Nothing about my father had been a glowing success in my mind, either. He drank heavily but not happily. He was scathingly sarcastic. He was dissatisfied with his job as a supermarket manager, but not enough to do anything about it, and maybe he was depressed. God knows it had not been a joyous house in his lifetime.
When I was twelve and Sonny fourteen, Provincetown got the edge of a violent, fast-moving hurricane. If that was the edge, I would hate to have seen the middle. To this day I can remember the terror and helplessness I felt. Mom, Sonny and I spent the night glued to the radio, at least in some way attached to other people. Daddy Dearest spent it glued to the Scotch bottle. The next morning was drizzly and windy, but the worst, the trusty radio told us, was over.
A neighbor’s tree had been a casualty, bringing wires down with it and partially blocking our driveway. After watching the wires for some time, our cold, hungover father pronounced the wires dead and went to pull them and the limb away from the drive so he could go to work. Standing in a puddle, he lifted the branch, did a nightmarish, seemingly endless little tap dance and fell dead on the asphalt, some thirty thousand volts having gone through his body.
I looked at my mother. “Did you ever miss him?” I hadn’t.
“Oh, generically, yes. Of course I was stunned and appalled at his death. But feeling as if I had lost half myself? No. I vowed I would bring you and Sonny up to be your own personalities, and I managed to do that, although you each scared me half to death on occasion.”
She smiled and continued. “I don’t think your fear is entirely without reason. I seem to recall that one or two of your lady friends were a bit suffocating, and one so narcissistic, I was afraid she might destroy you. But, fortunately Cindy is none of the above. And you know, many people live out their lives together quite contentedly. I doubt you will ever lose yourself, Alex, but you could lose Cindy if you don’t discuss this. Maybe you need to continue living apart for a while—or forever—but you need to be doing whatever you do consciously and by design, not by default.”
I loved my mom.
Then I went to find my brother. I was worried.
I found him in his office, also worried.
“What do you think about that Withers woman?” he asked abruptly. “Is she crazy? Alcoholic? What?”
“I think she told the truth as she saw it, and originally I thought it was that she was upset, tired and drunk and just had a realistic dream she thought actually happened. Now, I’m wondering.” I told him about Hercules.
“Oh, hell. Mildred has a house out near Harmon, doesn’t she?” He got up and filled his coffee mug from the carafe behind his desk. I noticed his hand was slightly shaky. Obviously this was not his first cup. “Want some?”
“No. Yes, Mildred lives out that way. Why?”
“Earlier this morning I stopped by Aunt Mae’s to drop off some big bags of potting soil I picked up yesterday for her. I knew she was at that convention thing, but some high school girl is keeping the shop open for her, so I knew the garage would be unlocked. I saw Harmon’s truck at the cottage and walked over. He had apparently brought over some lumber and paint for some project, but when I found him, he was sitting on the deck, holding Wells in his arms and crying like a baby.”
I jumped up in alarm. “What’s wrong with Wells? Did you get her to a vet?”
Wells was Cindy’s adorable young black cat, sweet and affectionate, complete with tuxedo front and a white chin that looked like a dab of whipped cream. Cindy would be heartbroken if anything were seriously wrong with her.
Sonny held up both hands. “Nothing is wrong with Wells. I think she was just comforting Harmon for the loss of his rabbits.”
A few years back, somewhere in his wanderings, Harmon had found a pair of baby bunnies, obviously orphaned. He’d brought them home and managed to raise them into healthy pets. They were actually kitty litter trained, and lived in the house in cold weather. Now, they were outdoors in a large, grassy pen, complete with a cozy doghouse in case of rain.
“What happened to them?” I changed my mind and helped myself to coffee. This pet thing was turning into a nightmare.
“Harmon got home late last night. Something had broken into the pen, and they were gone. He looked all over—no rabbits. Poor bastard, he kept mopping his face with this grimy handkerchief and sobbing, ‘They’re all I had, all I had.’ He damn near had me sobbing with him.” He sipped his coffee.
“My God, the poor man! Sonny, what the hell is going on here? This all makes no sense. We aren’t alligator country.” I swallowed some coffee and no longer had any doubts why Sonny’s hands were shaking. A jail inmate forced to drink it would swear his civil rights had been violated . . . and win.
Sonny shrugged. “I don’t know. First the trouble was more or less downtown, now maybe it’s out near the ponds. All we need is this thing to grab a kid.”
“But no one has seen the alligator! Is he really there? Could it be a super big coon? Maybe he’s rabid or something?” I lit cigarette four, and Sonny motioned for the pack.
“That’s a great comfort. Now which do we want most, a six-foot alligator or a giant rabid coon?”
“I try. Say, Sonny, what did you think of that cardboard ‘message’ of Harmon’s, signed by ‘Al?’”
Sonny laughed. “I think some guy named Al broke up with his girlfriend and wants her to get her stuff the hell out of his apartment. What did you think?”
“I thought maybe some kid named Al was keeping a bunch of stuff for a buddy, and Al’s mother told him to clean up his room or she’d bring in a backhoe, so Al wrote a note to his pal.”
“Another good possibility. Believe me, I did not call the DEA. However, I did spend a long time on the phone just now to a fellow down at Mystic Marine Aquarium. Very helpful. He said if the gator is here, someone had to have brought him. No way could he have wandered all the way up here. Secondly, like all cold-blooded animals, the gator doesn’t need to eat a lot frequently. He can live on water birds and small animals for a long time, depending on how big he is and how good the hunting is. Thirdly, he’s probably been as scared as the rest of us, and if he finds a friendly waterhole, he’ll lie low. At least for a while. Maybe nab the occasional Canada goose or small dog or cat. But eventually . . .”
“You’ll have to tell everyone to watch their pets and children.” I stubbed out my cigarette. “Sonny, you must!”
Sonny shook his head. “Wrong. Alex, I can’t issue some frightening, horror-filled warning all over town, based on the disappearance of a couple of pets and the dream or delusion of a drunken woman who may also be emotionally disturbed. Every fool in town who owns a gun is already sitting on the front porch waiting for a gator to stroll by.” He mimed raising a rifle to his shoulder and firing.
He stood up and turned to the window. “Hercules was older than God. He probably is lying peacefully under a bush somewhere. A dog or coon got the rabbits. Period. I do not,” he continued slowly, “plan to be the person who single-handedly bankrupts Cape Cod this summer. There wouldn’t be a tourist left any closer to the Cape than Taunton. We have beefed up all our night shifts. All our squad cars are carrying thirty-thirty rifles and making extra runs by all the ponds we can see from the roads. Everyone has extra-big flashlights, and if any foot patrol person is carrying a forty-five in their holster, I’m pretending not to notice it. Everyone is looking, looking, looking. They’ll shoot if they have to. It’s all I can do, Alex. The Chief agrees.” His shoulders sagged.
I felt sorry for him. “You’re probably right,” was all I could think to say in farewell.
Reaching Nacho’s desk, I picked up Fargo’s leash to lead him away from the gourmet deli in her file cabinet. Nacho was busy on the computer, but turned her head to say, “He had three potato chips, two small pretzels and a cup of water.”
“Thanks.” I led Fargo slowly away, head, ears and tail down, a dog obviously in dire need of sustenance. “Listen, Barrymore, you had breakfast a
t home and a nice little snack with Nacho. Cut the starvation act.” He trudged on, an abused animal if ever I had seen one.
We made it to a park bench without my having to carry him. I sat down. He flopped. “Listen, Fargo, it’s think time. It seems to me, we’ve been hearing a bunch of sobs and moans and people saying, ‘They were all I had,’ or ‘He was everything to me.’
“Now to me, that means they needed these animals a lot, but even more, it sounds like the animals needed them to care for them. As it stands, these people are stuck with nothing that needs them. And that’s an awful feeling. Agreed?” He whuffled what might have been reluctant agreement.
“So what needs a lot of care? A baby, right?” No reply. I continued. “Now Harmon would love a puppy.” Fargo looked up and gave a half wag. Sometimes I still called him my good puppy. “But a puppy wouldn’t be right for Harmon. He needs something he can leave overnight when he goes out on one of the fishing boats or beachcombing after a storm. And Mildred is a cat person.” The word “cat” got to him. He sat up and looked around alertly, ready for play, a chase, even supervised socializing, whatever worked.
“No, Fargo, I’m thinking in terms of kittens.” He was still looking. “Let’s go. You won’t like where we’re going, but you can stay in the car.”
As we turned into the vet’s driveway, Fargo curled up in a tight ball, getting smaller and smaller as I parked. I opened my door. “I won’t be long, you stay.” He closed the one eye he had cracked open.
Entering the vet’s I saw that Victor was chatting casually with his office manager and a kennel boy. Good, I wouldn’t have to wait.
“Hey, Alex, what’s up? Where’s Fargo?”
“In the car, he’s fine.” I explained the purpose of my visit.
“You’re a good sport, Alex. That’s a great idea. Let’s see who’s got some kittens.” He walked around into the waiting room, where a large bulletin board took up most of one wall. He looked over a number of the notices pinned there, then removed one.
“Here we go, Alice Pennington. She takes very good care of her animals. She felt Melody deserved to have one litter and will have her spayed as soon as the kittens are placed. I believe Melody produced seven beauties. Let me call Alice and see who’s left.”
Four were left—three females and a male. I departed the vet’s with two of those cardboard carriers, several samples of kitten food, and two booklets on the care of kittens, with a note penned on the front: Be sure the kittens visit a veterinarian by Sept. 1, for booster shots and to arrange neutering.
Alice Pennington was glad to see me. The kittens were now almost nine weeks old and full of energy. I picked out a sweet little tiger female and the gray and white male for Harmon. I figured a gray and white male might have been too reminiscent of Hercules for Mildred. For her I chose a sweet-faced calico, thinking a gentle female might also be better than Hercules in the affection department.
Alice gave a little moue, followed by some very unappealing baby talk. “Poor little tabby-kit is going to be left all alone and by her lonesome, isn’t her? Oh-hh. Poor babykins. Poor little orphan kitty-pooh. And, you know, Alex, it’s really easier having two. They entertain each other.”
I knew I was being sweet-talked, but what the hell? I popped poor little tabby-kit into the carrier. I proffered Alice a twenty-dollar bill, which she made one weak gesture of declining, but then reached for, returning to normal-speak.
“Thanks, it’ll help with Melody’s spaying bill.”
Chapter 5
Driving toward Mildred’s house, I thought of names for kittens, while Fargo kept turning toward the backseat and whuffling. Since Mildred had named her old cat Hercules, I figured maybe she was into Greek mythology. Well, okay. We could do that. The little calico looked to be sunny-tempered, so we could call her Eos, the dawn goddess. And the tabby hadn’t seemed the least bit pitiful to me. In fact, she had seemed quite sassy, so she became Eris, goddess of discord.
Parked in Mildred’s driveway, I printed a stick-up note on the pad I kept in the compartment: “We are homeless and helpless. Won’t you please take care of us? We know we will be happy with you. Love, Calico Eos and Tabby Eris.” Making sure the little plastic bowl of food in the carrier was full, I filled the other small container with water from the jug I keep in the car for Fargo, and set the carrier on the porch in the shade. One down.
Making the short trip to Harmon’s place, I repeated my actions. I didn’t really think Harmon would be interested in Greeks of long ago, so I signed his note: “Tom and Geraldine.” Mission accomplished.
It was late afternoon and I figured we had labored long enough for one day. We headed home for a game of tag with the hose, the thrill of picking one of my very own tomatoes, a big bowl of fresh cold water and a can of icy Budweiser. Cigarette number six, I feared, but I was in too good a mood to be very accusatory about it.
We continued the pleasant evening by ordering our favorite pizza—sausage with extra cheese. I made myself a salad and filled Fargo’s bowl with dry food, which he ignored, knowing full well pizza was en route.
Retiring to the living room, I clicked on the telly. One of the cable stations was featuring a Bio-Drama of the Woodchopper Woman whose photo I had seen in Cindy’s scandal sheet the other day. The thing that amazed me about such Bio-Dramas was not how bad they were, but how they existed at all. How on earth did the stations manage to collect so many pictures, so many relatives and neighbors and cops to be interviewed, in so short a time? Surely, they couldn’t keep files and film clips on everyone who ever went to jail or a mental facility! It was truly incredible. Of course we were going to watch it while we ate. Cindy would never know.
It boiled down pretty much to what had been in the paper. According to neighbors, Virginia Leonard was the average American housewife, thought to be happily married, a good housekeeper and good mother, if somewhat overprotective of her two children. Her husband Jeff worked for an auditing firm and traveled frequently, but seemed to enjoy his wife and kids whenever he was home.
“And then one afternoon, it all changed for the Leonards,” the commentator intoned ominously.
A neighbor joined him on camera. “It had been a pleasant summer day,” she said. “A little girl over on Fourteenth Street was having a birthday party. My two kids were going and so were Elaine and Bobby Leonard.” The screen flashed photos of the plain young girl and the beautiful little boy.
“I would have let my kids walk over to the party,” the neighbor continued, “But Virginia called and suggested she would take all four, if I would pick them up. That was typical. Virginia hated her kids to be anywhere without adult supervision. So that’s what we did. She took ’em and I picked them up after the party. I dropped them at the end of their driveway.”
Her voice began to quaver.
“I’ll never forgive myself. I dropped them off at their driveway, and those kids just walked up that driveway and right around the house to see their mother cutting up their father in the woodchopper. But I didn’t know. How could I have known? I had just backed the car out and turned toward home, and then I heard them screaming all the way down the block. I backed up at about ninety miles an hour. I don’t know how I did it. They were in the road holding each other and screaming. I jumped out and got my arms around them, asking them what on earth was wrong? They couldn’t even tell me, they just fell against me, sobbing.”
The screen now featured a picture of Virginia and Jeff Leonard in happier days—a slender young woman, slightly taller than her husband, who was a stocky young man with light brown wavy hair and an easy grin. She held a baby. He clasped the hand of a little girl.
Another neighbor next joined the interview. “I lived right across the street. A little earlier in the day I had been busy, and my then two-year-old Petey somehow unlatched the screen and got out of the house. He was always quite a little terror.” She smiled, remembering, as if it had been some sign of greatness to come.
�
�When I realized it, I ran out just in time to see Jeff Leonard pull in his driveway, jump out of his car and run out into the street to pick up Petey. Jeff was laughing as he scooped Petey up. ‘Now, Cowboy, where do you think you’re going? You’re going right home to mama, that’s where! No more adventures for you today, pal.’”
The woman took a drink of water. “He set Petey down in our yard, patted his bottom and said, ‘Now get along home, Cowboy, before you get hurt.’ I ran down and got Petey and thanked Jeff. I had Petey in my arms and he leaned over and gave Jeff a kiss on the cheek. Jeff tousled his head and left. I called out an apology and he turned and laughed again. ‘All kids get loose sometimes, no matter how hard you watch. I guess they have guardian angels.’”
She sniffed. “That was the last time I saw him alive. He was the one that needed an angel. Then later, Virginia tried to say Jeff was abusing Petey! Right there on the street with me watching. Poor woman was crazed, of course.”
Fargo and I were doing pretty well. I was watching the screen and eating pizza and salad, with the occasional sip of beer. Fargo was eating the crusts and counting the pieces left in the box. The drama returned after brief commercials—about six minutes worth.
Our next guest was a retired woman police officer who had worked on the case. “Worst damn case I ever got assigned to,” she began. “I had nightmares for years to come. When my partner and I got there, a man from a nearby house was already standing at the end of the driveway, stopping neighbors from going into the Leonards’ backyard. When the kids had started yelling, he had come over and helped the neighbor woman herd them into her car again, and then he had run to the back of the Leonards’ house to see what was wrong. What he saw was Mrs. Leonard with a butcher knife and a hatchet, dismembering her husband on the picnic table and feeding the smaller parts into a woodchopper.”
The ex-cop made an automatic gesture toward her shirt pocket for cigarettes, remembered where she was and settled for water. “When Virginia Leonard saw the neighbor, she screamed something like, ‘Go away! I must save the children from this monster!’ The man saw the knife and hatchet and didn’t argue. He ran back out front, hollering for someone to call 911, and waving people off . . . and barfing all over the place.” That earned her a sour look from the commentator.
Murder Came Second Page 4