It was still raining, only now it had abated to a drizzle. The long branch that had fallen on her property was set by the curb. An ambulance, with its back doors opened wide, sat in her drive. Two men in white uniforms crouched in the back of the vehicle. On the other side of the driveway, a small group of people congregated – all neighbors.
While Woodberry was a street of cordial people, there had never been any communal activity; no street sales or weekend planting projects. The most collective thing the neighborhood had done was snow blow the street after a thirty-inch snowfall. Her contribution, at that time, had been freshly-baked shortbread cookies.
Hattie wasn’t sure how to respond to her neighbors’ inquisitive glances. Ralph was the first to acknowledge her with a wave. She waved back.
“They all live on this street,” she told the detective with a forced, public smile.
Scott Richards gave Hattie a thumbs up. His lips moved. Whatever he said made the others grin. Perhaps they’d thought something had happened to her.
“That man in the green hat, behind the others, looks familiar. Who is he?” Blansky asked.
“That’s Scott Richards, our mailman. He lives on the corner lot.”
“Yes, now I recognize him. And the man standing next to him?”
“Ralph Troutman. His home is directly across the street.”
“I see. And what about the young woman?”
Was he referring to Julia or Roxanne? She followed his line of vision. His eyes seemed riveted on Roxanne. Men’s eyes usually were. Even Howie gaped at her whenever he had the opportunity.
“That’s Roxanne Pastelle. She lives next to Ralph and owns the beauty shop around the corner. You may be familiar with it. Foxy Roxy’s.”
He nodded vaguely.
Roxanne shivered in a light sweater. Her face, framed by tousled blond hair, had a rosy glow. While not particularly young, after all she had a teenage son, she seemed youthful in many ways: energetic, friendly, always smiling. And there was something else about her, a style that was all her own, like some exotic bird. Of course, men were always fascinated with blondes, drawn to them like children to candy, so sugary sweet to the eye. But Roxanne had more than that to offer. Rumors were her investments thrived as well as her beauty business and that she, according to Howie, had gotten in on the ground floor of the technology boom. Still, her spring vacations to Bermuda and in-ground swimming pool couldn’t explain her poor judgment in not wearing a jacket on a day like today. Blind spots. How we all have them.
“Who’s the kid next to her?”
“That’s her son Bailey.”
“Bailey Pastelle?”
Hattie turned to the detective. “Yes. Do you know Bailey?”
“Heard the name.” He bit on the toothpick. “And who are the two under the umbrella?”
“The Spencers. They’re married and live on this side of me.” Hattie gestured to the left.
“Is anyone missing?” the detective asked.
“Missing?”
“Are some people who live on the street not out front?”
Hattie thought it was a curious question. Could what you don’t see be as important as what you do? She’d have to remember that.
“Let me think. Muriel Manning lives at the dead end. But she’s in the hospital. Poor thing mixed up her medication a few days ago. She’s better now. And the Webers. Very nice people. They live right next door on this side.” Hattie pointed in the general direction. “They spend winters in Phoenix and left earlier this month. Mrs. Weber has breathing problems. The dry climate seems to help.”
Hattie looked over the small group to make sure everyone was accounted for. How odd they seemed – together, yet still separate, as if each person were waiting for a bus. “I suppose that’s it,” she said.
Detective Blansky nodded. Hattie considered his unreadable expression. “Ted, do you think Jason died of natural causes?”
He took the toothpick from his mouth. “Mrs. Moon, we can assume nothing until the autopsy and the lab tests are completed.”
Hattie nodded. “Of course.”
Still, Hattie couldn’t help but wonder about other things. Why wasn’t Jason’s coat buttoned properly? Given the weather, wouldn’t he have bundled up? And an untied shoelace. With all the rain and mud, wouldn’t his sneakers have gotten stuck? Wouldn’t he have tied them?
“Ted, what if. . . .”
“What if what, Mrs. Moon?”
“Well, if it wasn’t a natural death, it would have to be unnatural.”
He craned his neck, peering out the window and toward the corner. “Mrs. Moon, there are many ways a person can die.”
What was he referring to? An accident of sorts?
A dark blue sedan pulled onto the block.
“Here comes the coroner.” Detective Blansky said. “Thanks for your help. Things should be moving along now.”
Hattie assumed he meant that the body would be properly taken care of.
The detective walked to the door with Hattie in tow. “Now you take it easy. Howie’s coming over, right?”
“Yes, I left a message on his phone as you suggested.”
“Good.” He turned the knob. “If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch.”
“I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”
After closing the door, Hattie glanced at her husband’s photograph. “Orin. Give me strength.” She continued to the kitchen and looked out the rear window.
Several policemen straighten as Blansky and a suited man approached the yellow tape. Nods were exchanged and the examiner stooped into the greenery. A minute later he stood and wrote on a clipboard. The officers huddled together and passed around plastic bags. Darn. What had she missed?
Chapter Three
Howie, Hattie’s son, paced across the kitchen floor.
Hattie would never say that her one and only son was unattractive, but he had seemed to have inherited the recessive genes, leaving him with a washed-out look. Hattie saw her matching blue eyes, pale complexion, and straight dishwater hair that was thinning. And while he was taller than she, at five foot eight, it hardly put him in his father’s range of over six feet.
“You can’t expect to stay in this house. You’ve got to move. It’s too dangerous living alone. Jeez, Ma, a dead body in your backyard! This is the last straw.”
Hattie took a sip of tea. She wasn’t going anywhere at any time. Placing down the cup she calmly said, “Howie. I’m not leaving. And please don’t refer to Jason as a dead body.”
Her son stopped at the sink, then turned with a sweep of his arms. “Look at how you’re living. You’re not even using the house. You sleep on the couch, bathe in the kitchen. Don’t use the upstairs. Not to mention the gas problem. You can’t expect me—”
Hattie interrupted. “The gas problem could have happened to anyone. How was I supposed to know the pilot had blown out? I hadn’t turned on the heat all summer.”
“Yeah, since you never go into the basement. One lit match and the whole place could’ve blown up.”
“I don’t smoke,” she said flatly.
Howie took a few steps and sat at the table. “That’s not the point.” He spoke in a measured voice. “The point is you need to be around people. You never get dressed or leave the house anymore.”
Hattie tugged at the collar of her housecoat. She did visit Muriel, she could argue, but that observation would set him off. Muriel was, in his less eloquent words, a ‘nut case’. She glanced out the window and wondered when the hierarchy of their relationship had changed. When had he become the parent and she the child? If only she had seen it coming, she’d have nipped it in the bud.
“You’re sleeping in the afternoon, roaming the house at all hours of the night.”
“I sleep when I want to. Is that such a crime? And, for your information, I do get dressed, change my underwear every day.”
“Please, Ma,” he said shaking his head.
Hattie considered t
he tablecloth pattern and outlined one of the little red squares with her fingertip.
She’d be the first to admit that occasionally she didn’t quite know what time it was, or what day. However, it wasn’t a memory problem as she had asserted on multiple occasions, but an uncomplicated matter of not bothering to keep track. Her reasoning was simple: after eighty-three years, time had become redundant and generally tiresome.
Howie, of course, didn’t always agree. The nerve. She was getting the pressure-cooker treatment from her own son who hadn’t stayed in one place for more than a few months since his divorce. He was a fine one to talk. Nothing more than a vagabond, a gypsy with a college education. She imagined Orin was shaking his head right at this very moment. Ten-thousand dollars spent on tuition, and for what? She looked up and glared at her son.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Ma, you saw the brochure. It’s a nice one-bedroom apartment, wall-to-wall carpeting, modern kitchen, elevators. Twenty-four-hour service with the press of a button. What’s the problem?”
A heated rush surfaced and bubbled over. “The problem? What about the dining room set? Your father made that. Where in that mouse hole of an apartment is that supposed to fit? And the train set in the attic, are you going to be taking that? Because I’m not leaving it or selling it.”
Howie rolled his eyes. “Downsize, Ma. Listen, we all got to do it sometime.”
“Does your downsizing include me staying in bed and being rolled from one side to another while they change my sheets? Does it include being hooked up to a bag so I won’t have to go to the bathroom? Does it include cold soup and food that’s wrapped in plastic and pills the size of chestnuts to put me to sleep and—”
“Ma, we’ve been down this road. I’m not talking about a nursing home. It’s an apartment, where you have your own key, come and go as you like. Cook, clean, or walk around with your finger in your ear, if it suits you.”
“You mean like this!” Hattie stood up and sashayed around the kitchen with her finger in her ear.
Howie gave her a wry smile. “Funny. But aren’t you being a tad difficult?”
Difficult? Not one bit. She was fighting for her life. Her survival, whatever time she had left, could only be assured by staying in the house, hers and Orin’s house. She scanned the small kitchen. So many memories: his chair, the misplaced tile, the light fixture they had argued over because of the price. All objects that kept her heart beating.
Hattie stood firm. “I’m sorry, but this conversation is over. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some chores to do.”
Walking down the hallway, she heard him say, “Aw Ma, come on.”
Once in the living room, Hattie considered Orin’s liquid brown eyes. “He’s at it again,” she whispered as she puffed a throw pillow.
“And that’s another thing,” Howie yelled from the kitchen.
“And that’s another thing,” she mimicked, under her breath.
Howie barreled into the hall. “Why are you always talking to him? It’s not normal.”
Hattie spun around. “Do you ever think of your father?”
He stopped abruptly. “Of course. But—”
“And do you ever wonder if he’s watching you, or aware of you in some way? For instance, during a Notre Dame game do you ever think, Gee dad, did you see that?”
Howie sighed with exasperation. “Ma, what’s the point?”
“Answer me.”
“Okay. Maybe. Sometimes.”
“So what’s the difference if you think it and I say it?”
Howie didn’t answer.
Hattie’s shoulders loosened. “I know I talk to your father, but I’m not crazy. Crazy would be if he talked back.”
“You’re right there.”
For once he agreed. Of course, if she were to be truly honest, she’d tell Howie that while she hadn’t heard Orin’s voice, it was the one thing she’d been praying to hear for thirteen years.
A ray of sunlight creased through the partially-closed curtains.
She needed to change the subject. “Howie, would you mind opening the drapes?”
He lumbered over and pulled the cord. With each tug, more light filled the living room.
Hattie sank into the couch.
Granted, her son was right about certain things. When was the last time she dusted, or bothered to stack the newspapers and put them in the back hall? Several towels were balled up on cushions, tabletops and along the backs of her wingback chairs. A hot water bottle, bloated and wobbly sat on the rug where she had warmed her feet several nights earlier. Hard-candy wrappers littered the floor along with leaves and muddy footprints from the day’s activities. She looked at the sleeve of her light blue sweater and plucked away at Lucy’s black fur.
“By the way,” Howie said. “Ralph called me earlier today.”
Hattie braced herself for another onslaught about her sanity.
“What made you go outside this morning anyway?”
“Oh, I forgot,” Hattie said. “Where’s my coat?”
Something dark was draped over one of the dining room chairs. She pointed. “There it is. I got some food coupons in the pockets.” She edged forward on the couch. “I need to lay them out to dry.”
Howie crossed past her. “Ma, just sit down.” He lifted the coat, fished through the pockets and tossed the wet pages onto the dining room table.
“One of them is for Salisbury steak,” she said. “Your favorite.”
He collapsed onto a dining room chair and began to unravel the crumpled balls. The light made his hair seem like golden straw, a pretty honey color, like when he was a boy.
“Howie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said quietly.
But he didn’t seem fine, sitting there, slumped over, flattening out the pages. She didn’t like it when he argued, but when he got quiet and distant, it worried her. She then thought of Jason and his own mother. A friend of hers once said that when you have a child, it’s like throwing your heart into the street. She looked at Howie and her chest ached.
Suddenly, he stopped fiddling with the papers. “Ma, there’s something you need to know. I spoke with Ted Blansky. I know you don’t want to hear this. God knows I sure didn’t.” He looked at Hattie with concern. “Jason died of an overdose.”
“An overdose? You mean he took too much medication?”
“Not exactly, Ma. The kid was a drug dealer.”
“A what?”
“Drug dealer, Ma. And where there are drug dealers there are users and where there are users there are burglaries, hold-ups and people not in their right mind. I’m telling you staying in this house is dangerous.”
“That’s not possible.”
“They still have to wait for the toxicology report, but he was found with a wad of cash.”
“Jason would never do drugs. He wasn’t like that. It’s absurd.”
“He probably shot up stuff that was tainted or something. Maybe he didn’t realize it.”
“Okay. I’ll call Ted. Explain things more clearly. He’s made a big mistake. That’s obvious.”
“Call Ted and explain things? Ma. Are you listening to me?”
“Listening? Of course, I’m listening. Or are you...”
“Am I what?”
“Howie, are you making this up and using that poor boy as a ruse?”
“A ruse?”
“You want me out of this house and now you’re twisting things to make me afraid.”
“Ma. I would never do that.”
“Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere.”
Howie shook his head and sighed.
The room fell silent. Hattie’s mind reeled. The idea of Jason being a drug dealer didn’t make sense. “Howie, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to rest. It’s been a long day. Can we talk later?”
He looked at her with hope in his eyes. “You promise?”
“Yes.”
Before leaving, Howie went into the basement and nailed all the windows shut. For thirty minutes, the hammering mimicked the pounding inside Hattie’s head.
Chapter Four
Breathing heavily, Muriel Manning barreled into Hattie’s small back hall. Hattie scrunched behind the open door to give her friend enough space.
Muriel was a big woman in every way––five foot nine and two-hundred-fifty pounds. And today in her red down coat, she seemed even bigger. The floorboards heaved as Hattie’s friend stomped her feet.
“Had to come over as soon as I got home,” Muriel said between quick short breaths.
Hattie asked, “Are you sure you should be out and about so soon?”
“Rat turds,” her friend answered. “Hospitals! You know Hattie, more people die in hospitals than anywhere else.”
“Yes, but—”
“And it’s not because people are sick. No. They make them sicker with recycled air and food not fit for roaches.”
Muriel sidestepped so Hattie could close up.
“Then add all those things.”
“Things?”
“Tests, probes, machines. Poking here, there. Sliding you into places no human being needs to be, nuking you with radiation waves, gamma waves. Not to mention the bedside manner. Joseph! Are all nurses trained by brigades of dominatrices?”
Hattie wasn’t sure what Muriel was talking about but nodded anyway. When Muriel was on a roll there was no stopping her. Redirecting the conversation would be like threading the wrong side of a needle. “How about some tea?”
“Capital idea.” Muriel switched her cow-patterned tote to another hand, grabbed the railing and pulled her large frame up, taking one step at a time. Once in the kitchen, Muriel collapsed onto a chair. “Whew. That’s better.”
“Can I take your coat?”
Muriel raised her hand. “Not just yet. Need to warm up a bit.”
Hattie put on the kettle and fired up the other burners to get the room toasty.
“Had the TV on while I was dining on some variation of Alpo when I heard something about Woodberry. I immediately called Ralph. When he told me about our Jason, I balled like a baby, buzzed the nurse and said I was leaving.”
Murder in the Pachysandra Page 2