He pointed right. “Two houses over. And I can tell you the whole neighborhood is waiting to see what you’ll do with all this.”
“Well, tomorrow we start with fumigation.” Molly crossed her arms. “The tents will arrive midmorning. Then we start removing the trash. After that, inventory. Beyond that …” She spread her arms wide. “I have no idea.”
“I suppose Mr. Russell here has told you to keep an eye over your shoulder?”
Russell’s bass voice rumbled. “I have.”
Molly looked Finn over. “What have you seen?”
Finn looked toward the house, his face somber. “Bird. Nina. One of them shiftless grandkids. LJ. He’s Leland’s boy. And Eddie. Scrawny young’un. I think he belongs to one of the sisters. RuthAnn? Tommie Jane?”
“RuthAnn,” Russell confirmed.
Finn nodded. “Just poking around where they don’t belong. Some other folks, too, I ain’t never seen before. Looking in the windows, nosing around. This was all before she passed. I checked on her every day, that’s why.”
“I thought Lyric was here all the time.”
Finn made a noise that was halfway between a snort and a cough. “Ain’t hardly.”
Realization flowed over Molly and she straightened. “You found her? You’re the one who called 911.”
Finn’s chin shot out. “I was. I did. Dug her out, too, from all that pile o’ garbage. But it were too late.” His eyes grew moist. “I should have—”
Molly put a hand on his arm. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.”
He looked grateful, then shook his head. “But she told me. The night before when me and the missus took over some dinner. After Lyric left. Miss Liz told me she’d heard ’em talking, talking that they were gonna kill her.”
5
As Molly expected, rain dowsed Carterton just before dawn. By the time she arrived at the house, a faint steam hovered over the grass as the sun burned off the damp. She sat in the Explorer, letting the air conditioner run, relishing the last few moments of cool. Everything glistened, but Molly knew the beauty would be overwhelmed by mugginess. She had to smile. “It would not be Alabama without humidity.”
Sheriff Greg Olson pulled into the drive just after eight thirty. Molly watched in her rearview mirror as he got out, put on his hat, and dug a package out of his trunk. He didn’t have the rolling stroll she’d seen in so many officers in the past. Instead, he strode, as if every step had intention. He slammed the cruiser’s trunk and headed toward her SUV.
Molly felt more than a little puzzled at how relieved she felt to see him. “One day,” she muttered. “You’ve known the man a gigantic twenty-four hours. Probably just because he’s on your side.” She shook her head as she got out. “Later. Think about it later.”
Greg greeted her with a nod. “Good morning.”
“Thank you for this. I wasn’t sure where I’d get one otherwise.”
“Amazon. They can overnight them.”
She laughed. “I’m sure they can.”
As he handed her the crinkly package holding the crime scene coveralls, he examined her closely, his focus never leaving her face. “Are you sure you want to tackle this alone? I, or one of my officers, could help.”
Molly hugged the package, surprised at how much noise it made. “Thanks, but I’m good. It’s just a few prep stages for the fumigation— opening cabinets and such, and it’ll help me refamiliarize myself with the house. I haven’t been in it for more than twenty years. I know the house itself hasn’t changed much, but the contents …” She glanced away toward the house, then rolled her shoulders and looked back at the sheriff, whose gaze remained on her. Molly resisted the urge to squirm. Instead she cleared her throat. “Have you ever been in a town a few days after a tornado has moved through? Smelled the garbage … but something else as well?”
He nodded once. “Fortunately for me, it was only animals.”
“There’s something else going on here, isn’t there, besides the hoarding?”
Greg remained silent for a few moments, still observing her. Then he pulled a small vial of Vicks VapoRub from his pocket. Her eyes widened as he handed it to her. “Smear it under your nose. Even with the mask, the smell can overwhelm you. That suit is going to be hot. Don’t let yourself get overheated. It’s easier to do than you might imagine. Do you have water on site?”
“I have a case in the back of the Explorer and a cooler full of ice.”
“Good. And if you need anything at all, call out. I’m leaving two guys here all day, and I’ll be stopping by occasionally.”
“I will.” She paused then asked, “Is this in your regular duties as sheriff?”
He smiled. “There is nothing about this situation that’s part of my regular duties, Miss Molly. But Liz was special. What happened to her has my town in a tizzy. This needs to be resolved, and I want to see that her wishes are followed, if at all possible. It’s good for you to be here for her. No matter what happened in the past.”
He touched her shoulder briefly and headed for his car. Molly watched him drive away, wishing for just a moment that he’d stay. She’d been in Carterton less than twenty-four hours and had already met three people she hoped to know better. A record.
“Then again,” she muttered, “how often do you stay in one place more than twenty-four hours? That’s a record in itself.”
Molly shook her head and headed for the house, wishing that others here in Carterton, however, would definitely stay away. She hoped Bird and Kitty took her last warning to heart.
Both had tracked her down at the motel last night to berate her about the house, with Bird giving ominous warnings about the damage the fumigation would cause. She’d listened, silent, as they ranted for a few moments, then told them that the fumigation would start at two in the afternoon, and if they tried to stop her, she’d have them arrested for trespassing on her property. Then she shut the door in their faces. Earplugs did the rest until the motel manager threatened to call the police. They gave up and slunk back into the night.
Far more disturbing to her was the silence from Missouri. No call or text from Jimmy. She and her storm-chasing partner had not parted on the best of terms, but still, she thought he’d realize she’d want news about Sarah, about how serious the brain injury had been. An injury caused by storm-flung debris the same day Molly had received the call from Russell.
She shrugged. No matter. If she wanted to get back to them as soon as possible, Molly had to focus on other things. She tore into the package and shook out the Tyvek coveralls, slick and impervious, and slid them on over her cargo shorts and tank top. She spread a finger’s-width of the pungent salve under her nose and tucked the bottle away in a pocket of her shorts. She slipped on the booties, making sure they were impervious to fleas. She zipped up the suit, and, with the hood up, a mask over her mouth and nose, gloves on her hands, and the booties over her sneakers, she looked like a ghost. “Appropriate,” she mumbled as she placed the key in the lock one more time.
The ointment helped, but a strong odor of decay still reached through the mask. This time, however, she knew what lay behind the door, including the rats that scurried from one box to another, slipping between the cracks. Molly reached for the switch just inside the door, and the foyer blazed into light. She stared for a few minutes, listening to the skittering of tiny claws and trying hard to get her mind around everything.
How does someone get this way? This extreme?
She stiffened, preparing to be slightly off balance, then picked her way through the rows of boxes and bags, the stacks of magazines and newspapers, trying to touch as little as possible. The tall furniture she had spotted yesterday was, in fact, an antique secretary hidden behind the containers in the foyer. The desk of it lay open, stuffed with mail and flyers, some for community events dating back two years. Behind the glass doors of the hutch, however, stood neat rows of Hummel angel figurines, which her aunt had collected since college, twenty-five or thirty of them
. Hundreds of dollars in collectibles.
“Wonder how much of this isn’t really treasure, just trash.” Molly ran a finger down the joint where the two doors on the hutch section met. The quality of the wood and the craftsmanship were obvious, even to her untrained eye. “And how much treasure is beneath the trash.”
Just beyond the secretary, an archway to her right revealed a room, but no path allowed even the tiniest access. Turning on the light, Molly spotted the corner of what looked like a Tudor cup dining table, its legs bearing the sturdy double-cup acorn design. The chairs for it were turned upside down on the table, their legs rising like masts on a grounded sailboat from the mounds of junk around them. A box near the door had ruptured, spilling out a tumble of phone books. The black letter dates of 1975 and 1976 stood out against the faded yellow covers.
Molly’s anger and frustration began to give way to an overwhelming sadness. Why had they let her live like this?
Why had you? the internal scolding replied.
On the other side of the hall, another archway yielded similar results, and Molly wondered if she might have to fumigate the house twice. No way the fog of chemicals could pierce all this.
The sadness, the responsibility of dealing with it, pressed down on her. How in the world am I supposed to handle all this? There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Unlabeled boxes lined walls and shelves. Clothes and shoes seemed intermingled with papers and books. Plastic milk crates filled with dishes and pots nestled heavily on top of mountains of black plastic garbage bags. Some of the bags had split to spill out actual garbage—old food cartons and cans. Clothes, blankets, and linens peeked through holes in others. Underneath it all, she saw corners and legs and edges of oak, cherry, mahogany, and hard rock maple.
Let’s hope the fumigation works the first time. The longer this drags out, the longer you have to deal with them.
The hallway opened into a narrow butler’s pantry. She paused, opening all the cabinets she could reach. One released a cascade of plasticware, which added a cacophony of hollow thunks to the air as it settled on the heaps and piles below. Molly shook her head. Less than twenty-five feet into the house, and she’d given up trying to decipher the contents of the mass around her. Her chest tightened with a deep sense of being overwhelmed. The whole thing felt impossible. “One rag soaked in kerosene and I could be out of here by tomorrow,” she muttered.
Then Aunt Liz’s words echoed in her head. This is why I’m turning to you … You are the only one who can help them. I hope you find it in your heart to carry out my wishes. And forgive me.
“Aunt Liz, I don’t know if I can.” She stumbled over the corner of a box that stuck out from beneath a chair, and growled in frustration as she kicked the box. A scattering of flies and spiders repaid her anger, and she danced backward, trying not to fall.
In the kitchen, the grit of spilled food, ripped bags, and dirt ground under her bootie-covered shoes. The white stovetop was stained brown with burned grease, and smears of jam and mustard coated the refrigerator door. She opened cabinets, astonished to find one filled with clean dishes. More clean dishes stood in a drying rack, although the dirty ones in the sink had been there awhile. Probably since way before Aunt Liz died.
She opened drawers where she could, pulling the refrigerator door last. The stench shot through the mask and the Vicks and snatched her breath away. Molly swallowed hard and turned, bending over the sink, trying not to lose her breakfast. She inhaled through her mouth, then held her breath as she straightened, turned, and reached in to turn off the refrigerator.
Stepping back, she turned her attention to the basement entrance, near the back door. It opened easily, but Molly could go no farther; the stairs were completely blocked with boxes. She shook her head, not doubting for a moment that every room upstairs, plus the attic, looked the same. Her throat tightened as images of how her aunt had lived the last few years swamped her.
“Seriously, Aunt Liz, fire would be much quicker. And a whole lot easier.” The thought was no longer a joke, no matter what her aunt had begged of her.
Molly left the basement door open, then pushed open the one window she could reach. She paused, looking around the kitchen, trying to imagine where she could even start. She leaned against the counter, bracing herself as tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Aunt Liz.” She looked down, noticing for the first time the cloud of black spots that dotted her white-clad ankles and shins. Fleas.
No wonder Blossom bolted. I wouldn’t live here either.
Abruptly, the sadness that had settled over her fled as a flush of anger returned. Her family’s obsession with acquiring more and more possessions had led to this, had culminated in the misery of a sweet woman who could no longer say no to her family. To stuff.
It had to stop.
On the other side of the kitchen, an open door revealed a large room that Molly remembered as being Aunt Liz’s formal dining room. Here is where that giant Tudor cup table had welcomed guests to elaborate dinners. Elegant women in tea dresses and hats had clustered here, while she and Mickey had peered in through a swinging door, mimicking the delicate manners and making childish jokes about tiny sandwiches and punch. Aunt Liz played the perfect Southern hostess.
Molly shook off the vision. Now the room seemed to be a combination bedroom and living room. A double bed pressed up against the back wall of the house held the rumpled covers and a scatter of magazines that must have occupied Aunt Liz during her last weeks in the house. Perpendicular to it and in front of some tall, overflowing bookshelves, a scuffed and lumpy microfiber couch faced an oversized, high-definition television. The coffee table in front of it held the remnants of at least six fast food meals, a stack of gossip magazines, and four remotes. As she moved into the room, a rat darted out of one of the food bags and vanished under the bed. Molly shuddered.
Lyric’s nest. They lived in these two rooms, out of more than four thousand square feet. Dear God!
Behind the couch, a mound of garbage bags and newspapers looked more scattered and ragged than the other piles, and some of the nearby stacks had been shoved around and were partially collapsed. Molly shuddered, imagining this is where Liz had died.
Stay focused.
Molly pushed around the side of the bed, reaching for a chest of drawers on the far side. The bottom drawers already stood open, but she slid the remaining ones out. The top one stuck and she jerked hard. It gave suddenly, throwing Molly off balance. She stumbled, falling against the bed. The mattress slid away from her, and she fought to stay upright. Then, as Molly straightened, she noticed a blue strap sticking out from between the mattress and the box springs. Curious, she lifted the edge of the mattress and tugged the strap. A flat, zippered, leather bag dropped free. She propped it against the bed’s footboard and grabbed the zipper pull. She yanked it back and pried open the bag.
“And what, may I ask, do we have here, Aunt Liz? Taxes? Old bills? Last week’s grocery—”
Molly froze as she peered inside. Cash. Bank bundles of cash, at least eleven of them from what she could see. Hundred dollar bills. More than $100,000. And a spiral notebook with one word scrawled across the front: Molly. She set the bag aside and opened the journal. The first page contained only one paragraph, written in the same neat handwriting as the letter she’d left with Russell.
Mollybelle,
There are dozens of other journals in this room, which I hope you will find time to read. But this one is the most recent and important. I’ve listed what I think are the most valuable items in the house, what they’re worth, and who I think should get them. But in the end, it’s up to you. Help as many people as you can. Use this money to get you through until it’s all settled. I set it aside for you, because I know this process is going to take cash and that Bird and our kin are going to play you the devil until it’s over. But you’re strong. Take them head on, my girl. I will always love and believe in you.
Liz
So this is what they were so anxious to get
their hands on. Molly’s gut tightened as she understood a part of Liz’s letter with a singular clarity:
Obviously, there was a method to their madness. Inheritance. I’ve noticed some things missing, but nothing major. They won’t find what they’re really looking for, and they won’t until I’m dead.
Molly knew more than a few people who would do just about anything to get their hands on this kind of money. Some of them would even kill for it. She zipped the bag and slung it over one shoulder and left the room till later. Molly picked her way up the stairs, holding tight to the rail as she thrust aside and restacked boxes to make a path for the pest control workers. All four bedrooms on the second floor held the same proliferation of contents as the two on the first floor. The bathrooms had obviously not been used for anything but storage for a long while and one held a never-emptied litter box.
Blossom, where are you? Somewhere safe I hope. Liz really adored you. Please don’t vanish on my watch. Molly smiled as she thought about how many pictures of Blossom took up space on her phone. Liz had perfected texting only to shower friends and family with shots of her orange companion.
Molly pushed on. Two of the bedrooms had small rooms beyond them, but she didn’t attempt to reach them. By the time she opened the door to the attic, Molly was almost used to the smell, even though she felt hot and suffocated by the Tyvek. The smell hit her anew in the attic, stronger than ever, and an image of dead rats rotting in the heat made her pause. Still … it had to be done. With deliberate, measured movements, she cleared a narrow trail up the stairs. At the top, she hesitated again as she spotted daylight leaking in near the western eave. She stepped toward it, but stopped as an angry chattering bounced off the rafters. A squirrel, bushy tail flagging a warning, scolded her from the top of a box.
She stared at it. Squirrels in the attic. Of course there would be squirrels. Molly stamped her foot, and the squirrel flashed away, disappearing out the hole near the eave.
“Ms. McClelland!” A baritone voice from the front door sounded muffled as it found its way through the heaps and up the stairs.
Murder in the Family Page 5