Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  Bastards, both of them. She’d kept Costa’s name but refused to be called “Mrs.” again.

  Flavia had moved back in with her mother and cared for the woman for five years while working as the bookkeeper for a small nursing home in Jacktown. When the woman finally died, Flavia received a modest insurance settlement and inherited some savings and investments that Vincent Roselli, her mother’s second husband, had set up years ago. With that money and the sale of her mother’s house, she bought the large Victorian in Tenleytown that she remodeled and opened as Costa’s Personal Care Home.

  It had taken her nearly two decades to get wise, to realize she must make her own way, no matter what the cost.

  No one will stop me, she vowed—least of all the orphaned Kennet Singleton. He said he’d eaten the soup. But he was alive and well when he left the house that morning. Obviously, he had lied.

  I’ll get rid of that meddling shit, even if I have to take matters into my own hands.

  Alex was under her thumb, the thumb that caressed the sharp steel blade, and the stinking lummox could bury Kennet right next to Helen Streider. No, she wasn’t about to let anything divert her from her course.

  She shoved the knife into the block and staggered toward the hall.

  Chapter 38

  Kennet sensed the now familiar presence hovering near him, prickling the hair on his neck and making him tremble to his bones.

  “And what did she look like?” Orrville Wilkes’s eyes were wide as he leaned forward across his paper-strewn desk. His rough hands gripped each other as if he were waiting for an uncertain verdict.

  “Hair like fire,” Kennet said. “Skin like milk. She wore an Air Force uniform.”

  When the old man bowed his head, Kennet pulled from his back pocket the folded paper that Christy had printed for him and began to read.

  Wilkes broke down, shaking with sobs and wringing his hands. Kennet continued, remembering the leaves that swirled in the shadow of the mausoleum, the icy breath, and Viola’s piercing eyes. Wilkes raised a hand and finished the last stanza himself.

  “Ah, when to the heart of man

  Was it ever less than a treason

  To go with the drift of things,

  To yield with a grace to reason,

  And bow and accept the end

  Of a love or a season?”

  “Frost,” Wilkes said. “My favorite poet.” He wiped his face with a blue bandana. “I’ve been reluctant to let her go. Grievin’ for her near three decades now, not knowing if she was at peace when her plane went down.”

  Thirty years. With the loss of his mother and Putterman, Kennet knew firsthand that death comes uninvited, and grief stays longer than expected. “I believe she’s at peace, Mr. Wilkes. She told me to tell you.”

  Wilkes almost started to weep again, but he regained his composure and then pocketed his handkerchief. “I know what you’re saying is true. If she told you to recite that poem to me, I know she’s happy. Wants me to move on. And I know I have to let her go. Now, thanks to you, I finally can.” He straightened and put on a smile. Then he motioned for Kennet to take a seat.

  Kennet sat and studied the happy photos of Orrville and Viola Wilkes, the scraps of poetry pinned to the paneling. He laid the Frost poem on the desk.

  “It’s time for me to let go, Kennet. Not just of my wife, but a lot of things.”

  “Like what, Mr. Wilkes?”

  “This place.” He looked around the room, his eyes growing wistful. “Time to retire.”

  “I think you’ve earned it.”

  The old man swiped a hand over his wild white hair. “And I think you’ve earned more responsibility, young man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wilkes leaned forward, spread his hands. “You’ve been very conscientious around here this summer. The grounds have never looked better. You put in a good day’s work, and you go the extra mile. You care about what you do. You’re respectful to me and, I understand from Nathan, you’re that way with everyone.”

  Kennet’s face grew warm, but he didn’t look down. “Well, that’s how I was raised. That’s just the way I am.” Unless you mess with the people I love. Like Christy.

  “That’s just the kind of man I’m looking for.”

  “For . . . what?”

  “To take over my position.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  Wilkes raised his hand. “I’m not quitting tomorrow, Kennet. I’ll stay on through next spring, show you the ropes the year ’round.”

  “But I don’t have any experience.”

  “You can learn. I’m a patient teacher.”

  Kennet drew another breath but let it go. Why argue with the man? He liked working here—had always loved resting under the tulip tree even as a boy—and Wilkes was giving him the opportunity of a lifetime. A job. A career, and a good one—at least for a high school graduate.

  Kennet said, “That sounds great, Mr. Wilkes. When do I start?”

  After their discussion was over, Wilkes clasped Kennet’s hand in both of his and thanked him profusely for sharing his vision of Viola. Then Kennet visited the equipment shed to borrow a few things for the final task on his list.

  Chapter 39

  Alex trudged along the path through dead, dry weeds on his way home from work. Twilight had descended and he spied his house, ghostly white against the murky silhouette of woods beyond. He was looking forward to working out, getting stoned, and washing away the heat and the cottonmouth with a few cold beers.

  As he approached the house, he smelled gas fumes, very strong. Gas tank on that goddamn pickup must’ve sprung a leak. Fuck me.

  He crossed the driveway and squatted beside the truck, but the smell was no worse here. It seemed to be coming from behind the house. He rounded the back corner where it was quite dark. The odor was definitely stronger here. He spotted a figure stepping out of the woods, carrying something.

  “Hey! What the fuck are you doin’ on my property?”

  The figure, a man’s, drew closer. It was Kennet Singleton.

  “Just trimming some weeds, asshole.”

  “What the—” Alex shoved him out of the way and rushed into the woods the way Kennet had come.

  In a large pile among the oaks, Alex could just make out a huge pile of withered foliage that reeked of gasoline. “My plants. You killed my fucking plants!” He rushed back out of the woods, charging at Kennet.

  At the last second, Kennet stepped aside and swung the shovel. The ash handle connected with Alex’s forehead, and there was a bright explosion followed by blinding pain. He dropped to the ground, clutching his head.

  “That’s for hitting my girlfriend, you stupid bastard.”

  Another eruption of pain, this time on the side of his head and ear.

  “And that’s for hitting my best friend.”

  Alex tried to rise, but Kennet kicked him in the gut. He clutched his stomach and doubled up.

  “And that’s for Rick Hannah, you fucking dick. You should be glad I didn’t tell the cops about your little farming operation, or you’d be in jail for a long time. You better straighten your act up, or get the hell out of Tenleytown, ’cause I’m not putting up with any more of your shit, Keckler. Y’hear me?”

  Writhing in pain, Alex swore at him. Kennet whacked him in the ribs. “Yes, yes, okay. Fuck!”

  “Good,” Kennet said. “Let this be the end of it, then. If we have any more problems with you, I will go to the cops. You got that?”

  Alex moaned again. He heard Kennet throw the shovel into the woods and then stalk off. He blacked out for a while, but came to with a roaring sound in his ears, and the acrid smell of burning reefer. The pile of plants Kennet had drenched with gas was nearly burned up. Orange flames and greasy smoke roiled into the tree canopy.

  “Fuck!”

  When the alarm siren went off inside the house, Alex jumped to his feet, head reeling. The siren was loud even at this distance.

  Now what? H
eart racing, he careened around the side of the house. A Harley sat parked beside his truck. Shit. Tito. What was he doing here, breaking in like this? Alex dashed up the steps and in the front door.

  The racket stopped abruptly as Tito smashed the alarm unit with a tire iron, the one Alex kept in the bed of his truck. The plastic casing clattered to the floor.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I need some weed. Now.” Tito squeezed the tire iron in a fist so big that it made the tool look like a pipe cleaner.

  Alex tried to hide his panic. “And what’d I tell you, huh? It’s not ready yet. This shit don’t grow overnight.”

  Tito hurled the iron at him. Alex ducked, but the tool glanced off the crown of his head. It clanged in the corner, knocking paint from the baseboard.

  “Oww! Shit, Tito, come on.” Alex rubbed his head, cursed when his fingers came away bloody.

  Tito inched closer. The brute’s face was puffy, his upper lip split in a nasty gash.

  “I don’t care if you sell it to me green, Keckler. I gotta have a pound of it now. Customer’s waiting.”

  Talking some sense into Tito’s thick skull seemed impossible, and Alex needed to defend himself. He backed toward the corner, hoping to snatch up the tire iron.

  “Look, Tito. I had to buy a bag myself. You can have it for cost. That’ll hold you over until the crop’s ready.”

  “It will not. Hold. Me. Over.” Tito’s fists were all cut up, too, red and pink seeping through cracks in his black skin. He must’ve been in some kind of bad-ass fight.

  Alex reached for the iron as Tito rushed him and pinned him to the wall. Tito’s massive forearm caught the bar, which dug into Alex’s chest and cheek.

  “Jesus, Tito.”

  “That’s right, my man, you better say your prayers, ’cause if I don’t walk outta here with a pound of whatever you got, you gonna need his help.”

  “All right, all right. But it’s not ready.”

  Tito crushed him a moment longer, then released him. He snatched the iron from Alex and chucked it at the couch. “I don’t take your word no more, man. You better show me, or I’m gonna fuck you up.”

  “I said, all right. Come on.” Alex led him back the hall. “Greenhouse is there, last door on the left.”

  When Tito entered the room to find all the plants cut down, Alex might be able to make it out the door. But Tito could easily catch him on the Harley. Or simply come back later.

  The gun. He could get to the gun and at least level the playing field. Unless Tito had one of his own.

  As Tito opened the door on the blinding light of the greenhouse room, Alex ducked into his sour-smelling bedroom.

  Tito called from the other room. “Thought you said they weren’t ready. Looks like you already harvested ’em. Hey, where’d you go?”

  Alex yanked open the drawer of his nightstand. He pawed through the items, tossing things onto the unmade bed. Unpaid bills, antacids, lip balm.

  Where the fuck’s the Rossi? He couldn’t defend himself against Tito with anything less than firepower. He needed the gun. Where’s the goddamn gun?

  The room grew darker as Tito’s bulk filled the bedroom door, blocking out the hall light. Alex whirled around.

  “You dumb motherfucker. I knew doin’ business with you would backfire on me. I knew it.” Tito pointed his own pistol and started toward him.

  Alex flung the bedside lamp, but Tito batted it away. He tried for the door, but Tito clotheslined him with his free arm and then brought the gun down on his head—the sore spot where Kennet had hit him with the shovel. Alex crumpled to the floor, pain exploding in his skull.

  “Shoulda known better than to deal with a punk-ass pansy like you. Holdin’ out on me, were you? You’re history.”

  The last thing Alex saw was the flash from the muzzle of the gun.

  Chapter 40

  Kennet waved as Orrville pulled away from the front lane of the care home in his Jeep Cherokee. The old man had just treated him to dinner at Woody’s Little Italy restaurant in nearby Elizabeth.

  Over steaming plates of meat ravioli they had talked a long time about the responsibilities of maintaining the cemetery. Kennet was excited and a bit nervous to be taking on such a big job, but Orrville had said, “I have every confidence in you, young man.” It made him feel so good he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  It was dark now, fireflies winking over the lawn, and as Kennet approached the house, he glanced up at the third floor windows. They were lit behind the curtains. Flavia was home.

  He slipped into the house through the back door. The kitchen was clean, the light over the sink casting shadows across the room. The remainder of the first floor was dark.

  In the basement, he tossed some personal items in a musty toilet paper carton, shoes and clothes and toiletries. If he couldn’t get back into the house later, he could part with the rest. But he thought better of leaving Ma’s belongings—her photo album and keepsakes, her Bible, and the urn with her ashes—but couldn’t find the box he packed them in the day he cleaned out her room. He knelt on the cool cement floor and peered under the cot. Just dust. He stepped out of the room and glanced around the laundry area, but the box wasn’t there either. He returned to his room and stood under the garish glow of the hanging lightbulb.

  The box was right here, in the corner. Had been for weeks. What happened to it?

  Then he got a sinking feeling. Someone had been in his room. Alex? Doubtful. Ms. Costa. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he knew he must pay her a visit.

  He went up the cellar stairs and set the carton with his clothes on the side door stoop and then went back inside and climbed the steps to the second floor. Except for the nightlight in the hall, all was dark. It was silent but for the snoring of Gladys Wilson.

  He continued to the third floor. When he knocked on Flavia’s apartment door, it drifted open.

  She stood by the open dry bar cabinet, a shot glass in her hand. Her red silk blouse lay open, showing wrinkled cleavage and a snatch of lacy bra. Her hair was disheveled, her lipstick smeared. She tossed back the shot and set the glass next to an open bottle of Sambuca. A hint of anise hung in the air between them.

  “I just came to tell you I’m leaving,” he said, taking a step deeper into the room.

  “Doan you think izz a bit late for that, Kennet?” She was obviously drunk. And he didn’t like her tone or the wild look in her eyes. Careful, Singleton.

  He apologized for taking so long to find a new place to live. “But I’ve finally found an apartment, and I packed all my things. Except for one box. My mother’s stuff. Do you know what happened to it?”

  Her dark gaze flitted toward the living room and back to him. “I have it.”

  What the hell did she want with his mother’s stuff? Surely she hadn’t taken it to prevent him from leaving. Maybe to ensure she would see him before he left. But why? Does she know I borrowed her records? She was apparently playing some kind of a game, and he didn’t care for games. Not now. He simply wanted to claim the only things he could remember Ma by and get the hell out of this murder house.

  He kept his voice level. “Give it to me, please, so I can go. Then I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

  “I’m sure you wish it was that simple. But izz not.”

  He crossed his arms. “What do you mean?”

  “I took your mother’s things because you took something of mine. Caused lotta trouble for me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his face flushed hot. The open black box lay on the bottom shelf of the dry bar cabinet.

  She moved around him and closed the apartment door. Locked it with a click. Now he smelled a mixture of her perfume and nervous sweat.

  He fought the paralysis of fear and, while her back was turned, he hurried to the living room and snatched up the box of his mother’s things. When he turned back, she’d taken position by the cabinet again. She paid no heed to hi
s grabbing the carton. Instead, she poured herself another shot.

  “I know you’ve been in my ’partment.” She dipped a polished fingernail into the liqueur and then slipped it between her lips. “Were you satisfied with what you found?”

  It was time to get real and stop playing her game. “How could I find any satisfaction in that black box of death?” He motioned toward the cabinet.

  She downed the shot and set the glass aside.

  “Why did you kill my mother?” He stepped toward her, making fists around the carton. “And Helen Streider. The others. For money? For a few measly thousand dollars?”

  “A thousand here, a thousand there.” She flourished her hand. “All adds up. I learned a long time ago that to get ahead in life, I’m goan have to do it myself. You men are all alike. Too little too late—if at all.”

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you, but that doesn’t give you the right to rob people, to, to murder them.”

  She ran her fingers down her breastbone and gazed into his eyes with an icy fire. “I’ll do whatever it takes to retire in comfort. Nothing’s goan stop me from reaching my goal. If you’d left three, even two weeks ago, this coulda been avoided. But you hadda go snooping, poking your goddamn nose where it doesn’t belong. Thazz unfortunate, because I’m forced to cut it off now.”

  From beneath a newspaper on the cabinet, she grabbed a butcher knife and rushed at him.

  Kennet threw the box at her, but she slapped it away, spilling its contents onto the carpet. She raised the knife as she stepped on his mother’s Bible. He grabbed her arms. Struggled with her. She pitched like a wildcat, spitting and swearing.

  “You sonofabitch! I’ll kill you just like I killed your mother.” She broke free of his grip and slashed his forearm.

  Searing pain shot up his arm. He jumped back, clutching at it.

  Flavia lunged and swiped at him. Still clutching his arm, he kicked at her knife hand, but she jerked back. Her eyes were venomous. Steam emanated from her head, as if her anger was condensing. The vapor resolved into a figure with a face. Slick dark hair and liver-colored lips drawn back in a vile sneer. His neck and chest were drenched in blood.