Hattie nodded. Yes. That could have happened. And there was the matter of the untied shoe. Could he have stepped on the lace and lost his balance? She never knew him to be clumsy, but accidents happen all the time.
“Hattie. Are you listening?”
“Listening?”
“I was saying we should try to communicate. Let Jason know we’re here and see if he talks to us.”
“Muriel, I’m not sure how it’s done.”
“I went to a séance once. No harm in trying.”
Hattie nodded. Couldn’t be any worse than working with Ted Blansky.
“First, we should do the sign of the cross.”
Hattie followed Muriel’s lead.
“Next we ask that only the highest and purest power come through. We don’t want any lost souls butting in. Now give me your hand.”
Hattie complied.
Muriel closed her eyes. “In the name of all that is holy and good, please bring forth our dearest Jason.”
Unsure of what to expect, Hattie listened carefully. What she heard was the thumping of her heart.
After a few moments, Muriel squeezed Hattie’s hand and repeated the plea.
Hattie’s heart sped. She was thinking of Jason, seeing him in her mind’s eye. He walked up to her door and smiled. “How you doin’ Mrs. Moon?” Bitter tears filled Hattie’s eyes. More resolute than ever, she’d find out who murdered him.
“Are you getting anything?” Muriel asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
She let go of Hattie’s hand. “Sorry.”
“No harm in trying.”
Muriel shook her head. “It was a stupid idea.”
“Ideas are never stupid. What’s stupid is not having them.”
“Touché.”
Trying to recall more details, Hattie walked a circle around the ivy where Jason’s body was found. What had she not seen? She imagined his face. The rain falling on it. The eyes. The wet hair. Suddenly, a spark. “He wasn’t wearing anything on his head. It was cold and rainy.” Hattie looked at Muriel. “Maybe that’s it. What do you think?”
Muriel bit the side of her lip. “You didn’t notice his Pirates’ cap? That is odd. Could have fallen off and blown away, I suppose.”
“Yeah.” Hattie said. “I should have checked.”
“Oh, Hattie, you can’t blame yourself. What should we do now?”
“We keep looking.”
“For what?”
“The hat and anything else that we don’t see.”
When Orin and Hattie first bought the house, the yard had been expansive with a weeping willow tree in the far corner. Shortly afterward, a block-long plaza, delivery access road, and chain-link fence were added, abutting their rear property line. To obscure the stark, expanse of uninterrupted cinder block Orin had planted trees, bushes, ivies. After years of conscious neglect, unbridled nature took hold and dense overgrowth filled the back of her yard. It was in this area, Hattie focused the flashlight and tried to see “what she didn’t see”.
After zigzagging around some bushes, they came upon the chain-link fence. Rusty and curled, a section of fence was caved in, leaving an opening to the access road. Hattie illuminated the area with the flashlight.
She had known about the breach for years. It was not uncommon for neighborhood boys, often led by Bailey Pastelle, Roxy’s son, to enter Hattie’s yard from the plaza and hide in the far corner where the weeping willow grew. Hattie turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the boys’ hangout, remembering her own escapades as a young girl hiding in secret places with her friends. With all the development in the area, where else could the boys have a clubhouse? However, after hearing the repeated crash of broken glass, she felt the need to summon the police. The boys never returned.
Hattie aimed the light along the ground. A vague path led from the gap in the fence toward the willow tree. “Let’s head this way.”
With each step, the air became colder, impermeable.
An electric chill ran through Hattie. How convenient her yard was for a murderer, cloaked and concealed in such penetrating blackness.
“It’s like we’re in the middle of the forest. Where we going?”
“Not much farther.”
A veil of branches from the willow tree hung down. Still mostly leafed, Hattie reached and pulled aside the curtain of limbs. They both stepped into a small, intimate clearing. In the center was a hulking trunk. Around them, a wall of weeping branches swayed slightly.
“Holy crapola. This is the weirdest place. Feels like we’re in another dimension.”
Hattie illuminated the ground.
“What the fudge?”
Jagged glass from broken beer bottles reflected the light. Discarded spray paint cans and empty cigarette packs were tangled on the littered ground.
“What a mess. Give me some light here.” Muriel reached down and picked up an old glass bottle with a foil top and straw. “You know what this is?”
Hattie shook her head.
“A bong. Seen enough of them from my days in Campus Security. It’s used to smoke marijuana.” Muriel turned full circle. “My Lord, a den of iniquity right here on Woodberry? Did the police see this?”
“I don’t know if they came this way. I saw them around the body, closer into my yard.”
Muriel shook her head. “If they came back and saw this stuff, it wouldn’t have been good. I wonder if his hat’s around.”
Hattie skimmed the area with the flashlight. Nothing. Suddenly, Hattie thought of something she hadn’t seen. Her heart quickened. “Muriel, let’s assume, after delivering our papers, Jason came here to this very spot, removed his coat, took a shot of something then headed out.”
Muriel looked troubled. “Hattie, do you really think that’s what happened?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. Given what the police are saying, it’s simply the hand we’re dealt.”
Muriel sighed. “I suppose.”
“But there’s good news. When everything’s nicely tied together, we only have to find one loose thread to unravel the entire story.”
“The hat?”
“Yes…and the papers.”
“Papers?”
“He delivered papers. But our street wasn’t the end of his route. So, where are they?”
“They must have been near his body.”
“No.”
“Maybe you missed them.”
“I saw his white T-shirt. Not the canvas pouch that crisscrossed his chest. It wasn’t there and it certainly isn’t here.”
Muriel stared off. “The papers. Yes. Of course. All we have to—”
Footsteps? Hattie and Muriel exchanged glances. Was someone walking along the access road? Hattie twisted her head to listen. Yes. And coming closer.
Muriel clamped down on Hattie’s arm. Her breathless voice was strained. “Maybe it’s the murderer. You know, they come back to the scene.”
Hattie clicked off the light, reached for the craggy bark to get her bearings, and hustled Muriel to the far side of the tree. They leaned against the huge trunk.
Footfalls, amid Muriel’s labored breathing, got louder. The chain-link fence gave a rattle. Twigs broke.
As Hattie strained to hear, Muriel shook.
Whoever it was moved quickly past them and deeper into her yard. Without a vantage point, Hattie left Muriel and stepped into the shroud of hanging branches. Still hidden, she pulled aside the leaves and squinted into the darkness.
Light from her kitchen window landed on a panther-like figure, agile and quick, who jumped the side fence onto the Spencers’ property. The shadow stalled, bent down and lifted the cellar door. Hattie’s shoulders relaxed as an interior light framed Wolfgang Spencer, her next door neighbor. Hattie glanced upward. In the second-floor window, Julia continued to be moving around. Hattie’s glance returned to the ground. Soundlessly, the cellar door closed as Wolfgang disappeared.
Relieved, Hattie took a couple of breaths. “It’s oka
y,” she called out to Muriel. “It was Wolfgang.”
Hattie pivoted and turned on the flashlight. Muriel, in a sea of her red coat, was heaped on the ground.
“Muriel!” Hattie rushed over. “Are you alright?”
“I can’t feel my legs. Get Ralph.”
“Ralph? But you need an ambulance.”
“Hattie, don’t you dare. Just need some juice with a couple of teaspoons of sugar. Hurry.”
Chapter Six
A fang-toothed wolf with matted fur tormented Hattie. He hid behind doors, windows, inside cupboard drawers to then sprint at her, howling with laughter. She ran through the house, slamming shut anything that opened. Safe in the kitchen, the worst happened––a set of jagged teeth leapt from the sink drain and lunged. Rearing back, Hattie bolted upright on the couch and awoke. Grainy dawn light seeped into the living room. Relief swept through her. Thank heaven it was a dream.
She looked at her husband’s picture. “Orin, what was that about?”
Silence was the response.
She shivered, drew the blanket to her neck, and settled into the couch. She hadn’t had a nightmare in years. So why now? Then, it came to her. “Yes, of course,” she said aloud.
It was a year earlier, a rainy Saturday. The movers backed the van into the driveway next door and a woman’s voice yelled, “Wolf.” Hattie drew the drapes farther apart and glanced toward the street. She expected some type of dog, perhaps a German Shepherd, to be sniffing and bounding across its new front lawn. However, it wasn’t a dog at all, but a remarkably handsome man, her new neighbor, Wolfgang Spencer.
Wolf was the last person she would have expected to cut through her yard and slink into his house. It wasn’t his style. He was a young, confident Cary Grant, whose soft brown eyes could melt wax and who sold real estate with a vengeance. His initialed WS signs were everywhere: posted on front lawns, tacked to buildings, displayed in storefronts. He sold, rented, and auctioned anything that didn’t move. Always suited and in a rush, he rarely said good morning to Hattie or any other neighbor. So unlike his wife, Julia, a nurse, who always took the extra time to comment on the weather, or ask if Hattie needed anything from the store.
So why was he weaseling around last evening? And not just creeping from yard to yard but entering his home like some truant schoolboy? Clearly, Wolf had secrets. Hattie shivered. Was Jason one of them? No, of course not. But it was strange how her rarely used yard suddenly became the hub of activity. Were the two events coincidental or related? There was only one way to find out. The sooner, the better.
Her plan formed. First, she’d get dressed and pay Wolf a little visit. But she needed to be careful and especially discreet. She wondered what Little Red Riding Hood might have in her basket that the Big Bad Wolf would want? “Yes,” she assured herself, “that might work.”
The sound of a key in a lock derailed her thoughts. She perched up and listened. The side door slammed. His familiar steps filtered down the hallway. She braced herself. It had to be Howie. An unannounced visit was never good. She reclined into the couch and closed her eyes.
“Ma, don’t pretend you’re asleep.”
Groggy, Hattie said, “What time is it?”
“You know very well what time it is. You’ve never slept past seven o’clock in your life. Now sit up, we have to talk.”
He was in a bad mood again, probably from the previous evening’s commotion. Darn that Ralph and his loose lips.
“What happened here last night?”
She straightened the blanket around her legs. “Last night?”
He gave her a stony look. “You could have burned the place down.”
She pretended to yawn, then rubbed her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ralph said that the burners on the stove were lit. What were you thinking?”
Hattie looked at her son. A few strands of damp hair straggled around the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. “Your tie, Howie. You must do the Windsor knot like your father taught you. And button up that shirt.”
“Please don’t change the subject. I’m talking about the burners. They’re for cooking, not heating the darn house.”
Hattie stared off. She had fired up the stove when Muriel came over, but after the visit to the back and all the hullabaloo afterwards, the burners had stayed on longer than planned. She needed to deflect, not defend.
Avoiding his accusatory glance, she said, “Now I am confused. Perhaps you should check the basement, I may have tucked some wieners in the boiler.” She sniffed the air. “On second thought, they’d be nothing but ash by now. So, whatever am I going to do with those rolls?” She plucked at the blanket. “Howie, why do you suppose they sell packages of ten hot dogs, but only eight buns? You would think—”
“Ma, please don’t change the subject.” Howie sank onto the couch beside her. “Okay, fine. We’ll forget the burners for now. What were you doing in the yard?”
Hattie needed time to think. “Say hello to Lucy. She loves you so.”
Lucy jumped on his lap and meowed. He ran his hand along her spine. “Ma, I want answers.”
“Good news,” she said bravely since the topic was bound to come up. “Muriel is out of the hospital.”
Her son winced. “I heard.”
“She’s feeling much better. Thank goodness.”
“And why exactly were the two of you drunk as skunks?”
“Excuse me?”
Howie took a deep breath and looked into space. This particular stance meant he would sit and stonewall her into answering his questions.
“For your information, we were not drunk. We were having a memorial service for Jason.”
His jaw dropped. “Ma, Ralph had to carry Muriel home.”
“Nonsense. How could he carry Muriel home? She was up and walking after he got her back into the house and I gave her some juice.”
Hattie made a mental note to talk to Ralph about minding his own business.
Howie sighed. “Ma, if it weren’t for Ralph, what would you have done last night?”
Was this a trick question? Would recrimination follow no matter what she said? Hattie sat considering a response. If she were to say she would have called an ambulance, she would be admitting to a serious state of affairs. On the other hand, if she were to say that she would have taken care of the situation, and have her son believe she could lift a woman twice her size and carry her up a flight of stairs, he would be certain her faculties were limited. There was only one way out. “I would have called you,” she said innocently. “You are always so resourceful. I can count on you, can’t I?”
Howie looked surprised, then nodded. “Of course, you can,” he said.
Hattie needed to change the topic to avoid further conversation about her sanity. “I was thinking the neighborhood should put together a condolence card. Would you like to contribute?”
“Sure, Ma.” He reached for his wallet, fished out a twenty, and placed it on the coffee table.
“Thanks, dear. Do you want me to sign your name or—”
“Listen, Ma,” he blurted. “After our talk yesterday, I made some calls.”
His face looked drawn, tired. Hattie’s body went boneless. Would her biggest fear come to fruition? Had he decided to sell the house and move her into an apartment?
“I spoke with a security company about having a system put in.”
“Security?” Hattie perked up. “Why, Howie, that’s a grand idea!”
“But after last night, I just don’t know.”
Hattie felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe Howie was coming around to her staying in the house. She needed to run with it.
“A security system. What a wonderful idea! Now why hadn’t I thought about that? It’s so obvious. Yes, no worries with one of those. Better than having a guard dog, and the police arrive within minutes. But isn’t it expensive?”
“Ma, money isn’t the issue.”
“Are you sure?”
“I
’m more concerned with your safety than a few dollars a month.”
“Howie, you are the best son in the world. And the smartest.”
“Settle down, Ma. I still have to think this through.”
“Yes, of course.” She folded her hands together, becoming the perfect listener.
“There is a certain amount of responsibility that comes with a security system for it to work properly.”
She nodded briskly. “Of course there is.”
“You’re going to have to be very conscientious about turning it on and off.”
“Naturally.”
“There’s a code you’re going to have to use, but that should be the least of our problems. And there’s one other thing.”
“What would that be, dear?”
“You’ll be expected to wear something around your neck.”
“My neck?”
“At all times.”
A contraption like a spiked dog collar flashed into her mind. Was a leash also attached? Would she be limited to a small circle around the couch? She blinked away the images. They were of little consequence. For the time being, he had agreed to stop pressuring her about moving.
“And one last thing,” he said. “This is on a trial basis. If for any reason your safety is compromised, you will have to move. No more arguments, no more guilt tripping me. Agreed?”
Hattie nodded, but wondered if this could be a set up. Was her safety going to be ‘compromised’ no matter what she said or did, making her move and the sale of the house inevitable? She looked at Howie’s boyish face. He was never that conniving.
Howie clapped his hands together. “I’ll make arrangements and call you later.”
Hattie slipped from beneath the blanket and planted her feet on the floor. “Let me help you with your tie.”
Howie took a quick step toward his mother and craned his neck. With bony fingers, she buttoned his shirt. As she took the two ends of his necktie and did the proper knot, her mind raced with how to broach the subject.
“So, Howie,” she said. “Have you spoken with Ted Blansky since yesterday?”
Murder in the Pachysandra Page 4
