Cracked Directions: Cracked Cases Part 3

Author's Note: This is not my most interesting story (it's mostly exposition) but Part 4 is coming soon!

           “By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire,” Alma repeated. “By the time I went back in, the…oh, couldn’t you move, mister?”

           One minor problem with traveling with Alma, Abigail realized, was that she read everything she could—which wasn’t an entirely bad trait in itself—and then narrated all she had read—which was the considerably worse part. Alma had already exhausted all the subway’s inner advertisements and anything she could scour off stray grocery bags she had moved to any graffiti she could catch. The subway was experiencing a “technical delay,” according to a raspy announcement, which meant it stood still and allowed for Alma to kneel backwards on the slippery, germy, plastic seat, peer out of the tinted window, and actually have enough time absorb every little painted detail.

           Except, apparently, for the ending of a graffitied poem, which some guy must have been standing in front of and otherwise triggering Alma. Under normal circumstances Abigail would have told Alma to please stop attracting attention but this was the New York City subway, an inflatable banana could zip through the compartments like a sideways rocket-ship and nobody would so much as glance up.

           Abigail herself was not one for kneeling backwards on a seat and gaping at the window—who knew whose grimy hands had been touching it? Rather, she sat primly, facing forwards, her legs crossed at the ankles as she stared at the “Langston Family Reunion” card. After dragging the body to the nearest hospital and shouting far too loudly at far too many people—the prejudice that allowed heterosexual men to be the top hospital administrators was still alive and strong, and for some reason they all thought her attempts at authority as flirting, which was ridiculous, it was simply being competent—and pulling every trick she knew Abigail had gotten them to complete and release the full autopsy report. Abigail always laughed when the top of the report said “Body Status: Deceased,” as if the giant stab-wound, unbeating heart, and cold corpse hadn’t given any of that away.

           Abigail had the report tucked away in a large, rectangular pocket she had attached to the inside of her coat—why did women’s’ clothes never have actual pockets?—and studied the reunion invitation. 216 Lindbergh Avenue, Arnold County, New York State, which according to Alma’s investigation was a high-value property but did not have available photos on the internet. The only people who kept their anonymity online were shady or underage, and Abigail hoped that for entertainments’ sake it would be the former. There was no listed property owner or date of purchase, so Abigail was running into the situation on the defensive, forced to look for clues instead of planting her own, which she never enjoyed.

           The subway lurched forward, throwing Alma into the tube of the compartment. She bounced up easily—according to Alma, the pre-murdered tend to fight physically, and she was used to being tossed around—and sat the right way next to Abigail, buzzing with excitement.

           “Shouldn’t you be in school?” some random old lady on the opposite end of the subway asked.

           “Homeschool.” Abigail made no attempt to cover her curtness. The only rule on the subway was that one follows no rules, and that lady must be a foreigner to not be aware of it.

           “Are you related?” The lady sure was bent on making conversation.

           “Yep.” Alma popped the p. “She’s my aunt.”

           “Oh, how darling!” the lady cooed. “And you even have matching coats!”

           That was true, though Alma’s was threadier and had more patches and holes. But it was a very similar maroon and made her and Abigail look reasonably professional and coordinated, which was what they were going for.

           The lady seemed satisfied with that answer and left Abigail and Alma alone. Abigail continued staring at the reunion invitation, seeing if there was anything she had missed—it was really a small piece of paper with not much else going on. Abigail put it in her pocket next to the autopsy.

           Thanks to the reunion’s obscure location it remained unlisted online; Abigail had to provide Alma with an actual paper map and bus schedule and she had to trace their trajectory using a highlighter and pencil, but thankfully that meant that they had their tickets pre-bought and only spent a day funneled from subway to bus to train before being dropped off at a dismal little station somewhere in rural New York State.

           “I thought we’d be closer,” Alma remarked as she stepped out of the station onto the dirt road. Dirt. Actual dirt. On the road. New York State must have lowered their standards. “I can’t see that house anywhere!”

           That was entirely true. All Abigail could see was miles and miles of trees perched atop rolling hills. In short it was a beautiful sight. Even though it was nearly November and the trees would be bare soon, the leaves were hanging on like the last thread of autumn. Reds, oranges, and yellows swirled around as if the sun itself had materialized. It was absolutely gorgeous and thoroughly impractical, and Abigail would have gaped at it for longer if she didn’t have a reunion to get to.

           Abigail snapped out of her thoughts to see that Alma had already wandered hallway down the road and was studying a sign. She hurried over.

           “We’re in Norwalk.” Alma compared the map to the sign which, truthfully, said “Norwalk.” “And according to the map we should be in Arnold County.”

           “Maybe Norwalk is in Arnold County.” Towns and counties were not necessarily synonymous.

           “No,” Alma pointed to the map, “Arnold County is the name of that town.” That was unnecessarily confusing. “And it’s West of where we are now.”

           “But the stop we left at was called ‘Arnold County Stop.’” Abigail recounted, annoyance germinating in the bottom of her mind. Abigail did not appreciate being scammed.

           “I know.” Alma looked as if she was running in circles. “So the conductor lied. Or the station lied. Or maybe nobody ever comes here so nobody thought to make the signs consistent.” Alma plopped down underneath the sign. “I’m tired.”

           “I’m tired too.” However, Abigail remained standing. In the distance the sun was setting, blending perfectly with the brilliant leaves. “But we can’t just camp out here, in the middle of this dusty, shady road.”

           Alma tapped her chin. “Wait, we’re going to a house that has a very high property value. That means it’s probably super large! So we can split up and walk in opposite directions and we’re bound to stumble upon it at some point.” Alma leapt back up and pointed in the direction of the setting sun. “I call that way-“

           “You’re not calling either way.” Abigail grabbed the back of Alma’s coat. “Have you never watched a horror movie? When the group splits up one of them ends up dead. We’re not doing that.” Abigail crossed her arms. “Do you have a compass?”

           Alma shook her head. “No.” She squinted, the sun’s angle directly refracting into her eyes. “But maybe we could walk back to the station and see if somebody there does.”

           “Definitely not,” Abigail decided. “That’s stranger danger-”

           “Abigail, you say that as if we’re not trying to bust into somebody’s house-“

           “Yeah, but we’d be at the advantage there.” Abigail shook her foot. It was still slightly asleep from hours of sitting. “We’d be the ones who know we’re the strangers. If we go and ask somebody for the compass, then we’d be owing them.”

           Alma sighed and stretched her arms above her head dramatically. Then she pressed them into her eyes. “Wow, I normally love the sun but right now it is at a perfectly annoying angle.”

           Wait, the sun. Oh, Abigail sure felt brilliant. And also really stupid for not realizing it earlier.

           “Alma, we’re going that way,” Abigail commanded, pointing in the direction of the sun.

           “Is that not what I just said?” Alma asked, her hands still over her eyes.

           “Yeah, but you said it for the wrong reason.” Abigail stated. “The sun sets in the West. We just need to walk in that direction.”

           Alma’s mouth fell open into a perfect o. “How did we forget that?”

           Abigail shrugged and started off.

           Whoever drew the map ought to be required to get a new degree in scaling because Abigail and Alma walked for two hours. Abigail was used to doing business at night so that darkness didn’t entirely scare her, but the threat of abduction or kidnapping was still alive and well, and Abigail regretted forgetting a flashlight. The whole plan was that they would have reached the house before needing a flashlight. Clearly that plan had been abandoned at the station.

           “Look,” Alma yawned, “there’s a big house.”

           Said big house looked like an off-brand government building. It was boxy with a black-tiled roof and whitewashed, wooden siding. A large red door was the only thing illuminated by a sole lamp—a lamp with an actual flame in it, which made the whole thing look as if it was built two centuries ago—and official-looking carvings spelled out the address: 216 Lindbergh Avenue. The path to the door was just as dirty as the battered road and yet more trees lined the property. Thankfully the lawn was trimmed and the shutters freshly painted, making the whole thing look more stand-offish then haunted, though Abigail didn’t believe in ghosts as it was. She figured that if a ghost were to invade her spirit, it would have done so already.

           Alma clambered down the path and enthusiastically slammed a brass doorknob over and over again, making a sufficient ruckus.

           A man in a quilted robe and hat—this was officially the first person Abigail had ever seen to wear a sleeping cap—opened the door cautiously and peered out. “Who are you?”

           “Hospice workers,” Abigail lied. She had come up with this alibi on the subway. “We have been informed of a death in your family and have been instructed to alert you.”

           The man blinked. “Miss, it’s the 21^st century. We’ve known about William’s death for a week now.”

           William. Good to know.

           “Well according to New York City protocol we must check up on your family. May we come in?” Jokes on the man; Abigail pushed her way in anyway.

           “I can’t imagine you’d want to speak to us right now.” The man fidgeted with the tail of his hat. Abigail noticed how twitchy his nose was, how bucked his teeth were—the guy looked like a mouse in human form. Somebody ought to get him some cheese. “It’s nearly midnight.”

           “Well,” Abigail rubbed her hands, thankful that the house had some form of internal heating, “we can speak to you tomorrow morning, but you will be required to provide for us until then.”

           “Provide for you?”

           “Just let us sleep and eat here,” Abigail clarified. “It doesn’t need to be luxury accommodations. Just good enough for a standard government employee.”

           The man squinted. “Haven’t I seen you on the news?”

           Therein lay Abigail’s struggle for fame. She wanted to be at a point where the man would point at her and proclaim, “You’ve been on the news!” She did not want ambiguity.

           “Maybe.” Abigail shrugged again. “There’s been a lot of press around the government, especially with the election.”

           The man nodded. “That makes sense.” He leaned closer and whispered, as if anybody aside from the three were awake and listening. “Speaking of which, do you know who wins?”

           “Harriet Frond,” Alma piped up. “It’s a whole scandal.”

           The man leaned even closer, this time to Alma. “For a government worker, you look young.”

           “And you look old,” Alma quipped. “Such is the way of the world.” She crossed her arms. “Where are we sleeping?”

           The man led them up winding, creaking stairs, apologizing profusely for the lack of accommodations, quoting “Lots of the family has shown up already!” Abigail told him it was quite alright; she was eager to meet all of them and help them cope with the tragedy. Alma stayed quiet, her eyes scanning every rip in the wallpaper and stain on the carpet, obviously plotting something she would undoubtedly tell Abigail once they situated their arrangements.

           The man led them down a well-windowed hallway to a sizable room with rows of child-sized beds.

           “This used to be where the servants slept,” he explained, “back when servants were a thing. But now it’s the only room we’ve got open.”

           There was a working light switch, which was nice, and a puffing radiator. And heavy cotton curtains over narrow windows with spidery panes. The room had clearly not been touched since servants were main-stream because candlesticks—the heavy, ornate ones—stood proudly next to every one of the narrow beds that rested on sturdy metal frames. Unfortunately for her Abigail was taller than a child so she would need to rearrange some of the mattresses next to each other, but it was doable.

           The man rambled on about how wind-resistant the windows were or something and Abigail and Alma practically pushed him out because they had lots of developments that needed discussion.

           First, they laughed. They waited for his steps to disappear down the first flight of stairs and practically burst because what clueless individual thought hospice workers were government employees? Hospice was part of the hospital! It was practically in the title! And hospitals, at least in New York City, were not part of the government. They got government funding, sure, but not to the point where Abigail and Alma could go around demanding to stay in people’s houses, though Abigail justified that if one was so gullible to give in to such a demand, they really deserved fake-government employees taking up board.

           Alma was so gullible and probably so delirious that she fell back into one of the bed’s oddly springy mattresses—did servants even get bed-springs?—and jumped up and down. Then she jumped from one bed to the other.

           “This is fun!” she crowed.

           “Stop it!” Abigail instructed like an exasperated parent. “You’re going to break something! Or yourself! We can’t go breaking things just yet!”

           Alma sighed. “I’m only stopping because your ridiculous hospice plan worked, so it looks like you know what you’re doing.” She straightened up. “But we’re not sleeping, are we?”

           Abigail giggled deviously. “Of course not. We’ve got a house to explore.” She picked up a random candle and appreciated how threatening it made her look, like a character in Clue. When she was younger her parents used to ask her to play Clue all the time—they figured that she was good at it so therefore she had to enjoy it—and Abigail could never get past how silly it was to make all the detectives work separately. Abigail was all for personal glory but if you’re guaranteed to get the right answer through collaboration why not just save time and collaborate? The murdered man was a millionaire anyway! A third of a million is still a lot of money!

           In the hallway outside the room there was an aesthetic dressing-table below a mirror, just like in hotels, and in one of the table’s aesthetically tiny drawer was a box of ancient, crumbling matches. The first four didn’t light but the last did and Abigail brandished her candle like its flickering light held the secret to the universe. Behind her Alma breathed heavily. Alma was probably distracted by the dramatics of creeping around a stranger’s house in the middle of the night by candlelight, and though she was too reserved to whip out the knife she was undoubtedly cradling it under her coat.

           As the wandered Abigail noted how…hotel-y the house looked. And how many mirrors there were. Every hallways had cherry-wood floors lined with carpet-runner and dressing-tables and wall-mirrors placed in consistent intervals across. The mirrors were obviously mirrors, but small reflective ornaments were inlaid into the carpet and chandeliers—the house had actual chandeliers—glittered with refractive crystals. The flickering candlelight bounced around and shattered, sprayed across the hallway like Abigail was holding a disco-ball or a bursting supernova. Though the grandeur was curious the strangest thing was how consistent it all was. The same model of chandeliers. The same carpet. The same tables, stained with the same veneer. Even in the warm candlelight it looked frigid.

           Eventually Abigail and Alma found the front door and took a moment to observe the front foyer. There was a brick fire-place with ashes and logs but no fire; instead, heat was supplied by yet more radiators. There was another chandelier, and more dressing-tables and mirrors, though this room’s carpet was wall-to-wall and a grape-wine color. High-backed chairs with matching cushions filled the small yet lofty space.

           “Why does this house look like a hotel Martha Washington would wait for her husband in?” Alma questioned.

           “I have no idea,” Abigail replied automatically. She had just noticed a podium-type structure, like the type you would see at a wedding reception, right by the door. She sneaked closer and saw that it was bare—with no microphone, unfortunately—outside of an old-fashioned, leather-bound, thick-papered book. The opened page had printed, capital, modern-looking handwriting and was dated with guests from just a few days ago. What kind of a person keeps a guest-log, Abigail wondered. And was this old book really old and still usable because there were just so few guests coming by the house, or was it new and quickly filled by a large bulk of people? And there was still the question of why?

           There was only one way to find out. Abigail flicked the page. And very quickly regretted it.