Eine Kleine Murder (4 page)

Chapter 5

Reveille: Signal for rising (Ger.)

It was a short night. Before the first light of dawn glimmered through the trees, the birds started up. First, there was only one, shrill and insistent. Then others joined in, one at a time, initially sounding sleepy, even peeved that the early bird woke them up. Quickly, however, they gathered strength and numbers until the forest rang with joyous song.

I groaned, irritated with their exuberance. How could they be so happy, so alive, when my Gram was dead inside a black bag?

Here I was, in her bed, alive and warm. In the cabin that had been the root of the coldness between us for the last months of her life. If only I'd known they would be her last months, I wouldn't have refused to visit her here.

I missed the Moline house Gram had sold. My home. Still, I had to admit, I had become uncomfortable there after Gramps died almost two years ago. Every time I returned for a visit, I ended up driving back to Chicago in the middle of the night. I would wake up breathless and terrified in my childhood bed and want only to get out of there.

He died because of me. I knew that, no matter how hard Gram tried to tell me otherwise.

I'd been home on summer break from my second year of college. Gram had asked me to replace the burnt-out light bulb on the basement stairs, a treacherous flight of steep wooden-slat steps that led to a solid concrete floor. I was busy playing the ancient upright piano that presided over the dining room, an instrument that was an old friend to me, and I put the chore out of my mind. Playing that piano reminded me of the old days, performing with my parents. It made me forget how shy I usually was, how awkward I became around my college classmates. Especially the boys. I'd barely dated in high school and it had looked like I wouldn't ever be kissed, even in college.

Later that day, Gramps headed to the basement to work on the elaborate model train set he loved. He slipped at the top and tumbled, fracturing his skull on the cement at the bottom. The vision of his wispy, thin, gray hairs sticking in the glistening red blood haunted me still. Gram and I had been outside picking cherries in the yard and didn't find him right away. The blood was starting to dry by the time we came in and found him. My guilt was so great, I could never completely explain to Gram what I'd done.

After all they'd done for me, I had failed both my grandparents. Gram and Gramps were the only ones who approved of my choices. My parents thought I should stick to popular music and make more money. Gram was the one who paid for classical piano lessons from the talented neighbor, lessons that taught me how to read music and laid the foundation for the career I wanted.

Under my heap of blankets—one of them looked quite a bit like a tablecloth—I lay, unable to stir. A squirrel skittered across a bough next to the porch, did an athletic twelve-foot leap to the next tree, then turned around to scold me for watching him. I couldn't help but smile, and his antics broke my mood.

My mind filling with ways I could use the early morning sounds of the woods in my music, I stood and stretched, stiff from being in bed too long. The leaves rustled, the birds hopped, the waves lapped below. Everything was so alive; the air smelled vibrant.

Drawn by the awakening wildlife, I stepped outside and inhaled the clean air. Then I saw them. A couple of fresh footprints, right outside the porch. Had someone stood and watched me sleep? Was there a Peeping Tom at the lake? The thought sent a jangle up my spine, like a trembling tambourine. I'd have to make sure no one could see me tonight when I went to bed.

As I started to turn away, I spotted a cigarette butt, ground into the dirt. I kicked at it to see if I could tell whether or not it was the kind Len smoked. I looked for the brand, stamped above the filter, but it fell apart when I poked at it. I stared at it. That tambourine shook harder, rattling my whole being.

I told myself that Len was
not
here. NOT here. Maybe I could recite it in my head enough times to make it true, like Dorothy repeating, “There's no place like home.” Yeah, right.

I retreated back into the cabin to shower.

I knew I had to go into town to see about Gram, but it was too early for any businesses to be open. What I wanted to do was crawl back into bed and cry. I forced myself away from the porch and the bed.

After my shower, for distraction if nothing else, I spread my music-writing materials onto the kitchen counter, a sort of breakfast bar which jutted out from the wall. I arrayed my equipment, my midi keyboard, my laptop, and a pad of lined clef paper I used for jotting quick inspirations. Could I manage to write something? I was surrounded by enough ideas for an entire symphony.

The knock at the door brought me back. I had spent a couple of hours staring at my work, getting nothing done.

Grace's sunny smile was a welcome sight.

“I've brought you sandwiches and brownies, dear.”

She read my expression correctly. “I know you may not feel like eating, but you need to try. Have you talked to the funeral home yet?”

I shook my head. How would I be able to face that?

“If you'd like, Al and I could go with you sometime tomorrow. I'm driving in to Alpha in a minute. While I'm there, do you want me to set up an appointment for the afternoon?”

Still mute, I nodded my thanks. I could put it off one more day.

“You know, Ida and I were a couple of compatible old Swedes. We swam together, used the same hairdresser, and the same lawyer. I can call him for an appointment, if you like.”

“Lawyer?” I couldn't think why I'd need a lawyer.

“Yes, the one that has her will.”

Her will. But those are for
dead
people. Oh. Dead people like Gram. It was so hard to consider all the ramifications of her being dead. “Okay, sure.”

She thrust a wrapped plate into my hands, gave another quick smile, and bustled off to do her errands. Gram had had good friends in the Harmons.

I put the sandwiches in the fridge, but, tempted by the chocolatey aroma, left the brownies out. As soon as I could eat, I would have one.

After staring at my music manuscript a little longer, I quit fooling myself that I could work and wandered back to the daybed on the porch.

I pulled the tablecloth that I'd mistaken for a blanket off the bed and returned it to the armoire. Feeling for an empty spot on the high shelf, I felt some little round things. Mouse droppings. Ugh! I shoved the tablecloth onto the shelf and dislodged a thick envelope onto the floor. I stooped to pick it up, turned it over, and saw my name written on the front in Gram's familiar, precise hand.

Chapter 6

Stile osservato: Strict style (Ital.)

I plopped to the floor, caressing the envelope, holding a little piece of Gram between my fingers. For a long moment, I stared at the envelope, willing myself—commanding myself—to open it. I couldn't. Not yet. My fingers flew to my locket and traced its comforting filigree.

I was pretty sure one of two things would be in that envelope. Either a note trying to patch up our stupid quarrel, or—
please God, no
—a continuation of it. We were both stubborn, and our disagreement could have gone on for a long time. I hadn't even gone to see her at Christmas. How could I have been that angry over her selling a stupid house? For the rest of the day, until bedtime, I pretended to compose music.

The next morning I awoke stiff all over. I squatted down on the porch and did a few minutes of yoga to loosen up. Regular yoga, not Neek's extreme variety, whatever that was. In the middle of a half-candle I heard Grace's soft voice at the door.

She apologized for bothering me when I greeted her. “You look much better this morning, Cressa.”

I was surprised by how much better I felt.

“That old bear, Mr. Toombs, was around this morning, right after we got back from church. Why he's badgering us and not you, I don't know, but he does want to see you.”

“What for? Who is he?”

“He's the manager of the complex, a stickler for regulations. There's a rule about signing in with him. I explained your grandmother just died—he couldn't have missed all that commotion—and asked him if he could leave you alone for a bit. But he went on and on.”

I had to get out of the cabin, so I agreed to go “sign in” at his house, the yellow one I had passed on my way in. How long ago had that been? It seemed like weeks.

The envelope in the armoire reproached me when I walked past. I couldn't see it, of course, but I knew it was there. And knew I should read the contents. But I couldn't yet. Maybe later.

I pulled up the shades I had drawn over the louvers in defense against the person who may have spied on me the night before last. In the clear light of day, I admitted that the footprints and cigarette butt were most likely innocent. They had probably been there before I arrived. Nevertheless, I would throw the sturdy deadbolt on the front door again that night, like I had the night before.

The outside air drifted in through the small front windows as I dried off after my shower and dressed. The air was as fresh as yesterday. Today I could appreciate it more.

A small shed, painted red to match the cabin, sat near the road. I walked across Gram's front yard, bordered by lilac bushes, the smell of the last of their lush blooms floating across my face, and reached the gravel road leading down the hill.

To my left, the land sloped up. Beyond the Harmons' cabin was a playground in an open area.

To my right, the road led down the hill to the swimming area and the entrance, and the manager's yellow house. The route led me past several cabins on my right, the lake shining below them. Just before Toombs's was a space big enough for another cabin, but it held only a cement pad. The growth around the slab looked cold and stunted. Tangled growth surrounded strangely lopsided trees. I shivered and hurried past.

A stepping-stone walkway, bordered by tidy flower beds, led to the front door of the neat house. I lifted a brass knocker, engraved with the name “Toombs” and let it fall. A paddleboat and a shiny row boat bobbed next to a freshly painted dock below, at the water's edge. From a nearby oak, a robin serenaded me, telling me to
cheery-up
,
cheery-up
.

The door opened a crack and a woman with her hair in pink foam curlers peered out.

“Yes?” She kept plenty of door between us.

I smiled to reassure her. In case that's what she needed. “Hi. Grace Harmon mentioned I should sign in here? I'm Cressa Carraway, staying at my grandmother's cabin.”

“Oh, you're Ida's… yes… well, come in.”

I had passed some sort of test, because the door swung wide and she stepped back for me to enter, although the worried expression didn't leave her face. After I was inside, she was unsure of what to do with me. I glanced around and took in a shag-carpeted room with out-of-date everything, cheap early American furniture, heavy wood paneling, but everything orderly and clean. The smell of lemony furniture polish almost masked the odor of cigarette smoke. One bookshelf held newish books that gave no signs of having ever been read. One big comfortable chair, flanked by several artificial plants, faced the television. Almost every surface held a clean ashtray.

“I'm so sorry about Ida,” she said. “Such a terrible thing. And such a nice lady.” She lingered uncertainly in the middle of the room. “I'm Martha Toombs. My husband and I manage the lake. Are you staying on for awhile?” She gave me a tentative smile. If anyone personified the musical piece “Kitten on the Keys,” it was this flighty, skittish woman. How could she “manage” anything?

I took a breath and thought about how long I should stay. “Maybe. At least for a few days, until the funeral. If it's no problem.”

“No, no, it's no problem. I think. Are you her only grandchild?” Mrs. Toombs looked around vaguely as if searching for the answer to her oddly off-topic question. Maybe she wondered if she would have to put up with any more intruders.

“No, I'm not.” I looked around too, but the room hadn't changed. “I have cousins on the West Coast, but I'm the only one she was close to.” The robin's song came through an open window. “It's so peaceful here, isn't it? A big change from Chicago. Gram used to bring me here to swim when I was younger, but I haven't been out of the city for ages.”

“You haven't been to the cabin since she bought it, have you?” She sank onto the couch and motioned me to a chair. She must have been relieved to have thought of seating me.

“No, I didn't get here while she was alive.” I knew these people probably all wondered why I had never visited Gram. I perched on the edge of a sofa cushion; I didn't want to settle in and stay long.

“Her death was so sudden. That must be hard for you.”

“Where's the chips I bought yesterday?” yelled a strident male voice from an inner doorway. Mrs. Toombs looked fondly toward the sound. The man poked his handsome head, topped with dark wavy hair, into the room. He flashed me a dazzling smile and walked in from the kitchen, lighting up the room like a fanfare. He stubbed out the tail end of his smoke in the nearest ashtray and approached me. I tested the smell and tried to determine if it was the same kind I'd smelled outside the cabin. Not being a smoker, I couldn't tell.

“Hi, I'm Mo Toombs. I'm her son.” He nodded backwards. “And you're?” He stepped closer and offered his hand. His handshake was warm and strong.

“Cressa Carraway,” I said. “Ida Miller's granddaughter.”

“Oh.” His face sobered, not nearly so handsome without the smile. “We're sorry about what happened to her.”

“Thank you. I'll miss her terribly.” I was surprised I could talk about her without bursting into tears.

Another young man emerged from the kitchen. He looked about Mo's age, mid-twenties, the same as me, with coppery-red curls and a camera slung around his neck. He nudged Mo to prompt an introduction. His entrance didn't bring a fanfare to mind, more like a nice overture.

“Cressa, this is Darry Johannson, friend of mine.”

“How do you do? And it's Daryl, not Darry.” His glance at Mo held a slight frown. His green eyes widened then. “Oh, you're the one whose grandmother died a couple of nights ago. I heard you came to see her, and you… Well, I'm so sorry.”

Yes, well, we're all sorry, I thought. That's official.

“You're only the second person I've ever known with one green eye and one blue eye,” Daryl said.

It's odd how few people notice that. I decided I liked him.

“Is your father home, Morris?” Mrs. Toombs asked her son, her pinched eyebrows pleating her forehead.

“Yeah, he's coming in a minute. He had to check something down on the boat.” Mo squinted at me. I figured he was trying to see my mismatched eyes.

“Oh, there you are.” Mrs. Toombs stiffened in her seat as an older man joined us. He was a more mature, shorter version of Mo, but with a narrow fox-like face.

“I went to get beer. I told you where I was going,” he said to his wife, his high voice sharp and petulant.

“Again?”

The glare he gave her chilled the warm room. It made me think of Len, for some reason.

“This is Ida Miller's granddaughter.” Martha popped up. “She's going to stay at the cabin for awhile.” She gestured toward me with tightly clutched hands.

When he saw me, his manner changed from petulant to oozing and oily, all in an instant.

“How do you do?” he said formally, bending forward and shaking my hand, sheathing the sharpness he had shown his wife.

“I was going to register her,” his wife said with a sickly smile.

“Well, did you?” He scowled at her.

“Uh, no, not yet.”

Poor woman, I thought. I wondered if he did more than verbally abuse her. Her eyebrows twitched together and she sank back onto the couch, deficient and defeated.

He turned to me again. “Me and the missus does all the managin'. It's a big job. Lots of responsibility.” He cleared his throat with a moist sound. It didn't help. His squeaky tenor still grated on my ears. “No noise after ten o'clock on week nights, now. Garbage is picked up once a week, on Wednesdays, at the foot of the hill. You need to haul your own trash down there. The upkeep of your cabin, your boat, and your dock is your responsibility. You get your own yard mowed, we mow all the common ground. You got any problems, you come see me about it.” At this he thumped himself in the chest with his thumb. I pictured him sticking his hand inside his shirt and striking a Napoleon pose. He did look a bit like the French emperor.

“And watch how you drive with all this gravel. The teenagers sometimes go berzook, ‘specially on the weekends, we gotta watch ‘em. They drive like crazy, tearin' up and down the hill. Throwin' gravel all over the place.”

Berzook
? Was that a version of berserk? “Did you know my grandmother well?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Sure, I knew her. Knew her from way back.” He quit talking for a moment and the silence was conspicuous without his whining, raspy voice.

Toombs got some papers out of a corner cabinet drawer, rustled them a bit, and wrote down my name, address, and phone number in Chicago as I dictated them. He opened a door in the upper half of the cabinet. The inside of the door held rows of hooks, each with a neatly lettered label above it. He looked at the hook under the name Ida Miller, from which one key swung.

“Oh, that's right. Gracie came and got the other key.” He gave me a sharp look. “You still have it?”

“Of course.” Did he think I'd lost it already? But, prone to losing things as I am, I was glad to see a spare.

“Guess you're all set, then.” He dusted his hands together with an air of self-importance.

“I need to run errands. You stay here,” he ordered his wife. She pulled in her head, turtle-fashion, and sank further into the couch, like a dog responding to a “sit” command. Would I have turned into a person like Martha if I'd put up with being beaten by the man in my life? Once was all it took for me, but with a different upbringing, a different outlook… who knows?

“Be back later.” His departing strut needed to be accompanied by Gounod's comic
Funeral March of the Marionettes,
the song Alfred Hitchcock used as the theme song for his television show. The room breathed a sigh of relief after he left.

“Mo, dear,” said Mrs. Toombs, brightening. “Poor Cressa doesn't know anyone here. Why don't you take her to lunch at the bowling alley and show her around?”

I wasn't sure I was up to eating yet, but Mrs. Toombs looked so pitifully hopeful, so proud to have had an original thought, I agreed to meet Mo in a couple of hours. I felt some kind of a kinship with Martha. There but for the grace.

“Just so I'm back in time for my appointment at the funeral home,” I said, not looking forward to that meeting or the lunch all that much. Mo stood there staring at me, making me increasingly uncomfortable.