by Sarah Hualde
Ethan swigged his coffee and chortled. “Though pea cereal for breakfast could make anyone gag.”
Ivy squared her shoulders and continued mixing the mush. “Speaking of mom guts, where were yours this morning?” Ethan spun Lydia in his arms and pierced her eyes with his. She was toast. Ethan always figured out what she thought before she told him. Lydia offered a weak smile and shrugged her shoulders.
“What?” Ethan released his wife and turned off the stove burner. He scooped up three servings of eggs and popped a scone beside his efforts.
“I don’t want to know. Do I?” Lydia didn’t respond. “Yup, that’s what I thought. Promise, you’ll be safe.” He kissed Lydia’s forehead and carried all three plates to the table. “Bring over the coffee.”
Happy to comply, Lydia did as she was told. All three parents sat together with the summer sun slicing through the sliding glass door. Ethan held out his hands. Each lady took one and bowed their heads to pray. Before Amen, Scout ejected her cheeked green cereal. It projected across the table covering the front of her mother’s shirt.
“Any news about Hobo Joe?” Ivy spread three napkins over her chest as Ethan swallowed his eggs and added pepper to the pile on his plate.
“He’s home. Bruised. Broken leg. But he’s doing okay.”
“I don’t think that’s the information Ivy was looking for,” Lydia said.
Ivy scraped the cementing baby food off Scout’s cheek, but it kept reappearing. “Yes and no,” she said. “Any idea who hurt him?” Ethan frowned. “None at all?”
“Not none. Joe remembers more every day. He’s getting stronger, and that should help. There was very little evidence at the scene. No other blood. No out of place fingerprints. Nothing weird.”
Lydia broke off the corner of her scone and flicked it into her mouth. “I forgot,” she said. “I did find something when Kat and I were scrubbing the crosses. I wonder where I put it.”
“What was it?” Both Ethan and Ivy asked.
“Nothing important, I’m sure. There won’t be anything you can get from it.” Lydia left the table and dug into her purse searching for the oiled hanky.
“A tissue?”
“No.” Lydia unrolled the cotton square and exposed the jewelry.
“It’s bent,” Ethan said.
“That’s because I sat on it. It probably hosts a bit of my DNA. It stabbed me.”
“Gross.”
Ivy finished cleaning Scout. She turned to investigate Lydia’s evidence. Her bright complexion faded when she saw the earring. “That’s Emily’s.”
Chapter 14
Kat called Waste Management and arranged a new trash pick-up at Jacqui’s and Cordelia’s. The troupe of renegades didn’t bother asking for Cordelia’s permission. Mrs. Muggs was more concerned with being a nuisance than protecting herself.
Thaddeus Miller texted his wife several times throughout the day. He asked how she was doing. If they owned a can opener, and finally where they kept the first aid kit, she was alarmed by the last question but not surprised. Someone was always beaten or bleeding at her house. That’s how the Miller’s explored life, full speed ahead.
Kat stayed put. She didn’t want to miss a thing. She would meet up with her family for dinner at the diner with the Brandes clan and then she would return. Lydia was due by 9 pm. The trash smashers never struck before midnight, but there was planning and speculating to do. That and Lydia needed more lessons in handicrafts. Kat wasn’t going to babysit her every Tuesday Night and Saturday of the summer.
Miss Jacqui retreated to bed after breakfast. Kat wondered if it was the pain meds or the pain making her sleepy. She didn’t imagine Miss Jacqui was the napping type.
Hobo Joe catnapped on the couch. His snore made Kat drowsy. She busied herself with cutting and prepping more squares for the crafting fair.
Though she kept her hands and mind busy, her gaze was never long off the monitor. She witnessed Pastor Dean walk his boxer down the street and saw him dutifully wrapped his arm sized lawn deposit in a blue plastic bag. Later, Victor Cotton left in his truck. He sported his Senior Center scrubs and crocs. Off to work, again. Nothing abnormal.
Surveillance work wasn’t at all glamorous.
✽✽✽
“I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want to know. Promise me you’ll be as safe as possible. No more to the death matches with murderesses. Got it.” Ethan put on his sheriff’s shirt and tucked it into his jeans. He was going business casual to work.
“Got it, boss.” Lydia pecked her husband’s cheek.
“I should be in the office most of the night. We’re still trying to piece together what happened with Mr. Joe.” Ethan checked his face in a hallway mirror. Lip gloss smooches ate away at his credibility. “It would help if we knew his real name.”
“You don’t?”
“No, do you?”
“No. I thought, for sure, you’d have it. Or at least the hospital.” Lydia held the front door open for Ethan and handed him his favorite jean jacket. Nights, though late coming, were chilly in summer.
“No, even the hospital knows him as Hobo Joe. Strange. You know, I hate that we call him a Hobo. Where did that start, anyway?” Ethan jingled his keys and shot a backward wave to his wife, before sliding into his truck. “Love you!”
“Love you, too.” Lydia waved until his truck disappeared down the drive. In a flash, she slammed the door and ran upstairs.
Ivy meandered out of her room to see what was happening. “I suppose you’re heading to Miss Jacqui’s?”
“Just snagging some supplies, first.” Lydia’s voice was muffled. “Did you need anything? Do you want to come along?”
Ivy unwrapped a sucker and stuck it on her tongue. The stick hung from her mouth like an old gambler’s cigarette. Sometimes, Lydia forgot how young Ivy was. Her pout showed her age. “Nah, I’ve got to study.”
“Okay.” Lydia hugged the teen, a motherly reflex. “Call me...”
“If I need anything. I know. Thanks.”
✽✽✽
Emily sat in the car as the boys unloaded blue totes. They carted them back Mr. Cotton’s greenhouse. She wasn’t allowed in the greenhouse. Braden threw a fit the first time she attempted to help them with one of their drop-offs. She let it go, after that.
She stared at her phone. The screen shimmered stuck on the password. Emily wanted to call Ivy, but she would have settled for a quick matching game or hidden-object puzzle. Her phone lay in her palm completely useless unless someone called her.
Lucas knocked on her window. She screamed in response. He howled and jabbed Braden in the ribs with his elbow. The boys cackled and grabbed the next round of boxes.
✽✽✽
Dinner with the Brandes family was lovely. Though Kat was in a hurry to get back to home base, conversation with Flora was always mental refreshment. She felt guilty and strange not inviting Flora to join the night’s activities. However, Flora was still fresh from labor. Three weeks wasn’t long enough to merge her back into active duty. In another month, she’d be back on the squad if there was a mystery to solve. If not, life would go back to its usual routine. Kat was sure Flora would agree.
Meanwhile, Flora stifled a sob. She smiled through it and focused on the moment. Choosing to enjoy the meal and the families being together she tried to forget her pricked feelings. After all, she was only three weeks postpartum. She shouldn’t be gallivanting around chasing suspects or breaking into police impound. Maybe in six months or so, once Enoch’s immunities were built up, she could tote him around more easily from scene to scene. That was if there was a new mystery to unravel. If not, life would go back to its usual routine. At the thought, Flora’s heart thudded.
✽✽✽
Lydia’s black bag laid wilted on the floor of Miss Jacqui’s dining area. The contents of its canvas stomach lay spread across the table top. Kat plugged Lydia’s police scanner into her laptop. Lydia worked in the kitchen, plunging her largest
French Press.
“Are you sure Ethan doesn’t mind that we’re using this?” Kat paced, waiting for the scanner to tune into the proper frequencies. Lydia ignored the question. Any answer would be the wrong one.
Hobo Joe walked into the kitchen behind Lydia. He took a deep sniff of the coffee steam. “I’ve missed coffee.”
Miss Jacqui, using her old lady sonar, replied from the living area. “It’s been three days.”
Lydia smirked at the twinkle in Hobo Joe’s eyes. “I feel your pain,” she said.
“I’m glad we have a quiet moment.” The injured man propped his crutch against the wall and used the countertop for support. He grunted at the effort. Although he’d narrowly scraped past serious, maybe fatal, injuries, he was up and about and chatting.
Lydia’s memory rushed. Her mind flooded with remembered smells and sounds. She’d undergone an attack. The feelings were still recent and randomly plagued at her peace. Looking at Joe’s cast sent the pounding of fists to her cheekbones and the sense of slender, stiff fingers around her neck. She forced away self-pity and instead enjoyed the aroma of fresh beans.
Hobo Joe reached out a hand, wincing at the ache in his back, and rested it atop Lydia’s shoulder. The sweetness nearly broke both of them. “It will pass. Things will be normal again. Just a different kind of normal,” Joe said.
“I should be saying those things to you,” Lydia said.
“Psh. We are comforted so that we may comfort. You were a great comfort to me. At the memorial. I remember you there.”
Tears puddled behind Lydia’s eyes, and the pressing pulse of not releasing them made it impossible for her to talk. Hobo Joe’s eyes shined with sympathy and understanding. He did not remove his hand from hers, and he did not permit his voice to waver. “I heard your prayer for me and felt you crying beside me. I knew God’s hand was on us both. I knew he’d purposed you to find me. Thank you for refusing to leave me.”
With raging effort, Lydia managed a nod in response. She broke the eye connection and helped herself to her hostess’ cupboard. The mugs clunked on the tile countertop.
“Mr. Joe,” Lydia started.
“Hobo Joe or just Joe. Please, no Mister.”
“Okay, Joe.” Leading him to a nearby stool, she handed him his coffee. “What do you remember about your attack? Or is it too soon?”
Joe laughed. It was odd and misplaced but liberating. “It’s never too soon. Better to get the story out than to hold it in. I don’t remember very much. I remember sitting at the crosses, as I do every morning. Then, it happened. One hit and then another. They tell me there were three hits altogether. However, I only remember two. The first one I didn’t even feel. The second was horrible. Then I fell. I remember thinking how nice it is that I would get to die surrounded by crosses and by memories of heroes. Then there was crying and you. That’s it. It happened. Now, I’m broken and healing. Jacqui is nursing me as I’m nursing her. That’s it.”
Lydia digested Joe’s report but mingled it with her flashbacks. Her face muscles tightened in reflex to her memories. She secretly wondered if she should see a counselor and talk about the attack. Lydia contemplated discussing it with Joe as she sipped from her mug. Kat interrupted her first draw of coffee.
“We’re set,” both the tottering man and heartsick woman rushed to Kat’s side. “We have to wait until dark.”
“I’ll drag out the cans. Is Cordelia on board?”
Jacqui answered Lydia with a wave of her unfettered wrist. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of her. I’m sure; anything to stop the attacks and bring her heart a bit of peace would be a welcomed blessing.”
Lydia enjoyed another drink of her coffee and walked to the garage. Grabbing the handles, she wheeled out Jacqui’s trash and crossed the street. Victor Cotton waved at her from his mailbox. Lydia waved back, before towing Cordelia’s trash to the curb.
“The market makes so much extra garbage,” Victor said. He added some commentary about recycling and compost, as he went to gather his trash.
“Do you think I could add some to your extra pick up? I can help pay for it.”
“Yes, of course!”
“Stay right there.” Victor scampered to his greenhouse and brought out many boxes. Broken into slender bundles he shoved the cardboard in Cordelia’s trash. “I appreciate it.”
Lydia watched for signs of confusion or distrust on Victor’s face. She didn’t want anyone to know of the stakeout. The fewer entanglements, the better. They weren’t watching a potential drug lab or anything, only snooping on vandals. They might not even press charges just terrify them a little. However, that was up to Cordelia and Miss Jacqui. They’d been the most affected by the senseless wave of vandalism.
✽✽✽
The first text message rattled before the sun disappeared. The boys cheered. Emily sunk further into her seat.
“She’s taking all the fun out of it,” Braden growled and hissed.
Lucas outstretched a tender hand to Emily and fiddled with her ear. Emily trembled in response. “He’s right, babe. He’s right. We can drop you off with Mr. Mike, or you can start being the fun girl you were at camp.”
Emily curled her knees into her chest and squeezed her arms around them. Lucas’ caress turned to a pinch. More threatening than painful. Emily wanted out of the car. She longed to run back to Mission House. However, she wanted Lucas to love her even more. Wasn’t that what he was doing? Calming her so she could have a good time?
“I’ll try,” she whispered.
“Of course, you will. There’s my girl.” Lucas’ voice was edgy but tender. Braden kicked the back of Emily’s seat.
Chapter 15
Miss Jacqui sat on the edge of her favorite reading chair. The camera scrolled from shot to shot with no suspicious activity. Even so, she peered out her window. No lights shone behind her, and she kept to the shadows. “Does she do this often?” Hobo Joe yawned, mid-sentence.
Kat echoed the exhale. She shrugged. “You’d have to ask Rene.”
The police scanner crackled in near silence for hours. A call came through regarding Shooter the runaway lab. It was answered promptly and resolved without trauma. The Sheriff’s department kept a supply of dog snacks in each vehicle, designated for the dog but helpful with any canine situation.
At 1:13 am the office summoned the Sheriff. After all the routine and protocol Rachel, the night clerk announced, “The trash smashers have hit again. Different neighborhood. Right in front of Mr. Goldman’s house. He says there’s something you need to see.”
Static and crackle and then Ethan’s tired voice, “In his trash?”
Rachel groaned and replied. Her voice echoed in its standard nasal twang. “He’s not hanging up with me until you boys get there.”
“On our way.”
“Yes!” Miss Jacqui pumped her injured arm and quickly curled it to her chest in pain. The quilter never appeared so full of life or brimming with giddy joy. Her attitudes ranged from serious to furious.
This jubilant side of Jacqui surprised Kat and Lydia. “Must be her pain meds,” Kat whispered to her friend.
Hobo Joe scooted his chair forward using his good leg. “She’s not taking any pain meds. She’s never even opened them. We both felt it was wiser not to muddle our minds at this time. “But, Joe, you’re hurting. You were beaten, and she was run down. Certainly, that’s excuse enough to permit help with the pain.” Lydia coaxed.
“The majority of people, in the world, live with pain. Why should we be any different? Besides, it’s temporary. It gets better every day,” Jacqui said.
Joe leaned close to Lydia and whispered, “We both were prescribed heavy medications at the hospital. That’s when the pain was the worst. Compared to then, today’s is nothing. So don’t let her fool you. We both take an OTC before bed to help us rest. We’re not taking anything stronger.”
Lydia’s eyebrows arched. “I took sleeping pills for two days after my experience, and I thought
I was doing well not taking them anymore.”
“Everyone is different. A punch in the face hurts more than a hit to your body. It hurts your heart. Especially when the person hitting you is face to face.”
“It’s dehumanizing.”
Hobo Joe offered a sideways grin. His laugh lines and frown squished downward in sympathy. “Yes. It is.”
Lydia wanted to tell Hobo Joe everything. She wanted to explain how fear stalked her, how it hunted her even in her happiest moments. She wanted to go into detail with someone close enough to understand and distant enough not to panic for her wellbeing. However, the man, himself, was rebounding from an attack of his own — an attack much more violent than hers and one that left behind worse physical scars.
“Dwelling on the past can force us to repeat it. Learn and move on.” Miss Jacqui interrupted and let the blinds snap shut. “Now, hush. The smashers are out, and they’re a few blocks away. They’re sure to arrive at any moment.”
“Does Mr. Goldman have trash pick-up on the same day as you?”
“No, today’s his normal schedule.”
All four sets of eyes watched the monitor. It flickered from scene to scene. The front porch, the curb, the trash cans, and Victor Cotton puttering around in his greenhouse. Its lights emblazoned the grayscale images when his round came up. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut right before the screen flashed to his.
“What is she doing out?” Kat said startling Lydia’s eyes open.
“Who?” Miss Jacqui returned to her window.
“Cordelia.”
“She’s not the trash smasher.” Lydia spouted without thought and received three glares in return.
“Definitely not. But it’s closing in on 2 am, and Cordelia’s pulling into her garage.”
The monitor sorted through the rounds and landed back on Cordelia’s as her garage door closed. “Maybe she’s out looking for Mario.”
Again, Lydia’s comment elicited odd looks. “You and I both know Mario is dead. Grown men don’t go missing for months without disastrous ends.” The cold quickness of Miss Jacqui’s words sent gooseflesh up Lydia’s arms.
