Child's Play

by Jones, Merry;

In forty minutes, I’d have heat stroke. I’d be like those dehydrated apples they sold in the grocery. Enough walking. I’d go to Lloyd Hall, buy a cold drink, sit in the shade. I turned around to go back. Someone a few yards ahead darted into the bushes.

  Wait. Could someone be following me?

  I stopped in the middle of the path, shivered despite the heat. Reasoned with myself. Even if I’d seen someone dart into the bushes, why should I assume that the darting had anything to do with me? The person might have darted for any number of reasons—to catch a ball, for example. I tried but couldn’t think of another reason. Besides, I was probably mistaken. No one was likely to be darting anywhere in this ninety-plus-degree weather from hell. More likely, the bushes had been disturbed by a startled squirrel or pigeon. I walked a few careful steps, passing those bushes, looking into them. No one huddled there. Not a pigeon or a dog. Not a squirrel.

  But so what? Clearly, no one was following me. Why would anyone follow a sweaty fortyish-year-old woman with a not entirely slim figure?

  Stupid question. Obviously, it was because of the murder. Because the media had named me, had announced that I was the one who’d found the body, had alerted the killer to the identity of a possible eyewitness named Elle Harrison.

  So the killer knew who I was. Was that who was following me? Was he coming for me? I looked around. Was that guy with the fishing pole looking my way? Was his pole just a prop? How about that jogger? Hadn’t he run past me a few minutes ago? Why was he coming back?

  My right hand grabbed my left elbow. What an easy target I was. I was alone in the middle of a crowded path, vulnerable to passing bikes and streams of pedestrians. I did a 360, scanning the area, looking for a killer. The couple seated in the sculpture garden. The family in their rented surrey. Men and women, together and alone, walking and running and riding and sitting. Were any of them killers? What was I actually looking for? What did a killer look like?

  Eventually, I convinced myself that the murderer wasn’t following me down Kelly Drive. That, even though the news media reported that I’d found Mrs. Marshall, the killer had no reason to think that I’d seen him. I was perfectly safe. To celebrate, I went to Lloyd Hall and ordered a strawberry smoothie. Sat under an umbrella, watching geese waddle along the riverbank. When the air stirred, I held still, savoring the breeze, which, in an eye blink, was gone. A family arrived at the table next to me with a hot, red-faced toddler and a baby, both crying.

  I checked the time again. A quarter to one. The showing should be almost over. I could head for home. I waited at the stoplight along Kelly Drive. Cars whizzed by. A woman came up to the curb, brushed against my arm. She stood too close, especially in the heat. I stepped away from her and, the moment I did, she took off, flying into the street, making a solid thunk against a Range Rover. And a softer crunch under its wheels.

  Brakes screeched. The Range Rover swerved over the curb, onto the grass, scraping a tree trunk before stopping. Cars behind it stopped, but the other lane kept moving, horns honking, drivers annoyed that with traffic slowing, they might not make it through the light before it turned red again.

  I didn’t move, stared at the mass of legs and arms and bloody flesh that had just been the woman standing next to me. Why had she jumped in front of a speeding car?

  A crowd was gathering, gaping, commenting. A man in running shorts rushed to the victim, felt her wrist, her throat. I wanted to shield her from everyone, felt protective.

  “What happened?” someone asked.

  “That car over there hit her.”

  “Was she crossing against the light?”

  “The way those cars speed around that curve it’s amazing more people don’t get hit.”

  “Who is she?”

  The man stood and shook his head, as if pronouncing the patient dead.

  “Do you know her?” Someone put a hand on my arm, offered me a tissue.

  A tissue? The woman’s face was wrinkled and kind. She wore a flowered dress, smelled like Shalimar, too heavy a scent for such a hot day. “It’s all right,” she told me. “Don’t cry.”

  I wasn’t crying. Was I?

  “Was she your sister?”

  I touched my face. It was wet, not just with sweat. I took the tissue, thanked her. Shook my head, no. She wasn’t my sister. Why would she ask that?

  Someone else—the guy in running shorts—asked me who she was.

  Me? Why would he think I knew? I looked at her again.

  She’d been about my size, wearing a gray t-shirt and blue shorts kind of like mine. She’d had dark hair, cut shorter than mine. Did others think we looked alike?

  “Oh God.” A woman moaned. A girl, really. She stepped close to me, stared at the body, holding car keys. Repeated “Oh God,” over and over, louder and louder. “It wasn’t my fault. I swear, she jumped in front of my car, and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t.” She turned to the people in the crowd, one at a time, horror radiating from her eyes. Her hands clawing at her face.

  “You’re right.” My voice sounded hoarse. “I saw it. It wasn’t your fault.”

  She spun around to face me, met my eyes. Repeated what I’d said. “She saw it. It wasn’t my fault.” Her eyes screamed that she’d just killed a woman. That, her fault or not, she would never be the same.

  Sirens sounded.

  “Of course it wasn’t your fault, dear,” the flowery dress woman said. “I was right over there, and I saw it, too. At first, I thought he was going to push her.” She pointed my way.

  I looked around. No one was behind me. No question, I was the one she was pointing at.

  “But it was the woman next to her. He shoved her right in front of that car. I saw him, just like this.” She mimicked the shove, hands open, flabby arms extended.

  “Who are you talking about?” someone asked. “Who did it?”

  “Where is he? Did you see where he went?”

  “You must have seen him,” Flowery Dress insisted. “He was right here. He has long hair, light colored. And he’s wearing baggy clothes.”

  “I saw a guy with long hair,” a woman said.

  “See? That was him!”

  They spun in circles, searching for the guy with long hair.

  The sirens got louder. The bereft driver wailed. Horns honked. Leaves shuddered above us as the breeze picked up, and I shivered, scanning the crowd for a killer. The woman who’d been standing beside me lay silent and broken on the road, her gray t-shirt smudged and bloodied.

  Another violent death. This time I didn’t know the victim. But for the second time in nine days, I was talking to police, answering questions.

  The officer’s name was Wilson. He was young, early twenties. His hat, too large for his head, hung over his eyebrows.

  I stood under a sycamore tree, answering his questions. No, I didn’t know the woman. No, I had no idea why she’d flown in front of the car, hadn’t seen anyone behind her.

  “Do you have any idea why someone might want to push you in front of a car?”

  “Me?” Apparently he’d talked to the woman in the flowery dress. “No.”

  “Other witnesses saw a man push her.” Wilson’s face was flushed. Was he new to the cop business? Was this his first fatality? “One said that the man had been aiming for you, but the victim got in the way.”

  I shook my head. Knew nothing about it.

  “Ma’am.” Officer Wilson lowered his eyes. “The dead lady. Do you recognize her?”

  No, I didn’t.

  “She’s dressed almost the same as you. Her hair’s fixed like yours.”

  I glanced at her. She was still in the street, surrounded by cops and a guy from the coroner’s office. Again, I heard the thunk of the collision.

  Oh man. Maybe Flowery Dress was right. Maybe someone had intended to push me into traffic and gotten mixed up, accidentally pushed the wrong woman. The killer—had he followed me on my walk, hoping to eliminate the only possible witness to Mrs. Marshall’s murder? I looked again
at the dead woman. Her body morphed into Mrs. Marshall’s, and she turned to me, beaming her blood-drenched clown grin. I shuddered. Were the deaths related? Did the killer know he’d pushed the wrong woman? Because if he did, he might come back—

  “Ma’am?” Officer Wilson watched me.

  What? Oh damn. I must have missed a question. “Sorry.”

  He eyed me. “Why don’t we sit? You look a little pale.”

  He looked around for a bench, didn’t see one, led me to the curb. We sat. Around us, lights flashed from police cars, ambulances, a coroner’s wagon, a camera crew. A crowd chattered, pointed, gawked. Officers moved spectators back, separating them from witnesses. People craned their necks to see the dead woman. The driver stopped wailing. She sat at the back of an open ambulance, wearing a blanket and a dazed expression. Someone—an EMT—handed me a water bottle. My hands shook as I opened it. I took a sip.

  “Feeling better?” Office Wilson asked.

  I nodded. It seemed to be the appropriate answer.

  “So. Let’s try again. Do you have any idea why someone might want to harm you?”

  “No.” The answer came out automatically, reflexively. And I’m not sure he heard it because he stood, greeting someone. I turned.

  Detective Stiles stood behind me.

  Once again, Detective Stiles questioned me about a homicide. I told him what I’d told Officer Wilson, that I hadn’t seen anyone push the woman. But I still wondered about what Flowery Dress said. What if the killer had been aiming for me, not for the dead woman? What if he was Mrs. Marshall’s murderer and thought I could identify him? Was he following me, waiting for a chance to eliminate the threat? I looked around, scanned faces in the crowd.

  If he was there, I couldn’t tell. No one looked familiar, and none of the men had long hair. No one was looking my way. All eyes were on the body being zipped into a coroner’s bag. No, the two deaths were most likely unrelated. Coincidence. I repeated that word to myself like a mantra until the dark red pool glimmering on the asphalt became Mrs. Marshall’s blood-soaked blouse. I closed my eyes, hugging myself. And saw my living room carpet.

  Someone had walked on my carpet, making footprints in the pile. Had those shoe prints been not Jerry’s, but the killer’s? Had he been in my house? Was he playing with me? Stalking me?

  “Mrs. Harrison?” I’d slipped away again, pulled another Elle. Detective Stiles had stepped away without my noticing. He joined me again at the curb, studied me. His eyes were a disarming shade of blue. He had new information. The woman had been identified. She was a dental hygienist. Forty-one years old. Lived nearby on Green Street. Her name was Patsy Olsen. He listed each fact separately, watching for my reaction. Finding none. I hadn’t known her. And I hadn’t seen what happened leading up to the collision.

  I heard the thunk of impact, watched the wheels roll over her.

  “Mrs. Harrison?”

  Damn. I’d missed what he’d said.

  “It’s important.”

  What?

  “Even if I’m wrong and there’s no connection, it’s best to err on the side of caution.”

  I nodded. Of course it was.

  “Frankly, from behind, it would have been difficult to tell the two of you apart.”

  The two of us. Me and Patsy Olsen.

  “And with your connection to the Marshall case, I’m tempted to think Patsy Olsen was an unlucky bystander. And that you were the intended victim.”

  So it was true? Someone had tried to kill me. And Patsy Olsen, dental hygienist, was dead because she’d happened to stand beside me, wearing blue shorts and a gray t-shirt.

  Detective Stiles helped me to my feet. His arm felt sturdy. I didn’t want to let go of it. But I assured him that I was fine, set to go. I nodded when he reminded me that he had no proof for his theory, again when he advised me to take precautions nonetheless. I kept nodding when he told me to be alone as little as possible, even when he said that I could go and that he’d be in touch. When he went to talk to other witnesses, my head was still bobbing.

  I walked across the street, passing parked police cars. Officer Wilson lifted his hand in a wave. When I looked back, Detective Stiles was standing with Flowery Dress, taking notes.

  All the way home, I repeated Stiles’ warnings. I might have been the intended victim. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me. I slowed at corners, peered around hedges or brick walls to see if anyone lay in wait. And when I got home, I jammed the key in the lock, rushed inside, slammed the door behind me, bolted it, and headed for the living room. I sank onto my sofa, sorting through my jangled thoughts.

  That poor woman. Patsy Olsen. Poof—gone.

  Was it supposed to have been me? Had someone—a guy with long hair—pushed her by mistake, aiming for me? Was he the same person who’d killed Mrs. Marshall?

  My hands covered my eyes, and I leaned back against the cushions. Replayed the moments before and after I’d found Mrs. Marshall’s body. I hadn’t seen anyone. Wouldn’t know the killer if he was standing next to me. How could he think I could identify him? He simply plain out couldn’t. Which meant he’d have no reason to come after me.

  Which meant that the two deaths were completely unrelated.

  And that Stiles’ theory was just plain wrong.

  Fine. So why didn’t I feel better?

  I chewed a hangnail. I needed to get back into my life. Maybe make some coffee. Maybe have something to eat. Maybe call Susan or Becky.

  But I sat, unmoving. Hearing thunks. Seeing crushed limbs, puddled blood.

  I sat. Stared at the carpet, the indentations where people had walked during the showing.

  And boom, it hit me: even if the two murders were unrelated, I wasn’t necessarily out of danger. Mrs. Marshall’s killer might not be after me. But someone pushed Patsy Olsen in front of a Land Rover, and a witness thought he’d been aiming for me.

  A shiver slithered up my back, around my throat, down again.

  But who would want to kill me? I had no enemies.

  None that I knew of.

  Unless it was the same person who’d come into my house uninvited and walked on my freshly vacuumed carpet, leaving indentations.

  Jerry?

  But no, Jerry couldn’t have been the guy. He didn’t have long hair.

  Never mind. The very fact that I could suspect him meant it was time to sever our relationship. I needed to make sure he couldn’t get into the house and then fire him. But the locksmith had never called back. I had to call another one, change my locks, dispose of the lock box and of Jerry. In fact, I’d do part of it right then. I sat on my overstuffed sofa preparing a severance speech. Taking control. Spurred on by offending footprints from the day’s showing. They lingered in my living room carpet like insults, like bruises. I had to vacuum, to erase them.

  But first I’d deal with Jerry. I wouldn’t accuse him of prowling or misusing the lock box key. I wouldn’t even mention my suspicions. I would simply end it. “Our relationship isn’t working for me,” I would say. “I’ve decided to move on with another agent.” I wouldn’t defend my position or engage in discussion. I wouldn’t let him coax me into giving him another chance. I would simply repeat my decision until he accepted it.

  I practiced the speech until I was confident, and then I called his number.

  He answered with a booming, “Hello.”

  “Jerry, it’s Elle.” I talked fast, spitting out my speech, not giving him a chance to respond. “Listen, our relationship isn’t working for me. I’ve decided to move on—”

  Jerry interrupted. “Leave your name and number. I’ll get back to you.”

  I’d delivered a full half of my speech to his voice mail.

  At the beep, I hung up. I sat for a moment, telling myself it was no big deal. I’d call back and fire him later. Meantime, I’d call another locksmith. Where had I left that list of numbers? I picked at my hangnail, heard a thunk, saw a crushed body on the street. Finally
, I went to the utility closet, got my vacuum, took it to the living room. Began to erase the footprints in the carpet. Stopped when the phone rang.

  It was Jerry.

  My stomach did a quick flip. Why was Jerry calling? Never mind—didn’t matter. I’d give him the speech and get rid of him. How did it start again? I scrambled to remember. Stood straight. Took a breath. Answered the phone.

  “I’m glad you called,” I told him, and I began. Said that I’d been thinking. Things weren’t working out. I wasn’t happy.

  He cut me off. His voice was big, loud. Impossible to interrupt. He said that he was calling to reassure me. He’d sensed that I was discouraged, especially given the trauma of recent events. He talked about the housing market, the unpredictable nature of buyers. He reminded me of the shortcomings of my house, its dire need for a kitchen upgrade, its history as a crime scene. He claimed that he was the only realtor who understood the complexities of the place. That he was highly motivated, that he personally cared about my success and future. He promised to do better if I’d give him another chance.

  I strained to remember my speech. What had I planned to say? How had I intended to counter his arguments? Oh, right—I would simply repeat myself. Insist that I was going to move on.

  “Jerry, thanks,” I began. “I understand what you’re saying, but even so—”

  “Great. That’s great. You won’t be disappointed, Elle. I mean it. I’m personally invested in this sale. It’s not just another house to me. I consider you a close personal friend. That’s why I’m calling. To reassure you. I have plans. I want to redo some staging and hold an open house. What do you say we talk about it over lunch?”

  I explained that I wasn’t up to it. That I was too upset about the car accident.

  “What car accident?” He sounded alarmed.

  I wasn’t aware of crying, but tears poured down my face as I told him about Patsy Olsen and the Land Rover.

  “Good God,” he boomed. “Elle, what are you wearing?”

  What?

  “Go put on one of those pretty sundresses. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m taking you for a drink. You need to be taken care of, after what you’ve been through.”