Chapter 4
Four
“Okay… This is getting real.”
Nothing this exciting ever happens in Mapledale. It’s like I’m in the middle of a hard-hitting thriller and it’s absolutely… thrilling.
I’m a novice when it comes to crime scene investigation, so maybe detectives leaping out of windows is the norm.
I poke my head outside.
Elliot is nowhere in sight.
Does he want me to follow him? “Elliot? Where are you?”
Crickets.
I glance down. It’s only a foot drop to the porch. I hoist my leg over the ledge, landing on the wooden boards with an unsteady hop-step.
“Elliot?”
“Here!”
“Where?”
“Here!”
Following his voice, I round the corner to find Detective Frost photographing a cobweb-smothered eve. For a moment, I watch him work. He’s suspicious of every twig and leaf, sniffing the extended crime scene like a bloodhound.
A hot bloodhound with tousled raven hair and a green trench coat that flaps in the breeze like a cape.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and forget that he called me a narcissist and accused me of defecating under my own tree.
All that’s water under the bridge. Just watching him work so tirelessly, so chivalrously, in the pursuit of justice, well… I find that very alluring.
“Do you need any help? What are we doing next? Dusting for prints?” I take a step forward, eager to offer my assistance. If he’s Sherlock Holmes, that makes me Dr. Watson. I don’t mind being Watson. He’s not so much a sidekick as a partner.
Partners in solving crime… I like the sound of that.
Elliot pokes his head up, noticing me for the first time. “I’ve found a footprint,” he says, gesturing to the ground. “Don’t step on it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, sidestepping the print. I don’t really see ‘foot’ in this vague smudge of dirt. Then again, I’m not the professional.
“I’ve found a blue fiber, possibly from a sweater,” he says, yanking out a pair of tweezers from his inner coat pocket.
“What else do you keep in there?” I ask, hovering over his shoulder as he gingerly plucks the blue thread from the banister and drops it into a plastic bag. “Are you carrying a piece?”
Elliot frowns over his shoulder as if I’ve just said the stupidest thing in the world. “I don’t think I need to be armed in my line of work.”
“Makes sense.”
Mapledale isn’t what it used to be, but compared to New York City, it’s probably as boring as dirt. “But you used to be armed, right? When you were part of the force. Have you ever…?” My eyes widen. “You know…”
“What?”
I drew a finger over my throat. “Roughed anyone up? Will you rough up the perp once we catch ‘em?”
“That’s not part of my job,” he says dryly.
“Got it,” I tap the tip of my nose, “you don’t want to talk about it.”
He frowns. “Are you saying you want me to rough up the perp?”
“No…” I pause for a moment. “Depends on who it is. If it’s my mom, for instance, absolutely not. If the perp is truly a derelict who broke in and defaced my living room…” I chew on my inner cheek. “Maybe shake him a little?”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me. “Shake him? As in, you want me to beat him up?”
“I didn’t say ‘beat him’ up. Just… you know… scare him stiff.”
“Scare him by sending him to the hospital?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Interesting…” Keeping his stern gaze on me, Elliot flips open his notepad and jots something down.
“What are you writing?” I try to sneak a peek at his notes.
“Just some thoughts.” Flipping his notebook shut, he gestures at my Christmas light smothered banister. “That’s a hell of a lot of lights,” he says. “Are you trying to be seen from space?”
Okay, I take it back. In a moment of weakness, I resumed my crush on Elliot Frost. A bloodhound detective is only alluring when he’s using his skills to protect you, not bite you. Now he’s insulting my Christmas decor? That’s going for the jugular.
“Actually, I am,” I say with a curt nod. “There’s an annual Christmas lights contest in town.”
“Let me guess,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “you always win.”
“I don’t win every year, thank you very much. Last year I came in second place, but this year, I’ve got a game plan…”
I draw his attention to the giant inflatable snow globe on my front lawn. When inflated, there’s a cozy scene of an Emperor penguin family caroling in the snow.
“This year’s theme is ‘Festive Penguin Colony.’ It’s still in the works, but I plan to run a track around the snow globe and populate it with a train full of caroling penguins.
There’s going to be two snow machines pumping artificial snow and twinkling snowflakes dangling from the trees.
And over here,” I point to the second-story window, “I’ll project Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and over here, a hot choc—“
Elliot holds up a hand to stop me. “I’m sorry I asked. Now show me your backyard,” he says, turning away before I could snap back.
“I think you may be a real life Scrooge, Detective,” I say, following him.
“I’m trying to do my job.” He grumbles over his shoulder.
“I don’t really need to know about your Christmas decorations.
If you want to waste your money talking about penguins, then I’ll pull up a chair and listen, I suppose…
But if you want to avoid another turd under your tree on Christmas Day, then we better hustle. ”
“Got it.” I roll my eyes. “‘Just the facts, Ma’am.’”
“Yup.”
I make a face at his back. “Bah Humbug.”
He turns around. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Compared to my immaculate front lawn, my backyard is an embarrassment. One day I hope to add a vegetable garden and a fire pit for backyard barbecues. In the meantime, the backyard is just a sprawling sea of dead grass and overgrown weeds.
Elliot beelines to the fence of bramble bushes at the farthest end of my backyard. “What’s behind here?”
“The old Brody farm,” I say. “It’s been abandoned since Old Man Brody died with no heirs. That was decades ago.”
“Hm.” He paces the length of the brambles until he comes upon a break in the bush.
Meeting my eye, he squats down on his haunches and snaps a photo. “See this?”
I crouch down next to him. “A footprint.”
“Sneakers. Men’s size 8 would be my guess,” he says, jotting down a few notes. “Or Women’s size 9.5.”
“So we’re looking for a small-footed man or a large-footed woman,” I say.
Elliot points his pen to the gap in the bush. “What grows there?”
“Only wild pumpkins.”
He frowns. “The Brody farm is abandoned, you say?”
“As far as anyone knows...” I turn to him. “Unless we’re assuming the perp is a homeless man who’s secretly living in the old house? Why would a stranger do it? It makes no sense.”
“You’re right,” he nods. “It makes no goddamn sense. What’s the motive here?”
Elliot stands up and shoulders his way through the gap. “This field is as big as a baseball field.”
“And that’s not even half of it,” I say, swatting my way through to the other side.
I point to the dilapidated barn behind the boarded up Victorian.
“Suppose there’s a squatter on the Brody farm,” I say, stretching my arms wide to demonstrate.
“Plenty of places to go to the bathroom in the Brody house. Not to mention hundreds of open acres, all this nature… The great outdoors is like a beckoning bathroom with no one around to judge. Why go to the trouble of breaking into my home?”
Elliot strokes his chin. “In the middle of a party…”
Our eyes lock.
In that moment, we become a hive mind.
“Without stealing anything or holding us all up at gunpoint,” I add. “To my knowledge, nothing was stolen. Nothing was tampered with.”
“And then take a dump,” he continues. “A non-urgent, constipated dump in a roomful of people.”
“Something doesn’t add up. I want to clear my friends and family of this crime more than anything, Detective,” I say, “but I don’t think a stranger did it.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “This is an inside job.”
“This really sucks, Elliot.”
“I know. I know. Come on,” he says, batting back the bushes so we could return to my backyard.
“I was hoping a stranger did it,” I say.
He snorts. “You’re really gunning for a theoretical stranger.”
“I’m counting on it. It’s the lesser of two evils. It would save me the awkwardness of confronting someone I know. And to think that someone I let into my home was sick enough to do this to me, in a roomful of guests…” I shake my head. “I’m going to need therapy for life.”
“I don’t envy your situation, Ms. Lo,” he says. “It’s rough. These cases are always rough.”
Keeping pace with him, I glance up expectantly. “Do you have a lot of experience with bizarre cases?”
He drops his head. “A fair amount.”
“How does my case rank?”
“It’s not the strangest I’ve seen,” he says, “but it’s up there.”
My eyes widen. “Up there with the homicides?”
He stops in his tracks. “Homicides?”
“Yes.” I frown, puzzled that he’s puzzled. “You worked homicide in the city, right?”
“I had some homicide-related cases. What did you think…” He eyes my house, then does a double take. “Hey! Was your basement open all night?”
I’m startled by his question. “I haven’t been to the basement in weeks…”
We jog back to the house. Someone had flung one of the basement doors wide open.
Meeting my worried gaze, Elliot yanks open the other door. “I’ll go first.”
“Wait!”
I jog to the shed and return with a very big stick. It’s actually a branch that fell from the maple tree, but it’s girthy enough to bludgeon someone if the need arises.
Elliot frowns. “What’s that?”
“Protection,” I lift the stick, “what if there’s someone down there? Maybe I should go first since I’ve got the weapon?”
His mouth twitches. “If it gets too scary down there, I’ll cry for help.” He yanks out his phone, activates the flashlight. “Stay behind me,” he orders as he descends the steps. “But not too close.”
“Roger.” I tighten my grip on the stick.
Keeping his eyes peeled on the staircase, Elliot takes one step…
Two…
On the third step, he reels and retreats, almost knocking me over. “Get back! Get back!” he shouts, sounding like a SWAT team leader.
“Oh my God! What is it? Is it a bomb?” I hover over his crippled, gagging form. “Poison gas?”
“It’s definitely biological warfare…” Elliot hunches over, hands braced against knees, trying to catch his breath. He’s pale, sweaty, and shaken. “I’ve seen many vile things in my career,” he says between breaths, “but that is by far the most disgusting.”
I clasp my hands over my mouth, paralyzed by terror.
I assumed he’d found a dead body in the basement, but this is somehow worse?
How can it be worse? A crime scene so gruesome that it could topple a tough homicide detective like Elliot?
I take a deep breath, my imagination working overtime.
A serial killer is on the loose and he’s randomly using my basement as storage for his talismans.
“Give it to me straight,” I say. “How many bodies are we talkin’ about here?”
“Bodies?” Elliot straightens up. “There are no bodies.”
I frown. “Then why were you so squeamish?”
“It took me by surprise,” he says. “I’m not great with smells.”
“Not great with smells?” I repeat, confused. “But you were a homicide detective.”
Elliot does a double take. “A homicide detective? What gave you that idea? I’m not even a cop! I’ve never seen a dead body in person. In photos, yeah. In person..” He shivers. “Never.”
“What? But you’re a private eye, so I thought you were a cop in a past life!”
“I was an insurance fraud investigator,” he says.
“What?” With a furious glance at him, I take a step toward my basement.
“I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” Elliot coughs into the weeds, “at least not without a full HAZMAT suit.”
“Of all the… insurance fraud?” I thought I’d hired a big bad ex-cop to help protect me. This guy can’t even stand the sight of blood.
I roll up my sleeves and take a bold step forward. My phone bathes the narrow stairwell in harsh light.
It doesn’t take long before I spot it…
There it is.
Sitting aggressively on the third step.
A gargantuan burrito of a turd.
Waiting for me to step on it.
I stumble backward, covering my nose in the crook of my elbow.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lo,” Elliot says, swatting me on the back as I dry heave in the grass.
“I’m ashamed to admit that I never took your case seriously.
I’d already filed it away as a petty small town squabble like that turkey ‘napping case I had a few weeks ago, but this is serious. Somebody has it out for you and they’re stalking you with feces. ”
I lift my head just enough to meet his apologetic gaze. “And making sure I step in it?”
Elliot’s jaw clenches into a vengeful line.
“We might need to consider the possibility of a second sh — pooper.” He tugs on his collar.
In a hassled voice that portends bad things to come, he utters the dreadful words that spell the ruin of my holidays: “This conspiracy runs deeper than we can even imagine.”