I sat sipping coffee in my bathrobe, Mr. Tuttles at my feet, contemplating life’s mysteries: a granola bar or a cookie for breakfast, whether I should start the Wordle now or leave it for later, and what I should do with the rest of my life.
Finding myself recently retired from my company, WagglesDog, I was restless, used to working 24/7. Now I needed a new purpose.
Starting another company was out. Waggles had been fun, but startups are long hours and never-ending work.
I could volunteer, and I’d looked at several volunteer opportunities, but most of the ones I’d researched needed money more than manpower, so I assuaged my guilty liberal conscience and donated quite a bit to the charities that resonated with me most.
Politics were out. Too nasty.
I sighed and stood up. My best thinking wasn’t done at the kitchen table eating a third cookie, it was done on a walk, enjoying the beauty of the day in my lovely neighborhood.
Except it wasn’t exactly beautiful - it was hot. Africa hot. Southern California continued to suffer from a late spring heat wave. Call it global warming, call it climate change, it didn’t matter what you called it. A springtime walk at nine a.m. shouldn’t leave one sweaty and gross, not that Mr. Tuttles cared. As a Westie mix, he had a bright, white coat reflecting the heat. No, he had work to do. There were squirrels and bunnies to be found and chased, bushes to be peed on, and people to greet. It was good for both of us to get out and clear our minds.
I breathed in the perfume of the bougainvillea, already showing off bright pink blooms, along with the earthy scent of fresh mulch, as Mr. Tuttles and I set off down the sidewalk, thinking again how lucky I was to live in this beautiful community. The heat and drought, though, were already taking their toll. Brown patches of grass started to show through the green in the common areas, and street corners lay barren with the money-saving decision to skip the planting of annual flowers that typically brightened up the entire area. Thank goodness none of that was my problem.
I popped airPods into my ears to listen to my favorite true crime podcast, “Cosmos and Crime,” where we explored delicious cocktails and listened to the hosts discuss serial killers. Nothing could disturb my good mood.
“Kate! Kate! Over here!”
Oh, God! Becca. Don’t look! Don’t make eye contact!
I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she emerged from the cross street to my right, rapidly closing in. I quickened my pace.
Becca and several other members of the HOA Landscaping Committee roamed the streets at all times of the day, ostensibly helping the new board in their xeriscaping projects, but mostly passing gossip around like herpes.
Becca gesticulated wildly and broke into a jog. I could still make it across the street and plausibly claim I hadn’t seen her.
Maybe the heat will take her down.
At that exact moment, Mr. Tuttles lunged at a squirrel, yanking me to the right, leaving me to face my pursuer.
“Becca! Good morning!” I slid my sunglasses up, propping them on top of my head, and blinked at her in mock surprise. Mr. Tuttles leaned into his leash, pulling towards the fence where the squirrel had scuttled up a tree and sat chittering on a branch, flicking its tail at us.
“My goodness.” Becca said between gasps of air. Tall and solidly-built, she was admittedly hard to ignore. Sweat dripped from her brow. “Didn’t you hear me?”
I pulled the airPods out of my ears and showed them to her. “Sorry! I was listening to Five Finger Death Punch. Very metal. Very loud.” I never felt bad throwing out a little white lie when needed.
Becca looked from my face to the air pods and back to my face, confusion reigning. She probably didn’t know a lot of 50+ women who listen to heavy metal. With a deep breath, she regained her composure.
“Kate, I need your help. It’s happened again! Somebody has stolen my lawn gnome.”
Last year, some wayward thief stole Becca’s lawn gnome, only to have it appear on the neighborhood’s social media accounts all summer. The photos showed the gnome at the beach holding a Piña Coloda, at Disneyland wearing Mickey Mouse ears, and in front of the Eiffel Tower wearing a beret. I was sure it was all photoshopped, but I had to admit I was quite jealous of that fun-loving little statue.
“Have you reported it to the police?”
“No! I’m telling you!”
I pulled the sunglasses back down over my eyes.
“You need to file a formal report with the Palm City PD.”
“Yes, but we all know.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You have an in.”
I sighed. The entire town knew I’d dated Chief of Police Javier Mendez a few years ago. I wasn’t even sure how that information got out, as we were trying to keep it on the down low, but in this town, gossip moved fast.
“That was years ago, and it was just a few dates. You need to call them yourself and ask for an officer to make a report.”
“Whatever.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But while I’ve got you, I’ve been texting Angie all morning. We had a meeting set for 8:00 am, but she never showed!”
Angela Beech was my best friend who was also recently retired, but at the beginning of the year, she’d made a horrible mistake. Or, at least, I thought it was a horrible mistake. She’d run for and been voted in as President of our HOA. I shuddered to think of it. There were a lot of things I could do with all this new time on my hands, but being part of the HOA was dead last on that list.
Angie had laughed when I shared my misgivings. “I’ve been bored since retiring from my law practice, and somebody really needs to straighten out this HOA. We waste water like crazy, and nobody competent is looking over our books. We have a massive yearly budget. Somebody should step up. Why not me?” Who was I to say she shouldn’t? Her life, her choice.
I glanced at my phone. Now that I thought about it, I’d texted Angie that morning, too, and still hadn’t heard back. Sure, she might ignore me if she were swamped, but skipping a meeting? That wasn’t like her. “How late is she?”
“Going on almost an hour, now. I had some suggestions for Angie about the hibiscus. I miss its scent so much. I mean, I know it uses water but…”
When Angie took over as President, she started making changes to the neighborhood to make it more drought friendly, as our water bills had nearly doubled in the last two years. Not everybody in the neighborhood was on board with all of the changes. Angie had shared with me that the reality of watching our beautiful but old and water-thirsty shrubs being pulled up in favor of new, water-wise perennials had caused her email inbox to fill up. I didn’t care about any of that right now, though.
“…and I know the rock doesn’t need watering, but it’s not nearly as nice—”
“And she hasn’t texted you?”
“Who?”
“Angie!”
“No, not a word. It’s really quite rude! I wanted to talk to her before all that grass is torn out over by the tennis courts!”
Maybe Angie didn’t feel like dealing with Becca this morning. Shoot, I never feel like dealing with Becca.
Angie was the type that if you’re not five minutes early, you’re late. Her missing that meeting was extremely unusual. I needed to find her.
I moved to go, giving Becca a half wave.
“Kate! Becca! So good to see you! I need a word!”
Shoot! Now here comes Lexie.
Lexie always walked with her Great Dane, Duke, all 120 lbs of him. It never failed to amaze me that somebody as small as Lexie could control such a large dog, but then again Lexie was a bundle of energy far outweighing her diminutive size.
“Can you believe this heat?” Lexie asked.
“I’m sorry, Lexie, but I really need to go.”
She stood in front of me, ostensibly blocking my way. I didn’t want to be rude, but I needed to get home and find out what was going on with Angie. Pausing for a second, I stepped off the sidewalk to go around her.
“Have you seen Angie?” Lexie asked, her high voice cutting through my brain like a knife.
I stepped back onto the sidewalk.
“Angie?”
“Yes, she told me she’d meet me near the pool. I’m very much against the Virginia Creeper vines being pulled up. They’re so pretty on the fences!”
As a former CEO, I cared about a lot of things. I cared about particular details in financial disclosures, I cared about ensuring new hires would be a good fit for my company, and I cared about whether the coffee at the office was fresh. What I didn’t care about was landscaping. I couldn’t tell the difference between a maple or an ash, I couldn’t identify an azalea in a lineup, and I had no clue whether rhododendrons were thirsty shrubs or drought-resistant bushes. I most definitely didn’t care about some creeping vine.
What I mostly cared about right now, though, was that Angie had missed yet another meeting.
She’s fine. Something must have come up, and she didn’t think meeting with these two women was that important.
It wasn’t like her, though. Even if the world was falling apart, Angie would text these ladies to tell them she couldn’t make it. I had to go check on her.
“…the Virginia Creeper,” Becca was saying. “Did you know it’s actually a weed? Angie told me last week it’s a vine bent on world domination. It’s been known to take down brick walls!”
“Hey, so, I really need to get going.”
“If it’s a weed, all the better! We’re in a drought. They’re pretty and they won’t need as much water!”
They were ignoring me.
“Okay, I’m taking off.”
“…I heard they’ll choke out your rose bushes, though! That’s not just a weed. That’s like a, uh, a criminal weed. A murdering weed!”
I turned and tugged on Mr. Tuttles’ leash, shouldering by Lexie and her giant Great Dane, giving Becca a quick wave over my shoulder.
“Well!” I heard Becca say. “I guess everybody is going to be rude this morning!”
#
Once home, I quickly changed out of my sweaty clothes and into fresh, light-weight ones, gave Mr. Tuttles a treat, and grabbed another cookie for myself. Breakfast of champions.
I’d tried both calling and texting Angie, but still no response.
I’m sure she’s busy. She probably forgot about the meeting with Becca.
I closed my eyes and sent up a prayer that she hadn’t had anything like a stroke or a heart attack. Mrs. Trumbowski from Cottonwood Lane had had a heart attack while gardening last week, and she was only 62 years old. Angie was 65.
Angie’s house looked eerily quiet as I drove up. The garage door was closed, the drapes unmoving. I rang the bell and knocked. Nothing. “Angie?” I called, knocking louder. I tried the doorknob, hoping it wouldn’t open, as what would I say? “Hey, Angie, you didn’t reply to a few texts, so I just let myself in. Sorry for scaring you!” I pictured her coming out of the shower, shocked to see me brazenly walking into her home.
The door was locked.
I peeked into the garage and saw her car was still there. She likely had just left the house by foot to meet Becca and Lexie about those vines or something and I’d just missed her. That had to be it.
The chill up my spine told me different.
Walking around the house, I had to cup my hands around my eyes so I could see inside each window. Moving towards the back door, I saw a foot, motionless.
Oh, no. Please. No, no, no!
I barged through the back door, practically skidding on my knees to Angie’s side.
Her body lay face down, cheek pressed to the floor, eyes wide open, brunette hair fanned out, sticky with dried blood that formed a halo around her head. At her feet, a marble candlestick holder lay on its side.
Kneeling beside her, I put two fingers to her neck. No pulse. Tears filled my eyes as I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.