by Ritter Ames
A tanned and toned twenty-something with shiny blonde hair swinging in a rhythmic ponytail ran by on long athletic legs. Baker turned his head and followed her progress as she ran past my yard, but I’m not sure the detective’s eyes ever even reached her face. I wanted to snap my fingers and say, “Earth to Brian Baker.” But that wouldn’t do much to further my ‘I’m being good’ tactic and help me stay off his radar.
“Who was that?” I could swear his tongue hung out a little.
“The Loftons’ daughter,” I replied. “She’s staying with her parents over the summer while she picks up some post-graduate classes in Tulsa.”
“She’s in college?”
“Starting on her master’s. My understanding is she works in estate planning, or that general line. Her mom told me it was something like that.” Actually, Mrs. Lofton bragged to me nonstop about her daughter because the nasty biddy had the same opinion of my business as Mr. Detective Weeble. Only difference was I didn’t pay attention to what Mrs. Lofty Lofton ever said, meaning this was something I couldn’t tell with any rate of accuracy, because I didn’t remember the conversation clearly enough.
“Like funerals?” he asked.
“Like annuities and family trusts. My take on it, anyway. All the stuff rich people do that you and I never have to worry about.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said, but he grinned, so I assumed he was just teasing and not giving me another comeuppance about my small business. “You’re saying she lives at the Loftons’ home, huh? Which house is theirs?”
I pointed to the white one with black shutters, sitting next to Mrs. Glover. “The place that looks like a professional gardener works from daylight to dusk in the yards. They moved into the neighborhood right before us.”
“And that was?”
“We bought this house soon after we moved back to America.”
“So four years ago. Right?”
“Well, three-and-a-half. We lived with my grandmother for a short time.”
He closed his notepad and held it in his hands. “Okay, that covers things for the moment. Unless you have any other information about the victim I haven’t asked.”
“Nope.” I rose from the chair, careful so the pillow stayed in place. “However, I’m guessing I have to put off cleaning out Mrs. G’s garage for a while.”
“Yeah, the garage is off limits while it’s a crime scene.”
I turned and saw a dark van parked in Mrs. G’s driveway and assumed the scene of the crime crew were getting busy. Yellow and black Police: Do Not Cross tape fluttered from where the plastic ribbon was tacked to the side walls and crossed in front of the large, now open, overhead door.
CHAPTER
NINE
BRIAN ROSE FROM THE glider and looked toward Mrs. Glover’s house, saying, “That’s all for the moment. I may have a few follow-up questions as things progress.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to leave town,” I joked, then wanted to bite my tongue in half. What was I thinking? “Uh, I mean, you know where to find me.”
“I do, for sure.” He nodded and slipped his notepad and pen into an inside jacket pocket, triggering my memory.
“He had a pocket diary,” I cried. At Brian’s puzzled look, I blundered on, “Last night. Carlisle... The victim. When he was trying to set an appointment with me, he had a little scheduling diary, about the size of the palm of your hand. It had a dark cover. Navy, maybe? When I wouldn’t agree to meet later, he clipped a gold ink pen into the spine and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Like you did with yours just a second ago.”
“Good information. I’ll ask if one was on or near the body. That might tell us if he met someone this morning, or if he went to the garage on his own and the murderer surprised him there.” Brian again produced his pad and pen and made a note. Then he stepped off the porch and proceeded back to the crime scene.
I watched as he crossed the street on an angle, saving himself some steps. Jaywalking, I thought smugly. But even that actionable offense in Brian Baker’s world couldn’t make me smile. I was too worried about Mrs. G and sent a little prayer heavenward hoping she was holding up okay. Since Abby was with her, I knew she had nothing to fear as she answered questions, but I didn’t like to think about what a jolt this all was to my sweet neighbor’s system. I shivered, despite the warm day, and realized I didn’t feel too perky myself, heading into the kitchen for an aspirin and a glass of water.
The couch looked inviting, and I fought the urge to hug a pillow and curl up for a stress-relieving nap. My mothering gene kicked in and checking on the boys flashed as a priority. They’d have questions, naturally, but if I went on the offense with a room cleaning check, it might create some wiggle room before my second interrogation of the day started.
Climbing the stairs took a modicum of stealth. Our house was about the same age as Mrs. G’s, though updated right before we’d bought it. Still, the stair risers announced any trespassers in a succession of squeaks whenever someone headed to the second floor. Which was great to let us know if one of the boys was up in the middle of the night, but not when I wanted to make a covert entrance of my own. To succeed, I needed to hug the wall and step carefully to reduce the risk of a twenty-one-squeak salute. Only problem was the endless framed family photos Dek and I had happily placed in a vast and steady climb up the very wall I had to keep in close and personal contact with during this trek, making the risk high for clunks and thuds instead of squeaks.
When I reached the landing, the boys’ muffled voices filtered through the door. It sounded like Jamey was marshalling Mac for a final assault on the room. I crept closer and took hold of the doorknob, giving one sharp rap on the door and throwing it open simultaneously.
One of the fun things about being a mom. Bwahaha!
Mac froze in the middle of the floor, his arms overloaded with a big carton that looked to be struggling to contain most of his Legos. Then he dove for the closet and the box skidded into a spot near his winter boots. In the same instant, Jamey flew toward his bed, landed on top and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in the Star Wars spread. Which was nigh on impossible since he’d not straightened the sheets and blanket beneath.
The room looked pretty good if you factored in the boys’ ages and attention spans and didn’t consider how many hours they’d already spent on the task. I actually saw most of the blue carpet that coordinated well with Mac’s eclectic art meets major league baseball side of the room, together with Jamey’s all things space and science. And although the twin-sized spreads weren’t pulled down far enough to hide the suspect inventory they’d stashed under their beds, I had to give them points for a team effort and a decent try. One thing I’d learned as a mom is that it’s often harder for two brothers to complete a task together than if I’d just assigned the entire job to one individual alone. And coupled with my parenting style that fell somewhere between “Don’t do that,” and “Aw, what the heck,” I had to give credit where it was due.
The boys’ room had looked like a nuclear drop-off site when they started, the royal blue carpet little more than a memory buried beneath enough toys and clothes to hide a small elephant. Now, however, other than needing a good vacuuming, the carpet was clearly visible again. Each boy had his own personal cork board on his respective wall. The idea was for Jamey and Mac to share the room and learn cooperation. Maybe even build in camaraderie. But everyone needs his or her own designated spot, and my boys had theirs, showing their personalities as the boards displayed their interests.
“Did someone get hurt?” asked Jamey.
How should I handle this? Sorry, boys, someone murdered a guy in our neighbor’s garage. No, not the type of coming-of-age talk they say you must cover when becoming a parent. It was times like these I wished Dek had a job stateside. Not that he’d have any better idea on what to say, but at least I wouldn’t be carrying the load alone.
I drew the boys around me and said, “Yes, somebody got hurt, which is why all the
emergency people were there and asking questions. I don’t know everything, but it will all get sorted out. You boys shouldn’t worry, but I do want you to stay in our yard for the next few days. No taking off with your buddies in the neighborhood.”
“Are we grounded?” Mac asked.
“Absolutely not. You boys have done nothing wrong. I just want to keep you close while things are being investigated.”
“So, we get to skip school?” Jamey asked, hope in his eyes.
The boys’ elementary school was close enough they walked there each morning with a group of friends. I usually met Mac at noon when half-day kindergarten let out, and at the end of the day Jamey came home again in the kid crowd. In the near term, I decided that needed to all change.
I forced a laugh and said, “Good try, Jamester, but there’s no extended spring break in this house. However, I will play chauffeur to you and Mac for the next few days. How’s that for a compromise?”
“I call shotgun!” Mac jumped to his feet and started Snoopy dancing.
“No fair.” Jamey scrambled up and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder to stop Mac’s exuberant moves. “Mom was talking to me. Answering my question. You can’t just jump in and call shotgun.”
Mac planted his fists on hips. “Can do, and I did.”
“I’m not—”
“Boys, stop.” I rose and gave them both a hug. “You’ll rotate shotgun duties. On my schedule.”
Mac’s face crumpled into a frown. “But mom—”
I held up a hand. “And first spot in the rotation tomorrow morning goes to the youngest Eller.”
Mac beamed. I pointed to his art corner, where the kid-sized red easel I’d made and painted his favorite color currently held up a jumble of painted creations around its legs. His paints and markers were piled haphazardly in the small boxes and bins on the table to one side. “In the meantime, let’s take another look at the art supplies, Rembrandt.”
He scrambled to his creative area, sorting and straightening at lightning speed. I directed my gaze at Jamey’s side of the room, to the bookcase that looked ready to hurl its load back onto the floor. “I think you can work on your science stuff too, Jamey. Books need to be spine out, so you don’t have to pull them all down to find the one you want next time. Also, get your science experiment stuff in their plastic bins, so everything doesn’t fly off the shelves when you and your brother have your next wrestling match. I want no more stains on this carpet. Understand?”
“Yes, Mom.”
My youngest was only allowed watercolors and water-based markers for his art masterpieces. As long as I made sure he always dumped the jar of used water, I managed to keep the stains on his side of the room to grass and dirt. But Jamey, my little Einstein, was a whole different creature. I never knew what he would need (his word, not mine) for his next scientific breakthrough. Hence, my mandate that all of his science paraphernalia had to go into plastic bins with lids. Which I checked regularly when the boys were at school to weed out any risky items that I didn’t want him using.
We’d gone far off-schedule during spring break week, visiting nearby places we could drive to and explore each day, so the room had become a pit stop, and almost a pigsty, before I’d sent them in to clean. I silently cheered over being able to cross the room without leaping toys and clothes in a single bound, and I made a mental note to go back through my oldest son’s inventory and do my Mom-thing.
As I turned to leave, Jamey called out, “My box for my experiment cards got squashed.”
I looked his way and saw the poor crumpled box that housed the index cards he used to report on each experiment he undertook. My oldest lived for science fairs. “Go get a small one from the guest closet, then come downstairs and I’ll help you tape it up.”
Because I upcycled so many things, and the interior designer only took part of my refinished inventory, I sold the leftovers on eBay and Etsy. Which meant I hoarded boxes and shipping material to keep from having to buy new when an item sold. To keep from being overrun by cardboard, I slit the tape on the boxes and stored them in flat stacks against the back of the closet. I kept a tape gun downstairs to quickly “reassemble” the boxes as needed.
Jamey raced to the extra bedroom, and I headed for the kitchen and pulled the tape from the upper cabinet over the kitchen desk. A second later, I heard thundering feet on the stairs and Jamey nearly flew into the room. “Can I tape it up?” he asked.
This always happened. I kept the tape unit out of reach because of the sharp row of teeth along the end that sliced the tape from the roll once a box was secured. Since Mac wasn’t there to watch and want to participate, too, I agreed to let Jamey do his own taping. “But keep your fingers away from the metal teeth.”
“Roger!”
Oh, no. New phrase. Hopefully, he wasn’t developing a love of flight, too.
Jamey is always careful and watchful, so his effort came out much better than what I’d accomplished my first time using the tape-roll gun. After I praised him, I put the tape back on the high shelf and warned him, “But never try to do that yourself without me watching. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Then, he dawdled and twirled the box in his hands.
“Something bothering you?” I asked.
“You said someone got hurt at Mrs. G’s house,” Jamey said. “Was it someone we know?”
“I’d met the man. But he didn’t live in the neighborhood.”
“So, none of my friends?”
“No, sweetie. None of your friends or any of their parents.”
“And you’re driving us to school and back.”
“Just for a while,” I said. “Any of your walking friends can ride with us too, as long as there are enough seatbelts in the Honda.”
“And the man on the front porch with you?”
“He’s a policeman. He had some questions because I found the man who got hurt.”
“They took the man to the hospital?” Jamey asked.
I took the box from him, set it on the table, and held his hands. “They may have. I’m not sure. Because someone hurt the man so badly that he died. But don’t tell your brother, okay?”
“Yeah, he’s still little and could get scared.”
“Exactly. I’ll watch and see when I can talk to Mac about it all later.”
Jamey pulled his hands free. “Was he old?”
“Older than me.”
Anyone older than me was apparently ancient and ready for the grave, because Jamey nodded and scooped the box from the table with no more questions, before heading back upstairs. That may have been enough for him for now, but from the look he’d had on his face I expected that we would have more discussion about this soon. He needed time to process, but he’d let me know when he was ready for more talk. Which was good since I needed time to think hard about what I needed to say. Death like this had never touched our neighborhood before, and I was kind of winging this along with my boys. I was already missing the years when a hug and a treat made any bad thing better.
Minutes later, the boys thundered down the stairs in tandem, with a baseball and their mitts. “We’ve done everything in our room, Mom,” Mac called.
“Honey, you stay with Mom,” Jamey commanded from the foyer. The dog whined.
As they headed for the front door, I stopped them. “Play in the backyard today, guys. There’s a lot more traffic on the street than normal for a Sunday, and I don’t want you boys chasing balls into the road,” I said.
The boys detoured to the back door without an argument, until I added, “And take Honey with you.”
“Mom-m-m,” Jamey said. “She always grabs any ball we miss before we have a chance to get it.” I bit my lip trying to keep from sounding overprotective, but I wanted our overachieving barking-maniac with my boys any time they left the house without me. Even for the safe enough confines of the backyard. Our Lab might only be a threat for licking someone to death, but she always barked loudly enough to let the
whole county know when anyone new was around. I had no idea who killed J.C. Carlisle, but while his murderer hopefully had no interest in me and my family I couldn’t be certain. Still, something inside of me said I needed to keep life as close to normal as possible and still safeguard my family. “Just do what I ask this time without arguing, please,” I said. “Honey needs the exercise, but she’ll never learn not to grab the baseball ahead of you until she learns how you play. Take one of her balls out and throw it for her between pitches. Let her see that her ball is for playing with you, too.”
Both boys looked up with their big brown eyes showing such disappointment in me. Then Jamey shrugged and said, “Okay.”
CHAPTER
TEN
AS MY SONS DISAPPEARED behind the back door, I heard the front door open. I met Abby in the living room and waved her into the kitchen. Her appearance had lost a bit of its polish, not that I didn’t think my look hadn’t suffered in the last hour, too. I felt like I was dragging, and Abby’s shuffling gait told me more than if I’d asked her how she felt.
“Brian gone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He’s in the garage with the crime scene people. And he wants Mrs. Glover to come by the station tomorrow to be fingerprinted for elimination purposes. I said you’d take her.”
I nodded. “Anyway, he asked me to come to give them my prints, so it’s no extra trip. I’ll see if I can get her to go with me in the morning while Mac is in school. Not that it will help much. Who knows how many people have been in that garage through the decades. All of Mrs. G’s kids, her late husband, and even her grandkids. Plus neighbors, friends... The numbers could be endless.”
“They’ll probably focus chiefly on the door and murder weapon, but this is all standard procedure,” Abby said. “After he finished talking to Mrs. Glover and went back outside, I made her a cup of tea and convinced her to rest in the recliner. When I left, her eyes were already closed.”
“Good idea. This had to have wrung her out emotionally.”