A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  Needing a little something to take the edge off a long, frustrating day, she decided to fix herself something a bit stronger than the coffee she’d serve to Lena. She removed a glass from the cabinet and a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, and poured until every last drop was out of the bottle. Wine in one hand and coffee in the other, she walked over to Lena, handed her the cup.

  “I’d love to have a glass of wine instead of coffee,” Lena said.

  Maisie raised a brow. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in four months.”

  Hand on hip, Maisie said, “I’m not a stickler for conventional rules by any means, but offering alcohol to a minor is a line I won’t cross, dear. I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for drinking in front of you, but I feel I must.” She took a swig. “How did your sister and Lane meet? What do you know about him?”

  “They met at a coffee shop. She used to go there sometimes after school to do her homework. He asked for her phone number one day, and they haven’t spent a day apart since.”

  “What did he do for a job?”

  “He was a construction worker.”

  “I can’t imagine that paid very much.”

  “It was okay. It paid the bills.”

  “If Zoey stayed home to tend to the baby, how did they afford the house they just bought? Homes in The Avenues aren’t cheap.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. They didn’t buy it. My mother inherited the house after granny died.”

  “You’re Mildrid Howard’s granddaughter?”

  She nodded, and it all made sense.

  CHAPTER 10

  For the second time that day, Maisie grabbed the shovel she’d propped against the wall in her pantry. Gripping it firmly, she walked to the front door, halting when she heard the familiar roar of a Ford engine rolling to a stop in her driveway. She opened the front door and peeked out, even though it wasn’t necessary. She knew who it was—Daniel.

  Shit.

  She leaned the shovel against the wall, hustled to the kitchen table, lifted his belt off the chair, and hustled back to the door just in time to hear him knock. She whipped the door open, shoved the belt in his face and said, “Good afternoon, Daniel. Or evening. Or whatever. Here’s the belt you left last night. I have things to do, so I’ll say goodnight.”

  Daniel rammed his boot between the door and the jamb, stopping Maisie from pushing it all the way closed again. “Why are you acting so strange tonight, Maisie?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He pushed the door open, stuck his head inside the house, and glanced around. “You have another man here tonight, don’t you? Is that why you’re pushing me away?”

  He was needy. Too needy. And she didn’t do needy. “Nope, no one else is here. Just me.”

  Daniel shook his head, indicating he didn’t believe her, then cupped a hand over his mouth and said, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  “You’re being stupid, Daniel. I’m alone. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. Please go.”

  He ignored her request, stepped inside the house, pulled out a paper sack he’d been hiding behind his back, and dangled it in front of her face. “I brought your favorite. Don’t you want it?”

  The smell was unmistakable. She accepted the offering, unrolled the top of the sack, and looked inside. He had brought her favorite—French fries from Flipping Fresh Burger, the best burger joint in Salt Lake City.

  “It was sweet of you to think of me, but I really am tired tonight, Daniel. I’m sorry. And, as you can see now, no one else is here. You have to go. Mmmkay?”

  Daniel trailed a finger up her arm. “Oh, come on, Maisie. Let me stay. Please?”

  Nothing was going as planned, and she couldn’t help but envision the back and forth banter continuing like this for the rest of the night. He’d always been a talker, and now that he’d entered the house, it was clear he wasn’t leaving. She chomped down on a fry and weighed her options, knowing there was really only one. “I have time for a quickie. You can’t stay the night, and you have to take your belt this time. This is the only offer you’re going to get. Understand?”

  He nodded, and it was settled. Twenty minutes later, he was the happiest man in the city, whistling a tune as he waltzed out the door. He pulled her hand to his mouth, kissing it like he’d suddenly acquired manners in the last few minutes. “Until tomorrow?”

  “Don’t push it, Daniel. And if you’ve left anything behind this time, you may as well kiss it goodbye. It won’t be here waiting for you next time.”

  He smiled. “So, there will be a next time then?”

  She shook her head, closed the door, and reached for the shovel one last time. There was a fire pit several houses down, and right now it demanded her immediate attention.

  CHAPTER 11

  Headlamp secured around her forehead and shovel in hand, Maisie speedwalked past her neighbors’ houses, heading to the Marshalls’ backyard. The street was quiet at this hour, just the way she liked it. Only a few residents were still awake, in their living rooms, perched in front of the television. Dressed in black from head to toe, no one seemed to notice when she sped by.

  She entered the Marshalls’ backyard, switched the headlamp on, approached the fire pit, and looked inside. The moon was dull, almost non-existent, darker than usual. But the lamp did its job. She plunged the shovel into the pit’s core, noticing the dirt was soft. Really soft. At first she assumed it was because Lane had worked the soil over, leaving it soft and pliable, but the deeper she dug, the more she realized there wasn’t anything to dig up. Whatever had been left there, if in fact something had been left there at all, wasn’t there any longer.

  Disappointed, she stood over the hole she’d dug, thinking. If Ernest had caught Lane in the act of covertly burying something he didn’t want anyone to know he buried, chances were Lane might not have buried the item at all, possibly worried his nosey neighbor would come poking around, find something he didn’t want him to find. If true, Lane may have come up with an alternate plan, burying the item somewhere else.

  But where?

  She raised a finger to the center of her lips, tapping while she looked around.

  A voice, low and deep, startled her. A man’s. He was close. Too close.

  “Psst. Hey,” he said.

  She didn’t think, and she didn’t respond. She reacted, swinging the shovel until it connected with the man’s shoulder. He went straight down. Lifting it over her head a second time, she halted when the man said, “Maisie! Wait! It’s me, Stuart!”

  No. It couldn’t be. She bent in his direction, the headlamp beaming a ray of light onto his face. She dropped the shovel, crouched beside him. “Stuart? I’m sorry. I had no idea it was you or I never would have—”

  He waved a hand in front of his face like a person surrendering. “Yes, yes. I know. You didn’t mean it. Just ... don’t take another swing at me again, please.”

  “I wouldn’t have done it at all if you would have identified yourself. Are you okay?”

  He rubbed his shoulder. “I’m fairly certain my arm will be bruised in the morning, but I’ll survive.”

  “What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?”

  He managed a slight smile. “You aren’t the only one who watches the street from time to time, you know.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t deny it. What did you find? Anything?”

  She shook her head. “Not a single thing. Although, I feel Lane may have been planning to put something down there, just like Ernest suspected.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The soil was soft, like it had been recently turned over.”

  “Maybe the cops found whatever it was when they went through the place, and that’s why it’s gone.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Unless MacDougal was skilled at hiding such details, she
didn’t think so. When he stopped by her house earlier, he seemed clueless, like they were still at square one, with no leads. If he was trying to fool her, he’d done a good job.

  Stuart stood, brushed the dirt off his pants. “How’d everything go with Alice today? Were you able to meet her grandmother?”

  “Not exactly. A crazy woman claiming to be Lane’s mother stopped by and wanted the baby.”

  “What do you mean she claimed to be related? Is she Lane’s mother or isn’t she?”

  “I’m sure she is, but I found her to be lacking the skills needed to care for the child, so I waited for child services to arrive, then handed her over. She’s with Zoey’s mother now.”

  He paused a moment, then said, “What happened here last night ... I don’t like it. You shouldn’t be getting involved in whatever this is, Maisie.”

  It was the most concern he’d ever shown for her. “Don’t worry about me, Stuart. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s just, I have a feeling what happened here goes far beyond a murder. I know you’re going to do as you please, but you should be careful.”

  “I will be.”

  Stuart bent his head in the direction of her house. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll walk you home.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Maisie waited in the living room in the same chair she sat in every morning at this time. After injuring Stuart’s arm the night before, she wondered if he would still ride by, or if the injury was substantial enough to keep him from his daily ride. Over the last twenty-four hours, she’d talked to him more than she had in several months. Finally it seemed they were getting somewhere with each other. She liked it.

  Keeping to his early morning ritual, Stuart’s garage door opened at precisely six forty a.m. He rode onto the street toward her house, but this time when he passed by, he looked straight through the window where she was sitting. He nodded and winked at her. Although it wasn’t fully light outside yet, she could still see the gesture. Partially horrified she’d been caught, she jerked back, almost falling off her chair in the process.

  How long has he known I’ve been watching?

  Days? Months? Years?

  Her face became inflamed, feeling like a hot tamale in the devil’s oven, a sensation she wasn’t used to having.

  Stuart whizzed around the corner and out of sight, and Maisie sprung into action, returning to the Marshalls’ backyard, and to the shovel she’d left by the fire pit the night before. She wasn’t sure she’d find anything this time either. The fire pit had been empty, and the police had already searched the perimeter. Even so, it was worth one last look.

  Once in the yard, Maisie cupped a hand over her brow, searching for anything that seemed out of place, recently dug up, or disturbed. At the very back of the Marshalls’ yard, in the far corner, was a grave Mildred Howard had dug for her dog Caesar when he passed away a few years earlier. Over time, weeds had shot up around it, covering the soil, but the grave marker, a white wood cross Mildred had painted herself, had always stood up straight as a prominent reminder of the dog’s passing. Today, not only was the cross noticeably askew, it was tilted to the right, at an angle of about two o’clock.

  Maisie grinned, muttered to herself, “You little devil, you. How very clever. Now then, let’s see what you’re hiding.”

  Not wanting to disturb the dog’s remains, Maisie focused her efforts on the cross itself, carefully digging up the soil around it until she was about two feet deep, just pliable enough to pull the cross out of the ground. She set it beside her and bent to her knees, peering into the hole she created at what appeared to be the edge of an oversized, Ziploc-type bag. The question now became a matter of what she’d find inside the bag when she pulled it out—the remains of Mildred’s precious dog or something else. With the dog only having been laid to rest a few years before, and plastic surviving a decade or longer before it decomposed in soil, the probability of the bag holding the dog’s remains was high.

  Still, she’d come too far not to find out now.

  Feeling a wave of guilt, she paused a moment to give Mildred’s dog the respect he deserved. “I’m sorry, Caesar. You understand the predicament I’m in, don’t you? I’ll put you right back when I’m done and never bother you again. I promise.”

  She reached a hand down the hole until she felt the tip of the plastic bag. She gripped it in her hand and pulled upward. The bag separated from the dirt easily, and Maisie’s hand wrapped around the object inside it—an object that felt cold and hard, nothing like brittle fragments of withered, old bones. She brushed the dirt off the baggie, unsealed the bag, and peeked inside.

  Lane Marshall did have something to hide.

  But why had he gone to such great lengths to hide it?

  CHAPTER 13

  MacDougal glanced up from his desk, sighing like he was irritated to see Maisie again. “If you’re here about Alice, she’s fine. Zoey’s mother picked her up last night. Nice woman from what I was told, good family.”

  “I’m not here about Alice. I’m sure she’s in good hands.”

  A look of confusion covered his face. “What are you doing here then?”

  “I came to talk to you about—”

  He raised a hand, stopping her before she finished. “Can’t talk to you about the case, so don’t bother asking.”

  “Well, you don’t need to be an ass about it.”

  He looked like he was trying not to smile. “I’m not being an ass. I’m being honest.”

  “Huh. We’ve known each other a long time. It’s a shame the way you’re treating me. I stopped by to give you some new evidence, but since you treat me like I’m a stick of gum on the bottom of your shoe, I’ll be on my way.”

  She pivoted and walked out his office door.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “Get back here. Maisie, come on. Stop!”

  She raised her middle finger high enough in the air for him to see it and kept on walking, the demonstration inciting an onslaught of giggles from all those in close proximity.

  “I’m sorry!” he shouted. “Okay?”

  She stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What did you say?”

  “Come back into my office, and let’s talk.”

  She turned, remained where she was standing. “I’m fine talking right here.”

  She was toying with him after what he’d just done, and they both knew it.

  MacDougal ran a hand down his face. “I apologize if I made you feel like you weren’t wanted. It wasn’t my intention. I have a lot on my plate. Okay? Now, will you get your butt back in here so we can finish our conversation?”

  She walked back to his office, closing the door behind her. “I know what you must think when you look at me. You think I’m old, losing my mind, going senile, just another old woman who meddles, getting involved in things that aren’t any of her business.”

  “I was going to say—”

  “I don’t care what you were going to say. I know more about death and autopsies than you ever will in your lifetime, and I have more experience then you’ll ever have. So next time you feel inclined to put me in my place, think about that for a moment, would you?”

  Voice softer, he said, “Are you finished? Have you said everything you want to say?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I don’t see you as old, or senile, or whatever other labels you just gave yourself, and your reputation around here proves you’re far from stupid. But you are irritating, and nosey, and no longer a medical examiner. You’re retired, which was a decision you made.”

  “Yes, I’m retired, which isn’t the same thing as being dead.”

  He pressed his fingers into his temples, kneading them. “I just tried to pay you a compliment. Several compliments, in fact.”

  “You said I was irritating, nosey, and retired.”

  He shot out of his chair and faced her, standing so close, she could smell the caramel-flavored coffee on his breath. “Dammit, woman! That’s not what I was t
rying to say at all. I’ve looked up to you since I started here. And to be honest, you’re actually kind of ...”

  He let the rest of the words hang there, like he didn’t dare finish.

  “I’m kind of what?”

  “Attractive, for a woman of your age.”

  Attractive?

  She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right.

  Silence permeated the room, both of them standing there, listening to the ticking of the hand on the wall clock as the seconds passed.

  “I never knew you felt that way.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t ... uhh ... get your head all inflated. You’re still irritating, and all of those other things I said.”

  “And you’re a bully. Sometimes.”

  “You are too. Sometimes.”

  With the air sufficiently cleared, she refocused on the reason she’d come to see him in the first place. “You may want to sit back down.”

  He sat. She did too.

  “What’s this new evidence you have for me?”

  Maisie reached into a paper sack inside her handbag and pulled out the baggie, dangling it in the air in front of him.

  “Is that—”

  “A gun inside a dirty bag? It is.”

  He reached out. She placed it into his hands. He looked it over, turning the baggie around in his hands. “What in the hell? Where did you get this?”

  “I dug it up in the Marshalls’ backyard this morning.”

  “We went over every inch of that yard. How did you know where to find it?”

  She told him what Ernest thought he saw the week before, and how she’d searched the same fire pit the police searched, also finding nothing, until she returned again, this time finding what she assumed Lane had hidden in the most unlikely of places.

  When she finished, he said, “You lied to me about the shovel.”

  “I fail to see why that’s more important to you right now than Lane Marshall burying a gun in his backyard.”