by Неизвестный
“Pam!” I called out as I came in through the back door. “I’m home. I mean I’m here.”
The floor creaked in an adjoining room.
I called out, “How are you doing? Did Tony’s crack team of investigators already interview you?”
Her voice came weakly. “Yes. It was just awful.”
I kicked off my snowy boots, moved some other coats so I could use my regular hook, and brought the pet carrier through to the living room. The television was on but muted, and Pam wasn’t in the room.
“Pam? Are you hiding? Don’t jump out from a closet at me.”
Her voice came again, “I just want to forget all about today.”
“Do you know they’re treating Dad as a suspect?”
Without hesitation, she answered, “Your father did threaten the man.”
I stopped in the kitchen. The cat carrier was getting heavy. Jeffrey meowed for me to let him out.
Did Pam actually think my father did something to Mr. Michaels? Where in the house was she hiding? She was smart to hide from me, if she was going to say things like that.
“Stormy, I know your father didn’t do it,” she called out, as though she’d read my mind. “They’ve got nothing on him. He’s innocent… of that crime.”
“Of course he’s innocent. They’re being ridiculous.” I looked around the kitchen, at the mess from a recent meal. Pam had apparently experienced technical difficulties using my father’s vintage electric can opener; a red trail of tomato soup stretched across the counter.
Her disembodied voice said, “I’m glad you’re here, but I’m not sure if I want to talk about the awfulness next door.”
“Okay.” I used my free hand to clean up the soup with some paper towel. “We’ll talk about something else.”
Jeffrey meowed with conversation topic suggestions ranging from releasing him to feeding him.
Someone sniffed behind me, in the dining room that didn’t get much use. The lights were off, but Pam was in there, sitting in the dark. She was probably shaken up, and my father wasn’t in town to calm her down. It was up to me to be supportive in her time of crisis. Was this the terrible thing that was fated to bring us closer? Would she ask me to be a bridesmaid at some as-yet-unplanned Bochenek-Day wedding? Was this our tender moment? I swallowed hard against the bile rising in my throat.
She sniffed again, and though her sniff smacked of theatricality, I did feel for her. Pam was the chief architect of most of her own trouble, but she still suffered. I didn’t want to be her friend, but my father cared for Pam, and I loved him, so I would make yet another effort at being nice to her.
I went to the doorway and asked softly, “Are you having one of your migraines?”
“Just a regular headache,” she answered. “I could use some cheering up. Tell me one of your little jokes.”
The only joke that popped into my head was a dirty limerick, so I said, “Your little Russian Blue cat got a sex change. He’s a boy now, and he has a proper name.”
Pam’s curly-haired head didn’t move. “What? Is that a joke?”
“It’s the truth. Jeffrey Blue was very brave at the vet’s office, and he hasn’t touched his stitches.”
After a long stretch of silence, she answered, “Bring the cat in, but please don’t switch on the overhead lights.”
I came in, set the carrier on the table, opened the lattice door, and gently lifted Jeffrey out. When I brought him to my chest, he snuggled against me. Cuddling him in my arms like a baby, I swayed from side to side in the dark dining room. I hoped that comforting her cat was buying me some points.
After a moment, Pam started talking. “That poor man,” she said. “One day, he’s minding his own business, and the next day, he’s a snowman. It could happen to any of us.”
“But it probably won’t,” I said. “Most murder victims are killed by someone they know, someone with motivation and opportunity.”
Breathlessly, she said, “It could have been one of those thrill killers. An honest-to-goodness serial killer. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Jeffrey squirmed as I squeezed him too tightly. My first instinct was to argue with Pam, to tell her how thankfully rare thrill killers were, but setting her straight would likely lead to an argument. Any disagreement with Pam’s Official View of the World resulted in acrimony. So, I chose to agree.
“Yes, a serial killer would really be something,” I said. “It would put Misty Falls on the map but not in a good way.”
“I’ll say.” She sounded almost excited.
“Pam, can I get you something for your headache? Or something to eat? Did you get any of that innocent tomato soup into a bowl?”
She took a gasping breath. “What if this serial killer comes for me next? What if he’s going house by house?”
“That wouldn’t be very practical,” I said. “He’d only be able to get two before the pattern was obvious to anyone with eyes, and they’d nab him at the third house.”
“He’d still get two of us,” she said with a sigh. “But I guess you know better than me. I’m no expert. I don’t care for those ghastly TV shows your father watches. I can’t even go into the room when they’re on. Too much sex and violence. Anyway, that’s what I told the police today.”
“They asked about what Dad watches on TV?”
She made a non-verbal noise.
“What else?” I asked. “Did they say anything about Dad having arguments with Mr. Michaels?”
“They’re simply being thorough,” she said. “It certainly doesn’t mean your father did anything. I didn’t say he did. Exactly what are you accusing him of?”
“Nothing.” My tone was sharp. Jeffrey squirmed in my arms. Softer, I said, “Take it easy, Pam. Nobody’s accusing anybody of anything. I’m sure they’ll have this figured out before Dad gets home.”
“He will not be pleased,” she said with a snort. “This whole thing will be a nightmare that never ends.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “I’m trying to help with the investigation.”
She replied, “Are you sure that’s wise? Wouldn’t it be dangerous?”
“I’m looking into a rumor about Mr. Michaels getting back in contact with estranged family members.”
“You must have heard wrong,” she said icily. “Murray didn’t have any family.”
“Maybe he did.” I went on to explain what I’d learned at the veterinarian’s that afternoon, finishing with, “But it might not be true at all. Plenty of gossip flies around this town without fact-checking.”
Pam pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m tired and ready for bed.”
“But it’s barely dinner time. And don’t you want to see your cat? He’s happy to be home again.”
“I can’t sleep in this house tonight. I’ll pack a bag and go to my friend Denise’s house.”
“Were you planning to take Jeffrey with you? He won’t like getting jostled around again. He should recover here in his own house.”
“Why do you keep calling her Jeffrey?”
“I told you, Pam. She’s a boy. He’s a boy.”
She snorted. “Sounds to me like you two have quite the bond.” She came around the table and reached for him. He gave her a sleepy hiss that made her step back.
“Sorry,” I said on his behalf.
She turned on her heel and left the room, muttering under her breath about ungratefulness.
Jeffrey relaxed, melting in my arms.
I rubbed his chin and whispered, “She’s had a tough day. Be patient with her. She’s okay sometimes. We shared a bottle of wine at the paint-your-ceramics place once, and we had quite a nice evening.” I kissed his shining, dark nose. “Try giving her some wine. Everyone’s more tolerable after a glass or two. You can have yourself a bowl of catnip. Do you like catnip?”
Five minutes later, I was still petting Jeffrey in the dark dining room and saying increasingly ridiculous things about catnip parties and such.
Pam came thum
ping by with a wheeled suitcase. She stopped at the arched doorway, an imposing shadowy figure.
“Your hair looks different,” I said. “Did you get a new perm today?”
She patted her hair. “Yes. I was at the salon this afternoon.”
“Was that before or after your doctor appointment?”
She reached into the room and flicked on the overhead lights, blinding me with the chandelier.
“The doctor was last week,” her shadowy form said. “I’m all done with the doctors.”
“That’s good news,” I said. She’d not disclosed to me what the appointments had been for, but I was genuinely relieved to hear the positive news that she’d been cleared.
“You’ll stay here with the cat,” she said. It was a command, not a question.
“Sure,” I said.
“If you need me, my friend Denise’s phone number is on the fridge,” she said, and then she was gone.
Once we were alone again, I resumed talking to my new buddy, Jeffrey. “Did you see that? She’s always so dramatic. Everything’s life or death with Pam Bochenek. Heaven forbid you get yourself a haircut without checking in with her. She’s probably mad at you because you changed into a boy without her permission.”
Jeffrey kept on purring.
The refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen clicked off, and the house echoed with emptiness around me.
Something creaked. The dining room was now bright, and with the curtains open, I felt exposed to the world. Something creaked again, and my body tensed.
I jumped up and went to make sure Pam had locked the back door. It was deadbolted, but given the age of the old wooden frame, it wouldn’t take much to kick down the door if someone wanted in.
I nuzzled my chin against Jeffrey’s head as I walked through the house, checking all the doors and windows. When I got to the front room’s window, I peered out into the wintery darkness. Next door, the crime scene technicians were loading up their vehicles, done for the day. I squinted, but couldn’t distinguish anything interesting.
They started up their engines, washing the snow with a red glow from their tail lights as they pulled away.
Now it was just me, Jeffrey, and the terrifying serial killer from Pam’s overactive imagination.
Chapter 15
Late at night, when the house is making noises and your imagination’s creating images for every creak, serial killers don’t seem so rare.
Alone in my father’s empty house, I tried not to imagine a crazed killer going house to house.
I took Jeffrey to the kitchen, found his food, and put out some canned dinner for him before foraging in the fridge for myself, settling on a roast beef sandwich. I sat at the kitchen table, facing the back door, and took out my phone.
I called my father’s cell phone and got his voicemail. I left a message, my voice as neutral as I could make it.
Jessica Kelly had replied to my text, which had been a vague let’s-get-together-soon message. She was inviting me to come out that night for drinks with some other people. She didn’t specify with whom, so I filled in the blanks with my least favorite people from high school days. I wanted to pick Jessica’s brain about coworkers at the Olive Grove, but the stress of the day made me pessimistic. I’d rather have a dental work than sit in a local bar while people yelled intrusive questions over loud music.
I turned to the Russian Blue cat who was eyeballing my roast beef. “Jeffrey, you need me to stay with you, right?”
He blinked innocently. He was recovering well from the day’s surgery, but surely the little man was too weak to be left alone, fending off the neighborhood’s serial killer with nothing more than his claws and good looks.
I dug through my sandwich for a chunk of beef with no mustard. He licked his glossy black lips in anticipation.
“The vet did say to keep an eye on you tonight, in case you need the Cone of Shame. What do you say to a sleepover party? We can watch old movies in the guest room.”
He didn’t take his green eyes off my sandwich.
I gave him a chunk of beef to work on while I sent a message back to Jessica: I have to stay in and look after my father’s cat tonight. He’s a bit shaken up.
A few minutes later, she wrote back: The cat? You are so cute! I heard about everything. I’m very sorry for your loss. I remember your neighbor and how he tried to give out cowboy books instead of candy. He was a real hoot. I just found out he owned a share in my apartment building. It’s a small world in a small town like ours!
I wrote back: Murray Michaels was your landlord?
My message went through, but her status showed that she was away, so I didn’t expect an immediate answer.
The cat and I finished our roast beef sandwich before retiring for our sleepover.
The guest room was on the top floor, along with a powder room, another bedroom, and my father’s study, which had originally been two rooms. He’d knocked out the dividing wall between the two bedrooms at the front of the house not long after I’d vacated one of them. His contractor had been a friend from the fire department who liked putting his muscles to good use during off-duty hours.
I took Jeffrey into the study and showed him where I’d hung my posters when half the room had been my domain. He blinked appreciatively at the view of the neighborhood and the charming circular window in the attic of the house across the street.
We settled into the guest room as best we could while we waited for the electric baseboards to take away the chill. I closed the curtains, blocking out the view of the crime scene next door, which helped make the room cozier. I turned the TV on with the volume muted before I put in another call to my father. The call went to a message saying the mailbox was full.
I looked up the number for the hospital. The receptionist took my name and put me through to his floor.
A woman answered, “This is Dora. You’re calling to check on Finn?”
“Yes, I am, though I’m guessing he’s doing just fine if you’re on a first-name basis.”
She giggled. “He’s been telling us stories about his glory days.”
“How did the surgery go?”
“Great! He’ll be as right as rain in no time. The surgeon was able to do the minimally invasive procedure as planned, with the two smaller incisions, and it went very well because your father is an ideal candidate. You’ll have to make sure Finn does his exercises, but also that he doesn’t strain himself.”
“I’ll try,” I said, thinking of the strain he’d be under as a murder suspect. “May I speak to him?”
“He’s sleeping now, and we do prefer not to wake someone when they’re resting.”
“Hmm.” My eyes went to the flickering TV screen, showing an old movie with a killer nurse glancing around nervously as she jabbed a syringe into a patient’s arm. The older male patient fluttered his eyelashes before slumping his head to the side.
“He’s doing very well,” said the woman on the phone.
“Are you sure he’s asleep? I’d love to hear his voice.”
“I’ll let him know you called. He’ll be glad to hear of all the people who’ve been checking up on him. His friend Tony sounded very concerned.”
My throat tightened. “Tony called?”
She paused as something clattered, wheeling by, and then Dora said, “I’m sorry, but I should be going. I hope to meet you soon.”
“You probably won’t see me, since he’s got a ride home arranged.” I kept my eyes on the TV, watching as the killer nurse hid away her evidence. “Unless you think I should drive out there? I’ll probably do that. I’ll drop in very soon, unexpected.”
Dora didn’t answer. In the background, a woman complained about a vending machine and its hateful brown excuse for coffee.
“When are visiting hours?” I asked.
The woman hurriedly answered, “Don’t you worry about Finn.” She said a quick goodbye and ended the call.
Being told not to worry had the opposite effect. I looked up
the hospital’s visiting hours and considered driving out the next morning.
I would need a good night’s sleep no matter what, so I settled back on the bed, grabbed the remote, and switched the channel to something less creepy. It took a while to find a show that wasn’t about people being murdered, but I found one about a guy helping real people and cats with lifestyle disagreements. The first featured cat preferred to lurk behind the toaster and hiss at people, whereas his owners wanted their kitty to not act like a kitchen gargoyle. By the time the episode ended, with everyone enjoying healthy play time together, I was sniffing back tears.
Jeffrey curled in next to me, twitching his ears when the cats on the screen meowed.
The channel was running a marathon of the show. After a few episodes, I stripped down to my T-shirt and slipped under the covers, which triggered play time. Jeffrey chased the lump of my toes under the covers as though they were monsters.
When I’d had enough of the emotional roller coaster of the cat program, I switched to a late night talk show. My eyelids were heavy. I drifted in and out of exhausted sleep.
Suddenly, Jeffrey let out a yowl that was five times as terrifying as anything we’d seen on the cat program.
“What is it?” I looked around the room. “Where are you?”
He howled again. I opened the swaying curtains to find him growling on the windowsill. I turned off the TV and the bedside lamp so I could see outside. I searched the snowy ground, expecting to see a nocturnal rodent going about its business in the bushes. There was nothing down there, but movement in the window next door caught my eye.
Something bright was flickering in Mr. Michaels’ house. Was it just the reflection of a nearby vehicle? I held still, becoming increasingly aware of the pounding of my heart. His curtains were partly open, and from where I was on the second floor, I had a good view of the incandescence of a flashlight skimming the floor and furnishings.
