by Tonya Kappes
“I’m not stalking him!” I take the phone away from my ear as she continues to scream “no I’m not” without taking a breath.
I hold the receiver up to my mouth and scream back. “Yes you are! You’ve been out on one date.” I look over at the time. Brittany is supposed to be at the SPCA in an hour. I have extra time to do this dump and get ready.
“Do you call him?” I go back to Betty and refocus on the dump. Zach is paying me double to get rid of her ass.
“Yes.”
“A lot Betty. You call him a lot and does he answer?” Zach says he doesn’t answer her daily phone calls and is thinking about getting a new phone number, only he’s had this one for a couple years and changing numbers really is a pain.
“No.” Betty sniffles into the phone. I’m hoping that she’s getting it.
“Okay, there you go. He doesn’t answer because he’s done with you.” Now we’re getting somewhere. I bend down and pick up Herbie’s ball and throw it out the office door. I smile as he scampers after it.
“He can tell me himself.” Maybe we aren’t getting somewhere. I rest my head back on my chair and roll it to the side when I hear Herbie run into the room squeaking his ball. I bend back down and grab it out of his mouth. He jerks away and runs off like he won.
“No, he doesn’t need to tell you because he hired me. He doesn’t want to talk to you.” I totally hate to be rude, but in some cases, you just have to be.
“I care about him.” Betty whimpers in the background.
“I’m sorry. I can tell you care about him, but he’s not good for you. A good guy wouldn’t use you as part of a bet. How long has it been since you talked to him?” What is it with these girls? They go on one date and fall, hook, line and sinker.
“A few weeks ago.”
“So you haven’t physically talked to him since the day after your one and only date?” I wish he’d put that on the form. I’d really be driving that little tid bit in.
“Yes. But I’m not going to give back his sweatshirt.”
I laugh. Does she really think he’s worried about a twenty-dollar sweatshirt? “Trust me, he doesn’t want it back.”
“I care…”
I have to stop her. She spent one night with him and hasn’t talked to him since. How does she care about him?
“Stop! I know you care about him, but he’s freaked out. You call and leave plans for the two of you and he only wants you to leave him alone.” I pause for a second and go back in for the kill, “Betty, do you understand that Zach has hired me to break up—well, you technically aren’t even dating. Regardless, he’s hired me to tell you he will no longer be asking you out on any more dates.”
“But we made plans.”
“I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you, but your calendar is now free. I hate to be rude, but it’s over. He only wanted to go on one date with you and other people on the dating website.”
“We had great sex. He said so,” she blubbers in the phone.
Whoa! I scan the form quickly and don’t see anything about sex on there. “Sex? You slept with him on your first date? Obviously he didn’t like it because he never called you again.” No wonder she’s so hung up on him.
“He said it was the best blow job he ever had.” Betty sounds pretty proud of herself.
I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. I glance around the corner just to make sure Aunt Matilda isn’t around because if she heard these next words out of my mouth, she’d fall dead of a heart attack.
“Blow job? You didn’t even have sex? You know what you need to go brush your teeth and move on.” I don’t want to know any more details about Betty’s abilities or talents.
“Arrgh! Fine!” Betty slams down the phone.
Twenty-Six
I drive by Brittany’s house twice to make sure no one’s there, or—no unexpected guest. Even though Bradley said she’s at work. You never know. She might have a killer melt down and need to come home, or just plain leave.
I park a couple houses down, by the corner, so the neighbors won’t know exactly which house the unfamiliar Toyota is visiting. I look out the window and stare at the “neighborhood watch” sign. I’m sure there’s been a lot of good come out of this program, but hopefully not today.
I glance over at Brittany’s immaculate manicured lawn. I’ve always wondered how they make grass look 3-D with all the lines going every which way and I can picture her edging it with a pair of scissors that she just took to a sharpening stone.
And. Those. Flowers! There isn’t a single tulip that’s wilted or the slightest bit drooping. I snicker as I realize she’s planted the tulips flowers in the order of the rainbow.
The other houses in the cookie cutter neighborhood aren’t as tidy as Brittany’s, I notice driving by.
I look in my rear view mirror and my side view mirrors to make sure no one is around. The coast is clear. I get out of my car and walk down the street towards Brittany’s.
The house numbers are painted on the side of the curb. Who ever came up with modular homes is a genius. All the homes look the same, maybe different colored shutters between them or the garage is facing the side instead of the front.
Brittany’s garage is one facing the front, but the dead give-away is the yard. I bet her neighbors hate how pristine it looks.
Not a life in sight. The neighbors don’t seem to be home. Nothing.
I walk through the grass up to the flower garden and lift up every lawn ornament that’s sprinkled throughout her mulch. Surely there’s a spare key somewhere. Doesn’t everyone have a spot?
Walking around the house, I see a small shed is situated in the right-back corner of her yard. I bet Brittany keeps all her tools in there, spic and span. I’ve always heard you can tell a lot about a man by how well he keep his tools. I bet the same goes for Brittany.
I glance at the windows above the patio and see one that’s cracked—only it’s about six feet off the ground. I run my finger along the teak bench directly under it and realize it’s not going to be easy to climb into.
I look back at the shed, hoping something is in there I can use to climb on because there is no way I can drag the bench under the window to hoist myself up. I slip through the cracked shed door. The slightest bit of sun shines on the most welcome sight. A step ladder.
“Perfect.” I grin, wiping off the cobwebs. Obviously she hasn’t used this in a while. Of course she hasn’t, I think, she’s been too busy murdering people.
Quickly I carry it back to the porch and move the bench slightly to the left. I climb up the step-ladder to look in at the perfectly folded laundry on the dryer. “My luck.” I shake my head. I don’t know what I’d do if my laundry looked like that. It wouldn’t be natural if I didn’t have to search the basket for something remotely not stinky.
I hoist myself up, turn my body like I’m getting on a horse and slide down on my belly, feet first. So much for a quick drive by.
Never in a million years did I think sneaking in and out of Aunt Matilda’s house when I was a teenager was preparing me for this.
“Shit!” I pull my foot out of a ceramic dog bowl and shake it in the air. Brittany has a dog? Bradley never mentioned a dog; maybe if he did, I might not have been so willing to break into her house.
I leave the tipped over dog bowl and decide to clean it up on my way out. Something Brittany would never do. She’d clean it up immediately.
I take a quick glance around to get my bearings and make sure a dog isn’t going to attack me. I swear Good Housekeeping could come in here, right now and not have to stage a thing.
I look through the kitchen and down the hall to what I’m guessing is Brittany’s room. Maybe she doesn’t keep it as clean as the rest of the house. Everything matches. Everything. The comforter, pillows, shams, curtains all have the same print.
I smile, knowing my thread barren Scooby Doo pillow cases, up against my plaid comforter and Mickey Mouse sheets would send her into a tizzy.
I’m careful not to touch anything. I walk across her bedroom into her bathroom.
I look for anything that’s not meticulously clean. A little dot of mold will make me feel good. I get the gloves out of my back pocket and put them on. The cabinet door under her sink whines as I open it. Glancing in, everything is in a glass container. I’m lucky to find a stray tampon in the junk drawer, much less keeping them all neat in a glass container under my sink.
I take my key-chain mini mag out and twist it on. I don’t want to touch anything without seeing what it is. I reach in the back for one of the many black tubes. I select one like the black tube I’ve been carrying around for the past couple days and have grown very fond of. I turn it over to get a true name color because the one I took from the SPCA has been rubbed off.
“Passion Pink.” Go figure. I could’ve come up with that name. I put the tube back in the container because when I tell the police all about my discovery, they will be able to compare the two or twenty she has under there.
I go back into the bedroom. I don’t see any pictures, jewelry, or anything personal. I have to find something to tie her to Dabi and Kent. Something that will give her a reason for murder.
I walk down the hall and a ping of jealousy strikes me when I turn the corner to her office. If I had an ounce of OCD, maybe I could have a neat tidy office too.
The hard wood floors creak as I walk over to the small cabinet next to the leather chair. The leather groans when I sit and pull open the top drawer. I rub my fingers along the tabs of the dozen or so files all neatly color coordinated.
I hesitate. I watch my gloved fingers cross over the typed labels. “Yes!” I pump my fists into the air. I’d know those labels anywhere. It’s the exact same label used on the file missing from Dabi’s office. Nice and neat, just like someone who has OCD.
With a little luck and a lot more searching, I’m sure I’ll find the missing file somewhere in this Martha Stewart house.
I sit down in the floral print high back chair in front of the computer and text Bradley a quick message.
“Still looking for some clues. Is she still there?” I hit the green send button.
“She’s still here,” he texts back.
“Let me know when she leaves,” I quickly respond.
“Slap.” Slap? I read Bradley’s text again.
“Slap?” I have no clue what he’s talking about. Brittany’s computer is on and I type in “slap in text language.” Goggle pulls up “sounds like a plan.”
It is a plan.
I use the mouse to drag the arrow across the computer screen and search the pull-down menu in her history so I can delete what I just googled. The last thing I want is for her to find out someone has been here and messing with her computer.
But what is a little snooping going to hurt?
I search through Brittany’s history. There may be something she looked up that can lead to the murders. J Crew, Gap, Macro Hard products, Splitsville.com…
I gasp, “Splitsville.” I look at the date and time she last viewed it. According to my calculations she was on it 20 minutes before I received an email threat sent from the internet café, which is almost ten minutes from her house.
I have definitely tied her to the emails. But I have to find the file in order to tie her to the murders.
My phone vibrates. I look down and see a text from Bradley in all capital letters. “GET OUT! She’s coming home for lunch.”
I look at the drawer where the files are. And for a split second I want to grab them, but I don’t.
I text back, “Is she working tomorrow?”
With a second to spare he types back, “YES GET OUT!”
I click out of her computer and go back to the laundry room. Looking at the spill, I take the entire roll of paper towels and throw it on the mess without rolling them out.
I look around for a place to throw them away. If I leave them in the trash next to the dryer, she will know. So I open the dryer door and throw them in there. Hopefully by the time she finds them, I’ll have this thing solved.
I look at the window and decide to use the door. I figure it’d take me longer to climb back out the window than taking the real way out of a house.
I run around the back of the house to get the ladder and stop when I feel my shoe squish something. I can smell it before I pick it up. “Eww!”
I rub my shoe into the grass to get off the large clumps of dog poop as I walk to the ladder.
I grab the ladder and run to the shed. The buzz of the garage door chain roars and I quickly shut the shed door and tip toe run to the side of the house.
I plant my body up against the warm brick house with my palms flat to the heat. As if my hands have suction cups, I make my way along the side of the house and peek around the corner.
“Crap.” I roll my eyes and whisper. I’m on the wrong side of the house. I can’t just go back around or she’ll see me out her windows and if I cross in front, she’ll see me there too.
I look over at the neighbor’s house and bolt across their lawn. If I cross to the other side of the street, I can keep my head turned away from Brittany’s house in case she does see me.
I nod at a young couple walking their infant in one of those strollers with the net. What are those parents worried about? A bird swooping down to get their young or the sun giving them a good dose of vitamin D?
“No!” The mom screams.
Startled, I look up to apologize for being in her space. “I’m sorry.” I plead to the crazy looking woman.
“Not you.” She points. “Him!” The cute little family takes off down the street.
Tramp, Kent’s dog he got from the SPCA fund raiser, is galloping full speed ahead right towards me. I take off in the opposite direction of the parents, toward my car. I don’t think I’ve ever run before. Or I can’t recall a time when I needed to.
Brittany is running out her front door screaming.
She sounds desperate. “Stop!” I look back and Tramp closing in on me. Brittany is not far behind him flailing her arms in the air. “He won’t hurt you!”
My mind yells RUN and my legs continue to follow.
“Stop! If you don’t I can’t catch him!” I hear Brittany scream as she stops. “Hey, Hey! Olivia?”
If I don’t take her advice, I may have a heart attack. Tramp smells my shoes. He is surrounded by his silver aura indicating he understands why I am there. I bend down to catch my breath and stroke his furry coat.
With one hand planted on her hip and her other hand pointing at me, Brittany states, “You are Olivia.” Her eyes cross examine me, “Do you live near here?”
For a split second I thought she knew I was in her house only seconds ago, but by the expression on her face I can tell she doesn’t.
She takes Tramp by his collar. “Well? Do you?” Her eyebrows turn slightly in.
I smile, relief flowing through me. She doesn’t know I’m Jenn from Splitsville.com. “No.” I pick up the community newspaper in the front yard we are standing in. “I deliver these.” I hold it out to her.
Her face becomes distorted and she cocks her head to the side. “Really? Bradley said you work in the dot com world.”
My smile broadens. “Extra cash with the economy and all.” I change the subject, “Your dog?” I have to know how she got Tramp.
I really can’t believe Erin didn’t know where Tramp went and Bradley didn’t tell me Brittany had a dog.
“No, er, yes. Um…no.” She looks confused.
I question, “Which is it?” If she’s not confused, I sure am. “Yes or no.”
She strokes Tramps head. “My ex boyfriend’s dog.” Her face scans mine. “Tramp showed up at the SPCA one day and I took him. I didn’t tell Bradley so if you can keep it between the two of us that’d be great.”
“Sure.” Sure I won’t! “Well, I’ve got to go to another neighborhood now.” I walk away.
“Funny.” She turns back to face me as I continue to walk
. “I’ve always seen them thrown from cars.” She throws the paper back in her neighbor’s yard.
I keep my eye on the prize. My Toyota. I can’t get to it fast enough. I have my man…er…woman and I know it.
Twenty-Seven
“Now what happened again?” Bradley questions me over another glass of wine about my debut burglary.
To avoid his stare, I look out the window realizing it’s the time of the year where the night’s darkness comes earlier. “I got out of her house just in time.”
Erin comes out with a lighter to light the torches I have planted around the patio. She looks a lot better than she did this afternoon when I checked on her. She has color in her cheeks, and she’s smiling. Well, maybe smiling is a little strong, but she’s not crying, so she’s good.
I continue with my story. “I completely went around the wrong side of the house to get in my car, so I had to cross the street like I was a walker, only Tramp ran out of her house and started towards me.”
Erin stops shy of lighting the last torch and asks, “My Kent’s Tramp?”
I jump around in my seat, “Yes!” I motion for her to sit in the empty chair next to me. Since I am certain Brittany is the killer but doesn’t know exactly who I am, I feel a lot safer sitting outside. “She said the police brought him into the SPCA and she took him home without Bradley knowing.”
“I wondered where he went.” Erin is caught off guard. “I asked the police, but they said there was no dog.” I can see the relief on Erin’s face, the worry she’d been holding in about Kent’s missing dog. “I thought the killer took him.”
“He’s alive and well living with crazy-boots Brittany.”
“She told me the dog was a gift, and I let her bring him to work.” Bradley gets up and paces back and forth. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that was Tramp. He sure cleans up good.”
A red flag shoots up in my head. I put my hand up in the air. “Wait, Kent adopted Tramp at the fund-raiser, but Brittany said she got him from the SPCA and then told you she got him as a gift. Something isn’t adding up.”