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My courage fizzled as I sat outside the sheriff’s office, taking in the photos of the mayor and city council members prominently displayed over the water cooler––two women and two men. Beside the mayor’s portrait, was a picture of the sheriff in his uniform. His smile was broad and the twinkle in his eye apparent.
I squirmed in my chair, while cooling my heels for nearly an hour. I felt like a truant waiting for the principal. Once I’d misbehaved to the point of being sent to the principal’s office. I’d mouthed off to a teacher on the playground. Maybe this wasn’t so different.
Finally, I heard Sheriff Don’s muffled voice and the phone receiver being replaced, signaling he’d just hung up from a caller. He leaned around the doorway of his cluttered office and motioned me in. Easing his body into his chair, he glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. I perched on the edge of a wooden chair across from him.
He straightened, faced me, leaned back against his chair, and studied my face. I felt the tension in the air as he said, “Ms. Baxter, we have identified the gentleman’s body found on your premises yesterday. How do you know Mr. Jimmy Woo?”
“Jimmy Who?” I drew a blank, ignoring his tone and formal greeting.
“Woo.”
“Woo, who?”
“Not funny, Ms. Baxter,” he said, glaring.
“You’re right. It isn’t funny. But I don’t know any Jimmy Woo.” I searched through my memory bank for a glimmer of name recognition. I got nothing.
“You’ve never had any contact with a man by the name of Jimmy Woo?” His expression was skeptical, one that said, ‘go on—make my day, tell me another lie.’
“No.” I shook my head, “Why?”
“Woo was a patient at Colossal Health (oops, the sheriff named my former employer) where you were last gainfully employed,” he snapped.
“Gainfully employed,” struck a nerve, and I blurted, “I don’t know what you are implying, Sheriff Williams, but the hospital is a huge conglomerate.” Taking a breath, “I had no direct patient contact, and as far as work goes, I am now GAINFULLY employed as a home renovator as you know.” I was on the defensive, and it made me sound guilty. Okay, I was a little sensitive about that employed part.
“Ms. Baxter, a second body was found in another foreclosed home,” Sheriff Don said, interrupting my rant.
The expression on my face appeared to settle the sheriff’s mind about something.
“Where?” I demanded.
“In the crawl space of a split-level home about two blocks from your house. Same deal. The house closed the week before. The new homeowner was cleaning up from the prior occupants. He opened the access panel to the space under the stairwell, and––bingo––another body.”
I was shocked. Not only because another body had been found, but because I knew the house Sheriff Don was talking about. It was one I’d bid on. It was a nice house, only needed cosmetic work. Good use of space. Nice wood-burning fireplace that could be used as is or converted to a natural gas unit. It had a fenced-in yard with loads of mature trees. Someone could make a decent profit on fixing it up.
Another buyer had come in with a better price, and by default I bid on my traditional ranch that needed more work, but was still affordable.
“Who owns the house?” As soon as I spoke, I realized how damning that sounded.
Sheriff Don straightened in his chair, inspected me with his deep blue eyes, which were fringed by the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a man. He arched one eyebrow and rubbed his temple.
“Now, Ms. Baxter, I think you know why I’m asking all these questions. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. The person in possession of the body, usually knows so-o-omething.” He drew out his last word in a drawl.
Suddenly, I didn’t like the sheriff’s appearance as much. I didn’t like what he implied, and I had just thrown suspicion on another hapless homeowner, like myself.
“I know how it looks, Sheriff, but I assure you I had nothing to do with Jimmy Woo’s deceased body in my house. I do not like where you are going with these questions. If I am not being charged with a crime, I am going to leave. If, for some reason, I am being charg...”
Sputtering, I stopped myself in mid-word. “I want a lawyer!” I stormed, getting up, adding, “I want my house back!”
“No need to get your shorts in a bunch, Ms. Baxter,” the sheriff said. “You’ll get your house back in due time. Just don’t leave town.” He gave me a smug smile and a searching gaze.
I felt my face burn as I flounced out of the sheriff’s office, and I nearly tripped over Myra in the chair I was in earlier.
“They called you?” I gasped.
Myra’s expression was blank, mixed with resignation. It said to me, “I am so mad I could spit.” I’d seen that same look when a workman had dropped a hammer on her newly installed teak flooring, and dented the wood.
“They’re just doing their job, Kate.”
I snorted, still angry, in a hushed tone. “If they were doing their job, they’d be out searching for the person, or people, who did this!”
“Ahem. You can come in now, Myra. Ms. Baxter was just leaving.”
The sheriff stood stiffly at the door to his office. My guess was he’d overheard everything I’d said to Myra. His manner was kindlier for her interrogation.
“How’s your brother?” he asked, as she rose to enter his office. Myra’s brother was the county’s police chief. The sheriff had done his homework, he’d discovered that the Myra at my Bluebird rehab house was the chief’s sister. It was clear he knew she wasn’t involved in the body in my attic. Me, he wasn’t so sure about.
“He’s well, Sheriff. I’ll tell him you asked.” She pivoted towards me and whispered, “I’ll call you, later.”
I was aggravated Myra had been dragged into this mess. I hated myself for thinking the sheriff handsome minutes earlier, but I was still grateful he didn’t consider Myra a suspect.
When Myra entered the sheriff’s office, her jacket, matching slacks, and coordinated blouse showed off a trim figure and had just the right amount of class required for an interrogation by the sheriff.
I felt frumpy in black, carrying my oversized handbag. A quick glance at my reflection in the glass side panels of the door confirmed it. My attempt at smoothing out my mop just added to my overall dowdiness.
But, thankfully one of us––namely Myra––could stay calm in the face of a storm. My shorts were seriously twisted.
On my way home from meeting with the sheriff, I stopped at the Bluebird Street house. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front door. “Why me? Why my house?” I muttered. And then I sighed, “Why not me? Why not this house?”
The house was like many others built in the sixties, a low-profile rambler, with red brick facing adorning the front. It was a deluxe model, ahead of its time with an attached, single car garage. It was a simple home, built without the several stalls that today’s homes often boast.
The home was sturdy stock with original hardwood floors. One of the features was a clothes chute in the hall between the bedrooms. Built with two bedrooms, the dining room was through a separate door off the kitchen. It was often used as a third bedroom or nursery for young families, as the galley-style kitchen left enough room at one end for a kitchen table and chairs.
The basement was partially finished with a washer and dryer in the basement, painted walls, and carpeted floors. The open ceiling showed floor joists and ductwork. One large room was sectioned off with a door, but without a closet for storage. It could be a teenager’s hangout. Most people today would call it a starter home. I guess that’s why it called to me. The house promised a fresh start. Something that could be fixed, made anew.
On impulse, I drove around the neighborhood, searching out the second house where another body had been left in the basement crawl space. The house the Sheriff Don told me about in his interrogation. I had to be sure it was the same house I had bid on, and I was more than a little curious, i.e., nosy.
More crime scene tape cordoned off the split-level entry. It was deserted, and appeared as if investigators had processed the scene and left. It was another cute, starter house. But its market value had declined with the discovery of a body, like mine.
“People don’t like to buy houses with sad events attached to them. They want happy houses,” I could hear Myra saying, even as I gunned the motor and drove home, a saner, safer sanctuary.