by R. L. Stine
To my shock, he unbuckled himself, scrambled onto my lap, and wrapped me in a tight hug.
I had to park on the street at the Harpers’ house. The gardeners’ truck stood halfway up the drive behind Chip’s SUV. Five or six men in sweat-drenched T-shirts were working over the front yard, weeding, trimming plants, cutting the patches of tall grass.
Brandon helped me carry the grocery bags inside. Chip met us in the front hall. “Oh, good. Here you are,” he said. “Put it in the kitchen. Abby will be home soon.”
We set the bags down on the kitchen counter. Chip slapped Brandon a high-five. “How’s it going, bud? How was the whaling museum?”
For a moment, I thought Brandon might speak. But no. He flashed his dad a thumbs-up. Then he grabbed an Oreo off a plate on the counter and hurried from the room.
Chip flashed me a thumbs-up. “I think Brandon liked it. That’s great. I haven’t seen him so enthusiastic in weeks.” He started pawing through one of the grocery bags; then he stopped. “Oh. I almost forgot, Ellie. They dropped off your cat.”
“Lucky’s here?”
Chip pointed to the kitchen door. “Yes. He came about an hour ago. He’s in his carrier. On the deck.”
Lucky! Yes!
I dashed out to the deck, letting the screen door slam behind me. I was so happy. I’d missed my old cat so much.
“Lucky! It’s me!” I called, running across the deck.
His travel carrier was near the steps.
“Lucky! Hey, Lucky! Remember me?”
I dropped down beside the carrier. I unlatched the door in the side.
“Lucky?”
I lowered my head to the door and peered inside.
Whoa. No cat? I saw a fuzzy, black ball.
No. Wait. Oh, wait.
The eyes. Two glassy eyes stared back at me.
Lucky’s eyes.
The mouth open, purple tongue drooping out.
Oh, Lucky.
My poor cat, my poor old cat.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop staring.
Staring at Lucky’s head on the floor of the carrier.
Just his head.
34
Sobs shook my body. I let the tears roll down my cheeks. I sat on the top step of the deck, holding myself tightly, swaying from side to side.
I shut my eyes and tried to picture Lucky alive. Tried to see him playing with his favorite toy, a little, pink-and-yellow rubber mouse. Tried to see him creeping into my lap and forcing me to put down the book I was reading and give all my attention to him. Tried to picture the delicate way he ate, his tongue carefully cleaning his mouth afterwards.
But I couldn’t picture any of that. I could see only the round, furry head, the empty eyes, the tongue hanging limp and shriveled like a dead worm.
“Who did this?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Who did this?”
And then, without even realizing it, I was on my feet and back in the kitchen, confronting a startled Chip, who was leaning into the refrigerator, rearranging things on the shelves.
“Who did this? Tell me! Who brought the cat? Who was here?” I grabbed him with both hands and spun him around.
A plastic container of fruit salad fell from his hands and splattered on the floor.
Chip stumbled back, holding on to the refrigerator door. “Ellie? What the hell?”
“My cat!” I wailed, and more sobs took my breath away. “Who brought it? Who was it?”
His eyes narrowed in confusion. “Some guy. In a Volvo station wagon. A young guy. Tall, with his head shaved and a little beard. He said he was a friend of your cousin’s.”
“But the cat is dead! Don’t you understand! My cat is dead!”
Stepping around the puddle of fruit salad, Chip crossed the room. “Ellie, calm down. Ellie, let’s deal with this.” He raised his arms to wrap me in a hug—uh, no way—I backed against the counter.
“Lucky—he—he was murdered! Someone cut off his head!”
Chip gasped. The color drained from his face. “No. That’s impossible.” He grabbed the back of a kitchen stool. “I heard the cat scratching against the case. Really. And I heard it meowing.”
“It can’t meow!” I screamed. “Its head was cut off!”
“No. That’s crazy. That’s impossible. I heard it,” he insisted. “You poor thing. You’re shaking.” He came at me again. I was trapped against the counter. He wrapped his arms around me. He smelled of coconut suntan lotion.
I let him hug me, and I cried, sobbed onto the sleeve of his polo shirt. It felt good to be held. I think he was genuinely trying to comfort me. Okay, maybe not. But I didn’t care.
I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do.
What do I do next?
Choking on my sobs, I pushed him back. I ripped some paper towels from the dispenser next to the sink and wiped my face.
He stood with his hands at his sides, watching me, biting his lips. “We have to call the police,” he said. “We have to let them know that someone . . . has struck again.”
The police haven’t been helpful at all, I thought. They ask a lot of questions and then fill out reports.
“Who was home?” I asked. “The cat was okay when it arrived? Then, who was here, Chip? Just you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just me. I took the carrier to the deck. I thought the cat would like fresh air until you came home. I—”
“And no one else was home?”
“No. No one. I think Abby was in Bridgehampton with Heather, and—oh, yeah. Maggie stopped by. With those two little girls. She was looking for you.”
“Maggie—?”
“She stayed only a second. She left when I told her where you were.”
“Maggie?”
My brain felt all cottony. I kept blinking, trying to clear the fog. Sunlight washed through the kitchen windows, but I felt wrapped in darkness, drowning inside a dark, swirling cloud.
Maggie wouldn’t murder my cat.
Chip was the only one home.
He says the cat was alive. And he was the only one home.
It was too much. Too much to bear.
A scream burst from my throat. I heaved myself away from the counter, pushed past Chip, his mouth open with shock, and ran screaming to the front of the house.
“I can’t stay here! I can’t stay here!”
I heard Brandon laughing upstairs. Was he laughing at a cartoon video? He wasn’t laughing at me—was he?
“I can’t stay here!”
I heard Brandon’s laughter, and then I was out the front door, leaping down the stairs, and nearly knocked over one of the gardeners pruning the hedge. He cried out in surprise and dropped his hedge-cutters.
“Sorry!”
The other workers raised their heads to watch me. I ran over the flagstone walk, my chest heaving, tears burning my cheeks.
To the driveway.
Where was I going?
What was I doing?
I didn’t know. I couldn’t think. I only knew I had to run.
Run and keep running.
Someone was ruining my life. Someone hated me—hated me enough to kill me.
I had no choice. I had to run.
I reached the driveway. Behind the house, I could see two blue-and-red kites dipping and rising in the sky. Someone at the beach was having fun, flying kites in the strong ocean wind.
I want to be one of those kites, I thought. I want to fly high and free. I want to cut the string . . . sail away . . . float away from this heavy, dark fog . . . fly to sunlight.
I have to run.
But I stopped just past the SUV. Stopped and stared at the front bumper.
Chip’s SUV. A black TrailBlazer.
The bumper was scratched in several places and dented on the left side.
The glass on the left headlight was cracked.
I stopped and ran my fingers over the dent on the bumper. Flakes of red paint came off in my hand.
Red paint?
&nb
sp; Jackson’s Passat.
Chip’s SUV was black.
Chip was the only one home today . . . and his SUV was black and dented.
I raised my eyes to the house in time to see Chip stride out the front door.
He stopped at the bottom step and called to me.
“Ellie? Can we talk?”
35
I’m getting so handy with the knife.
I never knew it was so easy. I guess pure hatred makes a lot of things easy.
Poor kitty cat. Poor Ellie.
Such a lovely old cat. He hardly put up a fuss. Sure, he kicked and hissed a bit when I grabbed his throat. He was used to being treated well. He trusted people.
Foolish creature. Trusting people? Never a good idea.
I trusted people once, a long time ago. I trusted people—and then Ellie came along. And destroyed my trust forever.
But today, I feel so bad for Ellie. To see a loved one murdered in such a cruel, callous way. A beloved old family member. Part of her childhood. Part of her youth, sliced away forever.
Where’s my youth, Ellie?
Where?
I guess the years on the farm toughened me, gave me a more realistic view of animals.
Animals are just animals; that’s what you learn on a farm. Dad killed every pet I ever had. Even Billy, my little goat, my favorite pal.
Well, kitty cat is dead. His head would make a lovely table ornament. If only those eyes weren’t staring so accusingly.
I once read a story in which the murderer’s face was trapped forever in his victim’s eyes. The police gazed into the victim’s eyes and saw the murderer, captured as if on film.
Well, I checked the cat’s eyes. Believe me. I’m not superstitious, but I check everything. Those eyes were as dead as the rest of the carcass, which I carefully buried beneath the rhododendrons.
Is Ellie superstitious? I don’t know.
Is she finally beginning to catch on? Does she realize that she’s next?
I think she does.
Watching her run out of the house, screaming her lungs out, tears running down her little lemon face, made me think that maybe she’s finally catching on.
She’ll want to leave now. She won’t want to stay.
But—no way, Ellie.
I’ve waited so long for this.
Have you heard the phrase, “No more Mr. Nice Guy”?
Well, you’d better believe it.
No more Mr. Nice Guy.
No more fun and games, sweetheart.
Now it gets real.
36
I still had my bag over my shoulder. Ignoring Chip’s cries, I fumbled for the car keys as I ran down the front yard to the Taurus.
Was he coming after me?
I reached the curb, pulled open the driver’s door. I turned to the house and saw Chip, still at the front door, motioning wildly, shouting for me to come back. The gardeners had all stopped working. They were standing up now, tools at their sides, silently watching the drama.
Chip screamed at me, “Where are you going? Ellie, we have to call the police.”
Those were the last words I heard before I slammed the car door, turned the ignition, and roared off.
Where was I going?
Away. That’s all I knew.
Well, I knew a few other things. I knew that Chip had a black SUV, and the front was dented, and the paint in the dents was red.
And he was the only one home when Lucky was murdered.
Chip.
But why?
I struggled to think of a reason why Chip would hate me. Was he just crazy? Did Abby know about him? Would Abby live with someone so crazy?
I was sobbing again, my foot pressed hard on the gas, roaring down Flying Point Road, past a blur of tall hedges and green trees and sprawling brick and stone houses.
I saw the green van coming toward me. I swerved at the last minute. I didn’t realize I was driving in the middle of the street.
The van honked a long warning as it sped past. I pulled to the side of the street. Jammed the gearshift into PARK. Sat stunned for a moment or two.
And stopped sobbing.
I just stopped.
Maybe it was the shock of almost being hit.
Or maybe there’s just a time when sadness turns to anger.
That’s what happened to me. I knew I was all cried out. Someone wanted me to cry. Someone wanted to terrify me.
But suddenly, I felt only anger. Anger that someone thought he had the right to ruin my life.
My jaw ached. I realized I was gritting my teeth. My hands throbbed from gripping the wheel so tightly.
I forced myself to relax, forced my muscles to ease up, let go. And I tried to think clearly.
The police had been no help. Poor Mrs. Bricker lost a hand, and the police still didn’t have a clue.
Not a clue.
I suddenly had some ideas. Totally Nancy Drew ideas. But Nancy always got her man, didn’t she? Nancy always solved the crime.
Now that my crying was over, I knew it was time to get to the truth, to find out what this was all about.
I circled around Southampton for a while and found only one flower store, a small shop on Hampton Road between a travel agency and a clothing boutique. Hand-printed signs covered the front window, advertising specials on long-stemmed roses and orchids in pots.
The store was crowded, and an elderly, white-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a harried expression seemed to be the only one minding the store. She tried to take customers’ orders and answer the phone at the same time, and it was obvious from the disgruntled, impatient expressions on everyone’s faces that she wasn’t keeping up too well.
The shop was deep, bigger than it appeared from the street, with long refrigerated cases of flowers and a glassed-in greenhouse at the back. I took a deep breath and inhaled that sweet smell you find only in flower stores.
I had a lot of time to study the flower cases and inhale the sweet aroma before she finally got around to me.
“Can I help you, dear? I’m so sorry you had to wait. What a day. Both Arthur and Jimmy came down sick this morning. I don’t even have a delivery boy, and how am I supposed to make the arrangements and wait on people at the same time?”
“I promise I won’t keep you long,” I said. “Do you sell flowers painted black here? You know. For funerals.”
Her face changed, suddenly full of pity.
“Well, yes, of course. Arthur makes some lovely wreaths or arrangements. We’ve had a fresh shipment of lilies—did you see them in the back case? Of course, lilies are always appropriate and—”
“Actually, I don’t want to order flowers. I need to know about an order from about three weeks ago.”
She scratched her white hair. Then she pulled a white Life Saver from a pack on the counter and popped it into her mouth. “An order for funeral flowers?”
I nodded. “Black flowers, actually. You know. Sprayed black. The flowers were shipped to our house without a card. And I’d really like to know who was kind enough to send them.”
She sucked on the Life Saver. “Without a card? We don’t usually slip up like that. Especially with funeral flowers.”
“Do you have any kind of record? Do you keep the sales slips or anything?” I asked.
“Well, yes. We don’t have them in the computer or anything. We just have names and addresses on the computer. You know. Regular accounts. It’s quite handy, you know.”
“But you do keep sales slips?”
She bit down on the Life Saver. I could hear it crunch. She chewed it as she disappeared into the tiny office behind one of the displays. A few seconds later, she returned carrying a long wicker basket.
“I keep all the slips in here for about a month. Let’s take a look. What did you say the name was?”
Before I could answer, the bell over the door rang, and a middle-aged man and woman, in designer jeans and matching red-and-yellow floral shirts, walked in. “Hi, Alma. How’s it
going?” the man asked.
Alma sighed. “You wouldn’t believe it.” She handed me the basket. “Look through it, dear. Let me talk to my good friends here. Did you two hear about Arthur and Jimmy?”
I took the basket to the end of the counter and began to paw through it. My hands were trembling. Was I about to learn who had sent the bug-ridden flowers and that disgusting note?
The sales slips and credit card receipts had been tossed in carelessly. But the dates were easy to see, the most recent sales at the top.
It didn’t take me long to find the order for the black flowers about halfway down the pile. The credit card receipt was stapled to the yellow sales slip. I lifted it from the box, brought it up close to my face, tried to steady my shaking hand.
And let out a silent gasp as I read the name on the receipt.
37
Chip Harper.
Yes, the credit card receipt was in the name of Chip Harper. I squinted at it, reading it again and again.
Hadn’t the police been here? Hadn’t they tried to track down the sender of those disgusting flowers?
I wanted to ask Alma, but the phone had rung and she was writing an order, and her two friends were waiting to finish their conversation. So I tucked the receipt into my bag, slid the basket across the counter, and headed out of the shop.
“Did you find what you wanted, dear?” Alma called after me.
I hesitated. “Well, not exactly.” I closed the door gently behind me and stepped out into the hazy afternoon sunlight.
Had I found what I wanted?
Not really. Did I want it to be Chip who sent those awful flowers and that frightening note?
Of course not.
Why did he hate me? Why was he doing this to me?
He’d been coming on to me almost since the day I arrived. Coming on to me—and then trying to terrify me?
It made no sense at all.
Is he totally psycho?
Oh, wait. I forgot one thing. I dipped my head back into the flower shop. “I’m sorry to bother you again,” I said. “Is there a bakery nearby?”
Alma turned away from her friends. She pointed. “Yes. A very good French bakery. Right across the street. You’ll see it, dear. It’s right next to La Parmigiana restaurant. Try the raisin scones. The scones are out of this world.”