Broken Promises (13 page)

“Gary did,” Bradley admitted.

“Gary did,” the attorney repeated. “And you accepted that money because you believed him to be a trusted friend. Isn’t that correct?”

“I did, before he kidnapped my wife,” Bradley answered angrily.

“Isn’t it possible, Chief Alden, that Jeannine felt he was a trusted friend too,” the attorney asked. “And went to him for protection and security when she wanted to escape her marriage to you?”

“No!” he countered loudly. “She did not leave me for him. She was kidnapped. She was drugged and taken from our home.”

The attorney turned fully and faced Bradley. “Once again, Chief Alden, do you have any evidence to back up these charges?” he asked, his eyebrow raised fractionally.

Bradley looked frantically at Mary and Ian and saw the frustration in their faces.

Nothing. I have nothing. The word of a ghost. Nothing to prove this in court.

“No, I have no evidence,” he said slowly.

“No further questions, your honor,” the attorney said.

“Chief Alden,” the judge replied. “You may step down.”

Stanley unlocked his front door and cautiously pushed it open. Both he and Rosie peered around the door into the house and searched the room.

“What are we looking for?” Rosie whispered into his ear.

“Glowing lights,” Stanley said over his shoulder, “in the hallway.”

Rosie stood on her tiptoes to peer over Stanley’s shoulder. “Isn’t it hard to see glowing lights in the daytime?” she asked.

Stanley paused and then swung the door wide open. “Well, you didn’t have to make it sound so obvious,” he grumbled.

She bit back a laugh. “I’m sorry, Stanley,” she said, stepping into the house behind him. “What would you suggest we do next?”

Putting his hands on his hips, he looked around the house. It hadn’t been remodeled since Verda had died over fifteen years ago. The blonde wooden bookcase and television stand still held the RCA Victor television set they had purchased the Christmas before she died. A shelf of VCR tapes sat next to the aging VCR player and the small DVD player his children had bought him for Christmas a few years back still sat in the box, unopened, next to it.

The cable box sat on top of the television, attached to the back by a series of connectors that modified the old hardware to communicate with the new. Even though it took the cable installer an hour to figure it out, Stanley told him he’d never have one of those new-fangled televisions that were thinner than a dinner plate in his home.

Pictures of his family hung on the wall over the television. From their wedding photo in black and white, to the last photo he and Verda took with their children, grandchildren and even a great-grandchild, they illustrated the history of his life.

He finally turned to Rosie, who stood waiting expectantly for his answer. “Guess I never stopped to really look at my house before,” he said. “Guess it seems like I stopped moving forward when Verda died.”

Rosie wrapped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder, looking at the photos in front of them. “You have a lovely family,” she said. “And you should be proud of what you and Verda accomplished.”

He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer and pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”

Rosie stepped away and looked around the rest of the room. “Where did you say you saw her?” she asked.

Stanley walked through the living room of the small ranch-style home into the kitchen. “Well, the first time, I was here at the sink,” he explained. “I was heating up some milk and helping myself to a piece of your strawberry-rhubarb pie. I saw a glowing figure move from the office to the bedroom.”

“Was your office disturbed?” she asked. “Did it look like she was searching in there?”

Looking a little embarrassed, Stanley hesitated.

“What?” Rosie asked.

Sighing, he held out his hand and, after taking hers, led her through the hall to the office. “As you can see,” he explained, as he switched on the light, “I don’t know if anybody could tell that someone was in here.”

Gasping softly, Rosie looked around at the piles of papers, magazines, books and newspapers scattered around the room. “How do you ever find anything?” she asked.

“I got a system,” Stanley grumbled. “Works just fine fer me.”

Rosie turned and stared at him. “Stanley Wagner, you cannot tell me that Verda allowed you to have a room like this in her home,” she said. “I just won’t believe it.”

Bending his head down, Stanley shuffled his foot for a moment. “Naw, she didn’t,” he confessed. “She would make me dig my space out regularly. Usually took me a couple of days to do it.”

Shaking her head, Rosie turned and walked out of the room without saying a word. Stanley heard some rustling coming from the kitchen and in a moment Rosie was back with an empty garbage bag, a broom, a dust pan and a dust mop in her hands. “You have five days until we’re married,” she said, handing him the equipment. “You had better start cleaning now.”

“But, but…what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’ll tidy your kitchen, I’ll make your meals and I’ll even try and organize the other rooms in your home,” she said. “But you don’t stop working on this room except to eat and sleep until it’s clean.”

“But how about television?” he asked. “The History Channel?”

She sent him a sideways look. “No television until the work is done,” she declared. “And if you complain, I won’t make any desserts.”

“But, Ver…, I mean Rosie,” he began.

Placing her hands on her hips she stared at him for a moment. “And now I understand why she was haunting you,” she said before turning and walking out of the room.

A cold wind blew in the schoolyard and plastic grocery bags and newspapers were airborne as children dashed around them, making their way to the parked buses at the side of the schoolyard. Clarissa walked slowly through the playground. She knew that Mrs. Gunderson would be waiting in her car, an ancient Buick that spewed black smoke and smelled of old cigarettes and stale beer. But before the key was shoved into the ignition and the car coughed to life, Mrs. Gunderson would demand the envelope that contained her babysitting money. The envelope she no longer had.

If she told Mrs. Gunderson the truth, there was a good chance she would go after the boys for the money. One of the boys was her nephew, after all, the same nephew who promised with a smile that if she told anyone, her mother would be killed. A shiver went through Clarissa’s body that had nothing to do with the cold. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, those young men would kill her mother without a second thought.

If she didn’t tell Mrs. Gunderson, she would find out soon enough, when the small zippered compartment was opened and no money was inside. She was pretty sure Mrs. Gunderson would throw her out of her car and leave her standing on the sidewalk in front of the school. She was also sure Mrs. Gunderson would accuse her of stealing the money or would accuse her mother of cheating her. Either way, her mother would find out the money was gone and that was one thing Clarissa couldn’t let happen.

She paused at the corner of the school as an idea took hold in her mind. Bending down, she laid her backpack on the ground and picked up a sharp rock. She pounded on the zipper pull until the small metal tabs broke and then, for good measure, she pounded on the zipper slide until it was misshapen and couldn’t be moved. With a small smile, she slipped the backpack on and skipped to the waiting car.

“What took you so long?” Mrs. Gunderson snapped. “I told you to come straight to me from your room. You hanging with some kids?”

Clarissa shook her head as she climbed into the car and tried to insert the rusted and filthy seatbelt into the buckle. “No, Mrs. Gunderson,” she said. “The teacher had to help me with my backpack. Someone took it and broke it.”

“What!?!” she screamed. “My money’s in that backpack. What the hell were you thinking?”

Clarissa shook her head. “The teacher said it looks like they tried to get into the pocket with your money, but they couldn’t. She said we should take it home and use…,” she paused, trying to remember the name of the tools her father used to use to open things. “Oh, yes, pliers…she said pliers would work to get it open.”

Mrs. Gunderson grabbed the backpack and tried to force the zipper down, but it was stuck fast.

“Pliers? I ain’t got no damn pliers in my apartment,” Mrs. Gunderson complained, as she started the car. “Who does your teacher think I am, some damn plumber?”

Clarissa decided that was one of those questions she shouldn’t answer.

Mrs. Gunderson maneuvered the large car around the block of the school and through a side street to the main boulevard. Clarissa looked over and watched the older woman’s face. She could tell she was thinking about something because her mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. She did that a lot when she was thinking about things. Finally, she pasted a crooked smile on her face and turned to Clarissa. “So, sweetie, did anything unusual happen at school today?” she asked.

“I got an A on my spelling test,” Clarissa responded innocently.

“I don’t give a damn…,” the woman caught herself. “I mean, that’s good. That’s great. But, did anything happen on your way to school?”

She lifted her overly plucked eyebrows in encouragement and Clarissa thought she resembled a heron they had studied in school. “Well, let me see,” Clarissa said slowly. “There was one thing.”

“Yes, what happened Clarissa?”

“A lady on the bus smiled at me today,” she responded with a bright smile.

“I mean after you got off the bus,” she said tightly.

Clarissa could tell Mrs. Gunderson was ready to lose her temper and generally that meant she was going to get slapped again. She wondered why Mrs. Gunderson would ask her so many questions about what happened that morning. It was almost as if…

Mrs. Gunderson knew those boys were going to take the money!
The thought burst into her mind with both speed and assurance.
Mrs. Gunderson wanted those boys to steal from her. She told them about the money. That’s how they knew she was carrying it that morning.

She turned a little on the seat and faced her babysitter. “Don’t kill my mother, Mrs. Gunderson,” she said softly. “Don’t let them kill my mother.”

Mrs. Gunderson sucked in her breath. “I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. “What are you talking about?”

Clarissa took a deep breath. “You don’t have to watch me anymore,” she said. “I’ll give them the money every month. But please, don’t let them hurt my mother.”

They arrived in front of the apartment complex and Mrs. Gunderson pulled the car to the curb. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and then she leaned forward and met Clarissa’s eyes. “And as long as you do what you’re told, I’m sure your mother will be safe.”

Clarissa met her eyes squarely; she didn’t flinch or sink back. “That’s fine,” she said, “as long as you never tell my mother about this.”

A cackle of laughter spilled from her mouth. “Tell her? Are you kidding me?” she spat. “This is the best deal I’ve had in a long time.”

Clarissa nodded and reached for the door release. “Thank you,” she said solemnly before she slipped out of the car and walked away.

Mary opened the door to her house and immediately smelled the garlic and oregano of Italian cooking. Inhaling deeply, she realized suddenly that she was not only hungry, she was starving. “Rosie, I love you,” she called from the doorway, as she pulled off her coat and hung it in the closet.

“Aye, I’ll be seconding Mary on that,” Ian said, dropping his coat on the couch and heading directly into the kitchen.

Apron-covered with two large spoons in her hands as she tossed a large salad, Rosie stood on the other side of the counter. “I thought you might be hungry after your day in court,” she explained. “And I decided to give Stanley some time off for good behavior. Besides we were both dying to know what happened.”

Ian lifted the edge of a red and white striped dish towel that was covering a large bowl and discovered large chucks of garlic bread. He picked out a piece, took a large bite and closed his eyes in satisfaction. “Thank you, Rosie,” he said. “You have been the saving grace for an otherwise bloody frustrating day.”

She looked past Ian to Mary. “Where’s Bradley?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Bradley was returning some calls to his office,” Mary explained. “He’ll only be a few minutes. But Ian’s right, things did not go well in court today.”

Stanley walked over from the recliner, where he’d been watching television. “Seems like it ought to be an open and shut case,” he said. “You let those lawyers twist your words?”

Ian glanced sharply at Stanley. “I wouldn’t repeat that comment when Bradley’s here,” he said. “He took a beating on the stand and it wasn’t his fault. How do you tell a judge and jury that you know your wife was kidnapped and repeatedly raped because her ghost told you about it?”

Stanley nodded. “Yeah, I could see the problem with that.”

“They made it look like Jeannine ran away from Bradley and sought protection from Gary,” Mary said. “They made it seem that Bradley was mentally unsound and Jeannine’s only recourse was to hide from him.”

Rosie slammed the wooden spoons down on the counter. “Why that’s just ridiculous,” she said. “Bradley is one of the best men I’ve ever met. He would never harm his wife; he’s just too noble for that.”

“Thank you, Rosie,” Bradley said from the doorway. “Perhaps I need you to testify as a character witness.”

He shrugged off his coat and hung it in the closet and joined the group in the kitchen. Mary met him and gave him a hug. “You did a great job on the stand. You were able to bring out some issues that would have been hid from the jury otherwise.”

“But they were overturned,” he said with a shake of his head. “And we weren’t able to use any information from his house. So the videos of his patients, the bodies in the freezer, nothing is admissible.”