“No. My grandmother wouldn’t have known the first thing about electronics. As for me, I don’t really have the money for monitoring. Sorry, there are no cameras over here.”
“Too bad,” I said. “By the way, how is your grandmother?”
“She’s doing better. The doctor says she needs to keep up with her physical therapy.” He rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t like it though … complains all the time about it hurting.”
“I’m sure it does,” I agreed with a nod. “Tell her I’ll come see her soon.”
“Will do,” he said as I disappeared down his walkway.
The next house belonged to Mrs. Tuttle, and then I was at Jarrod Dawson’s. I cringed as I rang his doorbell, remembering what an ass he was to those poor movers.
“Yes,” he answered in a rude voice, barely cracking the door to glare at me.
“Good morning,” I said in a chipper voice, just to annoy him. He frowned and I felt accomplished. “I’ve been going up and down the street passing out this Missing Person flyer on Eugene Smith. He lives down at the end of the street.” I pointed directionally at his house. “Have you seen him lately?” I asked, handing him a brochure.
He barely glanced at the document. “I don’t know him. And I haven’t seen him,” he responded in a harsh tone. “But I’ll keep my eyes open.” He gruffly handed the brochure back to me.
“Do you have a camera system that might have caught him out and about?”
“No,” he barked. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m working.” He didn’t wait for my response. Instead he closed the door in my face. Asshole.
My next stop was Mrs. Jenkins, where I updated her on everything and then told her I was going to the street over to start the same process.
“Good luck, Rachel,” she said as I made my way out.
Because I would be working my way into the neighborhood and would eventually be a distance from my house, I crossed the street to my home, picked up a stapling gun and left in my car. My plan was to park at the end of the street and work my way down one side and then up the other side and back to my car. When I ran out of flyers, or became frozen, I could simply drive home.
For the next several hours, I worked the neighborhood, going to numerous houses in every direction. At every electrical pole, I stopped and attached a flyer using the stapler. Finally, I returned to Mrs. Smith’s house where I spoke to Samantha Grover, a liaison from the police department, to let her know about my conversation with Logan Foster. “He admitted to speaking with Mr. Smith on the phone Sunday afternoon about putting together a porch swing. He had been hiding it in the garage and wanted it to be a surprise for Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Smith let out a gasp “Oh, my dear Eugene,” she wailed.
“What else did he say?” Ms. Grover asked.
“Logan agreed to come over Monday morning and put it together. He said Mr. Smith wasn’t at home when he arrived, and his car was gone. He said he figured Mr. Smith would call him when he was ready to do the project. That’s all he knew.”
“Well thank you. You’ve been genuinely helpful.”
Cold, exhausted, and hungry, I bid everyone goodbye to return home. When I pulled out from behind a large truck, my eyes bugged out at what awaited me in front of my house.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jackson
With a glow in my heart, I turn down Rachel’s street. Instantly I feel a pang in my heart upon noticing her car is not in the driveway. Where is she? Where is my Rachel? I try not to panic, but I do. I want to cross the street and ask Mrs. Jenkins if she knows, or even that nosy lady … Mrs. Tuttle. I refrain because I don’t want to appear desperate. But I am desperate. After having made up my mind to return, I want to see her smiling face. Wait, I’ve only seen her smiling face once, and it was for Sutton. I hear a low growl in the back of my throat at the mere thought. Then I ratchet up my big-boy underwear and tell myself Rachel missed me and cooked me a roast. I’m a shoo-in. I just need to bide my time. So, I wait and wait and wait.
During this time, Foster and Hutchins remain at home. I wonder if they are involved in Eugene Smith’s disappearance. In times such as this, I wish to be on the detective force so I could question them. I hate this undercover shit of sitting and waiting for the suspect to make a move.
Being undercover is necessary in a lot of instances. Many times, it can make or break a case. At least this case is watching a potential murderer, or murderers. Still, it’s not what I want to be doing. No more prostitutes, No more drug dealers. No more under the table gun deals for me. I want to run with the big boys now, and I do have that underwear on … my big-boy underwear. I chuckle to myself at my clever wit.
Touching base with the detectives, I let them know I am on the job, all ears and eyes, from my freezing car. My mind alternates between thoughts of Rachel and thoughts of a scrumptious roast. After not eating anything today and only having grabbed a Starbucks coffee on the way over here, I do wish Rachel would come home. She needs to feed me, and getting out of this cold has become a priority.
It is hours and hours later when I notice there is a note taped to the front door. Yeah, I would make such a good detective. Hopping from my car and bounding up the porch steps, my heart sings when I see it is addressed to me. Me. Yes, me. Returning to the shelter of my car, I fully read the note and come to her phone number. My frozen fingers jab at my phone upon entering her into my contacts. And then I commit her number to memory in case anything horrible should happen … like flushing my phone. It happened once. Not flushing it, but dropping it in the commode when I stood up from … you know. I hope it never happens again. Before I could flush, I had to fish my phone out from … you know. My phone was a shitty mess as you might well expect and had to be replaced.
My attention returns to the note. The message said to call her to gain entry. I wonder if it means she’s nearby, or if it will take her a while to return. Either way, not wanting to inconvenience her, I decide to wait a bit longer. My wait turns out to be rewarded when her car turns the corner at the end of the street. She pulls up behind a large truck and slides her slender body from her car and goes inside the Smith house. I would love to go down and talk to Mrs. Smith and delve into Eugene Smith’s disappearance. Unfortunately, the risk is too great, even with Rachel there. If Foster or Hutchins were to see me down there, they might put it together that I’m up to something … like watching them. It’s better for me to stay in my vehicle since they are at home.
My heart skips a thousand beats when Rachel emerges from the Smith’s residence. A moment later she pulls from the back of the truck and heads this direction. My apprehension grows and I am barely able to contain myself as she drives the short distance from one end of the block to the other and pulls into her driveway. Anxious to see her, I am out of my car and crossing the yard to greet her before she comes to a full stop.
“Well look who decided to come back,” she says as she slips her beautiful petite figure out of her SUV.
“Well, you know. I’ve been busy. Sorry I didn’t get back to you.” I check to make sure this liar’s pants are not on fire.
“I was actually worried about you,” she admits, causing my heart to skip a heavy beat.
“Oh, did you miss me?” I tease and she frowns.
“From here on out, don’t tell me you’ll be back in the afternoon and then never show up. You need to call me if you’re not coming back.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say with a giant smile. Then I add, “I heard you made me a roast.”
“I did,” she says as we head to her front door.
“Mmm, sounds yummy. And, I’m starving.” Hint, hint.
“Me too,” she agrees as she fishes her keys and unlocks the door. When we enter, her security alarm goes off and she hurries to disarm the system.
Together we go in her kitchen and dish up two plates. I heat one in the microwave while she makes us each a glass of tea. I’m not much of a tea drinker, bu
t I’m enjoying this togetherness so much, I’d drink mud right now. I give her the first plate and then heat mine. She seems surprised and I almost remind her of heating her up a bowl of soup the other day. I don’t, of course. Right now, I am just pleased to be laying eyes on her lovely face.
As we sit together at the kitchen table and eat our meals, it feels … comfortable, like I’m supposed to be here. I like it here. I like being with Rachel. “This roast is delicious,” I compliment, scooping in a huge bite.
“Thank you,” she tells me. “I really was worried about you. I pictured Logan or David killing you and making it look like you fell to your death.”
“Aww, thanks for worrying about me. It’s so sweet of you,” I tease again. She smiles. And this time it’s for me.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she says with a voice that is light and pleasant and charming. Immediately my heart slams against my chest and alarms bells ring in my head. I feel a small pinching in the region of my heart and my stomach muscles tighten. Don’t let her get too close, I caution myself. I will only let her down in the long run and she deserves far better than the likes of me.
“Well, I’m glad to be back,” I respond, giving myself a stern warning because I don’t want to hurt her. I will hide my appealing self and show my obnoxious side. It will be enough to deter her from falling in love with me. We will keep things casual. It will be a short romance and then we will part ways. She will find herself another heart surgeon … or Sutton. And I will find my next Veronica. This is who we are. There are lines which will not be crossed.
Once we are finished eating, I jump to do the dishes because I know she liked it when Sutton made the attempt the other day. I am learning from the best … how to properly woo a girl. I don’t mind charming her. She is kind and gracious to let me into her home. My best behavior will be on spotlight while I am here, and she will reward me with an act of sexual gratification. And then I will move on and she will go back to her life.
“Where’s my equipment?” I ask, only just now noticing it is gone. Yeah, I know, I’d be a great detective. But in fairness, Rachel is very distracting.
“I had to hide it this morning from Mrs. Tuttle,” she explains.
While I retrieve it from her pantry and get it situated, we talk about Eugene Smith’s disappearance. She tells me what Logan Foster told her about his job to put together the porch swing.
“Funny thing is,” she says, “I kind of believed him. He didn’t look guilty like he’d been over there and killed the old guy.”
“You can never trust a murderer,” I warn her. “You’d be surprised how easily they can lie. They’ll say, or do, anything to cover their tracks.”
“True,” she agrees.
“So, no cameras over there,” I comment, plopping in my chair and peering out the window.
“According to what he said,” she confirms.
“Good to know. I may make a house inspection … assuming they ever leave the premises.”
“He may not have a security camera system, but he might be using his camera on his computer. It could be risky going inside,” she warns. She cares. That’s what she is saying.
She tells me she hasn’t worked all day and I promise to be quiet and let her do a little catch-up. After a few hours she declares she is tired and needs a break. After sitting in a straight-back chair, I feel the same way. It is getting late in the day anyway and so we go back to her den and watch a little TV. I sit next to her on a brown leather couch with fabric cushions in a brown, gold and creamy floral design. Even though it is a long couch, my leg is resting against hers and I can feel my heart pumping. My thoughts begin to wonder when it will be the right time to make a move on her. Fearing it is too soon, I try to ignore the sensation in my pants as I breathe in the sweet smell of Rachel as she sits next to me.
When the news comes on, the top story is about Eugene Smith, a missing man. His picture is presented, and viewers are asked to call a number if they have any information. Rachel gets teary-eyed and, taking full advantage of the situation, I change my mind and decide to make my first move. In a smooth gesture, I place my arm around her shoulders and draw her next to me. And she lets me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jackson
Once the news is over and we have watched an episode of Forensic Files, Rachel tells me she is tired and wants to go to bed. I want to go to bed with her. But when she makes up the couch for me, she is telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I’d better not join her again like I did the other night. That was a big no-no. A lesson I have learned.
I tell her I am going to watch out the window for a while, though I don’t think Foster or Hutchins have planned any moves. Both have stayed home all day. What are they up to? Was it simply there wasn’t a handyman job today, and therefore they didn’t venture out? How do they get these jobs? Do the neighbors just know they’re available and call them up? Well, come to think of it, Mr. Smith called Logan about the porch swing. Is this how it happens? They sit at home and wait for the phone to ring. Then when it does, they go over and kill someone. Why on earth would they do such a heinous thing? Something must be missing from this puzzle. Surely, they don’t kill just for the sake of killing. One would think there has to be something in it for them. Or, is it possible those two people truly and accidentally fell to their deaths and something else unforeseen has happened to Eugene Smith? I shake off the thought, knowing full well those two people were accelerated to their deaths, and a gnawing feeling tells me Eugene Smith has met his fate as well.
Rachel’s interior lights were left on from when we went to watch TV, causing them to turn the glass panes into mirrors. Quickly I cross the room to flip them off. Taking my seat and peering past the condensation on the old, single-paned windows, my focus lands on the house across the street. Outside, dusk has given way to the night and darkness has swallowed the house. But for one dim streetlight, there is nothing but blackness beyond Rachel’s dining room window.
A small lamp remains on in the Foster household and I decide to keep a vigil watch until all is dark and quiet. Foster and Hutchins are in the living room watching TV. Hutchins is stretched out on the couch with a blanket draped over his feet. Foster is leaned back in a recliner, like it is a throne and he is the man of the house. It is around midnight when Foster reaches for the remote and the flickering light from the TV goes off. From my vantage point, I watch Foster climb a staircase and a moment later a light is flipped on. One floor below, Hutchins makes his way to his own bedroom. It’s convenient for both men to have front-facing bedrooms. It helps me in spying on them.
Foster pulls a sweatshirt off and tosses it into a nearby chair. Then he kicks his pants off and leaves them on the floor. A moment later, he turns out the light and I assume he has crawled into bed.
When Hutchins enters his room, he first dims the lighting, but leaves it glowing enough for me to still see him. He unbuttons his shirt and hangs it on the spindle of a nearby chair. Next, he undoes his belt and drops his pants. He bends to retrieve his jeans and folds the inseams together and lays them gently across the end of his bed as if he intends to wear them again tomorrow. He then places his phone on his bedside table, crawls into bed and reaches for a tablet. A moment later he is reading, looking settled in for the night. Sometime later he glances at his nightstand. Leaning the electronic device on his chest, he reaches for his cell. A moment later he places the tablet on his bedside table and concentrates on a phone call. Who would’ve called him at this hour of the night?
Though I can’t hear anything he is saying, he wildly gestures with one hand and screws up his face as he mouths into the receiver. In a burst of speed, he sits up in his bed and swings his legs over the mattress and to the floor. Still on the phone, he paces about the room, running a hand periodically through his dark-colored hair. I get the impression someone is yelling at him and he is upset about it. He storms to the window and looks out into the cold dark night. Instinctively, I draw back from my
position at the window, hoping he can’t see me.
When the conversation ends, Hutchins continues to pace the room, looking very unhappy. A moment later he grabs his pants he so delicately placed at the end of his bed, yanks them on and then pulls his shirt back on and hastily buttons it. He is going somewhere. I am on high alert at this moment, expecting he will come out and get in his car and go to whoever he was on the phone with. I must be ready to follow him. Immediately, I find myself in a quandary. I can’t just walk out the door and leave Rachel’s house unlocked. Yet she hasn’t entrusted me with a key. I have no choice. I must wake her.
“Rachel, Rachel. Wake up. Hurry, I need the house keys right now. Hutchins is making a move. Come on. Wake up.” I resort to shaking her. My God, I need to be ready to trail him. “Rachel!”
“I get it,” she says in a sleepy voice. It takes her a while to stumble out of bed. Then she takes forever to get to her purse and dig through it for her house key.
“Rachel, hurry,” I urge her, growing impatient at this lengthy delay.
“Just go,” she barks. “I’ll lock up after you and you can call me when you get back and I’ll unlock the door.”
A frustrated growl spills from my mouth. I’d much rather have a key as opposed to interrupting her sleep upon my later return. And, too, she was hard to roust. What if she doesn’t wake up and I’m stuck in my car freezing my balls off? “Fine,” I finally say because I am wasting precious time and need to be in my car and ready to follow Hutchins. Rachel trudges behind me down the hallway and I grab my jacket and swing it over my shoulders and zip it. Barely cracking the door, I slide myself out and hear Rachel clicking the deadbolt into place. A relieved breath whooshes out of me, realizing Hutchins’s car is still parked by the curb. The fiasco over the key hasn’t delayed me to the point I won’t be able to tail him. In the frosty night air, I scurry to my car, my teeth chattering as I go. Inside my car, I close the door lightly, so as not to make a sound. I don’t worry about a dome light after having removed the bulb long ago so as not to draw attention to me entering my vehicle on occasions exactly like this.
The House Across The Street Page 10