Stalker
When a captivating client vanishes, cosmetics clerk Rosie Garcia sets out to return the purchases she left behind. What begins as a harmless errand slips into something far more dangerous as curiosity hardens into obsession, and Rosie crosses the fragile line between watching and wanting. Some curiosities don’t fade… they attach themselves—and begin to stalk back.
NICOLE JEFFORDS FICTION
Rosie Garcia, a dark-haired and forthright young woman with a vivid imagination, worked in cosmetics at Nordstrom. “How’s this?” she asked her client, swiftly holding up a mirror. Personally she thought Kiki Bloom’s face was magnificent and didn’t require an ounce of improvement, but she needed the sale.
“I love it!” cried Kiki. “I’ll take everything you just put on me.”
That amounted to $495 worth of lipstick, eye shadow, blush, foundation. Kiki proffered her credit card. But while the sale was being processed, she received a phone call. “Yes, yes! I’ll be there right away!” she shouted into her cell and ran from the store, leaving her credit card and all the makeup she’d just bought behind. In a flash she was there and then she was gone. Totally stunned, Rosie locked the credit card and bag of goods in a drawer, thinking Kiki would be back for them later in the day.
But a few days passed and she didn’t come back.
This gave Rosie an excuse to drop off the makeup and credit card in person. She had been to Kiki’s house before, although not by invitation. It was a habit of hers to check out clients who interested her – where they lived, what they did – and Kiki, with her long black hair and porcelain skin, was particularly fascinating. She lived in a large house in Westlake, one of Austin’s most desirable neighborhoods, was on the boards of the museum and symphony and donated to god only knew how many charities. Her husband, who had inherited a good deal of his money, had made even more in real estate; so Kiki, a pampered wife, didn’t want for a thing. She eschewed dogs as pets (too much responsibility) but had an African Gray parrot and several cages of doves, parakeets and canaries. Rosie knew that the Blooms didn't have live-in staff, just a housekeeper who came in several hours a day, and Rosie had made it her business to learn exactly what those hours were: 9:00 to 2:00.
The times Rosie had been in the house before had been thrilling to her. She’d driven over there to check the place out, had crept from her car and wandered around the property, every nerve on alert, a perfect warning system. In the back, she’d found an unlocked door. Drawing in a deep breath, she’d slipped inside only to be met with a cacophony of sound that had frightened her so much she’d nearly turned around and fled. But it was just the birds squawking, peeping, flapping. Their powdery smell was everywhere and there were seeds and feathers all over the kitchen floor. Yuk. How could anyone live like that? From then on Rosie brought bird treats and little pieces of fruit to appease them.
But the house itself? Gorgeous! So vast and plush and beautifully laid out it made Rosie’s heart swell and beat faster, the thump thump thump of it loud and aggressive in her ears. Suddenly her mouth was filled with saliva, yes, she was salivating over everything she saw – the shiny crystal, the flash of silver trays, the high-priced designer furniture, the fine carpets and polished wooden floors. If only she could live like that! Instead she was stuck in a threadbare condo with nothing but a few posters and photos pinned to the walls. Rosie, who had the gift of gab with customers, was actually not very sociable and would never have dreamed of inviting anyone to her home.
She also coveted Kiki’s husband, a man in his mid-forties whose name was Avril Levy. He was handsome! Black hair threaded with streaks of silver, a beguiling and very intellectual face. Once he had come in the front door while Rosie sat at Kiki’s dressing table, trying out Kiki’s $435 Mayson Pearson hairbrush and looping Kiki’s long and lustrous Makimoto pearl necklace around her own thick throat. (By then she had made herself a key, and not only that: an overweight guy in sweatpants who lived in her building and helped her with computer stuff, had hacked into the system and provided her with Kiki’s burglar alarm code.) When she’d heard Avril’s key in the front door, she’d quickly hidden herself in a closet and had had to tiptoe out of the house while he was in his study. How she’d wanted to go in there and run her fingers through his hair, put her lips on his neck and plant a kiss! One day she’d have him, she thought a little irrationally. He’d be hers, and they’d lie on the bed together, sipping champagne from flutes and tenderly caressing one another. That was her dream and she had every intention of activating it no matter what it took.
Kiki and Avril had become a major preoccupation for Rosie, and she enjoyed thinking about them and imagining their lives as much as someone else might be enthralled by a good novel. On the day Avril came into the house while Rosie sat at Kiki’s dressing table, she overheard him talking on the phone. “Look,” he’d said in a husky voice, “I really want to be with you, but I’m not getting a divorce.”
Wow!
“We can carry on as we’ve been doing, but I can’t afford to leave Kiki. Want to come with me to Paris next week?”
Zowie!
Rosie really wanted to know who the girlfriend was. She pictured herself traveling to Paris with Avril, and all the bones in her body seemed to melt. But then she thought of Kiki and a righteous anger soared within her. Maybe someone should warn poor, jilted Kiki about her husband’s extracurricular activities? For a moment she wondered if she, Rosie, should be the one to talk to her. They were friends after all, and perhaps it would be a kindness on Rosie’s part to give clueless Kiki a heads up. But she decided against it for now, too curious about how the situation would resolve itself without her stepping in and interfering. For now, she preferred surveillance to active confrontation.
But today she would drive over to Kiki’s house with the purchases she’d left behind at the store. And, of course, with the credit card that was now snugly planted in Rosie’s wallet. She put on a nice shirt and climbed into her little Toyota. From where Rosie lived in South Austin, it would take thirty-five minutes. When she arrived at Kiki’s house, she rang the doorbell – something she’d never done before.
No one answered.
Rosie had an uneasy feeling as she stood on the front doorstep. Her skin broke out in goosebumps and she wrapped her arms around herself for a moment to regain stability. Then she went to the back where she used her own key and was surprised to discover that the burglar alarm had been disabled. Huh. Perhaps no one had turned it on this morning? She considered leaving Kiki’s little bag of goods in the front hallway, but decided there was too much risk of exposure. And there was the question of the credit card. The safest thing would be to keep it hidden for now in her wallet. She’d return it to Kiki the next time she saw her.
As Rosie stepped inside the house, she was struck by how eerily quiet it was. Even the birds, usually so full of chatter, were hushed and silent. Rosie wandered through the house, teeth clamped so tight her jaw began to hurt. There was an odd tingling sensation at the back of her neck. She’d had a thick ham and cheese sandwich for lunch and she could feel it curdling in her stomach. At any moment she might have to lean over and puke. She drew in a breath from the pit of her stomach to the top of her lungs and that helped keep the nausea at bay. Everything’s okay, she told herself.
But somehow she knew it wasn’t. In the kitchen she saw a man’s body crumpled up on the floor. Her brain short-circuited and suddenly her mind went completely blank and she couldn’t hook onto a single thought. She forced herself to move closer. She wanted to give the man a swift kick to wake him, but as she drew up beside him she saw that he was dead. Shaking uncontrollably, Rosie placed her hand on his heart to be sure. But his heart was still as a rock; there was neither breath nor heartbeat. He was in a dark gray suit and maroon tie and his ashen face wore a look of anxiety – or was it anguish? Rosie didn’t have time to evaluate. She gave a shriek and began vomiting all over the kitchen floor. The birds remained silent, watching her out of fearful eyes that had filmed over and turned as black as if they, too, were dead. Rosie had the presence of mind to grab some paper towels and clean up the vomit. Then she ran from the house.
The next day Rosie could barely function at work. Her fingers trembled and her voice didn’t sound right in her ears, shrill and uneven instead of her usual pleasant saleslady voice. One thing that worried her was the little Nordstrom shopping bag filled with makeup. Right now it was sitting on Rosie’s kitchen table, but she would have to destroy it – although, she thought feverishly, she could use the shadow and foundation on her own face. Kiki’s face was as smooth and white as parchment, while Rosie’s was a pale tan that could turn blotchy. Her looks came from her mother who was Mexican and had sneaked across the border many years before. Luckily, the mom had fallen in love with (and married) an Anglo who’d been a waiter at a burger place she frequented. The dad wasn’t that smart but he’d been very handsome and the marriage had given Rosie’s mom the status she’d needed to remain in the country and become a citizen. But Rosie hardly ever saw her mother. There’d been a feud in the family; Rosie’s two brothers had claimed that, before his death, their father had verbally promised to leave them a small piece of property in East Austin. But he’d never put that in his will, which had led to a good deal of contention. The mom had taken the brothers’ side. And that had left Rosie, the only daughter, out in the cold.
But she could deal with that. She was smart and could handle any little crisis that popped up in her life. For the next few days she constantly clicked on her phone to see if news about the dead man had surfaced. But there was nothing; his death seemed to be inconsequential, almost as if he had never existed, leaving Rosie to wonder if perhaps she had imagined the whole thing.
But of course she knew she hadn’t. She’d seen the dead man with her own eyes. He’d been there on the floor, dressed in a suit as if he were going to a business meeting. Who the hell was he? Thank god Rosie had worn latex gloves, or her fingerprints would have been all over the house, and once the death was reported and the cops came to investigate, she'd have been heavily implicated. She wondered if she should leave town, although that would probably make her look worse. The wisest course would be to stay where she was, go to work everyday and act as if nothing had happened. She was innocent after all; there was absolutely no connection between Rosie and the dead man, even if she had wandered through the house while his corpse lay stiff and cold on the kitchen floor.
But the question remained: Where was Kiki and why had she fled from the store, leaving her purchases and credit card behind? Had she been responsible for the man’s death? Rosie didn’t for a moment think pale and slender Kiki was capable of murder, but who knew for sure? Perhaps she’d offered the man some water and slipped Visine into his glass? But no — the Kiki Rosie knew would never do such a horrible thing. Never in a million years would she put her well-manicured hands anywhere near a dead body, although there was no evidence that the body had been abused in any way. Rosie, with her strong imagination, was just getting ahead of herself; she’d have to find a way to calm her whirling thoughts.
But a week later, she saw photos of the dead man on the news. His name was Arthur C. Keller and he had been an accountant, which perhaps explained his business attire. He had died of a massive heart attack. But what had he been doing in Kiki’s house in the first place? If there’d been papers to sign, where were they? According to the press, Keller’s body had lain on the floor of a Westlake house for several days before being discovered. Rosie studied the photos carefully. Arthur Keller was handsome, but not as handsome as Kiki’s husband Avril. He had been a wealthy man, the owner of a prestigious accounting firm that bore his name who had enjoyed hiking, biking, tennis and travel. He had also been in the midst of a messy divorce.
A messy divorce! So that was it, thought Rosie. Arthur Keller must have been Kiki’s lover. If Avril had a girlfriend, why wouldn’t Kiki also have had someone? With his eponymous accounting firm, Arthur was certainly wealthy and accomplished enough to be suitable. That, mused Rosie, must have been the case, which meant Avril, if he had appeared unexpectedly at the house when Arthur was dropping off papers, might have scared Arthur into a heart attack. And even if he had a girlfriend, Avril would have been furious that his wife was dallying with another man, particularly the man who dealt with their finances.
Rosie decided to enlist the computer-savvy young man in her building to help find poor, missing Kiki. She wasn’t really friends with him, but there was something in his round white face she trusted, a look that said I’m gonna take my own sweet time, but in the end I’ll get there faster than anyone else. But perhaps she was reading into it. His name was Jerry Auble and unless he went out for groceries, he hardly ever left the building. Probably lives on candy bars, Rosie thought a little disgustedly. But his teeth, when she eventually studied them, were very white and even. And his eyes were a twinkly blue, as if living at a remove from the world gave him a wisdom that caused much amusement. A week after Arthur’s obituary (which didn’t tell Rosie anything she didn’t already know) was published, she texted Jerry that she needed to talk to him. “Just come knock on my door,” he replied.
Rosie expected his place to be a mess with haphazard, ill-matching pieces of thrift store furniture scattered here and there, and old candy wrappers and pizza boxes littering the floor and counters. And she was right – it was a mess, although some of the furniture looked expensive and she noted a fine kilim rug. But the office area itself was stringently neat and tidy. A large, curved, Scandinavian-looking desk held two huge computers whose screens were constantly blinking numbers that made no sense to Rosie. “I’m hoping you can help me find someone,” she said.
Jerry gestured to one of the couches, and Rosie sat down gingerly, pulling the material of her skirt as far down her legs as she could to avoid contact with the sticky leather. “I’m looking for my client Kiki Bloom who seems to have disappeared,” she said.
“Isn’t that the one whose codes I pulled for you?”
Rosie nodded. “I’m very worried about her. There was a death in her house, actually the family’s accountant, and she hasn’t been seen since.”
Jerry was silent a moment. He seemed deep in thought, his blue eyes focused on a smurf-shaped piece of dust on the floor. Then he said, “Why bother with her? You should let the matter drop.”
“I need to find her,” Rosie said with urgency in her voice. “She ran out of the store leaving her credit card behind, and I want to make sure she gets it back.”
Jerry shrugged. “She can cancel it and get another one.”
“No!” cried Rosie. “She’s in danger! I need to find her! It’s crucial!”
Jerry sighed heavily. “I can probably find her, but I’m not sure I want to be involved in this. I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
“What, like she’s dead?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, can you find out and let me know? That’s all I’m asking.”
Jerry hummed to himself as he thought about the situation. “We’ll see,” he said finally.
Rosie knew it would be wise to let the situation sort itself out, rather than get tangled up in it. But she couldn’t help herself. Here was a mystery and she, Rosie, would be the one to solve it. Meanwhile she carried on with her life as usual. Trips to the grocery store. Dealing with clients. Getting her nails done. (Although she preferred to dress plainly, Rosie always wore bright red lipstick at work and was meticulous about having her acrylic nails filled every three weeks.)
This wasn’t the first time Rosie had stalked another person. Only she didn’t see it as stalking. She considered her behavior righteous, a chance to realign another person’s failing life, to restore dignity to a woman – such as Kiki – who was skating on thin ice. So far her interference had been minimal – a sly email from a phony address, a message from a source that could never be authenticated. Her words could cut. “There’s someone among your friends who wishes you ill. Beware!” Or: “Heads up! A person close to you is scheming your ruin.” Of course she never got to fully see the results of these messages. For Rosie, the pleasure was in composing and sending them. And in following the person around, an activity that gave drama and purpose to her days.
Thus she was disappointed when Jerry Auble contacted her not long after she’d asked for his help. “Kiki is alive and well and living with her husband in Italy. Seems they have resolved their marital issues and left the country.”
That drove a nail into Rosie’s snooping. She felt utterly deflated, wanting to stay in bed for days, not get dressed and go to work. But she couldn’t afford to do that. She had to pull herself together and restart her life. The very idea was horrible, especially as she had put so much time and effort into learning about Kiki and gaining access to her house. Now it seemed as if she lacked the energy to even plaster a smile on her face for clients. She drifted through her days, doing her best, trying to find things to feel good about. Maybe she should start a hobby? Or get a cat, although she didn’t like all the negative hype begun by a vile, potato-faced politician about single women living with cats. Screw that, she thought. Screw everything. There was no joy in her life and she didn’t see the point in continuing. And then one afternoon, just before her lunch break, an exquisitely beautiful woman sauntered into the cosmetics department and asked Rosie to do her makeup. Rosie could tell by her demeanor that she was wealthy and important. Her name was Arabella Whitaker and Rosie decided to learn everything she could about her. She could feel a glow enter her cheeks. This was going to be a good one.