I looked down to see a squirrel carcass, its flattened form a grotesque doormat. “Ye gods!” I breathed, almost falling backward off the stoop in my haste to get away. I frantically wiped my foot in the grass for at least two minutes before returning to the stoop, stepping carefully around the dead squirrel, to snatch the note from the door. It was only taped up and came away easily when I tugged on it.
“Stop asking questions. Or you will end up like this squirrel.”
The ugliness of the words hit me and I dropped the note, catching it before it fluttered to the ground. I read it again. The words were printed in a generic font on a plain sheet of bond paper. No signature. Duh. I started to call the police but thought better of it. I wasn’t in immediate danger; there was nothing the police could do. Instead, I dialed my mom’s number. No answer. Maybe she was out with Althea or Walter Highsmith. Wandering away from the stoop toward the comforting light streaming from Mrs. Jones’s windows, I called Vonda.
“Ick,” she said when I explained what had happened. “I’ll be right over. Ricky can man the fort here.”
While I waited for her to arrive, I stepped over the squirrel again, repressing a shudder, and entered the apartment. Grabbing a trash bag, rubber gloves, and barbecue tongs, I returned to the stoop and gingerly tweezed up the squirrel, depositing it into the bag and pulling the ties tight just as Vonda drove up in the old station wagon with a “Magnolia House” logo magneted to the door.
“Is that it?” she asked, nodding toward the bag.
“Yes.” Vonda followed me as I carried the bag to the rear of Mrs. Jones’s house, where two covered rubbish bins sat, and plopped it in.
“Maybe we should have given it a decent burial?” Vonda suggested.
“Vonda!”
She held her hands up in apology. “You’re right. Sorry. I brought a little pick-me-up.” She pulled a bottle of
Jeremiah Weed, a bourbon liqueur, out of her purse. “Remember?”
I had to laugh. The first drink either of us had ever had was Jeremiah Weed liberally mixed with 7Up. We’d been on a church-sponsored retreat and one of the youth leaders had supplied the bottle, along with a case of beer. We’d both gotten royally sick and thrown up in the church van, as had a couple of the boys chugging beer. The youth leader had plenty of time to regret his stupidity as he hosed out the van. I don’t think we ever told on him.
“This may be the same bottle,” Vonda said, examining it. “I found it in the back of the pantry when I was setting mouse traps last week and I’ve been meaning to bring it over.”
As she talked, we walked toward my apartment. “I don’t see any blood,” Vonda said, scanning the cement stoop. “I guess it wasn’t killed here, which is a good thing. You don’t want someone performing animal sacrifices at your front door.” Light from my living room illuminated her hair, which was back to the bright red she’d had me dye it a couple of weeks back. No more vampire black. Her bangs were long and swept to one side, emphasizing her big brown eyes.
“I think it was road kill,” I said, stepping over the spot where the squirrel had lain, even though nothing remained to mark where it had been. I’d examined the poor critter when I bent to pick it up, and it seemed to have a greasy tire track pressed into its fur.
“I guess that’s better,” Vonda said doubtfully. “Why do kids get up to such sick pranks every Halloween?”
“I don’t think it had anything to do with Halloween.” I led her through the apartment and into the kitchen where I poured liberal measures of Jeremiah Weed into orange juice glasses. Then I caught her up on events and showed her the note. “Thanks for coming over,” I added.
She gave me a hug and handed back the note. “Succinct,” she said. “Are you going to tell the police?”
“I might drop it by tomorrow. It’s not like they’re going to open up a major investigation. They don’t have time to follow up on penny-ante stuff like this.”
“Hank would give it special attention,” Vonda said archly.
“Another reason not to take it in.”
She laughed.
We headed for the small living room and I sat in my recliner while Vonda settled onto the love seat. Vonda took a long swallow of the amber liquid and held her glass up to the light. “Liquor doesn’t go bad, does it?”
“It gets better—and more expensive—with age.” The liquor warmed my throat and opened my nasal passages as I held a small mouthful for a moment. Swallowing, I leaned back in the puffy chair. My muscles ached, my scrapes burned, and I felt about as energetic as an overcooked spaghetti noodle. I was glad Vonda was here.