Rising Heat (60 page)

“Hello, I’m Detective Henry Cutter,” he said. He pulled a padded chair from the corner near the fax machine and situated it beside his desk and then gestured.

“Please have a seat, Miss Whitcomb.”

I glanced at the police officer as I sat down, saw the brief exchange of glances between the officer and the detective. I counted to five in my head and attempted to slow my racing pulse. So far I felt nothing but frustration.

“Officer Williams tells me that you want to make a report. That someone was in your house?”

As the desk officer left the office, I repeated what I had told the other man moments ago. Since the door was open and the space was small, I had no doubt that the detective had heard my complaint in the front room. Still, I had to give him credit. He listened attentively, his expression blank. He was middle-aged with thick dark brown hair, weathered features, crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, and about a day’s growth of whiskers darkening his cheeks. He wore a rumpled suit. No tie, the top two buttons of the dress shirt underneath unbuttoned. It looked like he had slept in his clothes, and maybe he had. I certainly wasn’t going to judge him on his appearance.

“Like I told the desk officer, someone came into my house while I was on my walk this morning.” He said nothing, but made a twirling motion with his finger as if to urge me to explain further.

“You see, yesterday when I got home from the store, there was a yellow daisy on my doormat. There was a note attached to it. The note said
Just for you.”

“And that alarmed you?”

“Wouldn’t it alarm you?” I asked in dismay. “I just moved here from Boston. I don’t know anyone. And before you say it, the desk officer already suggested that I had a secret admirer, but that’s not the point. The point is someone entered my house, poked around, entered by office, and took the flower from the box of supplies that I got from the store yesterday. I left that box just inside the door to my office. The flower was moved from the box. It was placed in the middle of my kitchen table.”

The officer didn’t react for several moments. Finally, he pulled a small, wire-bound notepad from his inside shirt pocket and jotted down a few notes. I couldn’t tell whether he was just scribbling or if he was really taking notes.

“Anything else?”

I nodded. “Yes. While I was on my walk, I got the feeling that someone was watching me. In the woods.”

He nodded. “It’s coming on to fall now. There’s going to be more animals in the woods. Deer, maybe even bear, raccoons, squirrels, you name it. Did you see anything specific?”

“A fleeting shadow…” Even to my own ears, it sounded lame.

“Look, I understand your concern. Really I do. Unfortunately, we don’t have the resources that Boston might have to follow up on such a complaint. There’s not much that we can do about it, at least at this point.” He leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his belly. “I would suggest that you get your locks updated for your peace of mind; those older homes are usually easy to pick. And the next time you go out, lock your doors.”

I was just about to respond when another man entered the room, glanced at me, then Detective Cutter, and moved beyond me to sit at the other desk. Detective Cutter gestured.

“This is my partner, Detective Barry Westin.” He quickly explained my complaint to his partner.

Detective Westin was the complete opposite of Cutter. Where Detective Cutter was dark-haired and rather rumpled, Detective Westin was blonde, clean-shaven, and wore a short sleeved Polo, ironed. Khaki pants, also ironed.

Westin nodded and then attempted a sympathetic look. “We can’t really do anything about stalking cases—”

My eyes widened. “You think I have a stalker?”

Westin quickly glanced at Cutter, who scowled at him. My heart skipped a beat as I glanced between the two.

“Well, it’s probably not a stalker and it’s too early to tell if it were,” Cutter said. “Of course, if you notice anything else out of the ordinary, or you feel you’re being watched, or see anything, make a note of it and let us know.”

“That’s it? There’s nothing you can do?”

Detective Westin spoke up. “Cases like this are difficult. Right now, you’re describing a single incident. It may be just a fluke. It may be someone merely trying to get your attention. Either way, you haven’t been confronted or injured in any way, have you?”

“Well no, but—”

Westin made a shrugging gesture. “Really, Miss Whitcomb, there’s really nothing we can do at this point except urge you to be aware of what’s going on around you. Keep your doors locked. Like my partner said, if you notice anything that we can follow up on, like a vehicle lingering near your property, or even a license plate number, give us a call or come on by. Other than that, we recommend that you update your locks and be alert to what’s going on around you.”

To say that I left the police department feeling frustrated was an understatement, but I understood, in a way. What had I expected them to do? Send a crime scene unit to my house? Dust for fingerprints? They were right. From now on I needed to keep my doors locked when I was away. Just because I lived in rural Vermont didn’t mean that there weren’t burglars out there looking to take advantage. Or teenage boys daring each other to play the creeping game.

As I headed back to my car, I wondered if that’s what this was. Had someone from the road seen me leave the house and decided to case my house? Just because the crime rate was low didn’t mean there weren’t people out there looking to take advantage. Looking to see what kind of stuff I had? Would they come back at a later point in time to steal my computers or my television? I didn’t really have anything else of value in the house. No one knew me here, other than very casually.

About an hour after I returned home, the locksmith came. He spent just a little over an hour changing the locks on my front and back door, adding a solid dead bolt on each, then installed a hasp lock on the old root cellar attached to the back of the house. There was nothing down there, and no access from the root cellar into the house, but better safe than sorry. The last thing I needed to discover was a homeless man taking up residence in my root cellar.

When the locksmith was gone, I got back to work. I was already half a day behind and knew that if I didn’t get something done today I would only be further behind tomorrow. My work had a way of snowballing on me. I tried very hard to stick to a work schedule. Some days I fared better than others. Still, being self-employed, I knew that if I didn’t work, I wouldn’t get paid. That was enough motivation for me, at least most of the time.

By five-thirty that evening, I had finished my work, or at least what I had jotted down on my day-planner for today’s schedule. I had a headache, I was hungry, and I wanted to get away from the computer for a while. I decided to make a light supper; tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I would sit in front of the TV, watch the news, and then see what else was on. If I didn’t find something interesting, I would head up to my bedroom and lay in bed to read for a while.

I turned on the television and then stepped into the kitchen, listening to the last ten minutes or so of Jeopardy while I prepared my dinner. I got two questions right before the players did. Yea for me. By the time I carried a bowl of tomato soup and a small plate with my grilled cheese sandwich into the living room and sat down on the couch, the news was coming on.

I had just taken a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich when an image of a brunette woman was superimposed behind the shoulder of the local newscaster. The anchorwoman was talking about a murder the previous evening in a town about an hour north of Seneca. I stared at the image of the poor murdered woman and realized she had the same hair color and build as I did. I gulped, nearly choking on my bite of grilled cheese. I quickly sipped a spoonful of tomato soup to get it down.

My attention riveted to the story, I listened as the anchor, an appropriately sympathetic expression on her face, explained that the woman had been found stabbed to death in her bedroom. It was believed that the incident was a domestic violence dispute although the woman lived alone and been divorced for over a year.

In a matter of minutes, the anchor moved on to another story but I only half paid attention. As soon as I finished eating, I went through the house and made sure that all the doors and windows were locked.

As I took my dishes back into the kitchen and placed them in the sink, I glanced down at the trash can on the other side of the refrigerator. The yellow daisy with a note attached lay at the top of the trash, where I had tossed it after returning from the police department. I plucked the flower out of the trash and placed it in a gallon-sized Ziploc plastic bag. Maybe I should keep it, just in case. While the detectives certainly didn’t seem to be that concerned, I couldn’t say the same for me. I put it in the freezer.

Finished in the kitchen, I turned off the kitchen light, then moved back into the living room. I turned off the television, closed the curtains and then turned off all the downstairs lights before heading upstairs. Before I turned on my bedroom light, I moved to the window and stood to one side, peering into the darkness. Nothing moved out there. It was peaceful and quiet, just like it had been every other night since I moved in.

Tonight, and for good reason, the stillness bothered me. For the first time since I moved here I actually missed the sounds of people and traffic. I even missed the sound of those kids bouncing off the walls.

Out here I felt alone and isolated. I shook my head. No, don’t start thinking that way. This was my Nirvana. This was the way I wanted it; surrounded by beautiful nature. Left alone in peace to work.

Except that damned flower had disturbed my sense of serenity. Left me uneasy.

Before I got ready for bed, I wondered if there was anything I had in the house that I could use as a weapon. Just in case. I wandered downstairs into my office, closed the curtains and turned on the light, glancing around for anything I might be able to use as a form of defense. Again, just in case.

Books on computer systems and website design. A three-hole punch? My wireless keyboard? I was grasping at straws and I knew it. For Pete’s sake, didn’t I have anything that I could use to defend myself?

Maybe tomorrow I would go to a small sporting goods store in town and buy a baseball bat. Then again, maybe I should consider buying a gun. I grunted. Talk about getting carried away!

*

The next morning, I woke up feeling refreshed and rested. Thinking back to yesterday, I realized that maybe I had overreacted. The flower thing still bothered me, but feeling creeped out by the woods was just silly, wasn’t it?

The sun shone brightly through the slit in my curtains. To convince myself that everything was back to normal, I opened the curtains in my bedroom and in my office downstairs, relishing the beauty of the nearby woods. Two squirrels were busily chasing each other around the trunk of a birch tree at the edge of the yard. I then moved to the living room and, with purpose, opened the curtains, as if defying my fear of things that went bump in the night.

I had new locks on the doors and decided that they would do the trick. If I
did
have a secret admirer, I figured that I would discover that sooner or later. I would be more aware of what was going on around me. For a few days, I would avoid walking in the woods, opting for doing exercises in my living room instead.

I got an early start on work, sipping a cup of coffee and nibbling on a bagel as I worked out a few problems with one of the websites I was currently designing. By the middle of the morning, I was ready for a little brain break. I ventured into the kitchen, thinking to grab a can of soda. I glanced out the window and saw the mail truck pulling away from my mailbox.

Maybe getting a bit of fresh air would do me some good, even if it was only a short walk to the mailbox and back. Taking the suggestion of the detectives seriously, I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door and ventured outside, locking the door behind me. Overkill maybe, but why take chances?

The sun felt warm on my skin as I strolled to the mailbox. Birds chirped in the trees. A plane overhead left a white contrail behind it as it headed west. I stood and watched it for a moment, wondering where it was going. Minnesota? Denver? Los Angeles, or maybe even Hawaii. One of these days, I needed to start saving up for a vacation.

I got to the mailbox and opened the door, expecting to find nothing but bills. I did find several bills, but I also found a postcard with a scene of a New England covered bridge. Pretty. I wondered who it could be from and turned it over. There was no address on it, but rather a line written in black marker.

I’m watching you.

My heart skipped a beat and my mouth felt dry. Could the mailman have left it? Doubtful. I tried to recall if the postcard had been on top or underneath the bills. Underneath. I glanced around, my eyes wide. What the hell?

I glanced down at the postcard again. Underneath the ominous comment was a hand-drawn rose, shaded in varying degrees of red and outlined in black. In the middle of the rose was drawn a stylized skull and cross bones.

Oh my God. Someone
was
watching me. Or, as the detectives had suggested, was this just a stupid prank by one of the neighborhood kids? I didn’t care. I was frightened. Work forgotten, I clutched the bills and the postcard in my hand as I quickly headed back to my pickup truck. Unlocking the door of my truck, I climbed inside and then immediately locked the door behind me. My hands shook as I inserted the key into the ignition and then turned it.

The engine didn’t start right away, but made a clicking sound. Shit! I tried again, realized that I hadn’t pushed the clutch in. The truck started and I slammed it into reverse, and then hauled ass out of my driveway. I immediately headed to the police station. I wasn’t sure what they could do, but I wanted them to know that now I was getting pissed. I wanted to be taken seriously.

I was frightened. Someone was playing with me and I didn’t like it.