Chapter 1 #3
“Detective Frost,” I began slowly, “do I look like someone who would or could do…” I flutter my hand in the air, unable to put the crime into words.
Well, I can put it into words, but it wouldn’t be appropriate around the dinner table or in polite society and I have to think about my image.
I am running for mayor, after all. “Do I look like someone who could do that?”
“That,” he repeats. “Define that.”
“That despicable, disgusting, revolting deed? To myself? For attention?”
His eyes dart from my boiling-red cheeks to my velvet dress. Now he takes notice of my outfit. “Anyone is capable of anything.”
I grit my teeth. “No, Detective. No. I. Did. Not.”
This time, he leans forward into his phone.
“Let the record show, Ms. Lo pleads innocence.” He flips a page, pokes at one of his scribbles.
“You’re very confident you’ll win this election.
‘I have it in strictest confidence that I’ll win.
’ Your words.” Keeping his eyes on me, Elliot reclines and steeples his fingers.
“Why are you so confident, Ms. Lo? To my knowledge, Mapledale loves and respects Mayor Thornberry. Those are pretty big shoes to fill.”
“Not that big,” I blurt out.
Elliot arches a skeptical eyebrow.
I immediately regret my words. “I don’t mean to come off smug,” I backtrack. “What I mean is, I grew up in Mapledale. I love Mapledale. I am Mapledale.”
“I’m familiar with your campaign slogan,” he interrupts. “It’s plastered on all the lampposts. You don’t need to recite it to me.”
“I know it sounds cheesy, but I speak from the heart. This town is in my blood and I’m the lifeblood of Mapledale. I’m involved in every event, charity drive, potluck. I even volunteer to clean out the gutters at the senior center. I truly love Mapledale with my entire soul.”
“What a very impressive résumé,” he says. “But does Mapledale love you?”
“Of course. I know everyone in town on a first name basis. Everyone is a friend.”
“Are they?” Before I can respond, he taps a few keys on his laptop and flips it around.
My fingernails sink into my chair’s armrest. “Oh dear mother of–” I turn my head away.
“I’ve taken the liberty of enhancing the crime scene photos you sent me,” he says. “I want you to take a good look.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want to.”
“Why so squeamish? You took the photo.”
“Out of necessity,” I say, fighting the urge to toss my cookies. “I know what happened. I don’t need to relive this.”
“Look at the photo, Ms. Lo.”
“No!”
“Ms. Lo… Holly.” He clears his throat. “Look at the photo.”
“I don’t need to look,” I say. “I know what’s there.”
“For the record,” he says, “what is that on your living room floor, under your Christmas tree, three inches shy of your tree skirt?”
Begrudgingly, I open my eyes and face the offending picture. Elliot leaves his seat and perches himself on the edge of his desk.
“Three lumps of coal,” I mutter. “Someone left me three lumps of coal.”
He snorts. “That’s a nice way of putting it,” he says.
“Ms. Lo, this is the reason why you need my assistance. Someone in Mapledale doesn’t like you.
In fact, by the deliberate nature of this crime, I’d say someone in Mapledale hates you.
Someone you know and trust. It’s time to stop deluding yourself and face facts. So for the record, will you cooperate?”
Gritting my teeth, I give him a curt nod.
He slaps his laptop shut and pushes his phone toward me, Voice Memo still running. “What happened on the night of November 24th?”
I take a shaky breath and meet his eye. “I was hosting Thanksgiving dinner…”
“And what happened at 10:55 pm? After all the guests have left?”
“I was cleaning up when I discovered…” I gulp down another wave of revulsion. “I discovered that under my Christmas tree.”
“Three lumps of coal,” he repeats. “But it isn’t coal, is it?”
“No,” I sob. “It’s most definitely not coal.”
“What is it, Holly?”
He says my name softly, compassionately, and I burst into tears. “It’s poop!”
“Three giant turds,” he hands me a tissue. “Let the record show,” he speaks into his phone, “Ms. Lo is convinced the feces is not animal, but…” he clears his throat, “Human.”
A full body shiver zips through me.
“One of your guests shat on your carpet, didn’t they?”
“Yes! Yes! Someone took a dump under my Christmas tree!”
So far, I’ve successfully compartmentalized last night’s events, blacked out everything except the pertinent details. Now it comes flooding back. The texture of the turd. The scent. The smear…On my brand new carpet.
I want to gag.
I do gag.
Elliot hands me another bottle of water and watches patiently as I drain it.
He pats me on the back, rubbing calming circles between my shoulder blades.
“Tell me everything you were doing. The music you played. If the TV was on. What kind of food you served and when you served them. Time frames, if you can remember them. I want any photos you or anyone one at the crime scene snapped. The guest list, those who showed up, those who declined.”
I take a shuddering breath. I’m violated and disgusted, vulnerable and enraged.
The thought that someone I trusted, someone I invited into my home, would do something so unforgivably rude as to go to the bathroom on my living room floor.
In the middle of a party, no less. How many people saw him? Or her? Or them? Was there a cover-up?
My God…
How many of my friends and family were complicit in this crime?
Strangely enough, Detective Frost’s unexpected interrogation has riled me up.
I want vengeance against the person or persons who ruined my Thanksgiving party. Cold revenge that could only be sated by the hot blood of justice.
“Names,” he says. “I want names.”
“I’ll give you names… I’ll give you the whole damn guest list.” I crumple my water bottle and chuck it on the floor.
Acquiescing to the drama of the moment, Elliot picks up the bottle and tosses it into the recycling bin behind his desk.
I blow my nose. “Promise me you’ll catch ‘em, Detective. Can you catch them before Christmas?”
“I make no promises,” he says, then adds with a touch of pride, “but I assure you I’m very good at my job.”
“Good,” I say. “Catch ‘em and make them pay. I want to know which one of my guests shat on my floor!”