1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

  “The best.”

  Once again let free, my little black and white dog leaped up on me, showering me with affection that I knelt to return. Then I grabbed her leash and we went outside for her last short walk of the night.

  Soon, we were back in our bedroom, and I got ready for bed. My PJs were frilly and blue and somewhat ordinary. Maybe I’d get some with good luck symbols before I left Destiny.

  I gave my longish blond hair a final brushing for the night, and then I lay down, too tired even to read myself to sleep. I turned out the lights, feeling Pluckie jump into bed beside me.

  I’d fallen asleep. I was fairly sure of it.

  But Pluckie began moving in the bed and woke me. “Go back to sleep, girl,” I said without checking the clock for the time.

  I closed my eyes again—and then I heard it, what must have awakened my sweet pup.

  Somewhere in Destiny, a dog howled loudly into the night.

  Pluckie barked this time, and I shushed her—even as I heard the howl again.

  Was that an omen of some kind? An occurrence that would say something to the superstitious people around here?

  I’d have to check it out in the morning.

  _____

  I didn’t have to check it out, at least not look it up. Others at the B&B talked about it over breakfast.

  A howling dog was an omen of death, to those who believed.

  I’d wait and see if anyone in town was reported dead today. I hated even the notion of that.

  It reminded me too much of my Warren and his walking under that damned ladder. Not that I’d heard any howling dogs then.

  For now, I ate my eggs and muffin, drank my coffee, and prepared to head to the Lucky Dog Boutique with Pluckie, who’d already been outside and eaten. I wanted to arrive at the store before it opened.

  Only Pluckie didn’t let me get there. Not right away.

  We walked to Destiny Boulevard with no incident.

  As we passed the Broken Mirror Bookstore, or at least I tried to, Pluckie pulled on her leash. Hard. She wanted to go into that store.

  Having had her also insist on my going into the back room of the Lucky Dog and showing there was good reason for that—an ill Martha—I obviously had to obey her.

  Or at least try. It was too early for the bookstore to open. Maybe I could peek into the windows.

  But I first tried the front door. Oddly, it was unlocked.

  And as I opened it, Pluckie went inside and sat down. She was the one to give a small howl this time. She sounded scared.

  The store wasn’t quite dark, since some illumination came in through the windows, but no lights were on inside.

  I felt icy fingers of fear tiptoeing up my back. What superstition did that evoke? I had no idea.

  But Pluckie began inching forward on her leash, toward the side of the store where the windowed office enclosure was located. And as I looked inside, I gasped.

  There was just enough light in there for me to see someone lying on the floor.

  Not Martha, of course. A man. A tall man, it appeared. He faced away so I couldn’t see, but I thought it could be Tarzal.

  “Tarzal?” I called out as I entered. “Are you okay?”

  I smelled something then—curdled milk, and worse. I saw some on the floor near Tarzal’s face. I also saw shards of glass around the floor near him. Broken mirrors? The pieces reflected what was near them.

  Not only that, but as I drew closer I saw that a large piece of glass protruded from Tarzal’s chest. Blood oozed from it.

  “Oh, no,” I cried. “No.”

  I bent and put my fingers on his neck, holding my breath, hoping I’d at least feel a pulse the way I had with Martha.

  I didn’t.

  I pushed a little harder, and his head moved—but not because he’d moved it.

  His eyes were open. Sightless.

  And I knew that Kenneth Tarzal was dead.

  nine

  Trying not to hyperventilate, I called 911—for the second time since I’d arrived in Destiny. Had the last time been only two days ago?

  I made myself look away, toward filled bookshelves instead of Tarzal. I needed to be able to talk, not gag. Or cry.

  I was standing now, and I’d grabbed Pluckie, picked her up so she couldn’t get near the man who lay on the floor. She’d tried, though. Maybe that awful odor had enticed her. But fortunately, she hadn’t stepped in the blood. A good thing. No bloody pawprints for the police to look into.

  And no need for me to clean those paws.

  And why was I worrying about that now? Was I in shock?

  I was glad when my phone call was answered. Did I speak to the same dispatcher? She certainly sounded the same, at least at first. This time I didn’t make her guess the location. I knew that the Broken Mirror Bookstore was on the 1300 block of Destiny Boulevard, like the Lucky Dog Boutique.

  The address. The 1300 block. Thirteen was supposed to be bad luck. Was it?

  It certainly had been since my arrival here.

  “What’s the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asked as calmly as the last time.

  “It looks like a murder! Tarzal has been stabbed. There’s blood. A broken mirror—a real one, not just the name of the store.” I gave a gasping laugh as I said that, almost hysterically. That’s what would matter in this town—the actual broken mirror.

  No. I truly was becoming hysterical, and I had to calm myself.

  “A real broken mirror? Oh, my!” the now-distressed voice exclaimed. “Seven years’ bad luck. Whose? Can’t be Tarzal’s if he’s already …” She stopped, maybe realizing how unprofessional she sounded. I’d have laughed even more, if I didn’t feel like crying instead.

  Superstition over reality … the norm around here.

  The last time I’d called the emergency number I hadn’t mentioned Pluckie, the lucky black and white dog, or maybe I’d have gotten the same reaction then.

  “Please stay on the line, miss … What was your name?”

  “Rory. I help out at the Lucky Dog Boutique next door.”

  “Rory. Remember to breathe, Rory.”

  “Thank you,” I said as calmly as if she had just said she would come to the Lucky Dog to do some shopping. Good. I was getting hold of myself … maybe.

  I did as she said and took a conscious deep breath, which was probably a good thing. I wasn’t sure I had been breathing otherwise.

  “Now, is anyone else there with you?”

  “No,” I said. “At least I don’t think so.” Was she asking whether the killer was still around? I shuddered, which made Pluckie move in my arms.

  Surely my wonderful little dog would be reacting differently if any other person was present. But right now, she was licking my chin, acting as if we were the only two beings in the world. I hugged her closer.

  “Good,” the dispatcher said. “Okay, carefully go outside and wait there. And stay on the line with me.” Silence for a few seconds and then I heard her talking to someone else, muffled. Part of sending help here, or was she letting other people know about the broken mirror?

  I didn’t obey her. Instead, I hung up and immediately pushed in an additional number—the one Justin had given me to stay in touch with him.

  He hadn’t anticipated this reason, I was sure. Neither had I. But the police chief needed to know about this. And it wouldn’t hurt to tell him immediately.

  It might help me, too, to get him here sooner.

  “Hello?” he said right away. “Rory?” I’d called on his cell, and he must have recognized my number on caller ID. “Are you okay? I’m just getting word that you’re at the Broken Mirror Bookstore—and that there’s been an incident there.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him—and myself. Right? I was fine, or at least I would be, maybe once I
actually did go outside. “I called 911 and I think help’s on the way.”

  “It is—and it includes me. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just be careful.” And then the connection ended.

  Be careful? Well, sure.

  But his words reminded me—as if I’d forgotten—that what had happened here did not appear to be an accident. Tarzal had been stabbed.

  Okay, it was time. Pluckie and I were going outside where there’d be lots of other people.

  I heard a siren then. Maybe more than one.

  “You know what?” I said to my dog, hugging her even closer. “Things around here are going to get crazy. You don’t need to be here, especially since your paws are clean. Let’s go next door.”

  I put her down, held her leash, and led her out the front door without looking back to where Tarzal lay.

  As soon as we got outside, I saw a black cat stalking at the side of the bookstore. So did Pluckie, but I got her to heel and stay quiet after the first lunge and bark.

  A black cat. It hadn’t crossed our path. But had it crossed Tarzal’s?

  I used the key I’d been given to open the Lucky Dog’s door. It was only around nine A.M., though it felt like I’d been around this area for hours. I needed to leave Pluckie here. What was I going to do with her? I couldn’t just shut her in the store loose. Other people would come in and she could sneak out the door. Or maybe she’d get into treats on the shelves. She had an excellent nose, especially for stuff she was interested in.

  She was crate trained. Maybe this shop sold crates and I could—

  But I gasped aloud as Pluckie pulled ahead on her leash. We weren’t alone in the shop after all.

  But it wasn’t Millie or Jeri who stood there getting ready to open for the day.

  It was Martha. Downstairs, when she was supposed to be recuperating up in her apartment. She was standing and holding onto the cash register’s counter, dressed in a blue blouse and dog-print skirt. Her gray hair was mussy but she had apparently run a comb through it.

  “What are you doing here?” my voice squeaked.

  “This is my store,” she responded, her words a little slurred. Was she okay? Letting go of the counter, she took a couple of steps toward me without appearing too rickety. “What’s wrong, Rory?”

  Should I tell her? She had to be friends with the men who owned the shop next door, and she was infirm. Maybe telling her would be harmful.

  But she would hear about it soon enough anyway. It might as well be from me.

  “We were on our way here—Pluckie and I—and Pluckie told me we needed to stop at the Broken Mirror,” I began. “And—well, Martha, those sirens? They’re because I had to call 911. I—we—Pluckie and I, we found Tarzal lying on the floor. And I think he’s in worse condition than you were when we found you.”

  Her wizened hand went to her lipstick-reddened mouth. “Is he … is he going to be okay?”

  “I think he’s dead,” I said, then hurried over to grasp her in my arms so she didn’t fall. But she felt fairly strong and sturdy as I held her.

  “Oh, no,” she wailed. “And he and I were … well, we were talking business. That’s why—never mind. I need to go see him.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “The authorities are on the way and may need to treat next door as a crime scene.” Surely she, like me, had seen enough TV to know how crime scenes were treated.

  “A crime scene. Then—someone hurt him?”

  “I think so, but it’ll be up to the cops to figure it out.” The siren was louder now, but then broke off. The EMTs and cops or whoever’d been sent must be here. “I was just bringing Pluckie over to protect her and keep her out of the way. Could you do me a favor and take care of her?” Giving Martha a mission might help to keep her stay clear for her own sake.

  “Of course, dear.” Her voice trembled. “But let me know what’s happening. Please.”

  I’d stepped back and started removing the end of Pluckie’s leash from my arm. “You’ll be okay here? Do you want me to get you anything?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  Giving her Pluckie’s leash to hold, I went back into the storeroom anyway and got Martha’s wheelchair from where I’d left it last night. “Here. Sit down and relax, at least.”

  She leveled a vaguely irritated look at me from soft hazel eyes surrounded by wrinkles of concern and age. “Relax? You think I can relax after what you’ve told me?”

  “Sitting’s better for you than standing. I didn’t think you were even allowed to come downstairs yet. Didn’t you say the hospital was sending some kind of home care attendants to help you today?”

  “Yes, but they can help me out down here, too. I was getting claustrophobia already. This will be much better.”

  Maybe, I thought as I left Pluckie in her care to head back next door. But I wasn’t so sure.

  In fact, I was afraid that Martha’s coming downstairs that way, considering what had happened to Tarzal, was a big mistake.

  Did I think she could have killed him? Of course not—not even if she wasn’t as frail as she obviously was.

  But she clearly was able to walk on her own.

  And what I thought wouldn’t make a bit of difference in what the authorities thought.

  _____

  “There you are.” That was the first thing Justin said to me as I saw him outside the door to the Broken Mirror. “I was just about to call you.” His severe frown marred the usual good-looking nature of his face, and I stopped immediately. Was he going to accuse me of something? “With what happened in there—well, I had some concerns about you.”

  Instead of getting defensive, I felt a trickle of warmth begin inching its way within my body. He’d been worried about me —and not about what he thought I’d done.

  That was sweet, especially coming from the local police chief, whose force was starting to investigate what looked like a murder.

  “Thanks,” I said as offhandedly as I could. “I admit to having a bad case of nerves right now.”

  “Not surprising. We’ll need you to describe everything that happened from the time you got up this morning till now—and focusing on finding the body.”

  The body. That was who and what Tarzal was now, at least to the cops.

  Maybe that was how they managed to deal with seeing death often.

  How many of the deaths that occurred here in Destiny were murders? Coming from Southern California as I did, killings weren’t as rare as they should be. But here?

  I didn’t ask. Not now.

  “Okay,” I said, though I swallowed hard at the thought of reliving every moment of today.

  “I’ll get one of the investigation team members over here. I’ll stay with you, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d like that.” I felt a bit relieved. Not that Justin could protect me from my emotions, but maybe I could control them a little better if I tried to act like a normal human being to impress him.

  As long as I stayed in Destiny, it wouldn’t hurt to have the chief of police as a friend.

  “So let’s—” Justin began, but he stopped. I looked in the direction he did toward the crowd of people amassing in front of the store.

  Pushing through them was Preston.

  As well dressed as I had seen him before, he maneuvered his way through the noisy onlookers—were there any members of the media present yet?—and joined Justin and me near the door.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Where’s Tarzal? Did he do something to bring in a crowd—schedule an unplanned booksigning, or …” His voice dropped off as he looked from Justin’s face to mine and back again. “What happened?” he croaked.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, Preston, that it appears that Tarzal has passed away,” Justin said. Nice way of putting it. But then Justin added, “It was an apparent homicide. Possibly
a murder.”

  My turn to look from one face to the other. I gathered that Justin, in his cop role, also watched Preston’s reaction, to see if he did something that made it obvious that he was the murderer.

  But as I looked at Preston, I saw his face go as white as his hair. He reached out but there was nothing to grab onto to steady himself. I didn’t know the guy well, but I felt sorry for him. I took his arm and felt him put a lot of weight that way. Could I continue to support him?

  Fortunately, Justin took his other arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

  I wondered, with all the blood on the floor where Tarzal lay, if that was a good idea, but Justin was in charge.

  He maneuvered both of us through the door but then kept us moving around the perimeter of the displays and tall bookshelves to the door to the rear storeroom.

  That was where we wound up.

  I found it interesting that Preston moved away quickly, approaching a carton on some shelves against the wall. He brought out a copy of Tarzal’s superstition book.

  “I’m not sure how we should behave in the situation of a murder,” he said. “I have to look that up.”

  He turned immediately to the end of the book and began scanning the back pages. I’d noticed the index before. It was very detailed, incorporating all the subjects of superstitions that Tarzal had written about.

  But then he looked up directly at Justin. “I have to know. How did he … how was he killed?”

  “It appears that he was stabbed with a sharp piece of glass. From a broken mirror. But that’s not certain yet, so please don’t pass it along.”

  “A broken mirror,” Preston repeated. “In the Broken Mirror Bookstore. How appropriate.” He paused, and I noticed that there were tears in his eyes. He must have been close to his partner. And maybe what had happened wouldn’t completely sink in until he’d done his superstitious research and thought about reality. “And of all murder weapons, that could be the best, at least under these circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?” I had to ask.

  He turned his gaze on me. “Assuming that the killer, and not Tarzal, broke it, then that person will be doomed to seven years of bad luck. Unless he—or she—grabbed one of the five-dollar bills along the wall and made a sign of a cross.” He looked from Justin to me and back again, but he couldn’t find an answer to that on either of our faces—but I now knew what those framed bills were there for. Preston shook his head. “Their bad luck, if it happens, won’t bring Tarzal back, but at least it would give me a tiny bit of solace.”