No Place Like Home

by April Hill

  Well, now, to get back to my story: Not much happened for a few days after the cat episode. Nothing else in an advanced stage of decomposition was left at my doorway, and life settled into the gentle, dreary routine I’d gotten used to. Actually, not much ever happened up here at my squat little Watercolor Rancho. If it had, I’d have been the first to know. From my lonely aerie at the White Rancho, I had a breathtaking view down the hill to the Pink Rancho, which was occupied by my nearest neighbor, a Mister Frankie Something or Other. Frankie and I were the only remaining residents of the Watercolor Ranchos, and we had never actually made one another’s acquaintance, beyond the occasional rude stare. Actually, I didn’t really think of Frankie as a neighbor, since his rancho was quite a hike down the hill from mine. Frankie had installed a six-foot pink concrete wall around the entire perimeter of his property, with broken glass embedded along the top to discourage unexpected visitors. Moreover, Mr. Frankie's premises were patrolled twenty-four hours a day by several muscular Rottweilers that looked like they could swallow chatty neighbors and postal service employees by the six-pack. Frankie appeared to be quite successful in the unregistered assault weapon and illegal substance trade, and kept busy with a steady stream of what I assumed were satisfied repeat customers.

  Anyway, a few days after the cat, while I was on the phone discussing with the cable company their grievous error in turning off my cable service for such a miniscule overdue balance, I noticed a strange but highly attractive man poking among my deceased patio plants.

  When I slid the patio door open and stepped out onto the scalding concrete, the guy was on one knee at the edge of the patio slab, still scratching around in the dirt. He’d taken off his suit jacket and laid it very neatly on the plastic lounge. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his hair was very blonde and straight, and his eyes were sort of a light gray blue. Yeah, I noticed. I guessed his age at thirty-seven, maybe forty, and he looked a little like Alan Ladd. No, more like Richard Widmark. (If you’re not an old movie freak like me, and you still don’t know who these people are, that’s because you’re dim-witted, or possibly just too young. Please don’t gloat, just go Google the names.)

  "So, who the hell are you?" Since I always like to make a good first impression, I announced my presence as irritably as I could. The stranger looked up from whatever it was he was doing, obviously surprised to see me.

  "Miss Thatcher?" he asked. He stood up really fast and dusted off his pants, seeming a bit flustered. "I’m sorry. I didn’t think you were home. I didn’t see a car in the driveway."

  "I don’t have a car," I replied pleasantly. "But I’m still saving those box-tops."

  He smiled, then. A kind of sheepish grin. Very boyish. Probably worked very well with less canny ladies than me.

  "Oh. Sorry, again," he apologized. "My name is Hank Everett, LAPD?" He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and drew forth a very shiny badge in a black leather folder. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

  I inspected the badge, holding it close and repeating the number on it, like I was committing the number to memory, and like I’d know a real police badge from a plastic party favor. Something about the way he was smiling told me he knew what a phony I was. In case I haven’t mentioned this before, I’m a terrible liar. Not just bad—terrible.

  "Okay," said I, handing him the badge and hoping he wasn't another Hillside Strangler, scoping out his next victim. "Is something wrong? I thought you guys were through here. No one seemed to think my disemboweled party cat was anything special."

  "I was just curious," he said. "I read the report, and thought I’d check it out to see if there was anything new."

  "New?" I mused thoughtfully, scratching my head for effect. "No, not a single thing, since the last feline evisceration. It’s been very quiet, cat-wise. Tell me, are you low man on the totem pole down at the precinct, or are you here on a dare?"

  Officer Everett looked me over carefully, probably overcome by my fierce animal magnetism, or maybe my coy manner and torn Salvation Army tee-shirt. "Not crazy about cops, are you?" he asked, smiling.

  Damn! He'd seen right through me.

  "Maybe I watch too much television," I explained. "The Miami CSI team would have been on my cat like ducks on a June bug. You guys could take a few cues from them, you know."

  He nodded solemnly. "I’ll spread the word around the department."

  "Thank you," I said, very cool, like Lauren Bacall (Go look it up) and turned to go back inside.

  "Do you have any enemies, Miss Thatcher?" he inquired. "Anyone who’d want to harm you, or maybe just screw you over to scare the living shit out of you?"

  I turned around and regarded Officer Hank Everett with renewed interest.

  A quick confession, here. I like men who swear. I especially like men who use "shit" and "fuck" a lot, but only if they’re clean, drug-free, and otherwise relatively normal. I also like men with longish hair, as long as they wear it in neat ponytails like Thomas Jefferson, wash it regularly, and don’t seem inclined to tie me to beds and clamp clothespins on my nipples. Conversely, I despise men who use the word "cunt," or make frequent use of the word "boobs." I don’t know what this has to do with anything, by the way. Just a sidebar.

  Hank Everett was not too tall, maybe five eleven or so, and a little too thin to be called well-built, but attractive in a kind of world-weary, film-noir way, like maybe he didn’t get home often enough to get sufficient sleep or enough to eat. I'd already noted the lack of a wedding ring on his finger, which didn’t mean anything, of course, but habit dies hard. I'd been a woman for a long time, and checking for ring status was sort of built into my radar. So, there you have it. I was attracted to this man because he said "shit" and because he looked like Richard Widmark. And because he was taking my sad, dead cat seriously.

  I asked Officer Everett inside and gave him all the gory details of the cat situation. I mentioned the previous tenants’ suspiciously dead rat-dog, and answered his questions about who might dislike me sufficiently to leave butchered animals on my doorstep. I could think of nary a one. Always eager to show my worst side to everyone I meet, I assured Detective Everett that I didn't know anyone in Los Angeles well enough to be truly detested, with the possible exception of the fellow at the liquor store who'd twice had the bad judgment to cash a check for me. I didn’t have any enemies, or any friends, for that matter. I lived alone up here at what was rapidly becoming "Boot Hill" Rancho, surrounded by rodents, snakes, and recently interred cats.

  So, after painting such an enchanting picture of myself, you can imagine my surprise when Officer Everett didn't seem especially taken with me.

  He’d opted for the grand tour, so I explained to him that this house was always the first stop for all of the Hollywood tour buses, after they’d finished the Movie Stars Homes and Rodeo Drive.

  He looked around the living room, and I could see him searching for the right word to describe it. "It looks…comfortable," he said finally.

  Wrong word. He hadn’t tried the couch, yet. "You really think so?" I asked brightly. My opinion of the man's good taste was hanging in the balance, and I guess it showed in my face.

  Everett grinned, and promptly redeemed himself. "I lied." He tested the vinyl with his palm, and the fake leather stuff sprang back ferociously, proving its durability. "To be honest, this is just about the ugliest furniture I’ve ever seen."

  "Well," I said. "You will have to admit it goes well with the house."

  He shook his head. "Why don’t you get rid of it, then? The furniture, I mean?"

  “Redecorating privileges aren’t in my rental agreement, or my budget," I explained.

  "Well, you certainly keep it neat." He flashed me that look that people usually save for old people and little children. Something polite to say, like, "At least you don’t drool".

  "Not really," I said quickly. "I’m sort of a pig. I’d rather drink Drano than clean house." This guy was very attractive, you see, and I was desperate to
put my best foot forward. With men, I'd learned that it’s always best to disabuse them early-on of any misconception they might be harboring that I was, or ever could be, a good housekeeper.

  "You hide it very well." He was smiling, now, obviously under the impression that I was trying to be funny or self-effacing. I debated the wisdom of proving my slovenliness by showing him my underwear drawer, or maybe the inside of my refrigerator, but it seemed a bit early in our relationship for that sort of intimacy.

  "Well, it’s easy to keep," I offered, eager now to end this riveting household chat. "I just turn the hose on it once a week. I think my mother sneaks in and cleans up when I’m not here." I picked up the glass penguin from the coffee table as an example. "She evidently dusts this dumb thing and leaves it wherever she runs out of Pledge. I’m always finding stuff where I didn’t leave it. Speaking of which, did you find anything interesting in the back yard?"

  Everett frowned. "No, not really. Have you noticed anything else unusual, since this happened?"

  I shook my head, reluctant to admit that I was probably the least reliable "Neighborhood Watch" candidate he’d ever meet. My mailbox in New York was gone for three weeks before I noticed it had been stolen. When Macy's credit department finally stopped hounding me, I just chalked it up to a lucky computer screw-up.

  We walked through to the front of the house, with the Detective looking around for a window, obviously confused. It’s a common reaction to being locked in a windowless, airless box.

  Since the living room didn’t have a window reachable without a step ladder, Everett bent down to look out one of the three perfectly matched six-inch window-panes in my front door, and then swept his sharp policeman’s eye over the panorama of the Watercolor Ranchos. "Has this house been remodeled?" he asked.

  "No, this is the way it debuted in Architectural Digest," I replied, oh-so wittily. "It was built in the fifties, so my theory is that someone thought not having windows would keep out radio-active fallout."

  The officer’s smile suggested one of two possibilities— that he found my comments amusing, or half-witted. "And you’ve lived here how long?" he asked

  "A little over six weeks, but I grew up here, actually. This is my ancestral home. My mother still owns it, as well as some other property. I think she's waiting for this one to become a collectible. Anyway, I sort of housesit her worst properties. I’ve been in L.A. for around six months, though."

  "You know much about your neighbors?" Pointing through the lowest pane, he indicated Mr. Frankie's pink Rancho.

  I hesitated. "I know they’re not the sort of folks you borrow a cup of sugar from, but then, I don’t want to be a tattle-tale."

  He nodded. "That’s okay. We know all about the guy in the pink house. He’s spent a lot of time with us, one way or another."

  "Do you think he’s dangerous?" I asked, trying my best to look frightened and defenseless.

  "Not unless you’re running a big tab with him. I wouldn't worry. We keep an eye on the place."

  "Well, that’s a relief!" My big sigh was pure Hollywood ingénue. "So, you don’t think he’s got anything to do with my half-cat?"

  "Nope. Not his style."

  I nodded sagely. "Yeah, I imagine he’s more into leaving corpses in trash dumpsters. But, you don’t think it was a coyote, either, right?"

  Everett laughed. "Not a chance. It was a tough call, but the clown hat kind of cinched it."

  "Your colleague didn’t seem worried."

  "Curtis? Well,…" He didn’t finish his sentence, which told me that Officer Curtis was probably not considered the brightest bulb in the pack down at the precinct. "I’ve had a couple of cases a little like this over the last few years," he went on. "Both of them happened not far from here, and the similarities just sort of struck me."

  "A half-cat, like mine?"

  "A poodle and a Yorkshire Terrier, actually."

  I grimaced. I love cats, but I'm nuts about dogs.

  "They didn’t catch the guy? The perpetrator?"

  Detective Everett chuckled. "'CSI Miami', again?"

  "Don’t laugh," I said smugly. "It’s very educational. I've learned a lot about blood-spatter patterns."

  He grinned. "Well, everyone needs a hobby, I suppose. Or is it a hobby? I noticed a couple of books in the other room with the same name. Karen Thatcher? You, by any chance?"

  "Guilty," I conceded, flushing. "I used to be a writer."

  "Used to be?”

  "I switched careers when I found out that collecting aluminum cans pays better."

  "That's too bad," he said. "The two books I read were terrific."

  I hope my mouth didn’t actually fall open, but it’s possible. "You've read my books?"

  "Just the two. Dreams of Eden, and The Dead Lie Down. Do you mind if I ask if you're working on something now?"

  I laughed bitterly. "You've already read the complete works, and right now, I don' t have much time to…" Since I didn't feel like exposing any more of my depressing life story to this guy, I abruptly changed the subject. "Now, returning to the problem of my personal cat cemetery, maybe your pal Curtis was right. Maybe it was just kids. You know, a gaggle of giggling ‘valley girls’ with a wry sense of humor and Daddy's Swiss Army knife?"

  "And maybe it wasn't," he shot back. And this time, he sounded angry. At me. "Maybe it was someone who's out to hurt you. Could you try knocking off the wise-cracks and being serious for a minute? Are you sure there's nothing else you’ve noticed?"

  Rebuked and embarrassed, I stumbled around in my thoughts, hoping to find something "serious" to keep him here a little longer. At least until the real me appeared and dazzled him. "I have rats," I said idiotically. "A lot of them. And mice under my dishwasher."

  The Detective was apparently not dazzled by my rodent problem, and moved toward the front door, pulling his car keys from his pants pocket. Damn my big mouth. I'd blown it again.

  "I'll try to remember to pass that information along to the health department," he said, one hand already on the doorknob. "Meanwhile, it’s been a long day, and I’ve taken up a lot of your time. Can I take you to dinner, maybe?"

  There really was a God!

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  I had a really terrific evening with Hank, in spite of the fact that he made no detectable effort to hit on me, and appeared oblivious to my own inept attempts to seduce him. The truth is, I’m not especially good at seduction. At some point in the process, I begin looking at myself through masculine eyes, and decide maybe it’s better not to push my luck. My only real assets are that I’m intelligent and funny, and it’s been my experience that smart ladies who are opinionated and argumentative are not in great demand, especially if they’re mildly overweight fashion disasters, as well. My usual pattern is to swill whatever strong spirits are at hand until I feel a surge of artificial courage, launch one quick, rapier-like thrust at the guy's weakest spot, and then retire from the field in defeat without waiting for a response. I know, it's a miracle that I’m not still a virgin.

  Anyway, Hank and I talked about just about everything that night—like my books, and why according to him I should keep writing because I was so good and it was a crime to waste real talent like mine. Now, I ask you, was this guy a doll, or what?

  Afterward, he drove me home, and came in long enough to turn on all the lights and take a tour of the house— checking for concealed rapists and lunatics, I assumed. I waited on the doorstep as instructed and peeked around the door-jamb.

  "What was that all about?" I asked when he'd finished prowling about.

  "Your windows weren’t locked," he said sternly. "And neither was your back door." I noticed that The Dashing Detective looked annoyed.

  "Locked!" I exclaimed. "I can’t even reach most of them. Besides, no one ever comes up here, not even deranged killers or Avon ladies. Very boring. All I ever get is the occasional cat-butcher."

  Hank shook his head disapprovingly. "Not funny. Making dum
b cracks like that to a homicide detective, could get you a very serious paddling."

  "Oh," I simpered innocently. "And is that an accepted police tactic in LA?" (Yes, folks, I know it sounded stupid, but silly repartee is all the rage on "Sex and the City," is it not?)

  He finally grinned. "Sure it is. You never heard of Swat Teams? Just do me a favor and lock your doors and windows from here on, okay? You’re not in Kansas any more, kiddo."