Every Time I Think of You

  “Were you the one who called nine one one?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what you heard?”

  “It was a man’s voice,” she said. “He was shouting something. I don’t hear very well and I wasn’t wearing my hearing aid because it hurts my ear. I was on my way out and if I hadn’t been standing in the hallway, I might not have heard him at all. I feel so bad that I didn’t do anything sooner!” Margaret was wringing her hands and when the teapot whistled a moment later, she jumped, making me aware of just how tightly she was wound.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. I’ll just get the tea,” she said. “Would you like milk and sugar?”

  “Plain is fine.”

  When she returned, I accepted the cup and saucer and took a small drink, trying not to grimace at the bitter taste. “Did Pauline normally have male visitors?” I asked after I set down the cup.

  “No, never. I saw her every day, usually after lunch. Sometimes if Elliott was napping we’d play cards at her kitchen table.”

  “She watched Elliott during the day?”

  “Yes. She loved taking care of that little boy. I can’t believe that poor child was in the apartment when Pauline was killed.”

  “When you heard the man shouting at Pauline, could you understand any of the words he said?”

  “He just sounded angry. Agitated, more than anything. I thought about knocking on the door, to see if Pauline was okay, but I got scared, so I went back into my apartment and called the police.”

  “Did you hear anything else? Like maybe a door slam?”

  “I don’t remember hearing anything like that.”

  “Is there anyone you can think of who might be responsible for this?” I took another drink of my tea. I should have accepted the milk and sugar.

  She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know anyone who didn’t like Pauline. But there was that trouble with Scott.”

  I leaned forward. “That’s Daisy’s ex-husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It’s sad, really. That boy had such a bright future, but he fell in with the wrong crowd down at the restaurant. Drugs,” she whispered. “He stole some money from Pauline once. It broke her heart. She just couldn’t believe it.”

  I’d lost count of how many crimes I’d reported on that had drugs—or the money to buy them—as their motive. Margaret’s disclosure immediately elevated Scott from person of interest to top suspect.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said. I ripped a page from my notebook and wrote down my name and number. “Please call me if you should think of anything else. We rose and walked toward the door. “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Please don’t open your door for anyone the way you did for me.”

  Margaret wrung her hands and looked frightened. “I won’t.”

  “Do you have someone who can install a safety chain on your door? Or maybe a peephole?”

  “My son is rather handy. I’ll ask him.”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  I knocked on nine doors and spoke to six more people. They all said the same thing: Pauline was a wonderful person, everyone liked her, and wasn’t this just a horrible tragedy?

  Tragic, yes. But if Scott DiStefano wasn’t responsible, the sheer absence of any reason why someone would want to intentionally harm Pauline Thorpe would lead me to believe that the homicide was every bit as random as it seemed.

  CHAPTER 10

  SCOTT

  Scott DiStefano placed a few shards of crystal meth in the bowl of a spoon, added water, and stirred the mixture with the plastic cap of a syringe until it dissolved. His movements were those of a seasoned drug user. There was no fumbling, no hesitation. Just the habitual following of the necessary steps. If only he’d maintained the same precision, the same devotion, in other areas of his life—work, home, family—he would have had so much more to show for his thirty years.

  But he hadn’t.

  He’d made mistakes.

  Lots of them.

  Thinking that he could outsmart and resist the pull of addiction had been the biggest one of all.

  He pulled a small piece of cotton off the end of a Q-tip, dropped it in the bowl of the spoon, and then placed the tip of the needle into it. He drew back the plunger, making sure to get all the liquid, and then set the syringe aside while he made a fist and tied off with the tourniquet. It took a while for him to find a usable vein, but finally he stuck the needle in and slammed the hit home.

  He coughed and choked.

  His eyes watered.

  And then… the most righteous high. There was nothing that even remotely compared to it.

  Not sex.

  Not money.

  Not love.

  Not family.

  Nothing.

  The high was just so goddamn perfect.

  Especially when it was delivered straight into his vein by a needle.

  No hit would ever compare to his first high off of crystal meth, but that would never stop him from chasing the possibility. He couldn’t. He craved it, and one day he would find it again.

  Every now and then, he thought fleetingly of his wife Daisy. She hadn’t been able to convince him to quit, though God knows she’d tried. Meth was the only lover he had time for, and he gave it to her freely and willingly. His son, Elliott, hadn’t been enough to sway him either. His loyalty lay firmly with his addiction, and he spent every dollar—and every waking moment—in the pursuit of it. Unlike coke, meth was a cheap and powerful high. But without a steady source of income, even cheap was often out of reach.

  The door burst open and Dale entered the room.

  “Can’t seem to get that knocking thing down, can you?” Scott said, but he was feeling too good to get really fired up about it.

  “I told you I don’t have to knock,” Dale said.

  Dale owned the house and claimed he had the right to barge in whenever he felt like it. Scott was convinced that Dale was trying to catch him in the act. Of what, Scott wasn’t sure, because the only thing he ever did in his room was get high.

  With its cramped quarters and ever-present smell of unwashed bodies and lingering chemicals, the residence was hardly enviable. When Scott bothered to sleep at all, it was on an old, stained mattress on the floor that had been left behind by the previous occupant. Dale was by far the worst landlord and roommate Scott had ever had. He’d been using meth a lot longer than Scott and was prone to fits of drug psychosis and paranoia. He’d started carrying a gun, which he kept shoved down the front of his pants. One of these days, he was going to blow his balls clean off. But if it were not for the room he rented from Dale, Scott would have been forced to live in his truck.

  Dale spotted the used rig on the floor. “Where’d you score?”

  “The Tap. A guy owed me some money. I leaned on him and he paid up.”

  Dale’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”

  Scott didn’t really want to tell him. The meth he’d bought was more than he’d had in his possession for months, and he didn’t want to share. His habit required constant hustling, foraging, and—if necessary—stealing. If he was careful, this amount could last him a while.

  “Eight ball,” he finally said.

  Dale’s eyes lit up. “Fix me a shot.”

  Rent was due in three days, and Scott had no idea where he was going to come up with the money since the eight ball had set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. He could usually track down an odd job or two and make enough to cover his room, but lately he’d been having trouble finding work, and he was starting to sweat. Scott knew Dale was flat broke and tweaking, having burned through the last of his stash on a binge that spanned the previous three days. Scott figured Dale might be pretty desperate right about then and open to a little negotiation.

  “I’m gonna need more time on my rent this month.”

  Dale visibly twi
tched, and his face hardened into a sneer. He’d inherited the house from his dad, and he counted on Scott’s rent money, and the money he collected from various other tenants who came and went, to pay the utilities and keep himself in drugs.

  “I told you if you don’t pay, you’re out.”

  “Then I guess I better get down to the Tap and sell the rest of this.”

  It would be three days before Dale would see rent money from anyone, which meant three days without drugs.

  “Fine,” Dale said.

  “I have until the fifth to pay my rent.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Dale said. Thinking only about his impending high, he was no longer listening.

  “You got any clean rigs?” Scott asked.

  “I’m out.”

  Of course you are. Dale was always out. And unlike Scott, Dale didn’t really care if the needle was clean. Scott grabbed a paper bag on the floor and pulled out a clean syringe. No way in hell was he sharing needles with Dale.

  Scott tapped out more meth into the spoon and added water. “Where were you?” he asked. Not that he really cared, but Dale spent an exorbitant amount of time on the couch watching porn. He hadn’t been home when Scott returned from the Tap, and Scott was curious about what had finally prompted Dale to leave the house.

  “Nowhere,” Dale said. He tied off and waited for Scott to finish loading the syringe. “Oh, that shit’s good,” he said when the needle hit home. He smiled, and it was truly a gruesome thing. Dale’s teeth were in horrible shape and he’d been picking at his skin again.

  He looks like a ghoul.

  Jesus Christ. I hope I never look like that.

  Scott pushed those thoughts aside and smiled back as two addicts found their common ground.

  CHAPTER 11

  DAISY

  Two days after my grandmother died, I made arrangements with the funeral home. Pam and Shane both had to work, so I had no choice but to bring Elliott with me. One of my friends from the hospital—a nurse named Kayla whom I’d worked with for the past three years—had kindly offered to watch Elliott later that afternoon so I could go to my old apartment and start packing, but I didn’t feel comfortable foisting him off on her for the whole day. My grandmother had always been there to watch Elliott—she’d insisted on it, in fact. I wasn’t used to arranging for childcare, and I hated having to rely on other people. Finding someone to watch Elliott, especially with my work schedule, wouldn’t be easy.

  The funeral director shook my hand and spoke to me in calm, soothing tones undoubtedly honed from years of dealing with family members as they made arrangements for the burial of their loved ones. He was good at it too, because I instantly felt less anxious.

  He led us into a room and pulled out chairs for Elliott and me. Settling into his own chair on the other side of the table, he fanned out a number of glossy brochures. “Do you know anything about your grandmother’s wishes for burial?” he asked as I handed some crayons and a piece of paper to Elliott.

  I was ashamed of how little I had pushed my grandmother to discuss this type of thing with me. If I didn’t feel comfortable pressing her about her finances, I certainly hadn’t been comfortable asking her what she’d like me to do when she died.

  “Due to the circumstances of my grandmother’s death, I’ve only been back to the apartment we shared long enough to grab a few things. I’m going there this afternoon, and I can look through her personal belongings. I’ll see if I can find a will, or a directive of some sort.”

  I didn’t even know if she had a will. When I’d given her a copy of mine, she’d thanked me and that had been the end of it. Another opportunity for a discussion that I hadn’t taken advantage of.

  “That would be fine,” he said. “We can still make the preliminary arrangements and adjust accordingly if necessary.”

  “Many of my grandmother’s friends are elderly and no longer drive. I’d hate for them to have to come out twice. Could I have a combined visitation and funeral service?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Do you know approximately how much it will cost?”

  “We have a range of options available. Do you have a budget in mind?”

  “Not yet. I’ll try to come up with one by tomorrow.”

  “That will be fine. For now we’ll plan on a combined visitation and memorial service, with burial immediately afterward. Would Saturday work for you?”

  I had so many things on my mind, so many things I was trying to balance, but I needed the closure of my grandmother being laid to rest. I felt like I hadn’t spent enough time reflecting on her life or honoring her memory. I would put everything else on hold the day of her service so I could say a heartfelt good-bye.

  “Yes,” I said. “Saturday will be fine.”

  *

  After I dropped off Elliott at Kayla’s, I drove to the apartment to start packing. I chastised myself for feeling so apprehensive. This was still my home, for a few more days at least. I would lock the door behind me and concentrate on the task at hand, which was to get everything boxed up before Shane and his friends arrived on Sunday to move all our belongings to the new apartment. I walked down the quiet hallway, but instead of sticking the key in my own lock, I knocked on Margaret’s door instead.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Margaret? It’s Daisy.”

  She fumbled with the lock and then threw the door open. “Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She burst into tears and I threw my arms around her.

  “It’s okay,” I said, patting her gently on the back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I should be comforting you.”

  “We’ll comfort each other.”

  “Come in,” she said, grabbing my hand and leading me into the living room.

  I sat down on the couch. “I wanted to thank you for calling the police, Margaret. You don’t know how much it means to me that you tried to help my grandmother. It was a brave thing to do.”

  Margaret wiped her eyes. “Pauline was a good friend to me. I’ll miss her dearly.”

  I took a deep breath. “Elliott and I are moving. We can’t stay in that apartment. It would be too painful and I don’t know that I would ever feel safe there again. I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “I’ll miss you and Elliott, too. But I understand. My son called this morning. He wants me to move, but I told him I’m too set in my ways. This is my home and I’m not afraid. He’s angry with me, but he’s coming over today to install a safety chain on the door.”

  Looking at Margaret, her back slightly hunched from osteoporosis, her bones brittle as old parchment, I was again reminded just how nondiscriminatory evil could be. Whoever had killed my grandmother didn’t care that she was elderly and unable to defend herself. The fact that someone was capable of killing a woman like my grandmother, like Margaret, was unfathomable to me. And yet it had happened.

  “I can understand why he’s upset,” I said.

  “I can, too,” Margaret admitted. “That reminds me. There was a reporter here yesterday. He told me to be careful about who I open my door to. He asked me lots of questions.”

  “I spoke to someone from the newspaper when I was at the police station.”

  “Was he handsome? This man was quite handsome. He had dark hair. Very tall. A little older than you, maybe.”

  “I don’t remember what he looked like.” I’d been so out of it I barely remembered speaking to him. I stood up. “I better get started on the packing. The visitation and funeral will be Saturday. Elliott and I are staying with Pam and Shane, but I’ll come by and pick you up. I’ll let you know what time as soon as the details are finalized.”

  “Thank you, dear. I would love that.”

  She walked me to the door.

  “You were such a good friend to her,” I said, reaching out to give her a hug. “I’ll see you soon.”

  *

  In the apartment, I flipped on all the lights and made sure the door was loc
ked behind me. It was too quiet, so I switched on the small radio in the kitchen and turned it to the easy-listening station.

  Deciding that my grandmother’s room was the best place to start, I pushed open her door. She had insisted that Elliott and I take the bigger bedroom when we moved back in, and her furniture and belongings barely fit into the smaller space. The double bed was pushed up against the wall, and there was just enough room for her nightstand to be placed beside it. Her dresser sat adjacent to the bed, and other than a small walkway between the bed and dresser, every inch of the room was used up.

  Feeling overwhelmed, I began by going through the nightstand. Shane was going to drop off some boxes later that afternoon. In the meantime, I decided I’d separate everything into piles on the bed: stay, toss, donate.

  The nightstand was virtually empty. I found a roll of cough drops, lip balm, several pictures of Elliott, a tube of hand cream, a children’s picture book, and a magnifying glass. Next, I went through each of her dresser drawers but found only clothing, all of which would go into the donate pile.

  In the closet, my grandmother’s shoes were lined up in a neat row, and her clothes—mostly polyester pants, cotton shirts, and cardigan sweaters—were grouped by item.

  There was a high shelf that ran along the length of the closet. I spotted some cardboard boxes with lids and pulled down the first one. My grandmother had bundled her canceled checks by month—dating back fifteen years—and then secured them with rubber bands. Her bank statements were stored beside them in stacks and were also wrapped in rubber bands. Two more boxes held more of the same. The fourth box contained some old photo albums, the kind where you had to glue or tape the pictures in. I was more than familiar with the pictures in the albums. There was a time during my early teen years when I’d spent hours looking at the photos of my parents, trying to discern whose nose I’d inherited or if my straight hair had come from my mom or my dad. I definitely had my dad’s eyes, but my smile was absolutely my mother’s. I looked a lot like my sister, Danielle, so much so that we could have been mistaken for twins. I couldn’t look at pictures of her for very long because I would start to feel sad and hollow. Guilty, as if the earth had only been able to hold one of us and I was the lucky one.