Henrietta stared at the kids with her brows scrunched. Celia was right. With the lodger in jail, it was someone else who had committed the new murder.
“What do you know of this murder, Johnny Huerta?” she asked.
“Not much, ma’am. Woman in her forties, well dressed, had a puppy with her who was also killed. The newspaper says that the police are baffled. They have no leads, no clues, no new ideas.”
“Tell me one thing, Johnny Huerta. Was she a redhead?”
“Yes, ma’am, she was.”
“Oh, dear.” Henrietta swept aside a lock of her now-faded red hair to the side and decided that it was time that somebody did something.
“Don’t stand outside, kids. Apparently, it’s not safe. I just made some amazingly tasty chicken stew. Go to the kitchen and eat. I must go to my room and do some thinking.”
Henrietta nodded to herself and ascended the steps. Like an automaton, she headed upstairs, to her own room. Alfred never went in there anymore. It was her domain now.
She thought she heard Alfred call her, but she wasn’t sure. Her mind was elsewhere. She had greater things to worry about. Tonight, she was going to search for inspiration, and tomorrow, she would get down to solving these horrendous crimes herself because everyone else seemed unable to do so.
Chapter 59. The Argument
When she came down to the kitchen in the morning, Celia and her father were bickering. Even from upstairs, you could hear the argument, the yelling.
“What’s going on, you two?” Henrietta asked.
“Father is angry that I don’t like Charlie. I mean, I like him, but not that way.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re supposed to like the person who touches your heart. Right, Alfred?”
“I don’t know, woman. Charlie is such a nice guy. Why can’t Celia date him?”
“I beg to differ, dad,” Celia cut in, waving her hands. “He’s not that nice. He’s too pushy. He wants things I don’t. He isn’t educated, and he doesn’t have a job. What does he live on, anyway? Probably doing something illegal.”
“Don’t be rude, Celia. He’s a good boy. You should give him a chance.”
“No way, dad. I have the right to choose the person I will date. This is not the Middle Ages anymore. Anyway, I don’t understand why you insist on me dating him. You’re as pushy as he is.”
Alfred, visibly losing his patience stood up and took a step toward the young woman, and Henrietta—knowing what was coming—quickly stepped in front of the child.
“You know, Alfred, I too would like to know why you're promoting this Charlie business. Do you owe him a favor, I wonder?”
“How dare you disrespect me? Ever since that lodger moved into the house everything has been turned upside down. You never used to talk to me like this. Nor did she, for that matter,” he said, pointing angrily at Celia.
“Oh, knock it off, you foolish old man,” Henrietta said. “At this point, nobody cares what you think. Leave Celia alone. She’s a good girl. And I have to go out. It’ll be a long while. There’s chicken stew left over from last night in case you get hungry.”
She heard Alfred’s angry roar, but she was becoming good at ignoring him. She put her snow boots on and grabbed her coat. She made sure there were a pen and a notebook in her purse and slammed the front door without ever looking back.
Chapter 60. Determination
Henrietta stared at the Police Station from across the street. She had pretended to feel brave, but she admitted to herself that she was intimidated.
The station didn’t appear to be too big, but there was at least a half dozen patrol cars in front of it and the parking lot next door. One scary looking vehicle had its rotating headlights on. As she walked by it, she noticed that the driver—in police uniform—was talking earnestly to someone, and she repressed a chuckle when she saw that it was an enormous German Shepherd, who stared at the man attentively, head to one side, tongue lolling as if it understood what the driver was telling him.
That broke the ice, and Henrietta smiled as the tension in her back melted away. It was going to be okay, she knew.
She pushed the front door open and, instead of the type of large communal room that she had expected, she found herself facing a desk in a small room, where a woman officer with big curly hair listened patiently to the handful of people in front of her.
She stood in line and waited. When it was finally her turn, she hesitated, and she suddenly didn’t know what to say. But the woman officer was kind, and as patient with her as she had been with the others, and finally, Henrietta managed to tell her that she was there to visit one of the prisoners. She had something for him. And she showed the newspaper with the headline of The Fifth Victim.
“He can show this to his lawyer, and they will know that he had an alibi and is innocent.”
“Very well. You can stay until noon when visiting hours are over. Have you ever been here before?”
Henrietta blushed. “No, never,” she said, feeling terribly embarrassed.
“There’s nothing to it,” the officer said, in a soothing voice. “Go through that door. You’ll have to pass your bag through an x-ray machine, like the ones at the airport. They will show you to the yard, where the prisoners walk about until noon.”
“Is it safe?” Henrietta asked, clutching her pearls.
“Absolutely. We don’t have any dangerous criminals here. They must not really believe that your friend is a murderer. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.”
Chapter 61. Prisoner
The enclosed area where the prisoners enjoyed their freedom looked more like a schoolyard than a jail, except for the double row of chicken wire strung over the fence.
She recognized her lodger from afar. He was strolling with his head down, his hands clasped behind his back, seeming to be deep in thought.
For a second, she wondered what right she had to be here, what had she been thinking about, and almost turned back, but at that moment, George Baxter lifted his head and saw her. There was such a big welcoming smile on his face as he waved and hurried toward her, that Henrietta decided to stay and give things a try. This was definitely a new Henrietta that she barely recognized.
“My dear Mrs. Jones,” he said and grabbed her shaking hands, “what on earth are you doing here?”
“I bring you news.”
“Good ones, I hope. Come, follow me. My favorite bench is empty, and we can sit down and talk.”
She followed him to a corner of the enclosure, very self-conscious of the looks she was getting. Several prisoners had visitors, a couple of them pregnant women, but none as old as her.
As if George Baxter had read her mind, he told her to ignore the curious looks, and they finally settled in a cozy corner where they could talk in private.
“You look well, Mr. Baxter. I thought I would find you starved and mistreated, but I see they’ve taken good care of you.”
“I can’t complain.”
“I could have sworn that you were being accused of murder, but I was told at the entrance that only more or less harmless people are kept in here.”
“Yes, initially, there were hints of accusations, but they soon realized that I have quite good alibis.”
“So why are you still here?”
“The judge is on vacation. They told me that I had to remain a guest of the department until he comes back.”
“Well then, my news will have very little importance for your future. Look.” Henrietta handed him the newspaper and he read the whole front page while she waited and glanced at him. He looked well indeed. She had never seen him in blue jeans, but they suited him well. His blue denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves and the logo of the Correctional Dept brought out a masculinity in him that made her very aware of feelings she didn’t know she had any longer, and she approached him ever so slightly, sliding an inch or two toward him on the bench, wanting to be closer to him, to see if he smelled like soap. Then, ashamed, she pulled bac
k.
“I don’t know what to do,” the lodger—who didn’t seem to have noticed anything—said. “He just keeps on killing, and I have no idea how to stop him.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Baxter?”
“I mean that if you don’t start calling me George, I’ll have to ask the guard to send you home.”
“But what did you mean?”
“Oh, Henrietta, this is such a long story that I don’t even know where to begin.”
“At the beginning, probably.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Well, so I was adopted. I told you that already. I had no more contact with my aunt Ada, nor did I ever see my siblings again. My new parents were good to me. They sent me to school, then to college, and then they died, my adoptive mom in a car accident, and I think her husband of sorrow.”
“Oh, how sad, another set of parents dead.”
“Yes, imagine my sorrow. I loved them dearly. They were the only parents I had actually ever had. But then, it turns out that they had a lot of money saved, and life insurance, and I was their only child, so I suddenly became rich. I hadn’t thought much about my biological parents during my college years because I was busy growing up, and life gets in the way, but as soon as I had all that money in my hands, I realized that now I would have the means to look for my siblings and to find out what had happened to my parents.
“But I found nothing. It was terribly disappointing. All the information the private detective had managed to unearth was that my father had been in the armed forces. That was it.
“Now—as you must already know—I’m a very stubborn man.” Henrietta laughed to herself, and the lodger grabbed her hands.
“Henrietta, before I go on, I have to tell you why I picked your house. I think that’s the house where I grew up. I had spent years trying to piece my first childhood together. Then, one day I came across the words Ember Street, and something clicked. I remembered. After that, it was just a matter of finding the right house.”
“Couldn’t have been easy. All the houses on that street look alike.”
“You’re right, my dear, but one night I had a dream about my father touching one of the bricks by the door, and I woke up knowing.”
“Knowing what?”
“One of the bricks on the left side of your front door has a dragon serpent carved into it. It’s so old and worn down now that you can barely tell. But that brick is different from all the others. As I walked up and down your street trying to pick out my original home I never could see the dragon serpent, until you turned that outdoor light on, the one above the renting a room sign, and as the light fell on the door and the bricks to the left of it, I saw the dragon serpent. The same one from my dreams. I rushed up to the front door and felt that carving with my fingertips, just like my father had done every day of his life, and I knew. So, I rang the doorbell.”
“And was that why you had no suitcase?”
“Exactly. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had to move to your house.”
“But why?”
“To look for clues, of course. My mother used to cry in the attic, and I remember that very well. What was she doing up there? Why was she crying? Does it have anything to do with the way she vanished?”
The lodger was still holding her hands tight when the guard’s whistle blared, and the visitors were ordered to leave.
“Oh, no, it’s too soon,” Henrietta complained. “I didn’t have time to tell you what I came for. I’m determined to find the killer. I was supposed to ask you to help me come up with a plan of action. But now we’re out of time. What can I do?” She pulled her hands out of George Baxter’s and put them in front of her eyes. “I can’t take the horror of any more murders, and the police are so inept, they're just going to let this abomination continue, and they will never find the killer.”
“Then help me find the clue in the attic. There has to be something up there. Because I’m convinced that these murders have something to do with my mother’s disappearance.”
“But how’s that possible?”
“I don’t know, but I feel it in my guts. There’s a lot more that I must tell you. Come back tomorrow.”
“I don’t know, I really don’t.” Henrietta looked at her shoes and did some furious thinking. The guards were already approaching them. They were the only ones left in the yard.
“Come on, Henrietta, let’s work on this together. Maybe you can figure out what I missed. Go to my room. Find that clue and come back tomorrow and tell me what you found.”
Henrietta watched the guard lead George Baxter away and wondered if she would have the courage to come back the next day. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little snooping in the attic. She was already dying of curiosity anyway.
Chapter 62. Curiosity
Henrietta walked home slowly, pensively, thinking about George Baxter and her promise to find a clue.
Spring was finally in the air, and the sun shone cheerfully, making the un-melted piles of old snow sparkle like diamonds. But it gave her no pleasure. She had too much on her mind.
The wind blew miserably cold, and she shivered in her thick wool coat.
She had to admit that for the first time in her life, she was afraid, really afraid. All that talk of murder and redheads had made her paranoid. It had been easy to boast about solving the murders when she had been safely standing next to the lodger. But the reality was a whole different kettle of fish. She was alone now.
She picked up her pace, desperate to get home. She crossed over to the River Walk, which would make her feel safer as it was always full of people. She would walk a couple of blocks, turn right where the shops were—the long, busy, dark alley full of stores that everyone called Market Street—and then turn left on Ember. She would be home within fifteen minutes.
She walked self-consciously, aware of her surroundings. Every person who got close to her or bumped into her made her jump. And the more she thought about it, the more scared she became. She was terrified of the killer. She envisioned what she thought he did to his victims, what he would do to her if she became one of them, and she wanted to scream in terror. He probably tortured them. The sick, cruel bastard probably enjoyed inflicting pain. Those poor women must have died alone, terrified, and in unbearable agony. And she could be next.
Henrietta wanted to run home, but the River Walk was full of pedestrians, and so the going was slow. It was just one of those days. She tried to tell herself that there was safety in numbers, but the thought didn’t comfort her. Her heart was full of despair. At any moment, she expected a knife thrust to her ribs, a few words of menace and a threat to be kidnapped. What would she do? Would she be brave enough to run? Or would she stand there paralyzed, like the foolish old woman that she was?
Once or twice she could have sworn that she was being followed, and she darted quick glances behind her, her heart beating wildly with sudden panic, but she never spotted anyone who looked questionable. No suspicious-looking men in trench coats, no Dick Tracy hats, no dark glasses. Nobody like that seemed to be following her.
You see, she told herself, you’re imagining things, and you need to quit panicking. There’s nobody there.
She turned at the line of shops and quickly glanced behind her. At least a dozen people crossed the street with her, but they all mainly ignored her. And yet, the sensation of being followed persisted. At one point, the feeling got so strong that she ducked into a grocery store full of customers and hid behind the glass doors. From there she watched the people passing by, the wave of shoppers, of pedestrians—men and women—and she breathed with relief when none of them looked her way.
She walked slower now, somewhat reassured. This was her part of town. She was close. She knew all the shops in this dark alley, and she felt safe. At the end of the alley, she would turn left and be home.
She watched her reflection in the dusty shop windows avidly, curious, wondering what she would do if she actually caught someone following her. What would s
he do? Turn around and confront the person? And say what? Demand an explanation? Refuse to be kidnapped? Henrietta had no idea.
As she turned left on Ember Street and left the shops behind, she saw her house down the street and was comforted that she was almost home. She felt a little embarrassed. It wasn’t like her to be such a coward, but all this talk of murder had made her uneasy. As long as it had been young women, she had managed to distance herself from the murders, but the last victim had been in her forties. Had the killer moved on to older women? Did he or she even care about the victim’s age? The only common denominator was the hair. How many more redheads were there left in town? And when the killer ran out, would it be her turn?
She shivered as a cold gust of wind ruffled her scarf. She’d heard that there would be another snowstorm in a few days, and distracted by that thought, she reminded herself that she would have to buy some eggs and milk before it arrived. You never knew how many days you would be stuck in the house—snowed in—especially if the storm turned out to be very bad. She had to make sure there was enough food.
Quickly, she turned around and hurried back to the alley. The grocery store was still open, and completely forgetting that just seconds earlier she had been desperate to get home, she began making—in her mind—a shopping list.
Chapter 63. Foreboding
She saw the ugly yellow jeep in front of the house and young Johnny Huerta leaning against the passenger door, his arms crossed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jones. Waiting for Celia,” the young man said. “We’re heading back to school.”
“It wasn’t a very long weekend, was it, Johnny?”
“No, but it was better than nothing. And at least I have company for the road.”
“Well, with things as they are, I’m glad Celia is far away.”
“And she’s safe with me, Mrs. Jones. I won’t let any harm come to her.”
The Stranger in the Attic Page 12