by Long, W. S.
“I can’t believe what just happened.” Hunter sat in his seat, staring straight ahead.
“That was crazy.” Dimas pounded the top of his steering wheel. “You would’ve thought hotel security would have been able to keep them away.”
“No, it’s not that. You just came out to the whole fucking world! How about letting me decide with you, and not you deciding for me!” Hunter’s voice cracked.
Dimas avoided staring at Hunter whose face was red as a fire hydrant. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I know we talked about it. Yeah, I’m sorry it came out…It just happened.”
Hunter opened the car door and left the gull wing up. Dimas pushed a button and Hunter’s door closed. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from twenty. He hated it when Hunter had his self-described display of Irish temper. They’d had lots of fights in college when they lived together. Stupid fights like how to load the dishwasher, or when Dimas was accused of checking out another guy at a pub, or at the gym.
Usually the flare-ups were short-lived.
He sighed and got out, rounded the corner, and then Dimas approached the partially reconstructed porch. The turned the doorknob, but it was locked. “Hunter!” Dimas yelled. “Come on, open the door!”
From the back of the house, Hunter shouted. “I’m back here!”
Dimas ran around the old Victorian style home, concerned with the wary tone that Hunter had when he yelled. Dimas was careful not to trip over some plywood that had been dropped on the ground by the construction crew. Hunter stood by the door that led to the kitchen. Off to one side was the split garage. “What are you doing back here?”
“I forgot my key…actually, I think my keys are back in the hotel. I didn’t get a chance to grab them from Carl’s room. There’s a spare key we keep back here, and I got it. But look!” Hunter pointed to the doorjamb. The door had been forced open. They could see pieces of wood poking from the latch, and scratch marks that looked like they were gouged by some metal object. It could’ve been a crowbar, maybe a screwdriver that was used. Something that forced the back door latch.
Hunter’s eyes were wide from fear. Dimas never saw this look before, and he didn’t like it. Without thinking, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sunlight entered through the windows and illuminated the kitchen. They walked as quietly as they could. Hunter grabbed two knives, handing one to Dimas.
Nothing was touched in the kitchen that he could tell, or the dining room. The living room opened up the front door and sunlight brightened the whole room. They both stopped at the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. Unlike the hard wooden floors below, the stairs and the second floor were all carpeted. Dimas had been over enough when Carl wasn’t around to worry about the third step that creaked. Hunter remained quiet and close. As soon as he got to the second floor, a thud came from the master suite.
Dimas tiptoed to the open room. Carl’s bedroom was a mess. A honeycombed shade moved with the wind, and forced it to rattle against the pane. A brass amp plugged into a dresser lay on the floor, the lampshade crumpled but still intact.
“That shouldn’t be open,” Hunter said.
Dimas walked to the window to close it and pulled a small piece of flowery fabric that had been caught in the corner. He raised the honeycomb and peered out. He didn’t see anything outside but the partially finished porch below.
He closed the window and latched it, and without thinking, stuffed the piece of fabric in his pocket.
“I think someone’s been here,” Hunter said.
The closet doors were open, as were the dressers. The top mattress had been pulled so the box spring beneath it was partially exposed. “Let’s go check out the other rooms first.”
Dimas followed Hunter. The spare bedroom was untouched. Hunter’s mom used it before she passed. An old hemodialysis machine still remained in the corner on top of a counter.
Hunter’s room was next door. The queen-sized bed occupied most of the room. It had one nightstand and a couple of bookcases peppered with trophies and knick-knacks. Several autographed baseballs were perched on the top of one bookcase.
“Looks okay to me,” Hunter said.
The sewing room was smaller than all the other rooms. Unused since Hunter’s mother died, Dimas was about to head back when the floral print of one of the rolled yards of fabric caught his attention. He stepped closer toward the yard, stacked on top of other ones. A Singer sewing machine sat on a table next to the fabric, and in the sunlight, Dimas noticed the layer of dust on the top of the Singer 1725. He pulled the fabric yard and then fished what he found in the window.
“They match!”
“Why would a piece of that be in Carl’s window though?” Hunter asked.
“Could be anything. Does he dust using old clothes?”
Hunter snorted. “Dust? Carl does any domestic? He still has a housekeeper come in once or twice a week from the Merry Maids or something like that.” Hunter walked to the closet of the sewing room, and opened it. It had nothing but piles of fabric, spools of colored thread stacked neatly built in cubbyholes.
It wasn’t clear to Dimas why Carl didn’t want to make any changes to this room. He knew it wasn’t his place to say anything.
Dimas followed Hunter to the spare room, where Hunter’s mother spent her last weeks. He threw open the closet there to find it empty. “We donated a lot of my mother’s clothes to charity. Ida took some too when she was having a yard sale and gave the sale proceeds to Carl.”
“Why does everything circle back to Ida?” Dimas asked.
Hunter’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know. They were good friends. My mom and her. They got closer in the last few months of my mother’s life.” Hunter paused to fish out his cell from his shorts. He showed the screen to Dimas. Unknown number. He shrugged and answered. “Hello.” Hunter waved Dimas to come closer.
Dimas moved closer to Hunter to hear as Hunter lifted the receiver an inch from his ears.
“We logged in everything from the hotel and want you to take a look at a list to see which one was your stepfather’s and which one’s yours. Do you need anything right away?” The male voice asked.
“No sir, just my keys. I left behind some clothes, but I don’t need them this minute.”
“Are you still in town?”
“Yes, deputy. We’re here until the memorial. I’m still planning it. Looks the funeral home can do it but not tomorrow, but the following day.”
“Good, I’ll have a patrol car bring your things around, so I will send you an email of the evidence log so you can tell me which ones are your personal items. If nothing turns up, we’ll release your personal items to you.” There was static on the phone and then the deputy came back on. “Have you heard from the investigating detective yet?”
“No sir.”
“Apparently, he’s been away the last three days with family for vacation, but he’s back to work. You should be getting a call from him today. I talked to the bell valet that was on duty the morning Carl died. He said your stepfather grabbed the clubs and walked with them, headed to his car. We checked his car, nothing in the trunk, and there weren’t any clubs at the scene. Do you have any idea where Carl would’ve have put them?”
“No, but deputy, someone broke into our house—here in Ponte Vedra, and it looks like they were rummaging through Carl’s bedroom.”
The cell was quiet for a moment. “What’s your address? Did you touch anything?”
“Yes,” Hunter said. “We came in to make sure no one was inside, to see if anything was taken.”
“We?”
“Yes, Dimas Kanashiro and me,” Hunter said. “He actually pushed the door open since the kitchen door and been pried.”
“I’ll send the patrol car now and email you the list too. Don’t touch anything else.”
“Yes, sir,” Hunter said.
“And one other thing…the coroner thinks the death is suspicious. It looks like less of an accident and more intentionally infl
icted.”
When the deputy hung up the phone, Hunter walked to his old bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. Dimas sat next to him and put his arm around him. Hunter’s face was ashen after hearing the news from the deputy. Hunter put his shoulder on Dimas, and when Hunter’s quiet tears stopped, Dimas wiped Hunter’s face with his shirtsleeve.
Chapter 6
Hunter turned his face away from the window and the lightning that lit up the room, and spooned next to Dimas. Florida monsoon-like afternoon rains had moved in, and he wanted to be in the comforting embrace of his lover. He didn’t even want to look at Dimas’ watch to see what time it was. He guessed they had fallen asleep for thirty minutes. Forty tops. The weather radio had come on downstairs off and on, alerting them to rain bands moving through. Before they both napped, Dimas confirmed that the rain bands would completely moved off from the Atlantic and inland by midnight.
Hunter removed his belt and slid off his shorts, leaving the golf polo on. He wanted to do the same for Dimas who had curled into him, his cotton socks rubbing against Hunter’s legs.
It had been a busy morning since the deputy’s phone call.
After the first patrol car arrived, and checked the scene, then confirmed no fingerprints could be found on the kitchen door, a second patrol car dropped of Hunter’s things. By then, Dimas had called a locksmith and new deadbolts had been installed for both the front and kitchen doors after the scene was cleared.
Hunter nuzzled his face into Dimas’ neck as thunder rolled in the distance. Dimas’ snoring stopped and Dimas exhaled. Hunter kissed Dimas’ Adam’s apple, and then caressed Dimas chest and arms.
Dimas, still with eyes closed, kissed Hunter. “God, I’m so tired.” He yawned. “It’s probably from waking up so early.
“Thank you.” Hunter whispered as he placed his hand on Dimas chest.
“For what?”
“For being here. For everything. I don’t know where I’d be if It weren’t for you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I would do anything for you, you know that, right?”
“I do,” Hunter said. “But I wanted to thank you.”
Dimas kissed Hunter, pressing his soft lips against his, and drew him closer. When Dimas caressed Hunter’s face he melted. “I can’t wait to take you to Peru and meet my family.”
“I can’t wait either.”
“So you forgive me for outing you? I know that was your prerogative.”
“No, I’m good.” Hunter stared into Dimas’ doe-brown eyes. “When the police were here earlier, and they kept asking about what happened when we got here, and you just casually said you were with me because you were my boyfriend, I was happy. I didn’t have to make up a reason. Didn’t have to worry about the officer’s perception. When the deputy was interviewing me in the hotel, I kept evading his questions. He probably suspected I knew something that I was hiding about Carl, but I wasn’t.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Dimas kissed Hunter’s forehead. “You should tell the deputy that you were with me all night, so he gets the complete story.”
The house phone rang, and Hunter picked up. “Hello?” The line was silent. “Hello?” Hunter waited a second, then he heard a click. “Weird.”
“Telemarketer?”
“No, nothing on the line.” Hunter hung up the phone, and then picked up the handset again. He heard the steady stream of four or five tones. “There are messages on the phone.”
“I still can’t believe you have a land line.”
“Carl was old school. He has a hard time throwing away old things. The sewing machine and the fabric? Couldn’t bear to throw it away. I’m surprised he gave away or donated my mom’s clothes.”
Hunter punched in a code on the landline, and then put the phone on speaker. The messages replayed. Several of them were from the contractor, asking about payment. The last contractor message threatened to stop work if they didn’t get another check. There was a message from Lenny about a land sale, and then some automated telemarketing messages. The last three messages were hang-ups.
“What land sale is Lenny talking about?” Dimas asked.
“I have no idea. He wouldn’t have the money to buy it.”
“Well, he placed second in TPC, so he’s getting some money.” Dimas hugged Hunter. “You probably should hire a lawyer to go through this mess that Carl left behind. I’ll call my lawyer and see if he knows anyone who does that type of work. Real estate, whatever.”
“Okay,” Hunter said. Dimas’ phone on the nightstand buzzed.
Dimas scanned his text. “It’s my agent. He wants me to confirm a magazine shoot, but that can wait until after the memorial.” Dimas kissed Hunter again, and they lay in each other’s arms for a while. Hunter started drifting back to another nap when Dimas nudged him.
“I think there’s someone downstairs. Maybe outside. I hear something.”
“All I hear is the rain.”
Dimas untangled himself from Hunter and got up from the bed. He walked out of the bedroom and opened the door.
“Hear anything?” Hunter asked.
“I’m going down to investigate. It’s probably nothing. Just wait here. Okay?”
“Okay,” Hunter said, still unsure if he should join Dimas or continue to lie in bed.
* * * *
Dimas tiptoed downstairs. He caught a shadow on a porch and crouched down. He searched for something to protect himself.
¡Joder!
There was nothing he could grab. The shadow moved away from the front door and toward the corner of the house. Dimas followed the movement, and whoever it was stopped. Dimas backed up, making sure not to take his eyes off the perpetrator. He bumped into the kitchen wall, and his hand searched for the knife he laid down earlier, before they had napped.
Once his hand found it, he gripped the handle tight. He wished he had something more substantial than a Cutco steak knife in his hands. The shadow was at a window, and was trying to push it up and open.
This was probably the noise I heard earlier.
He worried about Hunter. Surely he remained put. For his safety. Dimas silently counted all the windows he had seen earlier. The locksmith had changed the two door locks, replacing them with heavy deadbolts, and reinforced the one door in the kitchen. No one had bothered to check the windows, if they needed extra security.
The interloper moved to the next window.
Dimas couldn’t believe that whoever was attempting to burgle them would do so while they were inside.
Fuck! He cussed this time in English. The phone call earlier. Maybe whomever it was trying to find out if anyone had remained in the house.
Dimas moved towards the front door and turned on the lights to the porch. Instantly, they came on and for a second Dimas fretted that the act only spurred the criminal outside. But his worry was misplaced. The quick steps of the shadow running away prompted him to fling the front door open and go after the person. He caught glimpses of a pale bare leg going around the corner, wearing a floral dress.
Instinctively, while running, he shouted, “Ida!” He didn’t know it was Ida, but it only made sense. But “Ida” pulled away, not bothered by the steady, cold rain, running faster than Dimas did, shocking the shit out of him. Dimas, after all, had run track in his high school in Lima.
Ida ran toward a field behind the row of houses and headed for the pine trees. Ida’s hair bounced with each step, but almost as if they were one, not bothered by drops of water. The movement wasn’t natural.
Dimas had barely cleared the field when Ida disappeared into the trees. He stopped and bent forward, putting his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He glanced back to the house; he couldn’t see it. He must have run five city blocks or more to even get to the field. He had a choice to go back to the house, or to go into trees. His brain told him to go back. To be with Hunter.
But his anger, his anger chose a more illogical route. He straightened up and headed into the pine trees.
/> * * * *
Hunter stood up straight in bed and rushed to put his shorts back on when Dimas had yelled, “Ida.” Hunter ran to the window, picking up the end of the venetian blind to peer out. All he saw was grayness, rain, and Dimas running, in long pants. He couldn’t make out who or what he was chasing.
Hunter worried what would happen if he actually caught Ida, so he ran downstairs, grabbed an umbrella, making sure to lock the door right behind as quickly as he could. Once he got outside, he walked, he wasn’t sure what direction Dimas had been headed.
“Dimas! Dimas!” Hunter yelled. He walked between two houses looking for signs of his lover. The vibrant green St. Augustine grass that each neighbor treasured and kept uniform in compliance with homeowners’ association rules revealed no footsteps, no trace of Dimas.
Hunter walked a block and a half and then stopped. Ida and Lenny’s house stood at the end of the cul de sac, with a field behind them that stretched almost half of a football field into pine trees in the far distance. The pine trees provided privacy between their gated community and the highway. On the other side, more expensive beach homes fronted the Atlantic.
He doubted that Dimas ran into the house. The last time Hunter saw Dimas he was running behind the homes, including Ida and Lenny’s.
Still, curiosity compelled Hunter to move closer to the concrete steps of the two-story plantation style home. A lamp was on, shining light on a coffee table and music played in the background. He’d been to this house many times. But not recently. He rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. He rang it again. Still no response. The rain roared behind him and he wondered where Dimas was. He rang the doorbell again. But when he was about to give up on the door opening, Ida opened the door. She was barefoot and wore a red tracksuit. Her hair was up, but unlike the other day in the lobby, her face was made up.
