I’d gotten to thinking about that truck yesterday. Was the driver trying to scare me or was it some strange coincidence? This wasn’t a movie, after all. It was real life. People don’t do things like that in real life, do they? Maybe I’d just built it all up in my head…
But another thing about living alone was I’d gotten really good at internal monologue. The thoughts festered. I shouldn’t have let it get to me. But I couldn’t help it. It was like the fallout with Jessica in high school, only amplified—I guess I’ve been this way my whole life.
I raced inside the house having somewhat mentally formulated a plan. In the spare bedroom that I used to call an office, I kept an old bulletin board in the closet. I’d meant to hang it there on the wall. I’d hoped to have an office with a real desk—a place to write—a bookshelf, and inspiration hanging on the wall.
What I had was a room filled with clutter. The bookshelf was still in a box, unbuilt. Books were stacked on the floor. And I’d moved the nice desk out to the living room to be closer to the TV.
It took some digging, but I finally dug it out from behind a cardboard box filled with last year’s dinner receipts.
The board itself had come from my room at home that Mom still kept mostly intact. I scrounged items from it here and there. This bulletin board had been a prized possession at one time. Faded pictures of my childhood and notes from friends were tacked into the cork. I relished the memories before carefully stripping the photographs away.
The clutter of the room got to me. So, I set up shop again at my desk in the living room. There was a pink pad of sticky notes on the desk. I began scribbling on one after the other.
Organizing things had always been a stress reliever for me. Like the clutter in my spare room, the clutter of my mind can get to be overwhelming. I needed the stress of this case to be set free from the inside.
In almost every police drama on TV, they have a board similar to the one I’d begun to construct. At the top, I had my list of suspects: mystery woman, Camp, and Taylor. The mystery girl was underlined. I really did need to figure out her name. And even though I didn’t want to do it, I had to put Miller’s name up there, though, his was not level with the others. In this house, he wasn’t really a suspect.
Next, I began to ponder motives.
On a new note under Miller’s name, I scribbled, “Life Insurance Policy.” On another adjacent sticky, I wrote, “Crime of Passion?”
Of course, I didn’t believe it was him, but I needed to lay it all out there—from my brain to paper. It was therapeutic.
What about these business partners? Was it one of them, two, all three? Maybe they’d set Miller up somehow. At this point it was anyone’s guess.
On my phone, I pulled up that Facebook photo of the two partners. I could’ve easily been reading into things, but it looked as if the female investor was closer to Camp than to Taylor. Was there something romantic between them? Underneath both of them I stuck, “Relationship?”
Then for all three investors I added, “Failing business.”
It looked pretty good for a spur of the moment creation. Perhaps it was a little pink, and there was no pizzazz to it. No mugshots or string connecting the pieces of the puzzle. That would’ve been a nice touch. I made a mental note to pick up some string and maybe some ink for the color printer next time I was at the store.
Once I was as pleased with the state of my board as I could be, I cleaned up my desk and tucked the board underneath my bed. It would be embarrassing for someone to stop by and see it. I highly doubted anyone else in town besides Detective Portillo had this sort of interest in the case.
Though I was no closer to having answers, my mind was at ease. I felt better than I had in days.
With my mind decluttered, I could finally focus on today’s work—a post for The Avocado Post. I know what you’re thinking, a blog devoted to avocados? Not really. The Avocado Post is a blog that focuses on food trends. It’s meant more for food bloggers like myself than for the average Joanne. It was the brain child of one of my virtual blogger friends, screen name Eliza-foodie. She enlisted my help, and it’d grown from there.
I wrote about a few new diet trends I’d had my eye on recently. What I’d come to realize is usually people only work out recipes once they’re in the thick of a new diet. Low-fat, low-carb, paleo, it didn’t matter. And as food bloggers, we should be on the forefront of these things, testing out recipes as soon as a new diet wave crossed the land. I articulated as much in the full article. I hit send for the other girls to beta read before posting.
Today was one of those days where closing the laptop felt momentous—not because I’d gotten so much done, but more because I’d accomplished everything I’d set out to do for the day. Work was over. It was time to unwind.
When I was hunting for a house, the master bath—or in this house’s case, the bathroom—was of top priority. Little girl Allie had dreamed of a house with an antique claw-foot bath tub. Little girl Allie didn’t quite understand the concept of money.
When I walked into the bathroom of this house, the clouds had parted. It wasn’t the antique tub I’d dreamed of, but I knew this was the house for me.
My toes tested the heat of the water. It was hot—just how I liked it. This time, I went with no distractions. No Mister Netflix, no music, no phone or laptop in view. I eased my back against the cushion at the base of the tub and closed my eyes. Waves of relaxation washed over me as I sank deeper and deeper into the water.
My dark hair floated alongside me, fanning out into the water. I rested an ankle on the side of the tub. The cool air made the hair on my calf prickle. I looked at the razor, so far away on the uppermost shelf, with contempt.
I stretched my arm out for it. I almost had it when the sound of breaking glass startled me. My legs slipped out from under me, and I went splashing back into the tub. The razor fell, too, nicking me on the side of the knee before plunging into the soapy water.
Without giving it a thought, I grabbed my barely used bathrobe and threw it around me. I picked up the plunger next to the toilet, and wielding it like a baseball bat, I inched my way out from the bathroom, through the hallway, and to the foyer, unsure of what I would find.
Luckily, it wasn’t an intruder. What I discovered was someone had taken a rock and smashed it through my window. I was shocked, horrified. I briefly wondered who would do such a thing.
I peeked out the broken window, careful not to cut my bare and dripping foot on the shards of glass.
The all-too-familiar silver truck idled at the curb. When its occupants saw me at the window, they were satisfied. The truck spun out and sped off, tires squealing as they must have sped through a stop sign at the other end of the street.
The shock wore away almost instantly. It was replaced by a new emotion. Fear. I started to cry. Small tears at first, then big fat ones streamed down my cheeks. I looked like one of those sobbing girls on The Bachelor after she was sent home after the dreaded two on one date.
This was just too much for me to handle on my own. I had so many numbers I could call—Kate, Detective Portillo, the police in general. Instead, I called the one person I trusted the most. The one I knew was always calm in a crisis. I called Mom.
“Stay where you are, sweetie,” she told me. “I’ll be right over.”
“Thanks,” I said, voice trembling into the phone.
“And don’t you worry, I’ll call the police. What’s the name of that handsome detective you were telling me about? I’ll make sure they send him out…”
“Don’t bother him with this—”
“He’s a policeman. It’s not a bother.”
“Detective Portillo,” I answered, unwilling to fight anymore. “Thanks, Mom.”
With that, I was left with dead air, too afraid to touch or do anything. I crumpled onto the living room couch.
12
Less than ten minutes later, I was startled once again. This time by frantic knocking on the door.
>
I hurried over, knowing exactly who it was and hoping to put a stop to the incessant banging. Mom’s fist almost landed on my cheek as she continued knocking when I swung the door open. But her right jab instantly turned into a frenzied hug.
“I still need to breathe,” I wheezed. She let me go, just barely. “Why didn’t you use your key?”
“You already had enough of a scare this evening. I didn’t want you caught off guard by someone slipping into your house.”
“Yeah… Okay,” I said mockingly. “Banging on the door definitely won’t frighten little ole me.”
She rolled her eyes and took in the scene. “Why are you in your bathrobe? This floor is soaking wet—your hair too. Allie, did you know you’re bleeding?”
A trail of blood streamed down my calf to my ankle.
“Watch your step or you’ll be bleeding too.” I pointed to the window and the shattered glass. Mom wore a pair of flimsy flats. She stepped away as I explained, “I was taking a bath when this window was broken. I cut myself with the razor—not the glass.” I looked for a tissue to clean it up, but Mom was already headed straight for the bathroom.
“Go get dressed,” she called to me. “That detective friend of yours should be here any minute. I’ll clean up the water.”
A pair of worn old blue jeans and an old baseball tee with three-quarter length sleeves was the amount of effort I was willing to put into this visit. Twice in one day. Javier was becoming a fixture in my life. But it really wasn’t on my own terms.
I was running a brush through my hair when I heard an authoritative knock on the door. Just two quick raps.
Knock, knock.
“Hi, come in,” Mom said. “I’m Carole, Allison’s mother. She’ll be right out. You can go ahead and start taking notes and photographs. Whatever you detectives do…”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m Detective Javier Portillo,” he introduced himself. “I’ll wait for Allie, if that’s all right. I’d like to get a picture of what all happened before any of that.”
Allie, I heard him say it, but I didn’t quite believe it.
“Sorry, I was just getting dressed,” I said to him.
He turned to face me and flashed a grin that made my knees wobble.
“You again?” he said jokingly.
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” I started.
Then Mom interjected, “Don’t we all.” With Javier’s back turned to her, she took the opportunity to wink and smile her approval—maybe giving his rear side too much of her praise.
“All right. Can you walk me through what happened?” He took out his notepad.
“You can see the broken window there,” I pointed, “and here’s the rock that came sailing through.”
“You seem to be okay? I see a little blood on the floor just over there.” There was just a tiny drop where Mom had missed wiping my trail of blood, water, and tears.
“That was from my razor,” I confessed. “I was in the bath when it all happened.”
“Good.” He nodded. “So, nothing hit you.” Was that concern or a statement to himself? I couldn’t tell. The steadiness in his tone told me it was just a statement. He jotted it down.
“Did you see anything?” he asked.
It wasn’t really his questions that were overwhelming me, but something sure was. “Can I sit down?” I motioned toward the living room furniture.
He nodded and allowed me to sit on the couch while he took a seat on the loveseat catty-corner to me. Mom perched on the armrest of the couch. She patted my arm reassuringly. It was meant to be comforting, but it was more annoying than anything.
I finally realized what was bothering me before. I wasn’t sure how much of the truth I should give the detective. Would he see it as foolish on my part? Would he believe me at all? He did see me after the first incident with the truck. Would he think I was hindering his murder investigation?
After a deep breath, I was ready to answer his question. “Well, like I said, I was in the bath. I heard the glass break. I came out—”
“With the plunger?”
I didn’t remember stashing the plunger beside my umbrella basket beside the door, but there it was. “Right. With the plunger. I looked out the window and saw the tail lights of a truck.”
“What color truck?” Javier asked.
“I, uh, I’m not sure. It was dark outside.”
“What about Mrs. Jeanie next door?” Mom piped in. “Do you think she would’ve seen anything?”
“This time of night?” I shook my head. “She’s probably still down at the BINGO hall.”
“What about the other neighbors?” Javier asked.
I shrugged. “They all kind of keep to themselves.”
“When I’m done here, I’ll canvas the neighbors and see if anyone is at home and if they saw anything.”
Once more, someone knocked on the door. I jumped despite being in the safety of the two individuals who were probably the most qualified and devout protection I could’ve asked for. I had no clue who it could be.
Detective Portillo stood up and walked over to the door.
“That would be other officers,” he said, slowly opening the door. “Over this way, guys.”
The detective showed the officers where the window was, even though it was plain as day. Pictures were taken. The rock was bagged up.
“They’ll be quick,” Javier assured us. “Just have to document everything so we can do a proper investigation. When they finish, you’ll be free to get started cleaning up.”
He came back into the living room, but didn’t bother to sit down. “Do you have any ideas who would want to do something like this?”
“Umm, I’m not really sure,” I fumbled with what to say. “I, uh, I don’t really know.”
“It could’ve been random vandalism,” he observed. “Some kids out having a laugh.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I thought it was tied with Jessica’s murder. Then I’d have to explain everything else. I’d probably fess up about the bulletin board hidden beneath my bed. That was a slippery slope I had no intention of going down.
“There’s a chance. I mean, there’s a strong chance,” he emphasized, “that nothing will come of this. You should file a claim with your insurance to get this window fixed.”
“I will,” I said.
“Thank you so much, Detective,” Mom couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “Thank you for coming out here today and checking up on Allison. She sounded so frantic on the phone. I knew a familiar face would make this easier on her.”
She was patting herself on the back for the brilliant idea. Mom was always trying to play cupid. I was always dodging arrows. Except this one, I wasn’t sure I wanted to dodge.
We watched the detective leave. Again, Mom stared a little too hard at his rear.
She got out a dust pan and began sweeping up the glass.
“You’re sure, Allie, you don’t know who did this?”
“I’m sure,” I lied. It was no coincidence. I had seen the mystery lady walk out of the coffee shop after Kate and I discussed our theories surrounding Jessica’s murder. Then this happened only so many hours later. If this was a scare tactic, it had worked.
I was officially scared.
TO: Foodie Allison
FROM: Janet
SUBJECT: Sundays Only
Hello,
I’m trying to figure out how to change my subscription to only Sundays. Can you help with that?
Janet E.
13
Mom and I cleaned up. Well, it was mostly Mom while I fretted over the events of the past two days. My whole body was too numb to be of much help.
She put cardboard over the window, secured it in place with painter’s tape, then she turned back to me.
“Are you staying here tonight or what?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Gosh, no,” I shot back. I was horrified at the suggestion.
&n
bsp; “Then get your things. I’m all done here.” She clapped her hands together and stood impatiently by the door, her foot tapping as she checked the place over for any stray pieces of glass we may’ve missed.
All I needed was my laptop, its power cable, and some pajamas. I even left my car at the house, opting instead to ride with her.
We settled in for an unplanned night of movies, opting to steer clear of anything sinister, scary, or even suspenseful.
I slept in my old bed, Mom thought that buying a new mattress every eight years was hogwash. Still, it was as soft and comfortable as I remembered it in high school. The sheets smelled like an old perfume I once wore. The addition of Bella in bed with me made my sleep slightly less cozy—amazing how a five-pound Yorkie can take up so much space in the center of the bed.
Mom made pancakes and bacon the next morning. She even stayed out of my way as I worked on an email campaign for The Foodie Files mailing list. Then I tweeted out the day’s TastyTweet.
By noon, I was ready to rejoin the living. There was only so much flipping between news channels I could stand, and Mom started to get nosy. She kept asking me about the window, and if I was sure I didn’t know anyone who would do such a thing.
I was honest with her. I didn’t know this person, not really. I just had my suspicions of who it was.
I talked Mom into dropping me off at The Java Hutt for the afternoon. The less time I spent in solitude, the better. Sometimes, the best place to hide is out in the open. It was like being surrounded by my own personal body guards. Gertie was a powerlifter in her spare time.
With a macchiato in hand, the next few hours were spent catching up on email and researching new or upcoming restaurants in the area. Will travel for food.
I kept a tab of my Internet browser open to Facebook—and I found myself there far more often than was productive.
Unease over returning home built up inside me. The Java Hutt’s early closing time loomed closer. I wasn’t ready to return to Mom’s house, so I texted Kate to see if she wanted to go to Sadie’s Porch for dinner.
Foodie Files Cozy Mysteries Box Set Page 6
