by Cate Conte
“Blood. Where?”
“In his hair.” In my peripheral vision I could see the flashing lights of what I guessed was the ambulance outside. I wondered if they were going to the hospital, or straight to the morgue.
“Any other footprints?”
I shook my head. “The snow had covered any tracks, even Mr. Proust’s.”
“Tell me about this gnome.”
“A Christmas gnome.” I wrinkled my nose, focusing on that instead of Virgil Proust’s still body, his ponytail flat and wet, bloody, and plastered to his neck. “Ugly thing. It was in the snow near the … its head was broken off. That’s what killed him, right? Someone hit him with it?”
Officer McDonald wrote something in his pad then looked at me. “The medical examiner will determine cause of death. What did you do next?”
“I checked to see if he was moving or breathing. I thought maybe he’d fallen. But he wasn’t moving at all. So that’s when I ran over here and bumped into Harvey just getting home. He told me to come inside and he went over to see what had happened. I came here and Monica called you.”
McDonald narrowed his eyes at me. “You touch anything? The gnome, maybe? Or Mr. Proust himself?”
“I moved the gnome with my foot.” I could tell he wanted to ask why I went closer to the body instead of running away screaming. I kind of wondered myself.
McDonald still watched me like one would a criminal he half expected to commit a crime right before his eyes. I was getting tired of this and I still needed to feed the cats. Then I wanted to go home and crawl into bed. “Is that all?” I asked.
He nodded. “For now. Please write down your contact information in case I have any other questions.” He pushed his pad and pen toward me.
I scribbled my address and phone number and handed it back.
He pocketed it and rose to go, then paused. “Was there anyone else that you knew of who had problems with Mr. Proust? Anyone in the neighborhood, perhaps?”
I hesitated. I’d seen enough crazy stuff around this neighborhood in the last few weeks that I could offer up a few examples for sure. “It didn’t seem like too many people were getting along around here,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“People felt differently about the cats and all. And I’d seen Mr. Proust a few times at various neighborhood … events, and he seemed to be having some issues.”
“Issues with whom?”
“His wife,” I said, remembering the neighborhood association meeting.
“They were fighting?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Anyone else?”
I thought of Whitney at their door, screaming at June. But June hadn’t been killed. Although her husband had come to her defense. But Whitney? I shook my head slowly. “Not that comes to mind,” I said.
“Okay. Call me if you think of anything else.” He handed me his card.
I took it and turned it over and over in my hands. “Do you want me to get Harvey?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No need. He gave me his report outside. Thank you, Ms. James.” He picked up his coat and walked down the hall. I heard the front door close softly behind him.
The Hacketts still hadn’t returned. I needed to go, but I didn’t really want to go into the woods alone. I finished my tea and put my mug in the sink, then went over to the bottom of the stairs where they had disappeared. I was going to call out, but I heard their voices, soft and furious at the same time.
“Come on, Harvey. I’m sure people have heard about you giving Virgil a hard time,” Monica hissed. “It’s going to come out.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Harvey responded, and I could hear the impatience in his voice. “No one needs to know anything about that. So just keep quiet, okay?”
I backed away from the staircase, not sure exactly what I was listening to, but I didn’t want them to know I was. I went back to the kitchen and grabbed my coat, pulling it on as I yanked the door open and hurried outside. I went straight to my car and called Ethan.
“Can you come help me feed the cats?” I asked when he answered. “I’ll explain later.”
Chapter 11
Tuesday, December 22: the night of the murder
9:15 p.m.
I waited in my car for Ethan to show up. Even though the heat was cranked, I was shivering. I didn’t think it was the cold. I couldn’t believe what had happened tonight. I felt like I was kind of in shock. Virgil was dead. And not only dead. Murdered dead. Someone had taken that creepy gnome and beamed him with it. The cops hadn’t confirmed it, but it was obvious. A random act? Someone trying to rob rich people? A break-in gone wrong, like Edie Barnes predicted? Or had the killer targeted him?
I wasn’t sure which one would make me feel better. If there was some random killer around here, it certainly wouldn’t make me feel safe when I was in the woods, and the cats would still need to be fed. But if it was someone he knew …
I picked up my phone again with shaking hands and called Katrina. This time, she answered.
“Maddie? What’s up? You okay?”
“I’m fine. But Katrina … someone killed Virgil Proust.” I bit my lip, realizing I was about to cry.
I heard her gasp, then nothing but silence from the other end of the phone. I couldn’t even hear breathing. “Katrina? Hello? You there?”
“I’m here,” she said after a minute, but she sounded weird. Robotic. “What are you talking about, Maddie?”
“He’s dead. Murdered. I found him in his backyard.” I closed my eyes, immediately regretting it because Virgil’s body and the gnome appeared behind my eyelids.
“You found him? When? How?” There was a strange hitch in her voice.
“Katrina. Were you on this street today?” I asked, ignoring her question.
“Was I … why are you asking me that?”
“Because I thought I saw your car.”
Silence. Then, “How do you know he was murdered?”
“Someone hit him over the head. With a Christmas gnome.” It sounded ridiculous even to my own ears, but there was nothing funny about it.
“With a … Do they know who did it?” she asked. “Do they know who killed him?”
“No, I—”
A fist rapped on my window, nearly giving me a heart attack. It was Ethan.
“I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I told her. I disconnected and opened the door, trying to calm my pounding heart. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, giving me a curious look. “So what’s going on? I see police cars. What did you do?”
He was kidding, but it didn’t feel funny. “Someone’s dead,” I said, and watched the smile fade from his face.
“What? Maddie, that’s not funny.”
“I know it’s not funny. One of the people who lives here is dead. I found him in his backyard.”
“How did he die?” Ethan asked. “Please tell me it was of natural causes.”
I didn’t answer.
His face went even more pale, if that was possible. “There has to be a mistake.”
I shook my head slowly. “I don’t think it’s a mistake, sadly. But listen. Ethan.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face until he refocused on me. “I still need to feed the cats. Can you please help me so we can get out of here? I really don’t want to hang around.”
He looked dubiously at the dark woods behind the houses. “Out there?”
“Yes out there,” I said impatiently. “Where else?” I really didn’t need him freaking me out about going back out there. I had a job to do. I had to stay focused until it was done. End of story.
He looked like he’d rather walk home barefoot in the snow, but he sighed. “Let’s go. You have a flashlight?”
I held up my Maglite and looked around for the cat food. Then I realized I’d dropped it somewhere on the ground near Virgil Proust’s body. Shoot. I hoped the police would give it to me.
I pocketed my phone—I wasn’t goin
g without it this time—and grabbed the gallon of water I’d forgotten on my first, failed trip. I led the way down to where the police were gathered.
McDonald spotted me and came over. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go feed the cats. I didn’t get to do it. And I think my bag of food is somewhere over there.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of where they were all clustered. I figured it had to be pretty difficult to secure a crime scene in this weather. The snow was still coming down, wrecking any evidence that may have been left. I expected even my footprints were gone by now.
McDonald’s eyes cut to Ethan. “Who’s this?”
“My friend. I called him to help me. I don’t really want to be out there alone.”
He sighed. “Make it quick.”
“Thank you. Can you see about my food?”
He gave me a look that said I really don’t have time for this right now, but raised his walkie-talkie and spoke into it. It crackled, then another voice barked, “Yeah, there’s a bag of food. Send her over.”
I motioned to Ethan to follow me and we hurried through the Hacketts’ yard. A cop handed Ethan the bag and we continued out to the woods. “You gonna tell me what happened?” Ethan asked finally, once we’d reached the first shelter.
“Later.”
We worked in silence, filling up food and water in the two makeshift shelters. At the second, a couple of cats fled out the door as we approached. My heart leaped as I recognized one of them as my missing Gus. “Aww, at least one good thing came out of tonight,” I murmured, more to myself.
When we were finished, I said, “We have to go across the street to the shed, then we’re done.”
Ethan nodded, and we headed back the way we’d come. As we emerged from the Hacketts’ yard, I heard June Proust before I came around the corner and saw her. She was wailing, the sound ear piercing and desperate. One of the police officers was restraining her. I guessed she was trying to get through to see Virgil’s body, though I had to assume they’d moved it by now. I almost felt sorry for her at that moment.
Then she saw me.
The cries stopped. She took a step forward, her movements jerky, as if her limbs weren’t working right. She wore a long wool coat that dwarfed her small frame and a pair of snow boots. I wondered why Virgil hadn’t been out with her, wherever she’d been. I grabbed Ethan’s arm and started to move in a wide berth around her, but she wasn’t letting me get by.
“You!” she screeched, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I stopped, feeling my frozen face creep toward red. The cops had all turned and were watching too. The one who’d been restraining her froze, arms still outstretched like he wanted a hug, as she advanced toward me.
Instinctively I stepped back, one hand going up in defense. “What?”
Her hand shook as she pointed a skinny finger at me. “You and your rotten friends. You killed my Virgil.”
I stumbled backward, her words hitting me like a two-by-four. It was one thing for her to yell at us about trespassing, but to accuse us of murder? “It’s horrible what happened, June, but we had nothing to do with it,” I said, trying to stay calm even though everything in me wanted to scream back. But after all, she must’ve been in complete shock, so I tried to cut her some slack. I made a move to go around her, but she reached out with a claw-like grip and clamped on to my arm. I tried to wrench it free but she was surprisingly strong for such a scrawny, older woman. Probably all that yard work.
“I know what you and your friends are up to,” she hissed. “Skulking around our neighborhood, stealing things, planning to rob us all blind. Is that what happened? You were trying to rob us and my Virgil stopped you?”
I was so stunned by her words and the venom behind them that I was actually speechless for a moment. But Ethan saved the day. He reached over and plucked her fingers from my wrist. “Officer, a little help?” he said to the cop standing closest.
June whirled on him, advancing with one hand raised as if to strike him. “I’ll give you something to complain about—”
“Mrs. Proust!” The cop in charge of restraining her had apparently gotten back the use of his limbs and stepped in between us. “That’s enough. Is there someone I can call for you?” Glancing over at us, he said, “You’d better go.”
Ethan grabbed my arm and pulled me away. “Wow,” he said when we were out of earshot. “That lady is crazy.”
“You’re not kidding,” I said, still shaken. “She really thinks we had something to do with Virgil’s death.”
We hurried across the street to Whitney’s in silence. As I pulled open the shed, I heard my name being called. Whitney was on her back deck, waving at us.
“Who’s that?” Ethan asked in a low voice.
“She owns this house. She’s cool. Here.” I handed him the water and pointed to the shed. “Can you do this?” I slogged through the rapidly piling snow over to the deck. “Hey, Whitney.”
“You okay, honey? What’s going on out there?” She jerked her thumb behind her toward the street and all the commotion.
I waited until I reached the deck stairs. “It’s Virgil. Something … happened. He’s dead.”
She stared at me, her mouth moving, but no words forming. “He’s … what?”
“Dead,” I said grimly. “I found him in his backyard.”
She stumbled back, her cane scrabbling for purchase, and I thought for a panicked moment she was going to fall. But she caught herself on the railing. “My God. What happened?”
“I don’t know. The police are looking into it.”
She stepped back, brushing snow out of her red curls. “You should go home, honey. Get yourself inside and away from this mess,” she said in a strange voice, then yanked open her back slider and went inside.
Odd reaction, but everyone processes this stuff differently I guess.
Ethan joined me a minute later. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just told her what happened.”
He looked closely at me. “Are you okay to drive?”
I nodded. “Yeah, fine.”
“Let’s go.” He took my arm and we headed back to our cars. “I’ll be right behind you.” He opened the door to my truck and waited until I got in and locked the door before heading to his own car.
I turned the engine on and waited for it to warm up while Ethan did the same, absentmindedly rubbing my wrist. I could still feel June’s claws wrapping around me like a vise. I thought again how strong she was. How she’d pried the phone out of Virgil’s hand and hurled it against the wall the other day, smashing it to bits.
Strong enough to brain her husband with a Christmas gnome and try to blame it on someone else?
Chapter 12
Wednesday, December 23: the day after the murder
7 a.m.
I lay awake in bed and watched the sun come up the next morning. I’d barely slept the whole night. When I did close my eyes all I could see was Virgil in the snow. Or that stupid gnome leering at me with its broken hat. The one time I did fall asleep, I had a nightmare that there was a Christmas gnome in my bedroom and it was coming to get me. Like something out of a Stephen King novel.
Grandpa and I had stayed up pretty late talking after Ethan and I had gotten home. I could tell he was itching to be part of the investigation, but of course he couldn’t be. Officially, anyway. But more than that, he was concerned about me and advised me to stay out of the area. I appreciated his concern, but it wasn’t an option. I was still the feeder in charge. And of course this happened to be a morning Adele couldn’t do, because she was working one of her other jobs, so I was back on duty even though Sea Spray Lane was pretty much the last place I ever wanted to go again.
I dragged myself out of bed and threw on a sweatshirt and some fleecy leggings. JJ got up with me, hoping for an early breakfast. I was happy to oblige if it meant stalling for a bit before I had to leave. I thought of texting Jonathan, but he was already doing tonight’s run.
And I wasn’t one to push my responsibilities onto other people, so I abandoned the idea as soon as it arrived. Instead, I set about making coffee because Ethan wasn’t up yet. Or else he’d gone out for a run to shake off last night’s fiasco.
I put JJ’s food out and was standing at the counter watching the coffee drip into the pot when Grandpa came into the kitchen. “Doll! What are you doing up?” he asked.
I glanced at the clock. “I’m usually up by now. Besides, I have to go feed the cats.”
He frowned, his bushy white eyebrows knotting together. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”
I looked at him gratefully. “You will?”
“Course I will. I know you’re just as stubborn as me and will go anyway, so I may as well come to keep an eye on you.”
That made me feel much better. It would also give me a chance to talk to Grandpa about what happened. I poured us both some coffee into travel mugs and we bundled up, then headed out. I had a feeling Grandpa not only wanted to be supportive of me, but also to get his eyes on the crime scene. Both were fine with me.
I was even more than willing to let Grandpa drive. I sipped my coffee and stared out the window. Finally, he broke the silence.
“So what do you think happened to Virgil Proust?”
I took another sip and kept my gaze out the window. “Someone killed him.”
“And your gut says…”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do I want it to be a random, horrible crime? No. But that means someone he knew killed him, and you can’t really ignore the timing with everything going on out here.”
Grandpa acknowledged my assessment with a nod as he turned onto Sea Spray Lane. But he didn’t have a chance to respond. The dread had already been mounting in my chest as we got closer but my heart sank even further when it registered that there was a cop car in front of the Barneses’ place. I had a moment of sheer panic that someone else was dead until I got a little closer and saw Edie standing outside, her arms wrapped around herself as she talked to the cop. Her husband, Trey, stood next to her looking concerned, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his North Face parka.