Hometown Homicide

by C. K. Crigger

  “True on both counts.” She forced a smile. “But I’m ready to take up life in the real world now.”

  “You call this the real world?” He shook his head. “Man, if it’d been me and I’d gotten out of this podunk town, I’d never have come back.”

  She shrugged. Every place was much of a much. It’s what you made of it that counted. But she never could tell people any different, including Jesselyn on more than one occasion. Everybody had to find out for him or herself. “Join the army, see the world.”

  Jesselyn was still in a hurry. “So, can we get the key, Howie, please, sometime today?”

  “Sure. Wait a minute. I’ll fetch it.” Leaving the door open, he ambled off toward the tiny kitchen, weaving around a threadbare recliner aimed toward an old model big screen TV. A coffee table piled high with pizza boxes and beer bottles sat between the TV and the chair. A fat gray cat blinked at the visitors from the recliner’s arm.

  “Here ya are,” he said, returning a minute later with a key strung on a length of pink yarn. “Sure is odd about Denise pulling out in the middle of the night, innit?”

  Jesselyn arched an eyebrow. “Middle of the night?”

  “Yeah. I’d gone to bed and figured she had too since I couldn’t hear her TV or

  anything. Been hard to sleep with this busted arm,” he explained. “Itches to beat hell. Anyhow, I’d just dropped off when her little mutt woke me up yipping. Then the dog quit barking, and I heard her walking around, banging on stuff like she was moving furniture or something. Didn’t realize she was moving out.”

  “I imagine that means she left the place a mess.” Jesselyn sounded resigned. “C’mon, Frankie, let’s take a gander. Thanks for the key, Howie.”

  “Sure.” Although dismissed, he followed them to the other unit, scratching absently under his cast.

  “A wire coat hanger will fit in there.” Frankie, holding back to walk beside him, nodded toward his casted arm. “Cut and straighten the wire, wrap the end with cloth or tape or something, so you don’t break the skin, and rub away. That’ll help. How’d you break it, anyway?”

  His mouth twisted. “I kinda got hit by a car.”

  “What? Kinda got hit?”

  “Yeah, walkin’ home from the bar one night. One minute I’m strolling along happy as a rabbit in a carrot patch, next I’m flyin’ through the air and landin’ in the ditch.”

  “Wow. Sorry about that. Did they catch the driver.”

  “Nope. Doubt if they looked very hard.”

  “Hey.” Jesselyn tapped a sandaled foot, “You want to see this or not, Frankie?”

  “You know, I do. Lead the way.”

  Howie stood back, smiling at her even as a faraway look crossed his dark face. “Sure is funny Denise didn’t tell me she was leaving when I talked to her yesterday. Or say where she was going.”

  “Would she normally?” Frankie asked.

  “Well, we were friends, kind of. Neighbors. I would’ve told her.”

  Jesselyn, ignoring Howie, worked the key and flung open the door. A stale smell wafted out, composed of cooking odors, unmoving air, and something else. Something unpleasant. “Phew. Well, this is it. What do you think, Frankie?” She waved a hand. “Been nice if she’d cleaned house before she left.”

  Frankie gawked around. Her friend might complain, but she herself had seen worse. A lot worse. Granted, the apartment, a twin of Howie’s, was small and a little cluttered, although not really dirty. There were a couple overripe bananas and a moldy orange in a basket on the kitchen counter to account for some of the smell—all the more potent because of the heat—but nothing a good airing and some deep cleaning wouldn’t cure.

  She took a quick tour of the bedroom and bath, both of which, to her surprise, looked as though they were waiting for the owner to return at any minute. An inspection of the closet space showed empty hangers, but a couple articles of clothing on the floor. An open book lay on the bedside table beside a nearly full bottle of aspirin.

  “You sure this Denise is actually gone?” she asked Jesselyn. “There’s an awful lot of personal stuff still here.”

  Her friend looked puzzled too. “Abandoned it, I guess. She really did leave, though. Victoria got an email from her.”

  Breathing in her ear, Howie stood tapping a bare foot. “Man, this don’t seem right. Lookit. She even left her mutt’s dog bed.”

  “At least she took the dog.” Jesselyn palmed her phone, finger poised to punch in numbers. “Well, Frankie? What do you think? You going to take it?”

  “Not much choice, is there?” Frankie shrugged and nodded. “Tell Vic yes.

  Already regretting the necessity, a little shiver went through her as Jesselyn handed over the key. The place definitely gave her the collywobbles.

  Chapter 2

  Frankie admitted she was a little hurt at Jesselyn’s hesitancy to play host for a night, even though she’d only been teasing when she mentioned it. She couldn’t help thinking it might’ve been fun, though, jabbering about the new job with someone. A regular sleepover, like in the old days when she and Jesselyn were in grade school. What a long time ago. Did she even know how to jabber anymore? Or have fun?

  Jesselyn’s live-in boyfriend probably had something to do with her sidestepping of the issue. Not that acting the third wheel on a two-wheel bicycle was Frankie’s idea of entertainment. She really preferred to return to town and pack up her few belongings ready to move into the duplex the next morning.

  But still…

  On her way back to Spokane, Frankie contented herself by gazing out at the rolling hills of the lower Palouse as she drove. In a field just before the state line, two combines were cutting great swaths of golden grain, chaff rising in a cloud behind the massive machines. Only now did she realize how much she’d missed the area when in Afghanistan’s arid landscape. One more night in her crappy little Spokane apartment. Then she’d be home for good.

  Home. Which meant Jesselyn and all the people she’d known way back when. Would it be anywhere near the same?

  “You should’ve seen us when we were kids.” She glanced over at Banner seated beside her, his white ruff lifting in the breeze that came in through the slightly open window. “Jesselyn and I were inseparable. Funny how time and experience changes people, isn’t it? We don’t have much in common anymore.” Her brow puckered. “But there’s no denying I got the royal brush-off. Guess it’s just you and me, kid.”

  “You won’t bother my boyfriend and me,” Jesselyn had hastened to assure her, succeeding with only a half-baked job of backpedaling when she noticed Frankie’s embarrassment. “It’s not like we’re in high school, for goodness sake.”

  Nevertheless, she never did get around to telling Frankie the man’s name, which had the effect of raising Frankie’s curiosity quotient even higher.

  The thing is, Frankie wouldn’t actually consider any roommate, especially an old friend. Except for Banner, of course. What if she had one of her fits during the night, crying out and carrying on? She’d probably scare Jesselyn half to death. Her friend had no clue about dealing with trauma—and Frankie knew herself traumatized, no matter how well she seemed to be dealing with pain, stress, nightmares, and a sometimes overwhelming fear of the future. Reluctant to admit these things to herself, how could she begin to explain them to anyone else?

  That, she thought, reaching over and giving her present constant companion a caress as they drove a sedate five miles an hour over the speed limit, is why we have dogs.

  Fifty-five minutes later, after a brief stop at the neighborhood grocery store to pick up a few banana boxes to hold her belongings, she wheeled into her apartment parking space. Packing didn’t take long. All she had were a few clothes, a couple boxes of household things, and Banner’s dog dishes and bedding. Oh, yes, and a stack of service and medical records stowed away in a heavy safe. That was it. Not much for a twenty-five-year-old who’d spent several years in the service of her country. Her one-room apartment di
dn’t look a whole lot emptier after she cleared out than before. Certainly different from the clutter left in the Hawkesford duplex.

  When she’d been in the service, she’d often wished for larger living quarters. Strange that when she’d first moved in, this little space had been about all she could handle. She’d split her time between the VA hospital and here, spending almost as long in one place as the other. Then later, after she rescued Banner from an abusive owner—with the help of a pistol she’d held on the worthless SOB who’d been beating him—the apartment’s size had given her the motivation to take the dog out for frequent walks, then runs, during her—their—rehabilitation. After all, it isn’t right to keep a big dog cooped up for hours on end in a teensy room.

  At last, she was done with that.

  Finished with her packing, Frankie and Banner went for a final run along the Centennial Trail. This time they both indulged their exuberance. Rehabilitation accomplished.

  Early the next morning, belongings already stowed in the bed of the Ranger, Frankie knocked on the manager’s door. She was too excited to wait any longer.

  A few minutes later, she knocked again, louder this time. The bitter, middle-aged woman who ran the complex was not an early riser. Finally, the woman’s wizened face appeared.

  Although Frankie remained in the hall, the strong odor of cigarette smoke emitted from the room almost scratched a cough from her when the door opened.

  “What do you want?” As accommodating as usual, Mrs. Lane picked a sleepy seed from the corner of her eye.

  Frankie flourished the old-fashioned door key. She’d always figured she could’ve opened any of the apartments with it. Real security—not. “I’m moving out, Mrs. Lane. Returning the key.”

  “Could’ve given me some warning.” The door opened wider. “Did you clean up after yourself? If I find one speck of dirt, I’m keeping your deposit.”

  Frankie figured that was a foregone conclusion. Schooling her features to blandness, she said, knowing it wouldn’t endear her to the old bag, “Looks better than I when found it. You never did knock the painting I did off my rent like you said you would.” She pressed a slip of paper into the woman’s hand. “Here’s my new address. You can send the deposit there.” Yeah. Right. Frankie nearly laughed at the idea.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” The door slammed with enough force to stir her hair.

  Not much of a farewell considering this place had been home for better than six months. And the locals called Spokane the “friendly” city?

  Apparently, the citizens suffered some kind of collective delusion.

  Shrugging off her landlady’s rudeness, Frankie smiled as she walked out into the rapidly warming sunlight, Banner at her side. She waited for the dog to jump into the pickup and climbed in after him, excitement bubbling inside her. A new beginning.

  This time, traveling the road bisecting golden wheat fields on the cusp of harvest to Hawkesford, she remained within the speed limit, savoring the change in her life. Starting today, she planned to put aside her time in the army and all the resultant baggage. Including the personnel carrier that’d blown up beneath her and the guys in her unit.

  No more bad dreams, she vowed. No more guilt for being alive. Please, God.

  A heavy-metal song older than she was playing on the radio. Frankie turned up the volume, singing along with Axel Rose while Banner when he wasn’t poking his nose out the half-open window, sat on the passenger seat and stared at her.

  Later, as she backed into the duplex’s driveway, she found Howie St. James sitting on the steps to his apartment. His legs sprawled, he was soaking in the sun and poking every now and then under his cast with a partially straightened coat hanger. His cat sat beside him, stretching out a hind leg and licking the fur with a pink tongue. The two of them looked, she thought, like they’d been waiting for her.

  “Hey.” She held the door for Banner to jump out of the Ranger. “What’s up?”

  Howie shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. This blasted arm is driving me nuts. And besides…” He stopped, glanced around like he was expecting someone to overhear, and plied the hanger again.

  “Besides what?”

  “Nothin’.” He shook his head.

  “How much longer do you have to wear the cast?”

  “Three weeks or so.” Making a wry face, Howie stood up. “Feels like forever.”

  Frankie could relate.

  While Banner investigated the cat, earning himself a hearty hiss in warning, Frankie folded down the Ranger’s tailgate and lifted out the first box. Household stuff. Kitchen. Like any well-organized person, she’d labeled the contents.

  “Want to open the door for me?” She waggled fingers wound around in pink yarn, key dangling.

  “Sure.” Howie stood up and took the key, poked it in the lock and quickly stepped back.

  “Thanks. Get the light?” Funny. She didn’t remember either she or Jesselyn closing the blinds yesterday, but it was dark as midnight in the room.

  “Sure.”

  Howie reached around and flipped the switch. The box in her arms, Frankie brushed past him, barely registering the wary look that came and went on Howie’s face in her anxiety to set down her heavy load. She heard him suck in a quick breath and give a kind of low growl though. Even so, she was halfway across the room before what Howie had already seen struck home.

  The apartment had been ransacked since she and Jesselyn’s visit yesterday, and by someone who’d done a very thorough job.

  “Well, shit.” Owl-eyed, Howie stared around. “This is a helluva mess.”

  Frankie spun on him. “Who did it?”

  “Huh? I don’t know.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You sure about that? Whoever broke in couldn’t have been very sneaky. How could you not know all this was going on?” She pointed at an overturned armchair.

  He reared back and looked affronted. “Hey, I went down to the bar and had a few beers last night. Not that it’s any of your business. Then I came home. I didn’t see anybody. Ain’t nobody paying me to be a night watchman.”

  Maybe not, but he’d put a queer emphasis on see. Frankie pounced on it. “But you heard something, right?” Kids trying to raise money for some weed, she supposed, even as doubt raised its ugly head.

  Howie scratched. “Maybe I heard somethin’. Maybe not. I thought somebody was walkin’ around and figured Denise had come back for her stuff. I yelled, but nobody answered. The wind picked up about then and set her wind chimes to ringing, so then I figured that’s all I heard and forgot about it. Sleepy, ya know, after the beers.” He eyed the couch cushions flipped onto the dusty floor; a hole gouged in one of them exposing shredded foam, the zipper open on the other. “Guess it wasn’t my imagination after all. But not Denise, that’s for sure.”

  “No.” Frankie, hands on hips, surveyed the room. “I wouldn’t think so. If she’d forgotten anything, she’d come in quietly and pick it up. No need for all this.” She sighed. “Well, it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. And my first shift is tonight, which means I’d better get cracking.”

  “Gonna call the cops?”

  She gazed around and made a decision. “Nah. No real harm done, I guess, except to the couch and it’s pretty ratty anyway.”

  Howie seemed relieved. “Might oughta get the locks changed though.” On this cryptic word of advice, which Frankie took with a grain of salt, Howie heeded her hint and went back to his side of the duplex.

  With her neighbor out of the way, Frankie allowed her gimpy stride free rein, no longer feeling the need to keep up appearances. Unloading her pickup and carrying the boxes into the duplex went faster that way. Glad of the supplies she’d stopped to buy on the way to Hawkesford, it didn’t take long to get the place in order. Bed made up with clean sheets over a new looking mattress pad, a shim under one leg of the elderly brass bedstead. Sinks, toilet, and floors scrubbed, the torn couch cushion, filling stuffed back inside, mended with needle and strong thre
ad.

  Most of Denise’s discarded goods went out the back door to the trash. A large propane tank sat in unlovely splendor between her unit and Howie’s. A barrel at the edge of the overgrown yard showed Hawkesford had yet to become environmentally conscious and ban the burning of combustibles—unless Howie and Denise had suited themselves with little fear of authority.

  Following suit with a stack of ancient newspapers for kindling, Frankie trekked out to the barrel, only to find she had no matches. Something to put on her list—and soon. An odor she could smell from the back stoop emanated from the barrel, one she didn’t want Banner taking it in his head to investigate.

  The Samoyed, naturally, trundled after her, his curled tail waving like a flag, his nose working as he began the process of claiming his territory. Frankie, not much amused, noted the care with which he sniffed, then wet down each small pile of doggie doo littering the yard. Another chore awaited her since she didn’t want him catching anything from the yard’s previous resident. Denise, she remembered Howie saying, owned a small dog. Well, yeah. And carelessly left its bed and food when she left. A noteworthy oddity among the rest.

  The morning passed rapidly as Frankie got her house in order; her only interruption a call from Jesselyn.

  “Hi. Are you settling in all right?” Jesselyn talked so fast it took Frankie’s brain a moment to catch up. Her fault, Frankie knew. Or maybe she could blame the Taliban and their roadside bombs.

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Wish I knew what to do with Denise’s stuff, though.”

  “Burn it.” Jesselyn apparently had no doubts. “Bunch of junk and garbage, isn’t it?”

  Frankie had been thinking about this. “Not all of it,” she said slowly. “You remember those blouses on the closet floor? I looked them over and found they’re not only expensive but the same as new. Just dirty, after somebody walked on them. But that’s not all. It’s weird. There’s the dog’s stuff, including an unopened bag of organic specialty food.”