by Terri Thayer
He wrote in his small notebook. “How long have you lived there?”
“About seven months.”
“Do you know what’s in the shed?”
Mitch took a step forward. The policeman held up a hand. Mitch backed off, moving behind April. She felt a supporting hand on the small of her back and leaned into it.
“What are you talking about?”
“We found evidence of an illegal drug lab,” he said. “Propane tanks, blister packs from cold medications.”
April rocked forward on her toes. Her fists tightened. “Of course we had a gas grill. Who doesn’t?”
“Ma’am, I need you to calm down.”
“How can I?” she said angrily. “There was nothing like that in there.”
The chief stepped in. “Listen, we’ve got a long way to go before we determine if this was an accident or deliberate. It’s too soon to tell right now. I’ve known Ms. Buchert and her family a long time. Let’s not throw around any accusations.”
The trooper backed down. Had he expected her to confess? Maybe he wanted to see her face when accused. He’d picked up on something in April. Her guilt at leaving the Campbells alone last night.
“All right. I’ll coordinate with the Aldenville police. Until we figure out the cause of the explosion, don’t leave town. Leave word with us as to where you’re staying.”
April walked away, waving off her friends’ protests and Mitch’s pleading looks. She walked hard and fast. Where was she going to go? She had nothing but the clothes on her back. Her car was destroyed. Her stamp collection. Her tools. Her livelihood.
She sat down on the cold, hard ground and wept. Her tears felt scorching hot, burning her cheeks.
Mitch found her and pulled her to her feet. He put his hand underneath her coat and rubbed her back fiercely. She let him gather her close, and she held on to him.
Their respite was short.
“Where were you last night?” Henry Yost appeared in front of them. April’s tears came harder. He was the last person she wanted to see. She couldn’t bear to see him taking pleasure in her misery. She kept her face buried in Mitch’s shoulder.
“She was with me, Henry,” Mitch said. His hand didn’t stop its circular motion.
“Charlotte must have left the gas on. Pity those two old folks were all alone.”
He didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. April pulled away from Mitch. She’d never had the desire to spit in someone’s face, but Yost was asking for it. She felt saliva build in her mouth.
She forced herself to look away from Yost. Charlotte wouldn’t want her to be that rude. She concentrated on the landscape beyond him and waited for him to tire of baiting her and go away.
Beyond his Smokey the Bear trooper-wannabe hat, April saw a car slow down in the housing development that abutted the barn. The street had a clear view of her ruins. The yellow and black Torino came to a stop. The driver got out and put his hands on the roof. The passenger leaned out of the window.
She recognized the orange coat. Violet. Did Violet have something to do with this? April needed to talk to her.
April reached into Mitch’s coat pocket and whispered, “Your keys.” Her fingers scrabbled, coming up with nothing.
“What?” he said, already patting his pants, coming up empty. “In the ignition.”
Ignoring both men’s questioning gazes, she raced up the drive to Mitch’s Jeep, happy to see he hadn’t been parked in by firefighters or gawkers. She maneuvered the car out, jamming it into four-wheel drive for better traction.
She made a right onto the road and another right into the development. It consisted of only about a dozen homes, built in the mid-eighties. A giant cul-de-sac with one road in and out, shaped like half a racetrack.
April roared down the street, not finding second gear, double-clutching into third to knock down the rpms. The Torino was gone. She had just missed her.
She knew where to look for her. She took the road out to Main Street to the Wysockis’ Victorian. There was no sign of the car. April climbed out of the Jeep and banged on the front door anyway.
Mrs. Wysocki came to the door wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. April could smell cinnamon buns baking, joined by undertones of coffee and bacon. She’d forgotten that it was a normal Sunday morning for most folks. She was so far away from that comforting routine of newspapers and multiple cups of coffee today.
“Where’s Violet?” she asked. Mrs. Wysocki’s step backwards told her she needed to moderate her tone. She dialed her urgency back a notch. “I need to speak with her.”
“Come in,” Mrs. Wysocki said, tucking the towel into her apron. “She just went out. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”
April followed her into her kitchen. Mrs. Wysocki had a small under-the-cabinet TV with the local news on and the sound off. Across the bottom, in the crawl, was news of the explosion. April turned away quickly. She couldn’t bear to look.
Mrs. Wysocki had seen it. She took up a position by the stove. The linoleum in front of it had a worn spot. A matching one was in front of the sink. “I’m sorry about the loss of your home,” she said stiffly. “Have you eaten anything? Some toast? Coffee? Stay for a minute. Doctor will be down in a minute, and I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”
April’s stomach growled. She was nauseated from the rush of adrenaline that was slowly leaving her system now. She sheepishly took a piece of toast from the woman, who sat her down at the breakfast counter. There were four plates set. A dozen eggs were on the counter, some of them already cracked into the bowl. Mrs. Wysocki was expecting two more for breakfast. Violet and her boyfriend.
The room was too warm, windows steamed from the baking. April bit into the toast. She was light-headed from the rush over here. A sense of disorientation took over. She could have been in Bonnie’s kitchen, so familiar was this room to her.
Dr. Wysocki came in, his hair wet from the shower. He was wearing a pair of khakis and a well-pressed plaid flannel shirt. He was surprised to see her.
He glanced at the TV and she knew he knew. “I’m sorry about the barn. You okay? The Campbells?”
She shook her head. Mrs. Wysocki drew in a quick breath, and her husband moved close and put his arm around her.
April continued, “Someone made it look like a meth lab exploded.”
“Not Violet.” Mrs. Wysocki closed her eyes, her hand covering her bosom, like a woman in a silent movie. The dish towel acting as the lace hanky. This wasn’t melodrama, though. She was truly heartsick.
“She’s the only meth addict I know.”
“Former meth addict,” Dr. Wysocki said automatically, without his usual conviction. Mrs. Wysocki’s hand fluttered.
April scowled. “What about her boyfriend?”
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Mrs. Wysocki said.
April saw the recognition flash over Dr. Wysocki’s face. “They would never . . .”
“Tell me where he lives.”
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” the mother said, her voice breaking. “Honestly.”
“Please,” April begged.
“It’s not a boyfriend,” Dr. Wysocki said with authority. “It’s that woman. Paula something or other.”
From the Anvil group. That’s who owned the Torino. She’d just assumed it was a guy. “Where does she live?”
“I don’t know.”
“I might . . . I did.” Mrs. Wysocki turned away and rummaged through a tiered wicker basket on the counter. April saw PP&L bills and a notice from the water company. Mrs. Wysocki went through the pile twice before she dumped the contents onto the counter. Finally she found what she needed.
“Violet had me pick up some things at Costco for her a few months ago. Paper towels, that kind of thing. She drew me a map to Paula’s house. I saved it in case I had to go back.”
She produced a wrinkled piece of notebook paper, raggedly torn loose, and laid it in front of April. The main highway was sketched on it, and arrows indicated turn
s onto small roads. No names of the roads or an address.
“What’s this?” April asked, pointing to a round circle that seemed to be a landmark.
“A silo,” she answered.
Great. Silos were everywhere.
“What about this?” The initials RM were just above a turn arrow.
“Oh, I remember. She said I should turn at Redneck Mike’s place.”
Redneck Mike’s was a well-known landmark in the valley. In the last century it had been a tavern, a stop for weary travelers. Now it was just a broken-down bar at a cross-roads. April knew right where it was.
Dr. Wysocki had a strange look on his face. “What else did you buy for them, Celia?”
His wife was puzzled. “I don’t remember. Coffee filters. That was when she had such a bad cold. I had to sign for some kind of medicine for her, too.”
Dr. Wysocki’s face sagged. All things used to make meth.
She grabbed the makeshift map and raced for the door. “I’ll try to send Violet back to you.”
Mrs. Wysocki made a noise that sounded like a sob. April glanced back to see Dr. Wysocki take his wife in his arms. Their breakfast company wasn’t coming any time soon. April’s heart broke a little. Mrs. Wysocki wasn’t that different from Bonnie, or Charlotte, for that matter. Women whose kitchen was their domain. The domestic goddesses making their family a comfortable home. A nest, a safe haven. But it hadn’t been enough to save her daughter.
April’s phone was ringing. Mitch had called several times. She couldn’t talk to him just now. She wasn’t going to waste any more time. She sent him a text. “I’m OK. B back soon.” That would have to do for now.
The church parking lots were full as April sped down Main Street. Yost was back at the barn, not available to ticket her. She floored Mitch’s Jeep and was rewarded with a yip from the tires as she pulled out onto Route 93.
The road was free of traffic. She kept an eye out for Paula’s Torino. Where had she and Violet gone? April wondered if Paula had been the woman at the pharmacy.
Passing the snow-covered fields, April felt as alone and desolate as they looked. She’d gotten the Campbells killed.
She got to Redneck Mike’s and stopped. She held the map in front of her, trying to see where to go next. She was at the eastern end of the valley, close to where Interstate 81 crossed it, not far from the junction with I-80. The map pointed left, back toward town. It indicated that Paula’s place was the fourth house after the intersection where Redneck Mike’s stood.
She pulled into the parking lot of Redneck Mike’s. It was a long building with asphalt-shingle siding, its few windows lit up with neon beer signs. At this hour, it was closed, and there were no cars in the parking lot.
April took a breath. She’d steamed away from the barn, so sure that Violet had the answers. She felt her body go limp. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Someone had tried to kill her. Of that she was sure. The Campbells had been innocent bystanders. That explosion had been meant for her. She was supposed to be the only one home. The state police would investigate, but that would take weeks or months.
April traced her steps mentally. What had she done to become a candidate for killing? She’d visited the site of last year’s meth-lab explosion. What if that hadn’t been an accident after all? The chief had said it was impossible to tell the difference without a lot of investigation.
She’d gone to look at houses on Mary Lou’s foreclosure list. She’d found Tina.
Tina. April’s heart flopped in her chest like a hooked fish. She stretched for the gas pedal. What if she wasn’t the only one in danger? Tina had come to the Ice Festival yesterday, shown herself as someone who knew J.B. Worse, as someone who knew J.B.’s secrets. Anyone who had felt the need to shut up J.B.—and her—might have the same inclination to silence Tina.
She called Tina. No answer. She left a message but she had to warn her in person. Maybe that’s where the Torino was heading.
She put the key into the ignition and hesitated. The road conditions would be awful. She didn’t know this end of the valley very well. This is where she had been when she’d gotten lost and found J.B.’s car. The image of J.B.’s car, crashed in the ditch, flashed into her brain. She could easily be next.
April took in a deep breath, forcing air down into her lungs. She took off slowly and gradually increased speed. After a couple hundred yards, she gained a little confidence that the car was not going to fly out from under her and go skidding across the two lanes. She held on to the steering wheel tightly and crouched over it, looking more and more like a grandma behind the wheel.
There was no time to waste. She found her way back to Tina’s house. The sun was up, but the skies were gray with clouds and the house was dark.
She knocked hard on Tina’s door, ringing the doorbell with her other hand. It wasn’t sleeting up here, but gently snowing. The complex had the muffled quiet of a fresh snowfall combined with the normal hush of a Sunday morning. It was the perfect day to stay in bed. No one was stirring.
She heard nothing from inside Tina’s. She looked for a light at the neighbor’s but saw none. Tina was probably the kind of person to leave a spare key hidden somewhere close. April felt around the doorjamb and looked under the doormat. Nothing.
She saw no flowerpot or fake rock that could hold a key. She ran her hand around the “Welcome” sign. Nothing.
Frustrated, she pounded on the door again. If nothing else, maybe a neighbor would come out and see what the noise was about.
The door opened slowly. A blinking Tina stood in the crack. “Who is it? April?”
April rushed in. “You’re okay?” she said. April pushed the door open and went in.
“Bad night,” Tina said. “Sick.”
The house smelled stale, like unwashed body, sweat with an undertone of vomit. Tina’s pregnancy was not treating her well. But she was alive.
“I only just fell asleep an hour or so ago.”
Tina sat on the couch and pulled her blanket up around her middle. She was wearing a man’s flannel shirt over a voluminous brushed cotton nightgown. Her feet were covered with fuzzy sleeper socks with nonskid bottoms. She yawned.
April steadied herself on the back of the chair. “My house was burned down last night. I was so afraid for you.”
“Me? Why?” She picked at a hole in the blanket, unraveling the loose weave.
“This all started with J.B.”
Tina’s eyes were fluttering. She was falling back asleep. April couldn’t believe it. She was worried about Tina being in danger, but all Tina could do was sleep.
April felt her way to the armchair. It must have been goose down because she sank into it. She wanted to stay there, enveloped by the flowery fabric. Away from Aldenville. Away from the drama. This must have been the way J.B. had felt.
This was what J.B. was robbed of. Sanctuary.
Her mind clicked into overdrive. She had to find the person responsible.
She stood. Tina burrowed deeper into her nest of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals. She was too fragile to move.
“Will you be okay? I’ve got to go. Don’t answer the door.”
“Don’t worry,” Tina said, slurring her words. She was out.
A blanket slid to the floor. April stopped to pick it up and put it back over Tina. Under it was a man-size T-shirt. It was light blue with a large image on the front.
An anvil.
“Tina, Tina, wake up. What’s this?”
Tina opened one eye. She grabbed the shirt and tucked it under her chin. Her fingers worked the fabric, and she brought it close to her nose and inhaled.
It was J.B.’s. He’d been a member of Yost’s Anvil group. So had Violet and Paula. April had the connection she’d been searching for.
April ran to Mitch’s Jeep and headed back to Aldenville to find the pair.
She consulted the map once she’d passed Redneck Mike’s. She counted houses. Number one, a large two-story
on several acres. Next to it was a century-old place, huddled close to the road. Probably it used to be surrounded by acres before the road went in.
A few hundred feet later was an old barn, a faded tobacco ad gracing its flank and daylight seeping through the missing boards. Was that number three? April wasn’t sure. The map said four houses from Redneck Mike’s.
She peered through the side window, murky in the cold. She recognized the next house. It was Kit’s. She slowed. Was this number three or number four? She’d come in from the opposite direction than the way she usually traveled to Kit’s. She’d never realized the kids were living so close to the bar.
April stopped across the street. She looked back and counted. The two-story, the farmhouse. Now she could see a ranch house tucked in behind a row of poplars.
Mrs. Wysocki said she’d brought the supplies here a few months back. The house had been empty then. In foreclosure.
Kit’s house was number four.
She tried to picture the list of foreclosures that Mary Lou had given her. Was this house on it? She realized she’d seen coffee filters and paper towels in the other empty house she’d looked at. And that interestingly colored paper she’d found at Kit’s had been of the same texture and weight as a coffee filter. One that had probably been used in the drug-making process, adding the different colors.
Someone was using Mary Lou’s foreclosed houses as meth labs. It was perfect when she thought of it. No one was keeping close tabs on the houses. They were empty, isolated. The meth makers could move around, get in and out without too much fear of being caught.
Mary Lou couldn’t have known. Did Logan? It was his job to keep track of the houses.
April remembered with horror the bags of garbage she’d seen in Kit’s basement. Dr. Wysocki’s article had talked about how much garbage meth makes.
April’s heart plummeted. If that was true, toxic chemicals from the crystal meth were imbedded in the carpet, the wallboard, the insulation. The cosmetic changes Logan and Kit had been making would not keep the danger from seeping into their lives. Indeed, their ministrations to the house might have released the danger.
Who was she dealing with? People with no conscience. She’d believed Violet when she’d said she wasn’t using. That she was trying to lead a better life.