Berried, page 7
part #6 of Charlie Cooper Mystery Series
McMillan’s house was in full view.
“Should we go and knock, let him know we’re here?” Marge gazed out the window.
“Nah, I’m sure he sees us.” Celeste reached into her purse for a cigarette. “He seems to be a big fan of watching out the window.”
“Plus last time we knocked, it didn’t go so well.” I pulled out my phone. “How long do you think we should stay?”
“A couple of hours maybe? I think that would be enough.” Celeste breathed a stream of smoke out the open window.
After about an hour and a half, the car had begun to feel a little cramped, and I longed to stretch my legs. I’d played games on my phone and even napped a little. I was getting bored. In the front seat, Marge was reading some magazine on kittens. Who knew that was a thing?
“Would you like to take this quiz, hon?” she called out from the front seat. “This one is really cute. 'What Kind of Feline Breed Are You?'”
“I think I’ll pass, but thanks,” I said.
I glanced over at Celeste. “Hey, I like that color.”
Celeste was concentrating on her long nails, about half of which were now a vibrant fuchsia.
“I’ll do yours next if you’d like.”
I’d never been a fan of any color that made me stand out in a crowd, but maybe that should change. Style update for Charlie. “You know what? That might be a good idea.”
“Perfect,” Celeste said. “I’ll be done with mine in a few minutes.”
I stared out the window, looking at Grumpy Man McMillan’s lawn signs and asked myself if this man had any friends, if he was capable of maintaining long-lasting friendships. He didn’t have any wife and kids, a fact that shocked no one. Still, what do you do when you want to go to a movie? What do you do when you need advice? Or just talk to somebody and hang out?
I looked at the two women sitting in the car in front of me. One was grinning from ear to ear reading feline magazines and the other one was hard at work, concentrating on growing the longest and flashiest fingernails ever. My heart filled with warmth. I couldn’t have described how blessed I felt that I ran into these two wonderful human beings. That I stayed in my hometown in Springston and haven’t returned back to Boston. Sure, there’s the thing about the unsteady paycheck and living with my folks, but I gained two amazing friends who always had my back. These two would take a bullet for me. In that second, I felt sorry for McMillan.
I was just about to reconsider Marge’s quiz, when a flash of movement caught my eye at the side of McMillan’s house. At least, I thought I’d seen something. It was hard to see with all the trees and the lack of light—just a few dim streetlights as well as smallish lamps on most of the front porches.
I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and squinted.
“You guys, I think I see something,” I reported to the others.
Marge and Celeste looked up.
“What do you mean?” Celeste asked.
“I mean, I think I saw movement at the side of McMillan’s house,” I said. “Like someone creeping up to the house.”
“I don’t see anything,” Marge said.
“Maybe you’re just projecting McMillan’s story and it got to you,” Celeste said.
I squinted some more. A shadow brushed past the side wall. “Someone’s there. Let’s go.” I reached for the door handle.
“I’m on it, hon.” Marge tossed her kitten magazine, which landed on Celeste, sending a stream of fuchsia polish to the floor.
“Watch it!” Celeste cried.
Cautiously and quietly, Marge and I made our way to McMillan’s place, with Celeste close behind, still cussing about the nail polish mess. All the lights were off in the house. With our backs glued to the front of the house, we peeked around the corner toward the spot where I had seen the shadow.
“Let’s move in closer,” I whispered to the others.
I crept through the darkness, careful to avoid the shotgun berry bushes. Marge and Celeste were following. We crouched and tiptoed as we made our way along the side of the house. Nothing unusual there. We reached the corner between the side and the back of the house. We paused, and I saw Marge pull out The Persuader. Just like that, cat lady turned into a deadly ninja.
Just as I was about to peek around the corner, I heard a shot fired from the back of the house. The blast pierced the silence of the quiet night.
“This is just too much,” Celeste hissed. “This crazy man is going to kill somebody with his stupid flower-berry gun.”
We jumped around the corner, and what followed was a blur.
Chapter Eight
In full-on ninja mode, Marge was holding her gun steady. There was no sight of McMillan. I gazed around me in the darkness, cursing my bad eyesight and trying to determine if the blob-like shape I'd seen before might, in fact, be an intruder. I focused on a lumpish shape at the far end of the yard that didn’t seem to fit in with the landscape I remembered.
And then there was movement.
A second shadowy figure just behind the lump scurried toward the corner of the back fence. Instinctively, all three of us were on it like a flash, flying toward the potential perpetrator as lights went on in the back porch. McMillan burst through the door, a look of madness in his eyes as he aimed his gun toward Celeste, Marge, and me.
Celeste froze and threw her hands up. “Don’t shoot! It’s us!”
Breathing hard, Marge and I managed to keep pace with the dark silhouette as it raced closer to the fence. In the faint beam of the back porch light, I could make out a gun-shaped device in one of his hands. At least, he decided against killing us all. He scaled the fence—all eight feet or so—like it was absolutely nothing.
The woman neighbor pushed her window open on the second floor and leaned out over the backyard. In the light that shone from her window, I could see half of her hair was rolled up in curlers and half frizzed out in stiff bunches.
“Keep it down, I tell you!” she yelled at Grumpy Man McMillan. “Why the heck are you shooting around at this hour?”
I was a couple of seconds faster than Marge when I almost got to the fence. Wishing for superpowers, I wondered what kind of person we were following that could have pulled themselves up that easily. Also, there were more bushes there, probably more of those shotgun flowers and berries. There was no way I could have jumped that fence, so I stopped short a few feet from it. Unfortunately, Marge, having a running momentum, was too close behind me and she slammed into me, attempting to make a grand leap so the runner wouldn’t get away. Marge and I let out an “oomph” as my face got plastered against the fence and glided down on it. Then we both crashed to the ground and into the scratchy bushes, and I caught a flash of silver as we tumbled. “The Persuader, Marge!” I screamed. “Be careful with the gun!”
But my warning came too late, and the gun went off—straight into the fence.
My heart raced even faster as the shot rang out not two feet from my face.
It was then that it occurred to me that my brother might, in fact, be smarter than I was. Perhaps it was not so goofy, after all, to hide oneself away in a world of games. The gunfire was always fake there, and dying in my brother’s world was no big deal at all. There were always other lives. The dead could live again when he had broken from a nap or snack and the next round of play got underway.
Here in the dark of night, dead was dead, and my one little life was all I was allotted.
I was sweating hard when sirens started in the background, moving closer to us.
“Are you okay?” Celeste came running to us. She grabbed my arm to help me stand. She stared at the fence and shook her head at Marge. “What did that fence do to you?”
“Hey, I’m just glad it wasn’t me.” I brushed dirt from my knees.
“Sorry, hon.” Marge blushed.
“What was that first shot we heard?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, but something’s going on here, all right,” Celeste said.
My face was hurting from the latest encounter with the bushes. I glanced at the bullet hole in the old man’s fence, proof of just how close I’d come to being shot. I wanted to throw up, but there was no time for that. We had work to do.
“Do you believe me now?” McMillan stomped toward us. He’d stop every now and then to peer around him, aiming his shotgun at any bit of rustling. A leaf moving in the breeze, a bird flapping its tiny wings on a nearby branch. Nothing, it seemed, was safe from his glare or his gun.
“Do you think I’m crazy now?” he yelled.
Well, yeah, I kind of did. But I also knew something else: he had not been wrong about the trouble brewing in his yard. Something was afoot.
As I tried to catch my breath, I saw McMillan lean down toward the lump we’d noticed on the ground. I realized with a start it was kind of…person shaped. I moved a little closer, and the lumpish shape became more visible in the dim light of the back porch. The shape had arms and legs. From his build and size, I guessed it was a man. And something dark was oozing from the person’s back.
“OMG!” I cried.
“Okay, now we know where that first shot went,” Celeste said.
“Thank God it wasn’t the second one,” Marge added.
“Are you sure he’s dead?” I whispered.
We glanced down at the lump.
“Pretty sure,” Celeste said.
“Either way, it’s best for the cops to handle it,” Marge said.
Celeste put her hand on McMillan’s shoulder. “Best not to meddle with the scene,” she said in a calm voice. “The evidence should be preserved.”
He looked at Celeste like she was insane. “I don’t care about that. I want to see who this is.” He stared down at the shape. “A man gets to be the boss of what he does on his own darn piece of land. A property owner has certain rights, you know.”
Here we went again.
McMillan turned the man over and revealed that the visitor to his backyard was wearing a ski mask. I could see now he was dressed all in black. Black clothes and a black ski mask: that, of course, was not the usual attire of an innocent dog walker or a young homeowner out for a simple late-night stroll.
McMillan took the mask off, and I looked at Marge and cringed. That was so against procedure. Fingerprints might be lost now, and any clues that could have come from the position of the body had now been rendered useless.
I studied the intruder. I moved a little closer since I was now pretty sure he was way past hurting us.
“Appears to be in his forties,” I noted to the others. He had short, dark hair. No unusual face structure, no distinct moles or scars. Still, I made a mental note.
Marge turned to McMillan. “Do you know who this is?”
The old man thought about it for a couple of seconds and shook his head. “I’ve never seen the fool. He had no business here.” His eyes were still alert, his gun at the ready, as if the body could spring up and attack at any moment.
I was kind of impressed McMillan didn’t have a panic attack watching the body. I mean, I still haven’t gotten used to being around dead people and freaking out, and this was my job. Although I always wished for a simple investigative job without murders and killers. McMillan, on the other hand, was keeping his calm—for his standards—and acted lucid enough, considering the circumstances.
With the scene disturbed already, Celeste slipped some gloves onto her hands and checked the pockets of his jeans and jacket for some kind of ID. In this case, however, we were out of luck. We’d have to work a little harder to find out who he was.
We headed to the back stoop and sat down on the stairs to wait for the police, and I noticed the woman neighbor had already closed her window and went back inside her house.
Celeste frowned down at her nails, which must have still been pretty wet when we’d been called into action. Hardened polish now dotted the skin on her hands, and her nails looked like they’ve been painted by some psycho in a rage.
I broke the silence. “Sir, you do know the Springston police sent us to investigate the happenings of the first night here because they’ve made that a priority case, right?” I tried to lie.
McMillan watched the ground with a blank stare. “No, they didn’t.” There was something calm in his voice, almost serene. “They didn’t believe me. You didn’t believe me. You think I don’t know what’s going on? They’re all afraid I’m pulling my donations. As if.” He snorted.
Okay, this I did not expect. This moment right here of him being…well…normal, almost made him—gonna bite my tongue later, I’m sure—likeable.
I could see the same sentiment in Marge and Celeste’s eyes.
I cleared my throat. “Be that as it may, we want to apologize to you.” And I truly meant it.
I could almost see the corners of McMillan’s mouth turn upward. “Thanks for jumping into action,” he said.
Both the girls and I flinched in amazement. Did he say “thanks?” I honestly didn’t think he was capable of such thing.
The police promptly swarmed upon the scene and did their thing, cordoning off the scene and examining the body. It was after midnight, and the night was chilly, so we waited in McMillan’s kitchen while the officers methodically went about their work. We settled in at the table, already neatly set for breakfast with one plain white bowl, one spoon, one folded napkin, and one nondescript white mug. My heart sank. I couldn’t imagine McMillan being ecstatic with always setting the table for one. I actually imagined how he had meals at this table all by himself and I felt sad. Then I thought about my own living situation and that maybe I should cherish my family time more.
Grumpy Man McMillan followed closely after the officers, barking orders as they checked the house and yard for evidence. He was back to his old self.
“Careful there, young man. That is a fine lamp, you know. One of a pair. You can’t buy those anymore. Things today are cheaply made, so slipshod. Nothing more than trash.”
He stared down a female cop who dared to move a canister of oatmeal as she went through the items on the kitchen counter. “A man needs to have his breakfast. You put that back right now. What do you think you’ll learn about any crime by examining a can of oatmeal?” Then he turned to us. “Do the cops send out to the looney bin to fill this kind of job?”
“No, the funny farm,” Marge teased.
McMillan grinned. Naturally, that was his kind of humor. He turned to the woman officer and followed her into the yard, grumbling something about his perfectly kept lawn.
A bearded man approached us and put out his hand. “Todd Vaughn, lieutenant in charge of the scene, Springston Police Department,” he said in a clipped, official voice. We gave him our names and he nodded. “The chief said to look for you. Something about you being on the case. I know it’s late, but I’m afraid you’ll need to stop by the station once we’re done here at the house. We’ll need to have your statements.”
Marge nodded. “Understood.”
That was not good news, but expected. As the adrenaline wore off, I was longing for my bed and perhaps a snack, my proven go-to method for instant stress relief.
I was trying hard to keep my eyes open, when I heard a familiar voice behind me. My heart leaped in my chest.
“Hey, Charlie, you okay?” I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when Alex burst into the room.
Speaking of stress relief, just the sight of him filled me with a kind of warmth that took away all thoughts of gunshots and dead bodies.
Giving me a gentle hug, he whispered in my ear, “I heard there were gunshots.” He pulled away to stroke my hair. “I thought you might be here, and I was so worried, Charlie.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “It was just so…scary.”
“How do you always get into such a mess?” Alex asked, smiling.
I shrugged. “I dunno. I could live just fine without the dead bodies, you know.”
He pulled me in another hug, this time tighter than before. I snuggled up to him and wished he never let go.
Marge was watching closely. She gave me a small smile and winked at Alex.
“Okay, what happened here?” Alex asked.
I filled him in.
“Hmm.” He shook his head. “I guess there really is more to this guy’s story than we thought.” He glanced from me to Marge to Celeste. “Why don’t you three stay here while I check in with Vaughn? You look beat, so I’ll try to speed things up.”
“Thank you.” Celeste nodded.
“Good job on the surveillance, though,” Alex said. “If you hadn’t chased the guy away, who knows what could have happened?”
“You mean, more than killing the other guy?” I asked, teasing.
“You know what I meant,” Alex said. “He could have gone for McMillan too.”
A shudder ran through my body. I didn’t even want to go there.
Alex kissed my forehead and made his way outside.
“I’m exhausted,” Celeste said. “Let’s hope this doesn’t take long. I’ve had enough action for today.”
“I almost had the bad guy.” Marge put her face in her hands. “I was this close.” While Celeste and I were half-asleep, Marge was wide awake. “We should set up something at Celeste’s with obstacles and such, so we can practice and be prepared next time. We could make it into a game. That’ll be fun.”
I was too tired to answer and put my head on the table. I must have dozed off, because before I knew it, I felt Alex’s hand upon my shoulder gently rousing me awake.
Marge drove us to the station while Alex followed in his car with the old man bringing up the rear in his Chevrolet. We were ushered into a small room by an officer who would take our statements. Bert was in the room as well, and he stood to shake our hands. “Interesting developments,” he noted.
About ten minutes later, Alex stuck his head in, a confused look on his face. “What happened to McMillan? Wasn’t he behind us?”
I grinned at Celeste, who held her hand over her mouth to cover up her smile. “I’m sure McMillan’s fine,” I said. “He just drives…really slow.”
“Yeah, we could be here all night waiting for him,” Marge said.
