Two Widows: A totally gripping mystery and suspense novel Read online

  “Shit!” I said under my breath. We hadn’t even used our good china yet, and now I’d probably broken some of it.

  I looked over my shoulder, inexplicably worried that someone had witnessed my clumsiness. It was only 4 p.m., though, and Jason wouldn’t be home from work for at least another hour or two. I regained my footing and brushed the dust from my pants. The china—broken or not—could wait for another day. Besides, it might be years before we got around to eating off it.

  A long-legged spider skittered across the side of a box just inches from my hand. I jumped back, overwhelmed by a sudden urge to escape the enclosed room. But first I needed to be sure I’d taken the right bin from the shelf. I tried not to think about how many other spiders might be creeping toward me, or the number of mice that might be hiding in the corners, under the old hoses and extension cords, or behind the mountains of cardboard containing Jason’s ratty toys and clothes. I slowed my breathing and focused only on the turquoise bin in front of me. My hand grasped the lid and peeled it open, revealing the treasures inside.

  I smiled at the familiar contents—a tattered bunny lay on top with two brown button eyes staring up at me. Peter Rabbit? I think that’s what Jason had told me, although he said he’d called the bunny Floppy. Spots of fur were worn off Floppy’s tummy, one ear was ripped, and the stuffed toy had long ago lost its clothes. Beneath the bunny were a few of Jason’s baby blankets.

  My fingers sifted through the crocheted blankets until they hit something hard beneath. I pushed the blankets to the side, finding stacks of picture books. They were Jason’s favorites from when he was a toddler. His mom had saved these things, showing them to me with a proud gleam in her eye one day after we’d gotten engaged. The memory of my mother-in-law, Mary, seemed so fresh that I sometimes forgot she was no longer with us.

  “Liz, come over here. Look what I happened upon in the attic,” Mary had said, her watery eyes the same deep blue as Jason’s. She’d acted as if her discovery was just a coincidence when I knew she’d dug out the keepsakes for the sole purpose of showing them to me. I understood that she’d wanted me to see another part of Jason, a part that she knew better than anyone and I barely knew at all. Despite our differences, I’d loved her for that. We’d giggled at the raggedy bunny and laughed even harder when Jason grabbed the toy from the box and called him Floppy. He’d been a good sport about the whole thing, chuckling along with us, but I could tell by the way he hugged the bunny to his chest that it still meant something to him.

  “And this was his very favorite book,” Mary had said, holding up a Goodnight Moon board book with worn edges.

  “Oh, yeah. I loved that one.” Jason snatched the book and read through the pages, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  The bulb flickered again and I froze, terrified of being caught in the dark. I piled everything back into the container and dragged it straight out of the horrible room, turning off the light and pulling the door closed behind me. One step at a time, I heaved the bin up the stairs to the main floor, grinning at my good fortune.

  I’d found out I was pregnant less than two days ago while on assignment in Aspen. Although Jason was thirty-two and I was approaching thirty, we hadn’t planned for a baby—not yet, anyway—but we hadn’t been too careful either. I’d written off my morning nausea to too much coffee on an empty stomach, but when the queasiness didn’t go away I’d taken a pregnancy test. Minutes later, two lines had appeared on the stick and it seemed as though an inexplicable magic trick had taken place. Two lines meant positive. I reread the instructions on the back of the box and then retook the test with more sticks. Two lines appeared each time and the realization that we were going to have a baby, that we’d created another human being, slowly set in. My heart had pounded, but whether it was from excitement or fear, I wasn’t sure. Jason would make a terrific dad, no doubt about that. On top of being a great provider, he was patient and loving and goofy. But, me? A mom? It was a role I’d never tried on myself and it was difficult to wrap my head around. Yet, I felt as if I was floating above my body, as if I was witnessing something slightly beyond my comprehension.

  I’d called Jason right away, bursting to share the news that would change our lives, but my initial calls had gone to voicemail. My fingers fumbled over themselves, anxious to text him, but then stopped, remembering hearing about all of the fun ways my friends had surprised their husbands with the news of a baby: a onesie with the words I love my daddy written across the front; a plate filled with jars of baby food presented for dinner; a box of diapers wrapped in fancy paper. That’s when I thought of Floppy and the box from my mother-in-law sitting in our storage room, and came up with the plan to dig out Jason’s most treasured items from his childhood. I’d wrap them up and give them to him as a present when he got home from work. It would be the most meaningful way to tell him and to start the next chapter of our lives. His mom had saved those keepsakes for a time just like this and it would be a present he’d never forget.

  I dragged the plastic container to the center of the living room, lifting it slightly so as not to scratch our newly refinished hardwood floors. Our 2,500-square-foot house in Royal Oak had been a fixer-upper when we’d bought it a year and a half ago and it was still a work in progress. The main floor was complete though, and now we’d have a good reason to finish the improvements to the two extra bedrooms upstairs. I bit my lip, suppressing the smile that was permanently plastered to my face. We could start the upstairs renovations right away. Jason’s investment business had been booming, the deposits hitting our bank account growing larger and larger by the month. We’d paid off the construction loan and Jason’s student loan, and there was still some money left over.

  While the financial windfall was nice, I worried Jason used his long hours at the office as a coping mechanism—a way to deal with his pain since his mom’s sudden heart attack last year. It was obvious that he hadn’t completely dealt with the loss, his moods shifting with the wind and a frequent vacancy glazing over his eyes. Whenever I tried to talk to him about her, he brushed me off and said he was fine. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t know how hard to push.

  My phone buzzed on the table and I hoped it wasn’t my editor, Gwen. I was a journalist for one of Detroit’s major publications, The Observer, where I contributed to a column on vacation destinations and local events. It kept me busy and allowed me to travel for free, but my salary barely paid the bills. Now with a baby on the way, maybe I’d have to make some adjustments. I’d talk to Gwen about it when the time was right. The number on my phone wasn’t familiar. I sent it to voicemail and refocused my attention on the storage container.

  I laid the blankets aside and dumped the board books out on the living room rug, singling out Goodnight Moon for Jason’s gift box. The book went into the cardboard box first, followed by his tattered bunny. No note. No other hints. I wanted him to be confused for a minute before he figured it out. I taped the box closed and folded some blue-and-white-striped wrapping paper around it.

  My hand wandered across the shag rug searching for the Scotch tape, but something else poked my thumb. Sifting through the long strands of carpet, my fingers uncovered a tiny silver object. I pinched it, inspecting the blue topaz center and hooked backing. It was an earring, but it wasn’t mine. It must have fallen out of the storage bin when I’d dumped the contents across the floor.

  My chest heaved, realizing it must have been Mary’s earring. I envisioned it snagging on one of the old blankets or falling into the container when she’d leaned over to pack it for the last time, not knowing she’d soon suffer a heart attack and never see her keepsakes—or her family—again. A wave of heat rose up in me, stinging my eyes. Poor Mary! She’d never get to meet her grandchild. I surveyed the piles of books and blankets and stuffed toys surrounding me and steadied myself, my breath trapped in my throat. The best part of my mother-in-law’s life had been packed away into that turquoise bin. I held the earring between my fingers and gently placed it
in my pocket. Jason would want to save this.

  Three

  Gloria

  Now

  The watering can tipped further forward than I intended, dousing the purple-and-white petals. The flowers hung limply over the soil. “Oh!” I sucked in my breath staring at the flattened pansies. Hopefully they’d survive. I probably shouldn’t have splurged on the flowers, but it had been too hard to resist the bright pops of color after such a long, gray winter. It was almost June—safe enough weather to plant some hardy greenery to spruce up Charlie’s final resting place.

  Clutching my back, I lowered myself onto the bench underneath the shade of the oak tree. I stretched my neck toward the tiny house that had appeared in my field a few hours earlier. It was difficult to make out much through the foliage and I wondered how Beth was settling in.

  “We have a new tenant.” I spoke in a low voice in case Charlie was there with me. “Not for the garage apartment yet. This woman has a tiny house. It’s like a trailer, only nicer,” I said, explaining what I’d recently learned. “And it’s only temporary,” I added, in case he was irritated by the activity in our previously quiet field.

  I suspected I wouldn’t have had the courage to live and travel alone when I was Beth’s age. I was already married to Charlie by then, and he’d always been by my side guiding our life choices and planning for the future. He was a few years older than me and happy to lead the way. But I thought we’d have more time. Now here I was sitting by myself under an oak tree talking to my dead husband.

  The craziest thing Charlie and I had ever done was relocating from Grand Rapids to retire on this piece of land out in the middle of nowhere, and even that had been planned years in advance. A lot of good that had done! I pictured the unpaid bills stacked on my kitchen counter and the drafty windows that needed replacing. Charlie had been a mathematics teacher who’d eventually become the principal of the high school where he taught. He’d been magnificent at his job, admired by students, parents, and teachers alike, and had enjoyed his position as principal for nearly twenty years before retiring. The security of his pension had informed our decision to move, but finances had been tight since he’d died two summers earlier. Now that he was gone, I only received a quarter of the monthly payout we’d been collecting when he was alive.

  I pushed my lower jaw left, then right. The stress of not renting out the garage apartment was causing my neck to ache again. It would be so freeing to not have to pay a mortgage or utility bills. Maybe Beth was on to something.

  A door banged closed in the distance, and I discerned some movement beyond the trees. Moments later, Beth cut through a shadowy gap between two evergreens and waved when she noticed me. My knees creaked as I raised myself off the bench and returned her greeting.

  “How are you settling in?” I asked as she neared.

  “Great. Thank you.” She wore a pink nylon backpack that had strings for straps. “I realized I haven’t paid you anything yet.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t going to let you forget.” I waved my finger at her.

  Beth removed her satchel and dug through it. “Here’s the first two months’ rent, like we talked about. I probably won’t be here that long, though.”

  I nodded, happy to have at least two months of her company and some extra money.

  Whispering numbers under her breath, she pulled out a stack of cash and counted through the money before laying the pile in my hand. “Here you go. That should be six hundred dollars, but let me know if I miscounted.”

  “That’s fine, dear.” I tucked the money in my pocket without checking the amount. I wanted her to know that I trusted her.

  Beth nodded toward the waterlogged pansies. “Your flowers are pretty.”

  “Thank you.” I glanced away, flattered. “You’ll get plenty of sun out in that field. You could plant some flowers, too.”

  Beth shifted her weight. “I’ve never been much of a gardener. I’d probably kill them.”

  I nudged the ground with my toe. “I can help you. I’ve been working with this sandy soil for years. If you have time, I’ll wander back with you right now and show you a good area.”

  Beth straightened her shoulders. “Okay.”

  We meandered up my dirt driveway past the detached garage, the empty apartment looming above us. Tall shadows passed over us as we foraged through one of the many gaps in the trees. Beth had removed the hitch from the tiny house and parked her truck several feet away. Her heavy-duty hose ran along the ground. She’d already connected the water, too.

  I pointed out the sunniest areas around her tiny house and advised her to avoid the rocky soil at the far end. “Feel free to borrow my shovel. It’s usually resting on the fence next to my vegetable garden.”

  “Thanks, Gloria.” She turned toward me, her hand shielding her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Planting flowers is a good idea. It might even be therapeutic.”

  Her gaze, once again, stuck on the horizon as if she were searching for something. I wondered what kind of therapy someone like her could possibly need.

  “Yes. It is. Therapeutic.” I bit the inside of my cheek and stared at my hands. Gardening had been my one escape, my one source of joy, since Charlie had died and I’d lost touch with Ethan, but I wouldn’t tell Beth about that now. I didn’t want to say too much too soon.

  Beth refocused on me and cleared her throat. “So, since you’ve never seen a tiny house, would you like a tour? It won’t take long. Two hundred and seventy square feet.” She offered a sheepish grin, her teeth straight and white.

  I chuckled. “You’ve got me curious. I’d love to see it.”

  I followed her up the three steps to the front porch, which was big enough for the two of us, but not much else. The porch was covered by an overhang. She opened the door and waved me ahead of her. Once inside, it was as if I’d been transported into a dollhouse where I was one of the slightly off-scale dolls. To my surprise, the space was bright and airy. Gleaming hardwood floors stretched out beneath my feet and white planked walls reached up two stories above me, drawing my eyes toward a ceiling fan perched above my head. Light poured in through the second-story windows.

  “This is the living room.” Beth waved toward the walls next to us. A denim-colored couch rested along one side of the room and a square table built of wood filled a nook beside it. “Watch this.” She lifted up the wooden table, only to reveal another wooden box under it. Then she lifted that one and another wooden box appeared.

  “It’s like the Russian dolls,” I said, still unsure of the purpose of all those boxes.

  “Extra seating.” Beth pulled one of the boxes behind her and sat on it, a satisfied look on her face.

  “Isn’t that something?” I placed my hands on my hips, awed by the ingenuity of it all.

  Beth stood up and marched a couple feet past me. “The kitchen is over here.”

  Underneath a lofted space was a two-burner stove. A microwave hung above it and a compact sink on the other side. On the opposite wall stood a refrigerator, only slightly smaller than the one in my own house. A wire basket hung from the ceiling, holding onions and potatoes. Her kitchen, though mini, was beautiful, the kind designed by a professional. The appliances were newer than mine, all stainless steel and probably energy-efficient, and her countertops were the color of stone.

  “I have a few cupboards under here.” She bent down and opened two doors between the stove and the sink. “And when I need extra counter space, I can do this.” She pushed a button and a large plank came loose from the ceiling. I stepped to the side, my mouth gaping, as two cables lowered the board. Beth grabbed it, unclipped the cables, flipped out four metal legs attached to the topside of the board and, in seconds, turned it into a long table.

  “Oh, my heavens!” Maneuvering around this tiny space was more complicated than I’d imagined. My worn Formica counters suddenly seemed just fine.

  “The bathroom’s back here.” She pointed to a door at the end of the kitchen. “It’s s
mall, but it works. And the composting toilet doesn’t require any plumbing.”

  “Composting toilet? Doesn’t that…” I hesitated, not knowing how to ask the question without offending her.

  “Smell bad? That’s what I thought at first, too. But, no. It’s not like a porta-potty. It flushes by vacuum and breaks everything down in the tank. Ninety percent of the waste evaporates and the rest can be emptied out and used as fertilizer.”

  “I see. As long as you don’t empty it next to my house.” I laughed nervously.

  “I’ll find a good spot in the woods.” Beth waved me back toward the living room. “I sleep up here.” She pointed to the lofted space above the kitchen. A staircase with no railing led to the second level.

  I noticed holes on the side of each step, and reached out to touch one, but stopped, not wanting to overstep my boundaries.

  Beth nodded. “That’s a handle. Each step is another storage space.” She pulled the handle and a giant wooden drawer on rollers slid out filled with folded clothes.

  “Good gracious! You have plenty of hiding places, don’t you?”

  Beth climbed the stairs to the loft. “Watch your step,” she said over her shoulder.

  I followed, my body unbalanced and exposed without a railing to hold onto. It wouldn’t take much of a slip for me to tumble to the floor. My muscles relaxed once I stepped off the top step and into her bedroom. Like the rest of the tiny house, the room was immaculate and free of all clutter. The walls were painted a misty gray color that felt both soothing and sad. Framed black-and-white prints of flowers decorated the walls. There were no photos of people. Above the bed, a built-in shelf held a row of books. Some of them I recognized: Thoreau’s The Maine Woods, Kerouac’s On the Road, and a hardcover copy of Stephen King’s latest novel. Others I didn’t. There were a couple of books related to tiny houses, like Tiny House Basics, Minimalist Living, Organized Living, Organized Life, and one that simply said Karma in large red letters down the spine. A handful of travel magazines and a laptop rested on top of the shelf. No self-help books like the ones that sat in a messy pile on my nightstand.