Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

by Ritter Ames

  “No time for celebration until you’re done. Be finished before we get back, or it’s potato soup for dinner. That’s all I have in the house.” Which wasn’t exactly true since my pantry was a coupon stasher’s paradise, and I had four dozen jars of spaghetti sauce alone. However, I didn’t plan to cook when I could use takeout as a cut-throat coupon bribe.

  The next sound that reverberated through the house was like a cacophony of hoofbeats, followed by the slam of the bedroom door. Who knew two small boys could duplicate the noise of stampeding mustangs? A crash seconds later made Abby wince. I stopped a moment to listen for screams. When only scuttling shuffles filtered downstairs instead, I opened the front door and waved for her to follow me. Honey squeezed between me and the doorframe to be first to break for the great outdoors. I snatched the leash from the wall peg, but the dog danced out of my reach the first couple of times I made a grab for her collar.

  “How bad is it?” Abby asked as we moved down the front walk.

  “The racket in the boys’ room?” I waved a hand to make the dog think I was zigging one way, then I zagged the other. Ah, success. I clipped the leather lead to the silver ring on the collar, and assured my childless friend, “Don’t worry. The boys would have hollered if anyone was hurt.”

  “No, I’m talking about the stuff in your neighbor’s garage.”

  I shrugged. “The result of sixty years in one house, and all the ‘we’ll just stick it in the garage’ kind of hopeful bedlam that accumulates after raising a family with two kids and outliving the high school sweetheart she married before my mother was born.”

  Honey nearly pulled my arm from the shoulder socket when she saw Mrs. Glover standing in the middle of her yard and revolving like a senior citizen weathervane. Obviously, my neighbor was anxious about the noise and hoping for help from a distant direction. Somehow, I didn’t figure our friendly Lab was the help she was praying for, but my dog seemed otherwise determined. Abby joined me in the light jog, and Honey led the charge.

  I couldn’t see much of interest until we passed the Loftons’ hydrangeas, but I could smell the spring honeysuckle from the fragrant jungle in their backyard. I would have loved a yard like theirs, except it required a superhuman green thumb and probably a backhoe—neither of which I had at the moment. And since Mrs. Lofton believed me to be a fallen woman because I ran off with Dek before we got married, it was unlikely she’d share her gardening secrets with me either. Marrying him, having two boys, and coming home to raise them didn’t redeem me in her eyes.

  However, I had good vision, a sharp mathematical mind, and an overeager canine. As I drew near Mrs. G’s driveway I put together the pieces and came up with the sum labeled “Mrs. Lofton’s cat.”

  “Has your garage door been open at the bottom all day?” As I spoke, Honey pulled to reach the opening, snuffled at the dark inside and barked.

  Mrs. G widened her blue eyes behind their bifocaled lenses and turned to stare. The bottom of her garage door hovered a few inches above the driveway, leaving plenty of room for a curious, or hungry, cat to slip in and stalk a few rodents.

  “Surely not.” She shook her cottony white head. “I haven’t opened that door in ages.”

  Abby raised an eyebrow, and I knew what she was thinking. Yep, I nodded my head to show this would be an even bigger job than I’d implied. I handed her Honey’s leash and grabbed the galvanized steel loop on the outside of the door and gave it a good tug. The door rose almost a foot before it stopped, frozen again.

  With a strong lunge, Honey took advantage of Abby’s inexperience and pulled free. I tried for a tackle, but the curious canine wiggled under the door and left me with a handful of blonde dog hair from her tail.

  “Damn!” I saw my neighbor staring at me and gulped. “Sorry, Mrs. G.”

  “Perfectly understandable, Melissa, dear.”

  Uh-oh, she used my whole name.

  Calling Honey to come out again only made my nosy dog bark more vigorously—and louder. I needed to get inside to nab her before she found the cat and the two animals tore up the garage in a game of chase.

  “Abbs, can you grab the bottom of the door and help me?”

  “Sure.”

  We did our best team heave-ho, and Mrs. G fluttered around us, but we couldn’t budge it another inch.

  “Oh, whatever I heard must have been big, like one of the racks.” Mrs. Glover wrung her hands. “I hope nothing broke.”

  A new thud, followed by a crash that could be shattered pottery, ended with another round of Honey’s barking.

  Stupid dog. Yes, I knew my thought was hypocritical after recently warning Jamey about the same thing. But I was a mom. I could be a silent hypocrite. Especially when I had a stubborn garage door staring me down in a stalemate.

  Time for some major effort. Not like I’d been pretending before, but anger apparently reinforced my muscle strength. When I pulled the handle a second time, I felt a little more give on the right side than the left. “Something must be stuck in a track for the door,” I said, going down on hands and knees to peer underneath. It was dark. Boxes and round storage cartons came right up to the front of the garage. A narrow space, maybe two feet wide, ran down the middle. If I was lucky, the space could give me access to Honey, and to view what damage occurred from the two crashes. Almost to myself, I mused, “But why is this door open if you didn’t raise it? Do you keep it unlocked?”

  Mrs. G put a gnarled hand to her throat and the deep wrinkles in her forehead made tighter furrows. Her knuckles were swollen from arthritis, and I knew my question was ridiculous. Of course, she couldn’t raise the door, so why leave it unlocked? The garage didn’t have an electric opener and she could never have lifted it manually. I said, “Probably just some kids came by and got nosy. They likely jiggled the lock enough to get it opened, then they couldn’t get the door down again, so Mrs. Lofton’s cat wandered inside. You know that cat will try to squeeze into anything.”

  “The woman shouldn’t let it roam the neighborhood.” Mrs. G disliked cats on principle and the Loftons’ cat in particular. The orange tabby had already killed several songbirds in the neighborhood and left two in Mrs. G’s front yard. I buried them, but not before she’d seen the tiny feathered bodies and vented her outrage. Since one of the bird decapitations made her forget about the flowerbed Honey had tried to dig up earlier that same day, I’d felt a little grateful for the bird-killing cat. Guilty, but grateful.

  “If I can shimmy under the door, I’ll have a better idea of what challenges are ahead of us,” I said. I knew there was a side door for entry to the garage, but it opened into the space, and lack of available clearance had required it closed off years ago according to Mrs. Glover. The only option was through the big door.

  I looked up at Abby. “Keep a grip on the handle in case this door starts slipping down again. I’ll slither underneath and see what I can find.”

  “Talk while you’re in there, so we know what’s going on. If you stop talking, we’ll send a rescue crew.”

  “Good enough,” I said, removing the cell phone from my back pocket to access its flashlight. Then I kept the phone in my hand as I wiggled on my stomach, under the rubber guard, and into the dimness of the half-century collection of family flotsam. A tricky part came when my rear end needed to clear the door, but Abby gave another Herculean tug and I gained the other inch or so necessary to get free.

  Inside at last, I got to my feet, with Abby calling from the other side. “Are you okay? Do you have space to move? Can you see the problem?”

  “One question at a time, Abbs.”

  “Well, keep talking. Remember the rule.”

  I flashed the light in a three-sixty sweep and said. “There’s room to stand up. I’ll hit a dead end soon enough from a stack of boxes. It looks like some long tent poles fell into the track. I’ll try to get over there and move them, so we can raise the door.” I looked over some boxes and containers to see a wagging tail near my destination, and I ho
ped I’d spot the cat there as well. Before an angry feline could lash out at Honey and me.

  The concrete floor was one obstacle course after another, so I couldn’t see far enough ahead to tell what was holding up the poles from below. What was visible, however, were the wicked ends of the two that wedged into the door’s curved track. Definitely steel. Definitely old. The ends honed to a javelin-like point that surely made them easier for driving into a leaf-strewn campground. A third stood straight up, about a foot away from the others. But the solo one’s pointed end wasn’t visible. “How old are these tent poles, Mrs. G?” I hollered.

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” her muffled voice dithered. “We probably last used them about thirty years ago. It was a glorious family-sized tent. You’ll see it in there. Big and dark green canvas all rolled up. We kept it, even when it had too many holes to use. My husband got the model that was extra-tall in the middle, and we had so much fun camping with the kids...”

  I let her voice become my background noise. Once she started down memory lane, my neighbor could continue along this vein for hours. “One more hop and I’ll be close enough to see if I can move the poles to—”

  “Be careful hurdling over stuff,” Abby said. “Don’t turn an ankle. We might not be able to get you out again.”

  A second before I said not to worry, my foot hit the cement floor wrong, and I almost did exactly what my friend had warned against. I gasped, then through clenched teeth I called, “I’m fine.” I bent over to rub my foot and ankle. Honey backed out of her favored spot to look my way, then returned to her original position. Tail still wagging. Barks echoing now that I was in the space.

  “Honey, hush.” I winced. “Use your inside voice.”

  I had to duck to avoid some long boards and game tables, and then I kind of frog marched my way around the area. I frowned when I noticed a small view between boxes of what looked like men’s slacks across the floor. “Eek!”

  “What?” Abby called quickly.

  But the slacks didn’t move. “Nothing. Just something I didn’t expect.” Even as I spoke, the slacks remained still. Probably just some old discarded clothes. But a sixth sense was firing off red rockets in my brain. I shifted closer, trying to better see from this lower angle, since a view of the area was unavailable if I stood.

  Familiar slacks. Blue twill slacks. With legs inside and brown shoes at the end

  That’s when I saw the head on the floor. And the eyes staring toward the ceiling.

  Mr. J.C. “Can’t-Take-A-Hint” Carlisle was no longer looking for house bargains. Absolutely not what I’d expected to find in Mrs. G’s garage. Something else I didn’t expect to see was where the sharpened end of the long tent pole lay buried. The wicked point was shoved into his chest and now outlined in dark red.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  I STRETCHED AND GRABBED the end of Honey’s leash with my fingertips, frantic to get out of there. After both pulling and pushing her toward the opening under the garage door, we shimmied back under a lot faster than I had gone in. As sunlight hit my face, I cried, “Call 9-1-1! Call the police. Hurry, please!”

  Abby rushed over and hugged me. “Are you hurt? You’re crying.”

  I was shaking, too.

  “No.” I pushed her away and tried to make the call myself, but my hands trembled so much I dropped the cellphone on the driveway. The loop of Honey’s leash fell as I fumbled it and the phone. Too many things. “Call the police. There’s a...”

  Mrs. Glover hurried closer. I leaned toward Abby and whispered. “There’s a dead body in there.” I stepped on the leash, so Honey couldn’t go back inside. Then I spoke the information that shook me even more. “It’s that Carlisle guy from last night at karaoke.”

  Abby gasped, and her eyes grew wide. “Ohmigod.” She used her mighty Samsung to get the emergency operator.

  I bent and retrieved the leash, then I scooped my phone up from the cement, thankful for the strong plastic case. I shoved the cell into my back pocket and got a better grip on the dog, shaking inside but didn’t want Mrs. Glover to realize how frightened I was. I took a deep breath. My elderly neighbor had joined us, and her expression begged for information even if she didn’t voice her questions. I wrapped an arm around her osteo-stooped shoulders, running a vigorous hand up and down the lilac sleeve of her hand-knit cardigan. “Let’s go sit on your tree bench, Mrs. G.”

  I found that she, too, was shaking a little under my hand and figured she realized something was up. Still more than a little jittery myself, I steered her toward the front yard.

  “Someone is in there hurt?” Mrs. G looked up at me with frightened eyes. “It wasn’t the cat?”

  “No. Here, take a seat.” I clasped her arm at the elbow and turned her a little, so she wouldn’t fall as she lowered herself to the pine bench her grandson made that circled the big pecan. The elderly tree no longer produced many nuts, but the late-Mr. Glover had planted it soon after they moved in, the year before the birth of their first child, and the tree had been sheltering the home and family ever since. I rambled, “At least I don’t think it’s the cat. I didn’t notice any sign of it and...”

  “But you saw someone. Right? Who is it? Why aren’t you helping get the person out?” Mrs. G pulled a tissue from her sweater pocket and twisted it in her arthritic fingers. I took her right hand in mine and felt her quiver. Honey moved between us and licked our hands. “Is the person—”

  Before she had the chance to finish her question, emergency vehicles screamed down the street. Which sent Honey into a barking fit. I took a firmer hold on the leash. A firetruck blocked off the driveway, and two police cars angled in at the curb. We all watched transfixed as the emergency response team jumped out and moved as if they’d choreographed their routines. I tied Honey to the leg of the bench and walked over to speak to the fire crew chief. By the time I returned to the pecan tree, an ambulance arrived, and one fireman had already slid under the garage door and was directing rescue efforts with shouts from the inside. Abby walked over to our bench and stood close, between us and the activity, to block most of Mrs. G’s view of the efforts. However, my neighbor leaned over and craned her neck, trying to watch what happened next. She held the tissue to her lips, but a couple of “eeps” escaped, and a tear appeared in the corner of her eye.

  As much as I wanted to protect Mrs. G from having to confront the tragedy in her garage, I decided it was time to ask the questions everyone would ask her soon. I added my other hand to the hold I had on Mrs. G’s right one and asked, “Did you give anyone permission to enter your garage?”

  Her wispy white head shook vigorously. Her left hand kept the crushed tissue in place over her mouth.

  “Did anyone come to your door before you heard the crash in the garage, Mrs. G?”

  Another head shake.

  Now the hard one. “Have you talked to any man named Carlisle in the past week?”

  “Car...?”

  “Carlisle. A man named J.C. Carlisle. Late forties. Maybe told you he was in real estate? Or investments?” I prompted, trying to work out what synonyms the victim might have used to describe his business.

  “No...” The word trailed off, filtering through the tissue still at her mouth to sound like she wasn’t sure. Another tear cut loose and traced down her wrinkled cheek. “Is that who’s hurt in the garage?”

  I rubbed her hands but didn’t answer. My vocal cords froze, as twenty feet away the garage door finally gave way with an amazing heave-ho by the three firemen on the outside and the one still inside. The ambulance crew wheeled a gurney up the drive, and I noticed something black folded into a square in the middle of the white sheet. I gave her hand another soft pat and cleared the knot from my throat by coughing. “Just checking, Mrs. G. Just checking.”

  A dark blue sedan pulled up next. My heart sank when I saw who climbed out the driver’s side. Everyone had their nemesis from high school. Mine became a local police detective.

  Brian Bake
r was still about five-ten and had a long torso, but now he wore a suit that made his legs look even shorter. He’d always had broad shoulders, and he was stockier than the last time he’d laughed at something I said in class. Always something I hadn’t intended to be funny. To be fair, his attempts at humiliating me may have also been because of the nickname we saddled him with that was kind of my fault.

  Okay, completely my fault.

  I hoped he had a partner who would arrive soon.

  He strode to the garage and huddled with the firefighters, nodding his dark head with its bristly buzz cut, the same haircut he’d worn from kindergarten through senior year. No imagination, but he’d always appreciated rules. Much to my detriment. He’d always been smart and observant, too. I hoped that meant he’d get this murder solved quickly, for my neighbor’s sake.

  When he disappeared inside, I sent up a little prayer that he was really a scene of the crime guy instead of a detective, so wouldn’t be talking to Abby and me. That hope lasted about three minutes, when he reappeared and gave orders to a young officer that sent the uniformed man scurrying back to his own patrol car and reversing out of his parking place. I couldn’t hear what Brian said, but from his actions and confident stance, I assumed then he was at least a detective sergeant.

  The gurney came back into view again, the long plastic bag stretched out and no longer empty. The EMTs loaded it in the back of the ambulance, and the vehicle pulled away minutes later without lights and siren, moving at the neighborhood’s twenty-five mile-per-hour speed limit.

  Mrs. G whispered, “Guess he was dead.”

  Oh, yeah, I thought. He was dead. Definitely.

  “So why did he come to die in my garage?” she asked. “I’ve always heard animals do that kind of thing. Hide when they know their time is up. But why would a person do it?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, Mrs. G. Let the police check this out,” I responded, still not mentioning someone had stabbed him and what the weapon was. I just hoped nothing about my neighbor led to the guy’s death. Other than the tent pole that impaled his torso, of course. That was history now. “How about if we go to my house—”