Chapter 24
What the actual hell? Who is there left to murder, Tond??
I hyperventilate in the middle of the shrubbery for a hot second and then try really hard to get my shit together. I cannot stay here. I’m way out of my league, way too unarmed, and this is way too many murders for one neighborhood.
My brain screams Abort! Abort!
But then there’s a second bang from inside the house, and I flinch, instinctively reaching up to cover my ears. Which means
I accidentally drop the leashes, giving the cursed dogs their much-desired freedom. They make a break for it.
“NO!” I whisper-scream, my soul leaving my body. I dive through the bushes to catch the leashes as they snake away from me
and disappear into the night.
Shitshitshit.
I pick myself up and chase the dogs back into the front yard, just in time to watch them bolt up the front stairs where Jacques
proceeds to stand on his hind legs, press on the door handle, open the door, and trot inside. The other two follow happily. I make a sort of gurgle sound and run after them.
Okay, this is the exact opposite of Abort! Abort! But what am I supposed to do? I can’t leave the dogs there with a murderer. I’ve got to think on my feet. I’ve got to stay
calm and take control of the situation. I’ve got to channel both Hannah and Rodney O’Malley. As much as I want to run, I can’t
retreat when I’m this close.
The door is wide open, and I step inside the entryway, cautiously checking both ways for somebody waving a gun around. All
I see is Jacques’s tail to the left, disappearing through the archway into the living room, where Jean and Lou are jumping
on and off the sofas in a frenzy. The house is quiet, except for the sound of jingling collars and dog breath.
And also someone crying.
It’s coming from farther into the house.
Shitshitshitshit.
I inch through the archway, hoping I won’t have to do anything heroic, because I really had not thought past this moment,
and also I am not a heroic type of person.
But I’m sure as hell not getting this far and then leaving here without the confession I came for.
I duck next to the couch and reach for Jacques, who’s the closest to me. He gleefully dodges my outstretched hand and trots
off across the living room and through the doorway to the kitchen.
Where Tond is.
Get back here, Jacques! I scream in my head. There’s a killer in there! With a gun!
The killer’s voice wobbles out of the kitchen as he sings . . . the “Ave Maria”? From somewhere in there, Jacques begins to
howl along.
How is this my life.
“Tond! Let the dog go!” I call out from behind the couch cushion that I am currently holding in front of me as a shield. “Put down the gun and let the dog go, and I’ll give you back your money!”
Hey, wow, not bad, actually. I sound pretty legit.
There’s a pause while he sniffles. “Who’s there?”
I clear my throat and try again.
“Tond! Who did you shoot? Is someone hurt?”
“Everybody Hurts!” he announces, before launching into a new song.
Really thought a murderer would be a little less, I don’t know, ADHD about it? “Tond! Who did you just kill?”
“I think—I think I killed the calendar,” he wails.
My heartbeat is pounding frantically in my throat and my face and my eyes as I creep closer to the kitchen—until finally I
see the carnage.
Tond is sitting on the floor near the kitchen table—surrounded by jars of pickles and other unidentifiable vegetables in jars.
Across from him is the red splatter, and at the base of the wall below it lies a shattered jar that once held . . . beets?
Okay then, Tond murdered some beets.
A second shattered jar—what looks like pickled okra—apparently hit the wall a few feet away, against a calendar. Turns out
the difference between gunshots and pickle jars shattering is not as big as I would have guessed.
Tond looks up and spots me.
“You?” he asks, wiping his nose pathetically.
I step into the kitchen and wave.
He frowns. “The secret girlfriend?”
Oh right.
“Hello again,” I say, caution sensors blaring in my head. “So you didn’t shoot . . . a person?”
He points sheepishly at the calendar on the wall, which I can now see is a kind of pinup calendar but of Cran and his three dogs.
The August photo has him lying on the grass, the three dogs sitting behind him in a line.
One dog—Jacques, obviously—has his paw resting on Cran’s shoulder.
There’s something inappropriately sexy about the whole thing.
“I threw the last jar of pickled beets, Cran’s special recipe.” He starts to cry again. “He’ll never make any more.”
There’s an awkward pause and then he picks up the bottle next to him and takes a big swig of . . .
“I’m sorry, is that cooking sherry?”
“Secret girlfriend, you are very observant.” He takes another swig. “Cran didn’t drink, so this is all he has, okay? It’s
disgusting, but I deserve to be punished.”
Oh. This is Cran’s house. No wonder Jacques knew how to open the door—wait, nope. A dog opening a door is not reasonable, no matter how you
cut it.
Tond wipes his eyes, then pinches a pickle out of a jar and chomps on it, staring directly at me. It feels aggressive, but
I’m not sure why.
“I guess you could say I like to dance with death,” he says, accidentally spitting pickle bits in my general vicinity.
Now that I’m face-to-face with the neighborhood murderer, who seems to be both drunk and sad, I’ll admit he seems more pathetic
than scary. I also can’t say I understand the pickle situation, but maybe that’s how murderers operate, by undermining your
confidence with weird stuff.
Not this time, buddy.
Weird doesn’t even faze me anymore.
“Time to turn yourself in,” I say. “I know exactly what you did.”
“You do?” He blinks at me. “How?”
It’s go time. The big moment. Is. Happening. Okay, Mo. Muster all your grown-up confidence here. And also . . . see if you can find your recording app with the phone still in your pocket.
Oof, really shoulda had that ready to go.
Time to stall.
I make my way across the kitchen tile, trying not to step on any glass shards, as I shove my hand in my pocket and hope I
get the PIN right without looking. “Where to even begin?” I say. “It’s a classic case. I mean just look at you.”
He whimpers a little.
Hmm, can I pull my phone out just a little bit without him noticing? I turn away like I’m examining the beet-splattered calendar and peek at my screen. Shit. Messed
up my PIN. I unlock the phone and spin back around. “You murdered your brother!”
Tond gasps and chokes a little bit on a pickle. He starts coughing and wheezing. Do I need to do the Heimlich? I don’t know
the Heimlich.
He holds up a finger. “I’m okay,” he croaks. “I’m okay.”
“You are the opposite of okay!” I say, discreetly thumbing through my apps. Do I HAVE a recording app, even? “You wanted Cran’s
house and his life! He was cramping your style. He had to be eliminated.”
Yes! Found it.
Ugh, what? I need to put in my email? Jesus.
I keep stalling. “Because you wanted Johnston Bros Real Estate to be Johnston brO Real Estate, didn’t you? Didn’t you? brO?”
Okay, I’ve finally got the app going, and I hit record just in time. God, I’m good. I’m looming over him now in what is hopefully
an intimidating way, so close I can smell the nose-tingling aroma of pickled beets and sherry.
Tond pauses midchew, eyes welling up with tears. “You guys had something really special, I can see that now.” He nods. “You deserve to know the truth.”
Oh shit.
Here we go.