I hauled the two pieces of the table up to my apartment, placing them near the window. Since I’d moved to a smaller place, my new policy was something in, something out. I’d take the small table that had been by the window to the thrift shop for consignment. I scrounged around under the kitchen sink, found the carpenter’s glue, some clamps, and bungee cords. After smearing glue on the underside of the table, I set the two pieces together. I used clamps, where I could, bungeed the rest, and then stacked a bunch of hardback books on top to weigh it down. After the glue dried, it would look as good as new. Or in this case, as good as old.
I made a sandwich, flopped on the couch, and assessed my life. Or my former life as a military wife, that is. My literature degree had kept discussions interesting in the Spouses’ Club reading group. I made killer Cosmos for my friends when we played Bunco, a dice game. Some of the women claimed my Cosmos loosened their wrists just enough to change their luck when rolling the dice during the game. Cooking wasn’t my strong suit (thank heaven for potlucks and Costco), but my parties were always fun. I’d edited the Spouses’ newsletter, volunteered at the Airman’s Attic, Red Cross blood drives, and the base thrift shop.
None of those skills lent themselves to a career now that I needed one. The frequent military moves killed any chance of a long-term career. My responsibilities as the commander’s wife at Fitch hadn’t left a lot of extra time for a job, anyway.
When I’d finally called my mom about the divorce, she immediately told me to come home. “You are a West Coast girl, Sarah. It’s time to come back.” Just what I wanted to do—go home with my tail between my legs—return as the big loser who couldn’t keep her man and had no job skills. It wasn’t entirely true, but some days I pictured myself walking around with a big glowing D-for-“divorced” on my forehead. Hmmm, maybe it was my mom making the gunshot calls.
As soon as we’d hung up, I’d looked up apartment listings in Ellington. A few days later, I’d moved off base. I’d let CJ help one last time. While a moving company took care of most of it, some things I preferred moving myself, even if that meant needing CJ. I vowed to myself it was the last time I would ask him for anything. Ever.
I could sit here wallowing in self-pity, or as my mom always said, “Go do something good for the world.” Occasionally she was right. I’d spent way too much of the last few months wallowing.
I headed back out in the Suburban. My passion for garage sales started in second grade when my best friend’s family had a sale. I’d run home and searched my room for things I could sell. After grabbing a jar of marbles and a few comic books, I hurried back. They sold right away. I was hooked. My mother sniffed when I told her and said, “We donate what we don’t want.” To her dismay, I developed a lifelong relationship with other people’s castoffs.
I drove over to Lexington. Garage sales were winding down. It was a great time to get a good deal, but I’d also ask people if they wanted to donate their leftovers to the Minuteman Thrift Shop on Fitch. The thrift shop made money by accepting consignments and donations. Part of the profits went to scholarships for military dependents—the spouses and children of active duty troops and retirees. We also donated to other worthy causes.
Massachusetts was one of the most patriotic places I’d lived. They supported the troops. New Englanders were also practical. I took their extra stuff off their hands with very little effort on their part. Sometimes I would buy something to consign myself. Occasionally I even paid full price. It was all about knowing what was worth what. Some of that came from experience; the rest came from my gut.
It was almost three by the time I pulled up in front of the Victorian house in Lexington. I headed here first because it was, by far, the largest sale I’d seen that day.
“Thanks for letting me use your phone this morning,” the woman said when she saw me. “A couple of friends came over. I don’t know what I would have done without them. Look at this place.” The yard looked like wild animals had descended upon it. Only the bare bones were left.
I explained I was collecting things for the base thrift shop.
“Here, take these two crocks. I somehow forgot to set them out. I’m sick of looking at them.”
They were nice ivory-colored crocks with blue print—the kind that were popular with collectors and could be pricy. She helped me stuff the remaining clothes into black plastic garbage bags I’d brought with me.
By four-thirty, the Suburban was stuffed to the gills with black plastic garbage bags full of clothes, toys, the two old crocks, and an assortment of dishes. My cinnamon air freshener did its job, keeping the car smelling good instead of like the dusty, musty odors coming from the bags. I’d filled my Suburban without going back to all the sales we’d hit this morning. Tired, hungry, and heading toward grumpy, I parked in front of my building and decided I’d unload everything in the morning.
On Sunday morning I woke, not to a gunshot phone call, but to my landlady, Stella Wild, singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah. Her apartment was directly below mine. The sun shone through the windows. Car doors slammed. People greeted each other out on the common as they headed to the eight-thirty service at church.
I poured a bowl of cereal, trying to figure out why cereal either tasted like cardboard or sugar. At least this cardboard kind had been on sale. Once everyone was safely ensconced in church, I started the process of hauling everything from the Suburban to my apartment. My next-door neighbor Tyler walked by, nodding in response to my cheery hello.
“What’s up?” he asked. As usual, his clothes looked a little frayed, a little dirty. His brown hair hung around his face in need of a good shampoo.
The greeting was progress. Tyler wasn’t one of those “hey, can I give you a hand with that” kind of neighbors. He was a quiet guy, thus the perfect neighbor.
Tyler pivoted and came back to me. “Let me help you with those.” He took the two bags out of my hands, taking the porch steps two at a time.
“Thanks,” I called after him. I really needed to work on not judging people. He lifted one of the bags in response before disappearing inside. I followed him up, carrying a couple more bags.
“Thanks,” I called again. By the time I hauled all the bags up, the living-room floor of my normally neat apartment looked like a sea of black plastic. It groaned a little under the weight, or maybe it was me. The mess already drove me crazy.
I’d been tempted to leave it all in the Suburban to sort at the thrift shop on Tuesday. If I sorted it out now, I’d be a step ahead when I showed up to volunteer. Sorting was the lowest job on the thrift shop totem pole, but I didn’t mind it. You never knew when someone would tuck Waterford crystal in between layers of old clothes. I got to see all the good stuff first.
Stella now sang “For unto Us a Child Is Born.” She hit all the notes singing a cappella. I hummed along as I worked. Stella should be a professional singer.
Two hours later, I stood and stretched my back. Three bags left. Piles were neatly sorted: baby clothes, boys’, girls’, men’s, women’s. One bag of useless stuff was headed to the garbage. Another was filled with clothing that wasn’t good enough to sell. I’d take it to a clothing recycler, where it would get shredded and reused.
People were out on the common again, heading into the eleven o’clock service. I opened the next bag, pulling out some Beanie Babies in surprisingly good shape. Stella sang something operatic I didn’t recognize. At least it wasn’t Dylan, my mom’s favorite.
I lifted out a pile of T-shirts, tossing them toward the recycler bag. They were all too stained to resell. Considering how stained they were, they didn’t smell too bad. Someone must have sprayed them with a heavy dose of Febreze, a trick sellers used to cover up odors.
With the Febreze items removed, a funky odor emanated from the bag. I pulled out a set of horribly stained, ripped, and reeking BDUs—battle dress uniform or camouflage. I didn’t even want to guess what had happened to them. Why did people put stuff like this
in their donation bags? I flung them toward the trash bag. I reached back in, pulling out a white dress shirt, also stained rusty brown. As it sailed toward the trash bag, I glimpsed a monogrammed French cuff. What was that?
Retrieving it, I stared. CJH. Charles James Hooker. This was the shirt I’d given CJ for his birthday last year. The stain looked and smelled exactly like what it was—dried blood. I took a better look at the bloodstained BDUs. It was a maternity top and the sewn-on name tag read, Lopez.
CHAPTER 3
My stomach churned. I reached back into the bag with shaky hands, tearing through the rest of the clothes. Although shabby, the other items weren’t stained the rust color of the BDUs and CJ’s shirt. Nothing else in the bag gave me any indication where it came from or how these two items got in there. I tracked down my cell phone on the nightstand by the side of my bed. I sat on the edge, dialed CJ’s cell phone, and chanted, “Pick up, pick up, pick up” while it rang. No luck. I left a terse message: “Call me.”
All that blood. It wasn’t good. I conjured up scenarios that would put that much blood on two different shirts. A mishap with a kitchen knife? A car accident? Deer hunting? Breaking a large mirror? CJ didn’t hunt. Tiffany was a whiz with a knife. I would have heard from the base gossips in a heartbeat if anything else had happened. I desperately wanted to come up with some alternative to the one I kept seeing over and over in my mind—a gunshot wound and blood splatter. One of them dead, and one of them a killer.
By midafternoon I was half crazed. I’d left dozens of messages for CJ. Then I obsessively checked my phone to see if it was on, had a signal, and that it wasn’t set to silent. I paced. I checked for voicemail. I put the piles of clothes I’d sorted back in trash bags, marking them with appropriate tags so they wouldn’t have to be resorted at the thrift shop.
It was probably my fault CJ hadn’t called back. A couple of weeks ago, he’d called to ask me out to dinner. I’d tried to make my feelings clear. “Leave. Me. Alone!” I’d shouted. I wasn’t a shouter; my family didn’t shout. We discussed, debated, or went to our rooms. We didn’t ever raise our voices. CJ’s quiet, hurt uttering of “I will,” before he hung up, had stuck with me. It made me feel like an evil wench.
How did the two shirts end up in a black plastic bag and in my possession? I thought through every place I’d stopped yesterday, all the plastic bags that had been shoved in the back of my Suburban. Thought about the people who had done the shoving. I didn’t recognize any of them. Tyler had carried up two bags for me. He didn’t have time to haul the bags up, plant the shirts, and get back to his apartment before I came up.
It wasn’t possible someone hoped I’d show back up at their garage sale so they could plant the bag in my car. Maybe someone broke into my Suburban last night or this morning, adding in the extra bag. I’d left the back open while I carted things upstairs today. After grabbing my cell phone, I ran out to the Suburban. None of the locks looked damaged beyond a scratch or two, but this baby had been around a long time. I probably caused the scratches. I went back in and knocked on Stella’s door.
She flung it open, humming a little ditty, something from The Pirates of Penzance. We were both about five-six. Stella looked Mediterranean, with her darker skin, deep green eyes, and lovely black hair. I must look washed-out standing next to her, with my pale skin, blue eyes, and hair somewhere between light brown and dark blond. I was never sure what to call it on my driver’s license. Her eyes opened a little wider in surprise as she looked me over. It dawned on me I was a mess. No shower, sorting through dirty bags, and dressed like a hobo—sweats, a T-shirt, no bra.
“Did you, by chance, see or hear anyone around my car last night or this morning?” I skipped the chitchat. Stella hadn’t been overly friendly since I moved in. Due to the wallowing, I hadn’t gone out of my way to be friendly, either.
Stella thought for a minute. I liked that. Instead of a quick no, she took my question seriously. She didn’t ask why I wanted to know.
Stella shook her head. “Nothing or no one out of the ordinary. Lots of people park along here for church on Sunday morning. Sorry.”
I hopped into the Suburban and drove to CJ’s house. CJ lived in what New Englanders called a “two-family.” I called it a “duplex.” His carport was empty. Maybe that was better. At least I didn’t find him cuddled up with Tiffany or some other woman. Since I was out, I drove around the Stop & Shop parking lot, looking for CJ’s car. No luck. I continued my search, passing a couple of restaurants and a popular park. No CJ.
That left driving by the police station—I’d really wanted to avoid it—but after his house, it was the most likely place he’d be. I was just going to drive by, nothing illegal about that. He had a reserved parking spot. It should be easy to see if he was there or not. The police station sat across from the Ellington Library. Not too far from the high school, it looked out over a public park.
I gripped the wheel a bit tighter as I turned right, after signaling, onto the small lane in front of the library. I took the first left. The police station was down a bit on the left. No speed limit was posted. This could be tricky. I settled on twenty-five, although I slowed even more as I passed the station. I didn’t see CJ’s car. I pulled into the lot for the other town offices to turn around. I’d go by a second time just to make sure.
I slowed and looked down the long driveway of the police station. The space with the sign stating it was reserved for the chief sat empty. A cop came out the front door and took a long look at me. I sped away. By “sped,” I meant got the car back up to twenty-five. Really, what could they charge me with? Stalking a public official, public nuisance, loitering? All of the above. Once I was back on Great Road, I took the first right, weaving through town, just in case the officer decided to follow me.
Back in my apartment, I finally dialed the nonemergency number for the Ellington Police Department. I chose my words carefully. I had no idea if nonemergency calls were recorded. A woman with a pleasant, calm voice answered.
“I need to speak to Chief Hooker,” I said.
“Who’s calling?”
“This is Sarah Winston.” I’d changed back to my maiden name after the divorce. Happy to no longer be a Hooker—and free of the jokes that went with the name.
“He’s not available. I’ll connect you to his voice mail.”
She transferred me. I left the same message I’d left on his cell phone. “Call me.” An hour later, I tried the nonemergency number again. I asked as politely as I could with a shaky voice for the chief.
“He’s not available. I’ll—”
“Wait. When will he be available? Is he okay? I have to talk to him. It’s an emergency.”
“If you are having an emergency, I suggest you hang up and dial 911.” Click.
Okay, then, that’s what I’d do. Maybe something had happened to CJ. Maybe it explained the blood and why he hadn’t returned my calls all day.
“911. Where’s your emergency?”
Either this was the same woman who answered the nonemergency line or she had a voice twin. Surprise kept me from speaking for a moment.
“Ma’am? Where is your emergency?” The voice sounded a little more urgent this time.
Calling 911 was a mistake; but if I hung up, a squad car would show up to check on me. I gave her my address, even though it had probably popped up on her screen. When I’d moved to Ellington, I’d signed up for the town’s free emergency bulletins service.
“What is your emergency?”
Again I had to choose my words carefully. It wasn’t like I wanted the news I’d found CJ’s bloody shirt along with Lopez’s going out over the airways to every cop in Ellington. Maybe every cop in Middlesex County, for all I knew.
“I need to speak to Chief Hooker. It’s personal.”
“Are you thinking of harming yourself?”
“No. I really just need to . . .” I burst into tears. “I just really need to speak to CJ, Chuck, Chief Hooker.”
&nb
sp; “I have a car on the way. Just stay with me on the line. Until we can get you help.”
I hung up. The police station was about a mile down Great Road. A car would be here any minute. Hopefully, with CJ in it. I ran to the window, looking out just as a police car roared up to the building. An officer jumped out. No CJ. I threw open the window.
“Where’s Chief Hooker?” I yelled.
The guy started around the side of the car. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up. We can talk until he can get here.” From the way he spoke, I was sure CJ wasn’t on his way. I couldn’t have this guy coming up and finding the bloody clothes.
“Don’t come up. Only Chief Hooker.”
“Ma’am, just keep calm.” He spoke into the mike attached to his left shoulder. “I need a crisis counselor at 111 Oak Street.”
People were starting to gather on the common. My cell phone rang. It wasn’t CJ. I ignored it. Another squad car screeched to a halt in front of the apartment. An officer climbed out. I yelled as calmly as I could when one is forced to yell: “No one comes up but Chief Hooker.” An ambulance arrived. I saw a few firemen run over from the firehouse. Stella was escorted out of the building and over to the town common. This had gotten way out of hand. I slammed the window down.
A few minutes later, CJ’s red Chevy Sonic pulled up. Thank heaven. I swiped at some tears; then I raised the window.
He looked up, along with the small crowd standing on the sidewalk.
“Come up here. Alone. Please.” I saw a lot of heads shake. People pulled on CJ, trying to dissuade him from coming up. “CJ, for God’s sake. You know I’m not going to hurt you or myself. You. Know. Me.”
Tagged for Death Page 2
