Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

She choked on these last words, remembering that awful night. The same scene had been playing through her head nonstop since she had heard the horrifying news: the sight of all that deep red blood dripping from her son’s head, the piercing sound of Sammy’s screams, and through it all the feeling that somehow Dr. Don was going to make everything better.

  “Let’s face it, Jess. A second murder throws everything up into the air.” Terry sounded discouraged. “Here we were becoming more and more certain that Lloyd’s murder had something to do with the Hempstead Harbor incinerator project. That, at least, would have given us a reason, some sort of logic for this. But my brother and this Ditzler were on opposite sides of the fence. So where does that leave us? All of a sudden nothing seems to make any sense at all.”

  “Terry,” Jessica interjected, “I just thought of something. How do we even know that the two murders are linked? I mean, they could have been unrelated incidents . . . couldn’t they?”

  Terry cast her a grim look. “I think you’d better sit down, Jess.”

  Once he had led her over to a wooden bench and sat down next to her, he let out a loud sigh. “Jessica, Lloyd’s murder was part of what looks like a serial killing.”

  For once in her life, Jessica didn’t have anything to say. She was too busy watching in silent horror the filmstrip that was flashing through her brain, one that featured the newspaper headlines about all the world’s great serial killers. The Boston Strangler. The Zodiac Killer. And of course Jack the Ripper. For the first time she was actually glad she was outside in the cold fresh air; otherwise, she knew she would be having a hard time catching her breath.

  “I know, I know,” Terry was saying. “It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

  When she finally managed to speak, her voice was hoarse. “Why do the police think that, Terry? Are they sure? Who told you this?”

  “Believe me, they’re positive. I talked to the guy who’s in charge of the investigation. They call him the Miff-Wick.”

  “The what?”

  “ ‘MFWIC.’ It’s the term they use for the detective who’s heading an investigation. It stands for ‘Mother Fucker What’s in Charge.’”

  “What a charming, delicate expression,” Jessica observed dryly.

  “Yeah, right. The lighter side of crime prevention. Anyway, with this second murder—after Dr. Ditzler—a pattern seems to be emerging.”

  “What’s the pattern?”

  Terry paused. “According to what they told me, the killer left a little token behind at the scenes of both murders. There’s even a name for it: a signature. The killer does it on purpose, you know? It’s his way of telling the police that he’s the one responsible.”

  “A signature, huh? And what is this particular killer’s signature?”

  Terry hesitated. “A purple ribbon.”

  “A purple ribbon?” Jessica was puzzled. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. “What kind of ribbon? You mean like the kind you get for winning first prize at a pie-eating contest?”

  “No, not that kind of ribbon. The kind that’s used for wrapping presents.”

  “Oh. How bizarre.” She took a few seconds to try to picture the murder scene, decorated with a purple ribbon. Instead of sounding comical, the way she might have expected, its jarring incongruity caused a shiver to run down her spine.

  “Cold?” Terry asked solicitously.

  “No. Just freaked out. That’s really eerie, don’t you think?”

  His face tightened into a twisted smile. “Yeah. Either our murderer has a sense of humor or he’s totally deranged.”

  “Or else he works in a card shop.”

  Jessica immediately clamped her mittened hand over her mouth. “Oops, sorry about that. I know this is no time for making bad jokes. It’s just that talking about this really gives me the creeps. Especially because the second victim was Dr. Ditzler. I mean, it’s not as if I knew him very well, but I felt this kind of link with him. It was as if we were bonded somehow, through Sammy.” She bit her lip, then added, “The man got me and my family through a pretty traumatic experience.”

  “I know, Jess. Believe me, talking about this gives me the creeps, too. And the ribbon business makes it even more macabre. It really makes you stop and think about the kind of person we’re dealing with here, doesn’t it?”

  Jessica nodded pensively. “Tell me more about this second murder. Was the weapon the same? Was Dr. Ditz . . . was the victim bludgeoned to death?’’

  “So it seems. And the odd part is that the police still haven’t been able to identify the weapon. That’s what the Miff. . . uh, the detective was telling me. It’s something fairly heavy, they think, but not too heavy. Oh, and it has an oddly shaped tip. It’s sharp, with a kind of unusual angle.”

  “And was Dr. Ditzler murdered in his office? The one in Sea Cliff?”

  “That’s right. Just like Lloyd. Of course Ditzler’s office is attached to his house. But no one else was home that day.”

  “I see. And I take it the police checked his appointment book.”

  “Of course. But that didn’t tell them much, because the murder took place after hours. Ditzler’s last appointment was at noon yesterday, and the murder is estimated to have taken place between one and three.’’

  “About the same time I was at the Save Our Seas offices. And the same time I was pouring coffee and listening to Raymond Phillips carry on about your brother—the first murder victim.”

  “So there goes that suspect.”

  “Right. And once again, because it happened in an office where there are people coming and going all day, fibers and fingerprints aren’t going to give the police very many leads.’’

  “Yeah. It seems our killer is no dummy.’’

  “He probably also realized that since it was after hours. Dr. Ditzler’s receptionist and nurse and whoever else he had working in his office would already be gone for the day.”

  Terry nodded. “He was alone, just like Lloyd. And once again it looks as if the murderer had to be someone he knew. Somebody he simply opened his door to, never suspecting it might be dangerous.”

  “How about phone calls?” Jessica was thinking of her own visit from two police detectives, one that had been prompted by the telephone company’s records.

  “None. There were a few calls from patients that afternoon, and those are being checked out. But there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary.”

  “So we’re pretty much back at square one.”

  By that point, the old man who had been making his way around the duck pond had gotten close enough so that Jessica could make out his face. The shock of recognition went through her.

  “Hey, I know him,” she said, grabbing Terry’s sleeve and pointing. “Look, that old man over there. I met him the night of the progressive dinner.’’

  Terry squinted in his direction.

  “I’m positive that’s him. His name is ... wait, wait. I’ve got it: Edgar Keklak. He’s retired now, but I’m pretty sure he told me he used to be a salesman. I remember that he talked my ear off, all about how Sea Cliff used to be in the good old days. He’s lived here his whole life.”

  Jessica stood up and began waving. “Mr. Keklak! Mr. Keklak! Remember me?”

  The old man headed over in her direction, meanwhile peering at her uncertainly.

  “I’m Jessica McAllister, remember? We met at the progressive dinner last month?”

  “Oh, yes. Now I remember.” The white-haired man looked relieved. “You’re one of the new people who just moved into the Creightons’ place.”

  The Creightons, she seemed to recall, hadn’t lived in that house for at least fifty years.

  “That’s me. How are you, Mr. Keklak?”

  “Fine, fine. Another cold one, huh?”

  “Yes, very. Perhaps even too cold a morning for a walk.” She automatically began wondering if he were wearing an extra sweater underneath his down jacket.

&n
bsp; “Aw, don’t worry about me. I’m made of pretty tough stuff. Besides, I come down here every Saturday morning. It’s part of my own special routine for Saturdays. The brisk stroll around the duck pond gets my heart going.’’

  His rate of speed hadn’t impressed Jessica as anything that could be described as brisk, but she nodded.

  ‘‘Of course, I always fortify myself at the Sea Glen first. Then I’m ready to take care of my friends.” He held up what was left of a bag of bread crusts.

  “How thoughtful of you. Uh, what’s the Sea Glen?” Jessica inquired gently.

  “The Sea Glen Diner. You know, over near the Greenvale train station. Yep, a good, hot cup of coffee and the best waffles around. It’s also a great place to catch up on all the local gossip.”

  A faraway look came into his pale gray eyes as he added, “When I was a salesman, we used to get together at the Sea Glen every Monday morning at eight for a staff meeting. Me, my district manager, and the four other guys who had Long Island as their territory. Of course, they’re mostly all gone now, but I still like to go there for their waffles.” With a wink, he explained,’ “They make them best on the weekends, when they’re expecting a big crowd.”

  Jessica’s heart went out to him. It was all she could do to keep from insisting that Mr. Keklak begin showing up at her doorstep every morning of the week for homemade waffles.

  Even before she had a chance to remind herself that she didn’t own a waffle iron, however, the old man was turning away.

  “Well, got to move along now. It’s important to stick to the routine, you know. That’s what keeps me going. Keep warm, now. Sitting on a bench isn’t what’s going to get your heart pumping.”

  “He seems nice,” Terry observed.

  “Very sweet,” Jessica agreed. “I should really invite him over to dinner one of these days.’’

  She turned her attention back to Terry. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I agree with Mr. Keklak. I’m freezing. I could use a hot cup of coffee.’’

  He brightened. “That’s a great idea. And I know just the place. Hey, you don’t happen to like waffles, by any chance, do you?”

  “Funny, I was just thinking about waffles. What are you, a mind reader?”

  Growing serious, she said, “Honestly, Terry, I feel so bad about all this. I wish there were more I could be doing to help find this . . . this maniac.”

  “Hey.” He leaned forward, his face so close to hers that she pulled back a little. “So far, nobody’s been able to make heads or tails of this thing. Not the police, not the medical examiner’s office, not the homicide detectives . . . and certainly not me. So don’t start getting down on yourself about it. We’re all working on this together, remember?”

  “Okay, boss. Whatever you say.” To show how hard she was trying, she forced a big, fake grin.

  “Come on, cheer up,” he insisted. “We’ll crack this thing yet.’’ He reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze, his hand lingering there just a moment longer than necessary.

  The absence of David’s car from the driveway told Jessica that, metaphorically speaking, her husband had found it so hot that he had had to get out of the kitchen. In other words, it looked as if during his stint as Saturday morning baby-sitter, he had resorted to packing Sammy up and taking him out somewhere. That was hardly surprising; she, too, had figured out long before that the easiest way of coping with the little bruiser was to clamp him into restraints in the backseat of the car.

  When she turned the key in the back-door lock, she met up with little resistance. Apparently, in his hurry to flee, David had neglected to batten down the hatches. Pushing the door open, shoving it hard with her left shoulder to compensate for the fact that it didn’t quite fit the wooden frame, she made a mental note to suggest to him that he start taking the matter of security a bit more seriously.

  And then, suddenly, she froze. From the living room came the sound of a hushed male voice.

  Oh, my God, she thought, her mind instantly pushed to a speedy forty-five r.p.m. by the surge of adrenaline spurting through her body. Somebody has broken in. There’s a stranger in the house. An intruder. Someone dangerous . . .

  The Sea Cliff murderer.

  Her mind was suddenly filled with him, the terrifying image she had been carrying around with her for weeks. She pictured a dark, shadowy figure, someone without a distinguishable face who brandished a weapon as he prepared to deliver his fatal blows. He had already killed twice, and now he was here in her house, a mere two rooms away, waiting for her. He knew she was trying to track him down, and he had come after her.

  But then she heard a second voice. Two men?

  There was no time for puzzling over that one. Panic was quickly setting in, and with it came intense indecision. What should she do? Should she flee? Head for the phone? Run next door to Lorraine’s house and call the police from there?

  Yes, that was it. That was what made the most sense. To get out of here, to get away as quickly as she could. But what if they had heard her, what if they already knew she was here? Would they run after her? Was it already too late?

  She stood in the doorway, her heart feeling as if it were on the verge of exploding. Its jackhammer rhythm was so intense that she would have felt nauseous if she had had the presence of mind to feel anything besides pure terror. She could hear the blood rushing through her brain.

  Yes, it made sense to run, to get the hell out of here as fast as she could. But her legs wouldn’t move. Her grip on the doorknob refused to ease up. It was just like one of those dreadful nightmares in which she was being chased and was in some awful danger, but her feet felt as if they’d been encased in cement shoes.

  And then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the sharp kitchen knife, the one with the eight-inch blade that was used for serious cooking. It was lying on the counter, surrounded by bread crusts. Without a moment’s hesitation she reached over and grabbed it, clutching it in her sweaty palm.

  So this was what it came down to. She was prepared to do battle, to defend herself. She, too, was capable of violence, under the right circumstances. When she saw no other way out, when it was a question other own survival, she was no different from any other killer.

  As she stood there in the kitchen, the shining blade poised in midair, what the men were saying began to register. Penetrating the roar of her own terror, the words jabbed into her consciousness, forcing their way in.

  “And what’s that funny-looking thing over there, Chef Brockett?”

  “That, Mr. Rogers, is what we call an electric mixer. We’re going to be using it today to make me dough for our bread.”

  A cry of relief escaped from her lips. The television. It had been left on. The only interlopers in Jessica’s home were Mr. Rogers and his sidekick. Chef Brockett; their only offense, banality.

  As her knees turned to jelly, she sank into a kitchen chair. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; at the moment, she didn’t have the energy to do either. For two or three minutes she just sat there, trying to get a grip on herself.

  And then she jumped out of the chair. Her empty house suddenly seemed isolated and frightening. Much to her own surprise, she found herself heading over to her neighbors’ house.

  The Denholm household was in a state of chaos. Jessica realized her folly the moment she walked in and found a full house. Not only were both kids at home late on this Saturday morning, the big guy himself was on the premises as well.

  Stacy, in a pink, flowered nightgown, was draped precariously across the kitchen table. She was scribbling on a pile of unopened mail with a green Magic Marker, her careless streaks extending beyond the envelopes and onto the tablecloth. Jim Junior, dressed in Batman pajamas, was running a broken truck along the side of the stove. He kept getting in his mother’s way as she stood at the counter, attempting to dry a pile of knives, forks, and spoons that were no doubt the morning’s breakfast dishes. She was using a white terry-cloth dishtowel decorated
with yellow smiley faces, the ones that, much to Jessica’s dismay, were making a strong comeback a full twenty years after their original go-round.

  “Hi, Lorraine!” Jessica said with forced gaiety. She made a point of keeping her jacket on, hoping to minimize her chances of being roped into participating in this little scene. “I can see that you’re busy, but—”

  “Oh, not really. I’m just cleaning up from breakfast.” She squinted at the fork she had been rubbing, made a face, and resumed her efforts with even more energy.

  “Dishwasher broken?’’

  “Hmmm? Oh, no. But the dishwasher never seems to get things clean enough, you know? Besides, I like to kind of polish the silverware before putting it back in the drawer. Make it all shiny, y’know?”

  Jessica peered over her shoulder. “Isn’t that stainless steel? Well, anyway, speaking of cleaning, I was wondering if I could borrow some laundry soap. I just loaded up the washer and I realized that I’m all out, and—”

  “Oh, sure. No problem. How much do you need?”

  “Hey, Mom? Where’s the Fruit Loops?”

  “I’ll get them in a minute, sweetie.” To Jessica, she explained, “I’m keeping Jim Junior in the house today. He had a fever of a hundred and one this morning. Of course that means I have to keep Stacy here, too, so I can keep an eye on her. Every time one of them gets sick, it’s only a question of time before the other one comes down with the exact same thing.

  “But it’s okay,’’ she went on brightly. “Big Jim usually goes into one of the stores on Saturday mornings, but he’s staying home today to take care of a few things and give me a hand.”

  “Ah. Too bad. About Jim Junior’s fever, I mean.” Automatically she took a step away from him.

  “Fruit Loops!” he repeated.

  “All right. As soon as I get this fork—”

  “Mommeee, I want juice,” Stacy demanded, looking up from her task and blinking. Her cheeks were streaked With green. “Juice, Mommy. Juice.”

  “Okay, as soon as I—”

  “Gee, Lorraine, maybe I could just take the whole box of soap and bring it back later.”