Teeny and I looked at one another and shrugged. Not really.
“Good,” Miss May said. “Let's do this.”
Teeny and I followed Miss May through the house like we were on a mission for Seal Team Six. Miss May pressed her body flat against the wall. Teeny and I followed suit. And we took gentle steps, careful not to creak the old floorboards as we walked.
We tiptoed into a drawing room. A steepled ceiling rose twenty feet to a center point, and a grand piano dominated the far corner of the room, with sheet music propped on the stand. I crossed to the piano and saw the sheet music was for “Moonlight Sonata,” by Bach. The song began to play in my head, an eerie soundtrack to our breaking and entering.
On the staircase, our gentle steps were useless. Every third step whined like a spoiled toddler. The whines evoked a rich history, a tapestry of children and parents traipsing up and down. This is why I could never live in an old house, I thought. Too many memories trapped in the woodwork.
We paused at the top of the stairs. Miss May and Teeny stopped to catch their breath. OK, so did I. Those stairs had been steep. Real steep.
I nodded toward a closed door at the end of the hall. A sliver of light emanated from the cracks. “That's the room.”
Miss May held a finger to her lips to shush me. Then we began the long quiet march toward the lighted room.
The first room we passed on our way to the lighted room creeped me out beyond belief. A crib sat empty in the middle of the floor. Children's toys decorated a crumbling shelf. And the walls were painted an unnatural, creamy pink. Every few seconds, lightning strobed the whole horrific scene.
Linda and Reginald had mentioned having a son but he was in his twenties. And Petunia had grandkids but...what was up with this old Victorian crib? I wanted to point it out to Miss May, but I was too nervous to speak.
The next room on our right was weird in a totally different way. There was an elliptical machine. And some small weights. And a flat-screen TV, loaded with a “Work That Body” DVD. I recognized the muscular woman on-screen as a popular fitness guru. Her big, go get 'em smile and massive biceps chilled me to my core.
After what felt like eternity, we made it to the room at the end of the hall. Miss May looked at me and then at Teeny to make sure we were ready. We both shrugged like, “Ready as we’ll ever be.” The door was closed all the way, so Miss May had to turn the handle to enter. Well, she would have. But the door had no handle. Spooky.
Miss May nudged the door open with her shoulder and took a step inside. Teeny grabbed my hand and didn't let go. We entered the room together.
And there was Reginald Turtle. Hanging from the ceiling fan.
Dead.
17
Turtle No More
I SLAPPED MY HANDS over my mouth to keep from screaming. Miss May froze. Teeny took a step back and thudded against the wall. “What the...?” Teeny's voice shook.
“I think...” Miss May couldn’t get the words out.
“He's dead,” I said. My voice was deep and guttural, as if it were coming from someone else's body.
An odd sense of calm washed over me. I was devastated that Reginald was dead, of course. But there had been so much tension in the moments leading up the stairs and down the hall. I had feared that Reginald might leap out and kill us at any moment. Now, to find him as we had, powerless to hurt us... Well, it sounded cruel, but it relieved me.
Reginald Turtle was the fifth dead body I had found since moving to Pine Grove. And this was the first time I had felt in control. Like I could find important clues and not just panic.
After getting over my initial shock, I scanned the room for anything out of the ordinary.
A sweater and trousers were hung in dry-cleaning bags on the door. The bed was made with hospital corners, not a rumple to be found. The window had been opened, and a slight breeze blew the curtains back. In general, the place felt well-cared-for.
Would a man troubled enough to kill himself really have taken the time to make his bed with hospital corners? Maybe Reginald Turtle would have. But something felt wrong. Aside from the obvious man-on-the-fan.
“What are we doing?” Teeny asked. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Doesn't something feel off about this?” I said.
“Yeah! The fan dongle is a dead guy,” Teeny said. “I want to leave.”
Miss May stepped toward the body. “Chelsea's right,” she said. “Reginald doesn't strike me as the type to hurt himself. He seemed almost pathologically averse to discomfort.” She turned to me. “Look. Fresh clothes from the dry-cleaner. And a well-made bed.”
“The guy was a Turtle!” Teeny said. “You can't read too much into his neat-and-tidiness.”
I kept searching the room for clues. “Did he leave a note?”
There was nothing on the bureau. Nothing on the writing desk. Then I noticed something sticking out of Reginald's shirt pocket. I pointed. “Look. That might be it.”
Miss May cringed. “You want to take something out of his pocket?”
I shook my head. “I can't reach. I'm too short. So’s Teeny.”
Miss May grunted. Her height was being used against her.
“Somebody’s gotta do it,” I said.
Miss May squeezed her eyes shut. She muttered something to herself, presumably a preemptive request for forgiveness. Then she slowly reached toward Reginald's pocket. Just as she was about to grab the note, I pulled her arm away.
“Wait!”
Miss May’s eyes shot open. “What? I was about to do it.”
“You can't touch the note with your bare hand. Fingerprints!”
Miss May's face flushed. “Oh my goodness, you're right.” She let out a deep breath, then she wrapped her hand in her shirtsleeve and reached up again.
Miss May extracted the note from Reginald's pocket with surgical precision. Teeny paced back and forth, moaning and groaning with nerves.
Seconds later, Miss May sat on the bed and unfolded the note.
Teeny bit her nails. “What's it say?”
Miss May cleared her throat and read aloud, “Dearest friends, family, loved ones, and citizens of my new home in Pine Grove: I, Reginald Turtle, have killed myself. If you are the first person to have the pleasure of reading this note, you have deduced as much already. Alas, I could not live with my guilt any longer. Many of you may have surmised, in large part thanks to my lavish spending on appetizers, that I killed my wife Linda in order to cash in on a bounty of life insurance money. You are correct. I murdered Linda. In truth, I have been planning to extinguish her for years. I regret that I waited until moving to this small town to finally handle my business. The people of Pine Grove are of hearty, peasant stock. They are a capable people, clearly. But they should not be forced to carry the burden of my crimes. It is a heavy burden, which I learned in the harshest way. Killing Linda was a scourge on my conscience and too much for me to shoulder. Please do not mourn me, for I mourned myself while I was alive. Also please send word to my son, German. Our little boy is an orphan now. And forever an orphan he shall be. Regards, Reginald Turtle.”
Reginald's note cast a pall over the room. Teeny, Miss May, and I bowed our heads. Miss May reread the note to herself. After a long moment, she broke the silence. “His handwriting is beautiful.”
I looked up. “What?”
Miss May chuckled. “Reginald has exquisite handwriting.”
Nerves jangling in my throat, I chuckled too. “That’s what you have to say?”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. It’s lovely."
Teeny joined in with a chuckle of her own. “You are too much, May.”
“Do you think he really killed Linda?” I asked.
Miss May looked back at the note. “I’m not sure. I'm not even sure he killed himself.”
“Can we go!?” Teeny headed toward the door. “I’m spooked!”
Miss May took one last look around. “Okay. Let's get out of here.”
“Hold on,�
� I said. Teeny frowned and tapped her foot. “Hold on!” I repeated. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a few pictures of the room. It was a habit I had gotten into as an interior designer. It was always good to have a before picture, because otherwise the after pictures were less impressive. Though this wasn't exactly an analogous circumstance, I figured it couldn’t hurt. A private collection of photos from the crime scene might come in handy later. Particularly because the police weren’t exactly prone to sharing evidence.
I noticed a framed photo on the nightstand as I exited. It was Reginald and Linda Turtle on their wedding day. Smiling, young, beautiful. Like they had their whole lives in front of them. I wondered, had they really been in love? How had that moment of happiness ripened into such bitter fruit? I thought about my own botched wedding, and I felt a flash of gratitude. Mike had humiliated me in front of everyone we knew, and it had felt like garbage, sure. But at least he hadn’t trapped me in a union of slow-burning resentment.
Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid of picking up his calls. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I should even thank him for what he did.
I glanced back at Reginald. I wondered if on their wedding day, Reginald and Linda could have possibly predicted how unhappy their lives would turn out. I had never met people so joyless. And, as was my wont, I turned to the dead guy and struck up a quick convo, “Sorry it ended up like this, Reginald. I hope...you and Linda aren’t together, I guess, wherever you are.”
Then, I hurried down the hall, down the stairs and outside...
Straight into the harsh lights of five parked police cruisers, waiting on the curb.
18
Tripping the Alarm
THUNK. I WALKED STRAIGHT into Wayne's brick-wall chest when I stepped out of the house.
“Chelsea. What are you doing here?”
Great question. Also important: does my hair make me look like a wet dog? If the answer is no, that's great. If the answer is yes, what breed of dog?
“Nothing,” I said, like a five-year-old caught red-handed in the cookie jar.
“What do you mean ‘nothing?’” Wayne said. “You broke into that home.”
“Nu-uh," I said, still channeling my inner five-year-old.
“So Reginald invited you?” Wayne asked.
“Reginald’s dead.” The words were out of my mouth before I could figure out a more delicate phrasing. “If you didn’t know that, then what are you doing here?”
“You tripped the silent alarm,” Wayne said. He didn’t seem to register the gravity of the situation. Another Turtle has kicked the bucket!
I glanced back at the house. Of course the Turtles had a silent alarm. If they could have afforded it, they probably would have had a doorman and a butler, too.
“Hold on...” Wayne snapped to attention. “Did you just say that Reginald’s dead?”
“Yeah...He, uh...he left a note.”
“What kind of note? Are you talking about a suicide note?”
Suddenly, the weight of Reginald's death hit me like an anvil from the top of the Empire State Building.
A suicide note. A noose. A life snuffed out before its time.
I sat down on the front stoop.
“Chelsea. Did Reginald Turtle kill himself?”
I was speechless but managed a feeble nod from my perch. “It looks that way.”
Wayne turned to his accompanying officer, the meek young Hercules. “Would someone stay with this girl? I need to go inside. Possible dead body. Potential suicide. Potential murder. Notify the coroner. Get some backup down here.”
I looked past Wayne and saw Miss May and Teeny talking to the statuesque redhead, Flanagan. I found my voice. “No one needs to watch me.”
“Somebody has to stay with you. You’re a witness. And a possible criminal.” Wayne turned away, but I impulsively stood and grabbed his arm.
“Wayne,” I said.
He turned back. I didn't know what to say.
“Wayne,” I said again. I wanted to accomplish so much with so few words. I wanted to tell Wayne that I was sorry, that we hadn’t done anything wrong, that KP was innocent... And I wanted to warn him, tell him that he was about to walk into a horrible scene, that he would never be the same after this.
But I couldn’t muster the courage to say any of those things. So instead, I just stared into Wayne’s eyes until Sunshine Flanagan approached.
“Miss Thomas?”
I turned to her.
“You need to come with me. We have some questions for you.”
MISS MAY, TEENY AND I spent the next hour talking to Flanagan and several other members of the Pine Grove Police Department. The officers had dozens of questions for us. But Miss May had been in plenty of high-stakes interrogations before. She knew what to say. And Teeny and I knew enough to stay quiet.
The cops accused us of breaking into Reginald's house. Fair enough. But Miss May was ready with an explanation.
“The back door was open,” she said, cool as Salazar’s cucumber water.
I hadn't realized it when we were inside, but Miss May had apparently unlocked the back door before we'd exited. Proof that the home was open.
The police pointed out that an open door did not give us the right to enter, but Miss May replied that she thought she had heard a commotion.
In a small town, hearing a commotion is tantamount to a presidential pardon. No matter what you’ve done or what the circumstances are, if you hear a commotion anywhere at any time, you have the right to investigate said commotion. People had wandered onto the farm during private events countless times, citing “commotion” as their reason for being on the property. It was impossible to argue with the commotion defense in Pine Grove, and even the police seemed to know that.
Miss May then told the police we had come to bring Reginald a pie and an offer of our condolences for Linda. My aunt explained that we had rung the bell, but no one had answered. She went on to say that we had only gone inside to leave the pie somewhere safe, away from the rain.
The officers looked skeptical of Miss May’s story. Flanagan, in particular, furrowed her otherwise flawless and un-creased brow. Detective Sunshine launched into a barrage of questions.
“Why did you go upstairs if you were only there to put the pie inside?”
“Why did you decide to deliver the pie during a torrential storm in the first place?”
“What kind of pie did you say it was?”
Miss May had an answer for every query, and she didn't miss a beat before a single response. Her calm demeanor and relaxed attitude impressed me. There was her inner lawyer coming out. Or her inner-former-lawyer, I thought, remembering Wayne’s earlier accusation. Regardless of her current status with the New York State Bar, Miss May’s steady answers placated Flanagan. I was grateful for that.
As we left, Flanagan warned us that there “might be more questions,” and that “Detective Hudson might want to speak with us.” But she let us leave, and that was good enough for me.
Miss May didn't speak much on the ride back to the orchard. Neither did I. Instead, I turned over the details of Reginald's death in my mind. I remembered the open window. The little pink bedroom. The eerie smile on the face of the DVD workout coach. And, of course, Reginald.
When we got home, I headed for the bathroom and a nice hot shower. I wondered if I could possibly scrub the bad feeling out of my brain. Miss May caught up to me before I got to the first landing.
“Shower?”
I nodded.
Miss May gave me a comforting smile. “I'll make hot chocolate. Come down after and we’ll talk.”
Looking down at Miss May from the landing, she seemed younger than usual. Childlike, even. And vulnerable. I smiled, hoping to offer some reassurance. Miss May smiled back, and I felt more adult than I had in a long time. Like Miss May and I were truly partners.
But as soon as Miss May plodded back to the kitchen to start the hot chocolate, I was left all alone on the landing. And standin
g there, hearing the silence of the old farmhouse, I felt twelve years old again. Tiny. Scared. And a little too excited for a warm bath and a big cup of cocoa.
I ENTERED THE KITCHEN with my hair wrapped in a towel, just as Miss May began to concoct her world-famous hot chocolate.
First, Miss May pulled a brick of locally-made dark chocolate from the pantry. She placed the chocolate on a beautiful maple cutting board and unsheathed her sharpest butcher knife from the chopping block.
Next, she slivered the chocolate into tight curls on the cutting board. A pile formed, 6-inches high. Like a chocolate Mount Vesuvius. After that, Miss May poured several cups of thick local milk into her favorite little red teapot and added a touch of heavy cream, “just to be safe.” Once the milk heated up, she slowly added in the mountain of chocolate shavings and began to stir. After quite a bit of stirring, the chocolate blended into the milk, and the hot cocoa alchemy was complete.
Miss May then pulled out our favorite mugs — mine had a cat face on it and hers featured an image of the scales of justice — and she poured each of us a generous serving. She topped each cup with a mountain of homemade whipped cream. Then she used a cheese grater to dust a few more decadent chocolate shavings on top.
Finally, she slid me my mug with a small smile. “Here you go.”
I took a slow sip and let out an involuntary, "Mmmm." Miss May smiled and indulged in a sip of her own. Then we got down to business.
“So,” Miss May said. “We've got another dead body.”
I nodded. “Not a fun development.”
“Not fun at all.” Miss May sipped her drink. “You think it was a genuine suicide?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. Reginald seemed so happy after Linda died.”
“I agree,” Miss May said. “Plus, the house was tidy. His dry-cleaning had been picked up. The bed had been made. Would you do all that if you were planning on killing yourself?”
“I don't do all that, and I'm planning on living until I'm 105,” I said. I took a big sip of cocoa then let out a deep exhale. “So this is definitely another murder then.”
Candy Apple Killer Page 10