A Dead Market

by CeeCee James

  He’d talked like he’d been familiar with me. What was it again? Oh, yeah, he brought up how the diver’s had found the pendant, like I’d already mentioned it to him.

  I looked back through my messages. I remember talking to him about the lake. But I never said anything about the pendant. How did he know?

  Calm down. It’s probably because it was in the news.

  Then I remembered the news only mentioned the divers weren’t able to find anything in the house. GettingStamped had known the real story. He was either there or heavily investigating. That meant he must know who I was, that I was the realtor. There was no other way. That meant I wasn’t safe any more.

  I rubbed my temples, trying to get a grip. There was something incredibly creepy about talking with a stranger, thinking you were safely-hidden under a mask of anonymity on the internet, only to find out that person knew your identity. Even worse, I didn’t know his.

  Who was I talking to on Trek’s World? Was it actually my mailman? Or was it someone else? Someone who’d been there that day, watching me as I watched the divers? I remember Kari nudging me and pointing out Roy Merlock. That’s right…she’d said his son was a mailman. I closed my eyes and grabbed for the counter.

  I saw him at the barbershop too. The guy that I’d recognized. He’d sang in the quartet. The roll of paper…it had come from that barbershop.

  The barber had mentioned they’d been talking with Lenny about the Johnson Lake and the riddle recently. Had Roy’s son been there that day? Seen the interest in Lenny’s eyes, maybe even suspected that Lenny was going for one last dive and decided to stalk him?

  I was practically hyperventilating. I remembered then that GettingStamped had a Youtube channel. Quickly, I brought it up.

  It was the same as the last time I’d searched. I pressed the fast forward, but there was nothing on the video other than a TV screen with a red curtain. I recognized his voice though, now that I’d heard him at the barber shop.

  I sat back. Okay, who do I take this crazy idea to? Uncle Chris? Kari? Should I call the deputy directly?

  My phone buzzed, making me jump. I fumbled with it, trying to pick it up.

  It was a text from Mrs. Crawford.

  I laughed at myself. What a reaction! What was I thinking, that GettingStamped had obtained my phone number?

  Shaking my head, I clicked it.

  She wrote—I’d forgotten all about that! I was eleven, determined to make my mark and in love with the neighbor boy.

  She was responding to the picture I’d sent of the poem by the stairs. I texted back. —I was getting ready to paint. Do you want me to save this for posterity?

  She texted back immediately.—Heavens no. Paint over it.

  Okay. I had my marching orders then.

  Her distraction helped me to calm down. That was good. I needed some clear thinking. If it was the mailman, I wasn’t going to be a popular person in town. I was barely tolerated since I was related to that ‘Flamingo Realty riff-raff.’ I didn’t think they’d forgive me for getting one of the town’s founding father’s sons tossed in the pokey.

  However, if this founding father’s son killed another founding father’s descendent, that might change things in their eyes, right? I mean, Old Man Lenny was a chef up at the White Horse restaurant and famous around here. People loved him. You never know, Flamingo Realty might get a boost in the likable department if we found Lenny’s killer.

  Sick. Stella. This whole line of thought is sick.

  I shook my head and walked over to the fridge for a box of frozen chicken. Let me just throw this in the oven and then call Uncle Chris. It’d be good to go over all of this with him. He’ll know what to do.

  I was ripping open the box when I noticed a vehicle pull into my driveway.

  It was the mailman.

  Chapter 21

  The mail truck drove all the way down the driveway. I didn’t stay by the window to watch him park. Instead, I darted to the front door to make sure it was locked. And then I called Uncle Chris.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “Uncle Chris,” I hissed in the phone. Ducking out of sight from the window in the door, I scurried around the corner.

  “Stella? What’s wrong?”

  “Come quick. Call the cops for me.”

  Well, if that wasn’t a shocker, I don’t know what one was. Uncle Chris handled it like a champ, probably from years of having his adrenaline worn out on the race course.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “At my house. Remember that guy I told you about? I think he’s here stalking me.”

  “I’m on my way. Don’t hang up. Kari! Come quick” Uncle Chris yelled to Kari. She must be in the office as well. “Call 911 and send them to Stella’s house. Someone’s trying to break in.”

  That wasn’t exactly what was happening, but it could be at any minute.

  I crawled along the worn carpet like an inchworm and contorted myself next to the couch so I could peek through the bay window.

  The mail truck had parked and someone inside was staring at the house. What was he thinking? Then he looked down for a moment.

  Suddenly, my phone dinged. I glanced and saw I had a text from an unknown number.

  Package delivery for Stella O’Neil from Steve O’Neil.

  That was my father. I peeked out the window. Oh crap! It was the young guy from the barber shop! He was getting out of the truck with what looked like a box in his hands. He also had one of those tablets that you signed when you received something.

  I sank down against the wall, thinking hard. Was it possible that my dad had sent something? Was this all a coincidence and I was overreacting?

  One thing was for sure, I didn’t have to decide what to do. I already knew. Coincidence or not, I was staying here on the floor until he left. I’d seen enough movies to know what happens when the girl second-guesses herself and then dives head first into danger. If it was a legitimate delivery, the package would be waiting for me at the post office.

  He stomped up the porch steps, one of the scariest sounds I’d ever heard. I waited on the floor, holding my breath.

  “Stella?” Uncle Chris boomed in my ear.

  “Shh,” I said. “He’s here.”

  “Don’t you move, Stella, I’m almost there.”

  I didn’t respond. The door rattled with a knock. My mind was spinning like a top, and I searched around wildly for a weapon. What if he broke in? Where would I go to escape?

  One thought froze out all the others. Oh, no. Was the back door locked? I glanced at the window. Not seeing him, I army-crawled across the floor to the kitchen. My heart hammered double-time when I realized I didn’t hear anything more from the front porch. Was he still there? Or was he trekking around the house, searching for a way in?

  I reached the back door, cursing all the windows in the kitchen. Not a single one of them had a curtain. If he walked by, he’d surely see me laying on the floor, flopping about like a seal out of water. Never mind, just check the door.

  It was unlocked. I bolted it. Still no noise from the front porch. I slowly slid up against the wall until standing. There was the knife block next to the stove. I snatched a knife and held it by my side. My hand trembled.

  This little house was smack-dab out in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t any close neighbors for me to yell for help. I needed to calm down and think about my options should he break in.

  It was hard to focus past the fear. Half of me couldn’t believe I was in this situation. I glanced out the kitchen window. If he comes back here, I’ll run for my car. I need to get my keys.

  I dropped back to the floor and began to crawl toward the chair where I’d dropped them when I first came in. There was another knock on the door. I nearly squealed at its unexpected sound.

  Quiet, be very quiet. I had to cross the front of the hall again. I peeked around the corner, just in time to see him squinting through the door window. I pulled my head back. My face
heated from the rush of blood.

  I don’t think he saw me. Not down here.

  He disappeared again, and I heard more stomping on the stairs. I waited, trying to listen above my blood pounding in my ears.

  Had he really left? Was he trying to fake me out? I peeked again and, seeing no one, I hurried into the living room.

  I listened some more, hoping against all else to hear his truck start up.

  Nothing.

  I army-crawled over to the chair and strained to lift my purse down. It fell and I caught it but wasn’t able to prevent it from jingling. I held my breath and waited.

  Still nothing.

  Carefully, I got out my keys and set the purse down. I needed to get out sight from all these windows. But where?

  I finally decided to hide back by the sofa. If I curled right next to it, the sofa shielded me from the bay window, and I could still make it to the front door if I had to run.

  Then, I did hear it. Tires crunching down the dirt driveway. Was it him or Uncle Chris? I waited a moment to see what would happen, then peered out the window again.

  The mail truck was gone. He had left.

  I sank back to the floor, my insides fluttering with a weird mixture of relief and fear. Then I realized the police were on their way. How was I going to explain this?

  I realized then I still had my phone squeezed tight in my hand. Uncle Chris had taken me literally, when I’d said Shh. He hadn’t made another sound.

  “Um, hi,” I said, lifting the phone to my ear. “He just left.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “Yeah,” I laid the knife down on the floor and then covered my eyes. My hands trembled.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I feel sort of silly. But wait until I tell you my reasons for freaking out.”

  “I’m here now,” he said brusquely.

  I sprang up and saw my Uncle’s sports car pulling into the driveway. Maybe the mailman had heard a vehicle coming down the road and that’s why he left. Maybe he wasn’t so innocent after all.

  I ran to the door and yanked it open. There was a package on front stoop.

  Chapter 22

  Welcome to Grand Central. That was my life for the next hour and forty-five minutes. It turns out, when you call about a stalker breaking into a house, more than one cop car shows up. In fact, I had a flood of cop cars, filling the driveway and even parked on the road.

  I thought they would all be skeptical about my suspicions of the mailman, what with an actual package being left on the doorstep. But instead, they were a captivated audience. With leather gloves, they took my postage envelope, the paper scroll, as well as screen shots of all my communications with GettingStamped. All my evidence was only circumstantial at this point. But it was enough for one of the Detectives to get a search warrant.

  My mailman was indeed Jay Merlock. He must have gotten a whiff that it was coming because he never showed up back at the post office. I had a feeling passing the parade of cop cars headed my way was the influence behind his disappearance. No one had any idea where he was. That made me uneasy to the ninth degree.

  It freaked me out even more when I heard what the police found in his house. He shared it with his father, Roy Merlock, and true to stereotype, Jay lived in the basement.

  Apparently, the basement was filled with medieval armor and weapons. Seeing it, I could understand why he was so passionate to add the sword to his collection. I remember him saying that something that priceless should never be sold.

  Still, this could have all been chalked up to someone with eclectic interests except for one thing. Found in the corner, under a crocheted brown-and-white zig-zagged blanket, were scuba tanks and face mask. Forensics found DNA as well, caught in the metal hinge of the strap on the face mask. By some amazing stroke of luck, Old Man Lenny must have struck a blow in their fight and grappled with the mask. Forensics came back with it being a positive match for Lenny.

  I remembered seeing Jay at the barber shop, and jokingly thinking maybe the barber had given him too close of a shave. He’d had a small cut near his ear. It was chilling to think of now.

  As far as what happened on that fateful day, the theory was that Jay had been with Lenny at the barber shop when news of the book being found broke. Jay suspected Lenny would give one more search, especially knowing the owners were gone and the house was up for sale. He also suspected that Lenny would have the best idea where to look, given that it’d been his family’s house.

  Jay had broken into the Johnson cabin and waited for Lenny to show up. When Lenny entered the lake, Jay followed soon behind him. It was after Lenny recovered the sword, that Jay murdered Lenny.

  The medallion fell out of the sword when Jay brought it out of the lake. He may have even gone back to the house to wash up. My arrival to show the house to potential buyers may have caught him by surprise. He hid his flippers—perhaps thinking he didn’t want to be caught with them when Lenny was discovered—and disappeared, most likely as I was getting out of the car.

  Later, I’d actually seen him, when he’d ostensibly drove up to put a flyer in the mailbox, but really was there to watch.

  The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.

  I rubbed my arms, thinking of how close we came to passing one other. While I was admiring the beautiful autumn leaves, he was making his escape. Creepy.

  Anyway, everything was ready to be buttoned up and the case solved. There was just one problem.

  No one knew where either Jay Merlock or the sword were.

  But I had an idea where both could possibly be. I remembered from the videos that there was a red room with a giant tv, a space that wasn’t found in the Merlock’s house.

  I’d shared the channel with the detectives. “Find this room and you’ll find him.” I was assured that they were searching.

  After that there was only one thing left for me to do. It was something more terrifying then anything I’d gone through up to this point.

  Tell my dad.

  Chapter 23

  It was somewhere between the removal of the wallpaper in the living room, and the painting of the second wall that I finally worked up my courage to make the call.

  Honestly, I don’t remember how it went. After he said hello, I blurted out the story in verbal vomit. It wasn’t pretty, and at the end, all I could do was hold my breath and brace for his response.

  What he said shocked me. “Stella, I’m glad you’re safe. You’re an adult. I trust you.”

  My mouth dropped. “Really? You’re okay with everything?”

  He sighed in the heavy way he used to when I’d try to explain a bad grade on a homework assignment. I cringed and tightened my stomach muscles.

  “No, I’m not okay with it. You’ll always be my little girl. I dragged it out probably longer than most parents since you’re my only child. But you’ve been taking care of yourself for a few years now. I have to let go.” He paused and then added, “Even if I hate it.”

  I laughed.

  “Did you get my package?” he asked.

  I did. This time, he’d sent my old childhood stuffed animal, BunBun to me, along with a few books I’d loved growing up. Funny, how much that animal made me smile when I took her out of the box. I may have hugged her for comfort one more time.

  Our conversation ended with me getting a promise out of him that he’d think about coming to Pennsylvania to visit. “But I’d rather you come back here. I’ll pay for a ticket any time you want,” he’d insisted.

  So, I was humming as I continued to roll paint on the walls. The color was a light yellow cream, the exact shade of the center of an apple blossom. Already the place was feeling fresh.

  I’d even figured out what to do with the poem and signature at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t bear to paint over it, so I found a little stencil, and painted green leaves around it like a frame. I couldn’t wait to show Mrs. Carmichael.

  Later that night, after a long bath, I climbed o
n the bed with my great-great Grandma’s letters. I smoothed a new one out and opened up the Translate app on my phone. But the sight of the app honestly gave me anxiety, remembering how I’d used it to translate the sword poem. I tucked everything away again. I’d try in the daylight, when Translate didn’t make me immediately think of the mailman on my front porch.

  Instead, I wandered downstairs and found my jar of seashells, my treasure from the second-hand store. I carefully spilled them across the kitchen table.

  They were so pretty. The pale blues and mother-of-pearl iridescent insides made me want to lick it. What an odd feeling, but I did give it a tiny lick. Salty.

  It was then I realized what had attracted me to them. I’d collected some shells similar to these when I was a little girl. I think it was my first time Dad had taken me to the ocean.

  The ocean had been a monster that day, pounding the shore, roaring, and leaving behind slimy trails of green. I’d been terrified and wouldn’t leave the piles of driftwood to go down to the beach.

  Dad had been patient. He’d offered to carry me, but I’d shaken my head, too terrified. Finally, he sat on one of the logs and patted the empty space next to him.

  “Let’s listen,” he said. “The waves are telling a story.”

  After hesitating a bit, my fingers in my mouth, I sat next to him. And we’d listened. Soon, I caught the rhythm of the waves. The roar, the splash and the shhh as it gathered itself back to hit the shore again.

  “What’s it saying, Stella?” Dad asked.

  “It’s saying it likes to eat little girls,” I answered.

  Dad drew in the sand with a stick. I saw that what he drew was a tiger, my favorite animal at the time. “Tigers can be dangerous as well, but we can see them at the zoo, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because they have fences around them.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. And oceans have fences around them as well. They only come up so far, and then they go back. And every night and every day they come to the edge of their fence to peek at the world. But they like their space. You see, they take care of the fish, and the whales, and the dolphins. And even the tiny crabs and animals that live in seashells.”