Fatal flip, p.15
Fatal Flip, page 15
I shut the door and aimed the flashlight into the corners of the building. In the solitude, I felt my heart pounding. I stilled myself, listening to my sixth sense as I trained the light into crevasses. I paced the length and the width of the stall. A spot of glitter made me halt as I focused the light up and down the open studs of the structure. I sucked in my breath.
It was there. Peeking out, was a tiny gleam of silver. It was at the top of a stud, front and center of the garage. I looked around. How could I reach the top? There was no step ladder.
Gripping the flashlight, I extended my arm as far as it could go, and jumped at the cross. Maybe, I could knock it off the ledge. No dice. It sat, mocking me. Desperately, I inspected the stall. It was at that moment; I spied a one-by-six length of wood propped in a corner of the garage. The wood was likely left over from Wayne’s shelving project for Ariel.
I positioned my flashlight on the floor, trained on the silver object, and went for the wood. Hoisting the piece by one end, I aimed. It was shorter by about two feet than what was needed to reach the cross. I lifted my arms taking a swipe at the silver piece, and missed it. The tip of silver sat, scornful of my aim. I took another jab at the shiny object; it stirred an inch. Grunting at the weight of the wood, I extended my arms again, jumping, putting my weight into another thrust.
The silver piece spun around and flew off the edge, bouncing off a wall stud. Awesome. It landed at the side of the garage. Grabbing the flashlight, I went to the silver cross. Taking the plastic baggie from my pocket, I bent to scoop up the crucifix gleaming back at me.
Ariel’s garage door snapped open. A car’s headlights blinded me as the driver revved the engine. Swiftly bagging the cross and stuffing the baggie in my pants pocket, I faced the car. Shielding my eyes, I saw Paul Seever behind the driver’s seat of Ariel’s Jaguar, his face twisting in rage.
I dashed to one side of the garage; the car narrowly missed me. It squealed to a stop. Seever threw the car into park, flinging open the driver’s door, blocking my exit from the garage stall.
More adrenalin kicked in and I scrambled to the side garage door. I breezed out, my breath coming in jagged gasps. I ran to the patio door of my townhouse and kept running, past my patio, past Mrs. Gilman’s, to Ariel’s patio door.
Miraculously, it was open. I said a prayer, thanking God or whoever was in charge of open doors, and slipped in. Slamming the slider, I ran to Ariel’s bedroom closet and hid, crouching, making myself as small as possible. I heard Paul pounding on the door to my house as I snatched my cellphone from my jacket pocket and dialed 9-1-1.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Come quick, there’s a killer pounding at my door!” I whispered hoarsely into the earpiece.
“Could you speak up? Repeat your emergency.”
“THERE’S A KILLER POUNDING AT MY DOOR!” I shook with fear, panicked that Paul could come to Ariel’s door at any moment.
At that moment, I heard what sounded like a kick and the sound of my townhouse door breaking into a million pieces.
“YOWL!” Boots yelled, “YOWL, YOWL!” My blood started boiling and it felt like my chest would explode. With a surge of adrenalin, I screamed my address to the operator. In the distance, I heard sirens whine. I burst out of Ariel’s closet.
“DON’T YOU DARE HURT MY CAT!” I yelled into the dark bedroom. I went for the light switch, gagging with the profusion of lilac and purple colors in the bedroom.
I scanned the room for any kind of weapon. Not much. I strained to hear Paul’s movements in my townhouse. It was quiet, too quiet. Then, I spied the wall shelf Wayne had made for Ariel propped against the dresser. I hefted the ornate, sturdy, red oak piece and headed out. I threw open Ariel’s entry door.
“BOOTS! COME HERE!”
Boots came barreling out of my townhouse, running towards me. He scampered past me into the safety of Ariel’s living room and hid. Paul Seever was a couple feet behind the cat. His face still contorted with fury, the grease holding his slicked-back hair shining eerily from the lighting in the hallway. He held a black revolver.
“YOU BITCH!” He waved the gun at me.
I threw the shelf, aiming for Paul’s groin.
He pulled the trigger, pieces of door molding splintered beside my head. I ducked back inside Ariel’s townhouse, slamming the door. In a frenzy, I threw the deadbolt.
“OWWWE!” a scream of pain echoed from the other side of the door. Relief swept through me; the weight had hit its target. I slumped against the door. About to peer through the peephole of Ariel’s door, Sheriff Don’s stern voice ordered, “DON’T SHOOT, PAUL!”
Then I heard the sound of a gun blast.
CHAPTER 23
Paul had put the gun barrel against his temple, and pulled the trigger. The rest of night was a blur.
The next day, the sheriff asked me to come to the station and go through the events.
“Something told me Paul had hid the cross the night Ariel died,” I said, accepting a cup of coffee from the sheriff. “He couldn’t have the cross on his body with the police around. Besides Ariel’s bathroom, he’d been in her car, parked in her garage. He couldn’t risk being stopped and searched—so he must have hidden the cross in the first place he found. He just threw it in the rafters. He forgot the formaldehyde and had to retrieve the bottle from her bathroom.”
“He figured if he got caught with the formaldehyde—it was a lesser offense than murder. Drug charges wouldn’t get him a long stretch behind bars—like killing Ariel would,” the sheriff said. “Death was the better route in his mind, than if he got arrested for murder.”
“That’s true,” I nodded. “A murder conviction would mean a long sentence.”
“It was still a foolish thing for you to do, Kate. Sheriff Don held my eyes with his own deep blue ones, and I felt my face flush. “You should have called me.”
“It was just a hunch.” I shrugged, and shifted in my chair across from him. “Too bad Paul showed up while I was searching the garage.”
“It was smart you went to Ariel’s townhouse—and didn’t lead him back to yours,” he said.
“I knew he’d come after me. He knew where I lived.” I added, “It was a stroke of luck Ariel’s patio door was open.”
“Dang it!” Sheriff Don muttered, groaning. He leaned back and slapped the side of his head.
“What?”
“I bet the technicians left the door open when they disassembled the drain. They said the unit smelled, so they aired the place out.”
“It’s possible the lock didn’t fully engage. Stuff happens.”
“I’ll talk to them. Sloppy work. Can’t leave a crime scene open to the public,” the sheriff grumbled. “They should have checked the door.”
“I’m glad they didn’t. Or if they did, it didn’t open.” I paused. “It let me evade Paul.” I met the Sheriff’s gaze squarely, raising my eyebrows.
“Lucky break,” the sheriff agreed, his attitude changed. “Kate, you know best from living in the townhouses. I suppose, they could have shut the door. The latch didn’t catch, but the dang door didn’t open when they checked it.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “I’m sure that’s what happened.”
“That takes care of everything, Kate.” His eyes glowed, and his face lit up with a broad smile.
I was rattled, but not so flustered I hadn’t noticed it was the third time Sheriff Don had used “Kate” instead of his usual “Katelyn.” Or, that he hadn’t used the dreadful, “Ms. Baxter,” and that he actually smiled at me.
Standing up, my knees buckled, and I felt a rush of blood to my face.
“Maybe you should take a few more minutes.” He came around his desk, and put a hand on each shoulder to steady me. My body warmed with the touch of his hands. I gazed up into his eyes and felt my stomach lurch. As my legs regained stability, the moment passed. He let his hands drop.
“You, okay?” He looked away; his voice businesslike.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrugged. The air filled with tension. Get a grip, Katelyn. You must be insane. This is an officer of the law. For just a moment, a tiny moment, I thought I saw something more in the sheriff’s eyes. Something that said I was more than a crazy lady, with dead people showing up around me.
I turned to leave.
“Thanks, Kate. Thank you for your help.” I observed the sheriff. His voice was low and his eyes had a twinkle again.
“Not a problem,” I said, confused and puzzled. Maybe I wasn’t insane—just delusional. It happens with stress.
“Kate! I came as soon as I heard the news!” Myra exclaimed. She surprised me, waiting outside the sheriff’s door.
I was never happier to see her, with her perfectly styled hair and designer outfit.
She hugged me, putting her arm around my shoulders, “You need a drink.”
“Uh huh, a stiff drink, or a very large glass of wine.”
“Let’s go. Sheriff?” Myra viewed the sheriff. He stood at the doorway, and studied the two of us. “Is there anything else?”
“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “Kate, I’ll be in touch.”
The gears appeared to turn inside Myra’s head. “Kate?” she whispered into my ear as we left.
“I know.” I looked at her, bewildered. “He started calling me Kate and being all friendly.”
“See what happens when you’re a little nicer,” Myra crooned, a satisfied smile on her face. “He’s a good man.”
“I think he was just happy to wrap up Ariel’s murder,” I said, dismissing any romantic interest.
“You helped him with that. My brother will be pleased.”
“Harrumph,” I replied, glancing at her. “I need wine. Let’s get a drink.”
When we got to Popov’s, we found a booth and ordered a bottle of chardonnay. I drank most of it; thankful Ariel’s killer was gone for good.
CHAPTER 24
It was Sunday morning. Myra and I were at the Bluebird Street house preparing for the showing. She could tell I was cautious after our last open and gave me a pep talk.
“Everyone is a potential buyer, and we all have to live somewhere. Someone may as well buy your house. You would be doing them a favor.” Her words cheered me.
Shortly after we opened the home, a young couple entered with two young girls. One girl appeared to be about two or three. The other was a baby, wearing a pink bonnet, gripping a binkie, and carried by her father. The three-year old held her mother’s hand as the couple examined the renovated house. The woman took a spec sheet and showed it to the man.
“I think we can even afford this house.” He grinned at the young woman.
He went to the basement while she toured the main level with the toddler. “Honey, there’s new carpeting in the basement,” the man yelled. The woman followed his voice to the lower level and said, “Oh, that will be great for the girls!”
Myra and I looked at one another as we waited in the kitchen. I whispered, “These people seem normal.”
“I told you so,” she replied, smiling, her voice low and hushed.
“At last!” I grinned at Myra while the couple with their young children went through the house, oohing and loving everything from the layout to the color palette. I heard the happy sounds of money going into my bank account, instead of out. In a burst of optimism, I took sales forms from my messenger bag.
“Would you like to put an offer on the home?” I asked the couple when they finished their inspection.
They glanced at each other. The man said, “It’s a strong contender. There are a couple of other houses in the neighborhood we wanted to see. Can we take your card?”
“Sure.” I masked my disappointment. They had been so excited. “I could call later to see how your home shopping went and answer any other questions you might have?”
“No. No, that’s okay,” he said, adding, “We’ll call you.”
“Sure.” I handed him my business card.
“I’ll call you,” the man promised, as he accepted my card.
“We love the house,” the woman said, with a huge smile, lifting her little girl into her arms.
“I’m happy you do. Thank you for stopping by.” I escorted the couple to the door.
“They’ll be back. You’ll see,” Myra said, assuring me.
“I hope so. I’d sure like to give up that market research gig.” Meg and Roxy from the liquor distributor hadn’t called.
I collected the brochures and stuffed them into my bag at the close of the open house. The house locked, Myra and I started for our vehicles. It was then a van caught my attention, driven by a familiar face. We both paused, watching the vehicle pass, mesmerized by the name emblazoned across the side, “Prize Patrol.”
“Myra,” I gasped. “It’s Dave Sayer—and the prize patrol van!”
“The what?” Myra was perplexed. The van slowed.
I had never divulged my obsession for winning a Publisher’s Clearing House Prize. One of the prizes promised $5,000 a week for life. It was my little daydream. To win PCH sweepstakes and never do consumer research again.
“Hey, Dave! Over here!” I gestured at the van, hopping as I waved.
Dave grinned, waved back, and kept driving to some other lucky winner’s house. We watched until the van disappeared from sight. After I calmed down, I told Myra about the sweepstakes and the promise of riches to the recipient of the lucky winning number. You only had to return the entry form with the matching numbers to be set for life.
Myra sniffed and said, “Sounds like a waste of time and a stamp to me.”
“You gotta have dreams, Myra,” I maintained.
“Whatever.” She gave me a sidewise gaze that said I had lost my mind. Myra can be too practical sometimes.
We picked up the open house signs, and dropped them at my car. I followed Myra to her spotless SUV, plucked a few flyers from my bag and handed them to her. She might know a buyer or two. We knew advertising the house in her neighborhood was a long shot. But the house could be an investment property for one of her wealthy neighbors—or a starter home for the offspring of the well-to-do. You never knew.
Back home, I heard the telephone ring as I unlocked the door. I rushed in, leaving the door ajar and dashed to the phone.
“Hello!?”
“I’m calling for Katelyn Baxter,” a youthful sounding man said.
“This is she.”
“Hi, we were at the showing for the house on Bluebird Street. My wife and I would like to make an offer.”
“Excellent.” I managed to keep my voice even, but couldn’t hide a giddy tone as I responded. “I could meet you at the house to do the paperwork.”
“About four thirty or five?” he offered.
“Perfect.”
I had about an hour to get myself together, grab a quick bite, and present myself as a professional agent, and owner. It was a stretch. I’d need to be a quick study going through the forms the couple had to sign.
“You can do this,” I repeated a mantra in front of the mirror, as I freshened my make-up and tamed my hair with spray. I grabbed my bag with the forms, adding a manila envelope and new file folder, all the while doing a happy dance.
Later, while I drove, I said a few prayers in homage to my ad hoc religious upbringing. Another disaster whose scars I bear. You don’t want to know.
I tried Myra on my cell. It went to voicemail, “Hi, Myra. The couple from the open house this morning wants to make a bid. I’m on my way to Bluebird. We’re going to meet between four thirty and five. If you can make it, great. Otherwise, I’ll be talking to you.”
The young couple was already there when I pulled up and parked in front of the house. They had apparently arranged childcare and were viewing the outside.
“We can get a puppy for the girls,” the young woman said, enthused as she gazed into the chain-link, fenced backyard.”
“There’s a storage shed for the lawn mower,” the young man added.
“We can have a garden,” the woman said, a glow lighting up her face.
I was buoyed by the enthusiasm of the pair. They followed me to the door. Smiling, I opened the entry, and glanced over my shoulder at the two. “If your financing goes through, it sounds like you folks have a house.”
The couple exchanged glances.
“Sure,” the woman said. A tiny ping of doubt sounded in my consciousness. I squelched it, and let the couple in.
Inside, the man faced me, clearing his throat, “We aren’t exactly prequalified.”
“Okay. You need to find a lender. Usually, it’s the bank you do business with,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “We can do that.”
“I gather this is your first home purchase?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And you have a job?”
“Oh, yeah. For sure.”
I scrutinized the earnest young man and his wife. The gangly man had blemishes around his chin. The woman appeared more mature, but still very young.
“Do you mind if I ask how old you two are?” I asked, wincing.
“I am twenty-one years old.” He drew himself to his full height, which I calculated just over a skinny six feet.
“I’m twenty-two. Mark married an older woman,” his wife giggled.
“Cougar,” he said, laughing.
“We met in high school. We worked at the local deli sandwich shop.”
“Where do you work now?”
“Big Mart!” they said together.
“Okay.” In the back of my mind with a sinking heart, I calculated what a couple with children and working at a discount store—even a major retailer, would have for an income. I struggled to keep an open mind. Being young, didn’t make one irresponsible.
“Where do you live now?”
“We live with Mark’s parents,” the young woman responded.
“Oh,” I brightened, thinking mom and dad could help them out.
“Yeah, they want us out because they’re splitting up, and want to sell the house, so his dad can get his own digs.”
What ever happened to happily ever after, and in sickness in health, I thought, sorting the forms, and marking the spaces for the pair to sign. Yikes, this is getting messy.
