by Sonia Parin
A homestead came into view, set well back from the road and surrounded by dry grass. She couldn’t help thinking about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence. How did Harold’s neighbors feel about his lush lawn?
Abby snorted. “As if someone would kill him because he had a healthy lawn.”
Glancing at the trees, she couldn’t detect a lick of wind. The road ahead shimmered against the harsh light. Sitting up straight, she focused on staying alert and optimistic. The heat would eventually subside.
Abby glanced down at Doyle again. He sat on the passenger seat and had his head tipped up to see where they were going.
“If someone had been planning Harold’s demise, why didn’t they take action before? Why did they wait for him to come into town?”
It had to be opportunity.
She had her answer when she drove up to his farmhouse.
Someone took advantage of the opportunity… The convenience of Harold being away from his house…
The day before, she hadn’t noticed the security cameras. They covered every possible angle and she would bet anything she would find them in the rear of the house too.
“If Harold never left his house, why did he take so many precautions?”
She drove right up to the front door and cut the engine. Twisting the cap off the bottle of water, she gave Doyle a drink and then settled back to make a few notes. Every few minutes, she checked the rear-view mirror.
Harold had kept a tidy yard. There were crimson red poinsettias planted along the footpath leading to the front porch, suggesting he liked to dress up the place for Christmas. A colorful wreath hung on the front door, interlaced with a bright red ribbon. As she looked out onto the lawn, the sprinklers came on.
For a moment, a feeling of sadness swept through her. The house didn’t know it yet. Harold wouldn’t be coming home again.
One other person knew Harold wouldn’t return to the house. Was there something inside the house the killer wanted to get his hands on?
She had no intention of wandering around the property in this heat. Besides, what could she possibly find? Footprints? Maybe someone had staked out the place. “Or worse,” Abby murmured. The killer might have killed Harold and then dashed over here to see if they could break into his house…
Abby pushed the automatic lock on the doors and told herself to be practical. If someone had broken in, the alarm would have gone off.
Half an hour later, her patience paid off. She heard the sound of an approaching car first and then she saw it.
“Finally.”
Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan parked alongside her and emerged from his car. He walked up to Abby’s car and knocked on the window.
“May I ask what you are doing here?” he asked when she rolled down the window.
“Waiting for you. It took you long enough. I was about to send you another text.” Abby didn’t see any point in skating around the subject. If she wanted to go inside the house, she would have to grovel. “Did you get my message?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Before setting off, she had sent him a message to meet her here, but earlier, she had sent him a text providing the names of Harold’s wives. “I meant the one about the ex-wives.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
“How did they take the news?”
“With a mixture of surprise and shock. I believe they have called a temporary truce. When I left them, they had started talking about the funeral arrangements.”
Hoping to tackle the reason for her trip here, Abby asked, “Did Harold have his house keys on him?” She laughed. “What a silly question. Of course he did…”
Joshua dug inside his pocket and produced a set of keys, which he dangled in front of her. “I guess that’s why you came out here.”
“Who told you about his ex-wives and who warned you to tread with care?”
He grinned. “Right. And now it’s my turn to scratch your back.”
“It’s give and take, my friend. Give and take.”
“Did we actually ever shake on it?” he asked.
“No, so that means I’m at your mercy. But I trust in your sense of fairness.”
“And now you’re about to reinforce your position by reminding me how helpful you have been in the past.”
Abby fanned herself. “It’s too hot for all that. Just let me in. I promise not to get in the way. Oh, that reminds me… I was thinking that if the keys hadn’t been on Harold, the killer might have taken them so he could break into his house. But that is clearly not the case.”
The detective laughed. “Thank goodness for that. Otherwise, you would have been a sitting duck.” Joshua leaned in. “I see you brought your sniffer dog.”
“Doyle didn’t want to stay behind. He’s my loyal buddy.” Before Joshua could change his mind, Abby scooped Doyle up, grabbed her handbag and followed Joshua to the front door. “Are you going to dust the place for prints?”
“Only if I find reason to do so. What will you be looking for?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I see it. I guess I’m curious to know if Harold had been in contact with anyone interesting. Either the killer saw his chance and took it, or they knew Harold would be in town. You should check his phone records.”
Joshua shook his head. “Do you ever hear yourself speak?”
“All the time. Oh… I suppose you don’t really want me to tell you how to do your job.”
Before going in, he turned to Abby and said, “Remember, this is a special privilege. Don’t make me regret it.”
Abby straightened and gave him a scout’s honor salute. “Hang on. What about the security system?”
“I called them and had the alarm disconnected from their end. They’ve given me the code so I can keep the place secure.”
At first, Abby followed Joshua around. Then she decided to go her own way to see what she could find.
Heading straight for the telephone in the kitchen, she had a look at the notebook sitting beside it but she found nothing but blank pages. Also, he’d kept the kitchen clear of clutter. If he’d had breakfast before leaving, he’d washed up and put everything away.
If he didn’t go into town, how did he get his groceries? She opened the refrigerator and found it well stocked and clean.
Tapping her chin, she looked around and then snooped inside his kitchen drawers.
“Anything?” Joshua asked and came to stand beside her.
“No…” She pointed to the telephone. “You might want to hit redial.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Is that your sarcastic tone? If it is, it’s quite subtle.”
“I try to do my best.” He did as she’d suggested. After a moment, he nodded. “Sorry, wrong number.” He disconnected the call and checked his watch.
“Well?” Abby asked.
“He called the grocery store.”
Abby tried to remember the store owner’s name. “Oh… Martin Smith.”
“Who else works there?”
“There’s a young girl, Mandy. She works the cash register. Harold probably had his groceries delivered so Martin Smith must have someone to do the delivery rounds for him.”
Joshua made a call and put in a request to access the phone records.
“I guess you’ll want to know exactly when Harold called the grocery store.”
He nodded. “If you hear anything about Martin Smith and Harold…”
“Yes, yes. I’ll let you know.” Abby started a mental list and added Martin Smith to it. So far, he’d been the only one who’d known Harold would be in town that morning.
Heading toward the sitting room, Abby mused, “I am dumbfounded by people who still think they can get away with murder.” Bending down, she had a closer look at the model village. “Hey, I think that’s you.”
“Where?”
“The police car. There’s a little you sitting inside.”
“What m
akes you think that’s me?”
“You’re the only one wearing a suit a tie. Look around.” Pointing at one of the buildings, she added, “Harold must have put the Christmas decorations up last night. Joyce is dressed in a green outfit. Is that weird or meticulous?”
“If he didn’t go into town, how did he know Joyce had already started wearing her Christmas costumes?” Joshua asked.
“Maybe he remembered from previous years and the time before he retired,” Abby suggested. “Or… Maybe he’d been in regular contact with someone in town. You might want to look at his security cameras. Who knows, he might have had visitors…”
Joshua got on the phone and called in a team to give the place a thorough sweep.
Chapter 7
At eight of a hot morning, the cicada speaks his first piece. He says of the world: heat.
E.B. White (The New Yorker 1945)
“Hard day at the office?” Mitch asked.
Doyle scampered across the bar and positioned himself directly in front of the air-conditioner. Abby slumped on the barstool and managed to lift a finger. “Water for Doyle and… Beer for me. Cold. Please.”
“What was that? Coffee? Hot coffee? Steaming hot coffee?”
Abby moaned. “I think I’ve lived here long enough to deserve a spot in the garage.”
“Your car a bit steamy, was it?” Mitch wiped the counter and placed a glass of beer in front of her.
“A bit.” Abby wrapped her hands around the glass and then pressed them to her forehead.
“You should try to park it in the shade,” Mitch suggested as he strode around the counter and put a bowl of water next to Doyle.
Abby rolled her eyes. “Shade? Where is this elusive shade?”
“It’s around,” Mitch said, “but you need to know where to look for it.”
Abby slammed her hand on the bar. “And what is that noise? I’ve been hearing it for days now… It’s everywhere. I can barely hear myself think. It sounds like crickets, only a thousand times worse.”
Mitch laughed. “Cicadas.”
“Huh?”
“Cicadas. They come out every few years during the summer. Don’t you have them in your part of the world?” Mitch didn’t wait for Abby to answer. Instead, he drew his phone out and looked it up. “East coast.”
“That figures. Definitely no cicadas in Seattle. At least, not that I know of. I’ve definitely never heard them before. Do they ever shut up?”
“I’ve never seen you so grumpy. What’s wrong with you?” Mitch leaned on the counter. “Is it the Christmas season? I know it puts some people in a bad mood.”
“No, it’s not the holidays.” Although, she would have liked to have spent them with her mom back home but her mom, who hated flying, had decided to go on vacation and spent Christmas in Hawaii with her friends.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“Must be the heat,” Alan Hodge, a regular who always sat at the end of the bar, said.
“The heat?” Mitch looked at her. “Surely it’s not the heat. People pay to come over here and enjoy the heat. Boy, you’re really out of it.”
“Heat exhaustion,” Alan Hodge said. “She should stay out of the sun.”
Mitch took the beer away and gave her a glass of water with ice cubes. “You shouldn’t drink beer if you’re dehydrated. Have some water. Anyway, how far did you walk to get here?”
Abby hitched her thumb over her shoulder. Just then, someone walked into the pub.
Mitch chortled. “Your car’s parked right outside the front door. That’s only two steps away.”
“Enough to sizzle me,” she said. After drinking her water, she managed to straighten. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Mitch rubbed his hands together.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll owe you. I need to find out everything I can about Harold Moorhead. What can you tell me about him?”
Mitch gave a pensive shake of his head. “Poor Harold. We heard what happened to him.”
Really? “And you mention it only now?”
“We’ve been talking about it all morning. I guess we’re all talked out.”
Abby looked around the pub. There were over a dozen people sitting around talking and nursing their beers, while the sound of murmured conversations wafted over from the dining room. “Did you all know him?”
“Sure. He used to be a regular here. Then he retired and hardly ever came into town. In fact, he hasn’t been around town in years. Not since…”
“The Christmas of ’09 power outage,” Alan Hodge said.
“Oh, yeah. Did you hear about that?” Mitch asked.
Abby put her hand up to stop Mitch. “Not only have I heard about it, I can also recite the story back to front.”
Alan Hodge shook his head. “I don’t know what we would have done without Harold Moorhead. He came to our rescue.”
“Is that so? Can someone actually tell me how it all started?”
“Someone blew a fuse and set off a chain reaction,” Alan Hodge said.
They were joined by an old timer with a wisp of white hair barely covering his head and two-day old stubble on his chin. “The accident on the highway. That’s when it really started. Someone smashed their car into a pole.”
Alan Hodge clicked his fingers. “That’s right. But the real trouble started when the fool flicked a cigarette butt away. That set off a spot fire and then it spread until it reached the transformer.”
Mitch stepped back and shook his head. “It overloaded. That was the summer everyone got air-conditioners. Remember, we had that traveling salesmen making the rounds and no one wanted to be left out.” He looked at Abby. “Harriet Brown heard her neighbor had just purchased one so she had to have one too. Then everyone had to have one. The guy made a mint.
Alan Hodge nodded. “I remember. The following week, we had a heatwave and everyone had their air-conditioners running at full blast. Demand exceeded supply. The transformer overloaded and we spent the day with no electricity.”
“Is that even possible?” Abby asked.
“Who knows.” Mitch wiped the counter. “I just plug things in. That’s as far as my electrical knowhow goes.”
“So, who did the AC installations?” Abby asked.
“That would have been Harold Moorhead,” Alan Hodge offered. “Back then, he was the only electrician in town. He sort of still is… or was. Now it’s that young fellow who works for him but he’s on his honeymoon. Stevie Garth.”
A thought began to take shape in her mind, but she couldn’t quite define it yet. “Did Harold Moorhead get someone to help him install all those units?”
Alan Hodge snorted. “Not Harold. He’s always been a one-man show.”
Had anyone questioned Harold’s workmanship? “With so many air-conditioners to install, he must have been stretched to the limit,” Abby mused.
“Hear that, fellows?” Alan Hodge asked a couple of the men sitting nearby. “The young reporter thinks Harold stuffed up and caused the Christmas of ’09 power outage.”
Stuffed up?
Mitch leaned over the counter and whispered, “Made a mess of it.”
“Aha. Do you think it’s possible?”
He shrugged.
One of the men approached the bar. “You’ve got a theory going, have you?”
When no one answered, Abby realized he’d spoken to her. “I tend to question things. From what I understand, he was the only electrician in town.” Looking down at her glass she wondered what sort of person would set up a scenario and then jump to everyone’s rescue?
“Are you suggesting he wanted to be a hero?” the man asked. He looked to be in his late 50s. Tall with broad shoulders and an easy smile.
“This is Elliot Barnes. He lives near Harold’s farm,” Mitch explained. “Have you met Abby Maguire?”
Elliot Barnes extended his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
After they shook h
ands, Elliot studied her for a moment. Then he looked up and said, “She might be onto something.”
“What makes you say so?” Abby asked.
Leaning on the counter, he brushed his hand across his chin. “He’d had his eye on Eliza Menzies. That was her name back then.”
Harold’s second wife. “And?” Abby prompted.
“Well, Harold liked to impress the ladies” Elliot Barnes added. “What better way than to rescue the entire town? By then, no other sparky would have set foot here. So it was all up to Harold.”
Again, Mitch leaned down and whispered, “A sparky is an electrician.”
“Yeah, I sort of figured that one out. Thank you.”
Someone else joined the conversation. Angus Nicholson agreed there might be something to Abby’s theory. “That flat tire didn’t happen by itself.”
Abby remembered the story about the flat tire but she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it. She guessed either Faith or Joyce had told her about it. “You know about the tire?”
Angus Nicholson nodded. “Everyone knows about it and someone must have seen him doing it but no one has ever been prepared to come forward. I reckon it’s about time we find out the truth, if only to set the record straight.”
Mitch looked around the bar. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Does anyone here think Harold Moorhead was responsible for slashing the sparky’s tire?”
They all nodded.
“That’s amazing.” Abby shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t someone say something to him?” That’s when Abby remembered Faith had been the one to tell her about the tire. She had suggested no one had wanted to go up against the town’s only electrician.
“No point,” Elliot Barnes said.
Abby dug inside her handbag and retrieved her notebook.
“Are you going to start taking witness statements?” Mitch asked.
Using her own brand of short-hand, Abby took a few notes, writing down everyone’s names and their opinions. “I’d like to know if anyone held a grudge against him,” she murmured.
“I doubt anyone will own up to it,” Mitch murmured right back.
There had to be a way to find out. Abby knew she had to tread with care. Otherwise, she might trigger an avalanche of ill feelings.