Home again, I sat on the couch, feet curled up underneath me. Mr. Tuttles jumped up and joined me, laying his sweet head on my lap. I’d stopped off on my way home from the station at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant for takeout, now sitting in my refrigerator as I didn’t have much of an appetite.
I glared at my laptop, which I’d brought into the family room with me and sat, unopened, on the coffee table. Sometimes when I cruised the internet, I liked to do it in the family room with the laptop in my lap; I found it relaxing.
Mr. Tuttles sighed as I stroked his head, and I leaned my head back, closing my eyes. I’d accepted my fate on the way home, somewhere between the Ethiopian restaurant and my garage, that I’d done all I could. It was in the hands of the police, now. There was nothing more that I could think of to do.
I pulled my laptop towards me, opening it up to Reddit to check on some of the true crime cases I was following. Had they solved JonBenet’s murder yet? I doubted it. John Ramsey recently claimed he’d had a good meeting with the Boulder, CO police department, but even he said they hadn’t committed to submitting any more evidence for testing yet. The Boulder police had been set on it being the Ramseys from the beginning, so much so that they’d overlooked the actual forensic evidence of the DNA.
Just like Javier with Felyne. He’s so sure it’s her, he won’t look at the other evidence.
I scanned a post that discussed how John Ramsey had been in the Navy, so clearly he knew how to make the knots used in the murder.
It wasn’t a bad theory—looking to see who would know how to do those things. I’d concluded ages ago that the knots in the JonBenet case looked just like knots psychopathic serial killers, like the Golden State killer, used, but it wasn’t necessarily flawed logic to look at other’ people’s backgrounds, too.
Wait! Whoever set that fire had to know how to make it look like faulty wiring. That’s not something everybody just knows.
I pulled my laptop into my lap, being careful not to interrupt Mr. Tuttles’ nap. Whoever did this probably had some sort of experience in their background. A pool contractor, for instance, who fixed the heaters on pools and hot tubs might know something about that, so I mentally put Max Howard, Pool Guy, on the list. Who else?
Luckily, the internet holds a wealth of information. Most people, these days, were on sites such as Facebook, LinkedIn, or a myriad of others. But the best site I had found to cyber-stalk people, all in the name of truth and justice, of course, was TruthSpotters. It’s pretty amazing what you can find out about people for a small monthly fee. After I’d found that out, I hired another web service, DeleteMe, to take my own information off of as many websites as possible. It’s quite concerning, really, how much information is out there, but also good for me right now.
I decided to start with Beatrice. I entered her name, clicked on “employment history,” and, right in front of me were all of her jobs the internet could find. Marketing, sales, wait. What was this? Beatrice spent some time working as a Paranormal Guide. I couldn’t help myself and had to google the company she worked for. It was less a Ghost Busters and more a Ghost Talkers, where they advertised that their Paranormal Guide would escort a group through a haunted house, explaining the history and tell stories about the inhabitants. The website promised every visitor a chat through their Paranormal Mediums with any one of the now-deceased previous owners of the home.
Did touring old homes mean Beatrice would know how to wire a house to burn up? Probably not.
I went through several of the contractors I was suspicious of along with a couple different residents of the HOA, writing their names down as I thought of them, and crossing some of them off as I researched. There were obvious contractors: the irrigation repairmen worked with electrical boxes all the time, but they’d never even floated to the top of any of my lists. And what about Brady Strong, Bug Guy? Exterminating bugs didn’t necessarily lend itself to hot-wiring refrigerators, and a quick stroll through his work history didn’t come up with any obvious ties to electrical work. I was a bit disappointed by that. His name was one that kept floating to the top of my lists. So far, I didn’t know anything more than I did when I started.
I moved to the table, helping myself to some Doro Wat, an Ethiopian chicken stew in a spicy sauce best eaten with injera bread, and continued my search.
Sighing, I put my pen down and rubbed my eyes. This could also just be a wild goose chase. There was no guarantee my arsonist had anything in his background that would indicate he knew electrical wiring—it could just be something he or she picked up as a kid from their parents or from friends.
Nick. I hadn’t looked him up yet. I had zero inclination that Nick was my killer, or even my arsonist, but it wouldn’t do to leave him off the list.
Well this was interesting! Nick had been a Human Resources Manager for a company that trained electrical apprentices and licensed electricians. Had he learned electrical wiring while working as a manager at an electrical company? Maybe it was worth visiting him again to find out.
I waited until 10:00 am the next morning to show up at Nick’s house, which I thought was incredibly patient of me. I hadn’t texted first; I wanted to ask some questions and see if I could catch him off guard. I did, however, find some cookie dough in the freezer, the type that you break off and bake. It was only a year past its use by date, so I figured it would be fine. The cookies didn’t quite puff up the way they should when I baked them, but they were good enough for my purposes.
Ringing the doorbell, I rehearsed what I’d say to Nick. “Harmony baked these cookies but had to leave in a hurry….” Yeah, that would work, and it would give me a way to segue into a discussion about the fire and faulty wiring.
Nick’s front door had no Ring doorbell or Nest cameras, I noticed. After Angie’s murder, I’d seen several people outside, installing one on their front porch, but apparently Nick hadn’t felt a need to do so.
The doorbell had one of those long-ringing sounds inside playing a tune that sounded like a bell tower’s song before it struck the hour. I waited, tapping my foot on the concrete. Come on, Nick. Where are you? Nothing. I peered into the small windows that ran vertically up the left side of the door, but I didn’t see anything and rang the doorbell again.
He’s probably just out.
I had no reason to be worried. Although retired, Nick was a busy man. He had places to go and people to see.
Even as I was thinking these things, my feet were already driving me towards his garage windows. His car sat in the middle of the garage, fat and happy, like nothing was wrong. Except that if his car was there, he should be there, right?
He’s out for a walk.
I’ve told myself that before, though, and look how that turned out. I rounded the corner to the back, where there was a sliding glass door that led into the family room. I no longer had any self-consciousness about going around and peering into people’s homes; finding a dead body would do that to a person. I had to hold my hands up to the glass door and look through it in order to cut down on the glare. Nothing. I kept moving to the next window, one that looked into his bathroom. Please don’t be taking a shower! It was frosted, so I really couldn’t have seen anything except movement, but, again, there was nothing. On to the bedroom window, and again I hoped I wouldn’t catch him getting dressed or, heaven forbid, find him with some woman. I couldn’t even imagine what I would say if he caught me being a peeping Tom while he was entertaining. Of course, it would be a weird time of day for that, but you never knew with retired people.
I screamed and then clapped a hand over my mouth.
Nick laid face-up, his eyes open and unseeing, one arm flung over the side of the bed, blood soaking the white sheets all around him. A knife protruded from his chest.
For the second time in less than a week, I dialed 911.