did not stir, as though it dared not disturb a hair from Evelyn Volk’s tight braid. As the blonde newcomer leaned across the table, flashing straight white teeth in an open-mouthed smile and sticking out her hand to enthusiastically pump the lawyer’s, Evelyn found her hands clenched in her lap and had to unfold one finger at a time to reluctantly accept the handshake thrust upon her.

  The waiter appeared behind Frankie like a polite shadow. One of her fine hands fluttered to the nape of her neck as she caught her breath from the bike ride, and she dazzled him, too, with one of her attention-getting grins.

  “Surprise me,” she told him. “No dairy, but anything with caffeine. Have fun with it.”

  The older sister, Gillian, smiled behind her tea cup and sipped her green tea without comment, eyeing their company to calculate their impression of Frankie.

  “You sure?” the waiter asked, aiming his pen at her and putting his little notepad away in his apron.

  Gillian mouthed some words fondly before her little sister could say them, and it irritated Evelyn somewhat, though she couldn’t have said why.

  “Life’s short. Live a little,” Frankie told him with a wink, swinging into one of the wrought iron chairs.

  Her sitting was accompanied by various clinks and jingles; multiple brass bracelets shook on both wrists, her dangling earrings tinkled prettily with every shake of her head, and the belt around her waist hung with tiny crystals that clicked. Frankie Farmer was not someone you missed, either when she arrived or when she departed. This also irritated Evelyn Volk.

  The lawyer opened his mouth to speak but Evelyn’s voice silenced him.

  “Is this how you always arrive to a business meeting, Ms. Farmer?” Evelyn asked primly, breaking off a tiny piece of biscotti and tapping off the crumbs on her plate. “Sweaty and disheveled and dressed like a fairy princess?”

  “Awww, thanks, sweetie!” the blonde answered, beaming. Her brown eyes said she’d heard the disapproval but was choosing to be flattered. “So, what are you, twelve?”

  “Frankie,” Gillian whispered, swinging one denim-clad knee to bump that of her sister.

  “Eighteen this Thursday,” Evelyn answered coolly, showing a restraint beyond her years. She turned her focus to the older sister, who seemed far more reasonable, if less interesting to look at. “My Gran was really special to me.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Gillian said sincerely, putting down her tea cup a careful distance from the documents. “I understand her passing was sudden. This must be a difficult time for you.”

  Evelyn softened inside but caught it immediately and brought her formidable defenses back up. “Yeah, well. She left her estate to me, but suggested that you might like to buy the house. I thought that was generous of her, considering how often you two bullied her about it.”

  Gillian made a moment’s business of scratching at something on the side of her teacup. The lawyer looked to be ignoring them, counting sugar packets for his coffee, letting his client’s tongue run wild.

  Frankie swiped at the ends of her hair, where a stray leaf had become tangled in the curly mess. “Bullies, eh? Wowsers. That sure sounds like us.”

  Gillian came to the rescue. “We asked too often. We’re eager. I do hope she didn’t feel we were... haranguing her out of malice.”

  “Let’s cut the shit,” Evelyn said, to the surprise of both sisters. “Gran was annoyed. She said you were a plague. Nonstop phone calls, notes… I have your notes with me in the car. A whole bundle. Would you like to see them?”

  Frankie snapped. “What’s done is done. No sense rehashing old arguments. What is your idea of a fair price?”

  Evelyn turned her focus back to Gillian, whose right hand had disappeared below the table. Eve thought she might be squeezing her sister’s kneecap warningly, and it pleased her a bit. Her chin rose and she nibbled her biscotti chunk thoughtfully, as though she hadn’t already decided. She needed at least four hundred grand to secure her pied–à–terre in Paris, and she couldn't afford to give them a break.

  “I’ll sell it below market value,” she said, “but I have an ‘if.’ Or rather, Gran had an ‘if.’”

  Frankie turned in her chair, tossing all that hair over her shoulder to beam up at the waiter as he delivered her surprise drink: an earl grey soy latte with a sprinkling of vanilla sugar, accompanied by a baby blue meringue cookie on the house. She rewarded him with a little delighted squeal that set Evelyn’s shoulders up stiffly with displeasure.

  Gillian ignored all this to calmly inquire, “If your grandmother mentioned us to you and had a final wish regarding us, especially in regards to the house, we would of course—”

  Frankie squawked with an open mouth at her, and Gillian leveled a stern glare at her, effectively squelching further comment. Frankie’s lip turned up; she was not good at keeping things off her face, no better than the eighteen-year-old real estate magnate who currently held their future dreams in the palm of her hands.

  “We would, of course, hear you out,” Gillian finished smoothly. “I can’t imagine we would be rude enough to not honor her final wishes.”

  Evelyn wriggled a bit in her chair without realizing it, a pleased little aha-gotcha-now move that someday she would tame. She flicked her gaze at her wisely silent lawyer, who was only there to help her dot the Is and cross the Ts and witness paperwork.

  “She wanted you to do the clean-up,” Evelyn said. “You. Not a hired company. And you have to sign this contract saying you will do all the cleaning yourself. No maids. No friends. No family. Just the two of you.”

  “What did she do to the place,” Frankie drawled, “booby-trap it?”

  “Yes,” Evelyn said, and snickered despite herself. “Rolling boulders and pits of vipers.”

  Frankie started, “Well why else would she—”

  “She thought if you wanted something,” Gillian supposed aloud, “you should have to work hard for it. Right?”

  “And she thought you’d never worked a hard day in your life, by the look of you,” Evelyn said, aiming this indictment at the younger rather than the older sister. Gillian Hearth had soil under her nails, and Evelyn didn’t think it was from being dirty; she thought this one looked physically toughened by the outdoors, and maybe had a job that required getting her hands in the soil. “So I guess the question is, ladies, how badly do you want this property?”

  The lawyer finally spoke. “Ms. Volk is asking four hundred seventy-five thousand for the house,” he said. “It’s a lakefront property and worth a good deal more, as you know. There are other offers on the table, higher offers, but she’s giving you this chance because it’s what Mrs. Blymhill wanted.”

  Frankie’s unusually large eyes were bulging now as she craned slowly to stare in disbelief at the side of Gillian’s face. Gillian was doing quiet mental calculations, but Evelyn could see her answer already written there. The elder wanted it; she was not going to let go. She had her deal, and she was going to Paris, and the future was bright, and everyth
ing was perfect. She allowed herself to eat the rest of the biscotti, calories and crumbs be damned. Higgins River glowed behind the sisters Hearth and Farmer, and Evelyn imagined that the autumn sun warmed a touch to celebrate her victory.

  Gillian said, “Frankie, will you go inside and get me another green tea, please?”

  “Get it yourself,” Frankie said on a laugh.

  Gillian aimed her sister another sidelong glance, which prompted Frankie to swish from her chair, tossing her hair, and jingle on into the café on her quest for tea. The lawyer watched Frankie’s hips sway and then tore his gaze from them and back to his papers.

  Evelyn, on the other hand, was watching the older sister struggle with her words, sure she wasn’t going to like what came out next.

  “Your price is fair,” Gillian replied. “More than fair. I know it. And your grandmother’s final wish is… unusual, but I accept it. I have one small request of my own.”

  “Which is?” the lawyer asked, wary. His hands went almost unconsciously to his fountain pen and spiral notepad.

  “A few years back, I fell down the stairs and injured my shoulder and right arm. This makes your clean-up request a bit difficult for me, physically. My sister is…” Gillian gave them a knowing look that summed up an unspoken judgment that Evelyn nodded in immediate agreement with, and felt herself warming to the elder sister a touch. “I have a coworker who is very sturdy and would pitch in where needed. His name is Bruce. I’ll do most of the work myself, I swear to that. But the heavy lifting…” She showed them her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  Evelyn had her pied–à–terre money and Gran’s final wishes mostly fulfilled, and she spoke before the lawyer could. “I believe we have a deal, Ms. Hearth. One helper. Only for the heavy stuff.” What the hell do I care? I’ll be in Paris.