Hugh
For a moment, I could barely breathe. What a fool I’d been to expect an apology. Hugh hadn’t even acknowledged the distress his interloping had caused. He’d only written because he needed something. When would I learn? A little furnace in my belly fired up. Too damn bad! Hugh would have to do without his favorite sketchbook. I didn’t even keep the book at home. I stored it at Aunt Lada’s, along with other reminders of life with him. I wouldn’t respond to the letter. Wait. Should I write him back and tell him what a selfish bastard he was? Or should I let him borrow the book to show how little I cared about him anymore? I couldn’t decide which would be more satisfying.
Take your time deciding. You are not on his clock. And remember, you will not let this make you a bitter, angry woman.
The next evening, Kelly sent an e-mail canceling Friday’s class. She explained that she couldn’t arrange any other time for her sonogram appointment, and rescheduled us for Sunday morning.
Bleary-eyed after what felt like another poor night’s sleep, at 7:30 a.m. on Sunday I dragged myself out of bed to get ready for class. I went into the living room, picked up the remote, and clicked on the local news before starting to make coffee. The screen was filled with uniformed police and squad cars with flashing lights. What was up? Lots of local and county cops involved. That looked like . . . What did she just say?
No. It can’t be. Oh my God. Impossible. That’s . . . Oh God.
I sat on the couch, eyes locked on the television. Questions swirled around in my head so rapidly I thought I might faint. How? Who would do that? And why?
In the midst of my confusion, I have to confess I felt a teeny, tiny bit of relief—relief that if the report was right, I wouldn’t have to hate Helene and Hugh anymore.
Because Hugh Walker and Helene Westing Walker were dead. Someone else besides me had wanted them that way. Someone with a lot more nerve.
From the Pequod Courier
Tips for Living
by Nora Glasser
Where the Wild Things Are
We know how it works. Pequod’s businesses raise their prices in summer to carry them through the slower months. Summer People expect it. They can afford the markup. The rest of us hold our collective breath until after Labor Day, when the town empties out. No more. We’re turning blue now that Summer People flock here on weekends off-season, stealing our parking spots and crowding our exercise classes. Prices stay inflated, and we’re paying a premium for our muffins. We return from the market stunned at how few groceries our money buys. We want to help our local businesses profit, but we also need to eat. So why not employ survival methods from long ago? Methods used even before the wandering tribes settled down to plant and harvest? Forget “farm to table” and “artisanal.” We’re talking precivilization. Hand to mouth. Put on your boots and stalk that wild asparagus. You’d be amazed at what you’ll find in that acre of woods the developers haven’t cleared. Go down by the creek and pull up leeks, ramps and sorrel. Learn to love chickweed. How about acorn mash? It’s nutty. Develop a taste for the “earthy,” but remember: choose those fungi carefully, or you’ll end up feeding the worms.
Chapter Two
I was numb. Everything had an aura of unreality. It was as if I were watching an episode of Murder, She Wrote. A small seaside community on a misty fall morning with stunned and sleepy citizens in robes and slickers gathered on the street in front of the victims’ residence, the police working the crime scene and stretching yellow tape across the drive.
I began to click through other news channels mechanically. None of them had live coverage—the major media hadn’t arrived in Pequod yet. I clicked back to the local station. With her windswept hair, orange rain poncho and exercise pants, their reporter was more the type you’d see covering the annual Bike for Breast Cancer race, not a murder. Or in this case, a double murder. While she addressed the camera, another woman in a hooded rain jacket waited nervously at her side.
“I repeat, police aren’t telling us anything except that two Pequod residents, the internationally known artist Hugh Walker and his wife, Helene Westing Walker, were killed,” the reporter said. “A neighbor confirmed that the housekeeper discovered the bodies around six thirty a.m. when she arrived for work. In fact, I have that neighbor right here. Sue Mickelson. Thank you for speaking with us, Ms. Mickelson. Can you tell us about what happened here this morning?”
Ms. Mickelson stepped forward and straightened her posture for the camera. She had an air of self-importance about her.
“Well, it was unbelievably awful,” she said dramatically. “It was still dark and I was walking Jupiter, my Lab, when I saw a figure running down the Walkers’ driveway into the street. She was screaming, ‘Dios mio! Los están muertos! Los están muertos!’ I know Spanish. She was saying, ‘My God. They are dead. They are dead.’ I called 911 on my cell.”
“You didn’t hear anything else before that?”
“No. We live next door.” She pointed off-camera beyond Hugh’s driveway. “But you can see there’s a huge stretch of woods between our place and theirs.”
“How well did you know them?”
“Sometimes on weekends our daughter has playdates with their little girl, Callie. I saw their car yesterday afternoon and realized they’d come out, so I called to try and set something up for the kids. Thank God Callie was staying in the city with her aunt last night or she’d probably be dead, too. It’s horrible. Just horrible.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you, Ms. Mickelson.”
The reporter did a recap and signed off so the regular news could begin. The facts were beginning to sink in. I felt panicky. Then another wave of disbelief washed over me. My mind wouldn’t accept the killings, even as my body was trembling. Was I in shock? Was that the mind-body split I was experiencing? I wanted to talk to Grace. Talking to her would help ground me. Had she heard yet? I tried her landline. No answer. I tried her cell, and then Mac’s. The same. Nobody picked up. Then I remembered that it was Sunday and sometimes the family went to an early church service with Mac’s parents and out to breakfast afterward.
I couldn’t just sit there. I should be doing something besides clicking the remote from channel to channel, shouldn’t I? But what? I finally grabbed my trench coat, pulled on my Wellingtons over my pajama bottoms, and got into my car. I had no idea where I was going.