Calling Mr Lonely Hearts Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Also by Laura Benedict

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts

  Part I: What If?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II: You Can Die From Too Nuch Delicious

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part III: Flight

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781409067115

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  First published by William Heinemann, 2009

  1 3579 10 8642

  Copyright © Laura Benedict 2009

  Laura Benedict has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by William HeinemannThe Random House Group Limited

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  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 9780434017034

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  Printed and bound in Great Britain byCPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD

  Also by Laura Benedict

  Isabella Moon

  About the Author

  LAURA BENEDICT is the author of Isabella Moon. Her short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and a number of anthologies. For the past decade, she has worked as a freelance book reviewer for The Grand Rapids Press in Michigan and other newspapers. She lives in southern Illinois with her husband, Pinckney Benedict, and their two children.

  About the Type

  This book was set in Sabon, a typeface designed by the well-known German typographer Jan Tschichold (1902–74). Sabon’s design is based upon the original letter forms of Claude Garamond and was created specifically to be used for three sources: foundry type for hand composition, Linotype, and Monotype. Tschichold named his typeface for the famous Frankfurt type founder Jacques Sabon, who died in 1580.

  For Pinckney,

  who knew long before I did

  Acknowledgments

  It would be impossible for me to thank everyone who so kindly helped in bringing this, my second novel, about. But before I try, I must first thank the readers, booksellers, and reviewers who took the time to read and comment on Isabella Moon. I’m exceedingly grateful to you for making my debut such an amazing adventure.

  The publication of Isabella Moon brought me many inspiring new friends, but I must mention fellow writers C. J. Lyons, Kelli Stanley, Karen Dionne, and Jordan Dane by name. I’ve loved sharing my debut journey with them and cannot imagine how I could have done without their advice, compassion, support, and brilliant insights. C. J. Lyons was also my official medical consultant for this novel, while Kelli Stanley clued me in to the mysteries of creating things from clay. And I must thank Bill “Speedo” Cameron for his spelling expertise.

  Jennifer Talty kept me going with her energy and delightful quotes of the day when I found myself flagging; and I can only say to Joe Frick: “The twins are forever in your debt!”

  At Ballantine Books: Mark Tavani, my talented editor, continues to amaze me with his ability to read my work and then help me to see it in fresh new ways. Also, Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Gene Mydlowski, Rachel Kind, Beck Stvan, Kelli Fillingim, Shona McCarthy, Paul Taunton, Michelle Taormina, Dana Leigh Blanchette, and Lisa Barnes, my charming and tireless publicist.

  In the UK, Vanessa Neuling and Emma Finnigan have shown such care for my work despite my being so far away.

  Susan Raihofer, my cool, calm, and collected super-agent, is always there when I call to bombard her with ideas or to fret about some little thing. She keeps me grounded and is always hopeful. Also at the David Black Literary Agency, Leigh Ann Eliseo takes excellent care of me in the audio world.

  Dominic Cittadino, D.D.S., my favorite dentist, is nothing like the dentist in this novel (though he does tell a good joke!). He and his staff generously listened to and answered my frequent questions (thanks especially to the lovely and patient Marsha Gostowski). I’m in debt as well to Hope Jones, D.D.S., for her expert knowledge, continuing friendship, and delightfully wicked sense of humor.

  Tandy Thompson, globe-trotting polyglot and most excellent human being, cheerfully translated various sections of dialogue for me and never once said, “You want him to say what?” Kermit “Pig Helmet” Moore was once again my invaluable crime and punishment consultant.

  For background information about Santeria, I found the following books invaluable: Santeria: The Religion by Migene González-Wippler (Llewellyn Publications), and Santeria: A Practical Guide to Afro-Caribbean Magic by Luis Manuel Núñez (Spring Publications).

  I must also mention Luanne Rice, whose encouragement, warmth, and brilliant example have sustained me and taught me to embrace unknown possibilities.

  Special thanks to Jeff Jones, M.D., Erin Connelly, Cindy Marks, Anneliese Wilmsen, and Alexander Wilmsen. And much love to the three women who enrich my life daily: Monica Wilmsen, Teresa Mc Grath, and Maggie Caldwell.

  I am always grateful to my parents, Judy and Jerry Philpot. They were especi
ally supportive of me in the writing of this novel; Cincinnati is their home and they taught me to love it as much as they do. They advised me not only on the geography of the city, but its many nuances and personalities as well. I hope that they—and everyone else in that wonderful city—will excuse the few liberties I took in mixing imagined locations with real ones.

  Pinckney, Nora, and Cleveland—I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: You are my reasons for living.

  CHAPTER 1

  She was just plain Alice, and they never let her forget.

  Roxanne and Delilah, who was called Del, knelt close to Alice by the light of a candle, the skirts of their stiff blue school uniforms crumpling against her. Del rested a hand on Alice’s shoulder as though she might try to get up from the leaf-strewn ground and run away. But they all knew she wouldn’t. Roxanne used a twig to stir some pungent concoction in a shell-thin African bowl she had brought from home. The odor suffused the copse like the fug from an ancient outhouse. To Alice, it smelled suspiciously like a baby’s dirty diaper. There was something else, though. Something caustic and chemical-smelling that made her eyes water.

  “I don’t have to eat it, do I?” Alice said.

  “Oh God,” Del said. She hadn’t wanted to go along with this whole thing in the first place. She was nervous enough about being in the park after dark. And there was something deeply wrong with what they were doing, she knew. Witchcraft on television was fine, but this was something else.

  “Of course not,” Roxanne said, her voice patient. The bowl was heavy in her hands, though it hardly contained anything at all. If she were a few years older than thirteen, she would know it was heavy with her own desire—a desire that she could, at that moment, identify only as dimly sexual.

  “Get her coat off,” she told Del.

  “Come on,” Del said. “Don’t be a baby, Alice.”

  She reached for the buttons on the front of Alice’s pea coat, which was exactly like the ones she and Roxanne were wearing, though Rox-anne’s had a black velvet scarf tucked beneath the collar. Alice didn’t help with the coat, but she didn’t resist, either. Del flung the coat and the blue cardigan sweater with its Our Lady of the Hills crest onto the dormant grass.

  Alice shivered in her blouse, hoping that she would be able to leave on at least her skirt and socks.

  Roxanne nodded. Del’s cold-numbed fingers tugged at the buttons of Alice’s blouse.

  “For pity’s sake,” Roxanne said. “Alice, you need to unbutton your blouse. You don’t have to undo it all the way. Then you need to lie down.”

  Alice did as she was told. Roxanne put down the bowl and tucked the discarded coat beneath Alice’s head. She brushed her fingertips over Alice’s brow and smiled. Sweet, tender Alice. Though perhaps not so sweet, she whined sometimes. But at least she was Pure Alice, who had never been kissed—a virgin, as they all were.

  “Now. Everyone be quiet,” she said, picking up the bowl. Her hands shook a bit with the excitement of it all. She closed her eyes.

  The words she spoke—seemingly to the sky, or the air in front of her—were unintelligible to the others. Her tone was one of supplication: a petition or a prayer, not so different from the prayers the priests said at mass. She tried for the same singsong in her voice, the same careful cadence. She’d added a few thoughts and words of her own to the spell she took from the satanic witchcraft book she stole from the public library, thinking that they would make it more effective.

  The herbs in the mash were ones she remembered being used in a joyful Santeria rite that her mother had taken her to, when her mother was on one of her “spiritual quests.” It was this blending of dark magic and the divine that she believed would give them what they wanted.

  Alice squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the cold, but she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Del picked up the flickering candle in its fragile hurricane and held it close as much for warmth as to protect it from the unpredictable air around them. Roxanne pressed her fingertips against Alice’s shoulder. She dipped the fingers of her other hand into the bowl, then touched them to Alice’s bare chest.

  Alice turned her face away from the hideous smell. Whatever was now on her chest felt like frozen sand. But she held still. She was doing this for all of them. Roxanne didn’t recognize the depth of Alice’s faith in her. Alice would die for her.

  Del watched, wondering how Alice could let something so strange, so horrible, be done to her. Alice’s face was as plain as her name, not homely, but fair and unfreckled, with high, broad cheekbones and too-thin lips. Alice’s was not a threatening or even very expressive face. She smiled often, but her smiles were tentative, as though someone were always watching her and she didn’t know if she should be smiling or not.

  Alice reminded Del of a stray dog that had hung around their house for several months. She hadn’t liked the way the dog flung itself at her feet, its belly exposed. It was a sneaky dog, pushing their elderly spaniel away from her kibble when it thought no one was watching, peeing on the rug when her mother let it inside, shivering, on snowy days. She knew she would probably go to hell for thinking so, but she wasn’t sorry when a speeding pizza delivery car knocked it to the side of the road, its neck twisted.

  She had never known Alice to be sneaky, or to do anything that would hurt or betray any of them. But there would be a first time, she was certain.

  She watched as a woolly caterpillar inched its way into Alice’s dull blond hair, its body curving gracefully as it moved. As it crawled toward Alice’s cheek, Alice’s lips and forehead contorted. Was she in pain? Del held her breath, thinking Alice might cry out.

  “Roxanne!” Del said, stopping Roxanne in mid-chant.

  Alice’s eyes opened in a bald stare before rolling back to show two half-moons of white below their trembling lids. Even by the light of the candle, her lips looked blue; her body stiffened and began to spasm, lifting itself from the ground.

  Before Roxanne could move away, Alice’s left arm hit outward, catching Roxanne mid-stomach so that she gave a loud gasp. The bowl flew from her hand.

  Del began to scream, then—remembering that they were in the park and anyone could hear—covered her mouth to stifle it.

  Alice jerked, her teeth clapping together with each violent throw of her head, her small, flat breasts shuddering. Now it was Roxanne who stared. Alice was like a mechanical doll, broken, frantic and wild in its malfunction. She was fascinated. Everything about Alice was always so predictable, so studied. But she had become interesting.

  With a final upward thrust of her torso, Alice’s body was calm, but her face was tinged blue, her eyes slitted, still with just their whites showing.

  As Del scuttled away to crouch beneath a tree, the candle dropped to the ground, shattering its glass globe.

  “We killed her!” Del said. “Shit, Roxanne. We killed her!”

  Roxanne tilted her head, watchful. A slow curl of breath escaped Alice’s mouth and dissipated.

  “She’s breathing,” she said. “Quit freaking out. There wasn’t anything in there that could hurt her.” She twisted around to find the bowl, but could see nothing in the gathering dark. “And now it’s all gone.” They would have to start over again because she hadn’t finished. Just another few minutes.

  “We have to get someone,” Del said. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Roxanne was in motion now, stuffing things into her book bag.

  “The only place anyone is going is home,” she said. “Just don’t tell anyone you saw her tonight. She probably won’t remember anything anyway—damn it, Del, the candle!” She pointed to the ragged circle of burning leaves surrounding the still-lit candle. The flames were small and tentative, etching black stripes into the palms of the leaves around it.

  Del found herself looking stupidly at the fire for several beats, knowing what was going to come next, imagining Alice’s frozen body being consumed by the flames.

  “Del!” Roxanne
shouted.

  Del swept handfuls of leaves on top of the burning ones, patting them with her hands. Were the leaves stoking the fire or stopping it? She couldn’t tell.

  “Help me,” Del said. But Roxanne didn’t move. Del buried the flames until just a few whispers of smoke rose from the pile.

  “We have to go,” Roxanne said. “Are you coming?” In the distance, they heard a shrill whistle, someone calling a dog or a child indoors.

  “How can you be so hateful?” Del said. But Roxanne was moving away, confident that Alice would come to herself. She had homework to get to, and she was already thinking of the sketch she would do of Alice’s face, that look of emptiness, of complete abandon.

  Del ran, her book bag thumping against her back. At the edge of the park, she crossed Arthur Street without bothering to go down to the crosswalk at the corner. A passing car blew its horn at her as she stumbled onto the opposite sidewalk. She made her way up the hill toward her house, breathing hard in the cold night air, hardly believing what she was doing.

  Every lamp in every house she passed seemed to be burning as though to expose her. A dog she didn’t know emerged from one of the yards and jogged along beside her for a few moments. Glancing down, she saw that it was short-haired, light brown with large splotches of black—a shepherd, maybe, or some mix.

  “Go home,” she said, but it didn’t even look up at her. She wondered if her fear had attracted it. She was afraid for herself. Afraid for Alice. A dog like this—maybe even this very dog—might find Alice in the park. Her mind couldn’t form the next horrible thought.

  At the next corner, the dog stopped while she walked on. She looked back to see it staring after her, its breath lifting in misty bursts beneath the streetlamp.

  Her father’s car was in the driveway. It was after seven and she had missed dinner. When she tried to decide what she would do next, she could think only of Alice. How could she go into the house as though nothing had happened and eat the food that her mother left warming in the oven for her? How could she sit down and do her homework, watch Seinfeld or Saved by the Bell or some stupid movie and wait for the phone call from Alice’s father, who would want to know why Alice hadn’t come home?