Murderous Heart

by Lynne Waite Chapman

  Like most small towns, stores had closed at nine, and there were very few cars on the road. I motored past the quiet and darkened Rare Curl. Ava’s Java seemed a bit lonely. Closed sign on the door and no line waiting for a caffeine fix. Shops were shuttered and streets were deserted as I cruised down the main corridor of my hometown.

  I made a left turn onto Stoneybridge. Some soul was out for a lonely walk. A blue light flickered through curtains in the front room of the Baron’s house. I imagined Clive and Murine next to each other on the sofa, watching the late news. On the other side of my Cape Cod, Wallace’s truck sat in his driveway, but his windows were dark. He’d turned in early.

  My headlights illuminated the small concrete porch of my house. The outside lights had been left off since I’d planned to be home before sunset. I cut the engine and trotted up the steps to make my way inside. A small antique lamp, one of the few of Aunt Ruth’s I’d kept, lit up the room at the flip of a switch. I stood frozen by the door and stared.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A n empty bookshelf taunted me from the opposite wall. My papers and reference volumes littered the floor. I leaned in and scanned the living and dining rooms. Chaos.

  Mason crept out from under the sofa, his round, golden eyes staring up at me.

  “Thank goodness, you’re okay.” I stooped to scoop the trembling kitty into my arms, and held him close. Switching on the overhead light in the dining room, I took in the extent of the damage. Drawers gaped open in the corner china cabinet. One of Aunt Ruth’s precious plates lay broken on the rug.

  The kitchen cupboard doors stood ajar, displaying the contents. Wandering back to the living room, I gazed into the bedroom and wondered if I should investigate upstairs. But I came to my senses and stopped myself before going further.

  I whispered, “Are they still here?” And tucking the cat under my arm, I grabbed my bag from the end table and fled to the car. Safely locked inside I pulled out my cell phone.

  The emergency operator asked me to speak up as I reported my home had been violated, and the perpetrator might still be inside. She stayed on the line with me for the five minutes it took a squad car to pull up behind my Chrysler. A second parked on the street. A policeman stood by my window. At the sight of a friendly face, I lowered the glass half-way. I recognized this man as Amos Smith, the kindly officer who’d accompanied Farlow when we reported the mummified woman. He instructed me to roll the window up, and to stay in the car while he checked out the premises. I put up no argument. The second officer, who I thought must be about sixteen, followed Amos into the house. I waited. Lights became visible in the upstairs windows. Later I saw flashlights in the backyard. I was getting antsy by the time Amos returned to my window and motioned for me to put it down.

  “It’s okay. You can come out now. There’s no one around. They jimmied the back door. Not the bolt-lock, the regular door lock. Looks like they went through everything. Sorry, they left quite a mess.”

  Crap. I forgot to set the dead-bolt again. I’d begun to believe my own writing about the safety of small towns.

  Officer Smith filled out a report and I signed it. “When you’re able to go through your stuff and put it away, you can let us know what’s missing.”

  He started to return to his squad car but stopped. “Do you want me to go into the house with you? Maybe you’ll feel more secure.” I’m pretty sure I looked like a lost puppy when my head bobbed an affirmative.

  Amos waved the younger officer on. “Go on ahead. I’ll be along shortly.”

  I deposited Mason on the sofa when we stepped back inside the house, but he jumped down and stayed by my ankle as the officer and I toured every room and every closet. I almost apologized to the policeman for the mess, until I remembered this wasn’t my doing.

  I secured the back door and let Officer Smith double-check it. As soon as he stepped onto the front porch, I threw the bolt lock. I wondered if he’d listened for the tell-tale click.

  Mason had stayed by my side, with his tail curled around my ankle. “I don’t have the energy to fix this. Let’s do my bedroom and bath tonight. We’ll work on the rest in the morning.” I knew he wasn’t going to do any work—he’s a cat. I’d lived alone long enough to find comfort in pretending I had a roommate.

  All energy I’d gained at Clair’s party gone, I trudged to the bedroom. Mason learned a new game as I folded clothes and tucked them into drawers. He crawled into the drawer with every new deposit, and stayed long enough to leave cat hair, before I pulled him out. Then, he waited patiently for the next item, and hopped in again.

  The lights stayed on again that night. The month’s electric bill would be a challenge.

  We crawled into bed. “Mason, why didn’t you remind me to tell Officer Smith about the prowler in the back yard? I’ll have to tell him tomorrow.” I grabbed the cat and tucked him under the covers with me. He struggled loose and curled up on my pillow.

  ~~

  Sunshine cut through the bedroom window. Another beautiful day. This pleasant moment lasted only until I remembered the mess that awaited me. I thought I would snuggle in and sleep a while longer, but my aggravating cat had other plans. He pawed at the sheet to uncover my ear, so he could torment me with his sandpaper tongue.

  I pushed him off the bed. “Okay, I’m up.”

  While the coffee brewed, I replaced dishes and straightened the cabinets. Mason was particularly worried about the bag of cat food the intruder left in the middle of the kitchen floor. I filled his bowl and returned the bag to the pantry. While there, I organized the canned goods. Next I replaced pots and pans under the counter.

  “Look, Mason, even vandalism has a silver-lining. This kitchen hasn’t been cleaned and organized since I moved in.”

  “At least they didn’t touch the silverware drawer. Why do you think that is?” Having eaten his fill, the cat was no longer interested. He’d found a sunny patch in the dining room and stretched out for a snooze.

  This reminded me I had to get to work. The rest of the mess would have to wait until afternoon. I rushed out the door and drank my coffee on the fly.

  On my way to The Rare Curl, I breezed into the police station to tell them I hadn’t found anything missing, so far. And I didn’t know why I’d forgotten to tell Officer Smith about the prowler, but it might be important.

  As I stepped through the station door, I scanned the room searching for Amos Smith. Par for the course, Jimmy Farlow stood in the middle of the office with his eyes laser-focused on me.

  “Ms. Halloren. What sort of catastrophe have you had already this morning? Found another body? Maybe you’re chasing bank robbers?”

  Inhaling slowly, I smiled at my least favorite person in Evelynton. “Good morning, Officer Farlow. Is Amos Smith around?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “You may not have heard. Someone broke into my house last night. Officer Smith asked me to stop by to let him know what was stolen. I haven’t found anything missing so far, but I wanted to tell him I saw someone prowling around my back yard the night before the break-in. They were even next to my windows. I saw footprints.”

  “This event occurred day before yesterday? Did you see who it was?”

  “No. It was dark and raining.”

  “Why didn’t you report it then? How do you expect us to do anything about it now? You people expect us to perform miracles while you sit back, never lifting a finger.” He pivoted and walked toward his desk. “Forget about it. It was most likely kids anyway.”

  Watching him walk away, I stuttered, “I didn’t report it then because…. I don’t know why I didn’t report it. Guess it didn’t seem important, but after the break-in…”

  Still with his back to me, he raised his voice. “We’ve had some trouble with vandals in town. You’re the latest victim. My advice is to clean it up, lock your doors, and forget about it. I’ll tell Officer Smith you were in. As for alleging someone trespassing in your yard. Happens all the time. Somebody
wandered in and wandered out. It isn’t significant. Goodbye.”

  “Um. Okay.” I grabbed the door handle. I hadn’t stepped inside the door more than a few inches, so it was an easy escape.

  I dove into the comfort of my Chrysler, and took Main Street to The Rare Curl. As I drove I pondered who would take the trouble to break in and not steal anything. Of course, there was the possibility they simply didn’t like any of my stuff.

  By the time I’d reached the salon, I agreed with Officer Farlow. It must have been vandals out to cause mischief. Who else would have any desire to break into my humble little house?

  Chapter Nineteen

  T hree wine glasses clinked together as I gingerly balanced them while pushing through the screen door to the back porch. Anita had made herself comfortable, propping her feet against the side railing. Clair held Mason on her lap. I wondered if she noticed the black and white hairs clinging to her navy skirt.

  I handed Clair her Chardonnay. “Looks like you’ll need a lint brush before you leave.”

  She accepted the glass and hugged Mason closer. “Not to worry. His hair brushes off easily enough. And a little bit of hair doesn’t bother me. I can’t wait to live in a house where I can have a pet, maybe two.”

  I smiled at my inexperienced friend.

  Wait ‘til she finds fuzzies in the refrigerator.

  Anita took a sip from the glass I handed her. “Clair Lane, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be holding an animal while still wearing your suit.”

  Anita winked at me. “Do you think she’s having a midlife crisis?”

  Clair gasped. “Don’t even think those words. We aren’t that old.” Mason, who’d had enough hugging, took the opportunity to bound from her lap and escape through his cat-door.

  I watched him scamper across the yard, and then gazed through the screen at the dirt beneath my bedroom window. “I haven’t found any more footprints.”

  Clair brushed cat hair from her skirt. “There wouldn’t be any, would there? We’ve had rain the last three nights.”

  Anita put her feet on the floor for a better view of the area. “Stop worrying, I’m sure it was only someone wandering around the neighborhood. Some people like to walk in the rain.”

  “Through my backyard? And they thought they’d stand under my window?”

  She shrugged. “Creepy, I know. There are lonely people who have nothing better to do.”

  “Umm. And someone just happened to break in to my house.”

  Clair picked a cat hair from her wine glass. “Well, that is strange. But they didn’t take anything. And you weren’t home.”

  “I wouldn’t be concerned. Just a prank.” Anita leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

  I stared at my relaxed friend. Why did no one take me seriously? I wasn’t overreacting, was I?

  With a deep breath I collapsed into a chair. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Good. Let’s think of something else.” Anita leaned her head toward me and whispered. “I talked to Irma at the party. Asked her if the police had gone back to the mummy house. She said they hadn’t and weren’t planning to. They figured the death was from natural causes, and not worth the time. Too busy.”

  “I don’t think we can let them do that. We know it means something.”

  Clair leaned into our huddle. “What means something? What are you talking about?”

  I glanced up. “We didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me—your best friend?”

  “You’ll understand, soon.”

  Anita filled her in on our ill-advised adventure, and I watched Clair’s face morph through several stages of horror.

  “You didn’t! Why would you do that? You might have been caught. Then I’d have to go in and try to bail you out. I suppose I could get into my savings.” Wine sloshed from her glass as she gasped. “They would never let me buy the house after that. Everyone knows we’re friends.”

  I gave her arm a pat. “We got in and out without being caught. The only problem we have, now, is what to do about the evidence. It wouldn’t be right to keep quiet.”

  Anita bobbed her head. “We have to tell the police. If we don’t, it’s the sin of omission—failing to do something we should.”

  Clair chugged the rest of the wine. “I can’t believe it. They’ll put you both in jail. Probably blame me, too.”

  She leaned back in her chair with her hand on her forehead.

  “It isn’t that bad. It’s…” Anita’s voice faded. She gazed at Clair, then at me.

  I put my hands up. “I’ve decided. I’ll take care of it today. Irma will get an anonymous note with the information. Then she’ll take it to the police chief. We won’t be implicated, and you know Irma will love it. She’ll feel very important.”

  Anita’s eyes got big. “That’ll work.” She paused. I could almost hear the brain cells ticking. “Um. Wear rubber gloves when you handle the note and the envelope.”

  “I doubt our police force will think to look for finger prints. But I’ll wear gloves.”

  Clair placed her wine glass on the floor. “If you’re set on this plan, make sure no one knows who you are.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be completely anonymous.” I was pretty sure Clair was more concerned with the house than with our jail time.

  “I could bypass Irma and just send the note to the police station. What do you think?”

  It took a minute, but Anita popped up with the answer. “Nope. The more hands it goes through, the more likely any trace evidence will be contaminated. They’ll be less likely to follow it back to you.”

  Clair rolled her eyes. “I wish you’d give up the mystery novels.”

  Anita spun toward me, eyes wide. “What if Irma thinks it’s a joke and throws the note away? Or what if the chief doesn’t believe it?”

  I massaged my temples. “I don’t know. My brain is tired. Let’s just wait and see if we get a reaction.”

  Anita’s eyes flashed. “If nothing happens after a few days I’ll go to the police myself.”

  I shook my head hard enough to make myself dizzy. “No you won’t. Jake would be furious with you. And with me. I’ll go. If anyone gets arrested, it should be me. It’s my responsibility.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I t was a simple note. Should have been easy enough.

  I flung one more wadded page toward the trash. Doing his best Michael Jordon impersonation, Mason leapt, intercepted the paper ball, and batted it to the side. As soon as it hit the floor, he pounced on it. “Hey, I meant that for the waste basket. Put it back.” He trotted from the room with it in his mouth.

  Impudent cat.

  I gave composing another try. Just the facts—no clues as to the author. Discarding one draft after another, I created half a dozen paper cat toys.

  At last, I produced believable words and printed them in large block letters. Remembering Anita’s advice, I ran to the kitchen sink to retrieve yellow rubber dish-washing gloves, then grabbed another sheet to write the note without fingerprints.

  TAKE THIS TO THE POLICE

  THERE IS EVIDENCE PERTAINING TO THE DEATH OF THE UTKIN WOMAN IN HER HOUSE. IT MIGHT PROVE THERE WAS A MURDER. SEARCH THE HOUSE AND ESPECIALLY THE DRAWERS. LOOK FOR A PHOTO ALBUM

  SINCERELY

  CONCERNED CITIZEN

  I scrapped that letter and wrote another with MUMMY in place of UTKIN. In a flash of paranoia I became certain someone would recognize my printing, so I wadded up that draft, and tossed it to the waste basket. Then, I set about gathering old magazines, and pulled a pair of scissors from the kitchen junk drawer.

  Finding and cutting letters—and even full words—from the magazines proved to be easy. That part of the job was finished in less than ten minutes, but the difficulty level shot up as I attempted to glue the bits of paper onto a fresh sheet of typing paper. By the time I’d finished everything, note, gloves, table, my face, and hair, was smeared with gl
ue. The note, meant as a credible piece of evidence, resembled a child’s preschool project. But it was readable, mostly, and I was pretty sure no one would link it to me.

  I laid the note aside to dry and pulled an envelope from my desk, along with a few spares. I ruined three in my gluing attempts before scrapping the idea and hand printing the address. The post office needed to be able to read it.

  My work wasn’t finished yet. The postage stamp was another challenge. Still wearing my yellow kitchen gloves, grumbling a lot, and cussing a little, I succeeded in affixing it near the corner of the envelope.

  My first impulse, after sealing the envelope with the note inside, was to run it to a mailbox. But wisdom dictated I wait until fewer people roamed the streets. I paced until sundown, jumped in the wagon and found a mailbox eight blocks from my house. I pulled the Chrysler close to the curb, left the motor running, and dashed to the box. Returning to the car, a scan of the street revealed no witnesses. Hopefully no one stared out their window, wondering why the strange woman might be wearing one yellow kitchen glove.

  Back at home, I prayed the letter, soiled and crumpled as it was from the fight with the stamp, wouldn’t land in the hands of a judgmental postal employee, and that it would actually be delivered. Later, I prayed Irma would take the information seriously. Then I prayed the police would consider it a credible tip, even though possibly submitted by a four-year-old. Would they perform a thorough search of the house? Should I have told them exactly where to look? I scratched my head, thinking there were a lot of variables in my plan.

  Slumping onto the sofa, I lay my head on the cushion determined to put the letter out of my mind for three days. Two days to reach Irma, and another for her to deliver it to the station.

  How would we know if the search had taken place? I could ask Irma, but would she question why I wanted to know? Better to send Anita. She could ask questions without raising suspicion. No one ever suspected Anita.