Junkyard Man (Locust Point Mystery Book 2)

by Libby Howard

  One box opened from the bottom in the officer’s hands and he shoved his knee upward, catching the contents before they dropped and shattered on the floor.

  “Here.” I reached underneath to ease what looked to be a Tiffany-style lamp from the box. At least I thought it was Tiffany-style. For all I knew, it could have been the real thing. It made me wonder how much in this house was actual expensive antiques and how much was just old reproductions.

  Judge Beck frowned at the lamp as he took it from my hand. “I know this is a safe neighborhood, but is this a case where we should be worried about looters? Has anyone called this man’s next of kin? Does he have any sort of security system?”

  The officer tested the structural integrity of the next box, then opened the top and began to pull out a set of glass plates with a diamond pattern around the edges. “We haven’t figured out who the next of kin is yet, sir. And as far as we can tell, there’s no security system, just a simple lock on the doorknob.”

  “Nosy neighbors are the best security,” I told him. “And we’ve got the nosiest here.”

  “I’m hoping someone was extra nosy and saw who came and went from Mr. Peter’s house between the hours of four and nine,” he commented, handing me the plates.

  Four and nine? That didn’t sound right. “It was probably later than that. The front door wasn’t ajar when I got here. Someone let my cat into this house, and he didn’t escape mine earlier than six o’clock. Probably closer to seven.”

  His eyebrows shot up and he paused to pull the notebook out and jot my comment down. “Are you positive, Mrs. Carrera?”

  “Yes. Taco was inside when I went to get the cake from the kitchen at six. I think one of the girls might have accidently let him out. We noticed he was gone at seven-thirty. When the girls left at a little before nine and he hadn’t come back, I suspected he’d come over here. Mr. Peter used to feed him chicken sandwiches.” My voice hitched a little on the last few words. He’d really liked my cat. It was sad that he’d not be able to spoil Taco with his leftovers any more. As if sensing my distress, the shadow moved from the damask chair back into the kitchen. Good. I hoped he stayed there.

  I thought for a moment. The time window meant either Mr. Peter had been alive to let Taco in at six to around seven tonight, or that the murderer had let the cat in as he was leaving. I closed my eyes for a second, imagining the different scenarios. If Mr. Peter had let Taco in, the cat could have run and hid during the actual murder, not coming out until after the killer had left. Or if the murderer was here earlier, Taco could have darted between his legs as he left. He wouldn’t want to waste time or risk getting caught to track down a cat in a house packed full of boxes and junk, so he just closed the door and left Taco on the inside.

  “Here.”

  I popped my eyes open to see the officer handing me another box. The door was now in view. Setting the last box aside, Judge Beck squeezed past me and assisted the officer in getting the stuck door to open. He flicked a switch by the window, but no light came on in the backyard.

  “I’ve got it.” Judge Beck pulled his phone out and tapped the screen. The flashlight app illuminated only about five feet in front of us. Handy, but we’d still need to be careful.

  The officer left the door open to allow the inside light to spill out into a back yard that looked like a set from a post-apocalyptic movie. In addition to the lawnmowers, stoves, and refrigerators, there were rusted motorcycles, two dilapidated cars up on cinder blocks, and two sheds, one of which had collapsed from rot. Around the yard was a stockade-style fence that was propped up in some sections with two-by-four braces, and just allowed to sag in others. The whole mess was overgrown with tall grass, vines, and something I was pretty sure was poison ivy.

  I was feeling pretty sorry for Will Lars right now, as well as the Tennisons who lived on the other side of Mr. Peter. The fence would block the mess, but from the upstairs windows, both neighbors would have a clear view of this disaster.

  “It’s going to take his heirs a year to haul all this stuff out,” Judge Beck muttered as he cautiously made his way down the warped wooden stairs.

  “Probably. Get used to the idea of a huge dumpster outside on the street for a while.” I declined his offered hand, because I wasn’t unsteady on my feet. If these stairs were going to collapse, there was no need to drag him down with me.

  Judge Beck looked around the yard. I caught a quick glimpse of his expression in the cell phone light and was surprised to see that instead of looking disgusted, he appeared sad.

  “Poor guy. There are people at county Adult Services that would have helped him if he’d just reached out.”

  “He didn’t think he needed help. He was happy with all his stuff, although I think he was a bit lonely. And he missed being useful.”

  We fell silent, picking our way through the maze of junk and weeds, trying to avoid the poison ivy. When we reached the less-crowded front part of the lawn, I felt a sense of relief as if I’d successfully navigated a minefield.

  “So that’s two in three months, Kay,” Judge Beck commented. “Are you now the murder-victim whisperer?”

  “I see dead people,” I deadpanned. The irony was I was beginning to believe that I did see dead people. Hopefully this didn’t give Judge Beck any hesitation in my being around his children, or about my house being a safe place for them. “In my defense, the murderers are gone when I find their victims. It’s not like I’m walking in on them in the act or something.”

  He shot me a quick backward look. “Didn’t the mayor try to kill you?”

  I’d forgotten about that. Which wasn’t normally a thing that would slip someone’s mind. “Just that once. Although I think that should be bragging rights, don’t you agree? How many people can say that their town mayor tried to murder them?”

  It had been terrifying, which was why I had to make light of it. Otherwise, I’d wind up having a panic attack and that did no one any good.

  “Let’s stick to the ‘finding victim’ part this time,” he commented.

  “I’m hoping the ‘finding victim’ thing ends with this one. Twice in one lifetime is plenty.” And having the mayor point a loaded gun at me once in my lifetime was plenty as well. Although our mayor was now in jail, and I doubted that he had anything to do with poor Mr. Peter’s demise.

  But who did? The nephew? I knew he was frustrated with all the complaints about his uncle, but I couldn’t imagine he’d go from yelling at the elderly man on his front porch to murdering in twenty-four hours. And Will Lars…had he been told by the city inspectors that there was nothing they could do about the condition of the property? It wasn’t like Mr. Peter was throwing the old washing machines on their lawn. Had Will’s irritation with the situation driven him to murder? I just couldn’t see him running a sword through Mr. Peter.

  But as the officer had said, who knew what people could do in the heat of anger?

  Madison and Henry were waiting on my front porch. The girl had Taco in her arms, still damp from a bath that he’d probably hated with every fiber of his being. I saw as I climbed the steps that her eyes were puffy from crying, and that Henry looked as if he’d been the one who’d found the dead body.

  I looked down at the dried blood on my hands and stuffed them behind my back. “Why don’t we all sit in the living room for a bit. I’ll make some cocoa and break out the leftover cake.”

  The mention of cake brightened Henry up considerably and we all filed in the door. I made my way to the kitchen and was grateful that, unlike Lady Macbeth, the blood did wash off fairly easily. Armed with mugs of instant cocoa and a plate with slices of pound cake, I went into the living room. Madison was still clutching Taco, who looked to be dozing off in her lap. Henry jumped up when I arrived, helping me put the cake and mugs down before taking one for himself.

  I grabbed a mug of my own and sat down. “I don’t know what you’ve pieced together, but I’ll tell you what I know.”

  It was good for th
e kids to have all the details, all the facts. I’d discovered that sometimes what an imaginative mind can make up was far more frightening than what truly happened.

  “Is it Mr. Peter?” Henry whispered, eyes huge. “Is he…dead?”

  I nodded. “Taco liked to go over there because Mr. Peter would feed him bits of his chicken sandwiches. He got out during our party, and when he didn’t come back, I was pretty sure he was across the street getting his chicken fix.”

  Madison let out a laugh, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Judge Beck frowned, but I smiled at her reassuringly.

  “No one answered when I knocked on the door, but I could hear Taco meowing inside the house. After a while, I got worried that something might have happened to Mr. Peter, that maybe he’d fallen and couldn’t get to the door, so I went in. I found him in his kitchen. He had already passed away by the time I got there.”

  “But Taco was covered in blood,” Madison said softly.

  I eyed Judge Beck. As much as I wanted to tell the kids everything, they were his children, not mine. He hesitated a second, then nodded for me to go on.

  “Sadly, Mr. Peter did not die of natural causes. He was attacked…stabbed.”

  Both Madison and Henry sucked in a shocked breath.

  “Although what happened to Mr. Peter is technically a murder, I don’t believe there is any cause for either of you to be frightened,” Judge Beck added. “I’ve seen many murder cases come across my bench, and I’m certain this one had a personal side to it.”

  “So, no one is going around robbing houses and killing people?” Henry asked. “Although if I were going to rob someone, it wouldn’t be Mr. Peter. I really don’t think that the burglar would be able to find anything of value to steal unless he planned to be there for a few weeks or more.”

  “Burglars tend to rob houses when no one is home,” Judge Beck told him. “I’m fairly certain this isn’t the beginning of a spree of breaking and entering.”

  Madison lifted a sleepy Taco and buried her face in his fur. “Poor Taco. Were you trying to help Mr. Peter? Is that how you got blood all over you?”

  It was more likely that my cat had gotten blood on him while trying to steal the chicken sandwich out of a dead man’s hand, but I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the girl’s fantasies. “I’m sure Taco is devastated. And no, you cannot start giving him chicken sandwiches to console him in his grief. He’s on a diet.”

  Madison whispered something to the cat that I was pretty sure included a promise to sneak him all sorts of goodies. She was still clutching him when Judge Beck herded them all up the stairs. As much as I’d miss the cat in my bedroom tonight…if he’d bring Madison some comfort, then he could stay with her.

  As for me, there was no way I could sleep right now. I wasn’t sure I’d sleep at all tonight. Eyeing the decanter of whisky on the bookshelf, I wondered if it would help chase the images of Mr. Peter out of my head. As I weighed the pros and cons, I saw a shadow move in the corner of my eye, approaching and hovering by the sofa. This shadow was so very familiar, not like the one I’d seen across the street tonight. This shadow was mine.

  “Eli?” I whispered. If he’d been alive, we would have talked about what happened. Well, I would have talked and Eli would have interjected odd random observations and what sometimes seemed like existential advice. But he would have known I was upset, and comforted me with his presence.

  And before the accident, that Eli and I would have talked—both of us. He would have listened intently, asked questions, helped me organize the thoughts that were racing around my brain from the shock of finding a neighbor dead with a bloody sword nearby. He would have soothed me with his logic, comforted me with his love. Then he would have fixed me a glass of whisky and had one himself—because pre-accident Eli never turned down a whisky—and held me in his arms.

  Both Elis would have comforted me in their own way.

  I got up and reached for the whisky. “Do you want one, too?” I asked the shadow.

  “Yes, please.”

  I about jumped out of my skin until I realized that the words had come from Judge Beck and not my ghostly apparition.

  Taking a deep breath to calm my jangled nerves, I grabbed two of the cut-glass tumblers and the decanter, carrying it all over to the sofa. There I sat pouring two fingers in each glass and handing one to the judge. I’d expected him to take the wingback chair he’d occupied previously, but instead he sat next to me on the sofa.

  “Are the kids okay?” I asked.

  “The kids are fine. Are you okay, Kay? I came in with the M.E. and saw everything in the kitchen. I can’t believe you walked in on that.”

  I sipped the whisky, relishing the honeyed burn as it slid down my throat, feeling the slight numb calmness it elicited when it hit my nervous system. It had been shocking to see Mr. Peter like that. But then again, it had been shocking to see Caryn Swanson’s body in that watery ditch a few months ago.

  But Mr. Peter…I knew him. He was a neighbor. This was so close to home, close to my safe space. As horrible as it had been to discover that a young woman had been murdered, this was somehow worse.

  “I’ll be all right. Tomorrow is Sunday, so after yoga with Daisy, I’ll read or knit and try to put it out of my mind.”

  Or maybe I should go to church? I wasn’t one to attend service weekly, preferring to keep my devotions to myself, but this might be one of those occasions where praising Our Lord in the presence of others might bring comfort. And I did want to speak with Reverend Lincoln about grief and ghosts, and my nightly visitor, the shadow who had retreated in Judge Beck’s presence to stand over by the bookshelf. If I squinted, I could almost imagine he was Eli, elbow on one shelf as he shifted his weight to the side and watched me.

  “Kay?”

  “What?” Sheesh. Judge Beck was going to think I’d totally lost my mind.

  “I’m planning to take the kids out for ice cream tomorrow afternoon. Would you join us?”

  Again, I got that surge of hope, of happiness that they were including me, that they’d somehow be my family. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t let myself get too attached to them.

  But it was too late. I was already attached. And an afternoon eating soft serve with jimmies wasn’t going to change that.

  “Thank you. That sounds wonderful; I’d love to go.”

  Then we sat on the sofa next to each other, sipping whisky in silence. And when our glasses were empty, we wished each other a good night and climbed the stairs. And as I got ready for bed I realized two things. The shadow had left sometime while I’d been lost in thought on the couch, and I was really looking forward to ice cream tomorrow.

  Chapter 9

  “He was dead? As in bleeding out on the floor? Was he still warm? Had rigor set in?”

  Daisy had maintained a respectful silence while we’d completed our morning yoga routine, but she wasn’t shy about destroying the brief peace I’d obtained with her questions right after we’d finished the last vinyasa.

  “You really should stop with the police shows, Daisy. As far as I could tell, he was done bleeding when I’d found him. I don’t remember if he was warm or not. And I’ve got no idea if rigor had set in. Sorry, but my amateur crime-scene investigation plans flew right out the window when I walked into the kitchen and found my neighbor dead, a bloody sword rammed through a cardboard box next to him.”

  There. That should be enough shocking details to satisfy even Daisy.

  “A sword? Who kills someone with a sword anymore? I mean, I can see where you wouldn’t want to draw attention to a murder-in-process by firing a gun in a quiet neighborhood, but why didn’t the killer hit him on the head with a frying pan, or bludgeon him with a meat cleaver?”

  Ugh. Days like this, I really wondered about the mental stability of my best friend. I grabbed two mugs and headed for the coffee pot, wishing that I knew how to change the conversation. But that was an impossibility when Daisy was digging for information
.

  “Well, I’m going to say that in a hoarder’s house, it might take quite a while to find a frying pan or a meat cleaver. The sword was right there, on top of a stack of boxes by the doorway. It was handy.”

  Wait. It was by the doorway. And it had been there the second time I’d come back. So, the killer had grabbed it by the door, but had stabbed Mr. Peter in the kitchen. Had he chased him into the kitchen? Or had he picked up the sword when he’d entered the house and snuck back to the kitchen, intent on murder? It made a difference, because this couldn’t be self-defense gone wrong, where the two struggled, and the killer just reached out and grabbed the first thing handy. No. If the sword had been in a completely different room, then there was intent and there was some planning involved, at least from the time of entry to the actual stabbing.

  “Wow. A murder, right on our street. I mean, there are plenty of times I thought that Harry Peter was going to wind up strangled, or possibly crushed by a falling stack of washing machines, but I never imagined he’d be stabbed to death. And with a sword.”

  Daisy’s words gave me pause. Sometimes it was good to be best friends with an incorrigible gossip.

  “All right then, let’s list the likely suspects. I’ll start—Will Lars.”

  Daisy laughed, stirring cream into her coffee. “With a sword? Don’t get me wrong, Will has a temper and he’s one of those guys who, once he’s got his mind set on something, isn’t about to be dissuaded. He’s not the most flexible guy in the world. I don’t think he’s ever heard the word compromise in his entire life. It’s one of the reasons he got fired from that last job. He’s determined to make a go of it with this bed and breakfast, and he’s absolutely obsessed with every little detail. Having a neighbor with a junkyard isn’t in his action plan for success, if you know what I mean.”