newspaper to see what they were reporting about the bathtub body, but it was only a small item on the third page. Much bigger news was a convenience store robbery in which both a clerk and a bystander had been killed.
Mac suggested ice cream at a new place in the shopping center, and we sat at an outside table with our cones, mine butter pecan, his blueberry cheesecake. It seemed like a time to glorify the good ol’days, when Madison Street had friendly neighbors and a nonexistent crime rate, when the flavors of ice cream were a simple choice between vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. I, same as almost everyone in my age group, sometimes lamented that the “good ol’ days” were gone, but I liked some changes. Wasn’t it great to have all these wonderful flavors of ice cream now? I’d try coconut-macadamia next time.
Maybe I’d make another change and sell the house too.
But then guilt and responsibility for that woman’s death kicked in again.
By the time we got back to the motorhomes, the crime scene people had closed up the house. I hoped that meant they were done. Lack of electricity for lights was a hindrance for me, but they surely had their own light system and could have continued. But, arguing against the hopeful possibility they were done, was the crime scene tape still fluttering in an evening breeze.
We used the battery power in Mac’s motorhome to watch a DVD but I excused myself by 10:00 to go back to my place. All the windows were open, but humid heat still filled the bedroom. I could run the generator so I could use the air conditioner, but that might be noisy enough to rouse the ire of the few neighbors remain ing in the area. I hadn’t recognized anyone among the watching group this morning, and no one had given me a Hey, Ivy, welcome home! Madison Street was different now, no doubt about it.
And my thoughts kept circling back to the woman dead in the tub and the unpleasant reason she was there. Because of me.
Finally I got up to sit on the sofa and stare out at the house.
I’d come here so eagerly, sure that the ending of my job in California was a favorable sign from the Lord telling me to go home . But maybe the Lord hadn’t been in the sign business after all, and I’d read something into the end of my job because that was what I wanted to see. Maybe all I was really doing here was setting myself up for Death by Braxtons.
Chapter Six
The crime scene people were back the next morning, along with a detective who put us through another round of questioning, but they removed the yellow tape before they left about noon. I immediately headed for the house. Mac followed. Koop chose to prowl in the garden weeds.
The crime scene people had done a thorough job of checking for fingerprints, as evidenced by the fine, grayish-black fingerprint powder covering every available surface. It looked like the collapse of a vast dust-bunny civilization. I’d known cleaning the house would be a big job even before this, and now, with the leftovers of a crime scene investigation everywhere, the task loomed as almost overwhelming.
“Does the police department pay for clean-up or send someone out to do it?” Mac asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Insurance?”
“The premium was going to be so high with the house vacant that I dropped everything but basic fire insurance.”
“You could just accept that company’s offer to buy and let them take care of the cleanup. From what I hear, they won’t care what shape it’s in because they’ll be bulldozing everything down anyway.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. People.”
Right. Mac is an outgoing, gregarious guy. People talk to him. He can go for a stroll in a new town and come back with information on everything from directions to local RV parks and churches to the tumble some old lady took chasing teenagers away from her stash of homemade wine. The small crowd outside the yellow tape had no doubt been
Mac suggested ice cream at a new place in the shopping center, and we sat at an outside table with our cones, mine butter pecan, his blueberry cheesecake. It seemed like a time to glorify the good ol’days, when Madison Street had friendly neighbors and a nonexistent crime rate, when the flavors of ice cream were a simple choice between vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. I, same as almost everyone in my age group, sometimes lamented that the “good ol’ days” were gone, but I liked some changes. Wasn’t it great to have all these wonderful flavors of ice cream now? I’d try coconut-macadamia next time.
Maybe I’d make another change and sell the house too.
But then guilt and responsibility for that woman’s death kicked in again.
By the time we got back to the motorhomes, the crime scene people had closed up the house. I hoped that meant they were done. Lack of electricity for lights was a hindrance for me, but they surely had their own light system and could have continued. But, arguing against the hopeful possibility they were done, was the crime scene tape still fluttering in an evening breeze.
We used the battery power in Mac’s motorhome to watch a DVD but I excused myself by 10:00 to go back to my place. All the windows were open, but humid heat still filled the bedroom. I could run the generator so I could use the air conditioner, but that might be noisy enough to rouse the ire of the few neighbors remain ing in the area. I hadn’t recognized anyone among the watching group this morning, and no one had given me a Hey, Ivy, welcome home! Madison Street was different now, no doubt about it.
And my thoughts kept circling back to the woman dead in the tub and the unpleasant reason she was there. Because of me.
Finally I got up to sit on the sofa and stare out at the house.
I’d come here so eagerly, sure that the ending of my job in California was a favorable sign from the Lord telling me to go home . But maybe the Lord hadn’t been in the sign business after all, and I’d read something into the end of my job because that was what I wanted to see. Maybe all I was really doing here was setting myself up for Death by Braxtons.
Chapter Six
The crime scene people were back the next morning, along with a detective who put us through another round of questioning, but they removed the yellow tape before they left about noon. I immediately headed for the house. Mac followed. Koop chose to prowl in the garden weeds.
The crime scene people had done a thorough job of checking for fingerprints, as evidenced by the fine, grayish-black fingerprint powder covering every available surface. It looked like the collapse of a vast dust-bunny civilization. I’d known cleaning the house would be a big job even before this, and now, with the leftovers of a crime scene investigation everywhere, the task loomed as almost overwhelming.
“Does the police department pay for clean-up or send someone out to do it?” Mac asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Insurance?”
“The premium was going to be so high with the house vacant that I dropped everything but basic fire insurance.”
“You could just accept that company’s offer to buy and let them take care of the cleanup. From what I hear, they won’t care what shape it’s in because they’ll be bulldozing everything down anyway.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. People.”
Right. Mac is an outgoing, gregarious guy. People talk to him. He can go for a stroll in a new town and come back with information on everything from directions to local RV parks and churches to the tumble some old lady took chasing teenagers away from her stash of homemade wine. The small crowd outside the yellow tape had no doubt been
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