Hawthorn Woods

by Patrick Canning

  The Chief waved dismissively. “It probably has more to do with me than anything else.”

  Francine would’ve loved to ask what that meant, but he’d already moved on.

  “Anyway, I’d rate it as unlikely that you flew halfway across the country to kill a stranger’s pet goat, but I did hear you were the first to find the animal. Is that true?”

  Francine had hoped her first-on-the-scene status might have been forgotten in the night’s chaos. She wanted to help, but Hawthorn Woods was starting to seem like the kind of environment where being in the wrong place at the wrong time could earn you a wealth of whispers.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I was walking home from Laura Jean’s, and I saw someone standing over the goat.”

  “You walked around the whole block to go next door?”

  “I wanted some fresh air before bed. I’m a big walker.” She felt no need to sully the story with her personal drama.

  “Mmhmm,” he said evenly, jotting notes she couldn’t see on a notepad behind the porcelain pig on his desk. “This person you saw. Tall, short? Fat, skinny? Man, woman?”

  “I was kind of far away and they weren’t totally in the light.” Francine tried not to think about how, if she were an emotionally stable person, she wouldn’t have had to wipe her eyes, and this would be an open and shut case. “I think I startled the person while they were making the triangle on the goat’s stomach. They took off pretty quick. Then one of Lori’s Hens—er, friends—showed up and started screaming, and everybody else came over to see what was happening. Then Lori herself showed up and really started screaming at everyone.”

  The Chief rubbed his temples as if he’d just remembered a headache. “I’ve had nearly the whole block in this morning. There’s due diligence, and then there’s…heavily inspired due diligence.”

  Francine relaxed, feeling they’d established the minimum requirements for a rapport.

  “Does this inspiration rhyme with Schmori Schmasperski?”

  “No comment.” The Chief grinned. “Although Lori—the inspiration, I mean—is pretty disappointed I haven’t locked anybody up yet.”

  “An animal getting killed isn’t, like, normal here, is it?”

  “Ms. Haddix, Hawthorn Woods may not be Times Square, but we don’t slaughter livestock in the streets either. Technically, nobody in the neighborhood’s even supposed to keep farm animals. If it were anyone else but Lori, you can be sure she’d turn them in, but nobody else cares. At least, I didn’t think so.”

  “How about the triangle?”

  “Could be a bad prank that got out of hand.”

  Nothing about the carving on the stomach or the words on the pavement said “prank” to Francine, but for now she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. He certainly knew the neighborhood better than she did. She found him friendly but coy, pretending this was a conversation when, in reality, he was only interested in extracting information. But that was what the police were supposed to do. Francine just had to keep the exchange going so she could do the same.

  “Does anybody hate Lori enough to pull a prank this serious?” she asked.

  “Oh, we have our fair share of wayward youths, just like anywhere else.”

  “Schmeric Schmanderwalt.”

  He looked amused. “You know the block pretty well.”

  “Do you think it might have been directed at you specifically, since it happened near your driveway?”

  “Couldn’t say. Though I do become particularly unpopular this time of year. People bring fireworks in from Wisconsin or Indiana, at which point I have to confiscate said fireworks. That makes a grudge against me unhelpfully unexotic.”

  “But just because the animal was found there, doesn’t necessarily mean it was supposed to be, right? Like, maybe the goat was just too heavy for the person to drag much farther than next door.” She thought about the figure she’d seen, and the chilling way they’d lingered over the goat, almost as if they were showing it off to her. “I keep thinking about the ‘Get Off Our Block’ part. Is there a chance…Do you think it could have been meant for me?”

  “I promise you that Magdalena—”

  “Oh no,” Francine said quickly. “I didn’t mean her. She was still at the party.”

  But you weren’t, she thought. And while the scrawny Eric Banderwalt or frail Roland Gerber would’ve had a hell of a time killing a struggling animal, the man before her could probably dispatch a bull with a butter knife without breaking a sweat.

  “You’re more inquisitive than half my deputies,” Chief Durham said, sounding more impressed than annoyed. “I know you’ve had an odd introduction to the neighborhood, but I can’t imagine someone building so much animosity toward you in two days that they’d kill an innocent animal. I hope you won’t worry about your safety. We’re going to be running extra patrols and instituting an after-dark curfew.”

  “That’s good to know,” Francine said.

  The Chief stood, apparently signaling the end of the meeting. Following his lead, Francine stood herself, and was reaching for the door when he cleared his throat.

  “Listen, uh, it may not be my place to say anything, but Ellie mentioned you’re here for…therapeutic reasons. With all this goat business and that unfriendly welcome on your first night…” He cleared his throat again. “Relationships can be difficult things. I hope your stay here helps more than it hurts.”

  Francine studied the uneasy mountain of uniformed muscle before her, looking for any of the simmering affection she’d thought she’d felt from Bruno, or the unwelcome lust she’d definitely felt from Del Merlin. But neither was present. And while she wasn’t quite ready to cross Chief Durham off her emerging suspect list, his concern felt genuine.

  She held out a hand. “Thank you.”

  The Chief shook it, and added an extra, reassuring pat. Francine turned to leave and gasped.

  Standing on the other side of the glass, watching their brief but tender exchange, was a very unhappy looking Magdalena Durham.

  The Chief opened the door and kissed his wife’s cheek. “Hiya, hon.”

  “What is this?” Magdalena said, pointedly not looking at Francine.

  “Rounding up the usual suspects,” he said cheerily, taking a small Tupperware container from her hands. “What do we have here? Jell-O salad?”

  “I bring you food thinking you are working, find you having fun instead.”

  “Honey, no. This is standard—”

  But Magdalena spun around and stormed through the bullpen.

  Francine wasn’t thrilled about the spectacularly bad timing, but she also wasn’t going to dwell on it. She was too excited.

  After making it through her meeting with the Chief, it was now time for her to look into the mystery herself. Not the kind of mystery that could be wiped away with a washcloth and a change of clothes, or the kind that stayed harmlessly on the pages of her beloved Nancy Drews. It was a real mystery, just like she’d always wanted, and for once, it seemed she’d gotten what she’d asked for.

  Chapter 13

  I don’t blame people for trying to grab everything they can get in this world.

  [ ] TRUE [ x ] FALSE

  Back home, Francine splashed cold water on her face, battled her messy hair with some trusty bobby pins, then yanked on her favorite yellow shorts and a rainbow-stripe tank top.

  Down in the family room, Charlie was still watching his prison break movie, and seemed to be in the same high spirits as before. But Francine decided to give him a special surprise, just in case he was brilliantly hiding some goat-murder stress.

  “You can pick our dinner tonight. Anything you want.”

  “Ooh, I got some ideas already,” he said, with worrying enthusiasm. “Can I go outside and play now?”

  Francine didn’t love the thought, but Chief Durham had said they were running extra patrols, and it wasn’t like she could keep Charlie locked in the family room for the rest of her visit.

  “Yes. But don�
��t talk to any strangers.”

  “There aren’t any strangers here.”

  “Well, be extra careful anyway. Promise?”

  He hooked her pinky and bolted up the stairs.

  “I’ll leave ants-on-a-log for you in the fridge,” she called after him.

  “Thank you!” came the reply from outside.

  Once she’d made Charlie’s snack, Francine stepped out onto the driveway and lit her first delicious 100 of the day. Smoking in the cheerful rainbow shirt made her look a bit like an edgy kindergarten teacher, she knew, but it was a good I’m-here-on-summer-vacation disguise.

  It was time to begin Francine Haddix and the Dearly Departed Goat.

  Every time Nancy Drew poked around following a crime, her attentions were starkly unwelcome. Francine hadn’t exactly endeared herself to the good people of Hawthorn Woods in the first place, so she’d have to be inconspicuous and pleasant as hell. She wasn’t looking forward to her first interview subject, but was going with the vegetable logic of just getting it out of the way first.

  “Morning, Del!”

  Del looked up from his beloved cherry red sports car. He wiped his hands on a terry cloth rag, his dark, muscular forearms rippling like tightly braided ropes. “Morning, Francine. How goes the vacation?”

  “If nothing else, it’s been interesting.” Francine kept her voice light and chatty as she examined the showroom-ready convertible. “Mustang?”

  “No.” The answer came with palpable disappointment, and Francine knew she’d committed some grave automotive sin. “This is a 1960 Corvette. Roman Red. Not cherry red—lots of people think that.”

  “Pfff, no, that’s Roman Red for sure. Sorry I said the M-word. I just figure whenever anyone’s working on an old car, it’s a Mustang. This thing’s spotless. Do you ever drive it?”

  Del shook his head. “Rarely. Some guys drive, some guys tinker. I tinker.”

  “This might be a dumb question, but why?”

  “Number one killer of men my age is a disease called retirement. People stop doing things and resort to alcoholism, or worse, golf. My baby here keeps me busy.”

  “Not to brag, but I used to hold the flashlight for my dad as a kid, so I’m basically an automotive genius. Mind if I join in?”

  Del shrugged. “Put out that coffin nail and we’ll get to it.”

  Bingo.

  Francine extinguished and pocketed her cigarette, then joined Del at the rim of the Corvette, a miniature city of engine between them.

  “We’re gonna take out the carburetor for a cleaning,” Del said. He waited. Clearly an unspoken test.

  Francine scanned the several dozen engine components, none of which looked in need of a cleaning. On a prayer, she pointed to a shiny circle.

  Del nodded in approval and gestured to an immaculately organized workbench. “Grab yourself a socket wrench.”

  Francine approached the tools on the workbench, but her attention immediately went to a rifle mounted on the wall above, its polished wooden stock and sleek black barrel gleaming in the garage’s fluorescents. She flicked at a padlock that secured the gun to the wall.

  “Eric Banderwalt’s got a rifle kind of like this,” she said.

  “This one doesn’t shoot BB’s,” Del said. “Wrenches are on your left.”

  Brownie hadn’t died from a gunshot wound, but it was good to know which suspects were armed. Francine grabbed a socket wrench with a rubber grip, hoping the insulated handle would save her from getting shocked if and when she poked something that wasn’t supposed to be poked. Electrocution would probably hurt her claims of being an automotive genius.

  “Should be six bolts on that side,” Del said as she leaned deep over the engine to reach the carburetor. His eyes lingered around the scoop of Francine’s rainbow tank, and she suddenly wished she’d taken the time to put on a bra that morning.

  “No pot of gold there, Del.”

  “No, you’re just gonna want to be careful of the hood prop.” He nodded at the metal brace next to her chest.

  “Oh.” Feeling stupid for flattering herself, Francine found the first bolt, and began her real work. “Did you have to meet with the Chief this morning?”

  “Sure did, though I didn’t have much to say. I went straight home from the party. Out like a light. Didn’t hear about everything that happened ’till this morning when the deputy called.”

  “So what’s your theory?”

  “About the goat? Oh hell, who knows? Probably some kids messing around who took things a little too far. Not that hard to believe. At least it was quick. Having your throat cut is one of the more painless ways to go.”

  That was an interesting bit of knowledge for someone to have…

  “I heard people aren’t technically supposed to have farm animals here,” Francine said. “Do you think someone could’ve been mad about that?”

  Del shrugged again as he decoupled a thing from another thing. “I don’t think anybody cared enough to off the goat. Plenty of better reasons to hate Lori Asperski than her farm.”

  “Like what?”

  “You met her. Pick one.”

  They laughed and Del moved to the front of the car, perpendicular to Francine.

  “Plus, I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for my crime.” He sighed.

  Francine’s wrench stopped. “What was that?”

  “I was born Puerto Rican.”

  She rolled her eyes and went back to work.

  Del shook his head as he torqued against a big bolt. “I’m not saying she’s got a pointy hood in the closet, but Lori likes for more than just her Christmas to be white.” He jiggled the bolt free and it clanked into the guts of the engine. “Ah, dammit. Didn’t hear it hit the floor, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  Del wormed his arm down into the engine, probing for the bolt. When his hand came back up, it just so happened to brush against Francine’s right breast. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “No problem,” she answered, but took half a step away. It might’ve been unintentional, or he might’ve seized an opportunity and wanted to make her think she was crazy for noticing. In Francine’s opinion, the ninth circle of hell was reserved for gaslighters, the lowest of the low. Ben was definitely in for a sweltering afterlife, and it seemed like Del Merlin might be angling for the spot next to him.

  “Does Lori really give you a hard time about being an immigrant?”

  “It’s all in the eyes,” Del said. “That glint of entitlement, or superiority, maybe. I guess nobody told her America is the world’s experiment. People magnetize here precisely because it’s not the old country. You can make something new and better, if you do it right. Lori acts like she crawled out of a bald eagle’s ass and got squatter’s rights. I don’t think it works like that. And I certainly don’t remember her digging bullets out of teenagers along the Mekong.”

  “You were in Vietnam?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Field medic. Sixty-nine to seventy-two.”

  Del pulled up his sleeve to show a faded tattoo on his shoulder: snakes twisting around winged medical poles jammed through a fractured skull. The somewhat contradictory imagery was framed inside a shield…in the shape of a triangle.

  Francine’s inner Nancy Drew was about to do a backflip before her concentration was broken by a high whining sound as Eric Banderwalt raced by on his dirt bike, leaving a cloud of bluish-black smoke in his wake. Francine watched him go, her eyes slightly narrowing. The rogue teenager was definitely one of her favorite suspects, but a casual drop-in would probably be a little tougher in his case.

  She turned back to the car to find Del watching her with a frown. He plunged his arm back into the engine.

  “I hope you’re not like her,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Lori. She believes the neighborhood demands a certain class of people. Decided by her, of course. I grew up in a house like the Banderwalts’. They’re a family that’s trying. The kid gets into trouble now and then, b
ut nothing too bad.”

  “But you said it might have been kids messing around who killed Brownie.”

  “You really want to know who did it, don’t you?”

  “I’m curious about—”

  Del’s hand came up from the engine and found her breast again—palm first.

  Absolutely wonderful.

  Marriages came and went, and hair styles changed with the weather, but Francine could close her eyes and trust-fall into the arms of unwanted sexual attention, because they would always be there for her. Del was just another gaslighter after all.

  A leering grin hooked his face. “Sorry about the grease.”

  “So am I.” Francine pulled the hood prop with her finger, dropping the polished slab of metal down onto one of Del’s hands.

  He wailed and fumbled at the Corvette’s grill for the release. “Shit! Ah, shit! Pop the hood. Pop the hood!”

  Francine calmly found the release latch and popped the hood.

  Del slid to the ground, cradling fingers that were cherry—no—probably more of a Roman Red.

  She chucked her wrench onto the workbench and strolled out of the garage, brushing at the grease stain on her shirt.

  Scotland Yard would probably balk at a correlation between boob grabbing and goat killing, but it took a Grade-A dickhead to kill an innocent animal. Del Merlin had just proven himself certified prime.

  Chapter 14

  I am afraid when I look down from a high place.

  [ x ] TRUE [ ] FALSE

  Popcorn and chocolate milk. On the roof. That’s why you didn’t let a seven-year-old make the dinner plans.

  Francine opened the window in the master bedroom that looked out on the roof. “If I don’t win Aunt of the Year, the system’s rigged.”

  “They give awards for that?” Charlie asked.

  “Never mind. Ugh, I am not loving this idea.”

  “Do you have a height phobia?”

  “Your knowledge of words is so random. No, a phobia is an irrational fear. My fear of heights is very rational.”