Shot Through the Tart

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Shot Through the Tart Page 14

by Chelsea Thomas


  See-Saw kept eating.

  “My dad was big and tall. I remember walking through the apple trees on this orchard, sitting on his shoulders. He had salt-and-pepper hair that always smelled like baby powder. And his jean jacket was the softest thing I’ve ever touched.”

  See-Saw looked up at me, then turned back to her food. I appreciated her patience and gave her a nice pat on the back. Steve wandered over, licked my leg in a comforting gesture, then continued exploring the many smells in the barn.

  “My mom was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. A lot of people think their mothers are beautiful. I guess that’s kind of narcissistic. But I don’t just think that because my mom had pretty hair or pretty eyes or a pretty smile. We spent so much time together when I was a kid… I’m talking about her spirit, her energy. Those were the things that made her beautiful. She was curious and smart and hard-working. And she was so funny. She would chase me around the house, pretending to be a monster, for hours. When there was a thunderstorm, we’d build a tent in the living room and we would hide inside, shrieking whenever the thunder clapped.”

  See-Saw stomped her foot.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Miss May is incredible. She’s a second mother to me and always has been. But she hasn’t talked to me much about my parents, so all I have are my memories. Like… Why didn’t Miss May tell me Zambia was so close with my parents when they were alive? Zambia is such a big part of this investigation. She might have memories of my parents that would help me understand them even more. I want to know those things. I’m hurt that I had to find that stuff out from grumpy Humphrey.”

  “Hey, Chelsea.” Miss May entered the barn with her hands buried in the pocket of a sweat shirt. “Are you OK?”

  I nodded. Miss May pulled up a second stool and took the spot beside me, near See-Saw.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how close Zambia was with your parents.”

  “So you heard that.”

  Miss May nodded. “I suppose I avoid talking about your parents because I avoid thinking about them. Your mother was my sister. My best friend. Me and her and your dad, we were an inseparable trio. But our family has always been private, for better or worse. Growing up, we didn’t talk about our feelings. We didn’t discuss our family history. We kept our emotions buried and preferred to have fun when we were with one another. I see now… That might be a bad habit. You and I need to have hard conversations, especially about your parents. So I want you to know… After this investigation I’m going to tell you everything I remember about both of them. You can talk to Zambia and everyone else who knew them. Write it all down. Make a journal of memories, if you want. I think it’s only right to honor their lives in some way.”

  Tears flooded my eyes without warning. “That sounds nice,” I choked out, struggling to keep the lump in my throat under control. I looked up at Miss May. “Thank you.”

  Miss May nodded. “Honestly, we could start that conversation now.”

  I held up my hand. “No. There’s a killer in Pine Grove. That has to be our priority. Once the case is solved we can talk about my parents in detail. But I think we have an obligation to catch the killer first.”

  Miss May rubbed See-Saw’s back. “Alright. Let’s catch this killer.”

  Steve ran toward us, barking enthusiastically. I wondered if he was as eager to find the perpetrator as we were.

  Either that, or he was just hungry. Hard to tell with dogs.

  33

  Spring is Sprung

  Even though I had just suggested to Miss May that we wait to find out more information about my parents until our investigation had concluded, I found myself obsessing over them all night. I don’t think I got five consecutive seconds of sleep. I tossed and turned in my bed, mind racing, as I imagined all the new facts I might soon learn about my parents.

  Miss May had already told me that my mom and dad spent almost every weekend helping out at the orchard. They were definitely a part of the fabric of life in Pine Grove. And I knew there had to be dozens of people in town who’d had interactions with my parents. I didn’t care how big or how small those interactions were. I just wanted to find out more. The people of Pine Grove were an untapped resource for me and the thought of discussing my parents openly in town delighted me.

  Zambia was chief among those untapped resources. And I was dying to talk to her again. Even though she had a volatile temper and a confrontational vibe, I wanted nothing more than to talk to Zambia. Immediately.

  So I snuck out of the farmhouse at around 7 AM and made my way over to Zambia’s place.

  Steve almost gave me away. He woofed softly as I padded toward the front door. But I put my finger to my lips to shush him and gave him about a dozen treats to buy his silence. It worked.

  When I stepped out on the front porch, spring was in the air. A low fog hung over the orchard. Birds chirped. And it had to be almost 60°. This was a wonderful, misty spring morning, one of the warmest days we’d had in months.

  I decided to walk over to Zambia’s. In part, because I wanted to enjoy the incredible morning. I also wanted to exit quietly and I knew if I drove off in the pickup, Miss May would wake up and wonder where I was going.

  As I walked down the steep curves of Whitehill Road toward town, I planned out my conversation with Zambia. Everyone knew Zambia was an early riser, so I was sure she would be up and ready to talk. I figured I would start the conversation by pretending I had run into her by accident.

  After a bit of small talk, probably about the beautiful morning, I planned to casually mention my parents. I’d say something like, “My parents loved March mornings.” Then I would hang back and see if Zambia volunteered any information about them.

  If Zambia did not chime in with a story or anecdote about my parents, I figured I would get more direct. I’d say something like, “You knew my parents, didn’t you? I heard the three of you were inseparable for awhile there.”

  Then Zambia would launch into a story about how wonderful my mom and dad were. Maybe she’d sprinkle in some details about how cute I had been when I was a little girl. She’d invite me inside for a cup of coffee and we’d talk for hours and hours. Probably Zambia would show me pictures of my parents looking radiant and glamorous in Pine Grove. Perhaps she’d even pop in an old video of the three of them talking about life and joking around and drinking red wine until five in the morning.

  OK. All that might have been a bit far-fetched but a girl can dream, right?

  I slowed as I approach Zambia’s cute little house.

  The place had a spooky appearance that morning. The thick layer of fog surrounded the home like a moat. Sporadic birdsong sounded panicked rather than melodious. And the front door to the house was propped open a few inches.

  I walked up the front path one careful step at a time. My eyes were trained on the open door. I felt my chest tighten and wiped my sweaty palms on my pants. When I got to the door, I nudged it open with my foot. “Hello? Zambia?”

  I poked my head inside. Particles of dust were suspended in sunlight. A winter coat was draped on the banister. A black and white cat skittered from the foyer up a steep staircase. The cat stopped halfway up the staircase, turned and looked at me.

  “Hey there, cutie. What’re you looking at?”

  The cat meowed. Her big eyes looked scared. She gestured back up the steps with her adorable little head.

  “You want me to come upstairs?”

  The cat blinked.

  “Zambia?” I called out. “This is Chelsea Thomas. Are you home?”

  The cat meowed and once again gestured up the stairs. Then the cat turned and pranced up a few steps. I entered and followed.

  Each step groaned as I ascended the staircase. I grabbed the banister and it wobbled. This place is falling apart, I thought. The banister was loose like it had been leaned on, heavily and repeatedly.

  The cat waited for me at the top of the steps. I knelt down and extended my pointer finger. The littl
e cutie rubbed her face against my finger, then turned and headed toward the room at the end of the hall.

  “Where you taking me, kitty?”

  The cat kept right on walking. I followed. “You taking me to see Zambia?”

  The cat meowed again.

  “Zambia,” I called out. “I’m upstairs. Just playing with your cat. Is everything OK?”

  The cat reached the door at the end of the hall and waited for me. I made eye contact with her and nodded. “OK. I’ll go in first.” Obviously, since I had opposable thumbs and could open doors.

  I took a deep breath. Then I pushed open the door to Zambia’s bedroom… And screamed.

  34

  Shock and Paws

  Zambia was prone in her bed. She had a pillow over her face. Her body was stiff, twisted into an unnatural position. The bedroom window, which led to a trellis, had been left open. The nightstand had been knocked over. The sheets had been kicked to the floor.

  The kitty jumped to the bed. I scooped her up and held her close to my chest. “Oh my goodness. Zambia is… She’s been murdered.”

  The cat meowed.

  “You’re sticking with me, OK?” I backed toward the bedroom door. “And we’re both getting out of this room.”

  Moments later, I sat at Zambia’s kitchen table and called Miss May.

  “Hello?” She was groggy. It was barely 8 AM.

  “Miss May.”

  “Chelsea. Where are you?” I could hear Miss May opening her blinds. “Your car is still here.”

  I absently stroked the cat, who was purring in my lap. “I left. Walked to town. Wanted to talk to Zambia about my parents.”

  Five seconds of silence.

  “What happened, Chelsea?”

  “I got to Zambia’s. It’s so foggy out today. The door was open. It was open…so I went inside.”

  “OK, Chelsea. You’re speaking very slowly. I can tell you’re in shock. Everything’s OK. Whatever happened. Take a deep breath, OK?”

  The cat meowed.

  “Did you get a cat?”

  I looked down. Kitty’s little tail swished on the table. I rubbed her scruff and sighed. “That’s Kitty. Or at least, Kitty is what I’m calling her. She must have been Zambia’s cat.”

  “Why are you speaking in the past tense?”

  I swallowed. “You know why.”

  Ten seconds of silence.

  “Was it murder?”

  I nodded. I knew Miss May couldn’t hear my nod, but she’d know by my silence.

  “How?”

  “She was… She was suffocated. Signs of a struggle. The killer escaped out the window. They may have still been here when I arrived. No way to know for sure. Kitty knew something was wrong. She led me straight to Zambia. She’s such a sweet cat.”

  I heard clanging and banging on Miss May’s end of the line.

  “Are you getting dressed?”

  “Putting on my shoes now. I’m coming to you. Have you called the police yet?”

  I shook my head. “No. I called you first.”

  “Good,” said Miss May. “I’ll be there in five.”

  Miss May got there in ten minutes. I met her at the front door and she gave me a big hug. “You’re OK.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.

  “Have you looked around?”

  I shrugged. “No I didn’t even think about it. I just sat at the kitchen table. Didn’t move until I heard you pull up.” I stuck my head out the door. “Still foggy out there.”

  “I noticed. Surprised the fog hasn’t lifted by now.” I took one last look at the fog and closed the door behind Miss May as she entered. We had a job to do, and it was time to get serious.

  Over the course of the next hour, Miss May, Kitty and I conducted a thorough search of Zambia’s house. We were careful not to tamper with anything that could have been evidence. But to be honest, there wasn’t much to tamper with.

  The basement had already been cleared by the junk removal guys. And it appeared that all the upstairs bedrooms had also been cleared. Most of the rooms of the house, in fact, did not contain much of anything.

  After we had searched every room, we stopped in the upstairs hallway to talk. “Zambia was hiding something,” said Miss May. “And it was more than evidence of an affair.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she was planning to move.”

  Miss May tilted her head from side to side. “Possible. I thought that. It’s also possible these rooms have always been empty. Zambia lives alone so I doubt she had much use for spare bedrooms.”

  I looked into the empty bedroom behind Miss May. I peered around my aunt’s ample frame to get a better look inside. There wasn’t a stick of furniture. The room was spotless, in fact. Totally barren.

  “I don’t know. Even if Zambia did kill Adam… It’s not like every item in every single room could have been a piece of evidence.”

  “She was a strange lady. Maybe that’s all there is to it.”

  “What do you think of the scene of the crime?” I asked. I winced at the gruesome memory.

  “I think you’re right. There was a struggle. It’s clear.”

  “You think the killer escaped out that open window?”

  Miss May shrugged. “It’s possible. But you said the front door was open when you arrived, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe they just left through that the door. And came in through the window. Either way, this crime was committed in a hurry.”

  “Most likely scenario… Hurried into the front door, then exited out the window when I arrived. That’s a chilling thought.” I shuddered. It was never fun to realize you had been in the same home as a murderer.

  Miss May rubbed my shoulder with her firm, comforting hand. “That’s the most likely scenario. Sorry to say.”

  “Can we draw any other conclusions from the scene of the crime?” I asked.

  Miss May nodded. “Zambia was smothered with that pillow. So whoever did this was strong enough to overpower her. But also nimble enough to slip out the window and climb down the trellis. I think we’re looking for a male. Probably someone on the younger side.”

  I nodded. “Good to know. Although it seems Zambia put up a pretty good fight. Possible the killer was a woman, too. And I mean, just to keep all the avenues open…it’s possible the window was already open, and the killer entered and exited through the front door.”

  Kitty approached and rubbed up against Miss May’s shins. Miss May squatted down and smiled. “You know who did this, don’t you Kitty? You’re cute and smart. I can tell.”

  The cat placed her paws up on Miss May’s knee. Miss May laughed. “Do you want to be picked up you sweet little thing?”

  Kitty looked up at Miss May with her big eyes. Miss May shook her head. “This cat has the personality of a dog.”

  “You have no idea. I walked around holding her in my arms all morning. She didn’t squirm and she didn’t try to jump. I think at one point she fell asleep.”

  Miss May nuzzled against Kitty’s face. “What do you think, Kitty? What should we do next?”

  I crossed to the hallway window and looked out over the driveway. “Maybe we should slip out and call the police anonymously. We don’t need Chief Flanagan hating us more than she already does.”

  Miss May stooped over and placed Kitty on the floor. Kitty immediately rubbed up against my legs. I squatted down to pet her.

  “That’s a great idea,” said Miss May. “Unfortunately, I’m parked right outside. And we live in a small town. So everyone already knows we’re here. Half the town is probably already assuming Zambia has been murdered.”

  I groaned. “So we need to call the police.”

  Miss May nodded. “I’m surprised they’re not already here.”

  35

  Sunshine and Wayne-bows

  Chief Sunshine Flanagan emerged from Zambia’s bedroom with a hard look in her eyes. “Inconclusive.”

  Miss May thew her hands up. “In
conclusive? That’s absurd. Zambia was murdered. It’s clear.”

  “Unless you think the pillow just, fell on her face and she couldn’t manage to lift it off,” I said. I wasn’t normally inclined toward conflict, but Chief Flanagan pushed my buttons.

  “Detective Hudson. Why have these women not been detained?”

  Wayne poked his head out from one of the empty bedrooms. “What was that?”

  Flanagan crossed her arms. “These women should have been detained. I requested that they be detained and questioned.”

  Wayne’s eyes widened and he looked over at me. “Oh. Right. You want me to do that immediately?”

  Flanagan nodded.

  “You want them to be detained like… I should put them in handcuffs?”

  Flanagan rubbed her temples. “No, Wayne. Just take them to an empty bedroom and get the facts.”

  Miss May gestured toward Zambia’s room. “You have the facts. This place is empty. That’s a crime scene. Zambia was murdered. Treat this like a murder. Do your job.”

  I stepped back. Miss May rarely spoke with that kind of force, especially when she was addressing authority. But injustice had away of angering Miss May. I related. Flanagan rubbed us both the wrong way.

  “On second thought, maybe you should use the handcuffs,” Flanagan turned to Wayne. “If these women keep resisting do whatever you need to do.”

  Miss May scoffed. “No one is resisting.”

  A voice yelled up from outside the house. “Hey. What happened?”

  Wayne crossed to the hallway window and parted the curtains. The town lawyer, Tom Gigley, stood on the front lawn. With his distinguished posture and shock of white hair, Gigley was unmistakable even from far away. Also unmistakable? There was a mob in the front yard. Twenty townspeople stood behind Gigley, muttering and speculating.

  Wayne turned back to Flanagan.“We got a situation on the lawn, Chief.”

 

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