Maisie Fezziwig 01-Hickory Dickory Dead

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “What are you talking about?” He patted the side of the bed. “Come on, baby. I could go for another round. Whaddya say?”

  Baby.

  A word she hadn’t been called in some time.

  A word that was just eww for a woman of her age.

  They’d only been intimate twice. Both times, his bedroom prowess had been mediocre at best. Trying for round three would require the kind of patience she couldn’t give. Not again. “You need to go, Daniel.”

  “Maisie—”

  Maisie pointed toward the door. “You heard me. Now get dressed and get out.”

  Daniel stood, taking his time getting dressed, as if giving her time to change her mind. “I like you. We have a good thing going here. Can I at least see you again?”

  “You’re fifty-two. I’m seventy. It was nice, but let’s call it what it was, shall we?”

  He scratched his head. “What was it?”

  “A bootie call. A hook-up, as teenagers say.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re not serious?”

  “Quite.”

  She escorted him to the front door, opened it, and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re very sweet, Daniel. Thanks for a nice night. Goodbye.”

  Daniel stood with his arms crossed in front of him, dumbfounded and confused, making it all the more awkward for her to look him in the eye, so she didn’t. She offered a brief smile and closed the door. As soon as his Subaru backed out of the driveway, she scurried back to the binoculars, scanning the neighborhood a little longer than she had the first time. All was quiet now. Everything appeared normal except for one thing: Sylvia Frazier’s house was pitch black, and Sylvia never retired to bed without switching on the porch light.

  Maisie threw a robe over her short, fitted, black, silk nightie, then a coat over the robe, slipped into a pair of rubber-soled slippers, and opened the top drawer of her dresser once again. Besides the binoculars, the velvet-lined drawer also contained several relics left to her after her late husband passed away from cancer three years earlier. Once such relic was a revolver. And not just any revolver. A Smith & Wesson 500 Magnum. Serious heat.

  Gun in hand, Maisie scampered across the street to Sylvia’s place. Finding the front door unlocked, she walked in, letting the revolver in her outstretched hand lead the way.

  “Sylvia? Are you there? It’s Maisie. I’m coming in!”

  As someone who’d familiarized herself with all of her neighbors, Maisie knew the layout of each house on the block. Still, she paused for about ten seconds, giving Sylvia the opportunity to reply. When she didn’t, Maisie flipped on the hall light and headed toward Sylvia’s bedroom. Halfway down the hall, it occurred to Maisie that Sylvia might not have replied when she’d called her name because Sylvia was sleeping. It further occurred to her that Sylvia might have simply forgotten to illuminate the porch light this one time. If true, the appearance of a gun-toting neighbor in the wee hours of the morning was likely to give the eighty-four-year-old woman a heart attack. Still, the lack of an illuminated front porch light was one thing; an unlocked front door was quite another.

  Maisie entered Sylvia’s room, feeling her way up the wall until she felt the light switch. She flicked it on. A terrified Sylvia sat straight up in bed, yanking her blanket over her face, like the blanket could protect her if this had been an actual break-in.

  Sylvia peered over the edge of the blanket, saw Maisie then the revolver. “Maisie? What the hell are you doing here? And what are you doing with a gun?”

  Maisie lowered her weapon. “I apologize, Sylvia. I thought you needed help. I heard someone scream earlier, and when I saw your porch light wasn’t on tonight, I thought it may have been you. I called your name when I entered your house. You must not have heard me.”

  Sylvia inserted her fingers into her ears, pulling out a pair of plugs. She set them on the nightstand. “When I’m wearing these, I don’t hear anything. My nephew’s staying here this week. He blasts the television. Without earplugs, I don’t get any sleep.”

  Maisie assumed Sylvia’s nephew was to blame for the porch light being off, as well as the unlocked door. “I suppose it wasn’t you who screamed then.”

  Sylvia sighed. “Of course it wasn’t. And, by the way, you can’t just walk into my house whenever you want without knocking.”

  “The front door was unlocked.”

  “That’s not the point. This isn’t your house.”

  Maisie stuffed the revolver into her jacket pocket and turned. “You should tell that nephew of yours to lock the front door.”

  Sylvia grunted an inaudible reply.

  Maisie walked back down the hall, confused. She had heard what sounded like a woman’s scream, and not just any scream—a desperate cry for help. Stepping outside again, the air seemed stale, like the atmosphere had sucked it all in and zipped it up tight.

  Maisie may have been wrong about Sylvia, but someone, somewhere, was in trouble.

  She didn’t know how she knew.

  She just did.

  CHAPTER 4

  After speaking to almost all of her neighbors on her block the following morning, Maisie did the one thing she knew she needed to do—she baked a cake—a two layer French vanilla with yellow and pink icing.

  “Who’s the cake for?” Maude asked.

  Maisie peered over her glasses at her younger sister Maude, who sat at the kitchen counter, flipping through the pages of a knitting magazine.

  “The cake is for Lane and Zoey Marshall, my new neighbors. They’re a young couple with a newborn baby. A girl, I think.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The young folk around here tend to have babies as soon as they’re married. Way too young if you ask me.”

  “I mean to say, why are you baking them a cake?”

  “I always bake a cake for new neighbors. It’s a nice gesture.”

  Maude raised a brow, sipped on a glass of iced tea. “You don’t do it to be kind. You could care less about nice gestures. You do it for yourself, so they’ll let you in their house, and you can nose around, see what they’re like.”

  Her sister was right, of course. Maisie liked to appear innocent while she passed judgment, and the distraction of a cake was the perfect way to do it. “There’s nothing wrong with erring on the side of caution. One can’t be too careful these days.”

  “It’s not Christ-like to judge people, Maisie, and you know it.”

  Recently, Maude, who was four years younger than Maisie, had found Jesus. Not that Maisie faulted her for it. She didn’t. If Maude was happy, Maisie was happy for her, just as long as Maude didn’t make it her life’s mission to bring Maisie into the religion with her. Maisie already had a relationship with God. On the nights she slept alone, she said a quick prayer before bed. And, aside from her slight indulgence in men, drinking, and the occasional flare of the temper, she considered herself a spiritual woman.

  “Let’s leave Christ out of it,” Maisie said. “You want a refill on your tea?”

  “Why do I get the feeling your tea is a lot more exciting than mine, even though they look alike?”

  Maisie grinned, took a swig of her own refreshing drink, then raised the glass in her sister’s direction. “Mine isn’t iced tea, dearest. It’s a combination of vodka, tequila, rum, gin, Triple Sec, and soda. Oh, and a splash of lemon. Can’t forget about that.”

  “You know, you could just say it’s a Long Island iced tea.”

  Maisie grinned. “It’s a Long Island iced tea. Want one?”

  Maude frowned.

  “I didn’t think so,” Maisie said.

  Maude closed the magazine she was browsing through and made it a point to let Maisie know she was ogling a belt hanging over a chair at the kitchen table. A belt Daniel had left behind the night before. Not on accident either. It was Daniel’s way to force Maisie to see him again. It wouldn’t work. It he didn’t come for it that day, it was going in the garbage tomorrow.

  “Did you have company l
ast night?” Maude asked.

  Maisie smiled. Maude continued.

  “Are you still skanking around?”

  “Skanking around? Isn’t that kind of language frowned upon now that you’re part of an organized religion?”

  Maude popped a few Reese’s Pieces into her mouth, shrugged. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Maisie smiled. “I am skanking. I’ve never tried to hide it. Not from you, or anyone. What’s it to you?”

  “I thought it was just a phase you were going through after Lee died. But here we are, three years later, and you’re still carrying on the same way. Guess I was wrong.”

  “What difference does it make if I’m happy? I loved my life with Lee, and I love my life now. I was a virgin before I married Lee. I never sampled the goods of other men. Now, I can.”

  “Spare me the details.”

  “Just because you’ve chosen a life of celibacy doesn’t mean I have to, now does it?” Maisie plopped a cherry on the top of the cake and stood back, pleased with her creation. “There, it’s perfect. I’d better take it over now while it’s fresh.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  Maisie sighed, then sat on a stool next to her sister. “I haven’t had the chance to say hello since my new neighbors moved in, and I thought today was a good day to introduce myself.”

  Maude tapped a finger on the counter. “Something’s going on with you today, Maisie. You’re acting stranger than usual.”

  “When I was in bed last night, I heard someone scream. At least it sounded like someone screamed. Maybe I heard wrong. I don’t know, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “I can’t imagine you didn’t at least try to find out where the sound came from.”

  “I did. I thought it came from Sylvia’s house. I was wrong.” Maisie stood, scooting the cake onto her hand like her hand was a tray. “The new neighbors live across from Sylvia. So you see, I need to get over there and see if they heard anything.”

  Maude stood, placed her knitting magazine inside a book bag, and slung the bag over her shoulder. “Guess I’ll talk to you later then.”

  “Oh no you don’t. You’re coming with me.”

  “Whatever for? You don’t need me.”

  “You always make a good impression on people. I don’t.”

  “You have a cake to help you.”

  Maisie threw a jeans jacket over her white, V-neck shirt, and tightened the fastener on the loose bun in her hair. “It’s not the same thing. Come on, Maude. It’ll be fun.”

  Two minutes later Maisie and Maude stood outside the Marshalls’ brick, bungalow-style house. Maude rang the doorbell. No one answered. Maude rang it a second time. Still nothing. Maude knocked. Nothing.

  “Well,” Maude said, “looks like they’re not home. You’ll have to try again later.”

  Maude descended the Marshalls’ front porch steps, stopping when Maisie whispered, “Hey, do you hear that?”

  “Do I hear what?”

  “Listen. Sounds like a baby crying.”

  Maude paused, then pointed toward a window on the right side of the house. “It’s coming from over there. It’s probably the nursery. When I rang the doorbell, I bet I woke the baby. Great. I feel awful now.”

  “If she was asleep, her parents should have put a note on the door saying as much so anyone coming to the door would know. We don’t read minds.”

  Maude placed a hand on her hip. “Really? A note? You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous. That baby hasn’t stopped crying, and it doesn’t sound like anyone in the house is doing anything about it.”

  “Maybe the parents are the tough-love type. They might think letting the baby cry it out in the crib is healthy.”

  “Think about it though. If they’re not tending to the baby, why aren’t they coming to the door? At least one of them has to be here. What kind of parent leaves a baby alone in a house?”

  Maude responded with an eye roll, and Maisie shoved the cake into her sister’s arms. “Here, hold this. I’m going to check things out.”

  “What? No. Maisie, don’t.”

  Maisie walked to the window where the child was in full meltdown mode. She tried catching a glimpse of the baby through a slit in the curtains, but the bedroom was too dark. “Can’t see anything, Maude. I’m going around back.”

  “This is a bad idea. Very bad. I have a bad feeling. We’re trespassing. We need to—”

  “Oh, shut it, Maude. I wish you wouldn’t worry about every little thing.”

  “And I wish you wouldn’t get involved in everyone else’s business.”

  Maisie walked to the backyard, found the back door, and twisted the knob. The door was locked. She pounded on the door, then waited. Just like before, no one came. The baby was now squealing at a decibel Maisie could not abide.

  Something had to be done.

  Maisie turned, her eyes scouring the backyard for a specific object. A small, round fire pit lined with bricks presented the best option. Odd thing was, she’d been at this house many times before when Mildrid Howard owned it, and she could have sworn there wasn’t a fire pit when she lived there. The new owners had just moved in, making it even more curious.

  Maisie walked over to the fire pit and nabbed a brick. Then she stepped back on the deck, jerked her arm back, and hurled the brick through the center of the door, shattering the glass panel. Her plan a success, she fist-pumped the air in victory. In the middle of it all, a shrieking Maude rounded the corner. Upon seeing the broken glass, she threw her arms in the air, and the cake went flying, landing upside down in the rose garden.

  Maisie frowned. “Maude, you just ruined a perfectly good cake! I spent hours on it.”

  Maude opened her mouth to reply, but Maisie didn’t wait for the oncoming lecture she was sure she was about to receive. She stepped into the Marshalls’ home, removed a revolver from her purse, and said, “Lane? Zoey? Are you here? It’s your neighbor, Maisie. Sorry about the door. Hello? Anyone?”

  Maude entered the house behind Maisie, eyed the revolver, and said, “You can’t ... what on earth are you doing with that thing?!”

  “Never you mind. You better get behind me, Maude. Just incase.”

  “Just in case what? Jack the Ripper steps out of the pantry and tries to kill us?”

  “Something’s awry in this house, Maude. I can feel it.”

  Maisie followed the sound of the baby’s cries to the end of the hall. Sitting inside a crib in the corner of the back bedroom was a snot-nosed baby dressed in a pink onesie. The baby looked over, sniffling like she was struggling to catch her breath.

  At last, the crying had stopped.

  Maisie approached the infant, patted her on the head, and said, “There, there, baby,” which was about as maternal as Maisie ever got with babies. She had no grandchildren of her own, and her son ... well, he hadn’t been like other children. Even as a child he’d acted like an adult.

  Maude, on the other hand, went into full-blown maternal woman mode, sweeping past Maisie, and scooping the baby right out of the crib. “Oh my goodness. Just look at this precious face.”

  Maisie raised a brow. Whatever her sister saw, she didn’t. There was nothing precious about the way the baby’s snot-nosed, red, stressed-out face looked at this particular moment. The diaper was beyond capacity, clinging to the baby’s chubby thighs for dear life.

  “Aww, she’s all wet,” Maude said. “Poor thing. It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. Grandma Maude’s got you now.” Maude looked at Maisie. “We better clean her up.”

  “Not we. You. I don’t do babies.”

  Maude shook her head, disappointed, then riffled through the baby’s closet for diapers and a change of clothes. While Maude’s attention was diverted, Maisie slipped out of the room to do some further investigating. She cleared the main floor, then walked upstairs, halting on the top step when she noticed several small, dark-red stains on a Persian rug leading to t
he master bedroom door. She bent down, rubbing a finger over the stains. Dry. All dry.

  The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and again, dark-red stains were on the floor. Maisie readied her gun, slid the door all the way open with her shoe. “If anyone’s there, this is your one chance to speak up. I’m coming in. I have a gun. And I know how to use it.”

  A few seconds passed in silence.

  She took a deep breath, walked into the room, pressed a hand to her chest, and gasped. “Oh my goodness. Oh dear. Oh no.”

  A man Maisie assumed to be Lane Marshall was slumped over on the bed, dressed in blue and white flannel pajamas. “Mr. Marshall?”

  He made no sound, made no movement.

  She approached, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck. There was no pulse. She inspected the skin, purple and tight, and then used her gun to lift his head, exposing a small, round hole in the center of his forehead. The hole explained where the dried blood on the lower part of his shirt came from. He’d been shot, at close range, she guessed, sometime the night before. And now his body appeared to be in full rigor.

  She removed her phone from her pocket, dialed, and waited.

  Lane Marshall was dead.

  And Zoey Marshall was nowhere in sight.

  CHAPTER 5

  Detective MacDougal, a bald, six-foot-four male in his early fifties who had always reminded Maisie of a tall Yul Brynner, stood in the Marshalls’ bedroom along with Maisie and two other officers, all four staring at Lane Marshall’s dead body. She’d known MacDougal for several years, even working with him once or twice when he was young and green, long before she retired.

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t call us last night instead of today,” MacDougal said.

  “And say what, exactly?” Maisie said. “I thought I heard someone scream, but I didn’t know who it was or even where the sound had come from. If I had called, you wouldn’t have believed me.”

  MacDougal shrugged. “May have. Never know now.”

  “For all I know, the sound I heard could have been a woman in the throes of passion with her husband or lover.”