Murder in the Pachysandra

by Linda A. Lavid

  MURDER IN THE PACHYSANDRA

  A HATTIE MOON MYSTERY

  LINDA A. LAVID

  © 2018 Linda A. Lavid

  Full Court Press

  Kindle Edition

  Chapter One

  “Orin,” Hattie Moon said, looking out their front storm door. “You’re not going to believe where our newspaper is! All over God’s creation. Can you imagine? What was Jason thinking?”

  She glanced back into the living room. The soft brown eyes of a man in uniform met her gaze.

  “Yes,” Hattie said to her dead husband’s photograph. “Now, let’s not make assumptions. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. This darn latch probably didn’t catch. It’s very windy, you know.”

  Orin’s everlasting smile held no response.

  Hattie pivoted around.

  A charcoal gray sky, dense and swirling loomed above. Tree branches swayed from twisting winds and heavy rain. Pools of water, no longer able to drain away, swelled up the driveways. Craning her neck, Hattie stretched taller to see if any of the paper could be salvaged.

  “Should we call over to the Meekses and talk to Jason? But I wouldn’t want to wake anyone. It’s only seven-thirty.”

  Frigid air from the drafty door swept across her cheek. “Of course, I could ask Howie for his paper. But you know how he gets. If I mention any problems, he’ll find some excuse to tell me this house is more than I can handle. Remember how he got a few days ago when the pilot light went out? Said I could have blown up the place.”

  Her breath made a small, foggy circle on the glass. With a patch of blanket that hung from her shoulders, she wiped the spot clean. “No, asking our son for his paper may not be the best idea.”

  Lucy came to the door and rubbed against her legs. “And you. Don’t even think about running off.” Lucy meowed, then focused a wide-eyed stare at the storm.

  The day was turning ugly. Not only had her sleep been interrupted by arthritic hip pain and nature calls to the bathroom, but it was further compromised by lightning and thunder that had flashed and cracked so loud and close, she had jolted upright, spraining a muscle in her back. Now the tray of buttered rye toast, soft-boiled egg, and cup of tea was cooling to room temperature. She’d have to reconsider her plan of enjoying a warm breakfast while cutting out the coupons.

  Across the front yard, sheets of newspaper, with their corners flapping in the wind, collected along the chain-link fence that separated her property from the Spencers’. Judging from the paper size and color, Hattie felt certain these were the inserts she needed.

  For years, Hattie set aside five dollars every week for any advertised precooked, flash-frozen or vacuumed-packed food product that her son could throw in the microwave. How he survived eating so much processed food was a mystery. Still, buying him these things were small payment for their weekly trek to the supermarket. Hattie thought hard. Perhaps the pages could be collected and dried on the radiator. Certainly, that was an option. Looking for signs of life, she glanced up and down the street. No lights appeared in any window. Quite possibly the few neighbors were still asleep, and if she were to run out, she wouldn’t even have to get dressed. Besides how long would it take? Surely not more than five minutes.

  An accumulation of coats and shoes cluttered the small front closet. With the blanket puddled at her feet, Hattie reached for her warmest wrap, a black winter coat with a faux leopard-skin collar. She had worn it to Orin’s funeral thirteen years earlier, and one other time when she and Howie had gone to the Philharmonic to see some Irish dancers. The sheer weight of it made her arms weak. Still, she managed to slip it on over the long flannel nightgown and cardigan sweater. She straightened her shoulders and fastened the four buttons.

  Unable to see the dark closet floor, she rummaged with her feet and kicked a discarded pair of Howie’s sneakers into the vestibule. More like boats than shoes, she stepped into them with her slippers still on. Surprisingly, they fit. On tippy toes, she grabbed an old blue knit cap of Orin’s and planted it on her head. Hattie shied away from the mirror that hung on an opposite wall. She had no desire to see an eighty-three-year-old woman who, in all likelihood, appeared more discombobulated than Mrs. Potato Head.

  At the storm door, she looked at the grim sky, braced herself, and pressed the latch. In an instant, a gust of wind ripped the door from her hands. Spinning around, it crashed against the house. Frigid air blew into the small hallway. Seeing an opportunity, Lucy sprinted out.

  “Nuts!” Hattie yelled. “Lucy come back here.” But by the time her words were spoken, the cat had scampered across the lawn and into the ivy under the maple tree. Now she had another thing to worry about.

  There was no turning back. Hattie stepped onto the porch and wrestled the storm door closed, pushing it hard until it clicked. As rain came down in frigid heavy drops, she grabbed the railing and held on for dear life. Gingerly, she descended the three stairs, one at a time. “Please,” she said quietly. “Not my hip. Not here. Not now. Howie will kill me. Or worse.” She had a vision of herself lying helpless on a plastic sheet in a nursing home bed with unfamiliar hands giving her a sponge bath. She willed the troubling thought away.

  At the bottom of the stairs, more storm damage came into view. Not only was the newspaper scattered across the lawn, but a huge tree limb had landed on the driveway. A sinking feeling lodged in her stomach. Could Jason have been hurt by a falling branch? She looked for any signs of him. He’d be easy to spot given the Army coat he had taken to wearing no matter what the weather. However, it was still rather dark and if he were lying somewhere . . .

  Again, she thought of calling his house. But what if he hadn’t gotten home yet? She remembered her own pacing whenever Howie was late. Boys, she’d learned, perceived time differently. It seemed to get away from them.

  She made a decision. Before salvaging the ads, she would take a quick walk to the street and look down the few paths that led to each house. Since Woodberry Lane was a dead-end and only ran the length of a few houses on each side, it would hardly be an inconvenience.

  Castaway leaves, layers thick, covered the concrete sidewalk. To prevent slipping, Hattie opted for safety and headed across the wet lawn toward the street, passing Lucy who now peeked out from an overhang of bushes. Hattie said under her breath, “You’re going to get it.” Lucy meowed. Unlike her deceased husband Orin, Lucy always talked back. Just as Hattie reached the sidewalk to look for Jason, she saw trouble. Ralph Troutman’s car swerved onto the street. Nuts. He and Howie were in cahoots, always keeping tabs on her. How could she explain being outside on a day like today, dressed as she was? Surely, he’d tell Howie.

  Hattie quickly turned left and began walking away with purpose, although what purpose she could possibly have so early in the morning on a day like today was even a mystery to her.

  In the distance she heard a car door slam. Sure enough, two seconds later her name was called out.

  Hattie stopped and turned.

  Ralph was already at the foot of his driveway. He was a big, squarish man, with a shock of thick gray hair. “What are you up to?”

  She could have told him the truth, that she was looking for an impaled paperboy, a derelict cat, and the coupons for space food but she knew none of her honest explanations would please either Ralph or her son. She had to say something. “Have you seen Jason?” she asked innocently.

  “No, I just came from having breakfast. Is there a problem?”

  Ralph often asked if there was a problem. He was the neighborhood handyman. Problems were his bread and butter.

  “Not really, I just was wondering if something may have happened to him.”

  Ralph approached Hattie, looking at her feet.
“Why would you think that?”

  Hattie could sense Ralph was making some quick deductions about her sanity. “The paper wasn’t delivered.”

  Ralph looked over to her property. His eyes widened.

  “Well, it was delivered,” she added, “just not in the traditional way.”

  “Darn kid,” Ralph said. “What a mess! Do you want me to go to his house?”

  “Now don’t you go off on that poor boy,” Hattie said with as much force as she could muster. “I’m sure the weather had something to do with the situation.”

  Ralph shook his head. “Brainless, bottom line. Kids today. Too much texting, video games, sex. Eyes are everywhere but on the ball. Doesn’t take a genius to know you can’t leave a paper outside on a day like this.”

  “Yes. But do you think he could have gotten hit on the head?”

  “Knocked silly, you mean?” He laughed rather cruelly.

  Hattie suspected Ralph’s mood would soon worsen. Topics like children, gun control, women’s rights, turned him red, blubbering and insanely irrational. He needed to be refocused quickly.

  “Ralph, only God controls the weather.”

  He nodded, then looked up at the sky. “Weather’s supposed to break by noon. I’ll come over and clean up when it stops raining.”

  She would have liked to have told him not to bother, but the branch in the driveway was more than she could handle.

  “Now don’t worry about a thing. Just go back inside and get dry. I’ll take care of everything.” He grabbed her arm. “Let me walk you to the door.”

  She shrugged him off. “That won’t be necessary. I’m quite capable.”

  He backed off. Besides religion, Ralph had respect for independence. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Hattie nodded as Ralph’s broad frame lumbered across the street.

  Perhaps he was right about Jason being distracted. Besides the brunt of the storm was around four in the morning, hours before he would have delivered the papers. The best thing to do was to call over to Jason’s house in an hour. Just to check. Meanwhile, she had to find those darn ads.

  She stepped to the far side of the lawn where the sheets of newspaper had accumulated. At the fence, she hooked her fingers around the cold wire mesh, bent down and grabbed a sheet. Soaked, but still intact, was a picture of a Salisbury steak with impeccable grill marks. She looked closer. Eureka! A whole dollar-off coupon ran along the bottom. Perhaps the tedious morning was over and she could enjoy some warm tea after all. Stooping down, she gathered more clumps of wet paper and stuffed them into her coat pockets. Once inside, she’d look them over.

  Suddenly, Lucy appeared, tantalizingly close.

  Hattie inched toward her. “Good kitty.”

  The cat’s tail swiped wide, quick, and in a flash, she turned and bolted down the side yard into the back.

  “You little wisenheimer,” Hattie said. “Get over here.” Of course, she was ignored.

  The best thing to do was to let the cat languish outside. When sufficiently cold and soaked, she’d jump onto the kitchen sill and paw at the window. But in this weather with the freezing rain and falling branches anything could happen and Howie wasn’t going to tolerate another vet bill. With no other option, Hattie followed.

  Her property extended to a far tree line where dense brush and ground cover flourished. It was a favored spot for Lucy. There she could stay hidden and vigilant for the squirrels that ventured onto the ground.

  Walking toward the area, Hattie called out, “Lucy, come here this very minute.”

  A disembodied meow responded.

  Hattie searched for movement in the pachysandra. But something else, tangled in the ground cover, caught her attention – an olive-green coat.

  Her passing glance stopped cold. His white T-shirt stood out as bright and piercing as a flash of lightning. His head was turned, twisted unnaturally; his tender brown eyes stared, wide-open and lifeless. Were those tears or raindrops on his face?

  Hattie looked for a fallen branch or blood trickling from his chest or head. Nothing. A chill, icy cold, ran through her.

  “Jason?” she whispered.

  Driving rain pelted his body. She absorbed details––a coat unbuttoned, an untied shoelace.

  “Jason?” her voice echoed.

  She stepped backwards, onto Lucy’s tail. A tortured screech ripped into the air.

  Quickly, she bent over and grasped the mass of wet fur. She then hobbled off as fast as she could with shoes too big, an arthritic hip, and a clawing cat clamped under her arm.

  Chapter Two

  Shaken, Hattie reclined on the couch, as Lucy, now dry, curled up by the radiator. Somehow, they had survived the shock of finding Jason.

  A dead body in her backyard was more unsettling than she could have ever imagined. Dear Jason. His face, so pale and still. Those staring eyes, hollow and empty. Death, she had felt was a natural process, but the young boy’s discarded body, lying unprotected and vulnerable to the elements, was nowhere near natural. It was, instead, horribly obscene.

  A red light strobed across the living room walls. Another police car must have pulled in front of the house. Hattie looked at Detective Ted Blansky, a school friend of Howie’s, who stood at the window. His profile was not unlike Alfred Hitchcock’s—a bit extended in the stomach, sparse hair, with a nose reminiscent of a ski jump. A toothpick stuck out from his lips.

  “Ted,” Hattie asked, “has Jason’s family been notified?”

  “Been taken care of.”

  Hattie’s heart fluttered. What would Jason’s family be feeling now? Their lives forever changed, crumbled.

  The detective turned toward Hattie. “Coroner should be here any minute. So how long did you know the kid?”

  The kid. How cold and irreverent it sounded. “Are you referring to Jason?” she asked pointedly.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh my, has to be six or seven years. Been delivering papers for at least that long. He even carried my papers to the curb in the recycling box . . .”

  Hattie’s voice petered out. She remembered Jason as a young boy dragging the heavy bin to the curb; then later as a young man who heaved it effortlessly atop one shoulder.

  “So, it was the newspaper that made you go outside?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you didn’t hear him earlier?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  An aching guilt was building. If only she had the curtains open, maybe she would have heard or seen him. Maybe she could have helped. After all, she had been up since four in the morning roaming around the house like some ridiculous blind mouse, doing useless things she could no longer recall.

  “Did you have any concerns about him?”

  “What do you mean? What sort of concerns?”

  He shrugged. “Kids. Full of energy and nowhere to spend it. Did he seem high strung or nervous?”

  “Jason? Not at all. He was always calm, even-tempered.”

  “What were his interests?”

  “He loved animals. For the longest time he had talked about becoming a veterinarian, but recently he decided to design and build animal habitats in zoos. Can you imagine?”

  “Did he seem depressed?”

  “Depressed? Heaven’s no. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  Hattie studied the detective. He was fishing for something. “What are you implying?”

  He removed the toothpick from his mouth. “Nothing, Mrs. Moon. Just gathering information.”

  “Are you suggesting he committed suicide?”

  “It happens.”

  “My Lord, of course it happens, but Jason had plans, he talked about the future. He was applying for college for goodness sake.” Hattie shook her head with conviction. “Besides why would he bother delivering the papers if he was about to hurt himself?”

  The corners of Detective Blansky’s lips hinted at a smile. “Mrs. Moon, you’d make a good inv
estigator.”

  Hattie wasn’t sure if he was being condescending. She rearranged the blanket that covered her legs. “One has to be logical about such things.”

  He nodded then faced the window.

  As a boy Ted Blansky was a rather heavy-set child who would, only on occasion, come to their house. He tended to be quiet, and by the time he was in high school, sullen and antisocial. Clearly, his laconic demeanor hadn’t changed. Given his profession, maybe it was for the best.

  “Did the boy usually go into your yard?”

  Hattie had been baffled about this all morning. She had never known Jason to go any farther than the back door. His home was in the opposite direction and he was very conscientious about people’s property and privacy. He never wanted to do anything that would get him in trouble or have someone yell at him. He was just that kind of kid. “As far as I know, Jason never cut through the yard.”

  “Were you aware of any problems?”

  “Problems? What kind of problems?”

  He continued staring out to the street. “The usual. Girlfriend. Family. School. That sort of thing.”

  Hattie shook her head. “He never spoke of any.”

  “Any health concerns?”

  “No,” Hattie said. Still, she wondered. It certainly wasn’t unheard of for a young person to die suddenly from any number of medical problems. Could natural causes account for the poor child’s untimely demise? After all there was no blood that she could see. Sudden death could happen to anyone, at any time. Blood vessels leaked, hearts stopped, lungs filled with fluid. Perhaps he had a virus of some sort, or developed an allergy, or was bitten by something. But why didn’t he pass out closer to one of the houses? Why was he so far off his normal route?

  The detective cleared his throat. “There’s a crowd gathering.” He glanced at Hattie. “Mrs. Moon, would you mind coming over here and telling me if anyone looks familiar?”

  Hattie swung her feet onto the floor. She would do anything the detective asked. She rose from the couch pushing herself up with weak, trembling arms.