Текст книги "The Murder Pit"

Автор книги: Jeff Shelby

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

NINE

The strange woman was watching our house.

We’d been home from the 4-H meeting for a couple of hours and, after a quick lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup, I’d sent the kids upstairs to play. They’d done enough preening at the windows, watching the goings on around the crime scene in the backyard and I wanted them to do something else. Will had disappeared to play his allotted time on the computer and Grace and Sophie had hightailed it to their room, squealing about Barbies and Polly Pockets. I was in the kitchen, making cookies and thinking about dinner. Emily was due home within the hour and, for once, we had nothing on the evening agenda. I wanted nothing more than to pour a glass of wine and curl up on the couch with Jake and get lost in something else—a movie, a game with the kids, whatever.

I checked on the tray in the oven before turning to the sink to tackle the mountain of dishes that had accumulated. I glanced out the side window and that’s when I saw her, walking by on the other side of the street. She moved slowly, her gaze locked on the house. I washed the dishes and was just finishing the last of the mixing bowls when the timer sounded. I pulled the last tray of cookies from the oven and looked out the window again. She was walking the other direction this time, her head swiveling toward the house as she walked. I bit back a sigh, realizing full well that a driveway of police cars and copious amounts of caution tape draped around the snow-filled year would draw some extra attention.

But as I was putting the dishes back in the cupboards, I saw her again, ducking behind a car on the other side of the street, still watching.

I stacked the bowls inside of each other and stowed them in one of the lower cupboards. I straightened, flopped the dish towel over my shoulder and walked to the window. She was crouched down, bundled up in a purple down jacket, watching intently.

And it just irked me.

I knew the scene was attention-grabbing, but I thought it was rude to just stand there on the sidewalk and gawk. And I thought it was weird and even ruder that she now appeared to be trying to hide herself as she watched.

So I pulled on my jacket and boots and went outside.

The wind hit me full-on in the face and my eyes watered. The morning might have been mild but the temperature had taken a nose-dive. I felt the hairs in my nose freeze and I tucked my chin into my jacket, trying to deflect the blow of the icy blasts assaulting me. I loved seasons but winter in Minnesota was like winter on steroids. Every year, as the snow piled up and the temperatures dipped even lower, I’d inevitably hit a point where I’d start thinking about warmer places so I wouldn’t have to dress like a sherpa every time I went outside. I was at that point this winter.

The woman didn’t see me come down the stairs off the porch, her hard gaze fixed on the police workers who were traipsing around in the snow. I stood at the hedges for a moment, thinking she would notice me and move on. But she didn’t and, for some reason, this just irritated me more. I crossed the street and came up behind the car she was hiding behind and stood behind her.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

She jumped a foot off the ground and her entire face colored red, both from the cold and the embarrassment of my catching her.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No.”

I took a good look at her. She was about my age and about thirty pounds overweight. Small eyes, pug nose, a small circle of a mouth. Her hair wasn’t visible, tucked inside of a knit beanie. Her coat stretched across her ample midsection and her cotton sweatpants were shoved into the tops of her boots.

“Then why are you staring at my house?”

“I’m not,” she said, glancing across the street, then at me.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “You’re not? Really?”

She started to say something, but then her expression morphed from embarrassment to anger. “Why did you do that?”

I lifted my eyebrows in confusion. “Do what?”

She pointed a gloved finger at me. “You know what.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Yes, you do.”

I took a step back. I wondered if she was mentally unstable and if maybe it wasn’t such a good idea that I was confronting her. “I’m going to let one of the police officers know you’re over here. I’m sure they’ll be happy to come speak with you.”

She made a face like she didn’t care. “You go do that.” And then, under her breath, she muttered, “Killer.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, raising her voice and pointing the gloved finger at me again. “Killer.”

I blinked several times. “I’m going to get the police now.”

“Good!” she said, sneering at me. “Good! Then I can tell them you killed Olaf.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” I said, anger bubbling up inside me. “And who are you?”

“None of your beeswax,” she said. Before I could process her childlike comment, she reached out and pushed my shoulder.

My eyes widened in surprise. She pushed me. She actually reached out and pushed my shoulder, like we were on the playground and we were going to fight over who was going to be the line leader. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been pushed. Fourth grade? Third? I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t sure what my reaction was then.

But this time? After a grown woman had accused me of being a murderer, told me to mind my own beeswax, and then pushed me?

I reached out and pushed her back.

“Don’t touch me,” I said.

Her hand connected with my shoulder again, this time harder. “Don’t you touch me.”

I should’ve been the bigger person. I should’ve just walked away and crossed the street and gone back into the house and let the police deal with her. I should not have pushed her with two hands.

But I pushed her with two hands.

She took a step back, her brows furrowing together, her eyes narrowing to the size of seed beads. She steadied herself.

And then she charged at me.

I tried to get out of her way, but she got an arm around me and we both fell into the snow. Wet cold seeped through my jeans and clumps of snow stuck to my hair. The woman reached for my face, her nails poised like small daggers, but I caught her wrists and held her away. We stayed locked in that position, her face contorted with rage, before several officers jogged across the street and pulled us apart.

I got to my feet and brushed the snow off my pants. My chest was heaving and my hands were shaking. I hadn’t been in a fight since…ever. And I was an adult and here I was wrestling with a stranger on the snow-covered sidewalk. Not my finest moment.

The woman’s face was bright red and she was almost vibrating, her jaw locked and her eyes fixed on me. She tried to lunge at me again, but the officer next to her had hold of her and she didn’t make it very far.

The officer closest to me took me by the elbow. He wore sunglasses and an overpowering amount of Old Spice. “What’s going on?” he asked.

I brushed snow from the side of my face. “I came over to ask why she was watching the house. I saw her from inside. She was out here for easily fifteen minutes before I came out.” I didn’t want to mention that she’d called me a killer. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, she pushed me several times. And then we went down in the snow.”

He kept his hand on my elbow but looked at the woman. “That right?”

“She pushed me, too,” the lady muttered, still staring at me like she wanted to hurt me.

My cop looked at her. “Do you have any identification, ma’am?”

She paused, then shook her head. “No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Olga.”

She didn’t offer a last name and, for some reason, the cop didn’t ask for one. “Can you tell me what you were doing here on the sidewalk?”

“Minding my own business,” she said defensively. Her beanie had slipped a little and strands of brown hair were plastered to her cheek.

“Minding my business,” I said.

She glared at me, then turned to the cop who was holding her. “Are you arresting her?”

He looked confused. “Ma’am?”

“For murder,” she said. Her gaze bounced between the two of us. “Are you arresting her?”

The officers exchange confused looks and the one next to me said, “Well, we can’t really talk about the investigation.”

“She did it,” the woman said again. “She killed him.”

“I did not,” I said.

“Liar!” she yelled.

The fact that she was so insistent that I had done it was unnerving. A person I’d never seen before was accusing me of killing someone I hadn’t. And she seemed to believe it so certainly that she’d bet all the money in the world on it. What did she know that I didn’t?

The officer holding onto the woman cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we’re going to ask you to move along at this point. You’re interfering with…”

“She killed my brother!” she said, pointing at me. “She killed Olaf!”

Brother? She was Olaf’s sister?

The officer took her by the elbow and started walking her down the block. She kept turning around, twisting her neck, her face a red mass of fury and anger.

Olaf’s sister?

TEN

“Who was that lady that was yelling at you?” Will asked. He’d parked himself next to the counter and had a half-eaten cookie in his hand.

I shrugged out of my coat and kicked off my boots. “I thought you were upstairs playing?”

He shrugged. “I might’ve looked out the window. And saw you with her and two police officers.”

I frowned. I was fairly convinced he was going to grow up to be some sort of spy.

He reached for another cookie and I swatted his hand away. “How may have you eaten?”

Will subsisted on pasta, cheese and sugar. Or at least that’s what it seemed like to me. He maintained he abstained from meat for ethical reasons but I didn’t know why he’d decided to become a vegetable rights activist.

“The lady,” Will said. “Who was she?”

“I’m not sure.”

He shoved the last bite of cookie in his mouth and chewed. “Why was she yelling at you?”

“Because I’m pretty sure she was crazy.”

“But why you?”

I opened one of the cupboards and pulled out a large plastic container. “Will, I don’t know,” I said, trying to be patient.

“Well, isn’t it weird that some random lady shows up on the sidewalk and starts yelling at you?” he asked, his face scrunched up in confusion. “Saying you killed some guy?”

I eyed him. “Opened the window a bit, did you?”

His eyes darted around for a second. “Well, she was yelling kinda loud.”

“Hmm. Right.”

“But, no, seriously. Why was she yelling at you?”

I lifted the lid off the empty container and started layering cooled cookies along the bottom. “I have no idea.”

“No idea?”

“None.”

“Well, that’s weird.”

“It’s all weird. All of it.”

He grabbed a cup from the dish drainer and filled it with milk. “Are you gonna be arrested?”

“No. I’m not going to be arrested.”

“How do you know?”

I reached for more cookies. “Because I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, but all the time on TV, guys get arrested for doing stuff they didn’t do and then someone has to come and save them and prove them wrong.” He nodded, approving of his own words. “Happens all the time.”

“On TV,” I said, pointing a cookie at him. “Happens all the time on TV, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is not real.”

“Unless it’s a reality show,” he countered. “Then it’s real.”

“Not always and you know that, too,” I said. “But rest assured. I’m not going to be arrested.”

He frowned, but didn’t say anything.

And, in truth, I sounded more confident than I felt. The dead body was found in my house. I knew the victim. And his sister had some reason to think I was the one responsible. I didn’t think she just randomly selected me. She had a reason. I just didn’t know what it was.

“If you get arrested, will we be able to visit you in jail?” he asked, looking out the window.

I turned my attention to the last wire rack of cookies. “Will. Listen to me. I’m not going to be arrested and I’m not going to jail.”

“I know. I’m just asking. If you went to jail, would we be allowed to visit?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “I don’t know. Yes. I’m sure we could arrange visitations. Probably Sunday mornings. I think that’s when they let kids come visit the criminal moms.”

He thought about that for a second. “Cool,” he said, nodding. “I’ve always wanted to see what jail looks like.”

And to think I thought he was worried about my well-being.

ELEVEN

I called the girls down for cookies and, after they decimated half the supply, sent them back on their way to play. I finished cleaning up the kitchen all while managing to avoid being accused of any more crimes during the afternoon.

Victory.

I stowed the washed cookie trays and cooling racks and settled on to the oversized couch in the living room. I closed my eyes for a minute before I reached for my laptop. For the next half hour, I searched for anything related to Olaf and Olga. I came up with a big fat nothing. They’d apparently done nothing that would cause Google to sit up and take notice because, other than their addresses and Olaf’s old profile on Around the Corner, there was no other information available about them. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find, but I’d thought I’d learn a little more about them besides the fact that they both resided in Moose River. I sighed and copied Olga’s address, pasting it into a document just so I’d have it.

I closed my computer and tried to put it all out of my mind for awhile. I didn’t want to admit that I was still rattled by her accusations. I called all three kids down, as much for a diversion as because it was time for them to do something other than play. The girls picked up their guitars and practiced for a while—they were determined to learn how to play so they could form some sort of sisterly super group—and Will, after some grumbling, pulled out a math textbook and worked through some problems.

Emily trudged into the house twenty minutes later, just after the other three had gone back upstairs She dropped her massive backpack full of books on the table and pointed her thumb back over her shoulder. “They’re still here.”

I was at the dining room table, waiting for the printer parked nearby to spit out some sheet music I’d found online for the girls. “Yes, they are.”

“When are they leaving?” she demanded.

“I have no idea. When they’re done, I guess.”

She sighed like the world was positively, absolutely about to end. “Everyone knows. Everyone. I hate this.”

“Who is everyone?”

She gave me the perfectly executed teenage look of disdain. “Uh, my friends? Everyone at my school? Those people.”

“And why exactly does that matter?” I asked.

She made a face and unzipped her bag. “Because I’m tired of everyone looking at me like I’m a freak.”

“Maybe your hair was a mess.”

She rolled her eyes but her hand immediately went to her head. She ran her fingers to the end of her long, smooth locks. “And I’m tired of everyone asking me what happened or what’s going on. I’m like, I don’t know people. I can’t help you. Mind you your own dumb business.”

“Well, that’s all you can say,” I said.

“I’d like to be able to say they’re gone and we’re moving to a normal house that doesn’t have dead bodies in it,” she said.

“Well, the body is gone…”

“Mom. You know what I mean.”

If anyone had been against buying the old house, it had really been Emily. And I understood. She was a teenager. Appearances mattered. Space mattered. Her room was small. Privacy was at a minimum. The house didn’t look quaint or historic to her. It looked old and freaky. Her friends lived in the newer neighborhoods in newer houses with big yards and wide streets. Like our old house. And I knew that it embarrassed her a little. Not enough to make me love the house any less, but I tried to be sympathetic.

She also hated the ghost, but not everyone was as pro-ghost as I was.

“They’ll be gone as soon as they can,” I said. I gathered the sheets of paper and tapped the stack, aligning them as best I could. “That’s all I can tell you. I’d think no more than another day.”

She pulled a binder from her bag and dropped it on the table. “And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Then what happens?” she asked. “How do they find out who put that guy…down there?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ll do whatever it is that they do. Probably examine the body and look for…”

“Ew, gross,” she said, wrinkling her nose, then holding up her hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“Glad I could help,” I said.

She reached into her bag again, pulling out her phone this time. “There’s a basketball game on Friday night. Can I go?”

“In town or away?”

Her thumbs danced across the screen. “Here.”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “Who are you going to go with?”

“Just, um, you know. Some people.”

“Em,” I said, my voice sharp. “Who?”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “Well, I don’t exactly know yet,” she said. “Bailey and Noelle, for sure.  And maybe Nathan.”

“Nathan?”

Her cheeks were now the color of tomatoes. “Nathan Sizemore. He’s the one who told me about the game.”

I processed that for a moment. I knew Nathan. He was a nice kid. Tall, skinny, not as awkward as the other fourteen year old boys we knew.

“Sooo. Are you asking to go with Nathan?” I asked. “Like on a date?”

“No,” she said loudly, giving me another eye roll. “He’ll just, like, be there.”

“And do you like him?”

“Mom!”

“Well, do you?”

“Mom, God. Stop.”

“I’m just asking,” I said. I smiled at her. “It’s okay to like a boy, you know. I’d expect you to like boys by now. Or girls. You know I don’t care…”

“Oh my God, Mom!” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “Seriously. Don’t be gross.”

“There’s nothing gross about liking boys. Or girls. It’s perfectly natural.”

She scooped up her bag and binder. “I’m going to my room now.”

“Okay. We can talk about who you like later.”

She groaned, then made a screaming sound through her teeth. Her room was just off the dining room and she slammed the door behind her.

I smiled.

Messing with your kids was one of the biggest benefits of being a mom.

TWELVE

Jake was home just after dark and we all sat down at the table for meatloaf and tater tots. Except for Will, who, again for ethical reasons and stubbornness, refused to eat meat. Instead, he piled his plate high with a mountain of tater tots and gave a running critique as to how they were the third best tater tots he’d ever had. Afterward, the kids cleared the table and then scattered in different directions; Emily to do homework, Will to sneak in another game of Minecraft and the girls to plan the third Barbie wedding of the week.

I retreated to the kitchen to tackle the sink full of dinner dishes. I was standing at the sink, scrubbing the loaf pan that had contained the meatloaf, when Jake came up behind me and snaked his arms around my waist.

“Hi, wife,” he whispered in my ear.

“Hi, husband.”

He kissed my neck and I shivered. “I missed you today.”

“I miss you every day,” I told him.

“It’s not a competition. And that’s what I meant.”

I chuckled and ran the dishes under warm water. “Right.”

He nodded his head at the faucet. “Any issues with that today?”

“Nope. Your mad skills with the hair dryer worked.”

He chuckled and pulled me tighter. “Will just finished grilling me about visiting hours at jails,” he said.

I stiffened.

“Anything you want to share with me?”

I’d avoided telling him about my confrontation with Olga because I didn’t want to get into it at dinner with all four of the kids around. I wasn’t keeping it from him, but I didn’t want four other opinions about what happened either and the kids would’ve felt obligated to offer their best advice.

I shut the water off. “I was going to tell you.”

“Before or after you were arrested?”

“Stop.”

“Just saying. Didn’t know what your plan was.”

I dried off my hands and turned to face him. “I was going to tell you as soon as we were alone.”

“So when Grace moves out?” He pretended to do math in his head. “Ten years from now?”

I tapped him lightly in the chest. “I was going to tell you when little ears weren’t listening.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “It seems clear now.”

So I told him about Olga and our confrontation and her accusations.

He blinked several times. “You pushed another woman?”

“She pushed me first.”

“What grade are you in again? I forget.”

“Jake, she pushed me first,” I said. “And she was standing on the sidewalk, saying terrible things about me. I wasn’t going to just let her do that.”

“Did you do those terrible things?”

“Of course not.”

He smiled. “So then they were irrelevant and you probably didn’t need to start a brawl on the street.”

“It wasn’t a brawl.”

“Streetfight. Sorry.”

“We didn’t even push each other that hard.”

“But to be clear. You did end up wrestling in the snow?”

I thought for a second. “I think we more just fell down in it.”

“And had to be separated by officers of the law, correct?”

I put my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Don’t try to use your feminine wiles on me,” he said, pulling back. “I’m trying to find out exactly what went on here and…”

I kissed him hard on the mouth and he made a sound like a moan before kissing me back. We came up for air and he blinked again several times.

“I forget what we were talking about,” he said.

I grinned. “Feminine wiles win again.”

“Like always.”

A small stampede crashed down the stairs and we both turned toward the living room. Will leapt from the bottom step and then careened into the couch. The two younger girls followed and pinned him to the sofa.

“Help!” he screamed. “Mom! Help!”

“Why?” I asked.

“He took our Barbie wedding cake!” Sophie yelled. “It’s in his pockets!”

“I’m gonna pull your pants off!” Grace yelled, yanking furiously on his sweatpants.

“Be quiet!” Emily’s voice was muffled from behind her closed bedroom door. She was the only one with a main floor bedroom. “I’m trying to study!”

The other three ignored her, hooting and hollering. Will tried to keep a straight face but burst into laughter as both girls held him down. They started laughing, too and soon they all fell to the ground, a squirming, giggling mess.

I untangled myself from Jake’s arms and reached for the stack of mail on the kitchen counter. “Forgot to tell you. We got something from the window people today.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “I’ll bet it’s not a refund.”

I plucked the envelope from the stack and held it out. “I don’t know because I didn’t look.”

He took it from me and tore it open. His eyes scanned it for a moment and his expression soured.

“What?” I asked.

“The estimate to replace the upstairs windows went up by a couple hundred bucks,” he said, shaking his head. “Because we have lead-based paint and I don’t know what else.”

“We don’t have to get them,” I said. “We can wait.”

He tossed the letter on the table. “No, we can’t. It’s too cold up there. We need them replaced.” He sighed. “I just need to rob a bank or something.”

“No more crimes!” Will yelled from the floor of the living room.

“Yeah, Will says we are going to be going to visit someone in jail soon,” Sophie says Her glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. “Are we going to get to go to jail?”

Will’s face colored.

“I want to wear handcuffs!” Grace yelled, sitting on top of Will’s chest.

“No one’s going to jail,” Jake said, shaking his head again. “And I was kidding about robbing a bank. Sort of. But this house has turned into a complete money pit.”

“Stop being so cranky,” I said, hugging him from behind. “And we can wait on the windows.”

“No, we need it done,” he said over his shoulder to me. “But this house is a money pit. The more we put in, the more it needs.”

“Should we move?” I asked.

He turned around, a half-smile on his face. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“Use my feminine wiles again.”

“So, see, there’s no point.”

I squeezed him.

“This house isn’t a money pit,” Will announced, tossing Grace onto Sophie and scrambling to his feet. His hair hung in front of his eyes and I reminded myself again how badly he needed a hair cut.

“What is it then? Jake asked.

He grinned. “With the dead guy in the coal chute? It’s a murder pit.”