A Dead Market

by CeeCee James

  Oh, boy. I hoped this wasn’t a prelude to asking me out. “There’s a great restaurant called White Rangers. It’s out on Hobble road.”

  “I heard about that place. They have a new chef. Let me get the directions.” Jared nodded. He took out his phone and typed.

  “Yeah. That new chef is my buddy, Mike,” Marty answered. And then to me, “Thank’s for the tour. We’ll get back to you.” Without another look at the house, they climbed into their SUV, leaving me to wonder what that was all about.

  As they backed out onto the road, I called Uncle Chris.

  He answered on the first ring. “Yellow.”

  I cringed at his corniness. “Hey, Uncle Chris. What do I do about these swim fins? Should we call the police?”

  “I already did. Somebody will be by later today to pick them up.”

  “So I can go?”

  “Get out of there, slick.”

  Chapter 6

  It turns out, it was me that had to let the police into the Johnson’s house to collect the swim fins. I’d already made it halfway home when Uncle Chris called to let me know. Groaning, I turned around.

  By the time I arrived at the Johnson’s house, Officer Taylor was waiting for me on the front porch, along with his partner. I had a feeling they’d been there for a while by the way their eyes narrowed as I walked up the stairs.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, and punched in the code. The key dropped into my hand.

  “Ma,am, I’m Officer Taylor. We met yesterday.” The cop dipped his head slightly.

  Was it only yesterday? It seemed like ages ago already.

  The other officer said nothing, leaving me with an uncomfortable few seconds as I struggled to work the cold key in the door. Unlock, unlock, unlock!

  Finally, the key worked, and the doorknob turned. There was an awkward moment when I started through at the same time as Officer Taylor, and we both jumbled in the doorway for a second before the cop stepped back.

  “Sorry, it’s just this way.” I led them straight over to where I’d found the flippers.

  They squatted down, and Officer Taylor opened the cupboard with a pen. The other cop shook open a bag. I have to admit, I was leaning over their shoulder in curiosity, searching for a clue about the owner’s identity. They had a brand name, but no gull sticker this time. I supposed that would have been too easy.

  Officer Taylor bagged the flippers, and then the two of them opened the rest of the cupboards and checked inside. One drawer held a pen that rolled forward as the drawer opened. But, since the house had been packed up a while ago, everything else was empty as expected.

  When they finished, the officers walked through the rest of the rooms to check that the windows were secure in the same way I’d done earlier.

  A few minutes later, they found me again.

  “And you’re the only one with a key?” Officer Taylor asked.

  “Well, you saw how I got it. It’s stored outside in the key box. Anyone who has the code can get in.”

  “Anyone? Who else knows the code?”

  “Pretty much any realtor, I’m guessing,” I answered with a small shrug. I remembered about the door. “The back door was unlocked earlier, but I was showing the place. The guys were down there and I thought I heard it close.”

  They gave each other a look and then Officer Taylor thanked me. They checked the back door again, and then headed outside to the front yard where they split up. Officer Taylor sauntered down to the lake while his partner circled the perimeter of the house.

  Neither of them must have found anything of interest because, after a quick goodbye, they returned to their car. I sat on the steps and watched as they left.

  Okay, that’s done. I was a little unnerved at how Officer Taylor had asked me how someone could get in, and thought I’d better check the windows one more time.

  Everything was shut up tighter than a turtle in its shell. I checked the kitchen window last. Through it, I could see the lake water becoming choppy. The wind must be picking up.

  One by one, I closed the cupboard doors left open by the cops, and then pushed the drawers shut. The last drawer jammed as I tried to shut it. I wiggled it a few times but it wouldn’t slide in. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Great. It’s broken.

  I checked the drawer, but there was nothing in it that would cause the problem. Squatting, I opened the cupboard underneath and half-leaned in where I saw a paper stuck in the tracks. I reached and yanked it free, ripping it as I pulled.

  I finally got it out and back on my feet. The first thing I noticed was a spicy scent. I brought the paper to my nose and sniffed. It was a man’s cologne.

  Hmm. I smoothed it flat on the counter where I noticed what appeared to me to be a man’s handwritten mixture of print and cursive.

  I squinted to decipher the chicken scratch.

  Sharp edge in watery grave. In west field for those that are brave. Through the woods and down the hole. Find it carefully, there’s a toll.

  Goosebumps trickled up my arms. It sounded like some kind of treasure map. Was this the riddle Marty and Jared were referring to? Or another weird coincidence?

  Well, something was going on here. As soon as I moved my hand, the paper immediately wanted to curl back into a roll, stopped only by a crimp from being stuck in the cupboard. That was another thing; why was the paper rolling? I’d never seen anything like it. The scent coming from it was powerful, and actually yummy. Definitely like a guy I wouldn’t mind getting to know better.

  I dropped the paper tube into my purse, feeling a little foolish, like I was gathering someone’s garbage and saving it. But a man did get murdered here. I wanted to be careful with any clues.

  The house shook under a gust of wind. I glanced out the window to see a dark line on the horizon blowing in. The sudden graying light made me realize I really didn’t want to be out here alone. I tucked my purse over my shoulder and ran out of the house.

  After locking the front door, I double-checked to make sure the key was secure in the realty box. The wind spun my hair around my face, blinding me. Tree branches creaked and leaves tumbled. I scooped my hair back with one hand and rushed for the car.

  The car door gave me a little trouble trying to unlock it. Once opened, I jumped inside and slammed the door. Good grief! The temperature sure had dropped. I started the car and flipped on the heat.

  I rubbed my hands together in front of the vents, waiting for the car to warm up. Soon the heat was blasting and I flipped the vent to blow on me. I wasn’t sure where my chill came from, the cold wind, or just being alone at the same location where I’d found a dead body.

  The body. I stared out at the lake again. Over the years, two people had died in that dark water, linked together by bloodlines. The original owner, and now his grandson. The waves lapped at the shore harder as if trying to escape its border.

  I shivered and stepped on the gas to pull out of the driveway. The flamingo greeted me with a cocky turn of his head. I noticed the mailbox flag broken and hanging on the metal box, and remembered the mailman from the other day. Slowly, I rolled up to and opened the door of the box, frowning when I discovered it was just junk mail. I left it and drove out on to the road.

  So, this riddle thing. It couldn’t have been a coincidence to find it after hearing Marty and Jared talking. I couldn’t even guess how the paper got into the house, but I knew I needed to learn more about this riddle. Was it a common one, some well-known children’s poem that I’d somehow missed growing up? Maybe it was some local lore that only the Brookfield people knew.

  Twenty minutes later, I turned onto my rather isolated dirt road. I passed the white farmhouse of my nearest neighbor tucked way off the road. Bales of hay dotted the yard all around the neighbor’s house. The storm’s gloomy light spread a silvery cast over the dry straw. It was funny how, in the summer, I had barely been able to see their house through the waving green. Only the peaked roof had shown above the crops.

 
; The car shook. Wow! That wind was strong! I blew out a sigh of relief when I turned down my driveway. The trees in the yard swayed in the windy battle. I watched with my stomach knotting. Dear God, don’t let any hit the house!

  I got out and raced to the covered porch. Just as I reached the front door, rain fell with fat splats that hissed in the dry dirt. Laughing at beating the storm, I unlocked the door, and made a beeline straight for the kitchen to make some tea and find a flashlight. I definitely wanted to be prepared if the power went out.

  As if releasing pent-up energy, the rain dumped from the sky. It was oddly comforting to hear it pound the roof. I carried a mug of tea to a beat-up couch by the window and squirreled myself in with my legs tucked up.

  It was strangely beautiful outside. It had been a while since the last storm, and I almost could feel the earth greedily sucking in the water. There’s a scent that accompanies a late downpour, dark and sensuous, a mixture of green life and growth, and rich earth.

  I breathed in and remembered how my feet splashed through puddles, splatters of mud dotting my bare legs. I’d raced mid-distance in high school—a one mile run—and went on to do one year of track in college.

  The unwelcome memory of my last race rolled over me and my chin dropped to my knees. It was the moment my ego received its first real beating.

  I never realized before that I was a case of being a big fish in a small pond. In college, the sprinters came from all around the country on scholarships. I suddenly went from winning every race to coming in fifth. Eighth. Ninth.

  A huge part of my identity died that day I came in ninth place. I knew then that I was nobody special. I wasn’t this great track star that I’d once taken pride in.

  I quit the team (much to their relief, I think) and then clung with everything I had to keep my identity as a great scholar. I fought for it. I couldn’t lose that, no matter what. And so, to the detriment to any social life or friends, I lived for those grades.

  To this day, I never told a soul how much it scared me to realize that I was just average athlete. That moment, I’d felt like a kite caught in a strong wind who’d been snapped from their string.

  I sipped my coffee and watched the leaves fly through the air like my imagined kite. Tumbling, turning, and no amount of putting your mind to it was going to change that. I guess, in some ways, I was still waiting to see where I was going to land.

  Finally, I grabbed my phone. It was time to search out the riddle. I might not exactly know the answer to the big question of ‘why I was here’, but I was here now. This was what was on my plate, and I was going to do my best with it.

  I typed in the riddle and stretched my neck, as if I could shrug off the melancholy reminiscing just as easily. Okay. Moving forward. I just wanted to see if the riddle was common knowledge or not.

  The spinny thing did its thing and then a row of options popped up.

  What I read made my mouth drop.

  Chapter 7

  Lightning forked across the sky and thunder battered the house, making the windows shake. I scooted away from the window and read the words on the internet again. I’d found my poem all right, and it was listed on a page called Unsolved Riddles.

  My phone rang, erasing the search. I yelped in dismay. There was no phone number, instead it displayed unknown.

  Irritated, I answered it. “Hello?”

  The man on the other end sounded just as impatient as I felt. “Hey, I saw this house by a lake online, and this is the listing phone number.”

  Listing number? I didn’t put my phone number online. What was he talking about?

  He rapidly fired out, “I was wondering if it would be okay to come see it. Like now, maybe?”

  The power flickered as if to protest his words. He had to be kidding. The weather was terrible. Did someone really expect me to go tromp out in this storm?

  Still, it wouldn’t do to tell a possible sale that they were crazy. I answered in my most diplomatic tone, “It’s getting kind of late today. Let’s set up an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I guess so.” He drawled out reluctantly. “Is eight in the morning too early?”

  Eight o’clock? That was the crack of dawn! I rubbed my neck and mustered up some enthusiasm, “Absolutely. Do you have the address?”

  “Yep. I sure do.”

  “Okay, we’ll meet there, then.” After hearing his assent, I hung up.

  That was strange. He sounded young, too.

  The phone rang again, oscillating like a baby rattlesnake in my hand. Lovely. Another unknown number. Since when had I become Miss Popular?

  “Hello. This is Stella O’Neil.”

  “Hi! I’d like to set up a time to check out a piece of property on your site,” a man answered back.

  A chill ran down my back. No way. I’d heard of hot properties, but how was this one so popular? Because of the murder?

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly.

  “You available now?” He sounded young as well. I swear, I could hear gum smacking in his mouth.

  “No, I’m sorry. The first available appointment I have is nine tomorrow morning. Will that work for you?”

  He took a deep breath. “I guess so. Listen, do you have a lot of other people interested?”

  “The property has garnered some interest.” Not the best way to answer, maybe, but the call-waiting on my phone was cutting in and distracting me.

  “I’d really, really like to be the first one out there. If you could just make an exception.”

  “Nine tomorrow,” I said firmly.

  By the time I got off the phone the third call had gone to voice mail.

  As I listened to it—another young-sounding man—the phone rang a fourth time. I stared at it and pressed ignore. Then I called my uncle.

  “Hello?” He sounded stressed.

  “Uncle Chris? I’ve just had four phone calls to see the Johnson’s property in the last five minutes. Holy Cow, I’m getting another one right now. How are they getting my number? What’s going on?”

  “They’re calling the line that we have forwarding to your phone. I’m sorry, I meant to tell you that, earlier. I have no idea what’s happening. My email is jammed full of requests, with more adding like they’re rabbits in the springtime.”

  “What the heck? Is it because of the murder?”

  “Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m calling the police and see if they can have someone run out there and make sure there isn’t some weird gathering taking place. This is crazy!”

  There was nothing more to say, and it was infuriating anyway with the calls I was still getting. We said goodbye, and I hung up.

  I switched on my Do Not Disturb setting, and blew out my cheeks. This was insanity. Something new had to have transpired.

  Rubbing my forehead, I scrolled back to the online article. Inane music started playing as a long list opened up. The site boasted that these were the top one hundred riddles of all time. The list seemed pretty conclusive, with everything from who was being secretly referred to in song lyrics, to scavenger hunts that no one had been able to solve.

  My poem was listed at number eighty-seven.

  There was no explanation underneath it, just the poem. As I read it again, I noticed the words were slightly different than the ones in my note.

  Sharpest edge in a watery grave. Over the west field for those that are brave. Through the woods and down the hole. Take it carefully and beware of the toll.

  The difference between the two reminded me of the shorthand I’d used to take notes in college, jotting down the gist of what I’d heard. Maybe the person who had written this had done the same thing.

  Questions filled my thoughts, one after the other. First of all, what did this have to do with the Johnson’s property? Was there really some sort of treasure in the flooded house? And how in the world could the public have connected Johnson Lake to this very vague poem? And why this week of all weeks? Old Man Lenny must have connected it too.
Who had he told? Was it that person who had followed him into the water?

  It seemed pretty important to figure out if this riddle was associated or not.

  The phone rang again, surprising me. Then, I realized it was my dad. I had rigged my phone that he could always get through, even if the Do Not Disturb setting was on.

  There was a second where I considered not answering it. Conversation wasn’t always easy with him, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to tackle it now. We’d been getting along better, it was true, but nothing changed the fact that he wasn’t happy that I’d moved from Seattle and was back in Pennsylvania, and he wasn’t shy about making his feelings known. Not to mention, he always honed in on my emotions if I was upset or worried, like a bee to a buttercup. He definitely wouldn’t be happy about me discovering a murdered man.

  Still, it was my dad. So, of course, I answered it, using my breeziest voice. “Hi, Dad.”

  There was a pause, like he’d been preparing to leave a message, and me actually answering caught him off guard. “Stella.” After clearing his throat, he said more firmly, “How are you?”

  “I’m good, Dad. What are you doing? How are you?”

  Lighting flashed in the window and thunder rumbled. I flinched and quickly amended it with, “Actually, I’m in the middle of an electrical storm. Lighting just tried to get in through the window, I swear.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, you can call me back. I just—.”

  “No, Dad. Seriously, its good to hear from you.”

  “Same here. Actually, I was just calling to tell you that I miss you.”

  “Aww, I miss you too, Dad. You want to come out soon?” I eyed the ripped wallpaper and chewed my nail, waiting nervously for his response.

  “It’d be hard for me to go back there, hun. So many memories.” He didn’t verbalize it but I knew he meant my mom and his dad. He still hadn’t talked to Oscar in all these years since we moved.

  My dad assumed that I’d try to contact my grandfather, but I never actually confirmed it with him. I decided to poke around a bit to see if now was the time to let him know. “You know, I think it would be good for you to come out. Kind of confront the past so it didn’t have power over you anymore.”