Invisible (21 page)

I’d assured Magnolia that it was just stuff. Even now I could remind myself that whatever had happened here was trivial in the eternal scheme of things. But some of it was stuff that held memories and couldn’t be replaced, and the loss left a little hollow in my heart. The prospect of cleaning up the mess also made my stomach feel as if those confetti shards were churning around in it.

The vandals had been upstairs too. Bedspread ripped, feathers from slashed pillows everywhere. Scent of my smashed bottle of faux Eternity, a gift from Thea, hanging in the air. More dumped drawers. And a crude lipstick scrawl on the full-length mirror on the closet door.

I got a big cramp in my stomach as I studied it. Stick drawing of a woman—identifiable by the triangular shape of a skirt—with a noose pulled tight around her neck. Her eyes were bulging circles, her tongue was hanging out the side of the wobbly line of her mouth. Below the drawing was a crudely printed message:
Old busybodies die!

Did they mean me?

“Artists they’re not,” I muttered. There was a certain cartoonish silliness to the drawing. But it wasn’t funny.

Magnolia twisted her hands together. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

I shook my head and tried to look on the bright side. The drawing had been done with a scarlet lipstick I’d bought on magazine advice that bright red gives an older woman’s face pizzazz. All it had given me was the look of an over-the-hill strumpet, but I’d been too thrifty to throw it out almost unused. It was certainly used up now, the plastic carton crushed in a garish smear on the carpet.

“I’m just glad you weren’t here,” she declared. “Who knows what might have happened if you’d been home?” Downstairs, she pounced on a scattering of purple shards. “Oh, and look, they broke that lovely vase I gave you!” she wailed.

The harp-playing mermaid had indeed been a casualty of the vandals’ attack. I decided this was not a good time to philosophize about clouds having silver linings, good coming out of evil, etc.

Geoff had been quiet, but now he said, “Your homeowner’s insurance will probably pay for cleanup and replacement of what’s broken or ruined,” and I blessed his practical heart for reminding me of that.

Geoff went around the back way to remove the board he’d nailed across the door. Magnolia and I waded across the kitchen, flour billowing around our ankles and sugar crunching under our shoes.

When I looked in the backyard I knew for certain that this was not random destruction. My house had been targeted.

19

Harley’s heavy wooden bench had been yanked off the oblong of concrete where it had stood for so many years. Then dragged across the yard until it smashed to smithereens against an old maple tree.

Uprooted and dragged just as the tombstones at Country Peace had been uprooted and dragged . . .

The similarity was unmistakable. There was a phrase for it, I remembered from my mystery novels. An MO. Method of Operation. An MO used both here and at Country Peace. This and the crude drawing and threat upstairs said the vandals were well aware of who occupied the house.

But why would the Country Peace vandals be after me? I was positive the two men hadn’t seen me that night. Even if they had, they had no way to identify me and target my house. Except . . .

Old busybody.

It had never occurred to me that vandals might be readers. Was it possible they had read my letter to the editor . . . and not liked what they read? Connecting the name in the newspaper with an address would be as simple as looking in the phone book.

I remembered the beefy face of the man I’d seen there that night, the squeaky voice of the other man in the shadows. I shivered at the possibility they’d been in my house, my bedroom.

I stared again at the broken pieces of the bench, the rope still tangled in the wreckage. The old bench, too, was just “stuff,” but it had comforted me when I sat on it. The solidity of the oak always reminded me of Harley’s strength, the curve between seat and back a reminder of the curve of his body spooned around mine at night. I felt a sick plunge of loss.

“The police came?” I asked.

“Yes, an officer was here this morning.”

“Did he have any comments?”

“Only that it’s been a busy season for vandals.”

* * *

I called DeeAnn that night to tell her the house was indeed a mess but that everything was under control. I didn’t tell her about the threat on the bedroom mirror. I decided not to worry Dix about that either, at least not right now.

The officer had left a card with Magnolia, and I called him next morning. Officer Larson was sympathetic and polite but not optimistic about apprehending the villains. “Have you had time yet to determine if anything was stolen?”

“I don’t see anything missing. Just destroyed.”

“Too bad. Sometimes stolen items turn up in a pawnshop or secondhand store and give us a lead.”

“I think they must have used a vehicle to drag the bench across the yard. Wouldn’t there be tracks?”

“We checked, but your driveway is gravel, and there were no identifiable tread marks.”

Okay, shot down there. “I’m concerned about the message on my bedroom mirror. It sounds like a threat.”

“I don’t think you need take it personally. It’s just another vandal thing. I see graffiti showing everything from heads chopped off with machetes to concrete weights attached to feet. Terrorizing is part of their ‘fun.’”

I outlined the similarity between what was done with the bench in my yard and the uprooting and dragging of gravestones at Country Peace, plus the possible connection to my letter to the editor. “I think there’s at least the possibility that both the threat and damage here are quite personal.”

Big empty silence. I could almost hear myself being shuffled into the PLOL category. Paranoid Little Old Lady afraid the boogeyman is out to get her
.

“We’ll keep the possibility of the cemetery connection in mind as we continue our investigation,” he said finally. “And you let us know if you have any further problems.”

* * *

I got in touch with the insurance agent who had replaced the agent I’d dealt with for years. Margo Halenstack was young and blond, and both her pale blue suit and figure were trim, her manner brisk, sympathetic, and helpful. Together we itemized damages. As a longtime saver of bits of paper, I still had receipts filed away on the larger items. I hadn’t realized it until then, but the vandals had rummaged around in the box where I kept such papers, along with other old records and income tax returns.

Margo told me I could purchase replacements for the destroyed furniture and gave me the name of a cleaning service. I called, and they said they could do the work but not until the following Monday. I cleaned up the flour and sugar myself so I could use the kitchen. I also Windexed the closet mirror. I didn’t feel comfortable in the same room with the figure of a woman dangling on the end of a rope.

I called the hospital Friday morning and found that Dix had been released. When I dialed the apartment he sounded bored and depressed. I baked chocolate chip cookies and went to visit him that afternoon.

We sat in webbed chairs on his tiny balcony, his cast-covered leg stretched out in front of him, a metal walker beside the chair. I was surprised they were letting him walk already, but he said they were insisting on it, so his muscles wouldn’t atrophy. He gave the walker a look as if he’d like to toss it off the balcony. I put off telling him about the vandalism and instead chattered about my nice visit with DeeAnn and family. I rivaled Tiffany for bubbliness.

“Tiffany still coming to see you?” I asked finally, since he hadn’t mentioned her and my bubbles were fizzling.

“No. Well, actually she and Ronnie did come one time.”

“Ronnie?”

“Ronnie Hilderman. New guy on the force. He and Tiffany met in my hospital room last week. They kind of hit it off.”

“But I thought you and Tiffany hit it off.”

“She’s a great girl, Mrs. M. She really is. But Goldie Hawn and Szechuan Chinese food really aren’t enough to base a relationship on.” He smiled and patted my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not heartbroken. And Ronnie’s a very nice guy.”

I wasn’t heartbroken either, but I was definitely disappointed with the negative results of my matchmaking. Although relieved that I hadn’t already crowed to Magnolia about my skills in that area.

“So, what have you been doing since you got home?” he asked. Before I could answer, he suddenly straightened and leaned toward the metal railing.

My gaze followed his. A young woman, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and her slim body in khaki shorts and a T-shirt with printing, had just wheeled into the parking lot on a bicycle. She dismounted and removed a big paper sack from a basket behind the seat.

“Someone you know?” I asked, since he seemed so interested.

Dix leaned back in the webbed lounge chair. I sensed pretended indifference. “Haley McAndrews.”

“Does she live here in the apartment building?”

“No. We . . . used to know each other. She saw in the newspaper that I’d been shot. I guess she figured it was her Christian duty to come see me.” He sounded grumpy about it.

I made the connection. The woman he’d been to church with a “time or two,” the one with whom the breakup had been hostile. A minute later the doorbell rang.

“Come on in,” Dix yelled. He sounded as welcoming as if she were delivering a sack of overdue bills.

The young woman set the groceries on the kitchen counter and came out to the balcony. Now I could see what her T-shirt said: “God believes in you even if you don’t believe in him.” The words were written over a rainbow. Dix made introductions. He scowled at the T-shirt.

“Dix has told me about you,” Haley said. She offered her hand and a nice smile. To Dix she added, “Chicken tonight. With rice and salad.”

Dix just muttered an ungracious, “Whatever.” To me he added, “My car is stick shift, and I can’t drive it with one leg in a cast. So Haley thinks it’s her duty to chauffeur and feed me.”

“Her Christian duty.”

“Whatever.”

“That’s very nice of you, Haley,” I said.

We were both standing behind Dix, and Haley rolled her eyes as if she’d like to pick up that sack of groceries and smash it over his head. “I’d just lend him an automatic car if I had one. But I won’t have a car until I get my student loans paid off.”

I was impressed. A very responsible attitude.

“Would you like to stay and eat with us?” she added.

My first instinct was to back off. The tension here felt like the atmosphere in a deadlocked jury room. Then I decided maybe I should stay and act as go-between before they started throwing chicken and rice at each other. “May I help with dinner?”

“Sure.”

We left Dix on the balcony. Haley started putting the groceries away. I said, “Dix seems a little . . .” I paused, trying to think of a suitable word. Ungrateful grump, although accurate, felt a little harsh, so I tried, “Edgy.”

“His appetite is okay.”

She pounded the chicken breasts thin and rolled them around slices of ham and Swiss cheese. I made salad and started some biscuits.

I told her about trying out this different church. She gave me a surprised glance, which told me Dix hadn’t mentioned my Christianity, and said she’d heard good things about Tri-Corners Community. She told me she’d been reading that series of books about the end times, and I said I’d been meaning to start them as soon as I finished the C. S. Lewis book. We smiled at each other in the way of kindred souls who’ve just recognized each other.

“You work, or go to school . . . ?”

“I work at the community college where Dix has been taking classes. I’m assistant librarian at the college library.”

Oh yes. Kindred souls.

“So that’s how you met Dix?” I asked.

She nodded. I hesitated about asking more questions, but then I went with the theory that people expect LOLs to be nosy. “Why did you break up?”

“We had . . . philosophical differences.”

I didn’t need diagrams. She was a Christian, he wasn’t.

“And you’re visiting and helping Dix strictly as a Christian duty?”

Frown. “I’m not sure.”

* * *

I offered the blessing before dinner. Dix didn’t comment, but I got the impression he’d waited for it. At least he hadn’t grabbed for food the minute we sat down. Haley and I, in unspoken agreement not to gang up on him, detoured talk about God and church and discussed an upcoming bond election for the community college.

Eventually I told Dix about the vandalism and the words and drawing on my bedroom mirror. “I mentioned to Officer Larson that all this might be connected to the vandalism at Country Peace, because of the similarity in MO with the bench, but he seemed doubtful. He also said I shouldn’t take the drawing as a personal threat, that vandals often leave threatening graffiti. What do you think?”

“I can’t say that I’ve dealt with graffiti or vandalism much. But a threat is . . . a threat. You should take precautions.”

“I’ve contacted a repairman about installing a new back door with a dead-bolt lock.”