Death Comes eCalling (21 page)

Moments later, I saw the flashing lights of a patrol car through my curtains. I no longer paid attention to the dispatcher, but listened instead to the policemen’s heavy footsteps downstairs. Then someone knocked gently on my door.

“Ma’am? This is Officer Galloway. Are you all right?”

I sighed, overwhelmed with relief.

“Yes,” I said in a near whisper. “We’re all fine.” I carefully got up without waking Nathan or Karen. “Would you mind slipping your ID card under the door?”

He did so, and I slipped on some gray sweatpants that matched the T-shirt I’d worn to bed, then opened the door to Officer Galloway. He was a stocky, white-haired man who bore the same stern expression that was on his photo ID. I returned the card and followed him and a second, younger-looking, officer downstairs.

“See anything missing?” Officer Galloway asked.

I made a quick visual check of the kitchen. One pane in the kitchen window was broken. The screen had been slit. Nothing else was out of place or missing. I checked the dining room. “Oh, no. The brass candlesticks are gone. They’re family heirlooms.”

“Can you describe them to me, please?”

I gave him as detailed a description as possible while I checked the hutch, where my parents stored valuable antique plates and glassware. Still there. He followed me into the living room. Nothing missing. I went into the family room.

“The DVR is gone.” That would not be an insignificant item to my parents, especially to my father who’d spent hours customizing its operation, but my concerns were now on my office equipment.

Officer Galloway escorted me downstairs. My computer and my pricey all-in-one printer/scanner/copier/fax machine were still there, to my relief.

Later, while Galloway and I shared decaffeinated coffee, the other officer took fingerprints. The powder made my kitchen even messier than it already was. Powder on the twenty-seven-inch TV. “Why didn’t he swipe the television?”

“The TV set’s too heavy to be stolen by a solo perp”.

“You’re lucky there wasn’t a partner.”

“I feel lucky just because no one came upstairs.”

After the police left, I cleaned up the glass shards too small for them to take as evidence and duct-taped cardboard in place of the pane. This wasn’t that much easier to break through than the glass, just quieter.

I spent what little remained of the night lying in bed between my children who would otherwise have come to blows even in their sleep. I finally fell asleep myself a little after six and was awakened minutes later when my daughter popped her head up and said, “Hey, what are we doing
here?
”

“I moved you here last night. I wanted the company.” I’d decided to wait until after school to tell them about the burglary.

Nathan groaned that he was sleepy and didn’t want to wake up. My sentiments exactly.

My head was pounding by the time the kids were ready for school. I was spurred on by the thought that as soon as they were gone, I could go back to bed. I felt absolutely dog sick and had quite a case of the shakes. I fell into a restless sleep.

The doorbell rang. I was disoriented. The clock read 9:18. For a moment I had to think, a.m. or p.m.? As I stepped into slippers, I nearly passed out and had to grab the dresser for support. My legs felt leaden as I dragged myself downstairs. Going through a night with no sleep always made me feel queasy and gave me a headache. But this was monstrous. I must be coming down with the flu.

It was Tommy. I opened the door and muttered, “Hello,” adding, “I’m not feeling well.”

“Don’t look so good, either. I saw ‘bout your break-in last night on the blotter.” He stepped inside. “Jiminy. Your house is hot.” He walked over to the thermostat. “D’ya always set this at eighty?”

“The kids must have played with it. I’ve been asleep…didn’t notice. I feel so groggy.”

Tommy’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm. He took off his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Get outside. Now. And stay out.” He pushed me onto the porch and waved me farther back. “Go sit down away from the house. Are your kids at school?”

I nodded. As I wobbled my way down the cement steps, my slowed mind finally realized what was happening. Carbon monoxide. I’d been inhaling it for hours.

I sat on the edge of the lawn, staring at the house. A couple of minutes later, Tommy emerged. His face was almost as red as his hair. He took deep breaths of the chilly air, then propped my door open wide. He crossed the lawn toward me. “It’s okay now. Furnace vents were blocked. House will air out soon. Better get you to the hospital and—”

“Good Lord, Tommy. The stolen candlesticks and VCR were just a ruse to make it look like a burglary. Last night, somebody intentionally messed with the furnace.

Somebody tried to kill me and my children.”

Chapter 17

Every Little Breeze

The next morning, the furnace was in normal operation, and Lauren and I had made our peace, of sorts. She spoke about it all being “water under the bridge.” That was true. But how much water could relationships withstand before the bridge washed out?

During the past week, I’d kept my parents somewhat informed of my troubles, though my accounts were glossed over so as not to alarm them into notifying the National Guard. Specifically, they knew about the two deaths and my head wound. But I’d decided to wait to tell them about the break-in, for they would want us all in protective custody.

However, there was another bit of unpleasantness I could no longer delay. Stephanie Saunders. This was a person who hated me, maybe even enough to want to kill me. A visit to her might help me learn if she was the one who’d tried to asphyxiate my children and me.

Before I could get to the phone and set up a rendezvous, the doorbell rang. Surely this wasn’t Stephanie reading my thoughts and glumming my day even more than I already was, a day after I’d narrowly escaped being murdered.

At the door was a barrel-chested middle-aged man wearing a workman’s uniform. A patch on the light blue shirt pocket read, Bob’s Home Repair.

“Came to fix your window, ma’am,” he said.

I watched him work as I dialed Stephanie from the kitchen phone. Fortunately his repair job required little bending or squatting. His particular body type had inspired the invention of the belt, but he wasn’t wearing one. His was not a rear end I wished to be mooned by.

Stephanie was home, blast it all. By the time I’d made arrangements to go to her house, Man of Bob had completed his job. He hiked up his pants, which stayed in place for a half second. As he headed for the door, he said over his shoulder, “Must be a high-crime district. This is the third call we’ve had for a repair on Little John Lane in two weeks.”

“You had two other repair jobs? At which houses?”

“Actually, both were next door.”

Lauren’s house. The kicked-in door was one repair, but what was the second? How could I ask him that without appearing incredibly nosy? “So you repaired their door. You did a nice job. What other type of work do you do?”

He grinned and gave me a lecherous once-over. “What type of work were you interested in having me do for you?”

Oh, spare me! I forced a smile. “The septic tank needs an overhaul.”

He left abruptly.

I was determined to put on a good appearance for Stephanie so she wouldn’t have cause to goad me into another argument. I applied makeup and changed into tan cotton pants and a Windex-colored blouse, because Windex was definitely one of my colors and Stephanie was sure to notice. Now I was all gussied up for someone I intensely disliked.

I drove slower and slower as I neared her house, but my sense of direction failed to fail me.

Stephanie, who in her flowing royal blue dress and elegant gold jewelry was nothing short of stunning, took me on a tour of her home. The huge country-style, kitchen was done in hand-painted pies, with window-paned cabinets and copper pots on the walls. The family room was awash in maroon and earth tones. Navajo rugs and tasteful Indian statues graced the cherry-wood bookshelves.

We climbed a spiral staircase and viewed the bedrooms furnished with antiques, poster beds, oak dressers, and braided throw rugs on the hardwood floors. The three bathrooms each had separate shower stalls and sunken ceramic-tile tubs.

She finally led me to what she called her “sitting room,” which I would’ve called a den, but we did sit in it so no sense nitpicking. She had a coffee carafe and cups waiting for us. This room had a cathedral ceiling that accentuated the stained-glass hangings and coffee table. No matter what I thought of the woman, her eclectic taste in home decor was flawless.

“Your house is gorgeous,” I admitted as we settled into the couch, a flowered pattern of rich, dark hues.

“Thank you. I did it myself. Perhaps you haven’t heard. I’m an interior designer. Let me get you one of my cards.” She started to rise.

“Thanks, but that’s all right. I can’t change the interior of my parents’ house, nor would I want to, and we’ll be moving back to Boulder afterward,”

She sat back down and cocked a perfectly tweezered eyebrow at me. “After what?”

“My husband’s assignment in the Philippines will be finished in August. We’re going home to Colorado as soon as he comes back.”

She leaned over, patted my hand, and said, “Of course he’ll come back, darling.”

I shot to my feet. “Excuse me for a moment, I left something in my car.” Namely my self-control. And losing my temper now would defeat any possibility of my learning whether or not she had messed with my furnace. Did she hate me so much as to want to kill me? Hard to say, but she sure was one hateful person.

To allow myself to vent in private, I marched out, locked myself in the car and indulged myself in thirty seconds of foul language aimed at Stephanie. Afterward, I locked the car again, pocketed the keys, and reclaimed my seat in the sitting room.

Stephanie took a dainty sip of coffee, pinky extended, then set it down. “While you were gone I went ahead and poured for us. Did you want cream?”

“You poured my coffee?”

“Yes. Cream?”

Uh-oh. If Stephanie indeed wanted to poison me, my brief exit had given her ample opportunity. I looked in her cup: black, and said, “No, thanks,” reasoning that this at least eliminated my chance of cream poisoning. I took a sip of coffee, praying it wouldn’t be my last. It was an almond blend and was delicious.
Wait! Isn’t there some deadly poison that tasted like almonds?
I set the cup down so fast, coffee sloshed into the saucer.

“Stephanie, let’s get right to why I called you. You and I are radically different people. We’re never going to be bosom buddies.”

Focusing on my chest, she said, “You can say that again.”

I silently called her several nasty names, but said only, “I’d rather not.” A deep calming breath or two was in order. I reminded myself of the purpose for my visit: my plan was to give her the opportunity to slip up, to reveal knowledge she shouldn’t be privy to. “Somebody has been sending me death threats.”

“Death threats?” For just an instant, her eyes lit up, but then her expression became one of deep concern. “You poor dear! How dreadful. I had no idea!”

“So do you have any idea now about who might be doing this to me?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “None. Absolutely none. What exactly did the threats say?”

“I’d rather not go into that.”

“Of course. Too painful.” She sighed and shook her head. “When did you receive these threats? And how? Were they mailed to you?”

So much for my plan. She would try to badger me into giving details, not reveal any herself. I decided to take a different tack. “Why didn’t you ever let on that Lauren was the one who put that poem of mine in the school newspaper?”

“You’re still worried about that? Good heavens. That was a lifetime ago.” She sighed and delicately sipped from her cup. “There was no point in letting Lauren take the blame. I desperately wanted out of my editor’s job anyway, while Lauren wanted the position. She begged me not to tell you, so I didn’t.”

Stephanie being decent without an ulterior motive? No way. “You let me go on all this time thinking you did it. Why?”

“It would’ve destroyed your friendship with Lauren. You and I never got along anyway, so why rock the boat? I figured it was the least I could do for Lauren.”

I crossed my arms. “Lauren must’ve had something big to use against you.”

She shrugged. “That, too. In a—“she gestured into the air “—weak moment I’d told her I hadn’t been faithful to Jack. She threatened to tell him about my dalliances if I told anyone she was the one who published your tour de force.”

I grimaced.

She snorted. “I never claimed to be Mother Teresa, for Christ sake. But I’ve never sent you any death threats, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

As I studied her face, I was unable to decide if I believed her last statement. “Stephanie, even though we can’t be friends, we don’t need to be arch enemies either.”

“
Enemies?
” She made a wry smile. “That’s a term I haven’t used since grade school.”

The remark stung, and I found myself wondering how she could be so gifted at needling me in my most tender places.

She met my eyes. “You never liked me, Molly. You made that clear from day one. It’s not easy to care for someone who obviously dislikes you. But I’ve tried my best to like you anyway. That’s all I can do.”

For once, I knew her words were the truth; I never liked her, and I like most people. She’d given me plenty of reasons for my dislike. “Well, Stephanie, what can I say? I don’t care about whatever it was that got us off on the wrong foot years ago. I do care about how you treat me now, and that is, in a word, badly.”
Shitty
would’ve been more like it, but badly was descriptive enough.

She looked thoughtful for several seconds, then said, “Sorry,” as nonchalantly as a gesundheit after a sneeze.

That’s it? Sorry?
I watched her take another sip of coffee. Apparently that was all she had to say about the matter. She eyed my deserted cup. “Don’t you care for the coffee?