Eileen Slovak

Chapter Fifty-three: A Face off with the Dragon Lady

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scott

At 8 a.m., I’m sitting in my truck waiting outside of Trish’s apartment complex. I would be finished with this case, if it weren’t for this chick. Yesterday, I called the dance studio where she works. I pretended to be a dad who wanted to bring my daughter in for lessons. They were kind enough to give me her full schedule. She teaches a stretching class for pregnant women on Friday mornings at 9 a.m. I plan to follow her initially for observation while I waiting for the right opportunity. Approaching her at work is foolproof. She can less easily evade my questions. Her splitting time between two states has made her even more challenging to track. The Boston apartment is her official residence. In Rhode Island, she either stays at her parents’ home in Barrington or with the professor in Providence.

      I conducted a cursory perusal of her condo complex. The two-story exterior of the building is painted white with garages underneath. In addition to the garage entrances, there are side entrances above and below the staircases for the upper-level units. The building blends nondescript in the gloomy winter backdrop. There are a few windows facing the extra parking area where I wait. I sip coffee watching for movement.

      A few inhabitants leave for work or school, mostly singles, carrying briefcases or backpacks. Trish does not disappoint, emerging from her second level condo, 2B, at 8:30 a.m., with a small bag of trash in one hand, she slings a gym bag over her shoulder. Trotting down the stairs, she drops the trash into a receptacle underneath then uses her remote to open the garage. She tosses the gym bag into the back seat before getting into her silver Saab with the soft convertible top. I shiver. I watch her as she bops around. She’s dressed in a pink leotard, white down vest, black wind pants with a pair of furry boots. The snow from last night’s storm lay in frozen piles all around the lot. A thin coating of ice glazes the roads. The temperature gauge in my truck says it’s thirty-five degrees.

      I follow Trish to Café Espresso. Pulling in, I park on the opposite side of the lot. Pretending to talk on my cell phone, I snap a few quick pictures of her. A convertible seems an impractical car based on what I’ve seen of the climate so far. I wait for her to go in first. I hold the door for another woman, then walk in, standing in line behind them. While she waits, Trish effortlessly smooths her long black hair into a ponytail. She checks her watch, wildly tapping her foot. The elderly woman in front of her is taking her time deciding. Even from this distance, I pick up the overpowering toxic scent of her flowery perfume. When it’s her turn, Trish barks her order at the barista, then moves abruptly to the pick-up area. I ask for a small black coffee that I don’t really need. I’m already wired from my first cup. Trish picks up her coffee. Removing the lid, she complains about the excessive amount of milk in the cup before storming out of the shop. I watch until her car leaves the lot.

      “Wow! Some people really need their coffee to become human again,” I say leaning on the counter. The young woman making the coffee hands me mine.

      “You have no idea! We call her the Dragon Lady. I keep hoping she’ll find someplace else to get her fix. No matter how badly we screw up her order, she keeps coming back.”

     “Tasha!” The other barista warns. They both look to be around nineteen or twenty. 

     “What? There’s no one else here,” Tasha says, flipping her curly hair, smiling brightly at me. “I don’t always talk bad about the customers. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

            “Oh, no worries. I genuinely appreciate your honest opinion.” I say tucking a few dollars in the tip jar. “See, I was thinking about surprising my niece with dance lessons. I was about to approach that young lady to ask where she studies.”

      “Oh, she’s no student,” Tasha confides. “She’s an instructor over at Dance Pro’s on Clarendon Street. But, if I were you, I wouldn’t sign your niece up for her class. My friend’s sister had her two girls in her ballet class. They used to leave in tears! Imagine making five and six-year-old’s cry! She couldn’t get out of the contract once she signed up. I don’t know why they don’t fire her. She’s a monster.”

      “It’s a good thing I asked you first, Tasha. Thank you so much for the warning. You girls have a great day now.”

      With Trish on her way to work, I take the opportunity to go back to her complex to snoop around. Retrieving a leash from the truck, I use a phony ‘lost dog’ routine to talk to Trish’s neighbors. The complex is quiet. Either everyone who lives here is at work or they choose not to surface in the bad weather. I catch a few neighbors at home. After telling my lost Beau story, I work into the conversation that the woman in #2B thinks she saw him earlier over by the trash area. Showing the pictures I keep on my phone of my buddy’s yellow lab, I register no surprise learning neighbors aren’t wild about Trish. One neighbor goes as far as to say that he hopes the poor dog has not wandered over there, for his own sake. I give out my phone number in case anyone sees Beau.

      Before I leave, I lift Trish’s bag of trash from the dumpster and deposit it into the truck bed. I drive to the studio to catch her between classes. I’m thinking about what her neighbors said. Aside from a trail of ex-boyfriends, I’m having a tough time finding anyone who considers Patricia Iannuccilli a friend.

      At Dance Pro’s I slip into the studio just as her first class is finishing up. Several flushed looking pregnant women smile at me on their way out. Once most of them leave, Trish spots me.

      Walking over with a broad smile, she asks: “May I help you?”

      “I certainly hope so,” I say returning the smile. “I’m Scott Manchester,” I extend my hand. “I’ve left you several messages.” The smile leaps from her face. She crosses her arms ignoring my gesture and wearing her dissatisfaction like her odious perfume. It’s amazing how quickly she can switch gears.

      “You have a nerve. Bothering me at work. I can have you physically removed.” The last of the pregnant women quickly shuffles towards the exit.

      “Well, in my defense, I’ve tried to reach you several times, but you won’t return any of my calls. You left me no choice but to track you down.”

      “What do you want?”

      “For one thing, I’d like to know about your relationship with Sean Campbell. I understand you two had a bad break-up.”

      Since I already know her to be skilled at avoidance, this is calculated. My decision to bait her seems the best method of obtaining information. Emotion makes people say things that they would otherwise hold back.

      “You understand wrong. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. His friends never understood the connection we had. We were childhood sweethearts. Sean was desperately in love with me. I tried dating other men, but he swore he couldn’t live without me. We were making plans to get married before that horrible accident. I was devastated, of course. I still am.”

      “So, you were still involved with him, up until the end, I mean? Because I heard he was seeing someone else.” I pull my notebook from my pocket, flipping through the pages, I pretend to check for the name. “Scarlet O’Brien.” A flash of something that looks like rage passes over her face for an instant. She catches herself and puts on her act again with the phony smile.

      “I don’t know anyone by that name,” she lies. “Do I need to spell it out for you? Sean was obsessed with me. We were getting engaged. I have another class starting in a few minutes. Are we through here?” She waves her hand at me, as if I’m a pesky fly buzzing around.

      “Sure, thanks for your time.” I give her my card. “If you think of anything you’d like to add, please give me a call.”

      Nothing about her story adds up. I’ve known quite a few women. I know unhinged when I see it. I have no expectations of getting very far by asking her direct questions. Playing along with her delusions is a much safer bet.

      “Look, I’m trying to determine what happened to your fiancé. Any help you can offer would be greatly appreciated.”

      “I wish I knew. I hope you find whoever is responsible. Goodbye, Mr. Manchester.”

      “Good day ma’am,” I say knowing full well, attractive women hate when you call them ma’am.

      I leave without looking back and immediately drive back to Trish’s condo. According to her schedule, she’ll be busy with classes for the next few hours.

      One of the neighbors’ waves when she sees me shouting, “I hope you find Beau.” I wave back, thanking her. I’m such a great liar. What an accomplishment.

      Walking around the complex, I call out “Beau! Here boy!” A few times, sticking to my cover as I go over options in my mind. I could make up another story to convince the property manager to allow me access into her apartment. Except, she’ll inevitably find out and make a stink. Then, Slumansky would find out. Bad idea. I can wait for her to return, feign an apology and try to convince her to let me in. Then I can do some cursory recon. This is likely to fail. On the other hand, I can break in, which is not exactly protocol. Time being short, I push aside any hesitation, walk up the stairs, then look around for a spare key. Despite warnings from police or crime TV shows, people still leave keys in the most obvious, easy to find places. They ‘hide’ keys under the door mat, in a plant, or in this case, tucked under a shingle next to the front door. Victory! I put the key in the lock and let myself in. Ever amazed at how easy it is to break into a home in broad daylight. 

      Pulling on my gloves as soon as I enter, I forget any worry that Trish will know I was here. Clothes are strewn all over the furniture in the living room. Magazines are scattered across the floor, mixed with empty diet soda cans. In the kitchen, dirty dishes sit stacked in the sink. Cereal cartons lay open, spilling their contents on the counter. I stand stunned for a moment before walking through what feels like a mine field. I walk toward the bedroom, which is no better. The place is a wreck. I don’t even fuss about putting things back the way they were. Pictures of Sean are on multiple surfaces throughout the bedroom with a few of the two of them together. None of the photos look recent. Her hair is much shorter, plus she appears slightly heavier than she is now. She must not ever bring the professor up here. Personally, I wouldn’t let anyone see this, if this was how I lived.

      Maneuvering around an overflowing laundry basket, I breach the bathroom stepping directly into a puddle. Wet leotards hang over the shower bar that holds a pink frilly curtain. They drip, drip, dripping onto the linoleum floor. It’s tempting to put a towel down on the floor, but that would be a real red flag. Why not just leave a note? Scott was here. I’ve always thought girls were neater than guys. I guess I shouldn’t make such sexist assumptions. A glut of health and beauty products fills every corner of level space in the room. Baskets of perfumes, makeup cases, and creams are everywhere. What a waste of her money, in my opinion, she’d be better off hiring a house cleaner.

     Opening the medicine cabinet, I’m shocked at the number of prescription bottles. While I’m taking photos of the prescriptions, I notice something reflecting in the vanity mirror. A piece of paper is tacked to the wall behind me over the toilet. On closer inspection, I see it’s a copy of the letter I found in Scott’s apartment. A letter to Scarlet from Sean that secured with a dart. I freeze, then pry the dart out, holding the letter gingerly, reading it again, observing a series of holes. It’s like a piece of Swiss cheese. How did she get this? I take a photo, replace the letter where it was angrily tacked to the wall. Then I back out of the room.

      I riffle through a basket of paperwork on the dining room. It’s mostly unopened bills. I take photos of her bank statements from November, December, and January. I’d normally be surprised seeing paper statements, but based on the disarray of her living conditions, it makes sense. She’s not the most organized person. Oddly, some of Sean’s mail is mixed in with hers. I take pictures of those envelopes but don’t dare take them. I notice a bowl of assorted key rings, thinking it’s odd she has so many sets of keys. Maybe work? Her parents’ house? The professor’s place? Still, it seems excessive.

      The fridge is fairly empty except for some basic items. In the freezer I find ice cream along a large half-full bottle of vodka. Not a good thing to be mixing with all those pills, Trish. I poke through the trash, which is mostly empty yogurt containers with candy bar wrappers. Your diet needs some work too. Wanting to avoid getting caught and feeling my mission has been accomplished, I crack the door. Checking for neighbors, I see a familiar figure approaching, Trish.

     Scrambling tiptoed into the bathroom, I climb into the tub, standing statuesque behind the curtain. I’m surrounded by soggy, dripping leotards. If she finds me, I’m going to jail. No way around it. I listen to her movements. She’s darting around the apartment gathering things and muttering to herself.

      “Who does that cocky jerk think he is?”

      Guessing she’s referring to me, I have to stifle a laugh.

      “Scarlet! That red haired witch! I’ll show her! I’ll show them all! They think they can mess with me? They don’t know who they’re dealing with.” She laughs as if someone has just told a joke, but she’s the only one who knows the punchline.

      When she enters the bathroom, I hold my breath. She haphazardly flings toiletries into a tote bag kicking up powder. Stifling a sneeze, pain vibrates through my head. When she stomps off to the bedroom, I seize the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom. I know she won’t be able to see me tiptoe to the front door from that vantage point. My left leg gets tangled in the pile of laundry. I nearly fall. Trish has her back to me, bent over a pile of clothes, rummaging for something. I extricate myself, easing toward the door, keeping my eyes on her back the entire time. Turning the knob so slowly it’s painful, I slide out onto the landing, then let out a long breath. I replace the key under the shingle, then slip down the stairs. I’m drenched with sweat from the exertion of it all.

      On the main level, the neighbor in 1A steps out of her condo, startling me.

      “How are you dear? Did you find Beau?”

      “No, ma’am, but he’s done this before. He’s probably waiting on me back at my place.”

      “I hope so. You poor man. If not, I’m sure he’ll turn up when he gets hungry enough.”

      “I’m sure you’re right. Take care now,” I say waving.

      Jogging toward my truck, I jump in and pull a baseball cap out of the glove box. I place the cap on my head with the brim pointed down and some add sunglasses. I grab Trish’s bag of trash from the truck bed to sift through while I wait. It’s weird she left all the trash in her apartment, only throwing out this small bag. It’s filled with empty candy wrappers with a crumpled sticky note. Two telephone numbers are scrawled on the note. I shove it in my jacket pocket, tossing the bag into truck bed again. I watch the side mirror like I’m waiting for a friend.   

      Here she is now. She emerges with the tote bag in hand, then takes off in her car. Keeping my distance, I follow her, which proves to be challenging. Her erratic driving causes a few near collisions. She’s taking chances with her speed on the slick roads, but doesn’t seem to care. When she cuts off another driver, the man makes a gesture as she passes. Trish rolls down the window and shouts something at him. I allow a few vehicles to move in between us, remaining out of her line of vision. I trail her all the way back to Rhode Island, to the loft apartment of Professor Carl Johnson.

      Mr. Campbell is impressed with how thorough I’ve been in my investigation. For now, I omit my theory. I explain that I have a few loose ends left. That I think they are important in light of some new details that have emerged. I ask for another week to hash them out. He reluctantly agrees.

      “We don’t want to prolong this too much longer,” he says. “My wife is in therapy. She won’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. Maybe it’s all been a waste of your time. It sounds like it’s adding up that it was an accident. We still can’t believe he’s gone.”

      “Mr. Campbell, up until today, I’ll be honest, I would have thought the same thing. But some new information has come to light. I want to be sure there isn’t more to the story. If you give me a chance, I’ll get the answers for you.”

      “My son is dead.  What more do I have to lose at this point?”

      Some of the findings from Trish’s apartment don’t sit well with me. I now know there was a witness to Sean’s accident. Who was she? What did she see? What about the letter? Or the copy Trish made. What is she doing with Sean’s mail? Or all those extra keys? She obviously stole the mail along with the letter, but when? She also doesn’t tell the truth, so what is she hiding? What else did she take? When was she in Sean’s apartment last? Did he even know? What of Scarlet’s trip to Arkansas? There are too many missing pieces to this puzzle. I now think Patricia Iannuccilli holds the key.