Address to Die For

by Mary Feliz

  “One day, I’m taking one of the dogs for exercise. Getting him used to the sounds of suburbia, you know. Nice spring day. Wind is blowing. Fruit trees in bloom.”

  Stephen’s story had shifted into present tense. His hands became fists and his jaw tensed. I could tell he was reliving the story as if it were happening right here, right now.

  “And some numb-nut tosses a firework into a Dumpster.” Tears began to flow, unchecked, down his cheeks. “Why would anyone do that, anywhere? But especially in a place where there are people hurting, wounded, fighting for their health and sanity after too many explosions.” He shook his head and continued.

  “I pick up the dog and run. I’m surprised I’m running, since I’m not even walking well at that point, but I need to get out of there, so I run. The dog is shaking and I’m shaking. We have no idea where we are or where we’re going. We’re just trying to get away.” Stephen picked up his tea, hands shaking.

  I pushed a box of tissues across the coffee table toward him. He ignored it.

  “They found us later, behind the stairs of a loading dock, still shaking and whining. The two of us. What a pair.”

  I still had no idea where Munchkin figured into this story, but I couldn’t interrupt Stephen. I was awestruck that he would share such a personal story with me. Maybe that’s why, I thought. Maybe the fact that I was a virtual stranger made it easier. Either way, it was good for me to remember that there were greater dangers than degenerate squirrel-impaling vandals.

  Stephen sipped his tea and continued. “He and I were discharged after that and we recovered together. Quinn was his name. A great dog. Yellow lab. We didn’t sleep much, either of us, but walking helped, so we’d go out together walking, late at night. Got to know the night people, the street people. Lots of them are veterans. It’s real quiet around here at night. No traffic. A different world.”

  Staring far into the distance, Stephen continued his story. “One night, we’re passing behind the big grocery on Grant Road, steering clear of the Dumpsters and the loading dock. But we hear a whining noise. Crying. Real pathetic. It’s coming from the Dumpster. Neither one of us wants to get anywhere near it. But the crying goes on and we have to do something. We make it our mission, like we’ve got orders or something. We get closer and Quinn starts sniffing, whining, and pulling on the leash. He sticks his nose under the Dumpster. I kneel down, wishing I had a flashlight, when Quinn pulls out his head. He’s got what looks like a dirty old sock in his mouth. He drops it at my feet like a tennis ball.”

  “Munchkin?” I said.

  “In the flesh, what there was of him. I don’t think he was more than a week old. I stuffed him inside my shirt, fleas and all. He was freezing and I wasn’t sure he’d make it. But between us, Quinn and I got him warm and clean, and filled his little tummy with some warmed-up milk from the fridge. He fit in my hand with room to spare.”

  “Hence the name.”

  “Right. It turned out that milk was the wrong thing to give him, but first thing the next day Quinn and I got puppy-rearing protocols from a Marine veterinarian at the VA. I fed Munchkin puppy formula every two hours and Quinn cleaned him up like he was the pup’s mom. The rest is history.” Stephen rubbed Munchkin’s belly, but there wasn’t enough room under the coffee table for Munchkin to do more than shift his weight and sigh in doggy contentment.

  “But what happened to Quinn?”

  “Quinn was old before his time. He’d seen too much, hurt too much, missed too many good soldiers. One night, before Munchkin was full-grown, I woke up to hear Munchkin crying like the first day we found him. Quinn was gone.”

  After a few moments of silence and respect for the fallen, Stephen looked up. “Quinn left me in good hands, though. Munchkin and I make a good team.”

  I could only agree. With the fire dying and the sky starting to lighten up, it was either time to catch a little bit more sleep or to get started on breakfast. I chose food. “Would you and Munchkin like some eggs?” I whispered.

  Stephen nodded, picked up his tea mug, slipped his feet into his shoes, and stood. Munchkin wriggled out from under the coffee table. “We’ll take you up on that. I’ll check in with the police and then Munchkin and I will do a quick patrol around the property and make sure everything’s okay out there.”

  I winced at the reminder of the murdered squirrel on the porch. After hearing Stephen’s story, I wasn’t about to complain about any of the discomfort or confusion in my own life. Nothing I’d experienced could compare. So much pain. So much suffering. And Stephen was one man. There were thousands of young men and women who could tell any number of stories, equally heartbreaking. I felt intimidated by the honor Stephen had done me, trusting me. Oh, I knew he still had secrets he hadn’t shared. Everyone did. And it seemed as though Orchard View was full of them.

  But I knew now why Stephen walked around at night, which was probably why he turned up at so many crime scenes where people needed help. And maybe the fact that he was Special Operations was the reason Jason seemed to trust him to manage parts of his investigations—and had him stay with us last night. I was missing something, though. Lots of things.

  I went to the kitchen to put the mugs in the sink and whip up eggs, toast, and coffee. It was going to be a long day. I knew where the day was starting—here in my comforting kitchen with my family, my new friend, and my dog, all of whom were protective and loyal. But I was pretty sure I had no idea where we were headed from here, or where we’d end up.

  Chapter 15

  There’s a time in every project when the goal seems unreachable. Chaos and confusion reign. But to go back is unimaginable. Get more boxes, take a break, and begin again. The only solution is to press forward.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, September 7, About six o’clock

  I decided to make muffins to go with the eggs. I was compensating with carbs, but it felt good to have a plan and to move forward with a project that was straightforward. The smell of muffins would be comforting.

  I was gathering the dry ingredients when I heard Stephen and Munchkin climbing the porch stairs. They came through the back door and Munchkin snuffled my hand before curling up under the table.

  “Everything looks fine outside,” Stephen said as he poured a cup of coffee. “No sign of anything or anyone at all unexpected.” He buttered the muffin tins without being asked while I stirred the batter.

  “How can this guy come and go like that?” I said. “With no trace?”

  “Got me,” said Stephen. “But Jason just pulled up with his sidekick Officer Bianchi and we’ll see if they found out anything.”

  If I’d known I’d be entertaining so many people for breakfast, I’d have taken the time to add another leaf to extend the kitchen table. By the time the food was ready, we’d moved to the long table in the dining room. I was glad I’d decided to make the muffins, which disappeared along with the coffee, eggs, toast, bananas, orange juice, and everything else remotely breakfast-like I had in the house.

  When we were down to crumbs and coffee, the boys took off to the barn to examine the damage to the lock and hunt for more clues. Stephen, Jason, and Paolo lingered over coffee and filled me in.

  “Any word from the patrols?” Stephen said.

  Paolo Bianchi shook his head. “They canvassed the entire neighborhood,” he said. “And, Detective? You might need to do some damage control. Nearly every one of the neighbors promised to have a word with the chief, or the mayor, or their legislative representative, or all three. A predawn Sunday-morning knock on the door wasn’t popular with anyone.”

  “I figured,” said Jason. “But at least they were home. Did anyone see anything? Know anything?”

  Paolo shook his head. “We got nothing. Some folks said they’d keep an eye out.”

  “Okay, then.” Jason tapped his wedding ring on the table. He hadn’t mentioned he was married. I wondered when I�
�d get to meet his wife. I wondered what she thought of the odd hours he kept. Being married to a police officer had to be even more difficult than being married to a software-engineering manager who was living in Bangalore.

  “Maggie,” Jason said, “you should be fine during the day, but we’ll keep the patrols going. If you call in, they can be here within minutes.” He looked at Stephen, who nodded. “Stephen and Munchkin will stay here at night until we know more.”

  I started to protest, thinking we were asking too much of Stephen’s generous nature. He shook his head. “Look, Maggie,” he said, “I’ve got some things to do at the VA hospital today. There are some guys I need to visit, but after that I’m free and happy to help. Let me.”

  I gave in. “Thanks, Stephen.” It wasn’t easy for me to be dependent on others, especially people I’d known for such a short time. But I was learning that I couldn’t do everything alone, and Stephen was becoming a friend—a friend of our entire family. And friends were for leaning on. I could do this.

  After that, the day passed in a blur. The police cleared away the squirrel and Adelia’s team patched up the porch. Stephen promised to swing by the hardware store and pick up the items we needed to repair the lock on the barn.

  I was exhausted, but if I kept moving I was fine. I did laundry, ran the vacuum, and put away the sleeping bags. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when I was starting to think about dinner, that I realized we’d eaten nearly everything edible in the house. I needed food for dinner, for the kids’ lunches, and for breakfast in the morning.

  Grabbing my list, I went to track down the boys and tell them my plan. I found them in the attic, where they were unrolling a rope ladder meant as a fire escape. I knew in a heartbeat their plan was to check it out, “escaping” from the attic down into the garden.

  It wasn’t that bad an idea. Hadn’t the fire marshal at the university told us to practice our escape plans? I looked the rope over. As far as I could tell, it was sound. Brian tried it out, then David. They wanted me to try too, but I passed, figuring that the extra incentive of flames chasing me in a real fire would be all I’d need to fling myself from the roof. Here, in broad daylight, with no flames in sight, I couldn’t make myself do it. I was chicken, but my cowardice—or maybe caution was a better word—made the boys feel brave in contrast.

  We wrapped up the rope and I reminded the boys that they still had homework and chores to do. I scribbled their meal and snack suggestions on my grocery list and asked if they wanted to join me. Neither one did, so I took Belle with me and headed down the stairs and toward the car.

  “Mom, Mom,” Brian called after me, clattering down the stairs and catching up with me in the kitchen. “There’s a problem!”

  “What’s up, Bri?” I asked with one hand on the doorknob.

  “I need a form. A permission slip. We’re going to the symphony on Monday.”

  “What form?” I began, but Brian’s problem was beginning to dawn on me. He’d need a form for the trip. One of the dozens of forms Principal Harrier had handed out the week before, slapping her iPad and repeating, “No excuses. No exceptions.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Do you know which form it is? What it looks like?” I was pretty sure the forms were still in the backseat of my car where they’d sat, untouched, since I’d stashed them there on the first day of school. Finding one form in that stack wouldn’t be easy.

  Brian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It needs to be submitted the day before. We should have turned it in on Friday.”

  I wasn’t certain, but I thought that our new friendship with Assistant Principal April Chen might enable us to get around the rule, but I didn’t want to put April in a tight spot and I didn’t want to run afoul of Horrible Harrier either. Yikes.

  Brian sat on the bottom step of the back stairs, looking miserable.

  I bit my lip and looked at my dejected little guy. I wracked my brain as I rinsed dishes and put them in the dishwasher, hoping that moving around would help me invent a solution.

  “Are the forms online?” I said. “Can we print one out?”

  “David’s been having trouble with the printer setup. But Mom, the form was due on Friday.”

  I knew what I wanted to say, but hesitated because I wasn’t sure whether I would be teaching him the right lesson. Would I be showing him how to circumvent the rules? When in doubt, lead with the truth.

  “Brian, I don’t condone things like splitting hairs or gaming the system. When you know what a rule intends, you should follow it. You should do the right thing. But . . . Miss Harrier is a stickler for details and precision. Maybe we can be precise too.”

  I sat next to Brian on the bottom step.

  “Do you know exactly what her rule says?” I asked. “Does the form need to be handed in and time-stamped on Friday, or twenty-four hours ahead of time, or does it say the day before? Or do they just need it before school starts on Monday morning?”

  I thought for a minute. “And who gets to school first? April or Miss Harrier?”

  Brian’s face brightened as he figured out what I was getting at. “You mean, drop it off tonight and Harrier won’t know it wasn’t there on Friday afternoon?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “It won’t meet the letter of the law, but it might just solve the problem.”

  “Maybe . . .” agreed Brian. “. . . with a little help from April.”

  We shared a conspiratorial smile.

  “Run up and see if you can get David to beat the printer into submission and make it spit out your form. I’ll fill it out, sign it, and drop it through the mail slot at school on my way to the grocery store.”

  By the time David and Brian had printed out the form, it was seven o’clock. I asked the boys to stay on top of their chores and get ready for school while I was gone. Belle and I jumped in the car and drove the winding road down the hill. The sun had dropped behind the mountains of the Coast Range and thick fog rolled in, dimming the lingering sunlight and muting the colors and definition of the landscape. I gripped the steering wheel and peered at the street signs, many of which were obscured by overhanging branches. The drive to the middle school was becoming second nature, but not in the dark. And not when I’d been up most of the night before.

  Afraid I’d forget something, I tapped my index finger on the steering wheel, reminding myself of my goals for this trip. Drop off the stupid form; buy milk, cereal, lunch stuff, and something quick for dinner.

  Oh, and I needed to get it done before an escalating reprobate decided to take a torch to our house. Arson wasn’t quite one step up from sacrificing a squirrel on our porch, but I wasn’t sure what the developmental steps of a psychopath entailed, and I didn’t want to think about it.

  I sighed and pulled the car to the curb in the red zone in front of the school office. I shivered as I approached the office, and then stopped dead. Max! I’d forgotten I’d promised Max that we’d be around for his phone call at 8:00 p.m. I looked at my watch: 7:15. I had time, as long as I kept moving and was super-efficient at the grocery store. A gust of wind sent leaves and litter skittering across the small plaza in front of the building and threatened to tear the form from my hand.

  The mail slot through which I’d hoped to drop Brian’s form was installed in the solid-wood portion of the door below the glass and the locking push bar. I crouched to slide the form through it, leaning against the glass as my knees protested. I leaned and then stumbled, losing my balance as the door rattled in its frame. It wasn’t locked. I pulled it open and added Brian’s form to the pile of other papers that littered the mat.

  Oh, good. We weren’t the only family submitting forms at the last minute. The door shouldn’t have been unlocked, though. Why was the light on in Miss Harrier’s office? And why was her polished leather briefcase sitting on the front counter?

  “Hello?” Something was wrong and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out what it was.

  “Hello?” I tried to breathe shallowly and sil
ently as I tiptoed forward. . . and froze.

  Chapter 16

  Keep first-aid kits in your kitchen, workshop, and cars. Any injury that can’t be handled with a well-stocked first-aid kit requires the attention of a professional.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, September 7, 7:15 p.m.

  I found Miss Harrier sprawled between her desk and the door, half leaning against a metal file cabinet. The cabinet, scarred by years of use, boasted a new indignity. A smear of blood extended from the corner of the cabinet to the top of Harrier’s head.

  “Oh my God, Miss Harrier.” I knelt at her side and lifted her hand.

  Her hand was still warm, but too cold for a living body, even one in shock from a terrible injury. I dropped her hand and stood back. I wiped my own hand on my jeans. Maybe I was trying to wipe off death or distance myself from whatever violence had occurred here, but I stopped myself as soon as I realized what I was doing.

  Miss Harrier was dead. I had probably transferred some of her DNA to my hand when I’d touched her. She and her DNA deserved respect.

  I looked around the room, trying to decide what to do. A coffee cup lay on its side on the desk, and I stepped over Miss Harrier, planning to right the cup and keep the coffee from staining the papers. I was too late. A puddle of coffee had spread across the desk. It dripped from the desk and was soaking the carpet. Just like Harrier’s blood.

  Miss Harrier would have known what to do, but I needed help. I reached for the phone on her desk to call the police before I remembered that I probably shouldn’t touch anything. I reached into my back pocket for my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  The phone rang, and as I was waiting for dispatch to pick up, I saw the pills. Dozens of small white five-sided pills that looked like tiny little houses were spread over the carpet and desk. I sniffed. The room smelled faintly of alcohol.