by Ann B. Ross
Closing the library door behind us, Sam went to the kitchen phone, while I looked around to see if any other room had been equally profaned. Thank goodness, the rest of the house seemed undisturbed, but what had been done to and in my favorite room was far and away more than enough. You would’ve thought that he’d have used the bathroom. It was right next to the library.
Who would’ve done such a thing? Who could’ve done such a thing? It would’ve taken an analytical mind of uncertain status to figure out when the house would be empty, then to synchronize his own body clock in order to be prepared to make his daily deadly deposit.
I declare, it beat all I’d ever heard, seen, or smelled, and I was so outraged that I was ready to take up arms. Instead, though, I waited with Sam for a swarm of detectives to arrive and take charge.
I’d wanted to call both Sergeant Coleman Bates and Mr. Pickens, but Sam assured me that we’d hurt the feelings of the on-duty detectives if we did that. So we waited in the kitchen while officers with flashlights scoured the yard for evidence. The guilty scoundrel—whoever he was—had broken a pane in a side window near the back of the house, reached in, and unlocked the window. He’d slid it open, crawled in, and done his business—and hadn’t had the courtesy to close the window behind him. The officers found footprints under the window outside the house, but they were mostly mush in the melting snow. Nobody was sure that they could be matched, although I heard one officer tell the chief detective that the prints came from running shoes—of which there were thousands of pairs in Abbotsville alone.
Chief Detective Warner asked Sam to come into the library and gather up the books and papers strewn all around the room. “Let me know,” he said, “if anything’s missing.”
There wasn’t, for most of the papers concerned Sam’s trip—receipts from hotels and restaurants, pamphlets he’d picked up on his travels, and notes he’d made. He went around the room, scooping up all the items that had been on the desk, then left them in a pile on a bookshelf for later sorting. They were now out of the way of trampling feet, but, bless his heart, nobody but him would want any of it.
Two other detectives occupied themselves with brushing black powder over the window, the windowsill, the desk, and even the furniture legs—most of which were sticking straight up in the air. Remarkably, though, after the fingerprints—which turned out to be mostly smudges—were taken, those same detectives righted all the furniture and put those legs right back in their indentations in the carpet. In doing so, they carefully made wide circuits around the object occupying the center of the room.
As they snapped their satchels and cases closed, Detective Warner spoke to me. “Mrs. Murdoch, we’re sorry you’ve had such a scare, but since you say nothing else has been ransacked and nothing taken, I think this was just a random act of vandalism.” At my expression, he hurriedly said, “Not that that isn’t bad enough, but you’re unlikely to have a repeat visit.”
“Let us hope not,” I said, unable to stop wringing my hands. “But what about”—I turned and pointed at the center of the room—“that?”
“Well, that’s unfortunate, but fairly typical of a vandal.”
“Aren’t you going to take it with you? For DNA testing?”
He looked startled for a second, then smiled in a slightly patronizing way. “We usually reserve that test for major cases. It’s pretty expensive, you know.”
“Send me the bill.”
He stared at me for a minute, then turned aside. “Hey, Mac,” he said, stopping a passing officer, “be sure to get a specimen from”—he turned and pointed to the center of the room—“that.”
“Get more than a specimen,” I said. “Take it all, why don’t you? Just in case.”
After they’d left, Sam closed and locked the window—a little late, but even so. Then he stuffed a pillow in the gaping space where a pane of glass had been and anchored it with masking tape.
“I’ll get this repaired first thing tomorrow,” he said. “And I’m calling a locksmith to put keyed locks on all the windows. I don’t want to come home to something like this again.”
“Me, either,” I said, as I scrubbed the carpet on my hands and knees. “This is the worst thing in the world. Who could’ve done it, Sam?”
“Anybody passing by and seeing an empty house with a party next door, I guess.”
“Well, I’m just thankful that there were no presents under the tree. He surely couldn’t have resisted lifting a few.” I sat back on my heels, wiped my forehead with my arm, and said, “Sam, do you think we were targeted? I mean, a lot of people were at the party, so there were a lot of empty houses around. Why was ours chosen?”
“Honey, there’s no telling. And no need to worry about it. There’s unlikely to be a repeat performance.”
“Well, a lot of people could be unhappy with me because of how I feel about that house next to the Pickenses. And maybe about a few other things.” Images of Helen Stroud, Madge Taylor, and Pastor Robert Rucker—all of whom had reason to hold umbrage against me—flashed through my mind, but I, even in my outraged state, had to smile at the thought of any of them leaving such an unlikely calling card as the one we’d found.
Chapter 32
“Julia,” Sam said as we sat at the breakfast table the next morning, “I’m convinced it was just random vandalism, as the detective said, and a young vandal, at that. Think about it. No real damage was done, other than one broken pane in the window. Nothing else was broken, and nothing was taken. It couldn’t have been a professional looking for something to steal.”
“You’re right,” I agreed, “he didn’t take anything from us, he just left something for us.”
“Law,” Lillian said, who was as shocked and disgusted at what we’d found as we were, “that jus’ run all over me. What be in somebody’s mind to do such a thing?”
“It’s usually viewed as a message,” Sam said.
“Usually?” I asked. “You mean it’s done a lot?”
“Unhappily, it is. And it’s usually a message of disdain—to express his feelings toward the owners, even though he may not even know the owners. In other words, it’s not necessarily a personal message. The perpetrator feels put upon and resentful toward the world in general, and it’s his weak-willed way of getting back.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake,” I said, “you’d think he could come up with a better way to leave a message than that.”
“Actually,” Sam said, turning his coffee cup around in its saucer, “he did.” Glancing up at me, he went on. “I wasn’t sure I should mention it, but he left a note. I found it this morning when I was going through the papers he’d strewn over the floor.”
“Of course you should’ve mentioned it! What did it say?”
He reached into his shirt pocket and held out a folded pamphlet featuring a picture of some bare, ruined abbey he’d visited in Europe. Along the margin, in black magic marker, a message had been printed in wiggly letters:
QUIT BEING A JACKASS OR ELSE.
I gasped, then thrust it in front of Lillian. “Look at this! Does it bring anybody to mind?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, her eyes wide as she looked up at me, “it most cert’ly do.”
* * *
—
Later that morning, while thinking of what Sam had said, I realized that he’d been trying to allay my feelings of having been deliberately targeted. He had not succeeded, because I was convinced that we, or rather, I, had been the focus of the depositor. And, furthermore, I had identified the perpetrator to my satisfaction, and to Lillian’s as well. We knew who had been in our house and, between us, Lillian and I recounted to Sam the run-in Lloyd had had with Sonny Taylor.
“It’s still a guess,” Sam said, urging caution before we accused the rascal. “A good guess, most likely, but it’s not proof.”
I finally conceded that it was best to l
eave it alone because nothing had been stolen or irreversibly damaged. As Sam pointed out, the newspaper and television news would have a field day with a court case based not on fingerprints but on bowel contents. After considering the possibility that our elegant library might be referred to as a roadside rest stop, I sighed in defeat and put aside my desire to publicly accuse Madge’s son.
“And,” Sam had gone on to say, “I wouldn’t mention my suspicions to anybody, honey. That would only lay you open to a charge of slander, which, if I know Madge Taylor, she wouldn’t hesitate to use.”
But my desire to deter Madge in her headlong rush to fill the Cochran house with teenage boys was not lessened. I was convinced that she needed to have pointed out to her the irony of caring for somebody else’s children while her own so desperately needed attention.
* * *
—
That conviction was reinforced when I called Mildred to tell her how much we’d enjoyed her party. And also, of course, to tell her of the unusual gift left for us while we’d been gone. It took awhile to get through because her phone was busy for a couple of hours, most likely by guests thanking her for the party.
But finally I dialed her number at a fortuitous time and was able to pour out my tale of woe.
“What kind of sick mind would do such a thing?” Mildred said, aghast at what I told her. “Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry that happened. Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet, but we have our suspicions. And with modern scientific methods, they may eventually find out for sure. But, you know, Mildred, as bad as it was, it’s even worse to think of somebody disliking me so much. It makes me want to hide in a closet or something.”
“Well, don’t do that. It would please Madge too much. She called me a little while ago, all upset about hardly anybody showing up at her tea. She just wanted to tell me that even though she’d been disappointed, she didn’t hold it against us that they’d preferred our parties to hers. Then she said, ‘People knew they wouldn’t get alcohol at a home for children,’ as if getting liquored up was the only reason they came to my house. Can you believe that?”
“That is just so typical of her. She has a way of saying the worst things in the nicest way possible. I think it’s a gift some people are born with.”
“Maybe so, but I’m glad you called, because I was going to call you. Madge told me something else that you should know. In fact, I think she intended for me to tell you.”
“Oh, my. Well, go ahead and tell me.”
“Well,” Mildred said with a large intake of air, “it seems that she attended a meeting at the Department of Social Services this past week. It was with the counselors and social workers who oversee foster parents and foster homes. Madge said it was a meeting to finalize plans for the Cochran house, and, as such, they’d invited several homeless boys to give them an idea of what was in store for them.”
I moaned. “Well, I knew it was about time they’d begin doing something. One of the commissioners told Sam at your party that the board was going to be faced with a request for a zoning variance. He said he’s not looking forward to it, which means he’s on the fence. Pete Hamrick—do you know him?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
“For goodness’ sake, why?”
“I don’t trust anybody who laughs as much as he does, especially when there’s nothing funny. He just acts too happy to suit me—like he knows something you don’t. Hidden agendas,” she said darkly. “As far as I’m concerned, the entire board of commissioners has to be watched like a hawk—they know what’s going on and what’s about to go on, and they’re usually in on whatever it is.”
And I thought I was cynical, but I didn’t want to go down that track, so I got us back to the subject at hand. “Mildred, Madge is simply going to bulldoze everything in her way, and I don’t know that we can stop her.”
“Well, hold on to your hat,” Mildred said, “because that wasn’t the worst thing she told me. And I’ve just now put two and two together. She told me that she’d poured out her heart at that DSS meeting, warning them all that there were some active naysayers who were fighting tooth and nail to deny those children a home. And, Julia”—Mildred stopped for another breath—“she didn’t say that she’d actually named anybody, although she did refer to ‘close neighbors and some not so close.’
“But what I’m wondering is if she in some way let your name drop, and one of those at-risk boys decided to get back at you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, restraining myself from mentioning the boy most at risk, “and I think you may just be right. Our house was empty during the party, but the Pickens house was full, which might’ve been his preferred target. But Lloyd was there and his two sisters, and Granny Wiggins, and James, and, of course, Ronnie. But after all the crazy things Mr. Pickens has done, no one in his right mind would tackle his house, which means that mine would be the next best thing.”
“Oh, you’re right about that. But, Julia,” Mildred went on in a mock-sorrowful tone, “you should know that they’re praying for all those who’re so hard-hearted that they’d turn children out in the cold. By the time Madge finished her talk, she said that everybody, even some of the boys, were teary eyed at the spitefulness of a few selfish people. That means you and me, you know.”
“Yes, I know, and it’s driving me up a wall. It’s as if there’re no other houses in town not only suitable, but more suitable, for a group home. She makes it sound as if it’s either the Cochran house or no house at all. And they either don’t know or don’t care that we’re simply reacting to what Madge has done—and done illegally. It all started with her.”
“Well, prepare yourself, because Madge said that the boys were so moved and so hurt that they’re going to write letters to the editor. They want everybody to know how they’ve been looking forward to having a real home, especially for Christmas.”
“Oh, my goodness. Mildred, it’s just accelerating out of control. We’ll be portrayed as the worst of the worst—Scrooges, even. But,” I went on, taking a deep breath in spite of the pain in my chest, “we’ve always known that Madge has a way with words, and she’s able to move people to act while she stands aside to watch the fallout.”
* * *
—
After that unsettling conversation, I had to force myself to do something besides cover my head and curl up in a corner. So Madge had maneuvered a way to lay blame for opposition to her plans onto me, and I’d gotten the brunt—if that’s what you wanted to call it—on my library floor.
With a heavy heart and in an effort to carry on as I normally would, I took my Christmas list upstairs to Lloyd’s room to use his computer. Yes, I was ordering a lot of my gifts online, feeling guilty as I did so for not patronizing local merchants. I did it not necessarily to save money, but to save wear and tear on knees and feet. To have to park blocks away, then tromp up and down Main Street, going in and out of shops, carrying packages as I went, just seemed beyond my declining physical ability. I have mentioned, haven’t I, that age is creeping up on me? Looking for shortcuts and ease of getting things done seemed the obvious way to proceed.
There were a few things, however, that I intended to purchase in town, the thought of which helped assuage my guilty feelings. Sam would help with those errands. He might even do them by himself, but that was my tired, defeated feelings coming into play. If I wasn’t careful, I would let Madge and her wayward plans overshadow my entire Christmas.
To forestall that, I forced myself to go to the telephone and call LuAnne. As she usually called me with a suggestion, I thought it time that I return the favor.
“Let’s go to lunch,” I said when she answered.
There was a long pause before she responded. “Oh, well, I don’t think I can. I mean, I know I can’t. I’m on my way to the church for a meeting.”
“This late in the mor
ning? It’s close to lunchtime.”
“I know, but everybody’s so busy these days, it’s always catch-as-catch-can. You know how it is.” Then, in a rush, she said, “It’ll be a short meeting, just to hand out lists of names to be called. But then we’re supposed to start calling right away. This afternoon, in fact.”
“Oh, well,” I said, disappointed that I wouldn’t have LuAnne to distract me over lunch, “we’ll do it another time. But what’s the church calling everybody about?”
“Pledges, Julia,” LuAnne said in an exasperated tone. “We’ll be calling the members who haven’t returned their pledge cards. I don’t know how people expect the church to operate if it doesn’t have a budget, and to have a budget, it has to know how much will be coming in.”
Well, I thought, that was another can of worms to open—does one support a church that supports lawbreakers?
Promising each other that we’d get together soon, we hung up, and my conscience had something else to struggle with. And to pray about.
Chapter 33
“I caught up with Binkie this afternoon,” Sam told me as we sat in the Febreze-scented air of the restored library after supper that evening. “And you don’t have to worry. She’s well prepared to argue against a variance.”
“So that means,” I asked, lowering the newspaper, “that Madge and company are definitely applying for one?”
“That’s the way it looks—nothing’s on the agenda yet, but the commissioners are expecting it. Binkie says that the petitions you and Hazel Marie collected from the neighbors are a great help. She had copies made to send to each commissioner. Half are up for reelection next year, so they’ll pay attention.”
“Oh, I don’t know that they will. They’ll figure that everybody will have learned to live with the Homes for Teens by that time.”