Another Hour to Kill

by Anita Higman

  Spyglass Lane Mysteries presents:

  The Volstead Manor Mystery Series Book Two

  Another Hour to Kill

  By

  Anita Higman

  Forget Me Not Romances, a division of Winged Publications

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  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Men should be what they seem.

  Shakespeare

  1 – A Departure to the Next World

  Premonition. I’d never thought much about the word—until now.

  But something didn’t feel right. Even the breeze seemed skittish. I laughed off my uneasiness and gave the new neighbor’s door another sharp rap.

  Hmm. Lights off, curtains drawn, not a sound escaped the house. The man didn’t appear to be at home, and yet his front door wasn’t quite clicked shut. He’d need to be more careful. You never knew when someone might have the wrong intentions.

  Then an odor stung my nostrils—the smell of something disturbing and unwholesome—something dead.

  I took a couple of steps backwards as my imagination conjured up scenarios that would fit nicely into an Edgar Allan Poe tale. Maybe the man just needed to take out his garbage.

  On the left side of the porch, a curtain made a ghostlike flutter in the breeze. One of the front windows had been left open, and the screen was gone. Not good in Houston. With the bayou so close, mosquitoes could be a problem, even in October.

  My heart made some anxious beats as I stared down at the cake in my hand, and then up the street at my Draculaesque mansion, and then down at my watch. 9:45 a.m. Was he still in bed? I doubted it. Trying to assure myself that all was fine, I walked to the end of the porch of his rickety manor and peeked around the corner. A new black Mercedes was parked in the driveway. Okay, that part was good. Maybe he’d have enough money to fix up his house. It’d be good to see all the historic homes restored. But the car in the driveway probably meant he was at home.

  “Hellooo. Yoo-hoo.” I wiped my sweaty hand on my capris and headed back to the front door. I tripped on a loose board, which nearly made my cake fly out of my grasp. Great. First time in my thirty years I’m anxious to practice the art of hospitality, and there was no one around to bask in it. I stared down at the new high resolution camera around my neck, wondering why I seemed to be glued to my new play toy. Enough silliness. The man probably didn’t want to be welcomed to the neighborhood, and he probably hated red velvet cake. Time to go home, Bailey.

  Just as I turned to leave, I heard the tiniest click coming from the heavy oak door. It let go of its hold on the casing and groaned open as if it were the gateway to an ancient crypt. I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat refused to go down. I stepped closer, feeling both the pull of curiosity and a tug of panic. The seconds slowed, and yet the door gained momentum.

  I jerked backwards. Someone was sprawled on the floor. Dear God, it can’t be. The door opened fully, and my worst fears crashed in on me. My head reeled. “Oh, no. Please, no.”

  Just in front of me lay a man. Dried blood covered his face and made a dark curl along the floor. He was swollen and tinged with blue. Blowflies swarmed his body.

  I latched onto the doorjamb, trying to steady myself from an attack of vertigo. My hand lost its strength. The cake slipped out of my grip and crashed on the porch floor. My hand wilted onto the camera. I heard a snap.

  The sweltering odor engulfed me as I clasped my hand over my mouth. A scream gurgled up from my throat. My heartbeat quickened. I took deep breaths, but couldn’t calm myself.

  A roar filled my ears, and nausea swept over me. Stepping over to the porch railing, I leaned over and threw up the contents of my stomach. The splintered wood on the railing ground into my palms like jagged pieces of glass, but the sensations were a relief compared to the horrific images flashing in my mind.

  I slowly rose and with the bottom of my blouse I cleaned off my mouth. I reached for the pendant around my neck—Granny’s love-gift—something to calm me.

  Magnolia, my neighbor friend, scurried up the walk in her bathrobe, waving a dishtowel. “Honey Child. What’s the matter? I heard you screaming.”

  She ran onto the porch and took me into her generous folds. I eased into the comfort of her motherly hug.

  “Something awful has happened.” I hated for dear sweet Magnolia to be pulled into such a nightmare, but now it was too late to stop her.

  “What is it? What is that odor?” Magnolia pulled back, her dark eyes full of alarm. She turned toward the open door and startled. “Oh, Jesus, have mercy on us all. Our new neighbor, B.J. Ware. Poor man.” She closed her eyes. When they opened again, tears spilled out, making wet trails down her ebony cheek. Magnolia released a little groaning sound that seemed to come from deep within her chest.

  I paused and then said, “Maybe Mr. Ware didn’t die of natural causes.”

  Magnolia dabbed her eyes with the dishtowel. “We’ll call the police.”

  I nodded. “I’ll go right now.”

  “You still look mighty pale.” Magnolia squeezed my shoulder. “Mm, mm, mm.” She looked around the porch. “Do you want me to clean up some of this glass and cake?”

  I scanned the porch. “Maybe we shouldn’t touch anything else. I already have my fingerprints on the doorjamb.”

  “You’re right. I’ll stand watch while you call.” Magnolia crossed her sturdy arms, but there was an anxious quiver in her face.

  I studied her face. “Are you sure you want to—”

  “I’m staying.” She raised her chin. “Just in case some stray animal comes by. You know. The deceased always deserve some dignity.” Magnolia shooed me on. “I’ll be all right now.”

  “Okay.” As I turned to go, I took another look inside the house. This time I saw beyond the fearsome sight of death. The blood on the man’s forehead came from what looked like a flesh wound, and the right side of the man’s chin was disfigured with a crescent-shaped scar. The entry closet door was open slightly, enough to see a shotgun leaning against the inner wall. Oddly, the house still looked vacant. Every detail now branded itself in my memory. I looked back at Magnolia without mentioning my observations. “I’ll come right back.”

  Magnolia tightened her robe. “Sure hope B.J. knew the Lord.”

  “I hope so too.” I hurried down the steps as Magnolia began singing her rendition of “Amazing Grace.” My fast pace turned into a sprint as I made my way down the sidewalk, up to my porch, and through the entryway. After a quick call to the police, I dashed back down my steps.

  I heard a friendly holler and turned. Max, my neighbor, who’d just come out his front door, waved to me. He must have seen the worry on my face, because he set his paint bucket down and jogged toward me. I ran the rest of the way to meet him. “Max. Please come—”

  “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  In spite of the paint all over his T-shirt and jeans, Max took me in his arms. I drank in his warmth, thanking God that the man who lived two doors down also happened to be my fiancé.

  I eased away. “Max, something terrible has happened. Our new neighbor. . .he’s dead.”

  Max took in a quick breath. “But how—”

  “I took a cake over to welcome him to the neighborh
ood, and the front door was ajar. It just came open. Then I saw him dead on the floor. I’ve called the police.”

  With Max asking questions all the way, we jogged back toward Magnolia. I could hear her belting out “Rock of Ages” like she had a solo in the church choir.

  Before we reached the neighbor’s porch, Magnolia came barreling down the steps to us. “You’re both here. Thank goodness. I was getting uneasy.”

  Max turned to me. “Are you certain he’s dead?”

  I gave him a somber nod. “I’m sure.”

  He shook his head. “I’d never even had a chance to meet him.”

  Sirens screamed an urgent song in the distance.

  “They’re coming,” Magnolia said as she twisted her dishtowel into knots.

  My muscles tensed. I looked upward, thinking about the awful truth of the moment. There would be questions. Perhaps an investigation.

  A jet roared above us, moving busy travelers to their destinations; Tejano music rose up from someone’s backyard, and the sun still shone as brazenly as before. All of life went on as usual. But time and breath had indeed stopped for one man. No one except God and the three of us knew of the tragedy, unless of course, someone else out there knew—someone who may have hastened B.J. Ware’s departure to the next world.

  After a few moments, a police car and an ambulance sped around the corner and then down our cul-de-sac, their sirens pulsating sounds that were familiar but disturbing. In spite of the anxious demands of the moment, my concentration wavered as I became aware of a homeless-looking woman coming down the street toward us. She was hard to miss since she wore army fatigues, pushed a shopping cart full of junk, and appeared to be conversing with the oleanders, as well as the palm trees.

  Amidst all the sirens and flashing lights, the bag lady stopped and stared in our direction. I strained to see her more clearly. The woman pulled out a rifle from her shopping cart, and without hesitation, aimed the gun directly at us.

  2 – Some Kind of Obsession

  Several days later, as I busied myself scrubbing my vintage toilets in my relic of a mansion, I still felt some heavy-duty gratitude for being alive. Yes, still felt that cloud of thanksgiving hovering over my head. But the woman—the one who’d been pointing the rifle—had pulled a fast one on us by escaping down a narrow alleyway. In fact, the police found no trace of her. The neighbor’s death and the woman sporting the rifle were apparently unrelated incidents. My friends and I, however, were in no mood to complain. Had the police arrived a second later, one of us might have shared some common ground with our dearly departed neighbor.

  I flushed the commode and slipped off my industrial-strength gloves, but no matter how busy my hands were, my head always went back inside that moment of discovery—when I saw B.J. Ware on the floor. In fact, I found myself studying every facet of that infamous day. Over and over. Holding it in the light and turning it just so, like a dark stone, somehow believing I would see a glint of something I hadn’t noticed before.

  I chuckled at myself, thinking how ridiculous I would seem to my friends if they knew my thoughts, especially since word was spreading through the neighborhood that the medical examiner had determined B.J.’s death to be from natural causes.

  I decided to take my frustration out on my ancient kitchen. Filling the sink with hot soapy water, I listened to the pipes as they moaned like a ghoul, and then began scrubbing the counter with a vengeance. Yep, there’d be no more mention of foul play. No more talk about the woman who seemed determined to aim her rifle at us. Those thoughts would gradually disappear from everyone’s mind—except mine.

  But why did B.J.’s death matter so much to me? I’d never even met the man, and yet something about his parting felt unfinished. Hopefully my interest was more than a curious mind, or a quest for drama, or my choleric temperament needing to prove something. Perhaps it was the expression on B.J.’s face—one frozen in fear. And the helpless way he lay there with his lifeblood spilling out like a dark crimson ribbon as if the sacredness of life had somehow been trivialized.

  Perhaps with all the deaths in my family, and with Granny’s passing still so recent, I’d had more than my fill of death. Or maybe I still hadn’t mourned enough. But if I grieved, really grieved, wouldn’t that mean I’d have to let go and move on? It would be the natural end of things—the final chapter of emotion. I wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t do that.

  I clutched at my heart. Oh, Granny, I do miss you. I miss you all. Why did you have to go? Maybe grief was rising up anyway like foam on the waves and then lapping onto the shore as displaced grief for B.J. Only God knew my true motives.

  When I’d tired of cleaning, I let my gaze fall on the clay pot near the kitchen window. I’d planted a few kernels out of a packet of miscellaneous seeds my granny had left me. She’d always liked giving away a jumbled assortment of seeds, so you’d never know what would pop up. That was so much the way she lived her life.

  Looking at the clay pot, I smiled, remembering her. There did indeed appear to be a courageous little shoot coming up out of the soil, but the plant looked like the last thing on its mind was blooming into anything real or meaningful. Sounded like my life. I’d made progress since coming to Volstead Manor, but I also knew something still lingered in my spirit—something that made me afraid.

  “Maybe all you need is a little mercy,” I said. Then I gave the seedling a drink. Okay, now I’m talking to plants. Moving on.

  Without much thought, I unlocked a cabinet just below me and pulled out an old brass chest which I always kept hidden away. I fingered it and wondered why even that object conjured up memories of my neighbor’s unfortunate demise. Maybe I was losing my mind.

  I laughed. Indeed, all objects and all roads in my head seemed to lead next door, making me grapple with peculiar imaginings that needed to be buried.

  Let it go, Bailey. Maybe that was the point—I couldn’t. My thoughts and behaviors were starting to look like obsession, and that obsession was keeping me from planning my wedding and from renovating my house.

  The doorbell rang. Finally, some relief from my mental rantings.

  I moved the brass chest to the other side of the kitchen, headed through the hallway, past the winding staircase, and into the massive entry to the front door. Whew. I still can’t believe I inherited this huge place.

  I opened the door and my friend and neighbor, Dedra Morgan, lit my porch like a strobe light with her eye-blinking tied-dyed jumper, her gleaming dark curls bouncing all over her head like mattress springs, and her quirky, but genuine smile. She was thirty and had never lived the 60’s, but she always made quite the flower child package. Every time I wore my capris and knit shirt, I felt like a colorless brushstroke in her rainbow world.

  “Got muffins?” Dedra asked.

  “Sure. I look like a troll from cleaning all morning, but come on in.”

  “Troll, my eye. You always look good. Mysterious gray eyes, slim figure, and auburn locks. You’re more like a nymph than a troll.” She stepped into the entry.

  I shut the door. “I think you need to have some laser work done on your eyes. But thanks.”

  Dedra laughed. “You’re always so hard on yourself.” She blew a ringlet off her forehead.

  Maybe that part was true. We made our trek to the kitchen, and I started making a pot of coffee while Dedra set the table with mugs and flatware and napkins. She knew her way around in my kitchen, because she came over regularly. I astonish myself sometimes—Bailey Marie Walker, loner extraordinaire, reaches out and makes friends. Granny would be proud of me.

  “So, when are you going to start working on the inside of this place? The outside is looking really good, but wow, it’s so huge and empty in here.”

  I grinned at her. “I know what you’re really up to.”

  Dedra wiggled her eyebrows. “Yeah, I can’t wait to give you lots and lots of advice with the paint and the wallpaper and help you choose the furniture and the—”

  I put up my ha
nd. “Soon. I promise. But there’s this wedding to plan and. . .” My voice drifted off. I set some pumpkin muffins on a plate and nuked them for a few seconds in the microwave.

  We both got into a quiet mode as Dedra fidgeted with the lace on her sleeve. “Hey, so, do you want to talk about what happened next door?” She seemed to act nonchalant, but she was eyeballing me. “You’ve said very little about that day you found B.J.”

  “Yeah. That’s true.” And that was what friends did besides eat your muffins. They said things that made you squirm. They confronted you, nurtured you, and sometimes made you crazy.

  “Must have been sooo scary,” Dedra went on to say.

  “You’re right. It was. . .scary.” Indeed, talking to a friend about my messy feelings would probably be the best thing I could do for myself. I was glad Dedra wanted to talk about that awful day. And yet I hesitated. The time didn’t seem right. And my musings were still in such an unrefined stage, I was certain they’d come off bizarre and formless.

  She took in a deep breath. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Thanks. That means I have friends.” I poured us two steaming cups of coffee. “I’m just not in the mood to talk about it. . .at least not today.” I hated putting Dedra off, especially since I’d been grumbling about folks forgetting. But I knew her concern was for me, and my grief had become a little more complicated than that. I still needed to get a handle on the situation—figure out what I was searching for.

  Dedra joggled her head at me. “And you never did say much about all that other trouble either. You know, when you first moved in.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I’m not more open about. . .you know, sharing my feelings.”

  “It’s okay.” She shook her head. “But you are one tight-lipped mamma. That’s what Magnolia says anyway.”

  I loved Magnolia. “Yeah, she would say that. And it’s true.” I waited for Dedra to hound me a bit more on the subject, but she let it go.