In the kitchen, I flipped on a light and reached for a cup above the sink. After filling it with tap water, I heated it in the microwave, then inserted a tea bag. Leaving the cup on the counter to steep, I headed for the shower. I turned on the faucet and waited for the appropriate temperature while I located a uniform from the closet. Mr. Winslow provided each of his waitresses with two uniforms. Since last night’s uniform was drenched from the rain, I made a mental note to wash a load of laundry after work.
I stepped into the shower, enjoying the pelting warm water against my skin.
Ten minutes later, I stood at the fogged mirror and added a touch of blush to my cheeks and a light gloss to my lips. After running a comb through my short hair, I gave it a quick tousle with my hands.
I was glad I had it cut, I realized. The short bouncy length was the perfect style for someone constantly on the go. Justin had mentioned he liked it last night. I wondered if he was just making conversation or if he really did like it short. He’d always preferred it longer.
I wriggled into my uniform, then checked my purse for the wallet. It was right where I had left it, next to my small .380 pistol. Neither my parents nor Justin knew I carried a weapon. I felt certain they wouldn’t be happy about it.
Outside, a partially sunny sky still patched with a few lingering clouds loomed before me. A soft gentle breeze danced through the numerous trees along the quiet street. Overhead, songless birds perched like tiny black statues on the telephone wires.
What made me think of that? I wondered. I shrugged off the eerie thought.
My purse draped over my shoulder, I walked along the sidewalk toward Lendon Street, the main intersection before Winslow’s Diner. From there it was just one block over to where Michael Black lived.
A light flashed on from somewhere inside Justin’s parents’ house when I passed by. Lacy yellow kitchen curtains danced in the slight breeze. Hurried movement appeared at the window. I’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Banks many times over the years whenever I’d visit my own family. But after our breakup, the occasional impromptu meetings felt awkward.
I knew Justin was staying with his parents until he found a place of his own. I wondered if he was up at this hour. School didn’t start for another two weeks.
I double-checked the address on the driver’s license as I continued down the street, searching the house numbers for a match. I located the cozy two-story partially bricked home in the middle of the block. Beautiful flowerbeds flanked both sides of the driveway. A huge corkscrew willow tree dominated the small lawn, its gnarly branches scraping gently against the front of the house.
A quick glance at my watch alerted me that it was six forty-five. I didn’t plan to spend any time here. Once I’d returned the wallet, I’d be on my way to work.
I eased past a blue station wagon in the driveway, carefully avoiding the manicured lawn. It was obvious someone took great pride in their gardening. Recalling the harsh face of Mr. Black from the previous evening, I surmised it was doubtful that he was the one with the green thumb.
At the front door, I rang the bell and waited.
There was no response.
I glanced around the street to see if anyone else was around. It felt strangely unnerving to be the only person out at such an early hour.
I rang the bell again. Someone must be here, I thought. Otherwise, who did the car belong to?
Deciding they hadn’t heard the doorbell, I reached up and curled my fingers around a brass doorknocker and gently pounded.
Still no answer.
I blew out a long breath. Now what? I wondered. I didn’t want to be late for work, but I also didn’t want to have to tell Mr. Winslow that I still had the wallet in my possession.
Determined not to give up so easily, I walked to the back of the house. Surely he had noticed his wallet was missing by now. If he had already left the house, he had probably returned to the diner in search of it. I decided to give it one last attempt before calling it quits.
The driveway circled to the back of the house, where I was surprised to find a red Toyota parked.
Somebody must be home if two cars are here, I told myself. More than likely, no one is up yet.
I brushed past the Toyota toward the back door. A faint light shone through the blinds. It creaked open when I gently tapped on it.
“Mr. Black?” I called out softly. I stepped through the entrance, my heart beating erratically. I knew I should turn around and leave, but my legs seemed to have a mind of their own. “Mr. Black,” I said again. “I’m Denise Thomas from Winslow’s Diner. I’m here to return the wallet you left behind last night.”
A haunting silence filled the dark house. A knot tightened in my stomach.
Maybe it was the movie I had started to watch last night that had me on alert. Justin had joked about watching a scary movie all alone in a dark house during a storm. Maybe he was right.
I sucked in a deep breath to quell my irregular heartbeat.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. I shouldn’t be here. I’m trespassing!
Against one wall, the white kitchen appliances took shape in the dark room. Through an opening to my left, a tiny flickering of light danced mysteriously along one wall.
I heard voices!
My legs refused to move. I stood glued to the spot, contemplating my next move. Should I turn around and run?
The question was answered when I finally managed to put one foot forward, then another. I sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly as I tiptoed through the narrow doorway.
I almost cried. I silently swore to never watch another scary movie alone in the dark again.
The voices I’d heard were coming from a television set. And in an overstuffed black leather chair, a woman was resting, still in her nightgown and robe.
“Mrs. Black?” I choked out loud.
One arm hung limply over the arm of the chair. Her face tilted slightly to one side. A thick strand of light brown hair partially covered one side of her face.
The smile that formed on my face relaxed my tense muscles.
Had the woman fallen asleep watching the same movie as I had last night? I wondered. The thought amused me.
I walked to the chair and tapped the woman gently on the shoulder. “Mrs. Black?” I whispered.
The woman’s slender body slid down the chair and crumpled onto the thick carpeted floor. I jumped back, gasping in horror. Icy fear gripped my chest, cutting off my breath. I jerked my hand to my mouth, attempting to smother the scream that threatened to escape.
My breath quickened. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to steady my pulse. I was trained for things like this. I refused to let panic overtake me. Somehow I found the courage to reach down and feel for a pulse. There was no sign of life.
I reached into my purse for my cell phone to summon the police, when a loud thump from upstairs startled me.
Again, panic washed over me. My stomach clenched tight. Instead of grabbing my phone, my hand clamped around the gun in my purse. The television continued to toss frightening shadows against the walls. My body became paralyzed with the fear that someone lurking in the darkness would leap out and strike down his only witness to a crime.
I inhaled slowly and deliberately. Had I imagined the noise? I wondered.
My gaze glued to the scene before me. My hand on my weapon, I backed slowly into the kitchen. When my elbow brushed against the back doorjamb, I spun around and bolted through the back door.
A million jumbled thoughts raced through my mind as I covered the distance from Benton Street to Lendon Street. Where was Mr. Black while I was inside the house? Obviously, someone had been there. Was he the one upstairs the whole time? It was true that the man had seemed preoccupied the night before while I served him pie and coffee. Had he been contemplating murdering his wife the whole time?
The image of the tall, dark man flashed through my mind. I remembered thinking he looked the part of a gangster. His dark brown eyes had never once shown any signs of humanity while I jotted down his request and returned with his order. His abrupt departure only seemed to confirm my gnawing suspicion that Michael Black had rushed home to murder his wife while she sat in the overstuffed chair watching a murder mystery on television.
At the intersection, I came to a stop, my heart still jumping in my chest. Gasping for breath, I glanced uneasily over my shoulder. Tears of relief flooded my eyes when I realized no one had followed me.
Mindful of oncoming traffic, I carefully crossed the street. Clutching the ache in my side, I slumped against a streetlight and took long measured breaths.
Then I started to laugh. Was I jumping to conclusions? I wondered. I had no proof anything criminal had occurred. It was entirely possible that the woman in the house had died of natural causes. Maybe you’re right, Justin, I thought. Maybe I do try to find excitement where there is none. Maybe I do need more training in law enforcement, but wasn’t that the point of working for my uncle Bob in the first place?
Maybe I was wrong to leave without calling the police, I realized. But how would I explain being in the house? Technically, I was trespassing.
No, I decided. I wasn’t wrong. I had no proof that anything was amiss. The woman could have died from natural causes. It was even possible that Michael Black wasn’t home to realize it. Leaving was the only thing I could do under the circumstances.
But whether or not anything criminal had happened, the thing to do now was to notify the police. So far, there was nothing to connect me to Mr. Black’s house. Even if Mr. Winslow told the police I was there returning a lost wallet, all I’d have to do is say no one was home when I tried. I still had the wallet to corroborate my story if I needed to.
I thought back to when I entered the house. The back door opened easily when I knocked. Other than the woman’s wrist to check for a pulse, I was pretty sure I hadn’t touched anything with my hands once I was inside. Fingerprints shouldn’t be a problem. There was nothing to tie me to the scene.
I took a deep breath and checked my watch. I’d never make it to work on time now, but it couldn’t be helped.
I reached for my cell phone, for once thankful that I couldn’t afford a monthly plan. I was almost out of minutes on my prepaid cell. It would be easy to toss it into a trash can once I made the call.
My heart still pounding and my hands shaking, I punched in 9-1-1.
“I want to report a…” I stopped, searching for the right words. I couldn’t be sure it was a murder. It could just as easily have been a heart attack or stroke. Or even suicide.
I stammered for a moment before finally uttering, “A disturbance at…” I opened the wallet I still clutched in my hand and read the address aloud. “At 1342 East Benton. A woman is in trouble,” I added for lack of anything better.
Confident I had done the right thing, I breathed a sigh of relief, then disconnected before the operator could ask more questions. I had no more information to offer. It was up to the police to handle everything now.
The thought didn’t offer much comfort, though. The woman’s limp body sliding onto the floor remained forever engraved in my mind. Never in my life could I recall being so frightened. A violent shudder coursed through my body.
Winslow’s Diner was open for business when I arrived. Still shaking, I straightened my uniform, combed my hand through my hair, and stepped inside. Only a handful of customers occupied the dining room.
“What happened to you?” Like a hawk watching over her prey, Heather perched on her stool behind the cash register, studying me with intense curiosity.
I didn’t want to explain my morning to anyone, especially not Heather. “Just got off on the wrong foot this morning,” I said, trying to force a smile. “Has Mr. Winslow noticed that I’m late?”
She shrugged. “He hasn’t even been in this morning,” she remarked.
That surprised me. Mr. Winslow rarely took any time off from the diner. He thought the place would collapse if he wasn’t around to keep an eye on things. But at least I wouldn’t have to explain my tardiness now.
“I just need a few minutes to freshen up,” I said to Heather.
“Whatever,” she responded, her expression questioning. “Lisa’s been covering for you.”
In the ladies’ room, I bent over and clamped my hands onto the sink, sucking in a long, deep breath. Then I turned on the faucet and splashed cool water on my face. It felt good. I could feel the earlier tension easing away. Reaching for a paper towel, I dabbed at the rivulets of water on my face.
I glanced in the mirror. The pale, frightened face that stared back was unrecognizable. I took my compact from my purse and tried to restore some of my natural color before returning to the dining room.
I spotted Lisa Trammel, another part-time waitress, carrying a tray full of dirty dishes. I walked toward her. Just as I reached her side, Lisa turned abruptly and we collided. The tray of dishes she was holding rattled in protest. I reached out to grab the tray in an attempt to prevent any breakage, and realized my hands were still shaking.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized, noticing Lisa’s worried frown. Mr. Winslow constantly badgered Lisa. Petite and extremely nervous, Lisa was easily intimidated. I was sure Mr. Winslow’s abrupt attitude had a lot to do with it. Lisa was terrified of being fired for any minor mishap.
“It’s okay,” she said. She took the tray from me and set it down on the nearest table. “Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Not exactly a ghost, I thought.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just one of those mornings when nothing goes right,” I added with an indifferent shrug. I didn’t want to go into detail about my morning with Lisa or anyone else for that matter. I was having a hard time believing it myself.
I started to help Lisa by picking up the tray of dishes she’d just deposited on the table, when the sudden screeching of sirens startled me. My hands shook so badly the tray dropped to the table. Lisa’s brown eyes filled with concern.
“I’ve never seen you so jumpy,” she said. “Whatever happened this morning must have been awful. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.”