Steeled for Murder (16 page)

Diapers would definitely have to be the next load in the washer.

I took a folded diaper and carried it out to the main room. I handed it to Sam. “You’re gonna have to show me how to do this.”

He took the diaper from me, lifted Beth out of the playpen, expertly removed the wet diaper, and replaced it with a clean one. All without stabbing the baby or himself with the wicked-looking diaper pins.

I had no confidence I could repeat the maneuver myself.

He carried the wet diaper back to the bedroom. “We’re almost out of clean diapers. There’s a few more in the diaper bag, but…” He shook his head ominously.

I didn’t care to contemplate life without clean diapers.

“Your well ever run dry?” I asked, thinking we had quite a few loads of laundry ahead of us. Not to mention dishes to wash and baths to take.

Sam shrugged. “Not that I ever remember.”

I hoped we didn’t find out the well’s capacity the hard way.

I moved on to the kitchen area, filling the sink and putting some of the crusted-over dishes in to soak. I looked around. Sam had gone out one door to get the wood. The other led to a well-stocked pantry with a big freezer and shelves of food, including several large cans of powdered baby formula.

If Mitch had isolated his family, he hadn’t intended them to starve.

We would have to eat supper. Most of the flat white packages in the freezer were labeled in black marker. “Venison” with a date. Venison it would be. I set out a package to thaw while I cleaned up the kitchen area.

The room was heating up nicely.

Looked like I was going to be here for a while. Thank goodness I wasn’t being monitored, and with any luck, I wouldn’t have to try to explain all this to Mr. Ramirez. Of course, if I hadn’t gotten the time off, I would never have come up here in the first place.

What would have happened to Tiffany? Or the kids?

Sam found two wooden drying racks and set them up by the stove. When the washer finished, we hung the clothes on the dowels. I got the container of stinking diapers and dumped them into the washer, adding a good dash of bleach to the detergent.

I spied a crock pot on a shelf in the pantry and brought it out. Cutting the half-thawed venison into cubes and an onion into pieces, I put it all in the crock pot, along with some canned tomato sauce. Venison could be tough. Slow cooking might help.

Gradually, the room was becoming livable. Sam corralled the twins to help put the toys in the toy box. I straightened up everything else as best I could and swept the bare wood floor. The kids’ room could wait until tomorrow. That would be a chore.

The tantalizing aroma of cooking meat and onions began to fill the air. I found potatoes and carrots and cut some up to add to the crock pot. The younger kids dozed. Outside, I could hear the wind roar and sharp ice particles hit the windows. We were warm and safe. A nice feeling. For now.

Following the directions on the can, I mixed up some baby formula. Sam gathered the baby bottles. Weren’t they supposed to be sterilized or something? I put a big pot of water on the cooktop and loaded the newly scrubbed bottles, nipples, and assorted plastic parts in the pot. The bottles were glass, so they should be all right, but I kept an eye on everything to see if the rubber nipples or the plastic parts started to dissolve. If they did, I didn’t know what I could do but watch them melt. I fished a few out before the water boiled, just in case.

Everything survived. I filled the bottles and put them in the refrigerator.

When the baby woke up, Sam changed her diaper again, and I tried to feed her. Sam showed me how to cradle her in my arms and hold her so she could drink from the bottle. She was soft and warm and fit right into the crook of my elbow. She put her tiny hands over mine and grasped the bottle as she sucked eagerly. She looked up at me and smiled around the nipple. I laughed and grinned back at her. What a goof.

When she had finished most of it, she lost interest.

“Now you have to burp her,” Sam said, taking the nearly empty bottle.

“How do I do that?”

“You put her up on your shoulder and pat her back.”

I did so.

“Only you should—” Sam started to say.

“Burrrrrrp.”

I felt something wet on the back of my sweater. It smelled awful.

“—put a diaper over your shoulder, because she’ll probably spit up,” Sam finished.

She had done exactly that. All over my sweater. I felt it soak through the shirt underneath, too.

I put the baby back in her playpen and took off my sweater and shirt. Removing the diapers from the washer, I put my things in with a few towels from the bathroom floor.

The room was not warm enough to go around unclothed. I shivered. I needed something to wear.

I opened the last door in the back wall. Had to be the adults’ bedroom. It was. Less of a mess than the other rooms, but not exactly neat.

The shades were drawn. A huge brick fireplace took up most of one wall, and the dank smell of damp ashes filled the dim air.

I switched on a light and opened the closet door. It contained a few pieces of clothing. Mostly men’s stuff. Tiffany must keep her clothes somewhere else. The ones Mitch had let her keep. A hooded sweatshirt hung from a hook on the back of the door. I held it to my nose and gave it the sniff test. It smelled clean enough. A little big for me, but this was no time to be fussy. I carried it out into the main room. It was blue with black lettering across the back that said “Mitch.”

Couldn’t be helped.

I slipped it on.

Sam was rearranging the clothes on the drying racks to make room for some of the diapers. The twins were sitting up, looking toward me.

“Supper in a few minutes.”

I opened a jar of peaches from the pantry and emptied it into a bowl. I put some now-clean plates and forks on the table. Sam got a half-empty gallon of milk from the refrigerator and poured some into cups.

“There’s beer in the refrigerator,” he told me.

I started to say drinking alcohol would violate my parole. But just about everything I’d done since I’d set foot on this property had violated my parole. Could drinking a beer really hurt? I grabbed one and popped the top.

Sam ushered the twins to the table. I wondered if there was enough hot water to give them a bath tonight. They needed it.

I dished the stew onto the plates, wondering if the kids would eat it or not. Baseless worry. They dove right in, as if venison stew was a mainstay of their diet. Maybe it was. Other than the Happy Meals, I had no idea when they had eaten last. Or what.

I took a gulp of the beer and a forkful of the stew. It tasted as good as it smelled. I took another sip of the beer. Felt good to settle down to a home-cooked meal that I’d actually fixed myself.

Someone knocked at the door.

Chapter 10

My first thought was to ignore the knock. Whoever it was might go away.

I quickly recognized that as ridiculous. Lights were on in the house.

My second thought was that maybe it was Uncle Carl. If so, I could turn responsibility for the kids over to him and then go home in the morning.

Or it could be the police. If Officer Simmons reported seeing me to Belkins, he would start asking questions and wouldn’t stop until he had some answers. If I didn’t open the door, they might break the door down and come in anyway.

They wouldn’t even have to break it down. I hadn’t locked it. The wind had died down a little, but the snow was still coming down heavily. Someone had made a real effort to get to this isolated house. I needed to let them in right away.

I got up and stashed my beer can on a shelf in the kitchen, behind a can of baking powder. I went over to the door and opened it.

A hairy, snow-covered dog burst through the door, shaking himself and making a beeline for Sam, who was finishing up his supper. The dog was followed by an equally hairy, snow-covered man.

He stood uncertainly just inside the door, looked around at the now tidy room, and inhaled deeply. He overbalanced, caught himself, laughed, and said, “Smells good. Any possibility of getting some supper?”

“Sure,” I said, shutting the door behind him. Unsteadily, he took off his jacket, and on the third try, managed to hang it on a hook.

The dog shook again, sending a spray of melting snow over everything. He sniffed at Sam’s hand and then went over to the twins. They laughed and held out their hands for him to lick.

Sam looked at the man and frowned. He slipped out of his seat at the table. Carrying his dishes to the sink, he said to the twins, “It’s bedtime. Come on.”

The twins looked like they might protest, but they, too, slipped out of their chairs and straggled off toward the bedroom.

“Who’re you?” the man asked me. He slurred his words.

I looked him over. He was either high or pretty drunk. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

He grinned, his stained teeth showing through his ice-encrusted beard. “I’m Reggie. Prob’ly your nearest neighbor. I promised Tiffany I’d bring over a Christmas tree for the kids. Left it out on the porch.” He put out a hand and steadied himself on the wall.

At first, all I could smell was unwashed body, but then I caught a strong whiff of alcohol on his breath. Drunk. “I hope you didn’t drive too far in that condition,” I said.

He ignored me. “Hey, kids,” he said, raising his voice. “I brought that Christmas tree I promised your mama.”

Sam had been marshaling the twins toward the bedroom, but he stopped and looked back toward us. “Christmas tree,” he said, his eyes wide.

“We can set it up tomorrow,” I told him. Getting the kids out of the way seemed like a very good idea right now.

“Where the hell is Tiffany?” Reggie looked around the room.

“She’s sick. In the hospital.”

“Really. I told her that cough was going to turn into pneumonia. Is that what she’s got?”

I shrugged. “I guess. Bad fever, and she wasn’t what you’d call totally with it.”

Reggie looked worried. “You’re sure it wasn’t an overdose?”

“Not an overdose,” I assured him. I hoped I was right; that possibility hadn’t occurred to me. Couldn’t see an overdose causing a high fever.

“So who are you?” Reggie pulled a package of rolling papers and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and started to roll a cigarette. Tobacco scattered all over the floor. At least, it looked like tobacco. “Tiffany’s fancy man?”

“Just happened by,” I said. “I worked with Mitch. Before he died.”

“You mean before someone killed him.” Reggie tried to close the pouch. The strings tangled around his fingers.

“Yeah.”

Reggie leered at me. “Mitch always figured Tiff had somebody on the side. Came in while he worked nights. She swore it weren’t so. Guess he wasn’t so far wrong, huh?”

Last thing I needed was somebody going around reinforcing the notion that Mitch had any reason to be jealous of me. “I worked the same shift as Mitch.” I watched as the pouch strings closed tighter on his fingers the more he tried to remove them. “Couldn’t have come around when he was at work. I’d be at work, too.”

“Riiiiight…” Reggie yanked the pouch. One of the strings broke, but his fingers were free. He shoved the pouch back in his pocket and tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

No point in responding to his taunting.

“And to think that cute little vixen wouldn’t let ol’ Reggie come by and keep her warm at night.”

No surprise there, given the way he smelled.

He laughed and brushed the shaggy gray hair out of his eyes. “A shame, really. The only time I even had a go at her was when Mitch set it up. And he insisted on videotaping it.”

I really didn’t want to hear this. I changed the subject. “You want some of the stew?” I waved toward the crock pot, still half full.

“Sure thing. And a beer.” He belched and headed to the refrigerator. “I know there’s got to be beer.”

He sure didn’t need any more to drink, but I figured that wasn’t my problem. Unless he passed out here. I got a bowl and a spoon—I didn’t think he could handle a plate or fork—and gave it to Reggie. “How’re the roads?” I asked.

Reggie ignored my question. He spooned stew into his bowl and held it under his nose. “Ah. Here’s betting it wasn’t Tiffany who made that. Bitch couldn’t cook worth a damn.”

“No.” I hoped the kids weren’t listening. They didn’t need to hear their mother referred to as a bitch. But kids usually hear everything. “Did you have much trouble driving here?”

“Didn’t drive,” Reggie said, taking a can of beer from the refrigerator. “Snow shoes. They’re on the porch, next to the Christmas tree.”

“Snow shoes.” I tossed that thought around in my mind.

“Yeah. You just gonna stay here until Tiffany gets well enough to come home?” He belched again and popped the top on the beer.

I shrugged.

“She is gonna get well enough to come home, isn’t she?” Reggie paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

I looked toward the kids. Sam was shuttling the twins between the bathroom and their bedroom. He didn’t look toward us, but I was sure he was listening. “Of course she is. A coupla days in the hospital where the doctors can take good care of her, and she’ll be good as new.”