Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  “Yeah, we get ’em,” said the surprisingly courteous clerk with seven earrings in one ear and unnaturally black hair above his blond eyebrows, “but you’re a little early.” He looked at his watch. “Maybe half an hour.”

  We browsed while we waited. Doug and I are both readers, and we talked about books we’d read recently and wanted to read. I recommended a classic, James Carville’s We’re Right, They’re Wrong. Doug thought I should read Newt Gingrich’s new book.

  It was the kind of warm, laughing, comfortable evening that, early in our friendship, made me think this relationship had possibilities. A time when I’d find myself smiling for no particular reason. That evening made me a little sad for what might have been but wasn’t quite for reasons I hadn’t completely figured out yet, for what I was beginning to admit might never be.

  Then The Tennessean arrived, and Doug and I swarmed before the delivery man could cut the plastic binding on the top bundle of papers.

  Doug’s name was there: “Attorney Douglas Elliott, representing The Mockingbird Gallery, owned by Elliott’s brother, Kenneth Elliott, was retrieving paintings at Mrs. Miller’s request. The paintings had been leased to Mrs. Miller, according to a spokesperson for the gallery.” Interesting way to put that. Still, not too bad. Nothing untrue or damaging there.

  “The coroner was unable to pinpoint the exact time of death. It is unclear if Elliott was in the house before or after Mrs. Miller’s death.”

  Doug looked grim.

  Mark was as good as his word. My name didn’t appear. I had a third cousin who was, when I was growing up, involved in somewhat questionable business and political activities too often for the family’s comfort. He used to say that there’s no such thing as bad publicity as long as they spell your name right, but I’m not sure. I was glad I was too unimportant to be worth mentioning.

  We each bought a copy of the paper. Once we got back to his place I thanked a scowling Doug for dinner and headed home. It was an eerie feeling, driving those normally busy highways at that hour. There was fog, making halos around the streetlights high over 440 and the lights from the buildings downtown. The city looked darkly ominous with the Batman building and the R2-D2 building, as the two large buildings are nicknamed, standing guard over the Nashville skyline. One looks for all the world like Batman’s cowl. The other looks like a giant R2-D2 robot from Star Wars. I kept checking the Spider’s mirrors to see if anyone was following me. It’s not that I haven’t been out in the city that late and even later. I think it was a feeling deep in my gut that I was in the middle of something dangerous, and I was beginning to be afraid it might turn in my direction. And what about Doug? Seeing his name in print had a totally different effect than hearing it from Mark. Had the reporters made the murderer’s job easier by exposing Doug as a possible police source?

  When I got out to the Opryland Hotel area, lights were still blazing. Neon from the Music Valley theaters told me that I could still hear live music if I wanted to. I passed.

  I pulled into my driveway under the dark canopy of trees and got out of the car. It was quiet. Too quiet. Too still. Just the hush of distant river noises and muffled traffic back by the stores and theaters.

  Had I left the dead bolt locked? Yes. I thought so. I thought I remembered fumbling with the key. Burglar alarm on? Yes. I was sure. The light over my front door was on, just about twenty feet from the car. I was still standing just inside the open car door, hesitating, trying to decide if I was being silly or if I should jump back in the car and race out of there. I could go to MaryNell’s. I hesitated, then leaned into the car to get my cell phone.

  Something hit the car door hard, shoving it against the back of my knees and throwing me headfirst into the seat. I heard running, someone crashing through shrubbery and plants as I scrambled to get out of the car and back onto my feet. By the time I could stand, there was no one in sight. I heard a car start not far away.

  I jumped in and started my own car, locking the doors as I backed and turned in a whirl of dust. I was braver in my car.

  I stopped before pulling out on the road, listening to see if I could tell which direction the car fled. Left, I thought. To the right was the old water-taxi terminal and, making the forced left turn, Music Valley Drive, the most direct way out of the area. He—if it was a he—might not know that, though. To my left, the road had, decades ago, ended at a ferry that no longer existed across the Cumberland River to East Nashville (not to be confused with eastern Nashville). Now, however, the Briley Parkway bridge had replaced the ferry, and the road circled under Briley Parkway on this side of the river to connect with Pennington Bend Road and come back out on McGavock on the other side of the Opryland Hotel/Convention Center/Music Valley Dr/McGavock Pike exit.

  Sound confusing? I was counting on that. Few Nashvillians even know the road exists, much less how it connects. I was counting on the person being afraid of getting caught at a dead end. I cut my lights but kept the engine running and waited. Suddenly the car roared by, and I peeled out after it. I was mad now. He made the sharp turn onto Music Valley, but I gained a little on him.

  I tried to get close enough to read the license plate or at least make out the symbol on the back of the car. I switched on my headlights. All I could tell for sure was that it was a Tennessee plate, a plain one, six digits, no mountains, no iris, no fish, no college logo. I thought it said Davidson, Nashville’s county, but that was just a guess from the length of the county name on the plate; I couldn’t actually read it. The late shows must have been ending at the Music Valley theaters and clubs because cars were pouring out onto Music Valley. I lost him in the traffic. I thought I saw him turning onto Briley Parkway, but I never caught up with the car that I thought was the one. I pulled off at the Elm Hill Pike exit, turned around, and went home.

  Driving back home, I suddenly realized I was sweating. Was I crazy? What had I been thinking? What would I have done if I had caught him? That’s when the shakes started.

  Chapter Ten

  This time I swung the car around a couple of times, illuminating as much as possible of the front and side of the yard with the headlights. When I switched off the car I heard the normal night sounds, crickets, night birds, one of my mockingbirds singing late, all those wonderful, normal creatures that soundtrack the night.

  I got out of the car and moved quickly to the door, my keys out and ready to unlock the door fast or to use as a makeshift weapon. I was halfway to the door when a dark shape emerged from the shadows, and I saw a glint of light off metal. A gun!

  I screamed just before I recognized Mr. Morgan from next door.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?’

  Mr. Morgan was patting me on the back with his gun-free hand. The other held a large, old handgun.

  “Mr. Morgan! What are you doing?”

  “We heard noises, saw lights and cars racing up and down the street. Mildred thought she’d seen you pull in, but she called you and didn’t get an answer. I thought I’d better check things out.”

  I told him what had happened, at least as much as I knew, and assured him that I was okay. “I didn’t even know you had a gun!”

  “Mildred doesn’t like for me to have it in the house. She’s always afraid one of the grandchildren will get it. I got it back during the war.”

  The war? 1812? Northern Aggression? No, for Mr. Morgan’s generation, “the war” would always be World War II.

  “You ever use it?”

  “Nope. Never had to yet. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”

  I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse knowing Mr. Morgan was right next door with a gun that hadn’t been fired in over half a century. I got inside without further excitement and locked the door behind me. I double-checked the lock, just to be sure, and started to look around.

  At first I didn’t see anything out of order. The lights worked. The phone was ringing.

  “Campbell?” It was Mr
s. Morgan. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine.”

  “We heard noises over toward your house. Howard got his gun out and came over, but by the time he got it out of the closet and found his bullets, everything was quiet. Your car wasn’t there. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I think I had a prowler, but he’s gone. I tried to follow him, but I lost him.”

  “Campbell, honey! You shouldn’t have followed him. Have you called the police?”

  “No. Not yet. I just got in. Is Mr. Morgan back?”

  “He’s just walking in the door.”

  “Great. I’m really okay. I’ll call you in the morning. Thanks.”

  I took the phone to my bedroom and dialed Doug’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Doug. Hi. This is Campbell.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Somebody was at my house when I got home. Outside, I mean. I’m inside now, but I haven’t looked around yet.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I feel silly. I just want to make sure everything’s okay. I don’t think anybody’s been inside.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got out of my car, and it didn’t feel right. Everything was too quiet.” I told Doug what had happened. “The Morgans next door heard something. Whoever it was took off through the shrubs and, I think, got away in a big dark car. Looked expensive, but I could never get close enough to be sure of the make.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t see the person, but I saw the car. I tried to follow, but I lost him. Her. Whatever.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right? Have you looked around? Where are you?”

  “I think I may have some ugly bruises on my legs, but otherwise I’m fine. I’m in my bedroom. Everything looks okay.” The clothes and the stack of books beside the bed spilling over onto the floor were normal. I had left them that way. “I’m going into the kitchen now.”

  “Was your burglar alarm set?”

  “Yes. And I’ve rearmed it.”

  “No windows broken?”

  “No. Doug!”

  “What?”

  “There’s writing on my windows. The big window in the den over the patio. It’s red.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s hard to read. It’s smeared some. I think it says ‘Mind your own business.… You could die too.’”

  “Is it written on the outside or inside of the window?”

  “Outside.” I touched the window to be sure. “It’s red, bright red.”

  “Blood red?”

  “Don’t say that! With big drips. What should I do?”

  “Call the police. Then start minding your own business. I’m coming over.”

  “No, no. You’re all the way across town. Just talk to me.”

  “You need to call the police.”

  “Okay. I’ll call the police. Then I’ll call you back. If I don’t call in ten minutes, you call me. If I don’t answer, call nine-one-one.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to come over?”

  “No, I’m okay. I just want to know somebody will know something’s wrong if, well, if something happens. I’ll be fine. Okay.” I was trying to calm myself. “I’m going to call the police now. I’ll call right back. Thanks.”

  My fingers were shaking.

  “I’d like to speak to Detective Davis. Somebody’s vandalized my house.”

  “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

  “Campbell Hale. Can I talk to Detective Davis?”

  “Your address, ma’am?”

  I gave the address. “Can I speak to Detective Davis?”

  “Ma’am, can I have your phone number, please?”

  I was beginning to get the idea. I gave the passively aggressive dispatcher all the information she asked for. She said she’d leave a message for Detective Davis and send a patrol car to my house. I thanked her.

  Then I called Doug back.

  “I’m sure I have Detective Davis’s home number at my office,” Doug said. “It was on his card. He probably gave it to you, too. You didn’t throw it away, did you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I walked over to my desk as I talked and started looking through papers, bills, receipts. I emptied out my purse. I don’t throw things away generally until I’m about to drown in mostly useless paper; then I get ruthless. “I found it. Okay. I’m going to call him. Thanks for thinking of that.”

  “Good. Call him, then call me back.”

  I dialed the detective’s home number. There was a sleepy, feminine “Hello?” followed by an alert, undeniably masculine “Davis.”

  “Detective Davis, this is Campbell Hale. You talked to me about Hazel Miller’s death.” I wasn’t breathing, just talking very fast. “Somebody was at my house tonight.” I told him about the message on the window.

  “Did you report this?”

  “Yes. They said they’d send somebody out.”

  “When they get there, tell them I’m on the way. Tell them I said to wait until I get there and not to touch anything. That goes for you, too.”

  “Okay.” I must have sounded uncertain.

  “I mean it. I don’t want anybody tramping around.”

  “Yes, sir.” I had half expected him to dismiss me, tell me he’d talk to me in the morning, especially after the woman answered. But he hadn’t. He was getting out of bed to come immediately. That ought to be comforting, but somehow it made it worse to know that he was worried, too.

  He must have contacted the patrol car before they got to my house. When they pulled in the drive moments later, I met them on the porch. They introduced themselves. Officers McMurtry and Simmons asked my name, assured me Detective Davis would be there shortly, and started filling out forms on a metal clipboard. My name, my address, my phone number, was I the one who called, what time did I call, could I describe the person or the car, where did I work, that address, that phone.

  Officer McMurtry got a roll of yellow crime-scene tape out of the patrol car and held it, twirling it in her hands. I was still answering questions when Detective Davis pulled up in the dark sedan I realized I had seen much too often lately. Another patrol car was behind him.

  “Let’s get the searchlights on.” He was in command instantly. “Light up as much of this front as you can. Okay, Ms. Hale, tell me what happened.”

  “Have you been following me?”

  “Not close enough, apparently.”

  I went through the story, explaining, pointing, demonstrating. He told the patrolmen what area he wanted taped, which basically amounted to my entire yard.

  “Is that necessary?” I asked.

  “It is if we’re going to learn anything. If your vandal had anything to do with my murder, I want everything that might tell us anything. I don’t usually get out of bed to check out vandalism.” He sent one patrolman next door to talk to the Morgans and two down the road looking for the spot where the car had been parked. They took more yellow plastic tape.

  Detective Davis and I went inside. He looked around appraisingly, and I found myself unexpectedly wishing my dirty dishes weren’t all over the counter. Detective Davis was maybe ten years older than me, just beginning to gray. He had that tired look that can fool women into thinking a man’s vulnerable and open when he’s really only tired. I wondered about the woman who had answered the phone, the woman he’d left at home when he got out of bed to come here.

  “I’m sorry I called so late. It sounded like I woke up your wife.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked sideways at me, almost smiling. “That was my daughter.”

  “Oh.” Single father. That was new information. I’d have to think about that.

  “You said you were alone, Ms. Hale?” He had blue eyes, tired eyes right now, but nice eyes all the same. What did that mean? It wasn’t just that he looked at me. It was that his eyes made a connection; the
y felt forgiving, accepting, that they’d give you a break when you needed one. Probably some interrogation technique. There was something, too, in the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. This was a man who had smiled often. I like a man who smiles. Not that my track record suggested I’d had any success in judging a man by his smile. I needed to think about my intruder, not Detective Davis’s comforting looks. Note to self: don’t evaluate men when you’re feeling this vulnerable.

  “Yes. I was alone.”

  “Hmm.” He walked over to the window, taking a closer look at the letters on the outside. Maybe an inch-wide brush. I wondered if that told us anything important. “What’s under this window—soil, mulch, gravel?”

  “Concrete. That’s part of the patio.”

  He grimaced. He spoke without turning to look at me. “He, she, whatever, wrote backward so you could read it from the inside and did a pretty good job of it. You ever try to write backward? I wouldn’t think it would be easy.” He turned back to me. “Did you have any sense of knowing this person? Any sounds, any smells? You know, like the way you’ll recognize somebody by the way he moves sometimes?”

  I thought. “There’s nothing I can tell you, nothing I can put my finger on, but yes, I thought it was a man.”

  “What about the car?”

  “It was dark, kind of big, looked expensive, I think. Loud?”

  “Dark, big, maybe expensive. That narrows it down.”

  I didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. “I’m sorry.” I was on the verge of becoming indignant or, worse, crying. It was late, and I was tired and losing my adrenaline rush. “I did try to follow it.”

  “Yes, of course you did.” His eyes flashed for a second, pale, clear blue. Then they were hooded again, the intensity hidden with a studied nonchalance. “That’s exactly the kind of stupid stunt that leads to people scrawling threatening messages on your windows.”

  “What was I supposed to do, collapse in tears while the guy got away? I had to do something. And why have you been following me? I’ve been seeing your car everywhere I go. I just didn’t know it was yours.”

  “I do seem to have been following you, but not on purpose. I just always seem to be one step behind you.”