Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  “I think we got to put this on the shelf, Danny. From what you have told me, no one thinks it's too bad that this woman’s life ended a few days before it was going to anyway.” He raised his arm to stop the protest. “Not that that is a reason to put this aside, but I think you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment without devoting any more time to this. If something pops up, we’ll hop on it again, but right now, I think we need to move on.”

  Normally the bulldog in Carlisle would be growling at her boss’ decision, but, tonight, she felt he was right. Maybe it was the look in the eyes of the Maples at the funeral, not wanting to cause them any more pain. The family content that the woman’s suffering, and their own, had ended. “Sounds good, Bob. Thanks.” She stood.

  Farmer had been expecting an argument. “You OK, Danny?”

  She thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I’m OK.”

  But as Carlisle walked through the quiet office, she knew she wasn’t quite OK. It was something Lerner had said.

  Chapter 6

  Ken Bishop was not OK either. The bank had called. He didn’t answer the call but listened to the message telling him a court order and law enforcement would be used to evict him. Bishop had spent the last two days in Two Harbors, watching the home of his brother Dan. Dan had an insurance agency in Two Harbors. He was married, his wife Lisa in marketing. They had one son, Sam, twenty-five, who, as far as Ken Bishop knew, did virtually nothing and went nowhere.

  And that was a problem. The kid was always there. Lisa was often out in the evenings with card groups and charity things, Dan usually at home. Ken knew this because he had talked to them at the funeral. He assumed he could find his brother at home alone. But they hadn’t mentioned Sam.

  Dan lived northwest of town on Martin Avenue, a dead-end rural road. His home was not far off the road, visible down his driveway. Ken had been to his brother’s home several times and had a good idea where he would park to watch the house. There was a treed lot on the opposite side of the road, slightly east, with a gravel access. A small wooden shed on the lot had been used for storage by the owner, but the property went back to the bank, and the shed was now nothing more than a pile of rotting wood.

  Monday afternoon, Ken drove by his brother’s house and looked down the driveway to see if there were any vehicles. Seeing nothing, he continued to the next driveway, turned around, and then drove back past his brother’s place to the gravel access for the vacant lot. He was glad he had come during the daylight. The brush had grown up during the summer, obscuring the entrance and hiding what was left of the shed. Bishop made a sharp right, running down some brush, listening to branches scrape the side of his car as he did. He edged forward, stopping to get out and move a small dead tree that had fallen across the previously cleared area. Continuing to move forward, parallel to the road, he now wondered if he should have brought a saw or shears to clear a line of sight to his brother’s house. A few feet further on, still turning so he was nearly facing his brother’s driveway, there was an opening in the brush. This would do.

  Five minutes later, thinking it would likely be an hour before his brother returned from work, Bishop was surprised by movement in the driveway. Someone walking toward him. He slid down in his seat, cursing himself for not taking the time to check to see if he would be concealed from the road. The man reached the end of the driveway and stopped. He was wearing a red t-shirt and shorts, far too little for a chilly October afternoon. As Bishop watched, the man looked down at something he held in his hand while lifting his right leg behind him, grabbing it, and then pulling. Bishop realized the man was stretching. One look at the man’s face and Bishop knew it was his brother’s son. Sam Bishop was unaware of Ken Bishop or his car and took off running.

  Ken waited a minute, walked out to the edge of the road, bending forward, looking after Sam. The boy was gone from sight. Bishop moved out into the road, walked past where his car was parked to the end of his brother’s driveway, and then a little further. Satisfied his gray Ford was not easily visible, he returned to the car. Half an hour later Sam came running back, stopping at the end of the driveway to catch his breath, and then walking to the house, hands on his hips. Ken’s brother drove in less than an hour later. Bishop considered going to the house then, killing his brother, but he couldn’t be sure where Sam would be. He’d likely have to deal with Sam after killing Dan, and the kid was big. It would be risky.

  The air cooled rapidly after the sunset, Bishop wishing he had brought some warmer clothes. He started the car, thinking he could get the heat going, warm up a bit, but turned it off just as quickly. Although the windows in the house would be closed, it may still be possible for someone to hear his engine from inside. He watched for another hour, his feet and hands cold. Got out of the car and walked around trying to get warm but it didn’t help much. Fifteen minutes later he was backing the car up and driving out.

  The same scenario was completed on Tuesday, Bishop parking by the ruined shed, the kid going for a run, Dan Bishop coming home soon after his son had returned from his run. The sun glowed orange as it set in the west, the sky clear, the temperature seeming to drop with the sun. Ken was prepared today. He put on a coat and stocking cap that he retrieved from the back seat and had worn wool socks. There were gloves lying on the passenger seat, but he left those off for now. Instead, he reached inside a brown bag by the gloves and removed a sandwich in a plastic bag. Ham with mayo and lettuce. His ex-wife had told him that the lettuce had no nutritional value but Bishop liked it in his sandwiches. Liked the crunch. He sipped coffee from a thermos next to him as he ate, bringing out chips and cookies in other plastic bags.

  Bishop waited nearly to ten. The stars were brilliant overhead, the moon just a sliver. Despite his extra clothing and the hot coffee, he was still getting cold. He started his car, turned to see where he was going and was surprised by headlights coming up the hill. The car slowed only slightly as it turned into Bishop’s driveway, Ken thinking they had not seen him. He watched it go down the driveway and then turn into the garage. Lisa was home. Ken waited ten minutes before he pulled onto the road and drove home.

  By Wednesday evening he had all but given up, thinking he needed to move on to another sibling when he got a break. An hour after sunset, after Dan and Lisa had come home, a red Mazda pulled into the driveway. The car honked its horn. Through his binoculars, Ken watched Sam exit the house and get in the Mazda. Ken ducked low in his seat as the Mazda’s lights briefly shined on his car. The kid was gone. Dan and Lisa were home alone.

  Bishop had been dejected, nearly dozing off a moment before, now his body tingled. He pulled his pistol from under his seat. He knew the gun was loaded, but checked it again anyway, turning on his dome light for a moment. Turned off the light and sat in the dark, holding the gun in his lap. Thinking.

  This was his brother. They had wrestled together, built snow forts together, gone fishing together, told their parents lies together. Dan was a nice guy, sociable, much more so than Ken. He wasn’t rich, but he had built his small agency up over the years, weathered the recession, and probably had money in the bank. Money that he refused to lend his older brother when he really needed it. And that was really why he was here wasn’t it? If only Dan lent him the money, and he thought his brother might have, except for Lisa. Lisa had talked him out of it, Dan using her refusal as an excuse not to give his brother any money. Dan hadn’t been man enough to stand up to the bitch.

  Ken got out of his car and pushed through the brush so that he was on the edge of the road. He looked both ways for headlights, saw none, and hurried across the road and up the side of the driveway. The house was a rambler, L-shaped, two-car garage on the right. There was a small covered cedar porch in front of the front door, two steps up, the kitchen window just to the right of the porch. Ken suddenly stopped as the light from inside the house revealed the shadow of a kennel in the yard. Shit! He forgot about the damn dog. But he hadn’t seen the dog when he’d been watching the last
three days. Then, just as quickly, he remembered that at their mother’s funeral, his brother had said their dog had died during the summer. He crouched behind a shrub and looked at the house for a minute, his throat dry. His brother and wife were framed in the kitchen window, probably doing dinner dishes. He could see them. He took a deep breath, walked up on the porch to the front door, and rang the bell.

  His brother pulled the door open. “Ken?”

  They had no screen door. At the sound of Ken’s name, Lisa had come up alongside her husband.

  She looked past Ken. “Where’s your car?”

  Ken turned to look behind him like he thought he had parked in the driveway, and then turned back, gun outstretched. “Sorry.”

  Chapter 7

  It had taken Grace Canton two days after the funeral to build up the hatred-filled courage. She had talked to all the Bishop siblings at the funeral, giving a false name, saying she was a friend of Laura Maples, finding out where each sibling lived, at least the town. It had been all she could muster to talk to them without blurting out who she was and how they had ruined her life. But she didn’t. And none of them recognized her with her silver hair and heavy make-up.

  Deciding how to kill them had been years in the making. First, it had been a fantasy. Shooting them or pushing them off a high building or seeing their car crash into a wall after she disabled the brakes. But then, it became more serious, more real. She read countless murder mysteries, exposing herself to how the fictional characters in the books killed. Then, with internet access, she researched methods for murder, methods that would work for her. Stabbing and shooting and choking all seemed like possibilities, but they were just too violent or physical for her.

  Strangely, it turned out that none of her research or reading led her to her choice. It was a mouse. A mouse in her home that her old cat could not catch. Canton had purchased mouse poison from a local hardware store. The poison was in a small block, placed in a plastic container to keep it away from larger animals like her cat. The container had a small hole where the mouse could enter, feed, and then return to its home to die.

  The idea of poison as a method for killing the Bishop siblings appealed to her. She wouldn’t have to be present for it to kill them, but that was part of the fun, wasn’t it? They would suffer greatly before they died. She’d like to see them suffer. Just the thought of giving them a painful death brought some satisfaction. Maybe she could find something fast-acting? Canton went about researching poisons. Could they be heated? Could they be frozen? Could they be easily detected by a doctor? What were the effects? How long did they take to kill and what dosage was needed? So much to consider, to try. It kept her busy for weeks.

  And that was how she became a gardener.

  The plants were beautiful. Tall, with large green leaves, almost like corn, but with cascading flowers of yellow, or white, or purple on the stalks. They would not grow in the harsh Minnesota climate, but Canton constructed a small greenhouse on her enclosed porch that provided the year-round conditions the plants needed to survive. She loved having live flowers in her home all year long, especially in the light-starved cold winters. The plants almost became her children as she named them, making it hard when the time came to harvest the poison they produced. That was in the roots. Care was needed to handle the toxic plants, but eventually, she accumulated enough of the poison.

  As Canton ate dinner by herself each night, she contemplated how to administer the poison. She needed to get them to drink or eat it, breathe it in, or touch it. After some more research, she ruled out touching. It seemed to be the least reliable in terms of the person touching the poison getting a fatal dose. Getting the Bishops to breathe the poison in was also dropped. Administering the poison would be difficult, and she would incur some possibility of exposure herself.

  That meant she would have to find some way to get them to ingest the poison. She couldn’t very well invite them all to dinner at her house or to some restaurant. Her quandary was solved by a trip to the grocery store. At several locations throughout the store, free samples were being given away. At one station, a woman was handing out cookies. Grace tried one, the buttery taste sweet on her tongue. The woman asked Grace if she liked the cookie, and would she consider buying a box. Canton said she thought the cookie was very good and asked for a box. The woman in the white smock said she was sorry, but the cookies were being tested by a manufacturer and were not yet available for purchase. Canton was a little disappointed at first, but almost immediately became giddy with inspiration.

  Canton was having fun now, smiling like she hadn’t in years. Still more to do to make this work. Details to work out. First, she’d need to create a company for her cookie sampling, deciding it would be best if the company remained incognito. Canton purchased a large white smock, large enough to wear over a sweatshirt, bought a pin-on nametag that read ‘B. Smith’, and a clipboard. Canton decided she would make M&M cookies for her sampling.

  Cookies were made each weekend for three successive weeks, Canton working to make her recipe one that could not be resisted. She’d brought the cookies to work on Monday to get a reaction to her first batch, her coworkers wondering why the woman they’d hardly noticed was attempting to be friendly. The attention she gained made her uncomfortable, Canton discarding the cookies she made after that, feeling guilty and hating the Bishops even more for her guilt.

  By the third week of baking, she thought her cookies were quite good, but the cookies alone would not achieve her goals. The Bishops had to eat a cookie. And she wanted to see them do it. She needed to watch them die, watch them suffer.

  But that was as far as she got. It was always as far as she got, no matter how she planned to kill them. She would go back into her shell, too timid, too afraid to take action. Until the death of Laura Maples. She couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t let her fear hold her back, cheat her of seeing the Bishops die.

  Canton picked Helen Bishop, Helen Johnson now, as her first target. Helen was the youngest of the siblings, and smallest, only slightly taller than Canton. Johnson lived by herself, her husband recently deceased, just south of French River. Canton Googled the address she had found. Maybe half an hour from her home. A long drive for a woman who did not like to drive. Maybe there would be some way to get the woman to meet with her in Duluth, maybe by the waterfront? Canton could not come up with a reason for Johnson to come, let alone how to get her to take the poison after she did. No, she would have to drive.

  Hunched over with her nose nearly to the steering wheel, Canton gripped it as if she had to hold it in place. Drivers coming up behind her honked, giving dirty looks to the black Volkswagen going ten miles an hour under the speed limit as they passed. Time seemed to slow with each mile as Canton drove north on Highway 61 on Wednesday afternoon. As she approached Two Harbors, she remembered that one of the Bishop brothers, Dan, lived nearby. It would certainly be closer, but she did not have his address and to turn back now would be just as far as continuing on to Silver Bay.

  She was stopped at the light on County 12. There were two cars ahead of her, two behind. A convenience store was across the intersection on her right. She could pull off, get gas, take a break for just a minute. But she knew her tank was nearly full, and if she took a break, she would never continue on. The light changed, and Canton pulled through the intersection, willing herself not to look to her right. Helen would be the first to die.

  Canton was wearing her smock over a black sweatshirt. She had dyed her hair black, pulling it back in a ponytail, wearing a maroon University of Minnesota Duluth baseball cap. Her glasses were oversized with black frames. They were something she wore each evening after removing her contacts, something she had not done at the funeral. With only a slight bit of make-up, she was confident no one who had seen her at the funeral would recognize her.

  Johnson lived in a small two-story aluminum-sided home between the highway and Lake Superior. She wasn’t on the lake, a block off, but it was an easy walk to the
shore. Canton, unfamiliar with the area, missed the turnoff. She stopped in a gas station, pulling to the side of the lot. Her hands gripped the wheel like a vice. The trip had been a major effort for her, nerve-racking, and her breaths came fast and short. The back of her neck was damp with perspiration. She turned off the heater. She looked over at the plastic wrapped cookies on the plate on the passenger seat, wanting desperately to go home.

  “No, I won’t let them win.”

  Canton looked at her phone, got her bearings, and headed south on 61. She took a left on Evelyn Street and then another quick left on Ruth Street, going slowly, looking at the fire numbers. She found Johnson’s driveway on her right, looked at the house as she drove by, realizing she had no solid plan for what to do now that she was at her destination. There were no cars in Johnson’s driveway. Canton thought the woman might not be home and felt relief from her building tension. Maybe she would have to come back another day? She rolled past and stopped a block from Johnson’s house and thought about it for a minute as she surveyed the area. The homes here were small, at least the ones she had driven by, with small yards that ran to the road and thick woods between each home. She would have liked to have one of these homes. If Johnson wasn’t home, she would park on the street and wait. Canton took a deep breath, put the car in drive, and turned into the driveway across the street. Backed her Volkswagen out and drove back, turning into Johnson’s driveway.

  Canton stopped in front of the house, frozen to her steering wheel again. Stared at the white house with the flower boxes on either side of the front step, geraniums and blue daze spilling over the sides, and caught herself wondering why the flowers were still alive after the freeze, when the front door opened. Helen Johnson suddenly stepped outside, wiping her hands on a dish towel, staring at the woman in the car in her driveway. Canton thought for a moment she may be at the wrong home, the woman in the jeans and sweatshirt somehow different from the one she had met at the Maples’ funeral, then realized the woman had only tied her brunette hair on top of her head.