Light poured from the windows at the rear of the Creighter residence. The sashes were heaved up—no central air. I could see yellow walls and china bric-a-brac, the kitchen. I inched along to the side garage door. The grass grew right up to the garage. A few tall weeds pressed up at the foundation, having escaped mowing. The door was wooden with a large window, which was covered from the inside with aluminum foil. That was not so very unusual; lots of homeowners cover their garage windows, windows in garages having been in style before opportunistic neighborhood crime, or fear of it, made things different. I tried the knob for the heck of it: locked, of course.
Suddenly I heard voices close by. I darted for a shadow back along the garage wall and froze. A teenage couple passed on the sidewalk, murmuring. As I pressed against the wood covering the garage, I got a better sense of its age; it really felt weak. Chips of paint flaked off when I moved my arm. I scooted around the back by the fence again. In the dark I tested the boards with my hands: One, knee-high, was loose.
Kneeling in the weeds, I forced the middle of the board inward as far as I could, about three inches, then flashed my light for just a second. Tar paper or something covered the inside.
Out came my pocketknife, a little Case knife I always carry in the back pocket of my jeans. It’s got rounded nickel bolsters and a black handle. At the paper I used it every day for cutting open packages, jimmying the lock on the paper-towel dispenser whenever we lost the key, etc. At the swamp I could pry an interesting stone out of the mud. Carrying the knife got to be a habit.
Holding the knife bayonet-style with two fingers, I cut away a strip of the tar paper. Then I got my eye close to the hole, stuck my flashlight in, and looked.
15
Yowza, there it was. A maroon Escort, the Ford logo on the grille staring me in the face. I flicked the light around for a second to confirm the color. For decades now, Michigan hasn’t required a front license plate, so I was out of luck there. To identify the thing for sure I’d have to see and memorize the vehicle identification number.
Maybe the car actually belonged to Bonnie or her mother; Ford sure built them by the zillion. I fiddled with other boards, thinking to quietly pry away a big enough space so I could slip in. But none was loose enough. I’d have needed more tools and would have made lots more noise. My heart started to pound. Half on my hands I skirted to the front of the garage, hesitating at the large front metal garage door. It was a one-piece. No way could I pry a peek into that. To try the handle I’d have to expose myself to the street, plus even clicking the handle could create a noise, one of those unmistakable metal booms that say garage door.
So I moved fast from the corner of the garage to the corner of the house, a distance of about twenty-five feet. There was a concrete patio with a couple of aluminum-frame garden chairs and a little wrought-iron table. The shadows were deep there, so I crept along the side of the house, feeling with my hands and feet for sprinklers, hoses, whatnot.
Below the kitchen window I took a short breather, then lifted my head and looked in.
The yellow walls were done in high-gloss paint, brilliantly illuminated by two overhead fluorescent ring fixtures, old-style, one above the sink and one dead center. The sudden brightness was so much I had to squint.
Mrs. Creighter sat in profile to me at the kitchen table, a lighted cigarette between her fingers. The room, I noticed, was hazy toward the ceiling, even though a large pink plastic fan was oscillating in the corner. At the moment, she was exhaling a stream of smoke directly at the tabletop. She was hunched over rows of cards, playing solitaire. Her expression was distrustful. The deck nestled in her pudgy hand; she waggled it. Nobody sits with a deck of cards and plays solitaire anymore, I thought, except convicts whose television privileges have been revoked.
Mrs. Creighter regarded her cards with a steady expression of suspicion, sorting through them methodically, then laying one carefully down. Suddenly the ambient sound level increased, and she lifted her eyes.
I ducked, but she wasn’t looking at me; I peeked again and saw a color television set tucked in a corner on the countertop. It was a commercial that caused the volume to jump, as commercials always do. Mrs. Creighter watched the commercial, a local one for a chain of sporting goods stores.
Then another commercial came on, and she watched that one too. Taco Bell, being very aggressive. One more shortie, for a car. Some sports car. The program, Cheers, came back on, and she went back to her cards.
I looked hard at everything, hoping to see something sinister. Bloodstains? It was a real retrograde kitchen, with great old yellow-and-black countertop tile with serious grouting, ancient but shiny yellow tile on the floor; it was one yellow kitchen, you bet. Even the table was an oldie, one of those red-and-white enameled metal jobs with big square wooden legs painted yellow.
There were a few magazines and a pile of junk mail on the countertop next to the TV. A wall-mounted white princess phone completed the tableau. A darkened archway led to what looked like the living room. The kitchen was so big I guessed they didn’t need a dining room. Other than how unusual everything looked, nothing looked unusual.
I watched Mrs. Creighter. Her pattern was to play solitaire when the program was on and watch the commercials when they came on. She was a large woman, but her head and neck were exceptionally outsized. When she moved her head she looked like a massive animal, ponderous and confident. The movements of her chubby hands, however, were subtle and delicate. She picked up her cards and laid them down with careful grace. She continued to smoke, pausing between cigarettes and cocking her head as if waiting for a letdown. Now and then she sipped from a sweating glass stamped with white and gold daisies; iced tea, it looked like.
I became conscious of a feeling of affection for her, mainly because of the kitchen—how did they keep that linoleum from wearing out?—when I noticed that her brand of cigarettes was Camel Filters, a contrast to her daughter’s Carltons. Now this was an old broad who knew something about the small pleasures of a hot summer night: iced tea, solitaire, Camels. I forgave her the television, because she was ignoring one of the most insipid shows ever invented.
I bored my eyes into Mrs. Creighter’s head, trying to read her mind. She didn’t sense me.
How did her husband die? I wondered. I could try to check on that.
Eventually, she grabbed for the Camel Filters again, shook the pack upside down, caught the last cigarette, and balled up the pack. Twisting slightly in her chair, she shot the pack at a flip-top trash can with its lid propped up against the wall. The pack banked off the high plastic and went in. Aloud she said, “Shit.” Then she exerted great force with her hands against the edge of the table.
Most people, if they did that with that heavy table, their chair would slide back, but with Mrs. Creighter it was the table that moved with a big shuddering moan. She rose slowly, crouching at first and edging her way out from beneath it, then slowly straightening. Having forgotten what she looked like on two feet, it struck me that in the upright position she looked unnatural, as a water buffalo would appear on two legs.
She heaved a sigh and settled onto her feet. Her eyes swung toward a high stool next to the telephone, her head followed, then her feet moved her to it. She led with her eyes. People lead with different body parts, I’ve noticed. Some people lead with their hips. If they do, you can guess they study yoga, and you wouldn’t be wrong often. Most people lead with their eyes, though.
A boxy straw purse perched on the stool; she grabbed it along with her huge set of keys. I saw several rings linked together, along with colored plastic tags and charms. Mrs. Creighter looked back once, and for an instant I thought she saw me, but no, she was just checking the TV. No commercial.
Leaving everything on, she exited. The screen door fell shut behind her. The inside door remained propped open with a doorstop.
My ears adjusted around the corner, where her Dr. Scholl’s footsteps clacked on the driveway. Shit, what if she comes to the garag
e? But I knew she wouldn’t. The footsteps faded down toward the curb. A car door slammed, an engine started; rubber tires, soft from the heat, made a watery sound down the street.
I was familiar with the neighborhood from having dated a woman who lived a few blocks over. Assuming the liquor store on nearby Beech-Daly Road would be her destination on this cigarette run, she’d be gone for about ten minutes. Not enough time to bother to shut and lock all the doors. Of course, she could be going farther, but I had to figure not. My watch said 11:55. I ran to the garage and tried the big door; it boomed and didn’t budge.
OK, says I, walking quickly to the house. The screen-door latch opened quietly, and I stepped inside. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to look around.
Except for the kitchen the house was dark, so I flipped my penlight on and off quickly to get my bearings. Once when I was riding for a day with the cops on a feature story, we responded to a burglary call. It was morning, and the intruder was long gone; while the officer wrote in her notebook, I noticed a series of burned matches lying on the living room rug. They formed a trail to other rooms in the house.
The cop explained that one of the commonest burglary tools is a book of matches. The burglar lights them one at a time, dropping them when they burn down, thus making an informed tour of the premises while not interrupting the darkness for very long. The swerving glow of a flashlight through the window of a darkened house is suspicious; the flare of a match isn’t, plus it isn’t as noticeable. I hoped the short bursts from my tiny flashlight would look the same to any neighbor or passerby.
I’d seen the kitchen, so I checked the living room first. A long couch, a large Hammond organ, two upholstered chairs. What is chintz? I think there was chintz. I noticed a large cross on the wall over the organ, and a Bible open on top. I thought the cross and Bible were a bit incongruous. I mean, I didn’t know anybody who made a show of old-fashioned Christian religion anymore, except my horrible gossip-mongering great-aunt, Alberta, who thought it threw people off from realizing how horrible she was.
Maybe Mrs. Creighter was the religious one.
The living room walls were covered in an odd wallpaper; sort of a geometric rectangular print. My light was so poor I couldn’t tell what color it was. There were end tables, and towering on top of them were extremely tall lamps, complicated in design.
One lamp was particularly memorable, a large fish standing on its curled tail, such as you might see in a city fountain, made of plaster or ceramic finished in a dark pebbled glaze, as if cinders had been pressed into it. It looked like a leaping coelacanth trying to throw the lampshade from its head. A frothy doily at its base suggested the white foam of the sea.
My eyes hunted over everything, looking for something incriminating. Would they pile up evidence in the parlor?
As quickly as I could, I poked through other rooms on the first floor: bedroom, bathroom, bedroom. In the bedrooms I opened drawers and pushed stuff around a little to see the bottoms. I envisioned a little container of teeth, maybe a witchcraft-type altar. A gun. I almost forgot Iris had been shot. I didn’t know squat about black magic and voodoo, except for hearing about devil-worshipping rings in Detroit that reportedly used pit bulls to sacrifice stolen German shepherds and Dobermans. I figured something as bizarre as teeth-pulling and execution had to have occult roots.
The bedrooms stayed true to the decor of the rest of the house. A cross loomed above each bed. The room I judged to be Mrs. Creighter’s was a replica of Ozzie and Harriet’s, though there was a double bed instead of twins. The dressers and nightstands were blond wood, very impressive. Well cared for. A white chenille bedspread! My liking for the old girl increased by the moment.
Bonnie’s room was a bit of a shock. In the center of the not-very-large room was a short white four-poster bed, with a fluffy organdy bedspread with a frilled skirt all around. Every flat surface, including the bed, was covered with stuffed animals. I discerned a common theme of white plush. The furniture looked like plastic, but it must have been wood painted white with gold trim in that pseudo-French vanity style. There was a small desk and chair as well as dressers. An island of stuffed animals next to the desk turned out to be a two-drawer file cabinet. It was a Barbie-doll room. No dream catchers. No crystals, none of that crap.
I rolled open the top drawer and found it packed with papers that looked like bills, old receipts—God, maybe there are tons of clues nestled here between the family tax records. No time for a close look, though. I needed something plainly incriminating. Hastily I opened the sliding closet door and flicked my light again: just Bonnie’s clothes. I recognized the orange number she wore the other night.
But boy, nothing. With the exception of the file cabinet, the room looked as if a little kid from the ’50s had died and the parents had kept everything just as it was. The whole house looked that way, frozen in time. The color TV was the only anachronism. I began to feel pretty stupid as well as uptight. My watch said midnight, five minutes gone, five to go. I hesitated between basement and upstairs—I had to choose one or the other; there wasn’t time for both. I moved quickly back toward the kitchen.
Before plunging down the stairway, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the stack of mail and magazines on the kitchen counter. I flipped through what was there. Electric bill, Domino’s Pizza, One-Hour Martinizing. A magazine or catalog lay at the bottom. It caught my eye because something about the cover made it look different from a regular magazine. I slipped it out.
A posed shot of a handsome silver-haired man reclining in a chair with a pretty young woman bending over him, attending to him, made me gasp. The woman wore a smock and surgical mask, and held a power dental implement. The man, smiling brightly, wore a paper napkin clipped around his neck. The caption: “Equipment Roundup: Less Vibration Means Fewer Repetitive Strain Injuries!” The magazine: North American Dental Hygiene Professional.
Could I add two plus two? You bet I could. But would it play at the cop shop? I needed more. I bounced down into the basement like an over-inflated bicycle tire. A light bulb burned in the center, illuminating the belly of the beast.
It was the cleanest basement I’d ever seen. The tile floor gleamed white under the bare bulb. I became aware of a humming sound; the lighted corner was the laundry area and the dryer was on, must have been on a long cycle. The washtub was white fiberglass and spotless. It looked as if no one had ever so much as cleaned a fish anywhere near it.
The floor seemed to stretch for acres. There was no clutter. No boxes to poke into, no piles of old trunks to shove around.
I saw a little work station of some kind, in a corner. There was a work bench, a padded stool, a Tensor lamp, a swing-arm magnifier. Stamp collecting, maybe? I noted little tools, tweezers, paintbrushes with bristles so fine you could hardly see them. There was a bottle of black Quink ink, a small can of Minwax wood stain (mahogany), and an unmarked bottle of clear liquid. I opened it and lifted it to my nose; the septum-piercing fumes of hydrochloric acid scorched my airway. Did you take chemistry in school? Remember that smell?
What was the hobby here? There was no balsa wood, no paper, no etched copper, nothing. Then I saw a little drawer built into the bench. It was locked. I whipped out my knife to jimmy it but couldn’t fit the blade in far enough.
My watch said 12:03. I had to get out. Now I had only questionable findings to report to Ciesla and Porrocks. If the car turned out to be Iris’s, I’d be a heroine; if not, I’d have nothing to do but endure the contempt and future cold shoulders of Ciesla and Porrocks.
I hurried up the stairs. As the laundry light faded behind me, I looked up and saw the beautiful black rectangle of the screen door and the night behind it.
My ears hunted for the measured clacking footsteps that would indicate Mrs. Creighter’s return. Nothing. I forced myself not to rush out. Quietly, I turned the screen door latch and stepped out into the night. I looked both ways and saw a pair of Dr. Scholl’s sandals I hadn’t noticed before on the
driveway next to the door. Maybe they belonged to Bonnie or were just a spare pair for working outside. Something.
I crept backwards around the corner of the house, intending to leave the way I’d come. As I plastered myself against the bricks near the kitchen window, a feeling of intense relief swept through me, even though I was still on enemy turf. I’d proved I possessed plenty of foolish guts. Fresh, cool blood flooded my arms and legs.
I rested for a moment, deciding whether to scuttle back over the fence before Mrs. Creighter came back, or after. It was low risk either way. I thought I’d maybe even stay and watch her a little more. Who knew what she might do, enlivened by fresh cigarettes and another cold drink? Who knew what I might see? I blew my breath out quietly.
There are some sounds that are loud but sound small, like a gunshot far in the distance. Then there are sounds that are small but sound very, very loud, such as the click of a gun’s safety next to your neck.
Mrs. Creighter did that and then whispered deafeningly, “Nice night, huh?”
16
Over the years, I’d received quite a bit of covert operations instruction, unfortunately all of it from the movies and TV. Old TV series from when I watched a lot of TV, before I knew better. Remember Mannix? You probably don’t. No matter what the plot, at some point in every show the detective Mannix would get hit on the head by a bad guy. That is just exactly how stupid I was.
Now, stupidity is not the same as ignorance—I think we all can agree on that. Stupidity is actually a complex blend of intelligence and poor judgment. I had the market cornered on that deadly combo that hot July night on Salem Street in Detroit.
So Mrs. Creighter whispers, “Nice night, huh?” My mind stopped cold while I ascertained I could still hear and that my heart had not, after all, exploded. When my mind came back on, all it said was OH, FUCK once or twice. Mrs. Creighter and I stood like that for a while, the echoes of her whisper dying against the side of the house where she had planted herself awaiting my return. I finally slid my eyes sideways and glimpsed her pale thick face floating inches from mine. I didn’t dare turn my head enough to see the gun. “Inside,” she growled.
The Lillian Byrd Crime Series Page 9