Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (2 page)

* * *

Lasagna tin in hand, Damon made his way four blocks to his mother’s townhouse. He and Lynne Lassard-Brown had a standing Friday evening commitment if neither had other plans. Despite being a widow, Lynne had no shortage of Friday night outings––a graceful neckline and a dearth of wrinkles enticed a number of fifty-year-old-plus bachelors in Arlington.

Damon had fewer dates than his mother. His blue eyes, which several women had described as striking, were offset by a receding hairline with a widow’s peak. But Damon was in a fortunate financial position. A seven year stretch catching in the Japanese professional baseball league and advertising money from an overseas chewing gum campaign allowed Damon to live modestly in his 1940s duplex without a paying job. Given his frugal spending habits, Damon’s investment income sufficed. Volunteering at the library and serving as Hollydale’s citizens association president filled the majority of his days without providing any accompanying stress.

Damon knocked on the front door and pushed through it into his mother’s narrow brick townhouse. Lynne was tucked into the corner of a scarlet love seat. She looked up over the top edge of a scrapbooking magazine.

“You brought food?” she asked, noticing the tin in Damon’s hands. “I made Indian for dinner.”

Damon edged around a mass of bicycle parts strewn about the center of the room—Lynne had a proclivity for creating clutter. “Rebecca stopped by the library. It’s lasagna, but it can keep until lunch tomorrow. Indian sounds good.” Damon pecked his mother’s cheek.

Over dinner in the cramped dining room, Damon described the crepe myrtle situation and recounted his conversation with Rebecca about Jeremiah Milk. “Did you hear much about the deaths?” he asked.

“It was all anyone talked about for weeks,” Lynne said. “Poor Jeremiah. Jack dated his mother Dottie for a short spell before I came along.” Jack Brown had been Lynne’s second husband. Both he and Damon’s father had passed away.

“What did Jack say about her?”

“About Dottie? Not much. They were both in their fifties at the time, went out for a couple of weeks, and then Jack broke it off. He said she wasn’t lively enough for him.”

“Rebecca said she moved to Arizona shortly after Kathryn and Samuel died.”

“It was strange. She lived her entire adult life in Hollydale—personally, I think Jeremiah pushed her out.”

“Any idea why?”

“Jack had a theory, though I didn’t agree with him. I still don’t.” Lynne spooned homemade chana masala onto her plate.

Damon nibbled buttered naan as he waited for her to continue.

Lynne said, “Jack thought Jeremiah wanted Dottie out of the house so he could plan some sort of grand revenge on the world.”

“The blowing-up-a-building kind of revenge?”

“Something like that. Or becoming a serial killer. No one saw Jeremiah for quite some time after the joint funeral. Jack thought he was holed up in the basement eating canned food and making homemade weapons. I told Jack he was being ridiculous: Jeremiah was just grieving.”

“Rebecca said he may have sought psychological counseling,” Damon said.

“It’s possible. But he lives close to Mrs. Chenworth, and the old bird kept an eye on the Milk house. She said she never saw anyone going in or out.”

“Well, he seems to be doing all right now,” Damon said. “He spent fifteen minutes this afternoon complaining to me about his gardening.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I know he returned to his duties at the park the summer after Kathryn and Samuel died.”

After dinner, Damon insisted that his mother relax while he washed dishes. Lynne followed him from the dining room to the kitchen and sat at a small table covered in scrapbooking paraphernalia.

“Can I tell you what happened to me last night?” Lynne asked.

Damon, standing in front of the sink, twisted his neck to look back at her. “Something good?”

“Not exactly. A taxi driver put his hand on my thigh.”

Damon dropped a plate into the sink. Soapy water splashed over his wrists. “What?”

“My taxi driver hit on me. He was pretty aggressive.”

“I’ll say. Did you call the police?”

“No, Damon, I didn’t. It was partially my fault. I sat in the front seat.”

“Mother, it’s not one bit your fault if you didn’t invite it.”

“I didn’t,” she said softly. “I was coming back from meeting a friend for dinner in Dupont Circle. I had taken the metro downtown because I planned to have a couple of glasses of wine, and I didn’t want to drive. After dinner, I decided to catch a cab home.”

“You were by yourself?”

“Yes. Sherry lives near the restaurant, and I walked her home. We flagged a taxi from her front stoop. The backseat was crammed with old suitcases.”

Damon looked at the disarray in his mother’s home. “That should have made you feel right at home.”

Lynne smiled. “Touche
,
Damon. The taxi driver said he hadn’t intended to pick up any more customers for the night but saw us waving. He offered to put the suitcases in the trunk. I told him not to bother, I could just sit in front.”

“Do you think he planned it in advance?’

“To lure a naive fifty-three-year-old woman into his passenger’s seat? I don’t think so.”

“So what happened?” Damon dried his hands on a dish towel.

“I made some mild conversation as he started the drive. My skirt had ridden up a bit from the way I was sitting. Just after we crossed over the Key Bridge into Arlington, he clamped a sweaty paw down on my left thigh. It felt like a wet jellyfish. He didn’t say anything or even look over.”

“Mother, that’s molestation.”

“It was more like loutish flirtation. I just grabbed his shirtsleeve, picked up his arm, and shunted it back to his side of the console.” She grinned. “Don’t look so dismayed, Damon. I can handle myself and I did.”

“Did you get out?”

“No. He didn’t say another word. He drove me home and I paid him. I didn’t leave a tip. No big deal.”

“Except now he knows where you live. I should call Gerry Sloman.”

“Damon, I don’t need the police. Save the chivalry for Bethany Krims.”

Chapter 2

Damon walked home through the clammy evening air. David Einstaff, his duplex neighbor, greeted him with a tip of his whiskey glass from the front porch they shared. Damon nodded and continued inside.

He plunked down at the kitchen table in front of his laptop and logged onto the Hollydale listserv. It had only been three hours since he posted his message but he already had four replies. Each conveyed a story similar to the one articulated by Jeremiah Milk. Insects were eating away at crepe myrtles throughout the neighborhood despite the best efforts of the tree care companies. One gardening enthusiast pointed to several species of aphids and Japanese beetles as possible sources of the problem. But that didn’t explain why insecticides had failed to keep away the bugs for more than a few days at a time.

As Damon was logging off, a new posting came through. Melanie Dumfries, whose name Damon didn’t recognize, had been treating her two crepe myrtles with a store-bought pesticide and had no problems with insects.

* * *

The following morning, Damon opted against taking a run through his neighborhood in favor of a hike at Tripping Falls State Park. He hadn’t been to the land reserve in over a year, and meeting with Jeremiah Milk the previous day reminded him of its splendor. Taking in the scenic falls would relax his brain, which had started to race with apprehension. He was meeting Bethany later in the day.

It took Damon less than fifteen minutes in his ten-year-old Saab to reach the park. At nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, the parking lot was almost empty. Damon pulled in close to the visitor center. The two-story structure’s weather-beaten siding stood camouflaged against the woodlands. Opened doors welcomed visitors and flies alike, but Damon skirted the outer flank of the building. He strode through the brisk morning breeze to the first of three overlooks offering breathtaking views of the eighty-foot falls plunging into the Potomac River.

Damon closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Fumes of wet moss filled his nostrils—earthy, not fetid. Delicate autumn mist cooled his face. The massive waterfall sounded like dishes crashing onto antique floorboards. Damon peered beyond the low metal railing at the majesty of nature. A six-year-old girl screeched with delight as she held her father’s hand and approached a vantage point near Damon. Her older brother raced up a cluster of rocks and hurled pebbles into the abyss.

Damon stepped down from the wooden platform and considered an oversized sign displaying a labyrinth of hiking paths. The diagram reminded Damon of a map at a ski slope—each trail was imprinted with a corresponding degree of difficulty. The lone double diamond route was dubbed “Zazel’s Summit.” Damon opted against taking the demanding course in favor of “Cherubim’s Run,” a hike of moderate difficulty.

Halfway into the six mile trek, he stopped at a bend that bordered a calm spot on the river upstream from the falls. There were no rails or fences, just a warning sign directing hikers to refrain from entering the water. Downstream from the falls, the river narrowed to one tenth of its upstream width, creating a deadly gorge where bullheaded adventurists perished every year. Damon was not so bold, even upstream. But he squared his lean backside on a length of tree root peeking out of the damp riverbank and stripped off his sneakers and socks. Damon sank his feet into the edge of the cold river and wiggled his toes in silt.

Five minutes later, he rinsed his feet and climbed to a flattened boulder fifteen feet above the riverbank. From that position, Damon could see fifty yards back up the trail. He hadn’t encountered another hiker all morning. But as he rested and allowed his bare feet to dry in the morning sun, two uniformed figures crested the rise of the trail, making their way toward him. When they passed, Damon noted patches on their sleeves with the words “Park Police.” One stared at Damon’s bare feet and soundlessly pointed to the warning sign.

* * *

After finishing the circular hike, Damon entered the visitor center in search of a water fountain. The interior of the cavernous building was trisected into equal-sized areas open to the public. The lobby housed vending machines, a small gift shop, and a rangers’ desk obscured by masses of pamphlets. A theater accommodated flat benches, a stage, and a projection screen. The final area featured dated science exhibits. Closed double doors bearing the words “Park Management” stood at the east end of the lobby.

Damon located a water fountain near the gift shop. As he rose from taking a drink, Jeremiah Milk shepherded a cluster of Girl Scouts into the lobby from the exhibit hall. Damon listened as he finished speaking to the girls on the subject of butterflies native to the park. Jeremiah handed off the troop to a tall wiry ranger bearing a name tag that read “Milt,” who led the group outside.

Jeremiah spotted Damon and raised a hand to him. Damon tried not to stare at his fingers.

“Beautiful morning for a hike,” Jeremiah said, placing a binder on the rangers’ desk.

“It is.” Damon moved toward him. “I just finished Cherubim’s Run.”

“That’s one of my favorite hikes. Are you here about the crepe myrtles?”

“Actually, I just wanted a change of scenery for my morning exercise. But I sent a post to the listserv yesterday. By last night there were already a number of responses. It seems you’re not alone in having an insect problem.”

“Well, I knew that,” Jeremiah said testily. “Are they all crepe myrtles?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. One of the posters thinks it could be aphids or Japanese beetles.”

“That’s what Lawrence said. He’s the naturalist here. But it doesn’t explain why they keep coming back.”

A spritely honey-blond in her early-thirties emerged from the doors marked for management and approached the rangers’ desk. She stopped several feet away, presumably waiting for Jeremiah to finish speaking with Damon. Her narrow hips were accentuated by a vertical-striped sundress and tight ponytail.

Jeremiah waved her closer. “Alex, this is Damon Lassard. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

Damon extended his hand, and Alex shook it firmly. “Hi, Damon. Welcome to Tripping Falls.” She studied his sweat-soaked shirt. “Looks like you’ve already had a chance to take a good hike this morning.”

“I did,” he said and wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “It’s a beautiful day, and you all keep the park so clean.”

“Thanks,” she replied crisply. Damon wasn’t certain of Alex’s responsibilities at the park, but she had the air of a person who was tasked with oversight.

A tall elderly man approached the group and interrupted the conversation. He looked at Alex. “Ms. Rancor, I want to hold another fundraiser for the park at my home next month. Do you have moment to discuss the details?”

Alex excused herself and shuttled the older man toward the management wing.

“Sorry he butted in like that,” Jeremiah said to Damon. “Mr. Bertlemann has a home that backs into the parkland and he acts like he owns the place. He’s constantly hiking before the park even opens, but he’s one of our largest donors so we tolerate a few minor transgressions.”

Damon nodded and excused himself. Less than five hours until his date with Bethany.

* * *

Damon met Bethany Krims on the Ballston metro station platform in Arlington forty-five minutes before the first pitch of the Washington Nationals baseball game. Mid-thigh cuffed shorts coupled with low-heeled sandals accentuated the length and tone of Bethany’s legs. She wore a shapeless blue blouse, but a knot tied at one hip tugged the cloth with dramatic effect. Shoulder length chestnut hair flared-out under a fitted red Nationals ball cap. They jostled into a crowded train and, given the crush of riders, kept conversation to a minimum.

Located in Southeast D.C., Nationals Park was a testament to modern luxury. Their seats were excellent—in the lower level, fifteen rows behind first base. The pair settled down between a salt-and-pepper-haired man with hooded eyes who was listening to headphones and a harried mother trying to control three grade-schoolers. Damon’s knees touched the seat in front of him. He struggled to maintain a two inch gap between his legs and Bethany’s.

“I haven’t seen you in the library lately,” Damon said. Bethany was a regular reader of thrillers.

“I started training for a marathon,” she said. “That’s been taking up a lot of my free time. I’m surprised you put in so much time at the library. It must get a little boring.”

“Sometimes it does, but I enjoy talking to all of the regulars. A lot of them think of me more as a bartender than a library volunteer.”

“Mrs. Chenworth would be jealous!” Bethany said with enthusiasm. They both laughed. “What kind of stories do you hear?” Bethany asked.

Damon regaled her with a tale from a distraught mother who had taken her toddler to a local eatery and was served a chicken tender that resembled a male private-part. “Apparently, the manager apologized, swept away the plate of food, and crammed the tender into his mouth on his way back to the kitchen.”

Bethany snickered, and Damon hailed the attention of a soda vendor who tossed him two plastic bottles of Diet Coke.

“Yesterday, someone cornered me at the library to discuss another interesting situation,” Damon said. He cracked open his soda and described the neighborhood insect incursion. Damon had checked online before meeting Bethany: there had been three more postings—all citing similar problems as the first group.

“You should ask all of the people who are having problems who they use to spray their crepe myrtles,” Bethany said when Damon finished.

Damon turned to face her. She whisked a loose strand of silky hair behind her ear. “You mean which company?” he asked.

“Yes. Jeremiah Milk said he used an organic company, right?”

Damon nodded.

“So maybe they’re all using the same company,” Bethany said and sipped her soda.

“And their chemicals are no good?”

“Probably. If the woman who used the store-bought solution isn’t having problems, maybe the organic chemical company is using a faulty batch of product.”

The crowd groaned collectively as a Nationals batter hit into a double play.

“Damon,” Bethany said suddenly and grabbed his forearm. “What if it’s something more nefarious?” Her eyes glowed a radiant auburn.

Damon’s insides quivered at Bethany’s touch. He steadied his nerves and considered her comment. “Maybe a disgruntled employee is spraying water instead of chemicals so the company loses customers,” he said.

Bethany shook her head. “That doesn’t work. You said after spray is applied, the insects disappear for a few days before they come back.”

“True,” Damon said. “So maybe the employee’s diluting the spray. It works for a few days but doesn’t solve the problem.”

“I suppose, but I had something else in mind.”

“Something more
nefarious
, right?” he asked.

She leaned in close to Damon’s ear. “What if a competitor to the organic spray company is repopulating the insects?”

Damon could feel the heat from her breath. Their faces were only inches apart. “So Pesticides-R-Us is tired of losing business to the environmentally-friendly contingent in Hollydale?”

“Exactly,” Bethany said, excitedly. “The pesticide company is trying to make it appear that the organic spray doesn’t work on crepe myrtles.”

Damon took a drink of his soda, then said, “But there are dozens of garden treatment companies that serve Hollydale. Even if the perpetrator could figure out which residents use a company that specializes in organic sprays, how could he be sure the clients would move to his company instead of a competitor?”

Bethany considered the question. “I don’t know. I suppose the idea was a bit fantastic.”

They passed the remainder of the game with pleasant and flowing conversation but without any further flirtation. By the time they returned to Arlington, it was nearly eight o’clock.

“Would you like to have dinner somewhere?” Damon asked.

Bethany declined, insisting that she was still full from the nachos she’d eaten during the seventh inning. Damon settled for walking her home from the metro station.

When they reached the door to her condominium building, Bethany gave Damon a hug. “I had a very nice time,” she said, and hastily turned. Her swift motion eliminated any possibility of a goodnight kiss. She’s used that move before, Damon thought sulkily as he walked away.