Home for the Haunting(20)

Bam bam bam. Bam!

“Stop banging already,” said a child’s voice from outside. “I’m opening the door.”

The door swung open.

It was Kobe, the other kids loitering behind him, trying to look around him into the shed. Kobe gave me a disgusted, patronizing look, as though I were the child and he the adult.

“You not supposed to be in here,” he said. “Don’t you know not to cross crime scene tape? Says right there, DO NOT CROSS.”

“I didn’t. I went in the other way,” I said before I could stop myself. Why did I feel compelled to explain myself?

“Who you talking to, anyway?” he demanded.

This time I didn’t answer.

“And what are you wearing?” he asked, looking at today’s outfit, a bit worse for the day I’d had working on the foundation, plus the dust and grime of the shed. I pulled a twig out of my fringed hem and swiped at a smudge of grease on my arm.

“Never mind my dress. I’m a grown-up; I get to wear what I want. Did you push me in here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just a few minutes ago, someone pushed me in here. On the other side of the shed. Is this some kind of joke?”

“You crazy, lady,” Kobe said, shaking his head and looking at me with disapproval. “We was just walking by and Monty told us someone was back here, banging on the shed door, and would we come see who it was fool enough to get their sorry selves stuck in the shed where they just found a body.”

I glanced up to the top of the side alley and saw Monty on the porch, craning his neck around the corner. He raised a hand to me.

“Hey, Mel? You okay? What are you doing in there?”

“Yeah, thanks, fine,” I called. Then I turned my attention back to the kids. “Thanks for letting me out.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, you shouldn’t be here. Even if it wasn’t the actual place she was killed, it’s still creepy.”

“What do you mean, ‘not the actual place she was killed’?”

“I overheard the police talking. They couldn’t find the pill vials or whatever and there was some throw-up that should have been on the floor or whatever. They think maybe she was moved.”

“Why were you listening in on the cops?” I asked as we walked back up the alley between houses.

“Wasn’t listening, exactly. ’Cept grown-ups think kids are like the furniture or whatever. Can I help it if they talk right in front of me? I got ears, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” said a couple of kids behind him in support. His very own Greek chorus. I wondered what Kobe would grow up to become: CEO of a global corporation, leader of a cult, bestselling author? No matter what, I was willing to bet this young fellow would lead a fascinating life.

“Anyway, we’re outta here. Stay out of the shed, will ya?” said Kobe as he strolled down the street, followed by his entourage.

“Thanks again. Hey, we’re going to be working here again next weekend, and the deal still stands: You come help with some cleanup, there’s a good lunch in it for you.”

“Um . . . maybe,” was the only reply.

I joined Monty up on the porch.

“I think we should be all clear to resume the work next weekend, Monty, no problem. And if I get a chance, maybe I’ll try to come with some help in the next day or two, to finish up the ramp at least.”

“Oh, good. Thanks.” He seemed distracted. “Did you, like, see anything in the shed? What were you doing in there? You see any evidence or anything?”

“Not really.”

“I guess she was a junkie,” said Monty.

I didn’t want to spill the beans about the possibility it was Linda Lawrence . . . among other things, I really wasn’t much of a gossip, and I didn’t know anything certain yet.

“Why do you think that?”

“She was found with pills. You didn’t hear that?”

I shook my head. How come everyone else knew so much? I was thinking of my father’s refrain: Nobody tells me anything. Or maybe I hadn’t been listening. . . . I remembered hearing a sort of roar in my ears for some time after finding the body, from exhaustion or shock.

“Did you hear maybe the body was moved?”

“Nah. I don’t think so. I think she probably just went into the shed, and then that was it. At least it’s not a bad way to go. One final trip.” He made a sort of flapping gesture with his hands. “Floated away for good.”

It felt unseemly, this sort of speculation over a soul lost. Junkie or no, it was a tragedy. She was once someone’s baby. If she really was Linda Lawrence . . . now that I knew her story, that she had survived the murderous rampage of her father only to succumb to death in such an ugly way, it felt even more wretched.