The Murder Next Door

by Ivy Thorne

Marla sighed with relief the minute Speckleman was out of the embalming room. With each day that passed, he proved himself to be an even bigger prick than she thought. If his pestering didn’t let up, Marla would have no choice but to report him to Mr. Oswald. Though she had a feeling if she did that, Speckleman would play up his innocence like a professional actor. The man was as good at being a dick as he was at pretending not to be.

  What bothered Marla the most about other people was how two-faced they could be. Some funeral directors had one seemingly kind and compassionate personality they put on for the public and then their real personality, which was never pleasant. Marla knew this was true of lots of different people. It made determining who was a friend and who was a foe confusing. Why couldn’t everyone just be genuine?

  After dressing the bodies, Marla went in search of Jackie to help her bring up their caskets from the basement. Whenever a casket was chosen by a family, it would be ordered from the casket company and delivered to the funeral home. It would then be stored in the basement until needed.

  “Reggie’s going in the rental,” Jackie said as they were riding the elevator.

  “I saw that,” Marla responded. “I bet Mr. Oswald is glad to be rid of that extra one we’ve had collecting dust down here.”

  “I’m pretty sure he practically gave it to them just to have it gone.”

  Rental caskets were re-usable due to a removable inner container. The inner portion housed the body and was typically cremated after the completion of a service. After several uses of the outer shell, a rental casket eventually would be too worn out to be displayed. For this reason, Mr. Oswald had discounted it heavily. The casket was still in good shape, but it did have a few scratches here and there, which had been disclosed.

  “I don’t know why people get so picky about caskets having tiny imperfections,” Marla said. “I mean, the thing is getting buried six feet under or going in a body-sized oven to be burned. As long as it doesn’t look like garbage, why refuse it? I don’t understand why some families spend thousands of dollars on those luxury mahogany caskets. They’re throwing away money on a fancy box that’s going to be destroyed.”

  Jackie shrugged. “I know, but some people gain peace of mind knowing their loved one is resting in a pretty container. It certainly wouldn’t be my first choice. Hell, when I die, throw me in a garbage bag. I don’t care. I’m dead!”

  “How about instead we throw Speckleman in a garbage bag. He doesn’t have to be dead, though.”

  Jackie burst into laughter. The bombastic sound was just the sort of thing Marla needed to hear to get through the rest of her day.

  Most of the time, when Marla returned home after work, she’d feel a sense of relief. That night, when she returned to her condo, she was not at all relieved to see it still in an unfortunate state.

  She groaned loudly after dropping her bag on the floor by her door. The disarray was a terrible reminder of the fact that the police suspected her of murder, no thanks to Speckleman.

  “God, I wish I had something to drink,” Marla muttered aloud. She didn’t mean orange juice or cola, either.

  For the first time that day, Marla removed her phone from the pocket of her jacket. At one point during work, it had been vibrating. Of course, she’d been far too busy to answer it. It hadn’t vibrated just once, but several times. The frequent calls were likely the result of some company trying to scam her.

  It's probably those guys wanting to clean my air ducts, she thought.

  Frustrated with the number of calls she’d been getting from the ‘air duct cleaning’ company, Marla had played a little prank on the caller during the last conversation she’d had with them. The moment the man asked if Marla needed her air ducts cleaned, she’d responded with, ‘No, I keep my duck’s feathers nice and clean.’ It had been convenient that she’d been walking through a park at the time as her background environment had been filled with the sound of ducks quacking. Her stint had proved useful, as the air duct cleaning company hadn’t called her in several weeks.

  Expecting to see a series of unrecognized numbers on her call history, Marla was surprised to see the calls had come from Dane.

  No way, she thought. After days of silence, why would Dane suddenly decide to call her? Moreover, why had he tried to call her multiple times? What did he so urgently need to tell her?

  Marla didn’t spend any time reflecting on these questions. Instead, she pressed his number, eager to hear the cute detective’s voice.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Hi.”

  “Uh, hi.”

  “You called me, like, four times today,” Marla stated after an awkward silence following the greeting.

  “Yes, I did,” Dane affirmed.

  “Any reason for that?” Marla probed.

  She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or endeared by Dane’s reluctance to speak.

  “I, erm, wanted to apologize for all the trouble I put you through. Detective Wiggins can be kind of intense when he does interrogations.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” Marla hummed. “Did you find Reggie’s blood residue on my kitchen knives?”

  She grinned. She almost could hear Dane’s face going pink as he struggled to respond. There was something so adorable about him being flustered.

  “No, of course not. I’m so sorry, Marla. I hadn’t known what to think after Detective Wiggins told me about that anonymous call. That was after we’d spoken to Ashley over the phone and she’d told us about your supposed hatred for Reggie. I liked you, but as a detective, I must remain unbiased. I can’t assume someone is innocent just because I like them.”

  “Wait… what was that?” Marla stopped him.

  “What?”

  “Did you just say you like me?”

  “Uh… well… I mean…” Dane stammered.

  Marla laughed. Her horrible day just had been turned upside down by Dane’s adorable blundering.

  “Listen,” Dane said, with a nervous chuckle, “what I’m trying to say is, I don’t see you as a viable suspect. You were his tenant years ago. I’ve hated people before, and I can’t say that I still hate someone who’d annoyed me, especially if I don’t see that person anymore. You don’t have a plausible motive for murder. If you’d wanted to murder Reggie, you’d have done so by now. Why would you wait for years? As for that anonymous caller claiming you have characteristics of a psychopath, I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Thanks,” Marla said with a content sigh. At last, she knew the truth about Dane: He knew she was innocent. Plus, he liked her! But, just how much did Dane like her?

  “You know what you can do to make this up to me?” Marla said.

  “What?”

  “Take me out for a drink.”

  Dane hesitated before laughing uncertainly. “I − I don’t know if that would be appropriate.”

  Marla slid her shoes from her aching feet and plopped herself down on the couch in her living room. It was time to have some fun with this man.

  “Oh, I get it,” she replied. “As a detective, you have to remain unbiased about people involved in your investigations.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “But, you’ve already stated that you believe I’m not a viable suspect and that you like me. So, explain to me how it would be inappropriate to buy me a drink?”

  Dane struggled to answer her question. “Um… because you see, the department still considers you a suspect even though I don’t… so…” Dane sighed.

  Marla smiled. She could tell that deep down, Dane already had decided to choose her over the department. Dane couldn’t argue a position he didn’t stand by.

  In a steady, confident voice he said, “I’d love to buy you a drink.”

  Chapter 11

  Marla’s evening was more than making up for the stressful day she’d had. Dane had agreed to meet her at a local bar and restaurant called The Yellow Cockatoo. The sudden mood boost had made Marla feel almost giddy. As she drove to the bar, she sha
melessly grooved out to her favorite music, while passengers in passing cars stared and questioned her sanity.

  Dane, on the other hand, probably was feeling nervous. He had been lucky to get the position he had in Wallsberg. But if he was caught fraternizing with her − a woman who his superior officers still perceived as a suspect − he could be terminated. Dane seemed to be attracted to her, and, although he’d already chosen to pursue a relationship with her, he likely still feared the possible consequences and was wondering if they were worth it.

  Trust me, Honey, Marla thought, the consequences are worth a magical night with me!

  This time around, Marla managed to track down Dane in the restaurant parking lot. The Yellow Cockatoo was a much smaller place than Orville’s Grill, which made for a considerably smaller parking lot.

  The gravel in the parking lot crunched under Marla’s feet as she walked toward Dane. Now that the sun was descending below the horizon, the light was waning. Crickets chirped amongst the dry patches of weeds that lined the edges of the property.

  The Yellow Cockatoo had been around for as long as Marla had been, and longer. It was an ugly stone building with a stucco texture to its exterior. It was a sketchy-looking bar, but with a surprisingly non-threatening atmosphere. Marla could see the apprehension written on Dane’s face the moment he laid eyes on the building. She didn’t blame him. Had she been new to the town she too would have been hesitant to enter the place. It looked like the sort of spot where gangs met up to participate in dangerous drug deals.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not as scary as it looks,” Marla told him. “At the very least, they fixed the sign. The bulbs behind the last four letters in the word cockatoo used to be burnt out. As you can imagine, this left the sign reading something quite offensive. Thankfully, it didn’t take them long to repair it.”

  The somewhat stifled eruption of laughter that came from Dane in response to this information had Marla smiling ear to ear. For a man with a fairly deep voice, he had a surprisingly high-pitched laugh.

  “You can’t be serious about that,” he said.

  Marla paused dramatically before opening the door to the bar. “Oh, I am,” she responded.

  Dane would soon come to learn that there were two kinds of bars in the town of Wallsberg: the sort that was dimly lit to encourage a certain ambiance, and the sort that was dimly lit because it couldn’t afford to replace the light bulbs.

  She brought Dane to the front table, where she ordered two beers.

  “What, you’re not a mojito drinker?” Dane teased.

  “I’m an everything drinker,” Marla responded. “A.K.A. a funeral director,” she added.

  “A.K.A. a detective,” Dane said.

  “A.K.A. a human,” Marla retorted. “I will add, though, I don’t like clamato juice. You’d think I would, being that I’m a vegetarian, but I’ve never been keen on tomatoes.”

  “No Bloody Marys, I take it?”

  “I’ll take one with just the vodka,” Marla replied.

  Dane scoffed. “I take it being a funeral director is stressful?”

  Marla was about to answer his question, but she was interrupted by the server bringing them their drinks. She took a massive swig of her beer. The action alone answered Dane’s inquiry.

  “It can be stressful,” she said. “There’s a lot of planning involved in orchestrating a funeral, and only a short frame of time for it to be done. Mistakes are unforgettable, and people’s emotions are always high. I mostly deal with dead people; they don’t complain.”

  She studied Dane for a moment. The lighting in the bar certainly wasn’t ideal, but even so, Dane looked gorgeous. Marla hadn’t noticed before, but the man’s face was lightly coated in freckles.

  Dane noticed her eyeing him. He shrunk bashfully beneath her gaze.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?” he said.

  Marla smiled. “I just noticed you’re a ginger.”

  “Half ginger, actually. My hair is brown, thank you very much,” Dane responded. “But, you’re not wrong. My mother is ginger. Do you have a problem with that?” he added.

  “Not at all,” Marla replied. “I like your freckles. They’re cute.”

  The compliment made Dane blush. Flustered, he avoided her gaze for a moment before clearing his throat and changing the subject.

  “It must be hard having to speak to families who just have lost their loved ones,” he said. “In my line of work, it’s the police who often have to inform families when we’ve discovered the body of one of their relatives. I’ve never had to do it, as of yet. But I’ve been present while another detective was doing it. It’s rough.”

  Marla nodded. She hadn’t even thought about that aspect of police work. Could that be the reason why Detective Wiggins seemed so jaded? Perhaps he’d seen and dealt with so much grief in his career that he’d just become accustomed to it to the point where he didn’t feel anything anymore.

  “As I said before, I don’t deal much with families. I would like to, however. There’s a certain level of satisfaction achieved when knowing you’ve helped someone through a tough time. Lately, I’ve been stressed because of a certain anonymous caller, with whom I have the misfortune of working,” Marla admitted.

  Dane hummed in understanding. “I wondered if the identity of that caller belonged to someone who just was trying to get you into trouble?”

  Marla noticed he was taking his time drinking his beer and decided to match his pace. She didn’t want to drink too fast and find herself tipsy and babbling Dane’s ear off. He’d only just revealed to her that he liked her.

  “It was,” Marla said. “He told me so.” She shook her head and groaned as all of Speckleman’s irksome comments came rushing back to her as though he was there whispering them to her.

  “Did you do something to anger this person?” Dane inquired. “Why would your co-worker tell the police you’re a psychopath? That’s a horrific thing to do to a colleague.”

  Marla shrugged. She’d always puzzled over Speckleman’s targeting of her. Ever since she’d started working at the funeral home, he’d initiated skirmishes with her. He did this with Jackie too, but seemed to direct his comments more toward Marla.

  Her conclusion always had been that Speckleman just hated her for her outspoken personality. Of course, she didn’t know this for sure. She figured there had to be more to his hate than just that. As good as Marla was at remembering details, she wasn’t nearly as good at determining who a person was or how they felt about her.

  “He’s a terrible worker,” Marla informed Dane. “He’s probably the laziest person I’ve ever met. But, because he’s able to put on an empathetic façade in front of bereaved families, he’s still employed as a funeral director. Most of the tasks he has to do he just delegates to everyone else.”

  “That’s not fair,” Dane sympathized. “I know how you feel. I once worked at a station office with a guy named Vinny who was like that. I was just an intern back then. He always made me do all of his tedious tasks. Most of them involved me having to sit in front of a computer screen going through digital case files and organizing them into their corresponding date folders. He was a real bastard. The funny part was his excuse for not being able to get these jobs done himself.”

  “What was his excuse?” Marla probed.

  “He used to say if he sat for too long it would exacerbate his hemorrhoids.”

  Marla guffawed. What was especially humorous about the story was the fact that the character Dane had described seemed to be so lazy that he’d rather embarrass himself by admitting (or perhaps lying) about having an embarrassing condition than do work.