by Meg Wolfe
ambulance, and then to call Helene. She hardly heard her friend’s distress through the ringing in her ears, and took shallow breaths to calm down. It was as she waited for help and started to cover Olivia with a crocheted afghan from the sofa that she noticed the sticky stuff at the business end of the bat: blood. And then she saw another big streak of blood across the rug, which she hadn’t spotted at first against the dark red pattern. She called 911 again, this time for the police. Something very bad had happened here.
Two
Also Friday, September 13th
“Hello? Ma’am, are you there? Hello?”
Charlotte started at the dispatcher’s voice, and realized she had spaced out for a moment, staring at Olivia’s unconscious body, her permed steel gray hair, baggy brown polyester pants, a man’s oversized bright green sweatshirt, and skinny ankles sticking out of scruffy gray walking shoes, quite possibly the same outfit she wore when Charlotte met her the other day.
“Yes! I’m here.” Charlotte’s voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat.
“Ma’am, are you alone in the house? Is there any chance the person who did this is still in the house?”
“Um, I’m alone, yes, and um—oh dear, I see what you mean—”
“Ma’am, please leave the house and stay on the line. Wait outside for the officers to arrive.”
Charlotte’s heart started fluttering again, and she staggered back onto her feet, feeling dizzy and short of breath. Of course! Whoever did this to Olivia could still be here, armed and dangerous, even! She picked up her bag and started to make her way out, but stopped cold when the front door opened and a tall man walked in, his features blacked out by the brightness of the light behind him.
She felt herself make a weird squeak as she gasped and clutched her bag even tighter, prepared to use it as a weapon. Oh my god, oh my god—
The tall man stopped upon seeing her, and then stepped further into the room, which made his face visible. He looked down at her with eyebrows raised in either surprise or anger, she couldn’t tell which in her fraught state of mind.
“Charlotte?” he asked.
How’d he know my name? Did he force it out of Olivia? She nodded, ever so slightly.
The dark eyebrows relaxed. “I’m Simon, Helene’s neighbor. She’s on her way over and sent me ahead to help. Where’s Olivia?”
Charlotte began to breathe again, if just a little bit, and cautiously moved to the side so that he could see Olivia. She heard the dispatcher still on the cell phone again. “Ma’am, are you alright? Do you hear me?” She stepped back more as this Simon fellow moved past her to check on Olivia for himself.
Her wits returned with her breath. “Yes! A friend of Olivia’s sister is here now, and I’m—I’m going outside now.” She clicked the phone off. But instead of leaving she watched Simon, who was moving around carefully, taking pictures of Olivia, the bat, the books, and the bloodstain on the bat with his cell phone.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Getting the scene of the crime before the cops get here. If they’re good cops, it won’t matter. If they’re bad cops, these might help prove we didn’t do the deed ourselves, or at least didn’t mess with the scene.”
“That’s awfully cold.”
Charlotte looked more closely at him and realized they were roughly the same age, making him much older than the impression she first got from his thick hair, black leather jacket, long-legged jeans and energetic movements.
He didn’t even turn to look at her. “Not really. You’ll see.” He continued with pictures of the table and lamp, and even the chair, from several different angles.
This man has an impossible level of self-possession, she thought.
She also realized he had an English accent. Interesting. Didn’t the villains in movies and crime shows always have English accents? Snap out of it, she thought, this isn’t the time to be silly.
“Careful around the bloodstain.”
He nodded. “Spotted that. I wonder who it was she whacked. Was the door open when you got here?”
“It was closed, but unlocked. I was just about to clear out when you came in. The dispatcher said whoever did this might still be in here.”
Simon nodded as he looked around carefully, taking more pictures here and there. “Let’s check the other rooms,” he said, moving toward the doorways to the hall and the dining room. He stopped abruptly and Charlotte almost walked into him.
“Bloody hell! This is like an antique shop,” he said, trying to look around without knocking over anything.
Here the scent was decidedly floral, and emanated from two crystal bowls with potpourri on the lace-covered Duncan Phyfe table. It was a small dining room, yet still packed with the table and six chairs, a large sideboard, and two more glass-front curio cabinets. The top of the sideboard was covered with three tarnished silver tea sets, around a dozen large silver candlesticks and several tiered petit-fours stands. In addition to the bowls of potpourri, the table was laden with crystal candlesticks, candy bowls, footed bowls, and colorful McCoy and Roseville pottery vases. The curio cabinets were crammed with porcelain boxes, delicate Capodimonte floral baskets, and salt and pepper shakers.
They continued carefully to the kitchen, where there were stacks of mismatched dishes and crockery on the counters, cook books stacked four feet high on the chrome dinette table in the corner, and on the floor stacks of old margarine and whipped topping tubs, cardboard boxes full of empty glass pickle and jelly jars, and cardboard boxes of more glass jars, each filled with a single kind of item, such as buttons, screws, tiny toys, and marbles. Another box held several large rubber band balls. Shelves ran across an entire wall from floor to ceiling, filled with cookie jars, banks, collector liquor bottles, and what had to be a hundred souvenir models of the Eiffel Tower in various sizes and material from wrought iron to embroidered fabric stuffed like doorstops. There were also brightly-colored Fiesta Ware teapots, pitchers, and cup and saucer sets. Yellow vinyl dinette chairs sat against the wall on either side of the table and supported stacks of folded rag rugs and tablecloths in every imaginable color. Under the table were stacks of picture puzzle boxes, some of which looked quite old. The only semblance of the room being used as a kitchen was immediately around the sink, which had a plate and mug on the drain rack, and around the stove, which held a tea kettle. A chrome and vinyl high step stool was situated in front of the drain rack. A bottle of home fragrance stood open on the windowsill above the sink, and smelled of apples and cinnamon.
The kitchen door to the basement was locked, as was the door to the back porch; Charlotte peered out the curtained window and saw stacks of newspapers and more plastic containers, and plastic bags full of more plastic bags. A clothesline stretched across the length of the porch, and hung low with the weight of drying towels and nightgowns. She turned to Simon, who was still taking pictures.
“Just more of the same out here.”
He turned to look at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes wide, and shook his head in amazement. “Good lord!”
Charlotte felt better for knowing that someone else found this house as overwhelming as she did, and just nodded.
They moved back out of the kitchen into the dining room, where they turned into a dark hall with several doors.
The first door was for the bathroom, an old-fashioned one with its original claw-foot tub, mosaic tiled floor, and heavy white pedestal sink, all of which had seen better days. Shelves over the old toilet were crammed with perfume bottles and containers of products that Charlotte hadn’t seen since childhood. The next room had bedroom furniture in it, but every inch of floor space was filled with garment racks, each of which was crammed with clothes on hangers. More floral potpourri was in a bowl on the nightstand.
The second bedroom was much the same, except the bed and dresser drawers were more accessible, and there was a small television set atop a chest of drawers opposite the bed. As in the rest of the house,
the scent was as pervasive as the clutter.
I wonder if I would have been able to work in this house? She then realized that there would now be some doubt as to when, or even if, the transcription and editing project would happen. She could just make out the whine of approaching sirens as they moved back into the living room, where Olivia remained unconscious.
“I’ll go meet Helene,” she said, turning to leave, but gasped as she felt the floor soften under her feet. Simon moved quickly to grab her around the waist and nearly lifted her out the room and out to the swing on the porch.
“Hey there, now. You okay?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. The fresh air helps.” It wasn’t just the fresh air, she thought. It was the ease with which he was able to steady her five-foot ten frame, and how it reassured her. Strange how certain things were noticed even when under stress.
Helene was approaching from her condo at the other end of the block, her white swept-back hair glowing like a halo in the sun. She was elegant and dignified, wearing a slim gray skirt, cream knit tunic, and gray and blue wool challis shawl; Charlotte thought that Helene could not look less like Olivia’s sister. Simon helped Helene up the steps and went with her inside the house for a few moments until the ambulance and EMTs arrived. When she came out, she sat on the swing next to Charlotte and sighed. “Poor Olivia! Who could have done this?”
Charlotte’s heart
