Without You
The sound of her greyhound pacing up and down the second-floor hall woke Martha Prescott from a sound sleep. She opened her eyes and saw that the sun was shining through the bedroom window.
"What time is it?" she grumbled.
She turned to the alarm clock on her night table. It was 6:05. After briefly considering closing her eyes, rolling onto her side and going back to sleep, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and put her feet inside her slippers.
"You have to go out, don't you, Sebastian?" she asked.
The dog wagged his tail in response and ran down the stairs to the back door. After letting the greyhound outside, she opened a can of Fancy Feast for Rasputin, her Russian Blue cat, and filled Sebastian's bowl with kibble. Then she poured herself a cup of Maxwell House, took it into her den and sat down in front of her laptop. When she glanced at the calendar on her desk where she had written DINNER WITH NOAH AT CHEZ PIERRE, visions of the handsome Dr. Prestwick flitted across her mind. There was no one she would rather spend her birthday with than him.
As was her usual custom, she went through her email as she sipped her mug of coffee. There were three different accounts: one for her blog, one for her online shop and another for her personal use. She opened the blog's email first. Over the past several years, Martha, a.k.a. Belladonna Nightshade, former host of Thriller Network's Classic Horror Movies, acquired a loyal following of fans who read and responded to her daily blog. Some wrote typical fan letters praising her work, but many others asked questions about the movies, TV series, books or video games she reviewed. She made it a point to always send "thank you" replies to the fan mail. As for the questions, she immediately replied to those for which she had an answer. The ones that required a bit of research, she moved to a separate folder.
Once she had read through all the Belladonna's Blog emails, she let the dog in, poured herself a second cup of coffee and grabbed a few Keebler Chips Deluxe cookies from her Frankenstein cookie jar. She nibbled on them as she opened her second email account, which contained a mixture of orders for the horror memorabilia she sold on her website and payment notifications from Paypal. She printed them all out so that she could box up the orders and ship them to the customers.
Finally, while on her last chocolate chip cookie, she opened her personal email. Not surprisingly, the volume of mail was higher than usual. Most of her friends sent ecards wishing her a happy birthday. Attached to Sarah Ryerson and Lionel Penn's missive was a video of singing cats. Shannon and Liam Devlin's birthday greeting included a humorous Pennywise the Clown meme. Rebecca Coffin and Dylan Osbourne sent her a card featuring a Las Vegas-era Elvis zombie. Best wishes were also sent from Shawn and Penny McMurtry, Abigail Cantwell, Ezra Graves, Patience Scudder, Victoria Broadbent and many more. It was as though everyone in the village wanted to wish her a happy birthday.
"Moving to Puritan Falls was the best decision I ever made," she said, her heart warmed by the outpouring of friendship and affection.
Once she had cleaned out all three of her email accounts, she donned a pair of jeans and a Ghostface T-shirt, made her bed and returned to her computer. Fortified by a third cup of coffee and two more chocolate chip cookies, she began writing her blog. The movie she chose to review was Tourist Trap, a 1979 film starring Chuck Connors as a psychopathic telekinetic who runs a secluded roadside museum. Rather than one book, she featured two: The Sentinel by Jeffrey Konvitz and its sequel, The Guardian, both of which were personal favorites of hers.
Martha was halfway through her glowing review of the books when she heard the doorbell ring. She saved her work and went to the foyer to answer it.
"Are you Miss Prescott?" the deliveryman inquired.
"Yes."
"These are for you, then," he said, handing her a box from a florist in Copperwell.
After thanking the young man and giving him a tip, she took the long-stemmed red roses into the kitchen and put them in a vase. There was no card, so she assumed Noah had sent them.
"How sweet of him! He didn't have to send me roses. He's already taking me out to dinner tonight."
An hour later, a college student showed up at her house with a delivery from DoorDash: a thirty-six-piece assortment of chocolates from Sweet Indulgence, the new chocolate shop on Essex Street. Martha removed the lid from the box, and her mouth watered at the delicious aroma.
"Flowers and candy! Noah, you are going to spoil me!"
Despite having munched on chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, she could not resist popping one of Desiree LeFleur's gourmet truffles into her mouth. Rather than chew it, she let the dark chocolate confection melt on her tongue, savoring the flavor. Martha relied on every ounce of her willpower to put the lid back on the box after eating just one piece.
"I'm going out for dinner tonight," she reminded herself. "I don't want to fill up on sweets."
By three in the afternoon, the reviews were uploaded to Belladonna's Blog, and all the orders from her website were boxed and shipped. Martha attached Sebastian's leash to his collar and walked him to the dog park on Hawthorne Boulevard where he played with the McMurtrys' shepherd/husky mix. Nearly an hour later, the former TV host corralled her greyhound and returned to her Danvers Street home so that she could get ready for her dinner date. Wanting to pamper herself on her birthday, she lit two aromatherapy candles, filled her clawfoot tub with lilac-scented bubble bath, poured herself a glass of wine and snuck another chocolate truffle. Then she read a Dean Koontz novel while luxuriating in the hot, sudsy water.
Her cell phone rang just as Martha finished the first chapter. She put her wine glass on the soap holder and reached for her iPhone that was on the rug beside her tub. Noah Prestwick's name appeared on the screen.
"Hi, sweetheart," she answered, laying the book down on the floor.
"Happy birthday," he said. "Hope you're having a good one."
"I am. Thanks in no small part to you."
"But I haven't even given you your gift yet."
"A gift? You don't have to overdo it. The flowers and candy were enough."
"What flowers and candy?" Noah asked.
"The roses and the box of chocolates from Sweet Indulgence that were delivered to my house."
"They weren't from me."
"Then who could have sent them?"
"I don't know. Do you have a secret admirer?" the handsome doctor teased. "Should I be jealous?"
Although the bathwater was still warm, a chill caused Martha to shiver. No one in Puritan Falls knew about the real-life horror she had faced while still living in California. She had never told anyone about the man who frightened her to the extent that she moved three thousand miles away to escape him. Did he send her the flowers and candy?
"Martha ... Martha? Are you there?" Noah asked when he received no response to his question.
"What? Yes, I'm still here."
"I asked you what time you wanted me to pick you up tonight."
"Any time after five is fine."
"I get off at five, and I want to go home, shower and get dressed. So, I should be at your place by six."
"I'll see you then."
Normally, there would have been an exchange of endearments before one of them finally ended the call. However, Martha's mind was not on her budding romance, for she could not shake the fear that her stalker had resumed his pursuit of her.
* * *
"Don't you look nice!" Noah exclaimed when he arrived at Martha's house.
The simple but elegant black dress she wore was one from Rodeo Drive, purchased when she still went by her professional name, Martha St. James. Since moving to Puritan Falls, she had put those days behind her—or so she thought. The flowers and candy she had received anonymously brought unpleasant memories to the surface.
"I have something here that will add some color to your outfit," the handsome doctor said, taking a jeweler's box out of his jacket pocket.
"Noah, you shouldn't have!" Martha exclaimed when she saw the heart-shaped sapphire pendant it contained.
She lifted her long blond hair so that he could fasten the clasp. He could not resist giving her neck a quick kiss.
"Be good, Sebastian," Noah said as he held the door open for his date. "Maybe we'll bring you back a doggie bag."
During the drive to Chez Pierre, Martha was unusually quiet.
"I'm doing all the talking," the doctor declared. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine. I've just been deep in thought."
"About what?"
"About who sent me the chocolates and flowers."
"It was probably one of your fans."
"No. Both deliveries were sent to Martha Prescott. My fans knew me as either Martha St. James or the character Belladonna Nightshade. I always kept my real name from the public."
"Then it must have been someone here in Puritan Falls that sent them," Noah reasoned. "You've made a lot of friends here. Maybe they were from Doug and Mike for helping them out at their antique store from time to time."
"I'm sure they would have included a card, identifying themselves as the senders."
"Regardless of who sent them," Noah said as he pulled his car into Chez Pierre's parking lot, "they were a thoughtful gift. Now, let's go eat. I'm starving."
While waiting for their duck à l'orange entrée, the couple nibbled on the items on the charcuterie board. Martha bit into a brie-topped cracker as Noah finished a slice of camembert.
"You know," he said, hoping to prompt a conversation. "You never told me why you moved to Puritan Falls."
"My father died when I was still in diapers," she explained. "I never knew him or my paternal grandparents, so I joined Ancestry.com to learn about my Prescott family. It turns out that not only was he born here in Puritan Falls, but he was a direct descendant of Stephen Prescott."
"The one whose statue is in the Common?"
"That's him. He and several other dissenters from the Plymouth Colony founded Puritan Falls back in 1626."
"That's quite an impressive lineage. But that doesn't answer my question. Why did you leave Hollywood? You had a successful career there."
It was a subject Martha did not want to discuss. Thus, she gave him a vague answer.
"I needed a change. So, when my contract with Thriller Network was up, I decided not to renew it. While I was deciding what to do with my life, I had the inexplicable urge to visit the town my great-great-whatever-grandfather helped found."
When the server appeared with their entrées, the former TV host was spared going into more detail.
* * *
The following morning Martha was awakened not by Sebastian's footsteps but by Rasputin's claws gently kneading her arm.
"Remind me why I have pets," she said sleepily.
The cat purred as though responding to her comment.
Unable to fall back to sleep, she put on her robe and slippers and went down to the kitchen. As was her routine, she opened the back door to let the greyhound out, put food in both the dog and cat bowls, poured herself a cup of Maxwell House and let the dog back in. As she opened a pack of Sweet'N Low, her eyes fell on the stack of unopened envelopes and circulars Noah had brought in from her mailbox the previous evening. Although she supposed most of it was junk mail destined for the recycling bin, she slid the pile across the table to sort through it.
"Junk ... junk ... junk," she pronounced as she glanced at each piece of mail. "What's this?"
It was a pink envelope, the size and shape of one that came with many Hallmark cards. Martha forced her index finger into the corner of the envelope flap and tore it open. Inside was a birthday card with a handwritten message: "Roses are red, violets are blue, my heart won't sing, 'til I have you."
There was no name inside the card and no return address on the envelope. The poem was printed with all capital letters as though the sender hoped to hide his identity by not exhibiting distinguishing characteristics in his handwriting. Fearing what she would find, she looked at the postmark. The card had been mailed from right here in Puritan Falls.
The flowers. The candy. The card. Martha was convinced none of her friends had sent them to her. Nor had they come from any of her fans.
Trembling, she walked to the back door and locked it. Then she checked the front door and all the windows on both the first and second floors of her Federal-style home. When she returned to the kitchen, she sat at the table with her cup of cold coffee. Sebastian, sensing her anxiety, put his head on her lap. Although she adored the mild-mannered former racing dog, she now secretly wished she owned a more formidable canine such as a German shepherd or a pit bull.
* * *
In spite of her growing fear that her stalker had followed her to Massachusetts, Martha managed to smile when she walked into Treasure Hunt Antiques shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon. Douglas Pemberly, the owner, and his husband, Michael Whitby, were both behind the counter, awaiting her arrival.
"Thanks so much for coming in," Douglas declared. "Michael and I have been looking forward to seeing this concert for some time."
"You're a lifesaver!" his husband added.
"I don't mind helping out," Martha said.
Both men detected an undercurrent of unease in their friend's cheerful demeanor.
"Is everything all right?" Michael asked.
"Yeah. I'm just tired," she lied. "I was up late last night, celebrating with Noah. And then Rasputin woke me up early this morning."
"Cats!" he laughed. "I can sympathize. Grizabella and Macavity"—the couple's two felines were named after characters in the Cats musical—"could tax the patience of a saint at times! But we love them just the same."
"Are you sure you don't mind watching the store for the next three hours?" Douglas inquired. "If you'd rather go home and get some rest, I can always close the place early. It's been a slow day. I only had four paying customers all morning."
"Don't be silly!" Martha exclaimed. "I'm not too tired to mind the store. Now, you two get going. You know how congested the traffic on 95 gets in the late afternoon."
Shortly after the couple left, business picked up. April Brower, psychiatrist Lionel Penn's sister, put a deposit down on an antique rolltop desk. Mayor Ernie Lawson purchased a vintage locket for his wife, Tamsin. Jerome Hobart, the fire chief, was interested in issues of Life magazine from the Thirties and Forties. Mortician Vito D'Agostino bought three 78 rpm phonograph records. Lastly, Maureen McHugh, Elaine Kearney and Glenda Wayman, who jokingly referred to themselves as the Three C's Ladies Club, shopped for uniquely shaped Bundt pans. Additionally, there were more than a dozen people who claimed to be "just looking."
Only moments after the three women left the shop with two Nordicware baking pans, the telephone rang. Although Douglas and Michael often used their cell phones, they also had an old-fashioned landline mounted on the wall near the cash register.
"Treasure Hunt Antiques," Martha said into the receiver as she smiled at Penny McMurtry who was next in line.
There was a brief pause followed by an audio clip from the 1971 Harry Nilsson song "Without You." Although the record was released before she was born, Martha immediately recognized the chorus.
I can't live if living is without you.
I can't live, I can't give any more.
The receiver fell from her hand, and she stifled a scream.
"Martha? Are you okay?" Penny asked, seeing the look of terror on her friend's face.
"It's him," she moaned. "He's back."
* * *
Although the antique shop was not due to close for another twenty minutes, Penny McMurtry turned off the lights, locked the front door and led Martha to the coffee bar at The Quill and Dagger.
"Is everything all right?" Patience Scudder, the bookstore's proprietor, inquired.
"I think so," Penny answered. "Martha got a disturbing phone call. I think she needs a cup of coffee."
"Coming right up."
Patience returned with a latte and took a seat at the table with the two women.
"Who was on the phone?" she asked. "Was it bad news? Not Noah, I hope."
The frightened woman merely shook her head and sipped her coffee.
"It was h-him!" she eventually muttered.
"Maybe you ought to phone your husband," Patience suggested, referring to Shawn McMurtry of the Puritan Falls Police Department.
"T-that m-might be a g-good idea," Martha decided.
Ten minutes later, the patrol car pulled up in front of the bookstore, and a uniformed officer got out.
"What's wrong, Martha?" he asked.
"Someone is stalking me."
The two friends on either side of her exchanged a worried look. Shawn nodded his head, indicating that he preferred to speak to the distraught woman alone. Penny and Patience immediately got up from the table and headed to the shop's stockroom.
"How long has this been going on?" the police officer queried.
"It began several years ago."
"And you're just reporting it now?"
"I haven't heard from him since I moved here, but then yesterday he sent me flowers and candy. There was a birthday card from him in the mail, too. And today, while I was watching the shop for Douglas and Michael, he called me on the phone."
"Who is he? Do you know his name?"
She nodded her head and replied, "Scott. Scott Newhall."
"Is he some crazed fan obsessed with Belladonna Nightshade?"
"Not exactly. Scott was an architect. We dated a few times, but then I chose to end the relationship. He couldn't accept that. He kept phoning me, sending me gifts, showing up at my house ...."
"Did you notify the local police at that time?"
"No. I took the coward's way out. I gave up my career, changed my name and moved three thousand miles away."
"And now you think your stalker has found you and come here to resume his pursuit."
"Yes."
Shawn frowned and took a sip of his coffee.
"If you'd like, I can bring Stan Yablonski in on this. He's the best detective on the force."
"I'd rather not make a big deal of it," Martha said, her eyes welling with tears. "I don't want to see Scott go to jail. I just want him to leave me alone."
The police officer, who in his spare time enjoyed reading detective novels or watching true crime shows on the Investigation Discover channel, often helped Yablonski and his partner, Phil Langston, solve cases. Therefore, he felt confident in his ability to track down his friend's stalker.
"Why don't I try to locate this guy for you?" he offered. "Unofficially, that is. When I find him, I'll sit him down and talk him into leaving you alone."
"And if he doesn't listen to you?"
"Then I suppose I'll have Stan and Phil have a go at him. Our small-town detectives can be quite persuasive."
"I'm not sure ...."
"I don't want to frighten you, but you don't know how far these nut cases are willing to go. Just last week, I was watching a program about actress Rebecca Schaeffer. She was only twenty-one years old when an obsessed fan killed her."
Martha used two hands, both of which were trembling, to raise her mug to her lips. She swallowed the last of her latte and put the empty down in the saucer.
"You're right," she said in a barely audible voice. "If he's gone through all this trouble to find me, he's not going to simply give up and go home on his own."
"I'll find him," Shawn promised. "Until I do, you be careful."
* * *
While Officer McMurtry reached out to members of the LAPD for information on Scott Newhall, Martha attempted to carry on with her usual daily routines. Despite the danger she faced and the fear she felt, she had to take care of Rasputin and Sebastian, read her emails, send out items ordered on her website and write her blog. Not wanting to ignore her social life, she went to the movies with Rebecca Coffin, attended an afternoon tea with Sarah Ryerson at Victoria's English Tea Shoppe, had lunch with Douglas and Michael at the Green Man Pub and enjoyed Sunday brunch with Noah at the Sons of Liberty Tavern.
It was almost two weeks before she received a phone call from Shawn.
"Did you find him?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes."
It was a succinct, one-word reply with no explanation or elaboration. It was a very un-Shawnlike answer.
"Well?" Martha prompted.
"I don't want to discuss this over the phone."
"Why don't you come over here then? Or would you prefer we meet at The Quill and Dagger?"
"Actually, I was hoping you could stop by my house."
"Why?" she asked, wondering why the usually gregarious police officer suddenly seemed reserved and mysterious. "Is it bad news?"
"Let's talk about it when you get here."
When Martha pulled up in front of the McMurtry home, she saw a familiar classic MG parked in the driveway.
What's going on? she wondered.
Shawn answered the door when she rang the bell and led her into the family room. Seated on the sectional sofa were the psychiatrist, Lionel Penn, and his fiancée, Sarah Ryerson, both close friends of hers and Shawn's.
"What is this?" she laughed uneasily. "An unscheduled meeting of the Fourth of July picnic committee?"
"No," the policeman answered. "I thought it best to have Lionel and Sarah here when I tell you about your ... friend, Scott Newhall."
"Friend? Funny word for a stalker," the former TV host said sarcastically.
"It seems he was your friend. A close, personal friend at that."
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"According to my investigation, you dated him for several months."
"No," Martha argued. "I told you we only went out a couple of times, and then I tried to break things off."
"Lionel," McMurtry said, turning to the psychiatrist for help. "Maybe you should talk to her."
"Why? What has Lionel or Sarah got to do with anything?" Martha demanded to know.
"Shawn is concerned that you might get ... upset ... when you hear what he has to tell you."
"What is it? Has Scott stalked someone else besides me? Is he a killer or a rapist?"
"No. He was a decent person."
"Was?"
"Scott Newhall is dead. He was involved in a tragic accident. A drunk driver lost control of his vehicle, jumped onto the sidewalk and ran him over."
Martha's face lost its color. She shook her head, attempting to deny the facts the psychiatrist revealed.
"You were there when it happened. You held him in your arms as he took his last breath."
"No. No! It's not true."
"You've tried to put both Scott and his tragic death out of your mind," Lionel continued. "But your subconscious won't let go of him."
"What you're saying doesn't make sense," she insisted. "Who sent the flowers and the candy? His ghost?"
"I spoke to the florist in Copperwell," Shawn explained. "He told me the roses were ordered by a woman, one who fit your description. As for the candy, Desiree LeFleur said you went into Sweet Indulgence and ordered the chocolate yourself. She thought it odd that you wanted them delivered to your house, but she ...."
"What about the phone call at Treasure Hunt Antiques? How could I phone myself and play that song?"
"My wife was there," Shawn said. "She swears she never heard the phone ring."
"So, I just imagined the entire episode? Are you saying I've gone mad?" Martha cried, her eyes pleading with Lionel to reassure her.
"No. You're not insane. You were witness to a real-life horror, and you couldn't handle it. There's so much we in the medical field don't know about the human mind, but we do know that traumatic experiences can create all sorts of issues."
"You think the whole stalker scenario can be chalked up to PTSD?"
"Or a similar condition."
"If what you suggest is accurate, how can I fix my problem?"
"The best way is to come to terms with the past. You'll need to remember who Scott Newhall actually was and dispel the false assumption that he was a stalker."
* * *
"Have you heard from Martha?" Sarah Ryerson asked Noah Prestwick when the two doctors ran into each other in the hospital cafeteria.
"She phoned me when she landed at LAX," Noah replied, "but there have been no calls or texts since then."
"I hope she's all right."
"Me, too. Lionel suggested I not contact her. He said it's best she make this journey of discovery herself."
"I don't imagine she's in any danger," Sarah mused.
"No," he said in a tentative voice.
"You don't sound so sure."
"I'm worried. What if all her memories are restored, and she decides she prefers being Martha St. James to being Martha Prescott. She might want to resume her career as Belladonna Nightshade."
"I guess that would be her choice then."
"Am I being selfish if I say I want her back here?"
"No. We'll all miss her if she chooses to remain in California."
Three weeks passed, and there was no word from Martha. Douglas Pemberly and Michael Whitby, who were taking care of Rasputin and Sebastian while their owner was away, were just as concerned as Sarah and Noah about their friend's future plans. In fact, Martha was becoming a major topic of conversation throughout the village.
Finally, twenty-five days after she had boarded a plane at Logan Airport for LAX, Martha returned to Puritan Falls.
"Well?" Lionel asked when he stopped at his office following her return. "Has your trip been successful?"
"Yes. I visited all my old hangouts while I was in L.A. I relived memories that I'd completely forgotten. Scott and I were on the verge of becoming engaged when he was killed. We were going to make it official on my birthday."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. It breaks my heart to think about him, but at least I don't imagine he's a stalker anymore."
"While you were in California, a lot of people around here were worried about you."
"They'll be glad to know I'm all right then."
"They've also been wondering if, now that your memories have been restored, you plan on resuming the career you gave up."
"You mean go back to being the TV host Belladonna Nightshade?"
"Yes."
"That would require my moving back to California."
"That's what everyone is worried about. None of us want to lose you," Lionel admitted.
"Rest assured, Dr. Penn, Martha St. James is no more. I'm quite content being Martha Prescott."
Twenty minutes later, after picking up Rasputin and Sebastian at the antique store, she turned onto Danvers Street. On the car radio, the news, sports and weather segment ended, and the deejay came back on the air.
"I've got a dedication going out to Martha from Scott," he announced. "Here’s Dolly Parton singing 'I Will Always Love You.'" Martha was a common name as was Scott, so there was no logical reason for her to conclude the song was a message for her from beyond the grave. But often logic and reason did not apply, especially in Puritan Falls. "I'll always love you, too, Scott," she whispered and pulled into the driveway.
It was good to be home.
"Without You" written by Thomas Evans and Peter William Ham, performed by Harry Nilsson.
"I Will Always Love You" written and performed by Doll Parton.
Although Salem often stops to smell the roses, he much prefers receiving chocolates on his birthday (and every other day).
