A Killer Location

by Sarah T. Hobart

  Dinner was a stilted affair. Max didn’t seem interested in carrying the conversational ball, and excused himself while I was still pushing vegetables around my bowl.

  “He was at it again,” Stacy said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your neighbor. Bradshaw. Digging. You know what that means. The lime must be working.”

  “Please stop.” I cleared our bowls and piled them in the sink. The white bakery bag was sitting on the counter, so I emptied the remaining two cookies onto a plate and placed them equidistant between me and my sister.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  “Ramona’s finest. Double chocolate walnut.”

  “Vegan?”

  “Probably not.” I helped myself to one.

  “What the hell.” Stacy snagged the last cookie. “Mark my words, you’ll never meet his wife. She’s a moldering pile of bones.” She took a bite. “Oh, God. These are good.”

  There was a sharp knock at the door. I wiped a few crumbs off my face and found Phyll from across the street on my welcome mat, along with one of her corgis.

  “Almost forgot to give you these,” she said, thrusting a sheaf of booklets at me. “Owner’s manuals. How are those units working out for you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Come on in. Both of you.”

  “I don’t want to intrude.” But she stepped through the door, nodded at Stacy, and looked around at the rustic floors and walls. “Very nice. A lick of paint and a nice rug and you’ll be all set. Come to think of it, we might have a rug up in the garage rafters. Interested?”

  “Thanks, but you’ve already been too generous.” I didn’t need a hairy rug to go with the hairy washer and dryer.

  “That’s what neighbors are for. Speaking of neighbors—”

  Harley had spotted the dog and rose from his spot on the couch as if controlled by strings. His ears flattened, and a soft hiss issued from his mouth.

  “What a cute dog,” Stacy said.

  “Olivia,” Phyll said. “Had her for years. First-class bitch.”

  Stacy turned away, coughing into her sleeve.

  “You were saying about neighbors?” I said.

  “I’m not one to gossip.”

  This sounded interesting. I pulled a chair forward. “Have a seat. Wine?”

  She accepted a glass of white wine and sat, her spine straight against the backrest and her skinny legs sticking out like twigs. “It’s just that your sister was asking about Ted Bradshaw next door. Cranky old coot. Won’t wear his hearing aids. His wife takes off every six months or so just to give her vocal cords a rest. This time she’s on one of those quilting cruises.”

  “Says who?” Stacy said.

  “Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth. Ted said he wants to surprise her when she gets back, so he’s putting in a hot tub. Even building a little shed around it for privacy.”

  “I don’t buy it. Why would he be digging at night?”

  Phyll shrugged. “Didn’t bother to get a permit would be my guess.”

  “I hope he’s not planning to route the drain through my yard,” I said. Bad enough to see my neighbor in his skivvies; I didn’t want to water my grass with Ted soup.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Stacy said darkly.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” I rolled my eyes.

  Olivia whined, her tailless rump wriggling on the floor. Harley disappeared over the back of the couch.

  “Leave it,” Phyll said sternly. She drained her wine in one swallow and set the glass down. “Well, we’d better be off. A brisk walk does wonders for the digestion. Let me know on the rug.” She shook my hand with a firm pump that nearly dislocated my elbow and headed out the door.

  “Thanks for the manuals!” I called to her departing back.

  “He killed her,” Stacy said.

  “Enough already.” I couldn’t escape murder and mayhem, even in my own home.

  —

  I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, but not for long. The crowing started just before midnight. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, until the first pale wash of dawn lightened the sky.

  Chapter 25

  It was just after seven when I crawled out of bed, swimming to wakefulness at the sounds of breakfast preparation. My eyelids felt as if they were weighted down by sacks of sand. I stumbled into the bathroom, availed myself of the potty, and flicked on the light to take another look at my fabulous hair.

  A second later, I burst into the hall, shrieking. Max appeared, clutching a spatula like a weapon. “What is it?” Then his eyes widened.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I said. “You’re my witness. This is justifiable homicide.”

  Max turned away, but not before I saw his shoulders start to shake.

  “Don’t you dare laugh. I’m deformed. A freak. People will point and scream when they see me.” My highlights had faded during the night, from rich auburn to pure, blinding white, giving my mop a zebra-esque quality.

  “Actually, it’s kinda cool. Trendy.”

  “I can stand a lot of things, but not a liar. I’m going to get hold of Steve and make him fix this. And refund my twenty bucks.” I rooted around in a drawer until I found an Arlinda Unified Plumbers ball cap and tossed it on the table. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “French toast. Ready in five minutes.”

  “Make it ten. I need a shower.”

  The hot spray against my face did little to wash away my ire, but at least I was awake, thinking dark thoughts about my erstwhile barber. Friggin’ pothead. I should have known better.

  The latest copy of the Arlinda Shout was on the table when I reported for breakfast. I saw the cover and groaned aloud.

  “That’s a nice photo of you,” Max said.

  “Very funny.” I studied the picture. I was swatting at the camera. The VW loomed in the background. My hair was all one color.

  The headline caught my eye. REAL ESTATE AGENT VOWS TO FREE BOSS, SUGGESTS POSSIBLE THIRD HOMICIDE. Oh, this day was getting better by the minute.

  “I’m working swing shift today,” Max said over breakfast. “I’ll grab dinner at the gym.”

  “Out of a vending machine, I suppose.”

  He shook his head. “There’s a juice and sandwich bar.”

  “Just checking. I guess I’ll head to the office.”

  “You spring your boss yet?” He gave me his lopsided smile.

  “Not for lack of trying.”

  I cleared up the dishes, then ran a load through the wash, shaking enough dog hair from my jeans to stuff a throw pillow before pulling them on. I brushed my teeth and squashed the ball cap down on my head. The hot pink color and the logo of a fist holding a plunger wasn’t particularly subtle, so I tossed it back on the table and rolled out, stripes and all.

  By ten o’clock I was at the office, key in hand. The steps were free of reporters. The door was unlocked, and my heart skipped a beat. Everett had been released. Everything was back to normal.

  The lights were off. I listened for the canned music Everett liked to play and heard nothing. Except for some noises coming from the vicinity of my desk.

  Relief flooded through me. Gail had had a change of heart. But when I hustled around the corner, there was Carl Stopowitz instead. He was systematically emptying his desk, dropping file folders, pens, business cards, and other work-related paraphernalia into a cardboard box.

  I gaped at him. “What are you doing?”

  He looked up and bared his teeth in a grin, a contortion of his lips that lacked warmth but showed plenty of grayish teeth. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “You’re bailing.”

  He dropped a heavy-duty stapler into the box. “You got it. The times they are a-changin’, as Bob so aptly put it.” His hair hung over his face in a grizzled tangle, and he’d grown a scruffy beard in the months since I’d last seen him. He wore a turquoise-blue flannel shirt over a threadbare white tee. His jeans, faded almost to white, hung low on narrow h
ips.

  “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? Things could turn around.”

  “Waiting for things to turn around is not in keeping with my, er, business philosophy, which is to stay as far away from our men and women in blue as possible. My clients prefer it that way.”

  I knew that Carl catered to a particular niche of the real estate market, the one with handshake deals and suitcases full of cash. Still, everything I’d become accustomed to was crumbling around me. “Where will you go?”

  “Greener pastures, my friend.” He emptied the last drawer into the box, which was labeled farm fresh produce and had a picture of a bell pepper dancing with a head of lettuce.

  “Does Everett know you’re leaving?” I asked him.

  “You think I should go down to the pokey and kiss him farewell?” He smiled again, and I wished I had a toothbrush to give him as a parting gift. “Maybe I’ll send him a nice ‘Enjoy your incarceration’ card. In the meantime, Sam, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.” He held out his hand, and I took it somewhat reluctantly. It was sticky with dark green resin.

  He gathered up his box and gave me a wink. “Rad hair,” he said. A minute later, he was gone for good.

  Chapter 26

  I took a seat at my desk. Though I wasn’t sorry to see Carl go, I felt like the last man standing after a disastrous week.

  What had he said? “You think I should go down to the pokey and kiss him farewell?”

  I reached for the phone book and dialed a number.

  “County Correctional.” Government worker-bee voice, terse and impatient.

  “Uh, hi. How do I go about visiting an—an inmate?”

  “Name?”

  “Sam—oh, you mean his name. Sweet. Everett Sweet.”

  She banged me on hold without warning. In vain did I listen for soothing instrumental music.

  With a crackle of static, she came back on the line. “He’s in the four-hundred cell block. Next scheduled visitation window is tomorrow evening between eight and nine P.M.”

  Before she could hang up, I said, “Wait—can you tell me if he’s made bail?”

  “Hold on.” Dead air again.

  Back she came on the line. “Bail hearing at one o’clock this afternoon, Courtroom D.” Click.

  I hung up the receiver. Apparently, my property tax dollars weren’t enough to buy me a “Have a nice day.”

  I checked my watch. I had two and a half hours to kill. A second night of fractured sleep made my noggin feel heavy, the strain of holding it up almost unbearable. Just for a moment, I rested my chin on my hand. The office was so quiet. The phones were uncharacteristically dead. But then so was my career. I closed my eyes.

  Car horns blaring on the street jerked me out of near slumber. This would never do. Gail wasn’t the only one with people depending on her.

  I staggered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. It didn’t do much to improve my appearance.

  I thought of Everett eating jail rations from an aluminum tray. His office door was closed and locked. No doubt the police had the key. On impulse, I grabbed the upright vacuum stored in the little alcove near the copier and ran it over the strip of carpeting in the hall. There was a box of cleaning supplies on a shelf near the back window; I grabbed a cloth and a bottle of spray cleaner and polished the copier and printer. In the kitchen, I wiped out the microwave and swept the floor.

  The exertion seemed to shake the last of the sleep from my brain. I paused at the door to the small bathroom. I drew the line at cleaning the company toilet. And then, out of nowhere, memory kicked in. Where had I—

  My eyes wandered around the bathroom and finally settled on the commode. I thought back. It was Sunday, and I was setting up for my open house. The master bath, all mauve and green, had a fluffy toilet-seat cover and a matching rug. I’d cleaned the mirror and straightened the tank lid…

  I grabbed my bag off the desk. It was a long shot, but that’s all I had left in my arsenal.

  —

  It was only after I parked in front of 412 McMillan that I realized I needed a key to get in. I wondered if I could coax my key card to work. I hopped out and hustled down the walk like I belonged there, which I didn’t. When I tried my card in the lockbox, a red light blinked furiously. So much for the easy way.

  I glanced up and down the street. None of the residents were out and about, mowing the grass, applying weed killer to the cracks in their walkways, washing their automobiles. No children played ball in the street. At least some of them must be at work, perhaps down the street at Redwood State instructing a lecture hall full of comatose college students in the latest in forest-management practices. Or maybe they were behind their curtains, watching me, waiting to see what I would do next.

  At least I knew Mr. Williams wasn’t watching from next door. The thought made me shudder.

  I strolled around the garage, pausing to test the knob of the small door on the north side of the house. Locked. The gravel crunched under my feet as I continued on to the backyard. I took the wooden steps up to the deck that spanned the entire back length of the house. The ambient light filtering through tall trees made a pattern on the deck boards.

  I checked the sliding door first. Not only would it not budge; I could see the length of dowel I’d dropped in there Sunday, fixing the sliding panel in place. A lantern-shaped light fixture left of the door caught my eye, and I ran my fingers over the top of it. Nothing but dust and desiccated pill bugs. There were a couple of royal-blue vases holding dusky green lavender plants; I dug around the soil looking for anything: a buried key, a fake rock. Nothing but potting soil.

  Then I remembered the ring of keys I’d taken from Everett’s file drawer. I searched my bag and found them rolling around the bottom. Trotting down the steps, I returned to the front door. The fourth key I tried fit the lock, and I opened the door.

  The house was dimly lit and chilly inside. There was a dusting of fingerprint powder on the kitchen counters. By the time I reached the second floor, my heart was beating a little faster. Maybe my memory was off. But there could be a piece of information here that tied everything together.

  I mounted the stairs. The master bath looked much the same, with drawers pulled out and the mirrored door of the vanity hanging open. The toilet tank was dressed in a fluffy green cover and sat, square and level, where I’d left it. I picked it up by the edges and flipped it over.

  Affixed to the underside with strips of duct tape was a Ziploc bag. I set the lid across the sink and peeled at the tape until the bag was free. There was an object wrapped in brown paper inside. I pulled the paper aside, praying I wouldn’t find another body part.

  Something fell to the porcelain with a clink. My eyes widened. A second ring.

  It was slim and gold, with a chunk of gemstone that looked like a diamond. Not new; in fact, it had the dull patina of a family heirloom. I held it up to the light. The stone glittered from every facet. Not the biggest rock, but expensive looking, if it was real. But I wouldn’t know about that. Wayne had never given me anything but heartache.

  I checked the inner surface of the gold band. Truth be told, I was hoping for a full sentence that unraveled the mystery right then and there: the names of the recipient and the giver, at the very least. But all I found were some tiny letters etched in the gold and nearly erased by time and wear: AKW.

  What did that tell me? Nothing.

  I wrapped it up again and dropped it in the baggie. My brilliant inspiration hadn’t netted me much, at least on the surface. It seemed likely this was the object of the hasty search that had turned the place upside down. I just couldn’t see why.

  I double-checked all the doors, then left, locking the deadbolt behind me. When I turned around, Mike Decker was waiting for me, arms folded.

  “Jeez!” I said. “Don’t scare me like that.”

  He didn’t say anything, a proven technique for goading me into reckless speech.

  “I was just—in the nei
ghborhood. You know, checking up on the listing.”

  “Find anything?” His eyes roamed over my hair, and the stern set of his face relaxed a bit.

  Reluctantly I held out the baggie. “I found this.”

  I muddled through an explanation while Decker unfolded the packet using the tip of a pencil. When he saw the ring, he whistled soundlessly. “You touch it?”

  “Well—kind of.” Another crime scene compromised.

  He sighed, dropping the ring and its wrappings into a third bag that he placed in his pocket. “You might want to stay away from McMillan until the dust settles on this business.”

  “I’m trying to clear my boss,” I said hotly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  He turned and strode toward his patrol car, parked two car lengths behind my bus. I followed him, jogging to keep up. “I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”

  He paused at the driver’s door. “Just so you know, this block has a helluva Neighborhood Watch. Don’t let me find you here again.”

  Chapter 27

  I thought Decker would wait in his car to ensure that I left the neighborhood ahead of him, but I heard his radio squawk, and a moment later he rolled away from the curb. I sat in the VW considering my next move and puzzling over the unanswered questions that continued to pile up. I couldn’t seem to make sense of any of it.

  A flash of movement from the Williamses’ house caught my eye. One of the curtains that spanned the plate-glass window twitched, then fell back into place. Someone was home.

  I hopped down to the curb and started up the walk before my nerve failed me. The house, a drab single-level ranch surrounded by a moat of decking, seemed shut up tight, like a child’s doll with its eyes closed. The evergreens growing thickly next door blotted out the afternoon light, and a slick of black mildew coated the deck boards. Maybe there was some validity to Mr. Williams’s rant after all, I thought, may he rest in peace. Or, at least, in full sun.

  I pressed the bell and waited. When no one answered, I essayed a timid knock on the door, whiling away the minutes by taking a nosy gander around the deck. Cedar planters and ceramic pots filled about half the available space, but I didn’t spot a single one of his prized begonias. I took a peek over the railing and spotted piles of wilted plants, ripped from the soil and discarded, roots withering in the open air.