Rising Heat (59 page)

I glanced over my shoulder, didn’t see anything, and then looked forward. Saw a glimpse of a shadow off to my left. It disappeared an instant later.

My heart started to pound, but I didn’t want to let my imagination run away with me. Still, it was odd. I’d never experienced anything like this before on any of my walks. It was usually very peaceful and quiet.

Was someone watching me?

Did my feeling have anything to do with the flower left on my doorstep?

Did I have a secret admirer? I didn’t know, but I felt a little foolish as I quickened my pace, hurrying back toward the house. I didn’t think I was going to be attacked or anything, but it was decidedly silly of me to venture into the woods without a hiking stick, a knife, or something with which to defend myself, just in case. Against animal or human.

My breath was coming faster by the time I reached the clearing behind my house. I quickly hurried up to the back door, thinking that I was just succumbing to my vivid imagination. Nevertheless, the minute I got inside I locked the back door, then hurried to the front door and locked that as well. I glanced through the windows on the ground floor, didn’t see any movement outside.

“How ridiculous can you get?”

No sound answered my verbal query. I briefly wondered what I would have done if someone — or something — had.

I shivered and crossed my arms over my chest, rubbing my upper arms.

I had never felt uncomfortable being alone out here, but for some reason, the hair was still standing up on the back of my neck. My stomach was filled with butterflies. Was that just my imagination getting myself worked up? Or was my instinct warning me? Where was Dr. Phil when a girl needed him?

I took another tour of the bottom floor of the house, looking through every window. Five minutes passed, and then ten. I saw nothing outside, and didn’t hear anything either. No cars starting up in the distance. No dust rising from out by the road.

As my breathing finally calmed, I convinced myself that I’d heard nothing more than an animal that had perhaps followed me out of curiosity. It wouldn’t be the first time that I had seen deer, or even raccoons venturing near the house. The woods were their home, after all.

“You’re so stupid—”

And then I saw it.

The flower.

The one that had been left on my doormat yesterday afternoon.

The problem was, it wasn’t in the box of supplies I’d brought home and that still sat just inside my office door. No. It now sat on my kitchen table, the wilted flower and its card…
Just for you.

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. Oh my God. Someone had been in the house while I was on my walk. I glanced around the kitchen, looking for some kind of a weapon. My gaze landed on the block of kitchen knives by the stove.

Two steps later, I was pulling the butcher knife out of the block. The thought of actually having to use it made me sick, not to mention the fact that I was not skilled in self-defense. If there was an intruder in the house, he would very easily be able to snatch the knife from my hand and use it on me. My heart pounded and my mouth grew dry. My palms grew sweaty and I had to tighten my grip around the hilt of the knife.

What should I do next?

Taking a deep breath, I tried to think rationally. There was no one downstairs, I knew that. Then again, I hadn’t checked all the closets.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen just listening. Waiting. Worrying.

One minute.

Two.

Nothing.

Not a sound of a door squeaking open, a footstep on a warped floorboard upstairs or down. No, this couldn’t be happening. Surely it was someone playing a terrible joke on me. Perhaps it was one of the neighbor boys. Maybe I had moved the flower and just didn’t remember.

Then again, I was many things, but I wasn’t naïve.

Carefully, room by room, I once again explored the bottom floor, stepping lightly. I knew which boards tended to squeak and stayed as close to the walls as I could to avoid those boards.

Then, taking a deep breath and stealing my nerves, I made my way upstairs, again staying close to the wall as I took one step at a time. I knew that the third step from the top squeaked, so I avoided that one, taking two steps at the top. I peered into my bedroom, but everything was as I had left it, right down to the unmade bed.

The doors to the other two rooms upstairs remained closed. Nevertheless, I slowly walked to each one, quietly turned the knob and peered inside, making sure that no one was hiding behind the doors or the closets. My heart pounded so loud it rang in my ears.

Returning to my bedroom, I stood off to the side of one of the windows, brushing the white gauzy curtain to the side with a fingertip. Peering down into the front yard, I saw nothing.

I stood undecided for several minutes, not sure what to do. If it wasn’t for the fact that the flower that was in my office was now in the kitchen, I could’ve convinced myself that I had imagined everything. I carefully moved downstairs and into my office. My heart was still beating when I reached for my cell phone next to my computer. Idiot, I scolded myself. I should’ve taken my cell phone with me when I went on my walk.

So agitated that I didn’t even want to sit in front of my computer and look up the number, I dialed information and got the number of a local locksmith. The first thing I needed to do was get my locks changed, maybe add some deadbolts.

No, dumbass, I chided myself. The first thing I needed to do was actually lock the ones I had. But I might even look into an alarm service. Then again, the current locks on the doors were flimsy and old. It wouldn’t take much for anyone to get in.

I went ahead and dialed the nothing for sanity sake. I saved the locksmith number for later, if I needed it.

This was the last thing I needed. A secret admirer was one thing, but someone watching me from the woods? Someone entering my unlocked house? That wasn’t only creepy, it was scary.

I was so nervous that I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work. I didn’t know what they might be able to do to help, but I decided to drive to the local police department and let them know what happened. Maybe they could check out the property, talk to local neighbors, or at least make sure that someone wasn’t just playing a joke on the new lady in the neighborhood.

Yes, that’s what I would do.

Take action.

Unfortunately, the response I got wasn’t even close to what I expected.

T
he Seneca Police Department wasn’t nearly as big as even the smallest precinct in Boston, but I didn’t expect it to be, either. In fact, from what I had seen from the department’s website — yes, I had checked out the crime rate there before moving — the entire police department was composed of ten officers and maybe three or four detectives. Two 9-1-1 dispatchers, an office clerk, and a records clerk. The impound lot was on the other side of town.

Serious crime wasn’t common in the area and most of the time, the police department was kept busy with drunk drivers, domestic disputes, a few misguided local inhabitants doing their part to promote drug sales, but that was about it.

I think Seneca had a murder every few years, but let’s just say that the crime rate was extremely low, certainly lower than anything experienced in larger metropolitan areas.

When I said that the response I got wasn’t even close to what I’d expected, it wasn’t like I had expected to be treated like a VIP or anything. I
had
expected to be taken seriously though. But the reaction to my situation was lackluster at best.

I drove my car the short distance into town, not large by any means, but not exactly a one-stoplight town either. Like many Vermont communities, the town was quaint, oozed New England charm, and was pleasant to the eye. Sure, like many other communities these days, there were a few closed shops and businesses, but other than that it seemed a healthy town.

The police station was housed in an old courthouse building. Police and emergency services downstairs, legal offices and some storage space upstairs. Like many of the buildings in town, this one was over one hundred years old, constructed of quarry stone aged with time. Old fashioned nine- to twelve-paned windows. You know, the ones where you had to turn the latch on the frame and then pull up the window with good old-fashioned elbow grease. Depending on the weather, the humidity levels, and the temperature, that was either easy or could involve muscle pulls and strains, just like I experienced in my house.

The courthouse and the few smaller stone buildings around it gave the place a historical feel. In fact, every time I drove by this place, I wondered if they had burned any witches or hung them from the giant elm tree out front during the fanaticism of the Colonial era.

Inside, the old plaster walls looked like they could use some love, or at least a new coat of paint. Industrial greenish-grey. Depressing. But the wood was beautiful. The wood floors were stained a dark mahogany and joined with wooden pegs or nails. The floor dipped slightly in places. And squeaked. Like the floor in my house. Old but charming. I wondered what the place used to be back in the day.

Anyway, I walked up to the front counter, a huge, dark oak counter that was glossy with age. My fingers gently traced along the curved edges of the woodwork as I waited for a police officer to finish typing something into a computer. It wasn’t one of those old monstrosities from the 80s or 90s either, but a huge flat screen with wireless keyboard and mouse. Finally, he looked up with a lifted eyebrow.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes, I’d like to report… a… well, I’m not exactly sure what to call it. Someone was in my house.”

He said nothing, but merely stared at me as if waiting for more. I felt my explanation had been fairly concise, but apparently it wasn’t enough for him. I continued.

“I went for a walk this morning. When I got back, I noticed that a flower that had been on my doorstep the day before, and which I had left in a box in my office, was on the kitchen table.”

He still stared.

“I didn’t put it there!” I exclaimed. “Someone moved it… someone moved the flower! Someone got into my house while I was gone!”

“Did you leave your doors unlocked?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you think you moved the flower in question and just don’t remember it?”

I frowned. Was he patronizing me? Questioning my sanity?

“Look,” I said. “When I got home from the store yesterday afternoon, there was a flower on my doormat. Attached to it was a note that said
Just for you.”

He grinned. “Sounds like you have an admirer.”

I nearly growled. “No. I don’t.” I shook my head. “I just moved here. I don’t know anyone—”

“Well, apparently you attracted the attention of someone,” he commented.

I grew frustrated. “But I don’t want anyone’s attention, and I certainly don’t want people wandering in or out of my house—”

“Look, miss…?”

“My name is Tracy Whitcomb. The deal with the flower wasn’t the only thing. On my walk, I felt like someone was following me.” Now he was really looking at me as if I had lost my marbles.

“What makes you think that?”

Was he being facetious? I sighed. “I heard branches snapping. I felt someone, or something, watching me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up on end…” I realized how silly that sounded. I gently shook my head. “Look. Here’s the deal. I’m concerned. Someone was in my house. Even if I do happen to have a secret admirer, that doesn’t give him the right to just walk into my house, does it?”

“Of course not, ma’am,” he said.

So, I had gone from miss to ma’am. Great.

“Exactly what would you like us to do?”

“How should I know? You’re the police department. I don’t know what to do. I live alone out there.”

“Do you have a gun?”

I stared at him, wide-eyed in amazement and shook my head again.

“Maybe you’d better get one,” he commented.

I’d had enough. “Is there anyone else I can talk to? A detective or something? I want to get this on record. I’m a concerned citizen. I would like for someone to help me.” He stared at me another moment, and then offered a polite nod.

“Let me see if one of the detectives is available. You can talk to him, but I don’t know that he’ll be able to do anything. Is this the only thing that you’ve experienced?”

“The only thing? Someone was in my
house!”

“Did he steal anything?”

“No but—”

He interrupted with a lifted finger. “Let me go talk to one of the detectives. Have a seat. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Shaking his head, the police officer disappeared through a side door. I heard the sound of low voices, followed by a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, which irritated me to no end. I decided that I’d probably imagined that. Several moments later, the police officer emerged and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder.

“Detective Henry Cutter can talk to you.”

He opened one of those old-fashioned swinging gates located at the end of the counter and gestured for me to follow him into the next room. The room was about the size of my bedroom, equipped with two wooden desks butted up against each other beneath a large window. A flat screen computer on each desk, wireless keyboards and mice, matching dark green blotters, phones, and pencil and pen containers. The desks were situated so that the detectives faced each other. In the far corner of the room stood another desk cramped with a printer, a fax machine, and a coffee maker.

The room smelled of coffee and doughnuts. I spied the large box of assorted pastries — bear claws, long Johns, and sprinkled, chocolate, and glazed doughnuts in a large bakery box situated precariously at the edge of the desk next to the printer. As I entered, a dark-haired man sitting behind one of the desks glanced up. The other desk was empty. He stood and extended a hand as the police officer introduced me.

“Detective, this is Tracy Whitcomb.”

He looked at me. I didn’t see any humor in his eyes, which was a plus. He looked middle aged, weathered, and sported a small pot belly.