A man watches his pear tree day after day, impatient for the ripening of the fruit. Let him attempt to force the process, and he may spoil both fruit and tree. But let him patiently wait, and the ripe pear at length falls into his lap.
—Abraham Lincoln
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First US edition August 2016
Second edition February 2017
Copyright © 2016/2017 by Cheryl Bradshaw
Cover Design Copyright 2017 © Indie Designz
All rights reserved.
Originally titled Sloth (Sinful Seven Collection)
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written permission and consent of the author.
Sloth (n.) Habitual disinclination to exertion; indolence; reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness.
Mary Pritchard sat on a wooden chair on her front porch, rocking back and forth, her fingernails digging into the soft, pliable wood atop the sides of the armchair. Day after day, she sat in the same exact spot doing the same exact thing, until eventually she’d scraped off so many layers of wood, her fingers fit inside the grooves her nails had hollowed out. At times she felt guilty about the damage she’d done to the antique piece of furniture, especially since the chair had been passed down from her grandmother to her mother and now to her. But Mary couldn’t help it. The consistent digging eased her frustrations somehow, helping her cope with a man she hated—her neighbor.
Hector, the neighbor who previously owned the house across the street, was a nice man. And clean. Meticulously clean. Just the way Mary liked. His lawn was trimmed, his flowerbeds weeded.
Several months earlier while Hector was outside mowing the lawn, Mary glanced out the kitchen window and noticed something odd. The lawn mower had shut off in the middle of the yard. And Hector was no longer beside it. He was curled into a ball on the ground. She plunged the dish she was scrubbing back into the soapy dishwater and sprinted across the street. But it was too late. He’d had a heart attack. And unlike the others he’d had in the past, this time there was no coming back from it.
Hector was dead.
Less than two weeks later, Hector’s brother Darryl moved into the house, and Hector’s lush landscaping went to hell faster than a mob hit in 1929. Darryl was Hector’s opposite—short, unkempt, and so grossly overweight he waddled instead of walked. He was also lazy. While Mary milled around her own yard each day, she watched Darryl through his living room window. The spectacle was always the same. He sat in a recliner all day, watching TV, only rising occasionally for food and beer. Lots and lots of beer.
Unsure of how to deal with such an unruly neighbor, Mary decided her best option was to take the high road. She baked an apple pie and took it over. But when she knocked, Darryl didn’t come to the door. And he was home. She was sure of it. She could hear him whistling. Frustrated, she plopped the pie down on the doormat and walked away.
Two days later, while on her daily walk, she noticed the pie was still on his doorstep, in the exact spot she’d left it. She snatched it off the porch with one hand, fisted the other, and pounded on the door. Again, there was no answer. She considered smashing the pie into the door, allowing the sticky and now smelly substance to smear to the bottom. But she didn’t. She walked over to his trash can and threw it away.
A week passed before Mary noticed something else: a foul, nose-wrenching odor like weeds burning in a summer wildfire. The wretched smell wafted through the street. And it wasn’t hard to pinpoint the origin.
Now, as she rocked on her chair, she glared at Darryl’s front yard, at a lawn so yellow and brittle and dead, it was almost unrecognizable.
All her work.
All her hard work gone to waste.
Late at night while Darryl slept, Mary didn’t. She dragged a hose from her yard to his, watering his lawn, sometimes even using fertilizer in an attempt to bring any of the lush greenery back to life, but it was to no avail. Although the color had begun to change, the yard was now overrun with weeds and was an eyesore, complete with an old, broken-down truck parked in the driveway. The truck was a new addition, something Darryl had pulled up in only a few hours before. One look at the rusted clunker and Mary had enough. She snapped. And she realized something.
She couldn’t do it anymore.
She couldn’t go on the same way any longer.
Something needed to be done.
She glanced at the time on her watch, then at the loaded gun in her lap, and smiled. It wouldn’t be long now.
At half past one in the morning, after the street had gone quiet, Mary’s alarm clock sounded. She sat up in bed, shoved the blankets to the side, and grabbed her eyeglasses off the nightstand. Dressed in black from head to toe, she slipped a loaded pistol into her jacket pocket, walked out the front door, and crossed the street.
It was strange really.
She felt no hesitation for what she was about to do.
No premature feelings of remorse.
Pent-up rage fueled her drive and determination now.
Her plan was solid, and in her opinion, foolproof. She’d kill Darryl because he deserved it. He was a waste of a human life. One she doubted would be missed. With Darryl out of the way, the home would most likely be listed for sale. She’d purchase it and then rent it to a clean, respectable couple that would keep it just the way she liked. They wouldn’t even have to keep the yard up. Lawn maintenance would be included.
She reached Darryl’s front door, breathed in a hearty lungful of air, wrapped a hand around the bottom of her jacket, and tried the doorknob, thrilled to find it wasn’t even locked. Although dark, she’d been in the house many times before when Hector was alive, making her familiar with the layout. All she needed to do now was make it to the master bedroom without rousing Darryl from sleep.
She entered the house, one hand on the pistol’s trigger, the other outstretched, flattened in front of her, waving left to right, steering her through the veil of darkness. One step, then two, then a few more. So far, so good. She felt the sharp corner of the wall leading to the hallway and turned.
Just a few more steps to go and you’re there. You can do it.
Her foot became trapped, lodging itself beneath something thick and solid on the floor. She stumbled, then fell on top of it, the gun slipping from her hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor below.
She froze, a wave of panic pulsating through her body.
Had the sound woken Darryl?
Between the sound of hard steel hitting the floor and the curse words she uttered when her body went down, she was certain she’d woken him. And yet, there was no sound, no stir of movement coming from his bedroom.
Odd.
Very odd.
She rubbed a hand over her wrist, sure she’d sprained it when it smacked against the floor. Or worse. Maybe it was broken. With each passing second, the throbbing pain became more and more excruciating, and yet her focus remained on the reason she’d tripped in the first place. She reached her uninjured hand in front of her, feeling what she’d fallen on top of a moment before, her hand recoiling when she felt something she hadn’t expected.
Flesh.
Cold flesh.
Cold human flesh.
She poked at the body.
No response.
She bent toward the body. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
Again, nothing.
She reached out, feeling her way across th
e person beneath her. He or she was much too petite to be Darryl. Mary’s hand became wet and sticky, like thin paint. She rolled to the side, scooting across the floor, grappling for the gun until she felt it. Then she used her uninjured hand to push herself into a standing position. She slid her hand along the wall in search of a light switch. Illuminating the hallway was risky, especially now, but she had no choice. Something wasn’t right.
She flipped the switch and looked down, noticing the slimy substance stuck to her hands was red. Bloody. She gazed at the body on the floor, smacking a hand against her mouth when she noticed it was a young girl. Mid-twenties, Mary guessed. The girl was petite and had long, lustrous blond hair. She was dressed in a simple tank top, sweater, and jeans. A bloody stain in the center of her chest marred the shirt she was wearing.
Who was she?
And how did she get here?
And what was her affiliation with Darryl?
And most of all ... why wasn’t Darryl awake?
Mary knelt, extended two fingers toward the girl’s neck, even though she knew it was pointless. The girl hadn’t moved. The girl was dead. The question now was—who killed her? Darryl? Or was he dead too? She stepped over the girl’s body, walked to Darryl’s room, and pushed the door open. The soft glow of the light from the hallway was enough for her to see him in bed, sprawled out on his back, his enormous gut protruding out the bottom half of his shirt. She walked toward him, gun raised, finger once again pressed against the trigger.
Darryl had also been shot, but not in the chest. His bullet wound was in the head. And there was one other difference—his chest rose and fell, which meant, he was still breathing! Her plan to kill Darryl was halfway finished already. Someone had done part of the job for her. All she had to do now was squeeze. Just once. Just one teeny tiny accurate squeeze and it would all be over.
Hands trembling, she couldn’t do it. She lowered her weapon, realizing no matter how much hate she harbored for the man, killing him would ingrain the moment in her mind forever, never let her forget, and she’d have to live with it. Darryl’s eyes flashed open. He looked at her, at the gun at her side. He reached out, but instead of grabbing it like she thought he would, he took her hand in his and said, “Please ... please. Help. Me.”
A wave of emotions coursed through her body.
Don’t you know how much I hate you? Enough to want to end your life!
Hand still clutched in hers, a single tear ran down Darryl’s cheek. Any rage Mary previously felt faded away, replaced with compassion and shame for what she’d almost done.
“Help ... help ... help,” he said.
“I ... yes.”
She dug into her pocket, then remembered she’d left her cell phone behind. She looked around, didn’t see his anywhere. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll call the police. I’ll call them right now. I just have to run to my house and grab my cell phone.”
He lifted a finger, pointing to a pair of pants slumped over a chair by the door. Perhaps he’d left his cell phone in his pant’s pocket.
She squeezed his hand. “Just hang on, Darryl. Hang on.”
His hands slipped from hers, his eyes closing again.
She rushed over to the chair, halting when a shadowy figure stepped out from behind the bedroom door, hand raised. Mary raised her gun, but it was too late. She felt something hard hit the back of her head, and she went down.
Sounds emanated, bouncing from wall to wall, traveling through the halls of the house. Some close. Some far. People talking, saying Mary’s name, saying Darryl’s name, saying the words “double homicide.” She felt pressure on her arm, not pain, someone pressing down, and there it was again—a man saying her name. She opened her eyes to the blinding brightness of the overhead light. She raised a hand to block it, then saw Cade McCoy, Jackson Hole’s police chief, hovering over her.
“Mary Pritchard?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
She nodded.
“How are you feelin’?”
“I ... I don’t know. My head hurts, and my wrist hurts a great deal. It might be broken.”
“Medics will be with you shortly to assess your injuries. You have a knot on the back of your head. Do you remember how it got there?”
She shook her head, the movement filling her with intense pain. “No ... I ... I’m not sure.”
“Can you tell me what happened here tonight? How you got here? Why you’re here, in your neighbor’s house?”
A stretcher rolled by, a sheet covering something large, bulky. A body, most likely Darryl’s. She opened her mouth, intending to answer Chief McCoy’s questions, then closed it once she realized she couldn’t.
She couldn’t tell him what happened.
Not all of it.
Not the real story.
But she had to tell him something.
Her eyes scanned the floor for her gun. It wasn’t there.
“I ... umm ... was asleep at my house. I heard a woman scream, then a shot like a gun went off. It sounded like it was coming from this house. I came over to check it out and found a young woman dead in the hallway. Then I found Darryl in his bed. He was alive when I saw him, barely.”
“How did you end up passed out on the floor?”
“Someone hit me over the head.” She pointed at the bedroom door. “Came right out from behind there and hit me.”
Judging by the look on Chief McCoy’s face, he wasn’t pleased with what she’d said. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t believe her. Didn’t matter. It may not have been the whole truth, but she didn’t think she had anything to fear. She hadn’t killed anyone.
Chief McCoy dangled a plastic baggie in front of her face. Inside was a gun, but it wasn’t hers. “So, what you’re sayin’ is, you didn’t kill two people tonight?”
She pressed both hands to the floor, pushed herself into a sitting position, and leaned against the wall. “Of course I didn’t kill anyone. Why would you even need to ask?”
He pointed at the baggie still dangling in the air. “See this gun? I believe it’s the murder weapon. Want to know where I found it?”
She shrugged. “Where?”
“Next to your unconscious body.”
She stared at the gun inside the baggie, unsure of what to think. “This is the only one you found?”
“The only what?”
“The only gun.”
He nodded. “What are you gettin’ at?”
She remained quiet for a moment, considered the facts. The gun inside the baggie wasn’t hers. Had it been planted by the real killer? And where was her gun? “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill anyone. I swear. Please. You believe me, don’t you?”
Before he had the chance to reply, Mary’s next-door neighbor Tammy poked her head into the room. Dressed in a thick, purple robe and fuzzy, bunny-ear slippers, she looked at Mary and said, “Oh, Mary. You’re awake. You feeling okay?”
Chief McCoy stared up at the woman. “What in the hell? Ma’am, you can’t be back here.”
“The name’s Tammy. I just wanted to check on Mary. I’m sorry, Mary. Really I am. I didn’t mean to say anything. It just kinda came out, you know? They just started asking questions, and I had no choice. I had to tell the truth.”
“What came out?” Mary asked.
“Ma’am,” the chief said. “You need to leave. Now.”
He walked to the bedroom door and shouted at one of his officers. “Decker, how’d this woman get back here? What in the hell are y’all doin’ out here that you manage to miss a woman gettin’ by you?”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry chief,” Decker said. “I don’t know how she slipped by us. Won’t happen again.”
Decker grabbed Tammy’s arm and escorted her down the hallway. Once out of sight, Mary focused her attention back on the chief. “What is she talking about? Why is she apologizing to me? What did she say?”
“Your neighbor told us you had a big problem with the male victim. Sh
e said you hated him. She also said you wanted to kill him.”
Mary thought of all the times she’d stuck her nose out for Tammy. All the times she’d cooked for her, baked for her, listened to endless, monotonous stories.
Traitor.
“Darryl was a slob,” Mary said. “He sat around all day watching television, eating pizza, and drinking beer. He didn’t take care of the lawn. His place smelled. I’m sure he smelled too.”
“It’s true then. You hated him.”
“So what? Are you trying to tell me you’ve never had a neighbor you didn’t like? Not liking someone is one thing. Killing them because of it is another. I’m not a murderer.”
“Two people are dead. You’re the only one at the crime scene, and so far, we haven’t found any evidence to prove anyone else was here tonight.”
Mary raised a brow. “How did you know something happened here?”
“We received a call.”
“From whom?”
“Not sure. It was anonymous.”
“Can you trace it?”
“We’re workin’ on it. Nothin’ yet.”
“What does that mean for me?”
We’re takin’ you in.”
“You’re arresting me?”
“We’re detainin’ you for questionin’.”
“But I just told you what happened. This isn’t my fault. None of this is my fault.”
A medic entered the room.
Chief McCoy turned. “It’s about time. Where have you been?”
The medic looked at the chief like he wanted to deck him, but he didn’t say a word.
“Take a look at her,” Chief McCoy said. “I need to know if any of her injuries require her to go to the hospital. If not, patch her up, and we’ll take it from here.”
He left the room.
Fuming with anger, Mary stood, speed-walked down the hallway after him. “This isn’t right! You can’t do this to me!”
Chief McCoy turned. “Calm down, please. If you haven’t done anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about. You’ll be released, and we’ll get you home.”
Deadly Sins: Sloth Page 1