AHMM, May 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  And as I'm walking up the stairs, that's when I see the dirt on the carpet. That man always forgets to take his shoes off when he comes home. I tell him every time, leave them on the landing, but no, he won't have it. Either that or he's in such a hurry that he forgets. Maybe he had to hide it in the garage, so he was thinking about that and not about his shoes. But I just had the carpet cleaned. Not two weeks ago. So I get out the steam cleaner, this handy little thing I saw in a catalog once, I forget where, maybe on an airplane, you know, when you have nothing better to do than sit there and shop. I get that out and I clean the carpet on the stairs, and then I keep going, I do the landing downstairs and the landing up, why not? The carpet is a mess, full of germs and bacteria. I hate it. I mean, it came with the house, what are you going to do? But I hate it. It's a big sponge for filth. Honestly. I keep cleaning. I go down the hallway and into the bedroom. But then I stop. Because I see the clean clothes on the bed, and it reminds me of the load in the washing machine, which I put in the dryer.

  And then I stop, and I call out to him in the den, “Honey?” just like that. Not too loud, not too soft, just “honey?” And I think I hear a little warble from inside, a jumbled message, but it sounds like “well” or maybe “yelp” or something. But he sounds okay, so I leave him be. The kids aren't home yet, dinner is an hour off, at least, so I let him have his fun, whatever he's doing in there. Maybe he's reading. That wouldn't be usual, but maybe that's what he's doing. How would I know? He's in there, he's not moaning. Okay.

  I remember dinner, and how the kids will be home in about an hour. From music classes and sports. And I like to have dinner ready, so we can eat and then they do their homework and then off to bed. Boom. No messing around. That's how it's done here. Because I need to have a little time at night. Some quiet where I can just do the crossword puzzle and have some tea, when I'm done working and the kids are in bed. The house gets quiet, like it's empty, but quieter. During the day when it is empty, the house hums, as if the space needs something to fill it. But when it's full, the house is happy, content. So then the house settles down. And then I can just sit for a minute and not think about anything, just have some tea and like that.

  I start fixing dinner, then, taking the meat out, letting it sit, making a salad, putting on the potatoes. Getting everything ready. When the kids get home, then I'll put the meat on, it only takes a few minutes. While they're telling me about their days. I always expect a complete report, who they talked to, what they did, what their teachers said, information such as that, while they were telling me about that stuff, then I could cook the meat and then dinner would be ready and then he would come up from the den. He always hears when the kids come home, and then he comes up about fifteen minutes later and that's when we eat. He always knows.

  But when the kids come home, they're somber. Bad days all around. No goals in soccer, mistakes in violin lessons. Sour puss. That's what I call them when they scowl. Sour puss. So I set out the salad and put the meat on. And I'm waiting. I'm listening to their stories, their tales of woe, but honestly, aren't they always the same? The stories? I did this, then I did that. And it's all how you react. I tell them, but kids don't listen. They treat me like the hired help. Sure they want the hugs and the allowance. But they don't listen to the wisdom I have. I've earned this wisdom, through these years that I've cleaned up after them and washed their clothes. I pay attention, even when they're not paying attention to me. I listen. So I know what I'm talking about. They're telling me about their days, and we wait. They sit at the kitchen bar and drink their chocolate milk and we wait. Fifteen minutes, he's still not up. In my head, I swear, but I don't say anything. I would never say those words in front of the children. They don't need to hear that.

  So I ask them to go downstairs and get him. “Tell him to get up here for dinner,” I say. “Tell him now."

  They go downstairs and I check the meat. It's leaking red juice and getting brown. Almost done. And I'm waiting. I'm always waiting. Nothing ever happens when it should. I have to wait and wait.

  That's when I hear them call from downstairs. They say he's lying on the couch.

  "Wake him up,” I yell. “Tell him to get up here!” I'm mad now, of course, because he's sleeping and it's dinner time. I mean honestly. If he didn't stay up all night doing God knows what, then he wouldn't be so tired. So I tell them to get him up here.

  Now the meat is burning and I have to take it off, and I almost burn my hand. And the kids are yelling now, yelling for me to come down. Well, I don't go down there. Finally they come up and say he's not sleeping. Maybe he's not breathing.

  Well, either he's breathing or he's not. So we discuss this. Is he breathing or not? Is he not breathing?

  They plead with me, tell me to go get him. He needs help. What am I going to do? I'm just a woman who de-bones lamb chops and broils them. Who makes dinner and gets it on the table, no fooling around. That's my job.

  "I can't help him,” I say. “How can I help him?” For a minute I picture the red handkerchief, spinning and turning in the drier, hot, too hot to touch, just spinning there, weightless almost. It's perfectly clean, without a trace of what happened. The handkerchief doesn't remember. It's perfectly blank.

  From In the House, a collection of short stories by Lynn K. Kilpatrick, published by FC2/University of Alabama Press. © 2010 Lynn K. Kilpatrick. Used with permission of University of Alabama Press.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: TRUE TEST by B. K. Stevens

  * * * *

  Tim Foley

  * * * *

  Date: October 25, 2009 9:47 PM

  From: Walter Johnson[clueless11@wahoo.com]

  To: Oriana Johnson[camerasly@wahoo.com]

  Subject: Not Yet

  —

  Dear Mother,

  Relax. We saw the doctor today, and he says Ellen's got at least two weeks to go. So if your editor wants you to take the Peru job, take it. We've got plenty of time.

  Ellen's feeling sorta worn out tonight, though, so she hit the sack early. In a way, I'm glad for the time alone because I've been meaning to e-mail you about a case Bolt and I handled last week. It's been on my mind a lot.

  It started with a morning call—a Saturday morning call, unfortunately, so I had to miss Kevin's soccer game. That bothered me. Kevin says he's fine with the new baby, but I read this article, “Spacing Siblings,” in Ellen's Real Mother magazine, and it says first and second siblings shouldn't be over five years apart, and we're more than doubling that. So I've gotta wonder if Kevin's feeling resentful, no matter what he says. Having me miss a game wouldn't exactly reassure him.

  But I couldn't ignore the call—body found at 527 Winston, Bolt and some uniforms already at the scene. “Could be a burglary gone bad,” the dispatcher commented, and right away I felt skeptical. I mean, I've been around the block a time or two, and I wish I had a dollar for every case that started out looking like a burglary gone bad but ended up being a plain old premeditated murder, with a fake burglary tossed in to obscure the motive. I mean, that one's been done to death. Sometimes I wish murderers would find more creative ways to throw us off. Anyway, I drove to Winston, already losing respect for whoever the murderer turned out to be, worried it'd be even harder than usual to focus on the case when these days all I can really think about is whether I'm ready to go through the whole baby thing again.

  Winston's a nice street—very classy, just one notch short of downright swanky—and 527 is the biggest house on the block, a white Colonial at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. When I pulled into the driveway, Bolt was standing on the front porch. (By the way, Mother, he's looking good. That kick-boxing class really helped him get in shape, and I hear he's pressing a hundred pounds. You'd never guess he's so close to mandatory retirement. Not that you care—you're always saying you don't care—but I thought I'd mention it.)

  He walked down the steps to greet me. “It's good to see you, Lieutenant,” he said. “We have a rath
er complicated, potentially volatile family situation here. I'll be glad to rely on your legendary tact and sensitivity to steer us through."

  Legendary—I didn't have a dictionary handy, but I felt pretty sure a legend's something made up, something people believe in even though it isn't real. If so, my tact and sensitivity are legendary, all right, just like all the other abilities everybody seems to think I have. “Is the coroner here?” I asked. “Has the victim been identified?"

  "No coroner yet,” Bolt said. “The victim is Andrew Atherton, thirty-three, from Newark. He was staying here as the guest of the house's owner, Otis Colchester. He was engaged to Mr. Colchester's daughter. Apparently, he was killed during the night."

  I scrambled to keep up with the names. Already, the family situation was more complicated than I like. “Who found the body? Mr. Colchester? Miss Colchester?"

  "Neither,” Bolt said. “And actually, there's no Miss Colchester. The daughter is Mrs. Meredith Ralston, and the body was found by her thirteen-year-old daughter, April, at eight this morning."

  "Poor kid,” I commented. “Must've been a nasty shock. Well, let's have a look at the body.” At least it'd be a break from all the names.

  The house was what you'd expect—big rooms, thick carpets, furniture too old-fashioned for my taste but obviously expensive. Not that I noticed all that at first. Two steps brought us into the living room, and all I could see was the body.

  He wore pajamas and a white bathrobe—not a big guy, but he looked reasonably fit. Now, he lay facedown on the carpet, and his head was bashed in so hard it looked like—well, you'd rather not know. He had a puncture wound in the back of his neck, too, and blood all down his robe.

  "What's the working theory?” I asked. “Atherton came downstairs in the middle of the night, surprised a burglar, and got bashed in the head? But the place looks pretty neat. Burglars usually make a mess."

  "There's a bit of a mess in the library at the back of the house,” Bolt said. “That's apparently where the burglar—if any—was when Atherton surprised him. If he did. Shall I lead the way?"

  For once, I didn't need to be led. I could've found the library just by following the trail of bloody spots and splotches. Atherton had staggered or crawled a good distance before his assailant caught up with him.

  In a sick way, it reminded me of Hansel and Gretel. You know, the trail of bread crumbs. I thought about that while Bolt pointed out stuff in the library: paintings thrown around, desk drawers dumped out, gleaming brass letter opener smack in the middle of a large bloodstain on the carpet, open window, bent-back screen. When you think of it, the Hansel and Gretel story's pretty harsh—parents leaving their kids in the woods to starve, a witch fattening a kid up so she can eat him. I read that story to Kevin years ago, but I won't make that mistake again. With the new kid, I'll stick to stories about bunnies and butterflies and other boring stuff—nothing scary, nothing gloomy.

  "Gotta keep everything nice and bright and shiny,” I muttered to myself.

  Bolt looked confused, then stared at the letter opener. “I see what you mean, sir. Considering its sturdy construction and sharp point, that letter opener may well be the implement used to stab Mr. Atherton. Yet, though it's lying on the blood-soaked carpet, there's not a speck or smudge on it. It is, as you say, nice and bright and shiny. A burglar would presumably wear gloves and therefore not need to wipe the opener clean of prints; and why do so and then place it on that bloody patch, as if inviting us to identify it as the weapon? It's puzzling. I'm glad you pointed it out."

  The worst part is that Bolt honestly believes I'm the one who solves our cases, when in fact I just stumble around blurting out dumb comments, and Bolt misinterprets them—misinterprets them brilliantly, transforming them into the keys to the case. You know I've tried to confess, but he misinterprets the confessions, too, takes them as proof of my modesty. I swear, Mother, I wish you'd break down and say “yes” the next time he proposes. Maybe then he'd retire so he could travel with you, and I could botch my cases up in peace, and my conscience would leave me the hell alone.

  For now, I had to stall, say something safe, so I wouldn't look like a complete idiot. Cleaning the opener, I thought frantically, and then putting it on the bloody carpet. “It's not consistent,” I tried.

  "Indeed,” Bolt said, nodding. “Directing our attention to the letter opener in that obvious way, but not doing the same with the blunt object used to bludgeon Mr. Atherton—not consistent at all. What do you suppose the killer did with the blunt object?"

  Before I could fake a guess, I heard a familiar voice snapping out orders in the living room. “Sounds like the coroner's here,” I said, relieved. “Maybe she can tell us what kind of blunt object to look for."

  We waited until the coroner rolled Atherton onto his back. “So, what can you tell us?” I asked. “Cause of death? Time of death?"

  She looked up, exasperated. "Time of death?” she said. “This week. You want it more precise, wait till I run some tests. Cause of death—he's got fairly deep puncture wounds, two in the stomach, one in the neck. But those probably weren't fatal. Actual probable cause of death—several hard blows to the head, with a blunt instrument."

  "What kind of blunt instrument?” I pressed.

  She rolled her eyes. “A heavy one. A toothbrush wouldn't do it. Preliminary examination suggests it was smooth, relatively large. How's that for a quick analysis?"

  Man, I hate it when she gets like that: so smug, so superior, like I'm some dumb cop and she's such an amazing scientist she deserves a Nobel Prize or something. “What do you expect, an award?” I asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

  "An award!” Bolt cried, and sprinted across the living room, and pointed to an object on the fireplace mantel—a silver loving cup mounted on a large, smooth, heavy marble base. “Remarkable, Lieutenant! To realize so quickly that this award fits the coroner's expectations so precisely!"

  Yeah, I'd realized that, all right. Gulping, I walked over to take a look. There was a plaque on the base of the award—"Otis Colchester, First Place, Wedgewood Country Club Tennis Tournament, 1958.” A technical guy hurried over to check it out.

  "No fingerprints, no blood, no tissue.” He paused for effect. “And no dust."

  So maybe we'd found our murder weapon. I left Bolt consulting with the technical guy and sauntered back to the coroner. “We think Atherton was stabbed in the library,” I said, crouching next to her. “Then what? He crawled out here?"

  She shrugged. “Or was dragged. But I'd say crawled."

  I nodded sagely. “And there's no phone in the library,” I said. “So maybe he was trying to reach the phone in the kitchen, to call for help. That'd make sense."

  "It would,” she agreed, not missing a beat, “except for this.” And she tapped the cell phone peeping out of his pajama pocket.

  Rats. Why hadn't I noticed that? I stood up. “Have one of the guys check that out for prints and stuff,” I said. “I gotta talk to the family."

  "Fine,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the body. “But before you do, maybe you'd like to know about what I found in his bathrobe pocket."

  I had to take the bait. “What?” I asked.

  She held up a soggy mash of cash. “Eight hundred-dollar bills,” she said. “Bloody as can be. Interesting stuff for a man to have in his bathrobe pocket, wouldn't you say?"

  I didn't feel like saying anything, not to her, so I joined Bolt and filled him in on the cell phone and the cash. “So, the family's in the kitchen?” I said. “Otis Colchester owns the house, right? And his daughter and granddaughter live here with him?"

  "Not quite, sir,” Bolt said. “Mr. Colchester lives alone. His daughter, Meredith Ralston, lives in the house next door on the right. Her daughter, April, spends one day a week in her grandfather's house, three days a week in her mother's house, and three days a week in the house of her father and his second wife, Jason and Krista Ralston. They live in the house next door on the left."

&nb
sp; I stopped short. “Wait a minute. The grandfather, his daughter, and her ex-husband and his new wife all live on the same street? How'd that happen?"

  "I haven't yet ascertained all the facts,” Bolt said, “but I did chat with a neighbor. He said Mr. Colchester is quite wealthy, and when his daughter married Jason Ralston, he gave them the house next to his. About ten years later, Mr. Ralston had an affair with a neighbor, got a divorce, and married her. The first Mrs. Ralston demanded that Jason and his new wife leave the neighborhood; the second Mrs. Ralston retorted that she wouldn't give up her house, that the first Mrs. Ralston could move if she felt uncomfortable. Neither Mrs. Ralston would budge. So they're all still here. As I told you, sir, it's a rather complicated, potentially volatile family situation. Perhaps I understated matters."

  "Yeah, perhaps,” I said. “And the poor granddaughter has to split her week up three ways among all these guys? Oh, brother."

  "No brother,” Bolt corrected. “Thank God. And no sister. But of course, there is—or was—Andrew Atherton, who was engaged to Meredith Ralston and was staying with her father, Otis Colchester, last night."

  Not a prayer, I thought—I have absolutely no prayer of keeping this straight. Sighing, I walked into the kitchen. It wasn't hard to figure out who was who. The broad-shouldered, ruddy-cheeked guy in his seventies must be Otis Colchester. Sitting next to him at the table and leaning on him between sniffles was a pale, gaunt woman in her mid-forties, undoubtedly his daughter, Meredith. Two more people stood by the coffee maker on the counter, cradling mugs in their hands—a slowly balding man in a rumpled shirt, and a lean-limbed woman with a long, angular face; they looked about the same age as Meredith and had to be her ex-husband and his wife, Jason and Krista. As for the slightly overweight, red-eyed girl at the end of the table, her face half hidden by her long hair, her fingers fiddling sadly with a locket she wore around her neck—April, obviously.