CHAPTER 12
Jenny Pickett pulled into the garage, closed the roll-down door, then took the long way around the side of her house to gather the mail. On her way up the walkway, she took a good long look at the house she’d bought two years ago and even found herself looking at it in a new light. It was small, but it had a lot of potential. The house could use a new coat of paint. She’d never had a green thumb, but for some reason she thought it might be time to hire a landscaper, too—clean the place up a bit. Maybe plant some roses or a couple of nice-smelling camellia bushes.
She inserted her key and opened the door. Two weeks after killing Brandon, it seemed to her she was morphing into a whole new person. She was learning to break away from the same old routine. She held her head high at work and made eye contact with coworkers. She had even dared to join another table of people in the cafeteria during her lunch break today. Although she didn’t say much, nobody had seemed to give it a second thought, nor did they appear to be put off by her existence. One of them, Dwayne Roth, even smiled at her and took her tray from the table when she finished eating.
Jenny left the pile of mail on her desk, and then changed into comfortable clothes before walking back to the kitchen. In celebration of the changes she’d made, she set the table, complete with a crystal glass, candles, and a cloth napkin. When dinner was ready, she admired the table setting, then turned on the television and rolled the TV table to a place where she could watch the news while she ate. Before sitting down, she went to her office to get her list.
Brandon Louis
Terri Kramer
Stephen White
Debi Murray
Gavin Murdock
Rachel Elliott
Melony Reed
Ron Jennings
Louise Penderfor
Mindy Graft
Aubrey Singleton
Claire Moss
Chelsea Webster
Dean Newman
Gary Perdue
She sat up taller when she heard the Channel 3 anchorman say Stephen White’s name. That was fast! Apparently Stephen barbecued more often than she’d dared hope.
“The thirty-one-year-old Auburn man is dead, and three others were also injured after a quantity of gunpowder exploded at Oakhaven at approximately 8:30 p.m. last night.”
Access to the property was blocked, but a Detective Quincy said the incident was most likely a “freak” accident. “Just friends getting together for a barbecue,” he said.
“We believe Stephen White was killed instantly. He was pronounced dead at 8:45 p.m.”
Jenny couldn’t believe it. Her idea had worked.
Even back in high school, everyone had known that Stephen was an avid gun collector. He used to brag about his and his father’s collection of muskets and what skilled muzzleloader marksmen they were. A ridiculous passion, but Jenny felt certain it wasn’t something he’d give up.
She was right.
After learning where Stephen lived, it was easy enough to make some flyers about Christian life and then dress up in a short black wig with bangs that swept over one eye. She’d done her homework and she already knew Stephen was in construction and was working on a remodel in Granite Bay. After knocking on his front door and getting no answer, she pretended to be looking for the occupant of the house and walked around to the back. She didn’t even have to break in. There, in an unsecured shed—Stephen was no brighter now than he’d ever been—she found shelves loaded with bags of gunpowder. She made quick work of setting up the barbecue using her own mixture of the stuff and nitroglycerine.
The only thing she’d left to chance was the timing. She had no idea when Stephen White would use his barbecue next, especially since summertime was months away. She hadn’t been sure if Stephen had children, and the idea of harming an innocent child had weighed heavily on her mind.
You were innocent once. Nobody worried about you. Don’t be an idiot.
She continued to listen to the anchorman. Investigators had spent the day talking to neighbors and family members who were inside the house when the explosion occurred. Investigators were analyzing gunpowder from the scene, confused by the rarity of such an odd event ever occurring.
Jenny picked up the knife and fork in front of her and took a bite of perfectly cooked chicken, chewing as she listened to the rest of the report.
Three of Stephen’s friends had minor injuries, but they would be OK. Bully for them. She had no intention of hurting anyone who was not on her list. But accidents did happen and could not always be avoided.
Stephen was dead. She set her fork down, picked up the pen, and drew a straight black line through his name.
Her thoughts turned to Terri Kramer. She still hadn’t seen anything on the news about her death. It was a little annoying. Surely word would’ve gotten out if her body had been discovered.
Let her rot.
Jenny shrugged. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt for whatever evidence she might’ve left behind to degrade a bit.
As she looked over her list, she took another bite of savory chicken, making sure to chew at least twenty-five times before swallowing.
Rachel Elliott was up next on her list.
What about Debi Murray and Gavin Murdock? Why are their names crossed off the list?
“Where have you been? Easy smeasy.” The minute Jenny had discovered that Debi drove an old car, she’d parked next to Debi’s heap in the lot at her workplace, then pretended to be fixing a tire when really she was cutting into Debi’s brake line. Just a small leak, mind you. Although Jenny wasn’t sure if the idea was based on old Hollywood fantasy, she figured it was worth a shot. The accident was in the paper the other day. The poor woman had taken the highway home and went right over the side of the road. Died instantly.
Clever.
To say the least, Jenny thought. As for Gavin Murdock, he was a football coach for a bunch of peewee third graders. Built up a whale of a thirst, she noticed, and wasn’t too careful about where he set down his Gatorade. Next game, she’d swapped his for one laced with antifreeze. Terrible thing. First he’d seemed drunk on the sweet stuff. Really made quite a scene. Parents were already shepherding their precious boys away from him when he started vomiting. And then the heart failure. She’d read his obituary the other morning. The paper had been gentle about it, glossing over his obvious drinking problem and focusing on the heart attack angle. “Doesn’t get much easier than that,” she said with a smile.
Don’t get cocky. You still have Rachel to worry about.
According to Rachel’s Facebook page, she liked to run after work. Jenny had already driven through Rachel’s Folsom neighborhood on three different occasions and confirmed that this wasn’t just Facebook showboating. Rachel was serious about her exercise. Every night, like clockwork, she exited her house and then jogged past her neighbors’ homes before turning off a private trail that led to Folsom Lake.
Jenny sipped her water and tried to come up with another perfect murder.
There’s no such thing. You’re not exactly a criminal mastermind.
True. She was new at this. Fingerprints used to be the big deal. A murderer who didn’t use gloves was an idiot. Now she had other things to worry about, like tire tracks, ballistics, mobile phones, blood, hair; you name it. Most criminals got caught because they didn’t strategize. Bodies turned up eventually, which was why she planned to make sure Brandon’s body decayed at a rapid pace. She usually had dinner with her parents once a month. Next time she visited, she intended to take some lime. Dead animal burials on the farm used to be covered with hydrated lime for pathogen reduction. With all the rain that was expected in the coming days, she worried that Brandon’s body might eventually float to the surface. She also needed to worry about rats, coyotes, and dogs carrying off a foot or a bone.
Brandon is old news. What about Rachel? What are you going to do, trip her while she’s running?
She swallowed another bite of chicken and nearly choked from excitement. Trip her! That’s exactly what she would do. She would make a spear, a wood spear—plenty of them, just to be sure. She would rub the ends with aconite, also known as monkshood or wolfsbane. Back in the day, before the nineteenth century, Aconitum napellus was thought to have some toxicological importance. In her line of work, research chemists often used the plant for drug testing and treatment, regardless of the fact that there were much safer herbs and medicines to experiment with.
She could barely contain her excitement.
Rachel usually took her runs right before dark. There were plenty of trees on both sides of the trail. Jenny could tie a vine, camouflaged by nature, from one tree to the other. Rachel would trip and fall on the poisonous tips of tiny wooden spears protruding from the soil.
She had her work cut out for her, but Brandon was right. Standing up for herself was the best thing she’d ever done. Sure, she’d experienced misgivings at first, but that was in the past. She’d come to terms with what needed to be done. She was sleeping better than ever, refreshed, ready to begin each new day. For the first time in her life, she was finally taking control. And she liked it.
Out of the corner of her eye, a picture on the television screen caught her attention. Her next breath hitched in her throat. Oh, my God! They finally found her.
Terri Kramer, famed research chemist, found dead.
Jenny stopped laughing when the news station showed the video, then showed it again. A woman crossing the street near Terri Kramer’s apartment building. The ten seconds of video was out of focus, but there was no mistaking the red wig and pleated skirt.
You dumb bitch.
The newscaster asked anyone who might recognize the woman shown in the video to call in. Then they plastered a 1-800 number across the screen. Following the announcement was a prerecorded video of the crime scene: cop cars, a dozen of them, yellow crime tape across Apartment 32B, and a body bag brought out on a stretcher and lifted into an ambulance.
Only two cameras, huh? How stupid could you be?
Deflated, Jenny took her plate and glass to the kitchen, dumped the food into the garbage, and then put on a pair of rubber gloves and began to scrub.