Echoes Read online

The porch of the Williams house was now only a shattered mess. I picked my way carefully through splinters of glass and razor sharp slabs of siding. Almost all of the wall beyond the porch was destroyed, fragments of siding and insulation littering the room inside. The remains of what appeared to be a sandwich was jumbled with the papers and books all scattered about. A spear of wallboard stabbed through a TV in the corner.

  Along with the shreds of insulation and chunks of the door flung outward by the blast, there were also fragments of Max. I saw a hand, and a foot with his shoe still neatly tied. What was left of the bright, blue door was splattered with blobs and shreds of blood and tissue. My stomach twisted and I quickly ducked through the remains of the garage. Neither the ER nor my own past writing-related research had prepared me for this. I heard Sergeant O’Connor behind me upchucking into the shrubbery.

  The double garage door was pretty close to the front door and caught much of the blast. Max’s convertible was covered with shards of glass that left gouges and tears all over the leather seats. The portion of the garage not occupied by his convertible looked like the service bay where I take my car. Apparently, Max liked to do his own maintenance work.

  I picked my way through a tumble of paint cans and garden tools all covered with a layer of potting soil from the bags apparently stacked along the inside wall. I looked back at Sergeant O’Connor. He was through barfing and again talking on the phone. His back was still toward me. I stepped quickly around a corner of the house and out of his sight.

  Besides the wreck of Max Williams’ car, and the garage, most of the delivery truck was scattered all over the drive as well. Smoke and steam were still pouring from the wreck and the stench of burning wiring and oil made me gag and brought tears to my eyes. There were flowers and wads of insulation scattered about making the lawn look like it had received a late snowfall. It was almost pretty in a grisly sort of way. Stepping gingerly around a shredded side panel, and what was left of a headlight, I saw parts of the engine. It didn’t look like enough to be an entire engine but cars have always been a mystery to me. Metal scraps and tangled wires were everywhere. Some of the chunks of metal were quite large. The front end of the truck apparently took the brunt of the explosion. The back was burned but more or less intact. A jacket with ‘Williams’ Flowers’ stamped across the back lay tangled and woven through the broken glass and ceramic pots.

  I hadn’t been in this back yard for years. When I was a child, I played here every day with my friend, Eleanor. One summer she and I planted a maple seed in the backyard. Old memories flooded over me as I stood there looking at the now huge tree. Those were the days of sunshine and games of pretend. A rough voice jarred me away from the past.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  A young man strode across the grass with the effortless ease of an athlete. His dark, green jacket stretched across broad shoulders and he wore a badge clipped to his breast pocket.

  I decided this was not the time to play dumb. I stepped forward and held out my hand. I will never admit to getting old, but, damn, everyone I meet seems to be getting younger.

  “I’m Maggie MacKenzie. I’m staying across the street at the Randall house. I came to see what happened.”

  “You must be the lady who called the police and the ambulance.” His grip was firm and warm. “And kept the driver from passing out. That was fast work.” His deep voice resonated with authority.

  “Well, thirty years of emergency room nursing should come in handy, don’t you think?” I brushed at the mud on my shirt. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Archer Phillips, detective in charge of this investigation, and you’re not supposed to be here. You say you live across the street?”

  “I said I’m staying across the street. I lived there when I was growing up. After school, I moved away. My brother lives there now, only he and his wife are away on a cruise and I agreed to house-sit for them.”

  “Did you know Mr. Williams?” As we talked, he gripped my elbow firmly and steered me through the rubble strewn yard.

  “Not really. The older Williams lived here and had a flower business. Max showed up about the time I started high school. He was older than the rest of us by several years. He wasn’t very well liked. The kids called him ‘King Strut’ behind his back because he liked to order everyone else around.” The memory and a sudden flare of gnawing anger surprised me with its intensity.

  “He liked to stand on his steps and shake a fist at us across the street. ‘I will rule you one of these days,’ he shouted at us. And we laughed and threw mud balls if Mother wasn’t looking.”

  “Who lived here before the Williams moved in?”

  “The Trescotts. Eleanor was my best friend. We planted that big tree back there,” I said, pointing to the big maple.

  “You should go home now.” We had reached the edge of the drive and I could tell he wasn’t about to let me go inside the house.

  “I told the officer out front that I came to check on the dog. I don’t know whether Mr. Williams even had a dog. I thought I should let you know, in case he asks.”

  Chapter Two

  With burning fatigue stabbing my back, I swept the bits of leaves and blossoms off the porch, straightened the chairs, and put away the trowel and empty plant containers.

  Relaxing under a hot shower, I played the scene of the explosion over in my mind. Why didn’t any of the neighbors show up? I remember the neighbors as being pretty nosy unless things had really changed. Maybe I’ll just stroll around later and talk to them.

  I pulled on a pair of green, cotton slacks and a green, knit shirt. Sliding my feet into sandals, I went to the kitchen. I selected Mocha Java from Mavis’ extensive coffee cupboard. The smooth, earthy flavor soothed my spirit and my nerves as I remembered the good times and the other times in this house. There was just Gerry and me.

  Gerry’s only two years older than I and we were great buddies. We did everything together, liked the same things and even got into trouble together. I wouldn’t have made it through sophomore geometry without his help. We had a happy childhood in the house on the corner of Berrywood and Rose. Every morning we had breakfast in the kitchen and every evening we ate in the dining room from the good china. Mother was a stickler for good manners, cloth napkins and No Arguing at the Table.

  Gerry and Mavis met in college. I was glad when he married her. She’s the sister I always wanted and a great friend.

  Even though I once lived here, the house was not the same. I settled into my old room, at the back, where the big elm tree brushed against the window. Gerry and I climbed out this window and down the elm tree many times, too. It was a large house with four bedrooms upstairs, a bathroom smack in between, all opening onto a hallway the length of the house. An open space with a railing looks down into the entry below, although I’ve never been able to look over any railing without my gut tightening with the terror of falling. To the right of the stairs the living room faced onto a three-sided porch. To the left of the stairs was the dining room. Mavis had combined some of Mother’s china and glassware with that of her own and arranged it in the glass-fronted cabinets along the wall. It was an elegant room with dark, wood paneling brightened by cream-colored draperies at the long windows.

  The kitchen was a marvel of modern appliances. Bright and sunny in the morning, which is fine if you like bright and sunny any time before ten in the morning. There was a microwave oven, which I’d barely learned to use and a dishwasher I didn’t trust. The stove seemed innocent enough and I understood the refrigerator and coffeemaker.

  The phone rang as I browsed through the freezer in search of dinner. I picked it up.

  “Maggie? Is this Maggie Randall?” The voice was husky, almost familiar. It twanged a bit in my head. Where had I heard this voice, or when?

  Before I could answer, the doorbell rang.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the caller at the other end. “I’ll have to put you on hold. There’s someone at t
he door.”

  Why do things come all at once? Lt. Phillips peered through the screen.

  “Mrs. MacKenzie, I need you to come down to the station and give a statement.”

  “Now?” Of course he means now, you dunce. “I have someone on the phone.”

  “Now. Tell them you’ll call back.”

  I went back to the phone trying to place the strangely familiar voice.

  “You’ll have to call back,” I said. “Something has come up and I have to leave.” I hung up before he could say any more.

  The Tuxford Police Station was still on Olive Street, and it looked as though it got stuck in a time warp. The steps were just as worn as I remembered and the lights on either side of the double doors were dim with years of grime.

  Lt. Phillips led me to a tiny niche of an office and pointed to a wooden chair with padded armrests.

  “Coffee?”

  I nodded and looked around. “Your office is just about as roomy as the one I had at Community General. I barely had room for an extra thermometer.”

  “You’re a nurse?”

  “Yes, newly retired after thirty years working in the Emergency Room. I also write mystery novels.”

  I took a sip of coffee. Ugh! It must have been fresh about six o’clock last week.

  “Tell me again just what you saw happen across the street today.” Apparently my accomplishments did not impress the man.

  I repeated the events of the explosion and the driver stumbling up onto my porch.

  “Did he say anything?” Phillips’ eyes were on his notepad.

  “He told me his name was Mike, then asked about his truck.”

  “Mike? No last name?”

  “No. Lieutenant, I wonder whether someone was using Mike as a cover.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He delivered the plant then returned to his truck and took out a vase of flowers right away and started across the street. It was then that everything exploded.”

  “Mrs. MacKenzie, I hope your mysteries are more substantial than that.” Lt. Phillips sipped his coffee and scribbled something more on the pad then looked up.

  “Tell me about your family.”

  “Why? What has that to do with anything?” His question annoyed me.

  “Just tell me about them.”

  “Well, my husband is Ian MacKenzie, but everyone calls him Mac. We have two daughters, Marissa, and Charlotte and one grandson, Peter. We live in Midford, Michigan. Mac is a retired pathologist. He’ll be coming to Tuxford as soon as he finishes his current project. I grew up here in Tuxford. My brother, Gerald Randall is the editor of the Tuxford Times. I’m house sitting while he and his wife, Mavis, take a cruise.”

  He nodded when I mentioned Gerry, and continued with questions about the Williams family, but I don’t think I was much help. He wanted to know how well Max got along with his parents.

  “I don’t know. His mother never visited with the other neighbors as far as I remember.” That seemed strange, when I thought of it. Mrs. Anton next door was always popping in for a cup of something. She sat at the kitchen table and chirped away like a fussy, little sparrow while Mother made cookies or peeled vegetables. And Mrs. Angstrom, catty-corner from us, came over to sit on the porch in the afternoons. She was there with her needlework when we came home from school many days. But Mrs. Williams never did more than wave from her porch.

  “I remember one time, Dad interviewed Mr. Williams about his flower business, for the paper.” I told Lt. Phillips. “Dad said he was very polite, but reserved. He didn’t offer any information, but he answered all of Dad’s questions. He shook his hand several times. They all had a strange accent, too.”

  “What happened to Mr. and Mrs. Williams?” Phillips looked at me in a direct way that I found a little unnerving.

  “That happened after I moved away. Gerry wrote me about it.”

  “What?”

  “They died in their sleep, one winter. Evidently, the furnace was faulty and the fumes overcame them. Max wasn’t home at the time.” As I said the words a sudden old rumor popped into my mind. I remembered something one of Mother’s friends said in one of those loud whispers that she thought no one heard. ‘They’ve been sick so much this winter and each time, their son is on a business trip.’

  I didn’t mention that to the Lt. After all, it was only a rumor and an old one at that.

  His questions continued a while longer, then Phillips stood and offered me his hand.

  “Thanks for coming down and putting up with all these questions. You’ve been a big help. How long are you going to be in town?”

  “About a month, or until Gerry gets back, whichever happens first.”

  “I’ll have someone take you home.”

  “It’s a small town, Lt. I’ll walk. I want to refresh my memory of the old neighborhood.”

  I left the station and when I reached the corner, turned onto Main. I strolled along Main, past the old Mercer’s Ladies Wear, and what used to be the newsstand. It was now a used bookstore. I turned in at the door of the Candy Palace. Time hadn’t changed the Candy Palace. The fat, slant-topped jars of candy still stood at attention across the smooth, honey-colored, wooden counter just as I remembered. Only now, I didn’t have to stand on tiptoe to see into the jars. I gazed around, lost in the past.

  “May I help you?” someone said, rather loudly, shaking me out of my daze.

  I bought a small bag of lemon drops, smiled at the young man and continued on my way. The tart, lemon flavor cut through the tongue numbing taste of Lt. Phillip’s wretched coffee. As I stood on the curb waiting for Tuxford’s only stop light to change, a black pickup truck slid up and a man leaned across the seat to open the door.

  “Can I give you a lift, Maggie?”

  “Willie? Willie Manning?” The voice on the phone. I just stood there, my mind blank. I shook my head. “Thanks, but I want to walk. It’s too nice to ride.” The light changed and I stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

  Tuxford is a pretty, little town especially in the spring and fall. That’s when the breeze has a wintry edge and the air smells of soggy leaves and newly, dug dirt. In the winter, it gets some of the lake effect snow and, when we were kids, we went sledding along icy streets. That was before schools had ‘snow days.’ If you could get to school, you did. If not, you had work to make up.

  I walked slowly, trying to remember all the old shops and who lived where. The afternoon’s excitement drained away, leaving me feeling as worn out as an old glove. As I approached Gerry’s house, I saw someone sitting on the porch next door. On an impulse, I climbed the few steps.

  “Hello. My name’s Maggie MacKenzie and I’m staying at the Randall’s for a while. The Anton’s used to live here, but I don’t think you’re one of them, are you?”

  The young woman motioned to a chair.

  “Have a seat. You look tired. Did you walk all the way from town?”

  She flipped her black hair over her shoulders. She looked about twenty, pretty with dark eyes, good figure, and white shorts that flattered her long, tanned legs.

  “Yes, I wanted to see the old neighborhood. I grew up here.”

  “Oh. Well, my name is Lily Thomas. I’m staying here with my great grandmother, Mrs. Yoder, but just for the summer, just helping out. I guess Mrs. Anton moved away several years ago.

  “Your great-grandmother?”

  “Yes, isn’t it great? I only just learned about her, but it’s a really long and amazing story.”

  Her smile encouraged me.

  “What do you do for your great-grandmother?”

  “Oh, a little housekeeping, run errands, you know, shop for groceries, get her books from the library, drive her to church.” She pushed the hair away from her face. “It’s not hard work. I think she’s mostly lonely and wants company.” She leaned forward in the swing. “What happened to the Williams house? I got back from town and the police were all over the place. They asked me a lot of question
s, but I didn’t know anything.”

  I told her what little I could. “Did Mrs. Yoder see anything?”

  “No, she was asleep. She usually takes a nap every afternoon and that’s when I do my errands. Her room is at the back of the house and, with the air conditioning on and all the windows closed, the noise didn’t wake her.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Lily Thomas.” I got to my feet. “I’d really like to hear your long and amazing story, Lily, but this has been quite an unsettling day. Perhaps you’ll come have coffee with me some afternoon and tell me about it.”

  That explained why nobody next door came out when the house blew up. Although, even with the windows closed, such an explosion just across the street would have rattled something that even a deaf person would have noticed. I was down to my last spoonful of energy. I just wanted to relax, have some good coffee and my dinner. I watched part of a movie on TV but I couldn’t keep my eyes open so I finally closed everything up and went to bed.

  I’m a night owl. Always have been and can’t see any good reason to get up before the sun. However, this time of the year it was much cooler in the early morning so I pushed myself out of bed, and pulled on my old running pants and shoes and a tee shirt. They’re really walking shoes, because this gal doesn’t do any running. Walking helps me think.

  I went out the back way, through the yard to the alley behind the house and turned west, away from town. Over the years, the town has built up, but mostly to the east, so it didn’t take long to reach the outskirts where the pavement ended. The ground was so dry that each step raised tiny puffs of dust. Finally, I stopped watching my feet and looked around to see that I had reached the old Methodist Cemetery. It was a sad ghost of a place, lost in time. Strings of dead paint hung from the fence like peeling sunburn. Many of the graves were overgrown with weeds and most of the headstones tipped to one side as though too exhausted to stand straight any longer. I leaned against the old iron fence, the shredded paint rough under my hands.

  “I’m glad you finally stopped. I had trouble keeping up with you.”