Murder-a-Go-Go's, page 4
“You’re the one who told us to buy! Your friend Lorenzo told us the house was fine! He lied to us!” Alison cried, wishing she could slap the woman across her silly fuchsia mouth. “You lied to us too! You said this house would be a good investment in our future! It’s rotting from the inside!” She could hear the tears rising in her voice. Charlie heard it too, and he swallowed hard when he looked at her.
“Allison. It is certainly not my fault if Lorenzo missed something during the house inspection. I suggest you take up those concerns with him.”
“But you said—”
Sheila cut her off. “Yes, I told you that buying a house would be a good investment in your future.” Here Sheila’s voice took on a distinct chill. “But I never told you to buy that house specifically. I suggest you just make peace with yourselves and your purchase.”
“B-b-but…!” Alison sputtered. She looked over at Charlie. His face was expressionless.
“I’ve got to go, my dears,” Sheila said, her voice regaining its false brightness. “My niece is closing on her new bungalow today. Beautiful place. So lovely to hear from you.”
Her head throbbing, Alison got in her Ford Escort and drove to the bungalows near the local elementary school. They were lovely and immaculately tended.
Then she saw Sheila, placing a “Sold” sign in front of one of the homes.
Alison pulled over so that she wouldn’t be seen. She turned on the radio and “You Thought” by the Go-Go’s came blaring out of the speakers. That song’s about betrayal, she remembered Charlie telling her once, and she turned it up. Not that she needed to be reminded. Life’s about betrayal.
She watched as Sheila put her arm around the young woman—presumably her niece—and they both beamed at a man taking a picture with his smart phone.
So happy they all looked! A deep wrenching pain tore at her stomach, and she doubled over, nearly hitting her head on the steering wheel. Watching Sheila prance about, she wanted to get out and punch her. Knock her right to the ground. Trounce her. Fling her about like a rag doll.
She didn’t know how long she watched as they mugged for the camera, oblivious to her mounting rage. Neighbors from the house next door came over, shaking their hands, welcoming them to the neighborhood, congratulating them on their new home.
Finally, they disappeared inside the house.
“I hope their pipes crack too,” she whispered, turning the engine back on. Somehow, she doubted that would happen. The street just looked too well tended and the house too well cared for. It wasn’t a dud like theirs.
The throbbing in her head began to grow more incessant.
As Alison drove back down her own street, she looked at the rows of darkened windows. Who lived here anyway? No one had come by to greet them, she realized. No baskets of muffins. No bottles of wine. Hell, not even a six-pack on moving day.
Thinking about beer made her go inside the house and grab one from the fridge. Charlie seemed to have stepped out. Maybe he went to work. She didn’t even know.
Despite her now raging headache, she pounded the beer and grabbed another and pounded that one, too. She took a third beer and wandered out into the front yard, propping herself up against their single tree. An oak.
Bits of bark lay all over the ground. Rotted. Great.
Her eyes drifted over to the garden that had so enchanted her on the day of the showing. For the first time, she noticed that all the flowers were dead.
She frowned. It wasn’t winter yet. Why were the flowers dead already?
Glowering, she set her beer aside and stomped over to the flowerbeds. The flowers were just lying there. She picked up a handful of soil. Not rich. Rocky.
Shit. The flowers had just been part of the show. The staging, as real estate agents liked to call it. The deception.
In disgust, she dumped the rest of her beer onto the flowers. Then with all her might, she threw the bottle against the side of the house, not caring when the shards flew everywhere.
She went back into the house, just in time to see a little mouse scurry across the floor.
“That’s it,” she said out loud to the empty room. “That’s IT!”
She kicked at the wall, half expecting to make a great hole. But of course, the wall was solid, and she only succeeded in hurting her foot. She began to scream. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
She went upstairs then, hitting things wherever she went, shrieking and crying in frustration.
Finally, she found herself in the little room. The one-day nursery. Tears began to flow harder and more fiercely than she could ever remember. Harder than when her mother had died five years before.
“We gave up a baby for this! We gave up a baby for this!”
“Ally?”
Alison woke with a start at the sound of Charlie’s voice. At some point, she must have fallen asleep on the hard-wooden floor. How long had she been asleep? She couldn’t tell. The room seemed a little darker, like the sun was starting to go down. Her toes were throbbing terribly, and she groaned.
“Ally?” Charlie was kneeling beside her, a concerned look on his face. “What happened?”
“I’ve come to a decision,” she said. She was calm. Miraculously, her headache was gone at least.
“Yes?” he asked cautiously. “What is it?”
“I’m going to kill her. Sheila.”
Did he nod? Later, she wouldn’t remember. Not when her lawyer asked her. Not when the prosecuting counsel demanded she answer. She just said she couldn’t remember.
Or maybe it was as Charlie claimed. That he’d heard her say, “I’m going to talk to her.”
That there had been no premeditation.
For Charlie just shrugged. “Not gonna change anything.”
“We’ll see.” She reached down to cup her bruised and purple toes in her hand. “We’ll see.”
The next afternoon, Alison stood in front of a house across town, staring at the “For Sale” sign out front, with its garish picture of Sheila smirking at the viewer. Beneath it, hanging from two chains, a smaller sign proclaimed “Open House, 2–4 pm today.”
It had been easy enough to look up Sheila’s local listings online and locate the address of this home. This one was on Oak Street. She’d parked her car two blocks away and limped the rest of the way on foot.
With a quick glance up and down the street, Alison pulled out a pen from her bag and drew whiskers on Sheila’s face and blackened her teeth. Childish, but it made her feel better. She then disconnected the smaller sign and laid it face down on the grass.
She checked her watch. 3:55 p.m.
Two cars were parked out front. Sheila’s Corvette she recognized, with its “DEAL 4 U” vanity plate. There was another car behind it, suggesting someone was inside looking at the house.
For a long moment she stared at the house. Another Craftsman bungalow, which were common in this neighborhood. Rather like hers, actually. She moved slowly toward the house, pausing to look at the flowers strewn along the front. They were untidily arranged, as though someone had just dug a few holes and indifferently placed the flowers in the ground. She could see that some of the flowers were already bent and wilted. They wouldn’t last long.
The front door opened, and a couple stepped out of the house, bidding farewell to someone within. They didn’t notice Alison in the shadows.
“So wonderful,” the woman gushed. “Andrew, what did you think? It’s not too far from the schools and park and—”
“I didn’t like the smell in there,” he said. “I bet there’s a problem with the sewer.”
“Sheila said the house next door had been gardening,” the woman replied. “Just a manure smell. It’ll go away.” She was about to say more, when she caught sight of Alison.
“Coming to see the house?” she asked. Alison could hear the protective sound in her voice.
“The flowers look fresh dug,” Alison commented. “Soil probably won’t hold a garden.” She pointed to the roof. “Looks like the gutter is broken. Too much run-off here.”
The woman glared at her. “Come on, Andrew,” she said, pulling the man away. Still within earshot, she added, “Honestly, what people will say to scare off other buyers.”
As they walked away though, the man—Andrew—turned around and looked back at the flowers, and back up to the gutter. Frowning, he said something to the woman who, after an outraged squawk, began to sputter something in very angry words.
Turning away from them, Alison stepped through the front door of the bungalow.
“Welcome!” Sheila called out in her sickly-sweet voice, opening her arms wide. She was even wearing the same bubble-gum suit that Alison so despised.
Recognizing Alison, she stopped short. “Oh. What are you doing here? Back on the market already? Surely your house isn’t that bad.” She tittered nervously, before faltering under Alison’s gaze. She checked her watch. “I’m nearly done for the day. These open houses kill me.”
“I was just curious about this house.” Alison forced herself to smile, to unclench her jaw. “My sister is interested in buying into this neighborhood.” At the lie, she could feel her heart begin to beat faster.
Sheila’s smile grew brighter, the prospect of a sale bringing back her forced merriment. “Certainly! How wonderful. Let me show you around. We’ll start on this floor, and then I’ll show you the upstairs masters, and a room that could serve as a nursery. With a little work, it will be gorgeous. A showplace.”
“Of course,” Alison said, a steady buzzing in her ears. At the word nursery she had clenched her stomach. Now, she sniffed the air delicately. “Do I detect a sewer smell? That’s not good. I’d like to see the basement. My sister will want to know if it’s flooded.”
“Flooded? Certainly not.”
“Still, I’d like to see it.”
Sheila sighed. “As you wish. This way. You know, there was a lovely couple here, just a few minutes ago. My gut tells me they’re going to put in an offer. Your sister might have some competition, but I’m sure we can get her a good price. Does she have an agent already?”
Ignoring the question, Alison followed Sheila into the kitchen, so that they stood together at the top of the basement stairs.
Sheila turned back toward her, speaking a little too quickly. “It may be a little damp down there, but nothing a sump pump and dehumidifier can’t take care of. I bet that’s what you thought, too.” She turned back. “So dark. Let me find the pull-chain for the light.”
“I see it,” Alison said, moving as if to reach past her. “Let me help you.”
Then, with a quick violent shove, the deed was done.
Sheila barely even screamed as she plummeted down the steep stairs.
Alison could just make out her twisted form in the grayness. She wasn’t moving. Or was she?
She had to know. Reaching out, she found the chain and pulled it. The light from a single bare bulb illuminated the stairs and the unmoving figure below.
Carefully, she made her way down the rotting stairs and gazed down at Sheila, sprawled out at impossible angles. Her eyes, glazed over by tears, were already fixed. One ridiculous pink pump had fallen into a dirty puddle. Alison had to fight the urge to return it to Sheila’s stockinged foot.
Alison walked out of the house, feeling in a bubble-gum fog.
A blue Honda pulled up and a man and a woman got out. “I hope we’re not too late for the open house,” she heard the man say, as he slammed the car door.
Alison began to giggle. “It’s not what you thought,” she said.
“Huh?” the man said, staring down at her. “What’s that?”
“It’s not an open house,” she replied, finding it impossible to contain her laughter. “I-It’s a closing.”
“What?” the woman said, looking annoyed. “I saw it online.”
Later, her defense attorney would claim Alison was in shock over Sheila’s accident, when trying to explain her next words in court.
“I don’t think you’d want this house,” Alison replied, the giggles still bubbling out of her. “There’s a dead rat in the basement.”
She began to laugh harder and harder, not noticing that the couple was edging away from her. “She thinks she closed the deal!” Alison choked out. A strange realization came over her. “But the deal closed her!”
With that, Alison sat down cross-legged on the dried-out grass, laughing and laughing, until finally, the laughter gave way to tears.
Back to TOC
Vacation
S.W. Lauden
The alarm is wailing again, just like every other morning. I was already awake when it started, flipping through this notebook to remember what I wrote last night. I must have been exhausted because I only filled three pages. My handwriting looks like the work of a lunatic toddler, so messy in some places that I can’t figure out what it says. Safe to say the pills they force down my throat are screwing with me. But I have to admit the voices are quieter—not gone, but not screaming, either. Not like that goddamned alarm. That beep-beep-beeping makes me want to murder somebody.
My roomie just hit the snooze button, delaying the inevitable. It’s amazing how some people can go right back to sleep, even when they know the attendants are coming to herd us off. I don’t think we’ve said more than a few words to each other since I came in, which is fine. Nobody talks to me much in this place, not unless it’s their job. I’d be surprised if half the bullshit I spew to my doctor is true.
These pages are the only place where I can be totally honest because I’m the only one who knows they exist for now. Those fuckers wish they could bore their way into my private thoughts, but I’m too smart for them. The words I write in here are for our eyes only. I can’t wait to share them with you, but that has to wait until I earn my mail privileges back.
Speaking of the fuckers, here they are now. Time to hide you away until after lunch. Right now, I have to go see a specialist they brought in just for me. Should I feel special? I already met with him yesterday, one of the worst hours of my life. My regular doctor was there too, but she didn’t say a word to me after “hello.” Just leaned over to whisper in the specialist’s ear every once in a while. He’s an asshole, but it’s nice to have somebody else I can lie to for a change.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
The forced smile looks wrong on his pasty potato face.
“I took a pretty good shit a few minutes ago. Still holding onto that memory.”
Not sure what notes he could possibly write in response to that, but he does it anyway. He’s always writing when we’re together.
“Before you came to stay here. What do you remember about your family?
I feel him circling, trying to get me to talk about you. “Nothing. It’s all a blur.”
“That’s what you keep saying, but I think your mind is trying to protect you from something.”
“My memory’s shot because of all these goddamned pills you’re feeding me.”
His face flushes red, but his tone is even. It’s far too easy to get under his skin. “I’m not feeding you anything. We’re just having a conversation. Same as yesterday.”
I bare my teeth, less of a smile and more of a threat. My regular doctor leans in to whisper in his ear. The specialist mutters “okay,” shifting from frustration to empathy in the blink of an eye.
“Let’s talk about something else…”
I say nothing. We’re done for the day as far as I’m concerned.
Did you see the sky today? The way the white clouds hung from all that electric blue? They let me out to get some fresh air and I thought about you. I’m not even sure what day it is, but I could imagine you looking up at the same time. You always knew how to appreciate little things like that. Remember how you used to push me on the swing at the park? I went so high I thought I’d touch the sun.
I’m tempted to close my eyes and imagine that warmth on my face again, but my roomie’s always watching what I do. Making mental notes of my every move. I wouldn’t be surprised if they put us together, so they’d have somebody to spy on me.
Whatever. It’s none of their fucking business, but I won’t bring it up. No way I’ll give any of them the satisfaction of knowing I noticed. Because the truth is, I notice everything. I notice how the others keep their distance from me in the lunchroom. The way this specialist keeps asking about my memories, slipping in little comments and questions about them when he thinks I’m not paying attention. And I definitely notice how easy it would be to snap my roomie’s neck in the middle of the night, before that fucking alarm starts going off again.
I’d do it, too, if it wouldn’t keep us apart longer. I can’t wait to get out of this place and escape with you. Maybe we can finally go to that lake you told me about. The one you went to when you were a kid. We could go out in a boat and you could teach me how to water ski, just like in the pictures you showed me.
But for now, I have to get through another meeting with this specialist.
“Let’s try talking about something else. Maybe that will shake a few memories loose. Are you a baseball fan?”
My mind floods with unwanted images. I see the tip of a bat pushing the shower curtain back to reveal a man. His muffled sobs sound wet and desperate from under the plastic bag duct taped around his head. I’m still trying to make sense of the situation when everything speeds up. The meat of the bat comes down hard on the man’s skull again and again. The plastic bag splits and blood splatters the filmy white walls of the bathtub.
“I’ve got nothing. Sorry.”
My doctor leans forward, but the specialist ignores her. “I used to love the sound of a cracking bat. My old man took me to a lot of games as a kid. How about you? Did your dad ever take you out to see a ball game?”
