The introvert neighbors, the Edgars, were harder to find. In fact, I couldn’t find them anywhere on the web. I found lots of Edgars, just not those with the names of Herman and Cecilia. I drummed my fingers on the table, then typed their address into Google and found a satellite image of their house, but still no name. Next, I typed their name and their address. Hmmm. The listing showed a management company as the owner, but when I purchased my property, I was told there were no rentals in the neighborhood.
I glanced in the direction of their house, wishing I could see through walls. Even with the doors and windows closed, I heard the sound of a wood chipper. “I really wish we could peek around inside the Edgars’ house. I can’t find them anywhere on the internet. It’s as if they don’t exist.”
“Why can’t we?” Mom slid a paper plate containing a ham and cheese sandwich toward me.
“Other than the fact that trespassing is against the law, those people scare me.”
“Why? Because they’re unfriendly? That isn’t a crime. They stick to themselves, also not a crime, but I happen to know,” Mom waved a potato chip. “That they go somewhere every Friday night. I suspect it’s Bingo at the Catholic Church.”
Tomorrow was Friday. Did we dare? I stared at a cobweb in the corner of the kitchen that Mom had missed during her weekly cleaning. Maybe I was wrong in my assumption. Just because my neighbors were private people, didn’t make them murderers. Rusty was still the most likely suspect, but my gut told me he was innocent.
“Have you read that woman’s manuscript yet?”
Mom’s question pulled me back to the table. “No. I don’t plan on it.”
“Well, she’s one sick puppy, I gotta tell you.” Mom shook her head. “The ways the characters die in her story makes your stomach churn.”
“Really?” Maybe the wannabe author is the killer. It wasn’t totally unheard of for an author to take research a bit too far. Look at me … solving a crime just for the sake of injecting new passion into my writing.
“Yep. Twisted. We should take a closer look at her.”
I typed Sarah Thompson into Google. Scores of links came up: her website, a few self-published titles on Amazon, and her Facebook page, to name a few. I clicked on Facebook. Good, her profile was public. Most of her entries were on the joys and despairs of writing, but one post jumped out at me. She mentioned how she needed to up her research on what it felt like to kill someone.
I straightened in my chair. For the sake of the community, and the purpose of finding a killer, I might have to change one of my hard and fast rules. I needed to meet with a wannabe author. Well, she was an author, since she had several books on eBook, but we’d play her game of wanting to find a traditional publisher. “Where’s the manuscript?”
“In my room. I’ll be right back.” Mom dashed away, returning minutes later with a thick stack of copy printed paper. “Don’t read after you’ve eaten.”
“Thanks for the warning.” I shoved aside the uneaten sandwich and dug into the darkest story I’d ever read. Horror didn’t begin to describe the carnage of a family of cannibals. Who were the Thompsons? The idea of meeting Sarah anywhere other than a public place scared the bejeebers out of me. I fished in the tapestry bag for her business card and reached for the phone.
After many excited shrieks that almost burst my eardrum, she agreed to meet me at the coffee shop ten minutes away. We would meet in thirty minutes.
“Want me to go?” Mom asked. “I could sit unobtrusively in a corner and make sure she didn’t put poison in your Starbucks.”
“Poison seems a bit tame for these people.” I shuddered. “I don’t need to read the entire manuscript to realize it’s too … much for a traditional publisher. I doubt she’ll stab me with a straw at the coffee house.”
“You never know.” Mom shrugged. “If you aren’t home by suppertime, I’ll be contacting Matt to go looking for you. Do. Not. Leave. The coffee shop with her.”
“Yes, mother.” Most of the time it rankled when she treated me like a child, but this wasn’t one of those times. Me, scaredy-cat Stormi Nelson was meeting a potential murderer. The thought caused sweat to trickle between my shoulder blades.
I ate the sandwich and drank the lemonade, despite the vivid images running through my mind like an out of control movie reel. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Lincoln, but I could fill in the blanks. I did see Torie, and it would haunt me forever. Now, I had the few lines I’d read of Sarah’s book churning in my mind as well.
She had moved to the top of my suspect list. Only problem was, how did I go about asking someone how far she would actually go for research? Should I just blurt out the question of whether or not she would kill for the sake of her story?
16
Sarah Thompson, hair freshly dyed a crow’s black, and red-blood lipstick on her full lips, looked like a plump vampire as she waved from a corner table at the local bookstore and Starbucks. I returned her wave with a smile I hoped wasn’t a grimace and made my way to her.
I set the manuscript on the table, preferring to get right to the point. No time for idle chit-chat.
“Here. I read on your website that you like mocha frozen coffee drinks, so I bought you one.” Sarah grinned, showing a streak of lipstick on her teeth.
I rubbed my forefinger over my teeth, hoping she’d take the hint. We couldn’t have a serious conversation when she looked as if she’d just sucked blood from her latest victim and I wasn’t confident enough to point out another person’s faults. At least not verbally.
She got the hint and scrubbed her teeth with a napkin. “How do you like my new look?” She set the napkin down and patted her hair. “It makes me look exotic, don’t you think? Maybe a little sultry? I’ve even started wearing lower cut blouses.”
Yeah, I’d noticed that. Her cleavage threatened to suffocate both of us. “It’s very … romance author like.” If you wrote erotica, which she did, along with a whole other mess of stuff.
She beamed. “What did you think of the story?”
The dreaded question now hung in the air. I took a sip of my drink to stall. How could I tactfully tell her that her story sucked, that she needs to learn the craft better, but not to stop writing?
“You hated it.” Her face fell while her eyes hardened.
“I didn’t say that. I do think it’s a bit … much for most readers.” I picked at the napkin under my cup. “Have you ever considered attending a writer’s conference in order to improve your writing? It would help tremendously and give you the opportunity to meet editors and agents face-to-face.” A small pile of shredded white paper grew beside the cup.
“Your writing is so gritty. How do you do your research?” There. It was out. I sat back and focused on her face.
“I’ll do almost anything for a story.” She sat back and crossed her arms. She laughed. “Do you actually think I’ve killed someone and eaten them? Oh, this is funny. Surely you know research can be done by reading what others have done before you.”
“Of course I do. You write with … a lot of description.” I shuddered. “Maybe tone it back a bit. Let the reader fill in some of the blanks.”
“I think there’s a market out there for this style of story.”
“I agree, but you may have to self-publish.” Hmmm. Maybe she wasn’t the killer after all, but I wasn’t ready to put a line through her name on my suspect list quite yet.
“Maybe I will.” She grabbed the bag containing her manuscript. “Thanks for nothing. I thought with how nice and friendly you seemed on your website that you would be willing to help a new author.” She stood. “I was wrong.” With a flick of her inky hair, she stormed from the store.
I sighed and followed her outside, just as she stabbed a pocket knife into one of my tires. “Hey!”
She tossed me a wave and jumped into a Volkswagen Bug convertible before speeding away. She gave three honks and raced out of sight.
I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Matt’s number. �
��Detective Steele.”
“Matt, it’s Stormi. I just watched Sarah Thompson stick a knife into my tire.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the coffee shop inside Books and More.” My hand trembled, whether from fear or anger I wasn’t sure. I’d never had someone mad enough at me to retaliate with violence.
“I’m on my way.”
I sat on a bench outside the store and waited. It took Matt ten minutes to show up. He pulled beside my Mercedes and got out of his dark, government-issued sedan. My mouth watered. I thought he looked good in jeans. He was fabulous in dress slacks, shirt and tie, hair slicked back and dark sunglasses covering his eyes. He strolled toward me with long strides.
“What did you do?”
Okay, he lost some of his fabulousness. “Why do you assume I did anything?”
“You must have provoked her.” He held up a hand when I started to protest. “I’m not saying what she did was right, I’m trying to gather the facts.”
“I told her she needed to improve her writing craft. You should read the sick and twisted stuff she writes.”
He nodded and marched back to my car, leaving me to follow, which I did. “I’ll change the flat and go talk to her. Do you want to file a complaint?”
“No, but I do want her to pay for the new tire and not to come within fifty feet of me.”
“File a restraining order. I doubt you’ll get any money from her unless it goes to court, and the cost of a tire doesn’t really justify court.” He rubbed his chin. “Try not to antagonize her any further, okay?”
“Definitely.” I watched as he changed the tire. “I think she might be our killer.”
He wiped his hands on a rag I had in my trunk. “Why do you say that?”
“She had a lot of detail in her books on gruesome murders and flat out told me she’d do almost anything for a story.”
“Key word being almost. That isn’t the same as killing for research.” He tossed the rag back into the trunk along with the jack and the flat tire. “Stay away from her. We’re checking into all your neighbors, Stormi, but none of them are higher on our list than the others.”
“Did you know that there is no record of the Edgars online? It’s like they don’t exist. Don’t you find that strange?” I jogged around the car after him as he headed back to his sedan.
“They’re private people.” He opened his car door. “Look, I understand your fascination with this case, but again, I’m asking you to leave it alone. I’ll talk to you later.” He slid into his car and drove away, leaving me feeling ten times the fool for sharing what little information I had.
I’d show him and the rest of the police department. I could catch this killer and protect my family at the same time. The consequences of possible failure were too horrible to contemplate. I drove home with my blood boiling at Sarah and disappointment in Matt.
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I’d forgotten all about getting a restraining order. Since I was no longer in the mood to go anywhere, I headed to my office to squeeze in some more writing and maybe a bit of research on the genealogy of the neighbors. Bless my mother, she’d put my laptop back on my desk.
I debated about whether or not to have a character like Sarah in my story. After all, she might read my books, although I doubted it since she thought I wrote the same type of books she did. If I put her in my book, she would obviously recognize herself and possibly take offense. But, her character would be as colorful as she was and make the story interesting. I kept her in my plot.
The delicious aroma of chocolate cake wafted up the stairs and under my office door. Since I wasn’t Super Woman who could ignore such a call, I saved my work and headed to the kitchen.
Mom was just taking a cake out of the oven. “Look what I’m taking to the Edgars household. I’ve made a lemon cake for the Thompsons … what?”
I explained the result of my meeting with Sarah. “I’m not sure she’ll be welcoming toward what she might consider a peace offering.”
“Oh, pooh. You do have a way of spoiling my plans.” Mom set the cake on the counter. “Well, maybe I can get her to conspire with me against you. If she thinks I loved her book and you didn’t, she might talk to me.”
I liked the idea, but not the idea of Mom going over there alone. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll have my Taser.” She set up the ingredients for homemade frosting. “You go back upstairs and do whatever it is you do. I’ve got this. Oh, you might want to check on Rusty. He’s supposed to be trimming the tree in the backyard, but I haven’t heard any sound of a trimmer in almost an hour. I hope he didn’t cut his leg off.”
I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge before pushing out the back door. Only the sounds of birds and the Edgars’ wood chipper greeted me. What did they possibly find to chop up so often? If they were making their own mulch, they probably had enough for the entire neighborhood by now.
The limb trimmer lay on the ground, unplugged from the electrical socket. “Rusty?” Maybe he had gone into the woods at the back of the house. I’d paid extra to buy the house with a wooded area and hiking trails behind it. Since the land wasn’t zoned residential, I’d never have to worry about neighbors to the back of me.
A creek ran through the property and happily flowed along beside the trail. Still no sign of my gardener. I glanced at my watch. Lunchtime. He could have gone home for a bite to eat, although Mom made sure to feed him each day. Where could that man be?
I headed back to the yard and picked up the trimmers. I definitely didn’t want to leave them in the yard for someone to steal. Sadie barked along the fence line, her head through a hole in the fence behind one of my flowering rose bushes. “Here, girl!” If she irritated the neighbors too much, they might take matters into their own hands and I’d be minus a dog.
I knelt and grabbed her collar, my gaze falling on something red on the grass. Was that blood? I stood and followed the trail of drops along the fence and into the forest. The trail stopped at the Edgars’ back gate. Rusty! I knew his peeping would get him in trouble. I snapped my fingers for Sadie to follow me and dashed back to the house.
I slammed through the door, locking it behind me. “I think the Edgars killed Rusty.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom spun, the frosting covered spatula in her hand falling to the floor.
“I found a blood trail and it led right to their back fence. Our limb trimmer was left on the ground. Rusty is always careful to put away the tools.”
“Heavens.” Mom clasped her hands to her chest. “Do you really think they did away with him?”
“I don’t know what to think, but I really need to see inside their backyard.”
“Go to the attic. You can see perfectly from there.”
“You know this from experience?”
“Of course, I do. I’ve found ways to spy on all of our neighbors.”
We thundered up the stairs and into the stifling heat of the attic. Mom opened the wood slats covering a port-hole type window that looked down into the yard of the Edgars’ house.
Herman dragged a large black lawn and leaf bag across the yard. The bulges in the bag looked suspiciously like what could be a human body cut into pieces. Could a person kill and cut up another person in an hour?
Mom clutched my hand as Herman pulled out a leg and handed it to Cecelia. She shoved it into the chipper.
Mom fainted.
17
I was torn between watching the grisly scene in the neighbor’s yard and checking on Mom. Just as I’d made my decision to see if Mom was all right, she sat up.
“I’ve got binoculars in my room.” She got to her feet and dashed off, returning minutes later with a pair of binoculars still in the box. She thrust them into my hands. “Here. I can’t bear to look.”
I almost asked when she had bought them, but instead tore into the package like a Christmas gift then trained them on the wood chipper. “I see something red on the g
round around the chipper.” Nausea rose in me. Oh. My. Gosh. They had chopped up Rusty and were turning him into mulch. “Call Matt. Hurry! My cell phone is in my pocket.”
She almost pulled me off my feet trying to retrieve the device. Her hands shook so bad it took much longer than necessary. I retrained the binoculars back on the chipper. “Now, they’re shoving in an arm.”
“Mercy.” She punched in Matt’s number. “The Edgars are shoving Rusty’s body parts into a wood chipper … It’s Ann Nelson. For crying out loud, we saw you just the other day. We need you!” She hung up. “He’ll come. What are they doing now? How are they going to shove in the torso … or the head?”
“Mom, stop. You’re grossing me out.” I didn’t see any more parts going into the chipper, thank goodness. I sagged against the wall. “They’re done.”
Poor Rusty. Tears stung my eyes. Poor simple-minded fool. I always knew his Peeping Tom habits would get him killed. Wait. This meant the Edgars were our killers.
The doorbell rang, and Mom and I pushed and shoved to get out of the attic and downstairs. “It’s my house.”
“I live here, too.” She elbowed me in the ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs, before yanking open the door. She reached out, grabbed Matt’s arm, and dragged him inside.
His eyes widened as he glanced from her to me. “What in the world is going on here? Stormi, you first.”
“I went looking for Rusty because we didn’t hear any lawn equipment for about an hour. I found the trimmer on the ground, unusual for him, and followed blood spots through the fence to the Edgars’ yard. Then, we saw them shoving body parts into the wood chipper.” I shuddered. “There’s blood on the ground all around the chipper. They are the killers.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. There could be a simple explanation.”
“For body parts in a wood chipper? Seriously? I’d like to hear that explanation. It would make a best-selling story.” I crossed my arms and glared. “I’ll be sure to use it in one of my books.”
“Don’t be angry. I’ll go check it out and let you know what I find. Stay in your house.” He left and, with one hand on the gun at his waist, marched to the Edgars’ house.
Nosy Neighbor: All 7 complete Nosy Neighbor cozy mysteries PLUS: 2 short Christmas stories (A Nosy Neighbor mystery) Page 11
