Don't Be Afraid (37 page)

 

The body of Rachel Norman, aka Violet Marsh, was found on the first really warm day of spring. The man who’d bought the Toolman’s house in Bellamy Estates, at a price far less than the original value, was starting over and a workman dismantling the walls found the body nailed into a crawl space. It was exactly one month to the day after her husband and killer had been sentenced to life in prison.

The story made the front page of the
Steerforth Herald
and Amy quickly folded it over, but not before Emma caught a glimpse of the headline: TOOLMAN’S WIFE FOUND DEAD.

“Was that about the bad man, Mommy?”

“Yes.”

“Is he back?”

“No, Em. Absolutely not. He’s in prison.”

“And he’s never coming back?”

“That’s right.”

Emma nodded and turned her attention back to her bowl of Cheerios. For the first few weeks after their ordeal and during the month-long trauma of the trial, she’d asked Amy about Paul every day. Hearing her mother tell her that the bad man wasn’t coming back had become like a mantra.

She’d only recently begun sleeping in her own bed again. Amy hoped this wasn’t going to set things back.

“Go get dressed, Em,” she said, pulling back her chair. “You don’t want to be late for school.”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “Mrs. Strohmeyer is bringing her pet rabbit to show the class.”

She ran for the stairs, the news apparently forgotten. Amy scanned the story quickly and buried the paper in the recycling bin.

Rachel’s body was identified by a sister from a neighboring town, who’d apparently believed Paul’s story that his wife had left him for another man. “She was like that,” the woman said to a reporter. “No one man or one place could hold her interest for long.”

If Paul Marsh had any reaction to the discovery of his wife’s body, it wasn’t mentioned. They wouldn’t bother to prosecute him for her death. He’d recovered from the skull fracture he sustained after Amy clubbed him and was declared competent and legally sane to stand trial for the murders of Sheila Sylvester, Meredith Chomsky, Poppy Braxton, Officer Feeney, Louise Grogan, Chloe Newman and Douglas Myers. He’d also been charged with the attempted murders of Amy and Emma, who were both star witnesses for the prosecution at his trial.

Emma held up well under the pressure. The only time she broke down was in describing the death of Chloe, who’d attempted to escape from Paul’s car with Emma and was battered in front of the little girl.

Outside of the courtroom was a different story. Emma barely slept at night. She woke up screaming from terrible nightmares. Sometimes Amy did, too. They slept with lights on in the house and Amy installed a top-of-the-line security system.

The day Paul was sentenced to three consecutive life terms, Amy laid flowers on Sheila and Chloe’s graves.

Braxton Realty passed to Poppy’s younger brother, Peter, who took down the painting of poppies in the field and replaced it with a photo of an America’s Cup yacht. Another realtor took over Sheila’s desk. Amy limited her showings to daytime or took Emma with her. Most evenings, once Emma was in bed, she worked on her photography. In May she was having her second show in SoHo. This time, she didn’t bother to send an invitation to Chris. She did, however, invite Ryan.

 

 

The news of the discovery of Violet’s body made it into the
New York Times
Metro section, but Ash spotted it before Mark. “Hey, isn’t that the guy’s wife? Yeah, it is, read this!”

He passed the newspaper across the breakfast table and shoveled another strip of bacon into his mouth.

“I don’t know how you can eat that junk and remain so thin,” Mark said, putting down his piece of whole-grain toast to take the paper.

“I’m younger,” Ash said with a grin. “Faster metabolism.”

“Ruder, too.”

“What? You are older.”

“Wiser.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Ash said, rolling his eyes. Mark smiled and looked down at the paper. He’d wondered when he resigned from the force if he’d miss the job, but reading about the discovery of this poor woman’s body, he realized that he felt nothing beyond a certain satisfaction that they’d caught this guy.

“You’ve got classes today, right?” Ash said suddenly.

Mark looked up. “Yep. All day. Why?”

“Your mom called while you were in the shower. She left a message.” He got up from the table and walked into the tiny kitchen to refill his coffee.

Mark got up and hit the button on the answering machine. His mother’s voice filled the room, sounding hesitant. “Hi, it’s Mom, um, I mean, Elena.” She cleared her throat and Mark grimaced. “I know this is last-minute notice, but I decided to hold a family dinner party tonight to celebrate your father’s success—wait until you hear him, he is doing lots of talking. Anyway, I was hoping that maybe you, that is you and your . . . er . . . you and Ash would like to come.”

Mark’s mouth fell open and he turned to look at his partner. Ash had his arm wrapped around his own waist and his head ducked over his coffee cup.

“Did you hear that?” Mark said.

“Yeah.” Ash avoided his eyes.

Mark walked over to him. “So what do you think?” he said gently. “Do you want to go?”

Ash lifted his head, his eyes now wide with surprise. “Really?”

Mark smiled. “Really.”

 

 

Amy hustled Emma into her light jacket and set the security alarm before carefully closing and locking the door behind them.

“Who’s going to meet me after school, Mommy?”

“I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“But what if you have to show a house?”

“I won’t.”

“So I’ll see you after school?”

“Yes. And I know, don’t—

“—be late!” They finished together. Emma giggled. She did this little question-and-answer every morning. It was obviously a comfort ritual and Amy would continue to offer that security as long as it was needed.

She strapped Emma into her car seat and walked around to the driver’s side, pausing to admire the tulips and daffodils the warm weather had finally forced up from the flowerbeds. This was her handiwork and it bordered her small frame house beautifully. Her house. Hers and Emma’s. It had taken some time, but it finally felt like home.

“We’re going camping with Ryan this weekend, right?” Emma asked as Amy drove down the block.

“Right.”

“Do you think he knows how to skip rocks?”

Amy smiled. “If not, I’ll bet you could teach him.”

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Copyright © 2006 Rebecca Mertz

 

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-1805-5