“Where are you?” I shouted into it. “Call me as soon as you get this.” Finally, in desperation, I called the realty office.
“Gainsborough Realty, where every home is a masterpiece. How may I help you?” The melodious voice belonged to the basset-hound-faced receptionist.
“Julie Phelps, please.”
“Ms. Phelps is out of the office at the moment, would you like me to put you through to her voice mail?”
“No,” I snapped, adding in a softer voice, “no thank you. I need to talk with her—it’s urgent.”
“Is this the school nurse?”
“No,” I said, and thought better of it. “But this is the school and it’s about the kids.”
“Oh, I hope everything is okay?” A desire in her voice to hear someone else’s bad news.
“I really need to get in touch with her.”
“Have you tried her cell phone?”
“Yes, of course, but it’s going straight to voice mail.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you—wait, let me see if I can find out where she might be.” I heard keys clicking. “Yes, I thought so. Julie’s doing an open house at a new development over in Edgeworth. It has really bad cell reception, so that might be why you’re not able to get in touch with her.”
If I could just beat the police to that development—that’s what I was thinking as I clipped the curb turning on to Beaver Street, imagining a convoy of patrol cars, sirens screaming as they made their way to the house to arrest her. I don’t remember thinking of the speed limit at all, but I do remember pressing down the accelerator and hearing the tires squeal as I took turns without slowing.
As I flew down a stretch of road outside of town, I heard a siren and thought my fears were being realized, that the police were on their way to arrest Julie. Something flashed in my side mirror and I saw a police car behind me. My foot moved from accelerator to brake and I slowed to a crawl, moving over in the hopes that the car would pass. It didn’t. Instead, the driver moved over with me.
Shit! I broke into a sweat as I screeched to a stop along the side of the road, the cop stopping more smoothly behind me. I scrambled around my console in search of mints. It had only been half Prosecco this morning. I was not drunk, but I sucked hard on that mint, while frantically pushing buttons to lower the windows and sniffing the car interior. The smell of one of Sam’s abandoned soccer socks was crowding out any other odor as far as I could tell.
A patrolman got out of the squad car and walked briskly up to mine. “License and registration, ma’am. Any idea how fast you were going back there?” He spoke in that cowboy-like drawl that must be taught at the police academy, but he looked about thirteen years old, with a smattering of acne across his ruddy cheeks and forehead.
I passed them out the window, willing my hand to be steady. “I’m sorry, Officer, I didn’t realize I was speeding,” I said, trying a smile when he glanced from the license to me.
That was when I noticed his name, Derreire. “Say, are you by any chance related to Helen Derreire?” I said. “The one that owns the dry cleaner’s?”
He nodded, a little reluctantly. “That’s my mother.”
“Oh, I thought you looked familiar! I’ve known your mother for years. She’s so proud of you.” I babbled on for a few minutes.
I did know his mother, a hardworking woman whose name I remembered only because I’d confused it the first time with “derrière.” She’d sighed as if she’d heard that before and simply corrected me, “It’s Dare-rare-ee.” I remembered nothing more about her beyond the photos pinned to a board behind the front desk, the corners curling from age and steam. “Do you still have that dog?” I said, having a dim recollection of a photo of grinning children around a slobbering beast. I felt like one of those TV psychics, fishing for information to fake a connection.
He smiled at that. “Waldo. He died. We’ve got Chip now.” I listened to a five-minute dissertation about the merits of black Labs versus beagles, uttering sounds of animated interest while I tried not to notice the time ticking away, before he finally handed me back my license. “I’m going to let you off with a warning, Ms. Walker—slow down.”
“Of course, thank you so much. I definitely will. Say hi to your mom for me.”
I wanted him to pull out first, but he indicated that I should go ahead, tailing me as I drove glacially slowly for the next mile, before he finally passed, giving me a short wave as he sped around and off.
It was only another five minutes before I arrived at the new development and then just a short, albeit confusing drive around the streets before I spotted Julie’s car in front of a colonial with a brick front and siding everywhere else.
A couple was coming out of the house as I pulled up out front, the wife heavily pregnant and listing like a ship at sea as she came down the steps, her husband providing support at her side like a tugboat. Julie clicked along on her heels behind them, chattering away in full Realtorspeak. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw me, but my presence didn’t slow down her patter and as I opened the car door I heard her saying how great it was to meet them and how excited she was that they’d gotten in to see this upscale property before anyone else, and how wonderful it would be to raise their new child in this exclusive development.
I waited until the wife had been wedged into the passenger seat of the couple’s two-seater sports car (Say good-bye, I thought, that will be a trade-in for the minivan once the baby comes) and the husband was out of earshot before racing up the front walk to Julie.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“They’ve found the gun—they know it was used to kill Viktor,” I said without preamble, regretting it when her face literally drained of color. I reached out an arm to grab her, concerned she was going to faint.
“Oh shit,” she said in a weak voice. “How did they find—who found—?” She tripped over her words, her mind clearly racing.
I helped her back inside, our footsteps echoing on the bare wood floors, and opened one of the water bottles sitting on a table alongside flyers about the house. “Here, sit down and drink some of this,” I said, pulling out a chair and thrusting the bottle into her hands. She took a gulp, then swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Apparently some kids found it while fishing.”
“Have they traced the owner?”
It seemed an odd way to ask if they knew it belonged to her, but I shook my head. She took another gulp of water. Her hand was shaking. “Was it illegally purchased?” I asked, trying to imagine Julie at one of those furtive gun shows with people dressed in camo and complaining about government interference.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.” She tapped the bottle slightly on the table, the water rocking back and forth.
“So it’s registered to you?”
She shook her head and I let out a sigh, sinking into a chair across from her, feeling dizzy with relief. “Okay, that’s something.” At least the police wouldn’t be arriving any moment.
“What if they find fingerprints?”
“Alison wiped it down,” I said, trying to sound convinced, although I’d been scared of just that.
“But we were in a hurry, she wasn’t that careful.”
“It’s been soaking in muddy water for several weeks—surely if there were any prints on it they would have been washed away.”
Julie didn’t appear to believe this either. I kept thinking of fictional crime shows in which good-looking crime-scene analysts managed to solve cases with what appeared to be the slimmest of evidence—the imprint of a single tooth mark on a pencil, the oily smear that turned out to be from a particular moisturizer. In this high-tech world it was hard to believe that there wasn’t some way to retrieve prints from the gun. If there were any.
“So someone gave you the gun?” I said.
“Something like that.”
“Is it registered to them?”
She shrugged, tapping the
water bottle more and more rapidly, the water jumping higher and higher. “I assume so.”
“I don’t understand—how did you get this gun?” I said, growing impatient, the drumbeat of the bottle echoing in the empty house. “Would you stop it and answer me!”
Julie slammed the bottle down, the water erupting up and over the sides. She ignored the rapidly spreading puddle, finally looking directly at me. “I stole it.”
chapter thirty-two
JULIE
It’s a nervous habit, not so different from Heather’s smoking, or Alison’s nibbling at her nails, or Sarah’s drinking. She had no business judging me. “You stole it,” she’d repeated, staring at me with a look of shock and revulsion, as if I’d revealed a forked tongue, or some bizarre body piercing.
When did I first start taking things? This was the question one of the police officers had asked me years earlier, when Brian and I were first married and living in Erie. I’d lied. I’d told him that I hadn’t really meant to take my coworker’s watch, that I would never, ever take something that wasn’t my own. This was before real estate, when I was a claims agent for a local insurance company, just one mouse in a maze of cubicles. It might have worked—I was young and pretty and truly tearful—except it turned out there were security cameras tucked high on the walls on every floor in that office building, and they had footage of me slipping into other people’s cubicles and rifling through their drawers.
My mug shot was truly awful, because by then I was openly sobbing, my nose red and my eyes swollen. I was charged with theft and of course I was fired, although I would have quit anyway. How could I have gone back into that building after I’d been escorted out by police in full view of all the other employees? I had to return the stolen property—the total value of which was estimated at $1,249. The sum stuck in my mind because it was so ridiculously specific and paltry. The insurance company was responsible for that amount of legalized theft on an hourly basis, I argued to Brian and my lawyer, who both insisted that I not mention this in front of the judge. “Do you want to go to prison?” Brian had finally yelled. “They are not the same thing at all!”
In the end the case was settled with three years of probation and a hefty fine. “You’re very lucky, young lady,” the judge had intoned, staring down at me after I’d acknowledged my crime. “This is your first offense—let it be your last.”
Of course, he didn’t know it wasn’t my first offense. Not even close. The first offense had been committed when I was six years old at my grandparents’ house, a classic Pittsburgh three-story brick house in the heart of Etna. As a child, I’d been free to wander anywhere in their home, enjoying the sound of the creaking old floors, playing with the hand-tatted lace doilies covering the tabletops, pulling out the ancient, musty books on my grandfather’s oak bookcase. I’d climb the carpeted stairs to my grandparents’ bedroom, sitting on the stool in front of my grandmother’s frilly vanity, with its round mirror and lace skirt, the glass top covered with pretty perfume bottles and a silver-plated toiletry set. One afternoon, I pulled open one of the dresser drawers and found a large green velvet box. In it was a sparkling mass of costume jewelry, and I remember crowing with the delight of a pirate coming upon a treasure chest.
I’d taken each piece out and arranged them on the cool blue comforter covering my grandparents’ bed and then I’d tried on piece after piece. Later, I’d gone downstairs with one of my grandmother’s satin nightgowns hanging off my shoulders, a matinee strand of pearls around my neck, a pair of dangly gemstone earrings clipped to my ears, and my face smeared with her lipstick and coated in face powder.
“Oh, look at the fine lady,” my gram said with a laugh, but my mother hadn’t smiled. She’d wiped the lipstick off my mouth and marched me upstairs, ordering me to take off what wasn’t mine and put all of that jewelry carefully away. In my haste, a small gold-and-black enamel bumblebee fell out of the pile and rolled onto the floor. My mother didn’t notice and after she’d left the room I’d pocketed the pin. It felt good to have this secret thing, it gave me a rush.
I’ve taken many items over the years, a bracelet from a friend at school, makeup from other people’s lockers, and candy or panty hose from shops. It’s not the value of the object that matters—I feel a little guilty if they’re worth much—although I do take things that I like. It’s the idea of it, the feel of it slipping into my pocket or purse. No one misses them, or if they do they’re easy to replace.
My job presents a special opportunity. I’m alone in homes so often, and I have to check each room in the houses that I list to make sure that they’re ready for a showing. After Erie, I’d vowed never to take anything again, but that promise lasted only a few years. The first time I took something from a client was when I listed the property of avid collectors in Ben Avon. I took a tiny porcelain Scottie dog that was literally one of hundreds of pieces decorating their home. The thrill came back as strong as ever, my heart racing as I slipped it carefully into the pocket of my blazer. They never missed it. After Erie, I was very cautious of cameras. No one since then had missed anything at all until the gun.
I’d found it almost a decade ago, tucked away in a small wood and metal box that was just waiting to catch my eye as I checked the master bedroom closet in one of my properties. The house belonged to George and Lois Duncan, retirees and snowbirds, who’d tasked me with selling their home while they were in Florida for the winter. They’d lived in their Pittsburgh home for over forty years and had managed to squirrel things away in every corner and crevice. Rooms were obstacle courses of furniture, every closet stuffed to bursting; the first time we’d met I’d advised them to clear out the clutter. This is advice I have to give to most homeowners. People want to imagine themselves in the house, I’ll say. Make the rooms look bright and spacious.
The day of the open house was bitterly cold and I arrived early to walk through the rooms one more time. The Duncans had moved some things into storage, but there was still that fusty feel to the place, enhanced by the dated wallpaper and wood paneling, and there was a musty odor in the basement. I opened every closet, because this was what potential buyers would do, pleased to see that they’d at least gotten rid of some of the mothball-clogged plastic bags with outfits last worn in the 1970s. That was when I spotted the box, sitting on the shelf in their master closet.
Snow was falling, soft and thick, outside. I remember looking out the window before I stood on tiptoe to touch the box with just the tips of my fingers, dragging it slowly forward until it toppled over the shelf and I caught it. The box was intricately carved, that’s what had caught my eye, and it looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. I’m not sure what I thought it would contain, but I remember recoiling when I pushed open the lid and caught sight of the small black handgun nestled in a gray foam bed, a row of copper-tipped bullets tucked nose-down in the foam alongside it. After a moment, I traced the gun’s clean lines with my finger, admiring its design. It was an interesting find.
How did I think that its absence wouldn’t be noticed? Two weeks after I’d tucked it in my purse, feeling that familiar thrill, George Duncan called to tell me that his son had informed him that something was missing from their home and had I, by any chance, seen it or let anyone “questionable” walk through the open house? I played dumb, expressing concern before finally asking what had been taken. I said I’d never touched a gun and wouldn’t, but I was concerned that someone else might have carried it out of their house. Was it possible he’d put it in storage? Or could it be somewhere else in the house? I did my best to erase his suspicion while also giving him the list of visitors to his home. We’d had a steady stream of potential buyers through the house. My palms were sweaty at the thought that he might try to involve the police.
George made a halfhearted attempt to search for the gun and I got the sense that he didn’t fully believe my denials. A few months later, when the house failed to sell, the Duncans didn’t renew their contract, quietly firing m
e as their Realtor. That happens; sometimes an agent can’t sell a place because the owner has set the price too high, but somebody has to pay for the wasted time and often it’s the Realtor.
That was the case with the Duncans’ house, too—they went with a competitor at another firm, but dropped the price by over $50,000. Not surprisingly, they sold the house soon after. So it might have been only that, the case of the football coach for the losing team losing his job, but I couldn’t help feeling that it had been personal, that George Duncan went with another agent because of the missing gun. I’d been stupid to steal it; it’s not like I was ever planning to use it. But a year later, once the Duncans were permanently in Florida, I had to do an evening showing at a house in an isolated area and on impulse I stuck the box in my purse. After that, I started taking the gun with me to all nighttime showings and open houses.
I never told Brian. Over the years he’d given me a small can of Mace, which is illegal, and a high-pitched security whistle, which I couldn’t see scaring away anybody but the neighborhood dogs. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to buy a gun; he thinks they’re dangerous and he’s squeamish about blood.
Giving the gun to Heather had been a big mistake. For some stupid reason I hadn’t thought she’d actually use it. Maybe because I was so nervous when I handled it. Actually, I’d never even loaded the thing. When I passed it on to her all the bullets were still in their little foam beds. I didn’t think about what she’d actually do with it, I just wanted to help her in any way that I could. If I’d imagined Viktor’s death at all it had been Heather shooting him as he came toward her, the bullets hitting him in the chest, stopping him as he lunged at her. I couldn’t have imagined the reality—his lifeless body in the car, that dark, bloody hole in the back of his skull.
Of course the police traced the gun to the owner. There are serial numbers and George Duncan had bought it legally. I had a brief hope that perhaps he’d died—it had been almost a decade ago and he had been elderly—but they found him in an assisted-living facility in Naples, Florida, and while he was riddled with health problems and confined to a wheelchair, he was still mentally all there.
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