Baby, It's Dead Outside

by E M Kaplan

  Josie had abandoned her crutch in the trunk of her SUV and limped cautiously across the uneven ground. She paused to tighten her hood and jam her gloved hands further into her coat pockets. Because the field lay dormant, unplowed and unplanted, it was easy to see all the way across it in any direction she looked. If a person were walking through the field, they’d stand out like a sore thumb. However, a gray-haired person lying in the gray dirt, wearing a gray knitted sweater—

  “There! What’s that?” Josie asked, pointing at a dark mound amongst the decayed rows, playing the worst game of I Spy she ever could have imagined, one in which she wished she wouldn’t find anything at all.

  About a hundred yards away from her toward the inner part of the field lay a smudge of gray slightly darker than the rest of the frozen mud. As soon as Josie had hollered and pointed, Jablonski and his partner both set off running across the field in a chorus of thudding boots and jangle of Batman equipment on their belts.

  She hobbled after them, her pounding heart spurring her on but her tender ankle protesting enough that she obeyed its warnings to go slowly.

  Jablonski reached the dark spot on the ground before Josie was only halfway there. He crouched down and looked like he was poking it with something he’d taken from his shirt pocket—maybe a pen although that probably wasn’t contamination-free—and then consulted with his partner. When he glanced up and noticed Josie hobbling toward them, he stood up, waving her off.

  “It’s just a gray sweater,” he said as he jogged toward her, metal stuff on his belt clinking again, not even out of breath. “It could be hers, but there’s no blood on it. It’s not even dirty."

  “She was wearing a gray cardigan when I saw her the other day.”

  “So it could be hers,” he said again. “No sign of her, though.”

  “As much as I want to get the person who killed my Aunt Lynetta, I did not want to find the body of a little old lady lying frozen in a cornfield,” Josie said, shivering, although she wasn’t sure if it was from the chill or from a sudden wave of anger that welled up inside her. She sniffled, but that was definitely because of the cold wind…not because she was upset and frustrated.

  I’d never admit that anyway.

  A gust of icy air buffeted them, but Jablonski didn’t seem to be bothered by it. His only concession to the frigid temperatures seemed to be adding his earmuffs and some gloves with his uniform. He gave her shoulder a kind squeeze with a meaty hand that had probably held a football once or twice when he was younger.

  He didn’t have to raise his blaring voice over the wind. “You’re freezing. Go on home and get out of the cold. We’ll track down Harris Kane and let you know if anything else turns up elsewhere.”

  Meaning a body.

  

  While Jablonski’s advice was sensible and well-meant, Josie was really not the type to go home and wait to see what happened next. She might try to follow his plan at first, but her terminal nosiness would eventually get the better of her.

  At least I’m self-aware. I’m probably a whole step above a cephalopod. Maybe not an octopus, though. Those suckers are smart…

  But she knew if she didn’t get off her ankle for a while, she wouldn’t be able to even hobble a little bit later. Banishing herself to the couch for a short rest would be worth it in the long run, even she could see the logic here.

  “Look how civilized we are, Bert,” she told him, sipping hot tea from her cup in the front room on the fussy little couch. “I’m a regular Miss Marple. All we need is a body in the garden.”

  She cast a side-eyed glance toward the front window from where she could see Harris Kane’s house even though darkness was falling now. Maybe she was feeling feisty now that her fingers had defrosted and her foot—elevated for the past half hour—had stopped beating like a drum.

  “If the ground weren’t frozen, I’d suspect he had a wife buried in his.”

  Harris’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Supposedly he was at work, where Jablonski and his partner were going to look for him first and possibly take him in for questioning. Unless of course, Harris had already thrown the lifeless body of Betty Edwards into the Mississippi River on his way to the Mexican border, gunning it down route 66 in his gray Taurus.

  “In any case, he wouldn’t be hanging around in his sunroom waiting for the police to come get him, would he, Bert?”

  At the sound of his name, the dog lifted an eyebrow at her. Any non-dog-lover would have taken it for a questioning look, but Josie knew better. She suspected her dog totally understood that she was contemplating sneaking across the street and snooping around in Harris Kane’s backyard—and Bert totally did not approve of her proposed shenanigans. Or maybe it was just her own sometimes dormant common sense.

  She put down her empty tea cup and, thus fortified, beckoned him over. “Listen,” she said, taking his sleek head in her hands, “I know I’m not the best dog mom, probably. I could give you more walks and buy you more toys, and I never gave you the little brother you always wanted, but you and I have an unmistakable bond. No matter what dumb thing happens today, know that I always mean to do the best for you, and I always want to come home and take care of you.”

  He thumped his tail and burped his kibble dinner breath in her face.

  Which was probably an appropriate response to her stupid idea.

  Josie’s line of thought was that if Aloysius had drugged her, how could she have trusted him to do her legwork? He had zero credibility in her book now. When he’d peeked into Harris’s backyard earlier, who knew what he’d truly seen? Maybe they were into the murder-and-kidnapping plot together. Murder Aunt Lynetta the cough drop heiress via Betty Edwards, their senior citizen secret agent of death, kidnap Betty and do God-knew-what with her, and then flee the area.

  Enough is enough. If any part of this plan is true, there have to be answers at Harris’s place.

  She peered out the front door at the house across the street. Bert, suddenly alert and thinking that it was time for walkies, wedged himself between her somewhat unsteady ankle and the still-closed door.

  “Relax, you old worrywart. This is the safest time to go check things out. If he’s innocent, Harris is either at work or being picked up by the police for questioning. If he’s guilty of taking Betty Edwards, he’s long gone by now. There’s no way he would stick around town after that—and don’t worry, I’m not going down the front steps again. It’s out the back door for me.”

  Bert whined, and she patted him on the head.

  “I’m just going to take a peek into his backyard. I swear, just a quick in and out. I’m not up for much else, and to tell you the truth, anything else would be foolhardy in this state, am I right?”

  Chapter 35

  Without her crutch, Josie picked her way with extreme caution down the back steps of her rental house and across the grit-covered pavement under the street lamps. Most of the ice on the street had melted or been covered by a spray of dirt and salt by city trucks. Her ankle still resembled a fat tube of uncooked polenta, but she had managed to get it back into her boot without too much cursing or tears.

  Slowly, slowly. Like an off-balance tortoise still trying to win that dumb race…

  She felt exposed walking up Harris’s driveway even in the darkness, but she’d decided that a direct approach was the best since she wasn’t as mobile as she wished she was. Maybe she should have been sneaking behind the bushes under cover of night—or carrying a plate of cookies, had she taken a hint from Aloysius and his Tollhouse style Trojan horse approaching to betraying neighbors.

  “Hello?” She knocked on the door of the enclosed front porch. The house’s actual front door inside the porch was closed.

  No signs of life, so to speak.

  Was she supposed to go inside and knock on the inside door? What was the nosy neighbor etiquette in this situation? After about a three-second pause, she opened the unlocked outer door and limped inside where the porch light next to the door cast a y
ellow glow. She looked around at the collection of dusty wicker furniture and patio tables. Technically, she was still outside the house. This level of intrusion was about the same as what a delivery person would commit. Therefore, she was still in the clear.

  She took a steadying breath and knocked on the peeling yellow front door, steeling herself, not sure what to expect. Would Harris’s rumored alcoholic wife answer? Or would it be suspected kidnapper Harris himself? Josie eyed the distance to the porch door and wondered if she could hobble back across the street and deadbolt herself inside her house fast enough if the need arose. Usually hunger was her major motivating factor for everything in her life, but she thought fear and adrenaline would power her a long way. Maybe all the way home to Boston with her dog tucked between her legs, never mind her proverbial tail…

  Except no one answered the door.

  She knocked again, a little louder this time and with more confidence since she was starting to think that a murderer wouldn’t actually leap out at her.

  Still no answer.

  Maybe I should look in the backyard while I’m here. After all, how many chances am I going to have to sate my curiosity?

  Even from inside the porch, she could see the fence enclosing the rear side of the house was tall, however, which made her wonder exactly how much Aloysius had been able to see when he’d stood next to it. The traitor was a six-foot tall veritable beanpole, but she absolutely didn’t trust him now. Because of him, she’d have to think twice before she ever accepted a homemade food gift from someone again. Not a fruitcake from her neighbor, Mrs. Brighton. Not pralines from Drew’s nurse from New Orleans. Not even the special spice rub from her pal who was the doorman at the Boston Harbor Hotel. Not unless it was factory-sealed, and maybe not even then.

  He ruined me forever, she thought bitterly.

  Still inside the porch, she made her way through the stacks of red clay garden pots and half-dead plants that had not survived the cold, dry winter and edged closer to the back fence. In here, the air was still cold enough to see her breath, but marginally warmer and more protected than out in yard. Because the front porch was slightly elevated compared to the yards, she could glimpse just a little of the backyard—more than she could have if she’d been standing on the dead, icy lawn.

  From her new vantage point, the back door and part of the cement steps that led down into the yard had come into view. She glanced back at the front window of her rental house across the street and estimated the angle from which she would have stood and glimpsed Harris bringing the back of his shovel down on his wife’s head. She definitely had the right spot, but were there any telltale stains on the concrete to indicate the woman had been injured?

  She moved as close to the filthy screen as she could without touching it and leaned toward the yard as far as she could, but the steps were clear as far as her position would allow her to see.

  Behind her, the front door to the house opened.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” an accusatory voice asked.

  

  Josie flinched. Because she was perched on her one good ankle, she lost her balance and wobbled forward, smashing her nose against the dirty mesh and getting a snootful of grime at the same time. She sneezed and turned around.

  Sandra, her landlady, stood in the doorway of Harris’s house, her hands on her hips. Gone was the welcoming, quirky soul who’d shown Josie around the rental house. In her place was a frowning and suspicious bulldog of a guard in a sleek North Face coat.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said when she recognized Josie. “Are you looking for Harris?”

  “Yes, I was, actually,” Josie said, but didn’t elaborate further.

  “You’re limping,” Sandra said, noticing as Josie hobbled closer. “I hope he didn’t forget to de-ice your steps. He promised he would.”

  “Something like that.” Something exactly like that.

  Sandra scowled and clasped her hands together, wringing them. “Well, I’m looking for him, too. As a matter of fact—I may as well tell you—he checked my mother-in-law out of Pleasant Valley and no one has seen him since. There’s a lot of people out looking for him, for both of them.”

  Josie waited for Sandra to put two and two together, but she didn’t mention Lynetta. Maybe she hadn’t heard of her death yet, or Betty’s alleged hand in it. If not, Josie wasn’t going to be the one to inform her.

  Sorry to tell you this, but your nephew might have set your mother-in-law up to kill another old lady and now one or both of them might be halfway to Matamoros.

  No, that news was best left to the authorities to deal with.

  “So, you have a key to his house, too?” Josie edged slightly to the side so she could see past Sandra’s shoulder through the doorway. “Holy geeze—” Three pairs of unblinking and creepy black eyes looked at her from ghostly white faces. Staring back at her were three dolls on an entryway table.

  Sandra leaned slightly to the side and blocked Josie’s line of sight. “Harris’s wife is a doll maker. Sells them at fairs and on the internet.”

  Josie swallowed. She’d never been a fan of dolls. In fact, her Aunt Ruth still told the story of when Josie received her first doll as a present when she was a toddler, she’d run screaming from the room. Maybe not the healthiest reaction to a doll and she still felt the urge to shriek now, staring into the dark abyss of Harris’s house, but she gulped down her abhorrence and attempted to lie. “I’m a…big lover of dolls. Is she home now? Maybe she’ll let me see some of them.”

  Sandra pulled the door shut behind her and stepped out fully. “No, neither of them is home right now.” She extracted a set of keys from her coat pocket and searched through them with her gloved fingers until she found one with a yellow sticker on it. Marked with the same color of the house, maybe.

  “Ah, I guess Harris would be at work. Maybe I can catch him when he comes home. So his wife also has a job outside of her dolls?” Josie asked, stalling, and knowing full well that Ann did not have another job, at least according to what Aloysius had told her. If she could just get Sandra to let her take a peek inside, it would certainly help allay her fears that Harris had harmed his wife.

  “Uh.” Sandra had slipped the key into the lock and started to turn it. “No, she doesn’t work outside the home, but she might be out…running errands.”

  Now who was the liar-liar-pants-on-fire?

  Josie didn’t think she’d ever meet someone who was a worse liar than she herself was, but here she was looking at her now. Sandra couldn’t even make eye contact when she was trying to tell a fib, never mind keep the inflection of her words steady and consistent. She was an utter amateur at deception.

  “Oh, yoo-hoo, Sandra! Don’t lock up yet. I have something I need to put in there for my girl Ann.” Aloysius jogged across the street toward them, waving his long thin arm like he was flagging down a 747.

  Speak of the sandwich-roofie-ing betrayer and he shall appear.

  Chapter 36

  “What do you mean, ‘your girl Ann?’” Josie couldn’t help asking with extreme irritation. She also couldn’t keep her eyes from narrowing at him, and her hands may also have crept up to her hips in an accusatory posture. The way Aloysius had talked about Harris’s wife earlier had sounded like he only knew her from afar…and in a super judgy way.

  He had the grace to look sheepish, at least for a second before he brushed away her question with a roll of his eyes. “That’s the way I talk about everyone I know.”

  Josie didn’t know if he meant the way he addressed the woman so familiarly now or the way he’d gossiped about her alcoholism earlier—and had he talked about Josie in similarly horrible terms to anyone else? He knew a lot about her since he’d picked her up from the ice, taken her to the hospital, and fed her…

  “And what the hell was in that sandwich you knocked me out with?”

  His eyes widened and he blinked rapidly. “I…what do you mean?”

  “Whatever you put in
that homemade sandwich of yours knocked me out cold. I was dead to the world for hours. A marching band could have gone down the street and I wouldn’t have noticed. And my dog, too,” she added for good measure.

  Sandra didn’t look the least bit surprised when Josie glanced at her, which put Aloysius firmly in the Shady Character column. She never should have trusted his dumb, delicious, cinnamon cookies in the first place.

  “What was in that thing? You don’t know me. What if I had allergies? What if I had a reaction?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I was standing right next to you at the ER when they asked you if you had any allergies, Precious.”

  “Oh no,” she said, waggling a finger in his direction. “You drugged me. You don’t get to call me Precious.” She would never admit it, but she had actually liked the endearment, especially since there was no implied or actual flirtation in it.

  “It wasn’t drugs, for heaven’s sake. It was just a little bit of cannabis oil in the aioli.” He held up a jar he was carrying in his other hand. “I make a jar of it for Ann every few weeks because she has fibromyalgia.”

  If what he was saying was true, fibromyalgia was no joke. Widespread pain all over the body with fatigue, sleep, memory and mood issues…never mind doctors who misdiagnose you for years before they figure it out. Josie wasn’t even sure if there was a test for fibromyalgia. For a long time, it was just ruling out a long list of other terrible disorders. On a much lesser scale, that was how her own doctors were trying to nail down her own stomach problems. Luckily on this trip, all she’d had to contend with was her silly ankle.

  “You said she’s an alcoholic,” Josie exclaimed and then lowered her voice when she realized half the neighborhood could be listening to her, as accustomed as they were to hearing frequent dramatics from the yellow house.

  “She doesn’t like anyone to know she has fibro, so I panicked and told you that. I’m not a good liar.”