The Hunt Chronicles: Volume 1

by Leo Bonanno

  “Well? Who was it?” Richard finally asked.

  “Yes, who?” Cheryl pleaded. I looked around the room. The faces had all turned distraught and the foreheads were all sweating stone. As if to signal the beginning of the end, the ominous grandfather clock began to chime.

  “Could have been anyone here,” I said. “A money hungry maid, or an enraged butler? His greedy cook, or his selfish son?” I turned and stared, and the eyes in the room followed mine…to Cheryl. “It was his daughter.” The words slipped out of my mouth and struck the silence like a baseball shattering a window. Then they hung there, frozen, awkward, and nauseating.

  “Liar!” She screamed.

  “Am I, Cheryl?” I asked her calmly. As I spoke, I noticed Walters and Sills honing in on Cheryl very slowly, flanking her subtly one soft footstep at a time. Cheryl took no notice; her eyes were locked on mine. I could feel them burning holes into my face.

  “Damn right you’re a liar, you nutcase!”

  “Cheryl!” Maddie screamed, the way a mother scolds a child.

  “It was you, Cheryl,” I said, approaching her slowly. “There’s proof; lots of it, if you know where to look.”

  “There’s proof that everyone in this house killed my father. No one will believe-”

  “They’ll believe it, Cheryl. These two men have that responsibility. They will make twelve citizens believe that last night you were the one who suffocated your father before Donald stabbed his body.”

  “Fine!” She sniped. “When? How?”

  “Your argument with your father last night is what woke me up in the first place, remember? Then I started thinking about it, and realized that I never heard your father’s voice during that argument. I only heard a woman’s voice, and that woman was you. By then your father was already dead. You had already killed him and were screaming at his dead body.” The feeling of nausea grew.

  “Why the hell would anyone do that?” She argued.

  “Two reasons. First, to cover your tracks. I thought Wilson was still alive, but I was wrong. Your father was already dead long before your brother ever came home.”

  “And the second reason?” Asked Richard. I turned to him awkwardly.

  “Your father would have to be dead to lose an argument.”

  “After it was over, you headed out here to the foyer,” I went on, “and you were probably passing by the kitchen when you heard me coming, so you ducked inside, and pretended to make a sandwich. That’s when I joined you.” Sills and Walters had stopped moving forward as Cheryl just stood in place, smiling.

  “That’s your proof? A phony sandwich?” She asked with a laugh.

  “Is it still there?” I asked abruptly, looking up towards her door at the top of the stairs.

  “Is what still there?” She asked.

  “The sandwich?”

  “What?”

  “The sandwich, Cheryl. You never did eat it, did you? I saw it when I was in your room, uneaten, on your nightstand. Kind of odd to make a sandwich and then not eat it at some point, isn’t it?” Cheryl’s smile slowly dissipated. “Well, isn’t it? I think it is. I think murdering your father probably preoccupies your mind for a long while. You probably never thought about it after you made it and carried it upstairs. I bet if we checked right now, not only would we find the uneaten sandwich, but somewhere up there we‘d find all of the missing things from your father‘s room, the things you took to make it look like a robbery. You never planned on getting stuck in this house, under police surveillance, did you? No,” I said, gazing up to her door again. “They’re still up there, and they will all prove I’m right.”

  “That’s still not enough to convince me!” Richard bellowed, finally finding his breath and defending his sister. “What if you’re wrong? You’ve got nothing that ties her to my father’s room at all besides and argument!”

  “Besides,” Walters interjected. “Why didn’t Wilson just fight back? Use his hands? Scream?”

  “He probably did scream, Detective,” I said, “but obviously no one could hear him with something over his mouth. He did use his arms however, of that I am sure. He could barely lift up his own fork at dinner, so he never would have been able to fight off his murderer. He flailed his arms anyway. I’m sure he tried to push her away and couldn’t. He inevitably knocked over the medicine tray Thomas had brought in earlier.”

  “How do you know?” Thomas asked.

  “When I went into his room, I felt a wet spot on the carpet and found this little beauty on the floor.” I pulled out the OXIZALE pill and held it up to Cheryl.

  “What the hell?” Walters’ shouted. “Is this evidence? Were you withholding evidence? And did you just say again that you were in McCune’s room? You still haven’t explained-“

  “Tell me something, Thomas,” I said, regretting my choice of words for the second time during this show, “did Wilson take his medication while you were in his room last night?”

  “Well, no,” he replied. “Sometimes he took it right away. Other times he just said to leave it and he would take it after he was done reading. Some mornings I’d find him with a book on his chest and the pill and water still on the tray. Drove me crazy. I thought for sure one morning I would walk in and find him de…sorry.”

  “Just as I thought,” I said. “Last night, Wilson did not take his medication. While struggling for his life, he knocked over his tray, spilling everything onto the floor. Once he was dead, Cheryl panicked. She picked up the empty glass and tray dashed out into the hall.”

  “How did you get this?” Walters’ persisted.

  “I found it in Wilson’s room this morning before you left.” I admitted.

  “Why were you in his room?” He asked calmly, clearly trying to restrain himself, which was very unsettling, like stumbling on a bomb that didn’t go off when you thought it would.

  “I was looking for my contact lense,” I replied nonchalantly, attempting to bat away the question. “The point is it was still there in the carpet the next morning.”

  “That’s still all circumstantial!” Sills yelled. “It’s just another theory. It’s not proof, Hunt! None of this is actual proof of anything.”

  “Well then, I’ll give you the proof.”

  “When I walked in on Cheryl making her jelly sandwich, I accidentally scared her, causing her to jump and cut herself with the knife she was using. That’s why she is wearing that bandage right now.” I pointed to her right hand and she quickly covered it with her left. “At least that’s what she wanted me to think. You’re probably asking yourself what she used to kill her father. Well, it wasn’t a pillow or a plastic bag. She used her bare hands, literally. She stood over her father, covered his mouth and his nose shut. Considering his condition she may have been able to do it all one-handed. That’s when he started to struggle. She held on tight. It didn’t take long.”

  “What does this have to do with the cut on her hand?” Maddie implored.

  “Oh, it isn’t a cut she’s got under there,” I said, jerking a thumb in Cheryl’s direction. “It’s a bite wound. I remembered watching Wilson eat the night before. His arms were so weak but his mouth and teeth were just fine. I think Cheryl covered his nose and mouth, and at some point got bitten in the process, between the thumb and forefinger. She held on tight and he was eventually gone. That drip of jelly I saw running down your hand last night wasn’t jelly at all. It was blood. I remember seeing it just before you cut yourself. Care to explain that?”

  “It’s all a lie. A great big goddamn lie. He did it and he’s trying to pin it on me!” Walters took a leap forward and grabbed Cheryl by the shoulders. Sills met him and tore the bandage off her hand. There was a healing wound there, but it was no cut. Teeth marks were still clearly imprinted in the woman’s flesh. “That could be anything!” She screamed.

  “Yeah,” I said walking towards her. “Let me guess; your attorney is going to say something sappy like you got those marks from a duckling you were feeding in the p
ark at two a.m. this morning. Or from that Gila monster you found under your bed, right? Whatever garbage he pours on the jury, he still won’t be able to dodge your fingerprints.” She looked at me, dumbfound.

  “What prints?” She hissed.

  “Those teeth marks tell me you weren’t wearing gloves last night. Why would you wear them? You didn’t use a weapon like your brother did. You used your bare hands. Unfortunately for you, you left fingerprints and maybe even blood on the glass and tray when you put them back on the table. Thomas was surely only one who handled those things before he brought them to Wilson.” Thomas nodded. “There is no other reason why your prints would be on that glass and tray unless you picked them up after you killed him.”

  The detectives looked at each other and then at me. Sills jumped into a canter and headed for Wilson’s room. We waited there in silence for his return. When he did, he had his hand in a white glove and he was balancing the tray and glass on the palm of one hand. I would later find out that Cheryl did leave prints on the tray and the glass…the chipped glass. None of the officers had bothered to consider the tray and the glass evidence, so no one bothered to dust them.

  The room stood silent as we stared at Cheryl. She had stopped crying and struggling with Walters. She was staring right at me. “Can I say something?” She asked.

  “Why not, sweetie?” Walters said sarcastically.

  “Piss off!” She screamed and bum-rushed the big man. She caught him off guard and knocked him into the wall. She rushed towards me and shoved me aside like a rag doll. I heard Richard and Thomas scream her name while Nona just screamed with panic. I was on the floor. I rolled over to see Cheryl opening the front door and stop dead in her tracks. A uniformed officer was standing there in the doorway. He stepped forward swiftly and grabbed Cheryl’s wrist. She spun around and I heard the handcuffs click into place.

  Walters straightened himself up and walked towards Cheryl and the officer. Sills followed. Maddie helped me off the floor and hugged me tight. “My God, are you okay?” She whispered, starting to cry.

  “I’m alright,” I said. “It’s all over.”

  “It’s true,” Cheryl declared. “It’s all true. I killed the selfish old bastard with my own hands. I didn’t plan to. I went in to talk to him. I saw him laying there with a grin on his face and it made me so angry.

  “When Donald came home drunk, I brought him into the kitchen. After getting his attention, I started provoking him. He got angry, really angry, just as I hoped. That’s why he stabbed our father, making the perfect scapegoat. He’s always been a perfect scapegoat,” she said with disdain for them both.

  “Did you do this all for the money?” Richard asked. “Dad had more than enough for us all. All you had to do was tough it out a little while longer, Cheryl. You’re the oldest; you would have gotten the most. I can’t believe you did all of this for the money.” A feeling that looked something like remorse slipped over Cheryl’s face.

  “It wasn’t all about the money, Richard. I did it for Lewis and me. Dad would never let us get married; not with Lewis’ father being who he is. I did it for love.”

  “Oh cry me a river!” Nona said. I wanted to laugh, but I held it back.

  “Let’s go, ma’am. We’ve got a lot of things to sort out.” With that they were gone. The five of us that were left behind just hovered there in the foyer for a few minutes. Then they broke down all over again. I drew them all close. I spent the night and a good chunk of the morning consoling them all, regaining composure, reestablishing order. There were a lot of hugs and tears, and eye rolling.

  Richard drove me to the airport. We barely spoke on the way there. I guess neither of us knew what to say. Richard was wearing a look of bewilderment and I asked him about it. “Something wrong?”

  “You saved my brother’s life, you know.”

  “I guess,” I replied.

  “Thank you. You did good. You should have never quit teaching, you know.” I smiled and stared out the window.

  “Actually Richard, it’s you did well.” We both laughed so hard Richard nearly drove off the road and killed us both.

  The whole sorted affair changed the lives of everyone involved. My sister finally retired after Richard forced her to do so. He invited her to live at McCune Hall and insisted that she be waited on hand and foot for the rest of her life. She graciously accepted, though she continues to dust everything in the house herself. As suspected, Wilson did leave Maddie a very nice severance package, as it were. In a recent letter she invited me along on one of her fabulous excursions across America in a Winnebago. I quickly declined, then burned the letter.

  Thomas and Nona Freely remain in Connecticut but they no longer serve the McCune family. Just as planned, the two of them had enough money to buy a small palace of their own. It doesn’t have fourteen bathrooms or servants quarters, but it’s big enough to need a maid’s help. Maddie turned down the offer, but Sneezing Sue Wicketts did not.

  There was a brief legal entanglement for Donald but he never saw the inside of a jail cell after Cheryl confessed. He’s decided to attend Alcoholics Anonymous and become a functioning part of society. In cases like this I usually say I’ll believe it when I see it, but Donald has my faith in more ways than one.

  Richard’s business did slump a bit during the unpleasantness but not for very long. He went into a partnership with his brother and together they own and successfully operate the most popular restaurant in the state. There’s even talk of a chain expansion now. The new restaurant name, McCune’s, was Richard’s idea. It seems old Wilson ended up helping Donald out after all.

  Cheryl was convicted of murdering her father and her story ends there. A recent newspaper article captured her beautifully, stamping numbers onto license plates.

  As for me, I returned home to Pendleton and attempted to resume some resemblance of my normal life. Retired life was nothing short of blissful when I left to be at my ailing sister’s side, but I was in for a nasty surprise when I returned home. Cheryl McCune’s story was over; my own was just beginning.

  Part 2

  Curator Conundrums

  We did not change as we grew older;

  we just became more clearly ourselves.

  Lynn Hall

  My name is Reevan Hunt, and someone shot my neighbor.

  Leon staggered backward, fell off the curb and plowed into me, knocking me back into the car. I had seen the flash of light, and someone called out my name, and then I was on my back on the car’s rear seat staring up at the ceiling. I was a helpless turtle.

  More than one voice started calling my name. More flashes of light went off, some filling the inside of Leon’s car with an offending brightness. There were popping sounds, and clicking sounds, and footsteps rushing towards us. I heard Leon scream “No! Stop!” I propped my head up enough to see him; his right arm on the roof of the car, his left arm shielding his face. Then his it gnarled finger pointed at me like the dying branch of some old tree. “Don’t shoot me, he’s Reevan!” Leon exclaimed. “He’s the one you want!” My head dropped back to the cushion of the seat. My left hand eased its grip on my duffle bag, and I took a deep breath. I shut my eyes. When they opened again, the car was filled with light. People were crowded around peeking into every window. They shouted and gestured, but they drowned each other out, so all I heard was a steady inaudible hum.

  I propped my head up once more and met eyes with Leon, who quickly looked down at his shoes. “There is a word,” I said disappointedly, “for people like you, Leon; traitor.”

  I slammed the door as Leon squeezed inside. Part of me wanted to leave him out there, but the other part of me knew that if he were mauled out there, I’d have to carry in the rest of my luggage by myself. I locked the deadbolt, spun around and glared at him across the room. “I am so sorry, Reevan.”

  “You sold me out!” I shouted back.

  “I’m sorry, really sorry.” He walked over to the nearest window and peered out through the
blinds. “They were like vultures on a carcass,” he said.

  “Except these vultures carry cameras and steno pads,” I said, walking away from the door and dropping my duffle bag on the foyer floor. “I didn’t think it would be so bad here at home. Everybody knows me, and nobody likes me. Since when do they care?” Leon followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table as I headed for the fridge.

  “Since you’re famous,” he said, and even though I had my back to him, I could tell he was grinning ear-to-ear.

  “When will these fifteen minutes of fame end?” I asked, grabbing two cans of soda. “This is ridiculous.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” Leon said as he took a can, “surely there is a small town somewhere in the backwoods of America that has never heard of you. You could move there.” Leon offered a smile for his jest, and I returned a pair of rolled eyes.

  “I kept your papers while you were gone. I started cutting out clippings for you. One of them is really great. The headline reads Local Educator Teaches Murderer a Lesson. I love that one.”

  “You would,” I replied, popping my can open.

  “Oh, come on,” Leon said, “it’s not really that bad, is it?” I put my can on the table and clasped my hands together in front of me. With my fingers laced together I began to squeeze harder and harder. I noticed I had picked up this nasty habit rather recently, whenever I felt like murdering someone myself.

  “You tell me,” I began. “How would you like to be called away from home out of the blue after being told your sister is in the hospital? How would you like to spend a few days with a bunch of rich snobs only to be there when one of them snaps and kills someone you had dinner with the night before? Now I have people following me everywhere, and talking to me, and taking my picture. I spent over an hour on that plane and I swear if one more person turned around in their chair and breathed that airplane peanut breath on me, I was going to jump!” Leon snickered, and then stifled it. He knew better.