Selling Laura Poole

By Steve Friday

Where do you go when going home isn’t safe?

Laura Poole’s home was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place where the quiet and reclusive schoolteacher could mend following an unexpected divorce. But after a perfect start, the once-cozy house on the fringe of a small Nevada town is no longer safe. The spiral of fear begins when Laura realizes someone has been getting into her house while she’s at work. The police find no evidence of forced entry, nothing is missing, and Laura’s increasingly erratic behavior raises questions about her credibility. As the intrusions become more intimate in nature, Laura realizes she must make a decision—go into hiding indefinitely or reclaim her life by forcing a confrontation with the mystery stalker. Unfortunately, her nightmare is just beginning . . .

From the Publisher:
Twisty, curvy and cleverly constructed, debut author Steve Friday has penned a compelling novel of psychological suspense populated with quirky (read: real world) characters and spirited dialogue. The motivations of its sometimes-creepy, sometimes-endearing villain will keep you guessing to the very end.

Selling Laura Poole is an emotionally immersive novel of psychological suspense by debut author Steve Friday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jet Lag Books
• Release date: Mar 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996181907

Steve Friday

Author of suspense fiction, amateur astronomer and retired cat herder, Steve lives under the clear skies of rural Nevada with his wife, Clarisse and their yellow Labrador, Boomer.

Book preview

Selling Laura Poole

Steve Friday

Copyright © 2015 Steve Friday. All rights reserved.

Published by Jet Lag Books

ISBN 978-0-9961819-0-7

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover design by ebooklaunch.com

For more about Steve Friday and future novels, please visit stevefriday.com or follow at twitter.com/stevefriday7 .

Table of Contents

Prologue

The First Day

The Second Day

The Third Day

The Fourth Day

The Fifth Day

The Sixth Day

The Seventh Day

The Eighth Day

The Ninth Day

The Tenth Day

The Eleventh Day

The Twelfth Day

The Thirteenth Day

The Fourteenth Day

The Fifteenth Day

The Sixteenth Day

The Seventeenth Day

The Eighteenth Day

SIX YEARS AGO

An hour before Papa died, he promised they would go to the park today.

As things turned out they wouldn’t have gone anyway, because of the weather. Rain painted a rippling sheet of water onto the window, but Brad could still see the park eight floors below the apartment and the base of the Eiffel Tower was visible in the distance, though its top was lost in the low-hanging clouds. He let the sheer curtain slip from his hand and the outside world disappeared behind a gauzy white haze.

He crossed the room and plopped onto the sofa with a bounce that would have drawn a warning from Mama if she wasn’t still in her bedroom. Brad picked up the model Mirage fighter jet that had been a gift from Papa. The birthday party—Brad’s twelfth—was not even two weeks ago. How could everything change so fast?

Brad lowered the jet’s landing gear, then swooped through the air and lined it up with the coffee table. The thick glass surface became, for a moment, the flight deck of an aircraft carrier; the greens and blues in Mama’s Persian carpet were the Indian Ocean. His approach was good, rate of descent perfect.

The doorbell rang.

I’ll get it, Brad yelled.

He finished the landing, then ran to the door. Still a few centimeters too short to look through the peephole, he called through the door. "Qui est la?"

It’s Aunt Victoria, Bradley.

Brad’s shoulders slumped. "You’re not my Aunt."

Open the door, young man.

He released the deadbolt and pulled on the door. Victoria was not alone. The man next to her was big, but what Brad noticed first was the eye patch. Black, like his business suit and tie, it covered his left eye—or where a left eye used to be. His hair was short, like a soldier, and he carried a thin attache case in black leather. He looked like a bad guy from one of the old movies Papa liked to watch after bedtime.

Victoria pushed the door wide and walked past Brad. She wore black, too. The man followed.

Mama, Brad yelled. Victoria’s here.

Mama entered from the hall to the bedroom wing. She stopped when she saw the strange man and tightened the belt on her robe. I didn’t expect you until later, Victoria.

There are things we must discuss before the service. Victoria’s eyes swept the apartment. Did Avery have a study? She cast a glance at Brad. Someplace we can talk?

Brad recognized the code. Victoria meant a grown-ups talk. He also caught the past tense reference to his father.

Mama led the way to a door off the living room and Eye Patch followed. Victoria trailed. Didn’t Benjamin come with you? Mama asked as she opened Papa’s study.

No, Victoria said.

But— Mama sounded like she was wounded. Avery was his father, too.

Frida, we’re going to talk. Victoria pushed the door shut and its lock engaged with a click.

The study door opened forty minutes later and Victoria emerged, followed by Eye Patch and the attache case. Eye Patch closed the door behind them. Mama must still be inside.

Remind me to stay away from your bad side, he said to Victoria.

Victoria smirked. The whore and her mongrel pup are getting more than they deserve. She cast a glance at Brad and looked for a moment as though she had something more to say. After a pause, she hurried to the apartment door.

The man approached Brad. What kind of plane is that?

A Mirage, Brad answered.

That’s a French plane. An American boy ought to be flying an F-22.

Brad stared at him. Who was this guy? And why was Mama still in the study?

Let’s go, Victoria called, opening the door.

Good luck, kid, Eye Patch said. Then he and Victoria were gone.

The First Day

Monday, May 10

Propane hissed from the stove’s burners. Waffle batter sizzled and coffee dripped as the sounds and smells of breakfast filled the kitchen of the small ranch house. Brad Colton poked the waffle with a fork and decided it was not yet ready.

On the other side of the windows the blush of first light softened the black Mojave sky. The lone bulb that dangled from the ceiling wouldn’t get meaningful help from the sun for another hour, and by then the worst of the day’s work would be finished.

Today marked a turning point. He liked that metaphor. An interface between Old and New. The point at which the End of one thing became the Beginning of another.

There would certainly be an End event: At ten o’clock this morning he would sit for the Advanced Physics exam—the final final exam of his senior year. By eleven-thirty his career as a student would be over. He allowed himself a small fist pump before grabbing an oven mitt to turn the waffle out of the iron and onto a plate.

And there would be a Beginning: The campaign to repay Victoria for the pain she’d inflicted on Mama would start this evening, at Ms. Poole’s house.

But the most significant change, the event with the clearest boundary between Beginning and End, would happen this morning before the sun was up. Within the hour he would become an orphan.

Brad spooned a dollop of whipped cream from a bowl, spread it evenly across the waffle, pleased by the steadiness of his hand. With the tip of the spoon he drew a smiling face in the cream, then added color with a sprinkle of sliced strawberries. Mama couldn’t handle a regular waffle, so he cut it into bite-sized pieces. The plate joined a glass of water and cup of coffee on a tray. He checked the stove to be certain the gas was off then carried her breakfast upstairs.

His mind raced. p=mv2. The exam would begin in five hours, so he reviewed in his head while climbing the stairs. Momentum equals mass times velocity squared.

Breakfast, Mama.

Her eyes fluttered open. Morning? Already?

Yes, Mama. And I fixed your favorite. Belgian waffles. He helped her sit up in bed, propped a pillow behind her back and set the tray across her legs. Coffee, too. Freshly ground.

She patted the bed with obvious effort. Sit next to me?

Her voice was brittle, a bit like broken glass, and so low Brad had to strain to understand the words. Yes. But wait just a minute. He went to his room, found the small book with the blue binding and hurried back. He pulled a chair alongside the bed then held the book for her to see.

Mama’s face wrinkled in surprise, then softened into a smile. Are you going to read to me?

Like old times. Brad opened the book to the inside cover, pointed to the stamp of the second-hand bookstore in Paris where they had purchased it seven years earlier. Mama took him to the park every Monday then, the year before Papa died. The walk back to the apartment always included a visit to the bookstore for another in his favorite teenaged mystery series, then a stop at the patisserie for croissants—real croissants, warm and buttery, that melted on the tongue. Mama would drink coffee and Brad would order hot cocoa. Every night he would read aloud, but in those days he was the one tucked under a blanket while she sat at bedside. Mama insisted on the ritual. It was her way to be certain her son maintained proficiency in English while growing up in Europe.

Okay, Mama. Let’s see what the boys are up to today. He turned to the opening page.

Her hand squeezed his arm. Bradley.

What, Mama?

Remember your promise?

Brad blinked.

She coughed and coffee sloshed from cup to saucer, then onto the tray; from there, it dribbled onto the bed sheet. He ignored the mess.

She asked again. Remember?

Yes, Mama.

It’s almost time. The pills don’t…

I have new medicine. Stronger. Brad pulled a brown plastic bottle from a shirt pocket, removed six pills and set them on the tray, away from the puddle of coffee. But you have to eat while I read. He smiled, hoping to draw a smile in return.

Six?

Brad nodded and began the story. She swallowed the pills without complaint then started on the waffle. At the middle of the fourth page, Mama stopped eating and reached out to take his hand. Her grip was tight, like she would never let go. By the eighth page, the grip relaxed. Brad set the book down and removed a foil packet from a back pocket. He tore it open and unfolded a gauze pad. It was small, but adequate to cover Mama’s nose and mouth. After a count of sixty, he wadded the pad into a ball and tossed it to the far corner of the room.

Brad removed the tray to keep waffle and coffee from adding to the mess on the bed, then sat next to Mama. She was unconscious, but breathing. With his left hand he pinched her nostrils together. The texture of her flesh between his thumb and forefinger was unanticipated and a bit creepy—pliant, like Play-Doh. He used his right hand to cover her mouth and began another count to sixty. At thirteen, another surprise: her feet kicked under the blanket. He had expected the pills and chloroform to render her completely unaware—oblivious—but by the count of seventeen she was still again and stayed that way.

He carried the breakfast tray back to the kitchen, rinsed and cleaned the dishes, then stepped outside. The morning air was crisp and clean; the early sun warmed his face. A buzzard soared overhead in search of breakfast. Brad filled his lungs, then closed his eyes and allowed the sun’s rays to wash his face.

When he returned to Mama’s room he bathed, then dressed her. Last night he’d retrieved her wedding gown from the chest in the attic. A year ago it would have been a difficult fit, but this morning it bunched in loose folds around her body. Lipstick restored a touch of color to her face and a brush put her hair into some semblance of order. When she was ready, he wrapped her in a blanket and hefted her across his shoulder.

Her grave would be a simple trench shaded by a cluster of mesquite trees, but she could not go there yet.

Brad carried her to the small Toyota pickup, grateful that he’d had the foresight to park near the front porch last night, and loaded Mama into the passenger seat. He fastened the seat belt to keep her from sliding to the floor. The dirt track to the south corral was rutted and steep in places. This part of the ranch, far from Grandpa’s precious orchard and Mama’s little stand of mesquite trees, was barren desert. When they arrived at the corral, he released the bungee cords that secured a plastic gasoline can in the truck’s bed and carried it ten yards to a metal watering trough that hadn’t seen livestock in over three decades. The trough was about six feet long, two wide and today it was full of chopped pieces of old fence posts. Brad poured the gasoline onto the bone-dry wood, then carefully brought Mama from the truck and laid her atop the pyre. He moved the truck to a safe distance and pulled Grandpa’s Bible from the glove box where he’d stowed it yesterday afternoon.

The morning breeze tried to loosen the shroud near her face. He carefully tucked it back in place then lit a match. The gasoline-soaked wood ignited with a roar. Heat leathered his face and wood crackled while he read the Twenty-third Psalm. He stayed until the fire burned itself out and slender wisps of smoke were all that remained. This afternoon, after the trough had cooled, he would load it into the truck and bury Mama in the shade of her favorite mesquite trees. The two-step process was necessary. A fire this size would have destroyed the only spot in this wretched desert that had given her pleasure.

Brad climbed into the Toyota and headed for the house. It was time for school.

The day’s agenda was clear in his mind, organized in the style of the to-do app in his phone.

Task 1: Mama. Done.

Task 2: Advanced Physics, review for exam. In progress.

Task 3: Victoria—first moves/4:30 set up @ Ms. Poole’s house. Not started.

Task 4: Carrie + movie/7:30. Not started.

Brad parked next to the old stable then walked back to the house, navigating around a creosote bush as a quail darted from its cover, trailed by a line of chicks. He returned his attention to the pending physics exam. Nothing less than an A would be acceptable. Mama had been so proud of the improvement in his grades this year.

g=9.8m/sec2. The acceleration of gravity at the earth’s surface is 9.8 meters per second squared.

* * * *

Ms. Poole was always home by 5:20 and she always ate supper by 6:30. She always sat at the coffee table in front of the TV to eat, watch Wheel of Fortune and a movie, then she went to bed with pajamas on and lights off by 9:20. He knew. He’d been watching for months, making notes, and Ms. Poole was as predictable as the pendulum clock in her living room.

Right now the clock’s hands pointed to 6:13. He was in her house, but she was not.

So where was she tonight?

Brad flexed his hands, working away tension, feeling the soft leather of the golf gloves stretch with his fingers. There was, he remembered, an opened bottle of sauvignon blanc in her refrigerator. A little of that would relieve some tension, too.

It was decision time.

Stay or go? If he knew where she was and why she was late, he would know what to do. His presence wasn’t really necessary. Ms. Poole’s surprise was in place and The Plan would proceed with or without him, but after all the work and all the planning he wanted to be here when she arrived home and made the discovery that would trigger all the events that would soon follow. He wanted to watch from the patio, through the small gap in the living room blinds to see the look on her face. But he had a date with Carrie and her old man came unglued if she got home even a minute past 10:30.

Brad made a decision. 6:25, no later. Twelve more minutes. He pulled his phone from a back pocket and typed a message to Carrie. Movie starts 7:30. C u @ 7:00.

He dropped into the overstuffed chair in front of the television and closed his eyes. The steady tick-tick reminded him of sitting in his father’s study as a child. Papa’s clock also had a pendulum and made a similar sound, though it was much finer in appearance. Mama would enter the study when Papa was out, advance the time by ten minutes, then hold a finger to her lips. Shh, she would whisper with a wink, making him an accomplice. He thought Papa never knew, but on the night following his twelfth birthday, Brad walked into the study and caught Papa turning the time backward by ten minutes. Papa winked and held a finger to his lips. Brad understood immediately. This was a game! A lovers’ game. He had never thought of his parents as lovers before that moment. Two weeks later, Papa was gone.

Brad opened his eyes. Stay on task.

Thinking of the wine reminded him he was thirsty. That was not a distraction. Water was a necessity before the walk back to the truck. He wandered to the kitchen, found a tumbler in a cabinet, then changed his mind in favor of a lone Waterford goblet. He filled it twice from the tap. When his thirst was gone he poured two fingers of the sauvignon blanc, then checked the bottle. The drop in level was enough to be noticed so he poured some back, then sipped cautiously. Her wine was plain, but acceptable.

The sudden sound of the power garage door opener startled him, but only for a moment. A minimum of seventy-five seconds would elapse between the time the garage door was triggered and the moment she would walk through the interior door to the utility room, then into the kitchen. He’d timed it on four previous visits. Brad immediately began counting backward from seventy.

He drained the wine in one gulp, removed a towel from a drawer and wiped the goblet dry. Fifty-six seconds. The goblet went back into the cabinet, the wine into the fridge. Forty-seven seconds. He folded the towel and returned it the drawer. Satisfied, he turned for the back door—then stopped. A small stack of mail on the back corner of the kitchen counter caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it earlier?

The top envelope was slit neatly along the top. He thumbed through the contents. It was a payroll advice, showing that Grant County School District had made a direct deposit to the Wells Fargo account of Laura Tyler Poole. He whistled softly at the amount, then stuffed the slip back into the envelope and set it in place on the pile of letters.

The distraction caused him to lose count of the time. How much was left? He hurried to the back door, but paused for a final look into the living room at the vase of roses he had placed on the coffee table. Brad smiled, then slipped through the door. The deadbolt on the door from the garage clicked open just before he turned his copy of her house key in the deadbolt on the back door.

There was a place on the patio, outside the picture window to the living room, where a small gap at the center of the blinds just above the sill allowed a view into the house. He moved to that spot.

Showtime.

For several minutes there was nothing to see and only occasional sounds as she fussed in the kitchen. At last she moved into the living room and he suppressed a laugh. Ms. Poole carried a glass of wine—in the Waterford goblet. She didn’t notice the flowers at first, while she turned on the TV and looked for the remote, but she noticed them before settling into the overstuffed chair.

She approached the roses on soft feet, as though they were an animal that might bite. Her eyes reflected the light, shining wetly as she extended a hand to check for a card. Her lower lip trembled. He eased away from the house and allowed himself to breathe again.

Okay, Victoria. It’s coming your way. The Payback Express has left the station.

* * * *

Carrie met Brad at the front door.

Mom’s baking cookies. You should get some while I change. B’right back. She disappeared upstairs. Carrie had probably changed clothes three times in the last half hour, but there was nothing to gain by mentioning that. He followed his nose to the kitchen.

Hello, Mrs. Bateman.

Hi, Brad.

Hello, Mr. Bateman. Carrie’s dad waved back, but said nothing.

Help yourself to cookies, Brad. They’re for my club’s bake sale, so the limit is four.

Mr. Bateman made a sound and struggled to swallow a mouthful of cookie. When he could speak, he said, You told me the limit was two.

She patted her husband’s belly. Your limit is two.

Mr. Bateman grunted, then turned to Brad. Movie tonight? Carrie entered, looking the same as when she’d rushed upstairs. Yes, Daddy.

Who’s in it?

DiCapprio—and that’s the last question you’re allowed to ask. She grabbed Brad’s arm. Let’s go.

Brad didn’t move. Wait a minute. I get three more cookies. He winked at Mrs. Bateman. I don’t want to offend your mom.

Carrie snatched a handful of warm cookies from a rack and tugged his arm again. You can eat on the way.

Brad looked over his shoulder as Carrie led him from the kitchen. They’re great, Mrs. Bateman. Thanks. So long, Mr. Bateman.

At the front door, Carrie stopped halfway through. I don’t like this top. Wait here. She gave the door a shove and ran up the stairs. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the window. Brad stuffed a cookie into his mouth, then heard voices from the kitchen.

You stay right there, George Bateman. Those kids can go on a date without you chaperoning from the front window. And shame on you for embarrassing your daughter.

Brad smiled. They must have heard the door close and assumed he and Carrie were already gone.

Mr. Bateman said, What did I do?

Quizzing them about the movie—like you suspect it’s a cover for some other plans. You’d better get used to the fact that they graduate on Friday—and your little girl isn’t little anymore.

I know.

Trust her, George. Either we’ve taught her to make good decisions or we haven’t. Besides, she’s been dating Brad all year and he’s a good kid. He always gets her home on time, doesn’t he?

Brad frowned. Getting Carrie back by 10:30 had never been easy.

That just means we haven’t figured out his moves yet. At their age we’d tell your parents we were going to the movies, then drive up on Angel Ridge to watch for UFOs.

I seem to remember that Angel Ridge was my idea, though it didn’t take you long to—

Brad grinned. Way to go, Mrs. Bateman!

Don’t remind me.

Why not?

Because this kid is too smooth.

"Too smooth?"

Like that silly accent you women think is so—dreamy.

His parents moved to Paris when he was a kid. You know that.

Yeah. And he can really turn it on when he wants to charm her. Or you.

He grew up there. Your cousin Danny’s folks moved to Boston when he was a kid. Now he talks funny. Should we keep Carrie away from him, too?

I worry about my little girl. You know that.

Brad’s a nice—and normal—young man, George. Just like you were. And Carrie is going to survive him. Just like I’ve survived you.

Carrie bounded down the stairs and Brad held a finger to his lips.

Ready? she whispered without

Reviews for Selling Laura Poole

[Steven Brazill · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great read! Rare combination of strong characters and compelling story line.