Franklin Eaton suggested that the letters were now a matter for the police.
"But when the detective from the local police form came, he admitted he couldn't do much to help," explained Father Joe. "I changed all the locks on the equipment cabinets, closet, and my office."
"Wow," I said. "That's just awful! It must feel like your home was invaded."
"I hate the fact that I'm now suspicious of everyone, especially those who work closely with me."
"Did you call the police after Laurel was stabbed? Did you mention the letters again? Maybe they can use them as a link back to the attacker," suggested Clancy.
"Yes, I did. They didn't hold out a lot of hope. Besides, they had bigger fish to fry. After the letters, someone soaped the windows on Laurel's car and spray-painted nasty suggestions on the church parking lot," he said.
"That's interesting," I said. "You'd think someone who was determined to be hurtful would have picked pranks with longer lasting results."
"I know," said Father Joe as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Wouldn't you? It's almost like the perpetrator was a reluctant vandal. Can you believe it?"
Chapter 70
I packed up a "care package" for Laurel, including a fresh box of Skinny Cow Heavenly Crisp peanut butter bars from my personal stash and a few "get well" cards that had arrived with her name on them.
"Please take this to her," I told the priest. "I assume you'll see her soon."
After Father Joe left, Clancy and I discussed what we'd learned. "I bet one of our three women is involved with these hateful incidents, don't you?"
I agreed with her. "Mary Martha is Father Joe's personal assistant. Can you imagine the amount of personal information she's privy to?"
"Right, and she'd also have all the addresses of all the vestry members, plus access to the copier."
"If we're smart enough to figure this out, so is Father Joe," I said.
Clancy nodded. "You're right about that, too. He's either in denial or too upset to give her the boot."
"Or," I said, as I shuffled the Zentangle papers, "it's possible he has a plan. If she's the one with the history of mental illness, maybe he's planning an intervention. Or even talking to her family and suggesting that they step in."
Clancy sighed and closed her eyes. "Joseph was always a very thoughtful and meticulous young man. Calling in the police to investigate wasn't his idea, after all."
I thought about everything he'd said. "It sounds like Laurel's presence in the church was the catalyst for all the misbehavior. If she's out of the picture for a while, then the harassment should stop. Temporarily."
"That boy was one of my favorite students. Bar none. Just a terrific kid. I can imagine him considering every option. Like you said, now he has the time to move slowly."
Right then, my phone rang. Detweiler was returning my call. I excused myself and went to the office so we could talk in private.
When I told him about the empty vials of OxyContin, he asked me to spell the name on the labels. I did, and I mentioned Leighton's car. "You know how picky he is about how it's parked. I can't help but think that she's been driving it."
"He never loans it out. In fact, he doesn't drive it for long trips. He always puts the mileage on a rental," said Detweiler.
"Exactly. That makes me think she's been driving it, which isn't really a big deal, I guess. She is his daughter," I said.
"Right," Detweiler dragged the word out. "But I haven't seen hide nor hair of Leighton since he intercepted me on my way to the gym. That's got me worried."
I thought about this. "Frankly, I've been happy to avoid him because I'm so angry, but now that you mention it, he's usually out puttering around in the yard. The lawn guys come this afternoon. I've got the store covered. Maybe I'll go home early. Surely, he'll show up out in the yard."
"Kiki, don't get into a fight with him. That won't make things better," warned Detweiler.
"I won't, but I do want to point out that poor Monroe is suffering from neglect."
"Let me see what I can find out on this end. You said there wasn't any water coming from the tap? That spigot we use to fill Monroe's bucket?"
"Right, but that could be a break in the water main."
"Except that we have water. If the main was broken, we'd be going without, too."
I thought about that. I wasn’t sure we were on the same feeder, but Detweiler would probably know best. "Yup. Doesn't make any sense, does it? I've been sending Leighton text messages, but he doesn't respond. That's unusual. He told me he loves texting because it doesn't interrupt his work the way a phone call does."
"I suppose he might be so busy connecting with his daughter that he's not being as diligent about Monroe as usual," said Detweiler.
"Look, I've known Leighton longer than you have. He's always careful with his pets. That reminds me, I haven't seen Petunia running around in the yard at all. Usually Tunie gets walked a couple of times a day, and Leighton lets him race around while he does work on his flowers."
"I don't like this," said Detweiler. "There's something hinky going on. I'll get my work wrapped up here and get home as fast as possible. I think that you and I need to bang on Leighton's door until we can talk to him face to face."
"Pick up a bag of food for Monroe, would you? He likes that Purina feed. You know where the Purina Farms store is."
"Will do."
Chapter 71
Clancy was fine with closing the store by herself, so I left early. I enjoyed driving down the residential streets, gawking at the brilliant displays of fall foliage. Leaving Leighton’s property wouldn’t just bother Anya. It would also break my heart.
But I would heal.
Turning into the drive, I took pleasure in the thick profusion of mums leading up to my back door. "Come on, girl," I said to Gracie, helping her out of my car.
Since my dog didn't like Melissa Haversham, I left her in the house while I went to check on Monroe. He was nearly out of water, so I fed him another apple and filled his bucket. As he'd done before, he grabbed the apple and gobbled it down. Usually he's pretty dainty about taking food from my palm.
"You poor baby," I said, petting him. "You must really be hungry. I'd feed you more apples, Monroe, but I think they'd make you sick. Detweiler will be here soon with some kibble for you."
Since the spigot still didn't work, I carried the bucket to the side of our house and, after dumping what was left of the old water, refilled it. Once it was on the hook, Monroe lapped it up gratefully. While I watched I also noticed that his stall hadn't been mucked out. Usually Leighton makes this his morning exercise. When he's away, Anya mucks out the stall. But now poor Monroe's home was stinky with a layer of dirty straw.
Even if Leighton was enthralled with his daughter, I couldn’t imagine him neglecting Monroe. And Petunia! Where was the little pug?
I grabbed the pitchfork and shoveled up the old straw. While I didn't do the sort of thorough job that Leighton or Anya typically did, I managed to move the old stuff off to one side and spread new, sweet-smelling strands on the floor. I planned to ask Detweiler or Anya to come haul out the gunk for me. Unfortunately, I just didn't have the physical power to lift it over my belly and into the composting bin.
While I worked, Monroe watched me carefully. Did he need something else? Something I didn’t know how to provide? Leighton had taught Anya all about caring for the donkey. When she got home from school, I’d ask her to brush him down and check him over.
By the time I set the pitchfork aside, I was dusty and itchy from the decaying matter getting inside my shirt.
I was also angry. Really, really mad.
If Leighton no longer cared about me or my family, that was his business. But if he wasn't going to take care of Monroe, he needed to let someone know. Even though my budget was tight, we'd find a way to keep the donkey fed. And clean. And loved.
That spark of anger fueled me. My arms ached, my lower back spasmed, but I was on a roll now. I was h
ot under the collar and seriously ticked. I marched out of the shed and up the path to Leighton's back door. No one answered when I ran the bell repeatedly. I switched to beating on the door. Nada.
Frustrated, I returned to my kitchen.
Gracie turned sad brown eyes on me, pleading with me to make sure that her little friend, Petunia, was okay.
Fine, I'd leave Leighton message. A note that he couldn’t ignore. I grabbed paper and pen and scribbled: Call me! Worried about your pets! This is imperative! Kiki
Now I just needed to make sure the message would be found. I didn't trust Melissa to hand it over to her father. But if he was driving his Jaguar, or accompanying Melissa as she drove, a message stuck under the windshield wipers was sure to get his attention.
If that didn’t work, I planned to message him through Facebook and text-message him. One way or the other, I'd make him pay attention.
"You can run but you can’t hide, Leighton," I said, even though he wasn’t around to hear me. Then I got an idea. A flash of brilliance.
A long time ago, Leighton had told me that he kept a spare key to the garage under a fake rock in the flower bed directly across from the side door to his garage. Since I was already covered in dirt from mucking out Monroe’s stall, I walked around the house to the side lawn. Once there, I dropped to my knees and picked through the mulch in the flowerbed. At first, I couldn't find the plastic rock, so I shifted my weight and sat back on my heels, thinking. When people stick potted mums in their yard, as they often do for seasonal color, the result is a small circular cluster of blossoms. They show up like floral polka dots on a lawn. But because Leighton carefully tended his mums and treated them as perennials, and his mums were outrageous. These weren't your ordinary dots of color. Oh, no. These had spread out. As I rested on my knees, I faced a swath of brilliant magenta interrupted by pink. Red-orange and canary-yellow flowers had intermingled with the purple red shades. As the plants had grown, sharing the same space, they formed a riot of color.
Was it possible that the mums had grown over the fake rock? That the stone was deep in the tangle of stems? I reached my hand into the thick of the chrysanthemums and felt around. My fingers bumped a slick surface. I pulled up the fake rock.
With a bit of prying, I popped open the secret compartment. Clutching the key in my hand, I headed toward the garage.
As I did, my face turned red with embarrassment. The engine of the Jaguar was humming loudly. Here, I'd gone through so much trouble to find that silly key, and all I needed to do was walk over and confront Leighton.
Except something was wrong. I couldn't quite figure out what.
After walking along the side of his garage, I made a right turn to face the rolling door. It was down. Sealed shut. That didn't make sense. I could hear the car engine. Why wasn’t the door up?
"Leighton?" I banged on the garage door. "Open up!"
No response.
The car engine continued to purr.
"Leighton!" I screamed louder. I slammed my fists into the section of the door at eye level. It echoed like a bass drum. The pounding sounded incredibly loud to my ears, but still I didn't get a response.
I ran around to the side, where I'd been earlier. Pressing my hands around my face, I looked in through the door window. I could see a shape in the driver's seat. Shifting my stance, I caught the glimmer of Leighton's white hair. It appeared to be resting against the seat.
Carbon monoxide poisoning. I had to get to him and get him out fast.
My hand shook as I stuck the key in the door lock. At first, it resisted turning. My palms perspired and I couldn't get a good grip. The lock wouldn't yield. I grabbed the handle and pulled the door toward me, thinking I could align the deadbolt better with the slot. Maybe that would help. Using all my weight as a counterbalance, I turned the key. I felt the deadbolt give, sliding, popping free.
With a shove, I put my shoulder into the door. It flew open.
I stumbled forward, into the dark garage—and then tripped over a box. I rolled to my knees and then my feet. My throat began to close. My asthma kicked in, and the coughing began. Fighting against the spasms, I looked around. The path to the car was blocked by a ladder, boxes, a plastic storage bin, a rake, and the plastic bin I’d stumbled over. Wriggling like a snake, I moved under the ladder, over the boxes, stepping on the bin, and around the rake. No way could I drag Leighton through this mess!
What could I do?
Exhaust fumes took my breath away.
Even though the side door was open, the garage was thick with exhaust. I pressed my face against the passenger window of the Jag. Leighton wasn’t moving.
Had I arrived in time?
Chapter 72
My coughing doubled me over. I hacked so badly that I couldn't walk. My first instinct was to grab the car door and yank Leighton out onto the concrete floor. But then what? One step at a time, I reminded myself.
I coughed my way to the driver's door. Giving it a mighty yank, I pulled it open. Reaching under Leighton's chest and feeling around on the dash, I turned off the car engine.
Pressing my fingers against Leighton's throat, I tried to find a pulse.
Nada.
Who was I kidding? I couldn't find my own pulse on a good day!
I tried to lift him. The coughing jarred me so badly that I couldn't control my own body, much less his. Slipping both arms under his chest, I only managed to move Leighton an inch before I had to give up.
Think, Kiki, think!
Without fresh air, it wouldn't matter whether he was in the car or out of it. I calculated the distance between the driver's door and the door I'd come through.
Even if I could handle Leighton’s weight, the ladder was blocking the door. I couldn't haul him over it and over all the junk. There wasn't any way I could move all the stuff and then drag him out the door fast enough. In addition, I was wheezing like a church organ. I couldn’t handle much of this. How could I help Leighton?
I had to open the big door.
Pawing my way through the fumes, I stumbled to side wall and punched the garage door opener. Nothing happened. By touch alone, I moved along the side wall until I reached the folding door itself. I remembered a red pull rope. If it functioned like the one we'd had at our house in Ladue that cord was an emergency opener. Used in case of loss of power. Like right now.
Since I'm short, I wasn’t sure I could reach the toggle. All I could do was wave my hand over my head and hope my fingers would brush the cord. My hand bumped the cord and sent it flying in circles over my head. I raised my hand against, fishing around in the air. But I was coughing so hard that I could barely keep myself from doubling over. I fought to suppress the coughs. I had to calm down or I'd never get a purchase on the rope.
My second interception was more fruitful. I grasped the plastic plug that dangled from the end of the rope. I began walking and pulling the cord backwards. I got so far and then, nothing happened. I couldn’t go any farther.
Then it hit me. First you needed to unlock the overhead mechanism. To do that, I needed to pull straight down. My coughs were so intense that my head was pounding. I could barely think, much less control my motions.
I can do this, I told myself. Slow up, be deliberate.
I tugged the cord straight down, at a sharp right angle to the roof of the garage. A shift told me that I'd succeeded in unlocking the mechanism. Now I began my trek backwards once again, pitting as much of my weight against the cord as I dared. If it popped, I’d be back to square one. But it didn’t. A loud creaking sound and a rumble suggested I was making headway.
A stripe of light appeared down along the floor. I forced myself to keep pulling. If I quit, the whole door would probably tumble back down.
A few more steps. I was even with the side door where I’d entered. The fresh air flowing through it revitalized me. Delicious, but the contrast made the heavy taste of the exhaust fumes more obvious and obnoxious. Had I really breathed in so much gasoline vapor?
I kept marching backwards. At some point, the weight of the door would shift. When it did, the door should roll up of its own accord.
Although this process seemed to be taking forever, in reality, it took seconds.
Come on, nearly there.
As the door rose, the fumes should be leaving. In theory at least.
My muscles protested. My head felt like someone was poking hot daggers through my brain. My ribs ached from coughing. My throat was raw.
I didn't care. Only a few more steps to go.
Bumpitty-bumpitty-bump-bump.
Gravity and motion tipped in my favor. The tension on the garage door changed. It began rolling upwards of its own accord. I hesitated, fearful that if I let go too soon, the door would crash down. I followed the cord, on tiptoe, until momentum jerked it out of my grip.
A glorious scene emerged—the outside! Fresh air! I could see the fence around Leighton's next door neighbor's property! I coughed and coughed, blinking in the light, as I turned and raced around to the other side of the Jaguar, where the driver’s side door was slightly open.
Now to rescue Leighton.
His head was lolling to one side. Wrapping my hands around his torso, I pulled and pulled on him. My coughing continued, and now my stomach roiled. I thought I'd puke at any second. I braced my foot against the floorboard for leverage. Leighton seemed to be wedged between the seat and the steering wheel. I changed my grip. Grasping his belt with my left hand and his shirt collar with my right, I managed to pull him towards me.
Now his head rested again my chest and his arms dangled.
If I could pop him free of the car, moving him wouldn't be so hard.
Going back to my original grip, I locked my arms around his upper torso and threw myself backwards. My back rammed something curved and hard. His wheelbarrow was on a hook on the garage wall. I must be up against the front wheel. That meant I didn't have any more room on that side.
I ducked low and braced my feet against the concrete floor.
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