Don't Scream. Wendy Corsi Staub
It wasn’t even snowing in Boston that night. Tildy’s biggest worries were that she’d lose a hand of Old Maid to Lena, and that her father wouldn’t make it back home in time to tuck her in, though he’d promised he’d try.
But she wasn’t worried about her mother and brother, even though she knew little Jonathan was very sick with some kind of degenerative disease. That was nothing new; he had been ailing since birth. Her mother took him to specialists all over the country; they were on their way to Johns Hopkins on that particular trip.
Tildy won Old Maid. She always did. She didn’t realize back then that Lena always let her win.
But Daddy never made it home to tuck her in.
She woke, late, to find him sitting on her bed in her darkened room, sobbing. He held her close and he told her that Mother and Jonathan were gone. He promised her that he would always take care of her.
“But you’re never home, Daddy,” Tildy cried.
“That will change now, baby. You’ll see.”
And it did.
Daddy’s Girl. That’s Matilda Harrington, to this day.
The heels of her Dior pumps click across the hardwood floor of the hall and into the dining room, where they encounter the antique area rug that once belonged to French royalty, and then to American royalty. It had been passed down through the Kennedy family, and one of the cousins gave it to Daddy, who later agreed that it would look beautiful in Tildy’s dining room.
The swinging door to the kitchen is propped open, as always, with a cast iron pineapple-shaped doorstop, also antique. Troy bought it at auction and gave it to her as a housewarming gift.
“A pineapple?” she asked dubiously.
Troy told her that in Colonial times, wealthy hostesses kept their dining room doors closed so their guests could only anticipate the luscious food being prepared in the kitchen. When the elaborate, sumptuous platters were ceremoniously presented—topped with precious, expensive pineapples—the guests were duly impressed.
Now, according to Troy, the fruit symbolizes elegant hospitality.
Tildy decided it would be ironically fitting to use the doorstop in her own dining room—where, incidentally, the door to the kitchen is always kept open. She doesn’t cook, though she did just install professional-grade chef’s appliances.
A few more tapping footsteps across the newly lain stone floor of the just renovated—and yet-to-be-used—kitchen, and Tildy reaches the rear French door.
As she emerges into the twilight, she notes that the night is warm, much too warm to light the living room fireplace.
She hesitates on the brick patio, gazing across the small, stockade-fenced yard toward the woodpile in the far corner neatly covered by a blue tarp. She could lay a small fire—just a couple of logs and some kindling.
But what if one of her Back Bay neighbors smells the wood smoke and asks her about it?
So what? That’s not going to prove anything.
Still…better to avoid the slightest chance of arousing suspicion.
Tildy returns to the kitchen. This is her favorite room in the Victorian-era Commonwealth Avenue town house, which she’s spent three years renovating from top to bottom. She spared no expense, and barely put a dent in her trust fund, as she pointed out to Daddy when he mentioned that she’ll never get back out of the house what she’s put into it.
“Who says I’m selling it?” she retorted.
“You will when you meet someone and settle down.”
“I am settled,” she informed him, neglecting to add that she’s already met someone.
Pacing, she considers her next move—even as she appreciates the aesthetics of the recently completed room.
The stunning floor is made of flat stone imported from Provence; the countertops are gray granite, the sleek new appliances stainless and black. The only splash of color in the monochromatic room is the bouquet of red tulips in a vase beside the stainless steel double sink.
Tulips. Out of season, and as out of place in her cool modern decor as that loser Ray Wilmington is in her life. But he can’t seem to take a hint.
“Did you get my flowers?” he asked this morning, showing up beside her desk at the nonprofit organization where they both work—Tildy, because it’s something to do and the minuscule salary is inconsequential; Ray, because he fervently believes in the cause.
“Yes, I got them, thank you.” She offered a brief, closed-lip smile.
“I saw those red tulips and of course I thought of you.”
She couldn’t help but wonder why. She’s not Dutch, she never wears red, and, anyway, what business does he have thinking of her?
She never thinks of him.
That is, she never thought of him until the flowers arrived.
Well, she can fix that.
With a haughty toss of her flaxen hair, she marches over to the counter, wraps a fist around the red petals, and pulls the flowers from their vase. Turning on the faucet and the garbage disposal, she feeds the tulips down the sink drain stem by stem, satisfied by the subterranean rumbling as they’re devoured.
Then she grabs the vase—stock florist-shop glass, not even crystal—and deposits it into the empty rolling garbage bin concealed behind a white cabinet door. It makes a satisfying shattering sound as it smashes against the bottom.
Perfect.
Now that all reminders of Ray Wilmington have been obliterated from her house, she can focus again on the matter at hand.
She turns the front burner of the gas stove on HIGH, producing a satisfying orange-blue flame. Then she takes wood-handled barbecue tongs from a drawer.
She reaches into the pocket of her navy blazer, which, according to dorky Ray, exactly matches her eyes. Can’t argue with that.
And she didn’t.
Compliments, she’ll accept.
She removes from her pocket the envelope she took out of her mailbox when she got home, and, after a moment’s thought, opens the flap. She wants to give the card a final once-over.
It’s as generic as a greeting card can get: a cluster of primary-colored balloons against a white background beneath the words “Happy Birthday” in gold script.
Inside, letters clipped from newspaper headlines spell out the words “TO ME,” and beneath that, “XOXOXOXO, R.”
She signed everything that way.
It stood for “Hugs and Kisses, Rachel.”
Oh, hell…
Tildy might have known this could happen—that the dark secret from her past could resurface someday.
But when year after year went by, the memory of that night fading like a photo left out in the sun, she pushed the possibility from her mind with increasing ease.
Okay, Rachel…So you’ve come back to haunt me.
Well, guess what? I don’t get spooked that easily.
The tongs steady in her hand, Tildy extends the card over the open flame and thoughtfully watches it burn.
CHAPTER 2
Just minutes ago, Brynn was lamenting the fact that Thursday is Garth’s late night on campus; he has a class until nine o’clock and often stays on campus for hours afterward, doing research in the library and his office there.
A sociology professor whose concentration is the study of death and dying, he’s been working for a few years on a book.