The House Across The Street

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll get ready too.”

  The timing was horrible for me. Every day my mailbox was filled with packages from clients and my emails were stacking up from people wanting me to prepare their tax returns. I had five sets completed and ready to be delivered and, topping it off, I had my regular bookkeeping records for several businesses. But how could I not help? If it were me who was missing, I’d hope my neighbors would join forces to locate me … hopefully before I was murdered, which was what I feared for poor Eugene Smith.

  Using Jackson’s binoculars, I spied across the house at Logan and David’s house. It was early morning and both cars were at home. But I was curious as to where they were Monday afternoon. However, I did remember them sitting on their porch and wondered what time Mr. Smith ran his errand.

  Hurrying with my breakfast, shower and primping, I was ready in record time. Sending a text to Mrs. Tuttle, I let her know she could find me over at Mrs. Jenkins’ house. With Mr. Smith missing, I worried about her living alone. Of course, Mrs. Tuttle lived alone too, as both were widowed. I wondered if I needed to warn them about Logan Foster and David Hutchins. I wished Jackson would return so we could discuss the situation because I had promised not to blow his cover. But with Mrs. Hilliard found dead last Friday, Mrs. Ramsey being found dead about a month ago, and now Mr. Smith, I was worried about each of my neighbors, as well as myself.

  Once again, I left a note taped to my door for Jackson in case he came back to the house. Then I scurried across the street in the frigid cold air and knocked on Mrs. Jenkins’ door.

  “Come in, come in. My goodness Rachel, what brings you over this early?”

  “Mrs. Tuttle informed me that Eugene Smith is missing, possibly since last Monday afternoon. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Well, I’m fine,” she chuckled. “I don’t go anywhere to turn up missing. But what’s this about Eugene?” she asked getting serious.

  “He’s gone and it could’ve been from someone coming to his house and taking him,” I suggested, continuing to worry about her. “Mrs. Jenkins, promise me you won’t open the door for any strangers.”

  She tutted. “Rachel, I wouldn’t dream of opening my door to a stranger. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  I paused, realizing she had known Logan Foster his entire life. For a moment I deliberated between blowing Jackson’s cover and keeping my good friend alive. “Well, you need to be extra cautious until we find out what happened to Mr. Smith. Mrs. Tuttle and I are going down to talk to Mrs. Smith. We’re going to try to help if we can.”

  She frowned. “Oh, I wish I got around better. I’d like to help too. Do you think there’s anything I can do?”

  “I don’t know. There may not be anything anyone can do right now. If Mrs. Smith has called the police, they may not even let us inside her house.”

  “Well, just let me know. In the meantime, I’ll make sure my doors and windows stay locked.”

  As I was leaving, Mrs. Tuttle was coming to meet me. “Are you ready, Rachel?”

  Even though there was a bitter chill in the air, we walked, rather than drove, down to the end of our street. Before our arrival, I noticed an unmarked car parked in front of the Smith’s house.

  “Probably detectives,” Mrs. Tuttle remarked.

  I nodded, wondering if it would be Detective Sutton since he was working the other two cases in this matter. However, this was a missing person … not a fall. It presumably wasn’t related.

  Surprisingly, after knocking, we were granted entry. “Hello, I’m Detective Andy Burns. Come in out of the cold.”

  We introduced ourselves to a tall, gangly man, somewhere in his late forties. He was thin as a rail and his black hair was parted down the middle and cut short over the ears, reminding me of Dagwood from the Blondie and Dagwood film series. We passed through the living room, filled with photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Smith covering decades of marriage, along with Julia, their one daughter. Detective Burns led us into the kitchen where we found another detective speaking softly with Mrs. Smith.

  “This is my associate, Detective Eric Schultz,” he introduced. We repeated our introductions with Detective Schultz standing to make our acquaintance. He was older, possibly in his late fifties with thinning gray hair and a portly belly. With blue-gray eyes, he was only about five-eight. Neither of the gentlemen exuded the power and dominance Detective Sutton had, and I found myself a little disappointed.

  Mrs. Smith was seated at the kitchen table and crying over a cup of coffee. She peered up at Mrs. Tuttle with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, Iva, can you believe this?” Her voice came out crackly and raw and then she let out a gush of tears.

  Mrs. Tuttle pulled some tissues from a box on the table, simultaneously seating herself next to Mrs. Smith. I made my way to the opposite side and sat beside Detective Schultz. My heart ached for Mrs. Smith. “What can we do to help?” I asked looking between the two detectives and Mrs. Smith.

  “When was the last time either of you saw Mr. Smith,” Detective Schultz asked.

  “He brought over their tax documents to me last Wednesday,” I recalled.

  “He was at church this last Sunday,” Mrs. Tuttle answered.

  “Okay, good,” Detective Burns said, making a note. “We’ve talked to several neighbors and, so far, no one has seen him in several days. Right now, you’re the last person to see him.”

  “Well, Margaret Jenkins, my neighbor, was with me. We both sat beside him during the service.”

  Normally I drove Mrs. Jenkins to church and often Mrs. Tuttle rode with us. However, last Sunday I awoke with a terrible migraine and hadn’t felt like going.

  “Did he mention going anywhere after church let out?” Detective Schultz asked.

  “He didn’t mention anything. He only complained about the cold weather making his bones creak.” She paused and looked at the ceiling. “He mentioned he was working on a surprise for his wife.”

  “Did he say what the surprise was?” Detective Burns inquired, steadying his pen over a notepad.

  Mrs. Tuttle shook her head. “No, but I know he was getting my neighbor to help him.”

  “Mrs. Jenkins?” Detective Burns asked.

  Mrs. Tuttle guffawed. “No, she wouldn’t be able to help him. I meant my other neighbor, the one living to my north … Logan Foster.”

  My eyes bounced between the two detectives, looking for recognition, which I didn’t see. “Are you gentlemen familiar with the two cases Detectives Sutton and Andrews are working on?”

  “No, sorry,” Detective Burns responded.

  I didn’t want to needlessly alarm Mrs. Smith and had promised Jackson I wouldn’t blow his cover. I turned my attention to Mrs. Smith. “Do you have a current photo of your husband? I can print up flyers and circulate them around the neighborhood.”

  “Yes, I do.” She blubbered out a few more tears. “I suppose we’re at that point … aren’t we detectives?” She cast a somber look between the two gentlemen.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m afraid so,” Detective Schultz softly replied.

  “I’ll help you look,” Mrs. Tuttle offered and together they went into the living room.

  After waiting for them to be out of earshot, I swiveled my head back to the detectives. “Detectives Sutton and Andrews are working two cases in this neighborhood where two elderly women were found dead, supposedly both fall-associated. In each instance, Logan Foster was working as the handyman. Nothing was taken and there apparently wasn’t any forced entry. But if Mr. Smith was thinking of using Logan Foster to help him on a project, I’m afraid his disappearance might be related.”

  “Hmm,” Detective Schultz murmured. “It’s certainly worth looking into. But it seems strange not to have found Mr. Smith dead from a fall. Why would Foster change his MO … if it’s connected?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know … unless he was afraid two dead bodies with the same MO has brought on suspicion and he’s working Mr. Smith’s m
urder from a different angle.”

  “You think Mr. Smith was murdered?” Detective Burns asked, making a note about the two cases I mentioned.

  Detective Schultz frowned. “Mrs. Smith seemed to think her husband may have run an errand and couldn’t find his way home. As an example, she mentioned Mr. Smith recently drove out to the airport to drop off a friend of theirs. On his way home, he lost all sense of direction and it took him over five hours to find his way, a trip normally completed in one hour. We’ve already issued a Silver Alert because we were under the impression Mr. Smith was missing, not murdered.”

  “Well, I hope she’s right and he is found. But I think you need to consider the possibility that he’s not missing, but instead has been murdered.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jackson

  When I wake the next morning, it is because Veronica is kissing my face. Damn her, I was sleeping. And I need all the sleep I can get. But if she’s awake, it’s late in the morning and it’s a sure sign I need to get my ass in gear. “What time is it?” I mutter past her smothering lips.

  “Time for sex,” she tells me, trying her best to climb on top of me.

  Ignoring her, I roll over and check the bedside clock. The electronic digits brightly display ten o’clock. “Holy shit,” I shriek. “Dammit.” I push her off and toss the covers back. “Dammit,” I repeat, my feet making contact on the worn rug in our bedroom … my bedroom. If I’m going to follow Foster or Hutchins around the neighborhood to see if they’re doing any handyman work, I should’ve already been parked down the street. “Dammit,” I gripe on my way to the shower.

  Like Speedy Gonzales I am out of the shower and dressed before Veronica has time to crawl out of bed. “I’m gone,” I tell her, leaving the apartment with wet hair, turning icy cold when I step out the door and lock it behind me. Texas … what is it they say, “If you don’t like the weather, stick around.” Well I don’t like it. It’s been bitterly cold for almost a week now and I’m not used to it. As I jump in my car and turn the ignition, I whisper sweet nothings to my car. “Please start, please start.” I am rewarded with a loud noise as the engine rumbles to life. “Good girl,” I praise and pat the dash.

  As I drive across town to the Foster house, I find myself awakened to a new day and realize how utterly stupid I behaved over Rachel’s remark about Sutton taking a shift. At the time, I simply wasn’t thinking straight. And now, once fully processing the situation, I easily convince myself that she was only worried about me getting sufficiently rested. That’s what it was. That’s all it was. Using logical reasoning, I see my jealousies were unfounded and childish. Also, all the way over there, I remember how cold it was in my car yesterday. It’s much better to swallow my pride and watch the house from inside Rachel’s warm home. I may have been stupid yesterday … but today I’m not. I will not freeze. I will simply return to Rachel’s.

  To be honest, I want to see Rachel again. I find myself dissatisfied with the brief amount of time I spent with her. I want more. I want her, at least for one notch in my bedpost, maybe two. Rachel is now my goal. I will conquer her. What I also have come to terms with is that Rachel is above my normal, standard girlfriend qualities. Upon closer observation of my past one-nighters, I realize my sights have been rather low. It’s time to up my game. All I need to do is to keep my emotions checked and stop second-guessing myself. She is like all the rest, just prettier. And once I am done with her and she grows stale, a replacement for her will be found, just as it always has in the past.

  On my drive over, I receive a call from Sutton. He lets me know Detectives Shultz and Burns are working a case about a missing man, Eugene Smith. It is unknown if the missing man is related to the fall cases but, apparently, the guy lives down the street from Rachel. So, not only will I be able to watch the Foster house, I will keep an eye on the Smith residence. It is like two birds with one stone. And it gives me an even greater reason to return to Rachel’s.

  As I exit the freeway on Montgomery Street, my phone chirps again. This time it is from my good friend, Rob Brown. “Hey, I meant to call you last night, but ended up getting sidetracked. Anyway, some gal called. She said she was worried about you and fixed you a roast.”

  “Rachel?” I ask, completely dumbfounded.

  “Yeah, that rings a bell. Is she the one who called to make sure you weren’t a street vagrant living in your car in front of her house?”

  I chuckle. “That would be her.”

  “Then her,” he said definitively. “She wanted your number, but I didn’t give it to her. I told her you were most likely out somewhere doing your job and couldn’t break cover to call her. And too, I didn’t want to compromise your position if she contacted you.”

  “She cooked me a roast,” I say with my heart warming all over inside. She loves me. She does. I knew it.

  He laughs. “You got another one you’re stringing along?”

  “I do. I do,” I say as my heart explodes.

  Once I hang up from talking to Rob, I go over his call in my head. Rachel was worried about me. She checked up on me. And she cooked me a roast. Without even trying, I have managed the oldest trick in the book … absence makes the heart grow fonder. A smile stretches across my face. She misses me. She actually misses me. My conquest is already caving. Rachel is going to be easy prey. I cannot wait to get back to her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rachel

  Mrs. Smith located a recent photo of her husband. It was from their recent fortieth anniversary. “Look how handsome my Eugene is,” she croaked out, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. “Rachel, can you get this back to me?”

  “Of course. I’ll take it back to my office, scan it and print up the flyers. Then I’ll bring it right back to you.”

  Mrs. Tuttle stayed with her, pending the arrival of Mrs. Smith’s daughter. Leaving, I cinched my coat together and walked the distance back to my office, blowing my heated breath on my cold hands as I hurried up my steps. Unlocking the door, I glared at the note still taped to the door for Jackson. Asshole. You’d think he would’ve at least had the decency to let me know he wasn’t coming back. Oh well, it’s not like I wanted him here in the first place.

  Placing the photo on my high-powered scanner, it zipped through at a phenomenal speed. Once I saved the image to a folder, I drafted a missing notice, detailing Eugene Smith’s 5’9” height and his huge weight of 295 pounds. I mentioned he had graying hair with a receding hairline. Additionally, I added he was driving an older model Cadillac, white in color. Finally, I center-positioned the photo and hit the print button, spitting out 100 copies. I wasn’t sure how many I needed, but it would be a start.

  Since my home was on the corner, I worked my way down my side of the street, going to every house and either knocking or ringing a doorbell. With each resident, I handed out a flyer and asked if they had recently seen Mr. Smith, knew of anyone who might have information, or if they themselves had any insight into the situation. If no one answered the door, I placed the brochure in their mailbox and moved to the next. Sadly, no one knew anything and by the time I reached the end of the street and crossed over to Mrs. Smith’s house, I felt discouraged.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Smith,” I said returning the original photo. “Here’s the printout. I’ll leave some copies with you.”

  With a pale, distraught face, she took the printout in her trembling hands. “Thank you so much Rachel. You’re a godsend.”

  “I’ve already covered my side of the street. I’m going to work my way back down to my car and then I’ll start putting them out across the neighborhood.”

  She could only muster a thin smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Working my way from one house to the next, I repeated my spiel with each homeowner, or, if left unanswered, I deposited the notice in the mailbox. My heart thumped in my chest as I approached the white, two-story home where Logan Foster and David Hutchins lived. Should I knock on their door and see if they had
any reaction? Or should I skip their house? I wondered how odd it might look if they saw me going to every house, except theirs.

  Noticing both cars were still there, with a shuddering breath, I approached the front door and rapped my knuckles against the weathered-paint frame, thinking Logan could do some handyman work around his grandmother’s home. After waiting a length of time, I knocked again. With no answer, I considered myself lucky and was stuffing the handout in the mailbox, when suddenly the door flew open. Jumping back in surprise, I felt my eyes widen.

  “Oh, hey, Rachel, what can I do for you?” Logan asked in a friendly tone. He was wearing a robe and his hair was sticking out everywhere. It was still early as Mrs. Tuttle had banged on my door still in her robe, and at a time when I had still been in mine.

  “Uh,” I stammered. “Eugene Smith is missing. I’m passing out these leaflets.” I handed him one. “Have you seen him lately?” I asked, watching his face for nervousness.

  “No, I haven’t.” He scratched his head. “Well, I talked to him on the phone Sunday afternoon. He wanted me to help him put together a porch swing. He was hiding it in the garage and wanted it to be a surprise for Mrs. Smith. We agreed I’d come over Monday morning. But when I went over, he wasn’t at home and I noticed his car was gone. I just figured he’d give me a call when he was ready for me to do the project.”

  “What about your roommate? Do you think he might’ve seen him?”

  “David … no, I wouldn’t think so. He’s still asleep, but I’ll ask him when he wakes up.”

  “Okay, well thank you. If you hear anything, please let me know.” I paused, creating an uncomfortable moment between us. “Well, I guess I better get back to it.”

  “Okay, well good luck.”

  As I was walking down his porch steps, I turned back. “Do you have a camera system at your house? It might’ve picked up on something down the street.”