by CeeCee James
Very well. I headed into Brookfield and drove through Darcy’s Doughnuts for an Americano—whimpering slightly at the scent of freshly glazed cream-puffs—and then on to the Post Office. Like nearly everything else in town, it was the original founding building with brick edifices and columns carefully preserved. A golden decal of an eagle decorated the front door. Through the glass, I could see the dark head of Jan as she walked by, carrying a stack of boxes.
Jan was the postmaster who knew everything about everybody. I took a sip of coffee and watched her move about the office like a busy bee. She disappeared in the back, only to reappear a moment later with a broom in her hand. She was a hard worker and seemed motivated to prove it. I knew how she feared retirement.
A police car pulled in behind me. I immediately stiffened when I realized it was not Officer Daniels, but his partner, Officer Carlson behind the wheel. His bald head was hidden under his police cap, but I’d recognize him anywhere. With the narrowing of his eyes and the way the lines carved around his lips, he wore a scowl that could have made Al Capone shiver.
What was his problem? I climbed out of my car and saw that Jan’s sweeping activity had stalled as she watched. Terrific. Her nose was practically pressed against the glass like Gladys Kravitz from Bewitched. She was probably taking notes, I was sure, and it wouldn’t be long now before the entire town knew I was meeting with the police. In fact, by the time the news got back to me, I bet the story would be that I was in handcuffs, being carted off to the pokey.
Of course, by Officer Carlson’s glower, that might not be out of the realm of possibility.
“Hi, Officer Carlson,” I said, walking back to him.
He eased one foot to step onto the curb. “Hollywood,” he said with a nod.
He was never going to let that go, was he? I’d roll my eyes, but like I said, he looked like he was in a mood. Still, I had to defend myself. “It’s Washington, remember? The Northwest.”
His eyebrows slanted upward like he didn’t care. “You still seem like Hollywood to me. Now, what is it you have that’s so important?”
I held out the metal piece of jewelry. “I stumbled across this in the bathroom. You know, the one Ian was discovered in. I couldn’t find out who it belonged to so I figured I better hand it to you.”
He pulled out a clear plastic bag, making the muscles under his shirt flex, and held it open with a heavy sigh. I dropped it in and he lifted it to examine it. Like up, up. The guy was well over a foot taller than me. “Looks nice and pawed on. What have you been doing? Carrying this thing in a vaseline jar?”
“Sorry.” I cringed. “I never even thought about trying to preserve fingerprints until later.” My cheeks heated under the melting glare of the cop. But how was I supposed to know it could be a clue? At the time I found it, Ian appeared to have died from a heart attack. Heck, I was trying to do a good deed by tidying things up so there weren’t any party remnants for the grieving widow.
“So let me guess. You tried to do some detecting into who this belongs to. How exactly did you do that?” he asked.
Feeling like a deer in headlights under his stern expression, I swallowed. “I asked both Jasmine and Celeste if it was theirs.”
“And what did they say?” he seemed interested, holding the bag up again.
“They both denied that it belonged to them.”
“Are you saying that you actually handed it over to them to examine?”
“Yeah. They both got a good look,” I reassured him.
Shaking his head, he twisted the bag closed as the frown lines around his lips creased deeper than the wrinkles in the plastic.
“What?” I finally asked.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, pursing his lips sarcastically. “It’s just that we don’t usually tell our suspects about our evidence, let alone offer them a chance to handle it.”
My jaw dropped. “Jasmine really is a suspect?” I finally whispered.
“What would you call a woman who stands to inherit a five million dollar life insurance policy?” he asked.
I was shocked. “Was it poison?” I asked, remembering what Uncle Chris said.
He casually lifted a shoulder, clearly not interested in sharing information. “I’m not here to confirm nor deny, but usually the common sense answer is the right one. Anyway, we’re aiming to find out. It’s kind of what the detecting business is. Weirdly, what we are trained for.” His gaze flicked at me, and the corner of his lip lifted, revealing a dimple.
I ignored the jab. “I might have another clue. On the day of the party, while we were all hiding, Ian was yelling at someone on the phone when he first came in. Something about extortion. And he was going to kill them.”
Officer Carlson’s dark eyes narrowed. He set the bag on the back of my car and pulled out a pad. “And no one at the scene thought to tell us this?”
“I don’t think we realized it could be important.”
“What else was said during the phone call?”
I quickly described what I remembered. “Ian later told us it was his brother. In fact, I just asked Jasmine to find out for sure since it might be important. She said she would check the phone records to confirm it.”
“We’ll get those records checked,” he growled, as his gaze swept across what he’d been writing.
“So, do you have any suspects besides Jasmine?” I asked.
“At this point, we are digging into anyone who may have had a motive.”
“And you have a few?”
He arched his eyebrow, and his eye sparkled like he was trying not to laugh. “Maybe a few. Anyone ever told you that you ask a lot of questions, Hollywood?”
I bit my lip, struggling not to roll my eyes, reminding myself that I needed to tread lightly with him. “Sorry. I just can’t believe that one of us there had to have done it. It’s really shocking.”
“And what about you? Have you ever met Ian Stuber before?”
Oh, great. Was he just poking at me to punish me for handling the jewelry? Or was I really someone they were suspicious about?
“Just as a client. The Flamingo Realty was selling his house. He was Uncle Chris’s old friend.”
“Yeah, an old friend and racing buddy.” He glanced back at his paper. “It seems there was bad blood between them at one time.”
A chill ran down my back. Was he accusing Uncle Chris of something? “I think it was normal that most race car drivers experienced animosity at one time or another.”
His eyebrow lifted. “You’d describe it as animosity?” He quickly scribbled some more.
What? No! “What I mean is that it was all in the competitive spirit of the racetrack.”
He nodded. “They were competitive, huh? So it mustn’t have felt too good when Ian won the last three races that your Uncle Chris was in. In fact, they were the last races your Uncle ever competed in.”
Whoa. This guy knew a lot more than I’d given him credit for. “That was years ago. They’ve been good friends ever since, like old fraternity brothers.”
He snapped his notebook shut. “Thank you for your time and for giving us the clue. If you think of anything else, let us know. I’m always here, digging around.” He smiled, and it scared me. With a dip of his head, he stalked away.
As he climbed in his car, I glanced over at the Post Office. There was my reflection in the window, with my mouth still hanging open. I shut it, realizing how it must look, a big ol’ fish gasping for air on the sidewalk. It was a moment later when I realized that Jan was on the other side of the glass. She had the phone to ear and was talking a mile a minute. When she realized she’d been caught, she’d grabbed her broom and hurried out of sight.
Chapter 10
My thoughts were overtaking me by the time I arrived home. They were coming so fast, I could hardly remember which way was up anymore. From Officer Carlson’s jabbing questions, to Celeste asking about my mom, to Uncle Chris’s face of grief.
Maybe it was his grief that was triggerin
g all of this confusion. I sat in the car, too overwhelmed to even get out. The feeling was suffocation. I leaned my head to rest on my hands clutching the top of the steering wheel. I needed something… someone. It reminded me of another time I had the same need.
When I was younger, I dreamed of being a ballerina. I was nine and hadn’t known that all real ballerinas had already been training for five plus years by my age. With crazy stars in my eyes, I’d tried out for the Pacific Northwest Ballet Nutcracker, thinking it was like a school play and that I would learn as I went. There were ninety roles available for children, everything from angels, to soldiers, dancing girls, to mice. The audition hall was filled with kids.
I noticed the difference between them and myself right away. While I was giggling with excitement, they were stretching, faces serious. Arms posed, toes pointed. When I tried to talk to them, they’d turn their faces in the other direction.
I didn’t even make it for a dancing candy cane. The whole experience was more than embarrassing, with one of the directors finally approaching me (with stressed eyes and an overly-patient face) to advise me that I take some lessons and maybe try again in a few years.
Of course, he’d known that I’d never come back. I did actually take a few lessons, a giant fifth grader clumsily looming over the tops of the little kids in that beginner class. It was especially stinging and awkward because even those kids had been able to follow the dance moves better than I had.
At my last lesson, I’d gone to the car wanting to cry. Craving a mom to talk with. Instead, there was Dad, a real ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps,’ and ‘never give up on something you’ve committed to doing’ kind of guy.”
I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t want to go back. As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to. Apparently, the teacher had had a little talk with Dad while I was waiting in the car.
Dad never brought it up again. The next week, when it was time for my dance lesson, Dad sat in his favorite spot on the couch and turned on his favorite cop show. I’d watched from the doorway with my ballet slippers and my jacket. When he didn’t move, I snuck back into my room and hid the slippers under my mattress. And I’d cried, needing… something. The same need I had right now.
I never took the slippers out again. In fact, they probably were still stuffed between the mattresses. Dad never asked. I don’t think he knew how to deal with a daughter, in some ways. Especially how to deal with the emotions of a broken dream.
As I thought about that now, I realized then my mom must have had dreams as well.
What had she dreamed of? This woman who I barely remember. Surely, she didn’t dream of having a daughter and then never seeing her again. Did she? What had happened to her?
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel as the feeling grew. What had I done to deal with all of this before? Was it the running? Had it helped me that much?
I used to run. Not in the way that many people did. I definitely didn’t do it for exercise, but for sport. I was insanely proud of my record time and had developed a disgusting habit of slipping it into conversations with a little humble-bragging. That had been another dream of mine, to one day try out for the Olympics.
All that ended in college when I came up against people who’d wiped the floor with my best times. I’d given up the sport and, to be honest, I hadn’t run again. We’re looking at nearly ten years here.
I don’t know why I quit. Pride, I guess. The utter humiliation to lose race after race after being the all-star for my school. The fear of facing my father.
Slowly, something was occurring to me. Here I am trying to dig out my identity from Dad’s expectations, and even my own self-imposed rules. And thinking about childhood dreams made me realize that, yes, I had been addicted to the competition and the winning highs. To my dad’s approval.
But, at the heart of it, there was a real love for running. Something about the way my feet hit the ground rhythmically, my heart and breaths coming in controlled gasps, well there was an indescribable soothingness about it all. Probably that endorphin stuff. I realize now that it had helped me through those angsty teenage years, even though the wins blew up my head and ego.
Running had been a space in time where I could think.
You’d think I have lots of space and time at the moment, rattling around in this old house by myself. I climbed out of the car, feeling drained and tired.
The truth was, I was starting to feel stagnant. Somehow, since I’d moved back, I’d slumped into a habit where I was only leaving the house for work. In fact, if I was being honest, Ian’s party had been the first time I’d been out in a while. That couldn’t be healthy. Heck, at work I’d become some morphed version of super realtor Stella, instead of the authentic person I was trying to figure out. Had I substituted my uncle for my dad, trying to make him proud?
I walked into the house and somehow ended up at my bedroom closet. On the floor was a sad pair of tennis shoes. I picked one up. It was a little worn, but the arch support inside was still okay. The wear-and-tear was really only on the outside.
My heart thumped with anticipation… excitement. Yeah, I was ready to run again. I needed to quit doing things to make someone else proud. I needed to figure out what makes me happy, and do it, even if it means I’m not the best.
I laced up the shoes, found my old gray college sweatshirt and pulled it on with a smile. It was cold outside, but I knew I’d warm up pretty quick. I walked outside and eyed the road. The frost was heavy on the ground and my breath puffed in white dragon clouds. I was doing what I wanted. Just to make me happy.
Wow. It made me feel alive.
Okay, first, stretch. After the first hamstring stretch, I slipped into muscle memory. Calves, quads. I shook out my legs.
It was time.
Now, which way? There was a creek down somewhere past the neighbor’s field. I’d seen the dark smudge of bushes outlining it when I’d driven up to the house. From that direction, I could hear the croak of frogs.
I started jogging and gasped as unexpected emotions exploded inside of me. Suddenly, I was brought back to the shame of the loss at my last college race—was that the last time I ran?—when I finally accepted that I was no one special. My feet hit the ground even as my cheeks heated.
I realized now how much of my identity and value rested on me having a label. To be known by the label. Honor roll, track star, entrepreneur, go-getter, motivated.
And when I couldn’t achieve it, it nearly crushed me. Again and again. So I’d try harder. Harder to have value.
It occurred to me, I’d never told Dad that I’d quit track. He would have freaked out. My breath came out in frosty clouds as I remembered. In his eyes, an O’Neil never quits.
I wondered if he thought me moving back to Pennsylvania was quitting.
The rhythmic smacks of my shoes against the road had a calming effect. I enjoyed this. How had I forgotten?
And what had brought back this stifling feeling so strongly?
Ian’s death. That’s what it was. He woke up that morning with plans and by that afternoon, his life was over. He thought he had time still to achieve his hopes and dreams.
I didn’t want to miss out on what was important to me because of fear that my dad would think I was failing. That’s why I’d moved out here. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
Anger fueled my steps, and I pounded my feet harder on the road, eating up the asphalt. All right, so I got a little complacent since taking the big plunge to move out here. I was ready now. Ready to fight for what I wanted.
And right now, I wanted to know more about my mother.
Was her hair the same color as mine? Did I look like her? Did she die, or was she still out there… somewhere?
Was it possible that I’d already run into her? Had she spied on me while growing up, like my FBI retired Grandfather admitted to doing? Or did she truly just walk away, not caring anymore about the little girl she’d left behind? And how had I locked her memory up so
tight that I’d never tried to answer these before?
I knew why. Because I still had one identity that I didn’t want to give up. Being loyal to my dad.
My foot caught on a patch of ice, and I tumbled across the icy pavement. A yelp escaped out of me in the whoosh of breath. I lay there, crying, on the cold ground.
My tears weren’t from pain. Falling was a welcome relief to finally let them free. I hugged my knees and cried.
For her.
For me.
For my dad.
Then I examined my ankles, but they were fine. My hand had a few scrapes from landing. Wincing, I stood and started to limp home. But, despite the physical pain, I was feeling better.
As I looked down the long, lonely road, I noticed a black truck. It looked mean, with a bulky grill, like teeth, and a silver frame around the license plate that glinted in the light. The vehicle had stopped dead smack right in the middle of the road.
Just as if the driver were watching me.
Chapter 11
The truck rumbled, not moving.
A chill trickled up my arms, and not from the cold temperature. He’d been coming up like that behind me while I was running. My brain tried to come up with a rational explanation. Was he looking for something? Trying to map somewhere?
Any of those might have worked, but I could see the driver wasn’t moving. He sat like a statue, staring ahead.
Straight at me.
That’s weird. Where did he come from and what the heck is he doing? I tested my ankle and started to jog again, feeling the need to get home.
The gravel and ice crunched under my feet. As I ran, I realized how isolated I was. This road was long. There was nothing but flat fields on both sides, tilled-over and snow-covered at the moment, with a dark hedge of trees in the distance.
The truck’s engine continued to idle, the driver still watching me. I tried to see inside the windshield, but the reflection was too strong to make out details.
It was at that moment I realized my house was too far away. I made a crazy decision and turned down the driveway I’d passed every day since I’d moved there. I’d always wondered who'd lived in this little frame house that sat all summer long like a white postage stamp on a green envelope of waving wheat that surrounded it. But today, I was looking for a little neighborly support.
