Authors: Jennifer Hillier
He pulled up to the house and reversed, backing the truck halfway into the Chief's long driveway. Smiling to himself, he wondered how long it would be before he stopped thinking of the house as his grandfather's. The paperwork had been completed the day before and the house was officially in Matt's name. It felt absolutely right; he'd grown up here, after all. His grandparents had raised him after his teenage mother had died in a fire when he was just an infant.
Stepping down out of the truck, he looked up at the old Victorian and felt a sense of peace wash over him. He was almost there. He almost had everything he wanted. The house was another piece of Matt's personal success puzzle.
Home sweet home
.
His utility van pulled up beside the curb and Matt turned to see Jason and PJ laughing about something.
“Not too shabby, buddy,” PJ Wu said, stepping out of the van and snapping his gum. It was an irritating sound, and Matt could see the wad of pink rolling around on his friend's tongue. Stepping onto the grass, PJ clapped Matt on the shoulder with a grin. The two looked up at the house together. “Jase said this was a gorgeous place, but I didn't realize it was so damned huge. What are you going to do with all this space?” Snapping his gum one last time, PJ hawked, and the gum flew out of his mouth and landed on the grass.
Matt frowned. The sight of that bright pink wad of chewing gum resting on top of his perfectly manicured green lawn was ugly. “Seriously?” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Don't you have any manners? Pick that shit up.”
“What?”
“Don't spit your goddamn gum out on my grass. I said pick it up.”
PJ blinked and took a step back. “Dude. Chill.” He bent down and picked up the gum, holding it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger even though it was his own. Turning, he flicked it into the sewer grate beside the curb. “It's just gum. You can ask nicely.”
“I don't have to ask nicely. I shouldn't have to ask at all.”
“Hey.” PJ's dark eyes furrowed. “Don't talk to me like that. I'm not working for you today. Shit, dude, I'm here as a friend, not your employee. I'm helping you out, remember.”
Matt snorted. “Helping me out is what friends do. Cooking at my restaurant is what I pay you to do. Spitting your nasty-ass gum on my clean lawn is what assholes do.”
“Did you just call me an asshole? Are you kidding me?” PJ squared his shoulders and took a step toward him. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Matt laughed, but there was no trace of humor in the sound. PJ was eight inches shorter and probably weighed forty pounds less, and Matt would pound him. “You're my problem, asshole. Don't ever leave your shit on my lawn.”
“Wow.” PJ's mouth hung open, but before he could say anything more, Jason intervened, stepping in between them and slinging an arm over each of their shoulders.
“Come on now, boys, simmer down.” As usual, Jason's tone was easy with a side of snark. “What are we fighting about? My delicate ears don't appreciate such rated-R language. Today's a happy day, isn't it? Please tell me we're not arguing about gum. What are we, little girls?”
“Talk to your boy, Jase,” PJ said, his face still hot. He shrugged off Jason's arm. “He's the one who needs the attitude adjustment.”
“From where I'm standing, you could all be little girls.” The gruff voice, naturally loud and commanding, carried across the lawn, and all three guys looked up in surprise to see Edward Shank standing in the open doorway. A lit cigar was in one hand, and the aroma of smoke and cherries wafted over. “Bunch of pussies you are, standing around crying over a little bubble gum. You boys trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”
On cue, they all straightened up. Jason dropped his arms from around their shoulders and smoothed his hair. PJ made sure his shirt was tucked into his pants. The Chief had that effect on people, whether they realized it or not.
“Chief.” Matt took a step away from PJ and Jason. “Didn't realize you were here.”
“Walked over. It's a nice day. And I still have my key.” The old man took his key chain out of his pocket and shook it. “Should I have called first? Maybe I should have; looks like you boys are gearing up for a fight.”
“Of course not.” Matt exchanged looks with Jason and PJ. PJ dropped his eyes and looked away.
Jason let out a laugh, but it sounded forced, and it was obvious he was trying to break the tension. “Good to see you, old-timer,” he said, giving Matt a stern look before bounding up the porch steps to shake Edward's hand. “Still got your iron grip, I see.”
“I could still kick your sorry ass.” The Chief's eyes were alight with good humor. He punched Jason in the shoulder, then winced and rubbed his knuckles. “Goddamn it, I think you're bigger than when I last saw you. You juicing or what? And what do you need all those muscles for, anyway, champ? You don't play football anymore, and it won't do you a bit of good when I get my foot up your sphincter. Mind you, you'd probably enjoy that, though I'd hate to muss up that hair.”
“You must be looking forward to moving into the old farts' home.” Jason's grin was equally wise-ass. “I hear they got tuna casseroles and backgammon going on every night. How will you possibly handle all the excitement? You might keel over if you're not careful.”
“Son, I haven't been excited in twenty years. Not since my wife surprised me on the night of our thirtieth anniversary.”
“Oh God, I didn't just hear that.” Finally relaxing a little, Matt shot one last glare at PJ before stepping onto the porch to give his grandfather a hug. “Chief, I think my ears are bleeding. That's my grandmother you're talking about, for God's sake. May she rest in peace.”
The old man ruffled his hair fondly. “Ha. So what? And how did I manage to raise such a pussy?”
“Same question I'm asking myself,” PJ muttered as he pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“Oh let it go, already,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. He looked pointedly at PJ, who sighed and turned away. The two of them headed back
to the U-Haul, opening the back door to reveal Matt's new bed frame, headboard, and mattress set.
Clapping Matt on the shoulder, Edward leaned in to whisper in his grandson's ear. Sweet smoke curled up toward their faces from the Chief's cigar, which he held down at his side. “You know, I always thought that PJ kid was an idiot, too, and you can bust his balls when you're at the restaurant tomorrow. But right now you need his help, so it doesn't do you any good to get in his face. Always pick your battles. You got me?”
Matt had to smile. His grandfather always knew the right thing to say. “Yeah, I got you, Chief.”
“I understand, though,” Edward said, taking a drag on his cigar. His voice was low. “If this had still been my lawn, I'd have ripped his face off. Disrespectful little shit.”
First order of business: build a deck and buy a hot tub. Matt loved the outdoors, and he had big plans for his new backyard.
Though tired from a long day at the restaurant, he was exhilarated to see that work had begun. As he stood alone at the back door, surveying the progress, a light rain drizzled over him. At present, the yard was a giant mess. Holes and piles of dirt marred what used to be a neatly manicured lawn, but unlike the gum incident, it didn't bother Matt. He could envision the end resultâa stained wood deck, the hanging lanterns, the giant barbecue grill, and the hot tub. He had initially wanted an inground pool, but Jason had put the kibosh on that idea, reminding Matt that the weather in Seattle was only conducive to swimming between July Fourth and Labor Day. Eight weeks of summer was hardly worth the thousands it would cost to build a pool.
His cell phone rang in his back pocket and he pulled it out. Recognizing the name and number, he answered quickly.
“Hey, Matt.” The raspy voice of Duncan Hastings, the contractor
Jason had recommended, was in his ear. “Just wanted to check in. We made good progress today. Tomorrow we'll start pouring the cement for the deck, so long as it isn't raining too hard.”
“Looking good so far, man.” A speck of rain landed on Matt's brow and he wiped it away, moving back under the bright yellow awning covering his back door. “Can't wait to see the finished product.”
“If all goes well you'll be having a party to celebrate in two weeks. Anyway, the reason for my call.” The contractor cleared his throat. “We dug something up in the backyard, almost ripped right through it.”
“You dug something up? What was it, a dead body?”
Hastings chuckled. “The crate wasn't big enough. I didn't know what to do with it, so I moved it to the side of the house. Beside your raspberry bushes.”
“I have raspberry bushes?”
Another laugh. “Anyway, hope we didn't cause any damage. It was buried pretty deep. Seems like it's been there awhile, as the soil was pretty settled around it. I'm guessing it was the Chief's?”
Everybody knew who Matt's grandfather was, and everybody knew that Edward Shank had been the chief of police of Seattle. Like everyone else, the contractor was referring to the old man by his nickname, as a matter of respect.
Matt started walking toward the side of the house. “I see it.” A large plastic crate, measuring four feet by two feet by three feet, sat innocuously beside a bare bush. He knelt down to examine it. The crate was sealed with two locks, one on each side, and there was a long crack down the side of one wall. Matt ran a finger over it. The crack was probably where Hastings had hit it with his equipment. “Wonder what it is.”
“It's buried treasure, of course. Loot from a high-end robbery case
your grandfather worked. Illegal guns. A million dollars in cash.” Hastings paused. “No, make that two million. It was a big crate.”
“If only.” Matt laughed. “Thanks for calling.”
“Send the Chief my apologies if we damaged anything. We weren't expecting to find anything buried that deep.”
“Will do.” Matt disconnected and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Reaching forward, he attempted to lift the crate. It didn't seem that heavy, but it was more awkward than he expected, especially with one side of the plastic cracked. Taking a moment to position himself, he knelt down and hoisted the crate up, hauling it carefully toward the back door that brought him into the kitchen. He sat it down on the rectangular wood table with a harder thud than he intended.
Elmo appeared out of nowhere, nudging and winding around Matt's legs, his long tail vibrating as it always did when Matt first came home. Then he jumped up onto the kitchen table and proceeded to sniff every inch of the crate.
“Any idea what's in here, buddy?” Matt said, stroking the cat's fur thoughtfully. With his other hand, he fingered the locks. “Should I call the Chief? It's obviously his crate, so he probably has the keys.”
Elmo didn't have an answer, but he did continue to smell the crate, bumping up against it, his little pink tongue eventually darting out to lick a bit of moisture off the sides. As Matt headed to the fridge to grab a cold beer, the cat bumped the crate again with his head. This time, the bump was a little too hard, and the crate slid off the edge of the table before Matt could stop it. The crate hit the floor with a loud shatter.
“Shit!” He put his beer down on the counter. “Elmo, goddammit!”
The cat scampered away.
“Oh, hell,” Matt said again, kneeling down. The crate had landed on its side and the locks were still intact, but now the lid was cracked at the
joints. He wouldn't need his grandfather's key to see what was inside now, because the box was open. And whatever was inside didn't smell too good. He wrinkled his nose at the odor emanating from the crate. Something inside had broken and was now oozing a greenish liquid. A puddle was forming on the white kitchen tile.
“Just awesome,” Matt said to himself. “And what the fuck is that smell?” Whatever the liquid was, it smelled like rotten eggs. Probably sulfur. Grabbing a paper towel from the counter, he mopped it up. Then he lifted the broken lid and took a look inside the crate.
The contents were jumbled, and it took Matt a moment to process what he was looking at. He'd assumed, like his contractor, that this was the Chief's crate, but the first thing he saw was a ladies' hairbrush. He turned it over in his hands, curious. There was nothing particularly interesting about it, except that it was filled with strands of very long, dark hair. His grandmother's, before she'd turned gray? He pulled a strand free and examined it. No, he didn't think so. The hair was too long, and his
lola
's hair had always been short.
Putting the brush aside, he sat on the floor and began picking through the rest of the crate's contents. Various items of clothing lined the top, all ladies' stuff, mostly smaller sizes. He pulled out a black T-shirt, well worn and clearly well loved. Size small. He recognized the iron-on picture of the eighties alternative band on the front right away. The Cure.
Nice
.
Under the T-shirts were also a half dozen brassieres. Amused, Matt picked up a pink lace bra and looked at it closely. It was cheap and frilly, but still kind of sexy, the kind of thing Sam would never wear. Had his grandfather had a mistress or something back in the day that nobody ever knew about? There were a dozen or so pairs of women's underwear in the crate as well. Curious but a little uneasyâMatt had loved
his grandmother and the thought of the Chief having an affair was unpleasantâhe scooped one of them up, only to drop them like they were on fire a second later when a thought occurred to him.
Good Lord, could these be his
mother's
things?
It seemed entirely possible. Lucy Shank was a drug addict, and had died in 1985 of a drug overdose at the age of sixteen, when Matt was only a baby. He'd only ever seen a handful of pictures of her, and none of them had been taken past the age of fourteen. Lucy was a super-touchy subject with his grandparents, and whenever he'd tried to ask them questions about their only child, they'd murmur vague comments like “She was always a troubled girl,” and “She'd be so proud of the man you've become,” as if that somehow explained the person she was. It was frustrating, so he'd stopped asking questions about his mother a long time ago. And it was useless to ask questions about who his father was, as his grandparents simply didn't know.