Cracked Glass: Cracked Cases Part 5

           “I am not a murderer!” Richard shrieked.

           Oh, come on Richard, Abigail thought, get more creative. Every prospective murderer says that.           

           If he wanted to show that he had nothing to hide he should have crossed him arms and directly challenged the proclamation. “What makes me a murderer?” would have been an effective question. Or perhaps “What evidence do you have to back that accusation?”

           None, none at all, but sleep deprivation and near-death experiences lead to irrational thinking, so it wasn’t as if the rest of his family was jumping to his rescue.

           “Rickie, would you really murder your mother?” one of his sisters, Jemima or Anthea or somebody, asked.

           “No!” he cried. “I…I wouldn’t murder anybody! Not even an enemy!”

           Probably because he had too many of them, Abigail figured. Richard was pretty annoying. He probably had a ton of enemies, though not worst enemies because he didn’t seem hard-core enough to uphold a grudge for such a while and was clearly too gullible to identify and effectively persecute much of anybody with malicious intentions.

           “Where’s your weapon?” the other sister asked, her hand outstretched. “Hand it over, Rickie.”

           “I already told you I don’t have a weapon!” Richard raised both his arms. “You can pat me down! I don’t have a weapon!”

           “I think he does,” Alma suggested. “I really don’t think we can trust him. Somebody call the police!”

           “No, the only one we should call is your boss over there!” One of the kids, either Vincent or Victor, pointed at Abigail. “She’s the one who started this whole murder-plot.”

           “Actually,” Abigail corrected, “your Uncle Richard was the one who jumped out here in the middle of the night, so he’s the one who started this murder plot.”

           “But I only came out because you were in the hallway-“

           “And we were only in the hallway because your mother-,” Abigail interrupted.

           “Everybody’s ignoring me!” Martha hollered, hobbling out of her room and banging her stick firmly in the middle of the congregation. “I was nearly murdered and nobody cares! You’re all ignoring me!”

           “I’m very sorry, ma’am.” Alma patted Martha gently on the shoulder. Abigail’s eyes bore into Richard’s. See, Richard? Obvious murderers don’t apologize to their victims.

           Good luck arguing with that. Alma held the wonderful ability to get everybody to trust her. After all, how many wide-eyed, round-faced, springy, shiny, happy 14-year-olds look suspicious, especially when helping an old lady regain her balance after a nightly shock?

           Richard, on the other hand, was standing in a corner with his arms crossed and a hard glare cracking his face. An outsider would obviously suspect him over Alma, and the family members were basically outsiders to each other what with their plethora of confusing names and mental issues. Alma had told Abigail that the Langston-Lindenhuises were a divided union, bittered by their failed colony and impending grief. Abigail didn’t smile. She would let Alma do that instead.

           By the next morning Abigail could clearly see that many of these alleged mental issues manifested in a whole lot of security measures. Obvious security cameras were installed and some sort of a strange door-locking system that only required one push of a button to lock every other door was rigged and the almost-weirdest of all were the lasers that popped up in every keyhole.

           The weirdest, however, was that none of this made any noise. Abigail stayed up all night, systematically alternating between staring at a sleeping Alma, the weather “Langston Family Reunion!” brochure, and at her surroundings, and each time she reached the latter something new was tracking her. She peered int other hallway and saw powder coating the dressing-tables, ready for fingerprints. She tip-toed to the stairwells and saw springs and pressure-plates underneath the bannister and stairs.

           Alma noticed it too as she sat up, stretched, rubbed her bleary eyes, and pointed at a metal-detector at the door.

           “Was that there before and I’m only just realizing it or is it new?”

           “It’s new,” Abigail confirmed. “If it were there last night, it would have detected your knife.”

           Alma scrunched her eyebrows. “I’m going to ignore the obvious question of how all these security measures crawled out of the woodworks in one night, in a very old house, and move on to the fact that now I can’t leave this room.”

           Abigail scoffed. “Of course you can.”

           “The knife, Abigail. The knife.”

           Oh. This was going to be a problem. Abigail shrugged. “Climb out the window.”

           Alma beamed and hurried over to a window before shaking the heavy, iron bars and sighing, looking about ready to cry. “I can’t open the window.”

           “You can wriggle between the bars, can you not?” Alma was still a little girl.

           “Yeah,” Alma argued, “sure, but behind the bars the window itself doesn’t open.”

           “So shatter the glass.” As she said it Abigail realized how shattering the glass would not be a valid solution. A shattered window in the same room as the newcomers would not be a pretty addition to their presence at the late-night crime-scene.

           Alma sighed again, gazing mournfully at her trusted weapon. “I guess I’ll just move to cyanide.”

           “No, no, don’t do that.” The gears in Abigail’s mind had started. Alma knowing how to climb out the window could be invaluable, especially if they were ever held hostage in the room. “You…shatter the glass, but only when you hear the alarm.”

           “What alarm?” Alma questioned. She could figure that out. If Abigail’s predictions were correct it would be a very obvious alarm. Abigail hurried out of the room and down the stairs, careful to avoid any obvious traps. Sure, she could go for a flashy, new alarm, but she would rather stay with the tried-and-true. Abigail slid through the foyer and, with all her might, rifled through the pages of the guest log, ensuring that not a single leaf went untouched.

           Per usual the siren blared and the lights flashed and the family—minus Martha—came clambering down as if this wasn’t routine.

           “Why are you still here and still making noise?” was all Richard could muster. Far away, Abigail could hear the tinkle of cracked glass.

           “Because…” She crossed her arms and leaned awkwardly against the podium upholding the guest log. “Because I just so happen to be a detective.”

           The kid—Vincent, Victor, whoever the one that called Abigail the murderer was—raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were a hospice worker.”

           “I can be both!” Abigail quipped. “I have a day job and a night job because neither detecting nor nursing pay particularly well.”

           They do, actually, when one murders the mayor. But Abigail wasn’t about to give up her most profitable business.

           “And you know that you can trust me, Richard Lee, because your questionnaire said so.” Abigail stood back up and thought of a way to get out of the situation. Alma had cracked the glass which meant that she was probably climbing out the window and shimmying down the side of the building, all her weaponry in hand. Alma had to bury the weapons. Wait, no, then she couldn’t murder Martha. But she couldn’t murder Martha in the house because of all the sensors. So she had to murder Martha outside. How could she do that?

           Abigail didn’t know. She typically thought of these types of plots after the murder was all said and done and could be wrapped up nicely like a present with a plastic bow. Abigail always struggled tying the plastic bows. She tried curling them with scissors or crimping them with an iron but she always managed to burn or cut herself while her mother stood by and stared at her condescendingly. Unfortunately, though, Abigail instead had to construct the cardboard box herself with nothing more than a rough budget to go off of.

           “Oh look, what could that be outside?” Abigail pointed limply at a very clear Alma sneaking around amongst the trees. The L family, however, didn’t seem the sharpest and gasped and hurried out.

           At least Abigail had switched the investigation to more favorable turf.

           “Hi…” Alma began, staring at the newfound group.

           “What do you think you are doing, my coworker?” Abigail rubbed her forehead with all the authority of a young substitute teacher attempting to establish any control whatsoever—the specific type of authority that is obviously not authority at all and instead a plea at self-confidence.

           “Um…walking?”

           Alma was terrible at going along with lies. Abigail sighed. This was why she made up the stories after Alma was gone!

           “Walking…with these flowers?” Abigail plucked a patch of dandelions growing steadfast next to Alma’s left foot. If the L family had any brain at all, they would have noticed that they were in no way correlated. But they clearly didn’t and instead gaped at Abigail’s brilliant deduction.

           “Oh!” Alma’s eyes lit up. Finally, a competent partnership! “Um…I just saw these…lying by the door.”

           “Oh my goodness, they were lying by the door!” Jemima breathed. “What could that mean?”

           “It means,” Abigail raised her arms with a flourish, “that somebody is trying to poison Martha!”

           Abigail would have thought that the murderer herself had stepped out from behind a tree cloaked in shadows, for the L family went wild. Who knew a bunch of dandelions could sway a person so much; obviously the mental instability and general animosity had taken a toll on the population and they seemed ready to grapple onto any plausible solution whatsoever.

           “That makes no sense.”

           Oh, boo, Victor-Vincent, stop being such a party-spoiler, Abigail willed.

           “It makes complete sense.” She shook the dandelions, puffs flying off. “You’re telling me that Martha doesn’t suffer from seasonal allergies?”

           The family nodded.

           “And you’re telling me that her allergies haven’t been worse than usual this year?”

           The family nodded again.

           “And you’re telling me that this is not more than a coincidence?”

           The family paused, then shook their heads slowly.

           “Thank you.” Abigail pocketed the remainder of the dandelions. “I need this for evidence, and…I propose a stakeout.”

           “A stakeout!” Jemima might as well be related to Debbie LaBrown, for they two of them basically just repeated what Abigail said for no coherent reason. Probably shock.

           “Exactly.” Abigail firmly held onto Alma’s shoulder. “Me and my coworker will stakeout in this yard of yours and update you on the progress of the investigation.”

           “Murder?” One of the little girls stared up at Jemima with wide eyes. “Mama, will somebody be killed?”

           Wow, they really were slow. Still, this was a great chance for Abigail to get points.

           “No, honey.” Abigail hated the term honey when used affectionately. It sounded moldy and sticky and cumbersome, just like when you spill honey in your hair, which happened way more often than Abigail wished to admit. “Nobody will be murdered on my watch.” The clapped her hands. “But still, the rest of you should go inside. For safety.”

           That got them. The L family hurried inside as if the murderer were directly on their heels, which wasn’t entirely an exaggeration.

           “Okay, let’s go.” Abigail steered Alma in the direction of the station.

           “Why?” Alma wined, swatting Abigail’s hand away. “We practically just got here, and the house is really interesting!”

           “It’s also rigged and ready to send you to prison!” Abigail sighed. “Murdering Martha isn’t going to work out. We can make money elsewhere and come back in a few years or so.”

           “But I want to murder Martha now!” Alma stamped her foot between each word and shook her torso like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Such immaturity was rare for Alma.

           “No, Alma, we’re not murdering Martha now!” Abigail hissed. “And lower your voice; they’ll hear us!”

           On the contrary, Alma got louder. “No! We’re doing it now and if you want to leave, I’ll do it myself.” Abigail arched an eyebrow. There was no way Alma could do anything by herself, but Abigail was willing to humor her.

           “Listen Abigail,” Alma begged. “I’ve got a plan. It’s absolutely foolproof. I promise it’ll work, and then you’ll be the most famous detective in all of New York City and the state! Just listen, please!”

           Abigail stared at Alma. In short, she seemed very desperate to stay, and had proven time and time again that she could reacts to a failed murder by a better murder. As much as it pained her to not be the one in control, Abigail considered trusting Alma.

           Abigail contemplated the best course of action. Alma looked ready to pop and was otherwise behaving like a smile child. Abigail had had few experiences with small children but, when she did, she found that the best course of action was to give the kid what they wanted. If Alma wanted to be treated like a small child, she would. It also meant she would be granted literally no autonomy in decisions in the next few days, but such was life.

           “Fine.” Abigail heaved a giant sigh. The sun had reached its peak and was glinting annoyingly in the corner of her eye. “What do you want to do?”

           Alma grinned. “I’ll go in the house and plot my murder, and you’ll hang out here with the knife.”

           “Here?” Abigail gestured at the surrounding trees with a sparse patch of roses and dandelions and a few tufts of grass.

           Alma nodded.

           Abigail plopped down directly on one such tuft, thankful that it wasn’t wintery enough to be cold at noon. She stretched dramatically. “I’ll just stay here, amongst the foliage, channeling my inner pixie hippie flower-elf, because you know that’s who I am inside.” Alma snickered and Abigail smirked sarcastically. “Just like the counter-culture kids at school.” Goodness, school seemed like so long ago. “I was always one for counter-culture.”

           Abigail had never been one for counter-culture, or regular culture, or much of any substantial group of people that were willing to waste so much time on aesthetics. Yet, there she was, frolicking in the flowers, staring at the sun and making a daisy chain.

           She lasted five minutes. Alma wasn’t even at the door before she called her back.

           “Alma, I really can’t with all these stupid flowers.”

           Alma shifted from one foot to the other. “There…is a graveyard.”

           Well, that was unexpected. “A graveyard?” Abigail shrieked. “A graveyard…and you didn’t tell me?” Alma felt her face splitting into a beam. “That’s amazing, Alma! Show me this graveyard.”

           Alma was doubled over laughing. “I knew you couldn’t last in the flowers, Abigail; I just knew it.” She breathed in and out a few times, calming down. “And I knew that there was a graveyard and I wanted to tell you, I really did, but how funny it was to see you making a daisy chain!”

           Abigail tossed the daisy chain to the side. It was pitiful, really, only three daisies long, not even large enough for an infant’s neck, unless the intention was to strangle the infant. Abigail contemplated infant strangulation as Alma led her deep into the twisting maze of the forest until they stumbled upon a ring of ten or so graves, like a fairy circle in an old-fashioned fairy tale, just as peaceful as the flowers but much more dramatic.

           Abigail busied herself reading the names of the graves. All the last names started with L, and all were different and previously unaccounted for, of course. All the lives lost, some barely over 30, all lives taken too soon. Just the way Abigail liked them.

           The velvety leaves of the oak and maple trees ruffled while pine needles pricked Abigail’s ankles. Abigail had never been one for staring at trees. She acknowledged trees, sure, and appreciated their talents at carbon sequestration, but they always kind of made her uneasy. Trees weren’t bad when she was young and thought that they were just wood, but so tall and living…that was a different story. Abigail felt that the trees were watching her and waiting for her to trip on their root or something, so that they could dump all their leaves on her and carry her away to the tree underworld.

           Abigail liked trees from afar, she decided. Not from up close. She backed out to the very middle of the circle of graves, keeping at least six feet from any given tree, and busied herself inspecting the gravestones. Most were cracked, crumbling, and mossy. Clearly the burials had been done a long while ago. Where were all the recent burials?

           It hit Abigail like an acorn tossed by a huffy squirrel. The most recent deaths had all been in their own houses, and they were buried in their own communities. That was why Martha wanted a family reunion—so that they could revive the tradition of spending their last moments in the L house. She wanted to invoke solidarity. If Martha were to die and be buried in the circle of graves, and her family were to remember her as an idol figure, they would be prompted to keep up her memory by burying themselves in the same circle as well.

           Abigail beamed. That made sense. That actually made sense. Martha had installed all the security measures as to keep tabs on the family—that was why she had the guest book: to see who was coming in and when and why, and to prevent them from leaving. Abigail felt so very smart. This was the most reasonable plot she had come up with on the fly in a good long while, not to mention the most ornate.

           Somewhere distant Abigail heard a crunch of leaves. Good, it was probably Alma. Abigail looked up and saw the sun sinking to her right. Alma had better get out of the house soon, they had all seen what nighttime did to the suspicion levels of the L family.

           “Hey!” Abigail craned her neck and saw Vincent-Victor emerging with Richard Lee. “Hey Detective Hospice Worker, what are you doing?”

           “Staking out.” Abigail crossed her arms. This wasn’t difficult! “I already told you that.”

           “And where’s your assistant?”

           Now was when Richard had decided to pay attention?

           “I don’t know,” Abigail shrugged. “Staking out, too. She should be arriving shortly.”

           “No she’s not.” So Vincent-Victor thought he had any knowledge about the matter? Who did he think he was?

           “Yes she is.”

           “No she’s not!” Vincent-Victor insisted. “I saw her run to the train station four hours ago!”

           What? Alma had run away? Four hours ago? To the train station? Back to New York City—no, trains went across the country, she could be anywhere! Why would Alma have left?

           Abigail felt herself rubbing her head, her hair curling into frizz. “No, no-“

           “Yes, I saw her.”

           “And who was she with?” It took everything in her being for Abigail to resist the urge to shake Victor-Vincent furiously back and forth.

           “Nobody?” Vincent-Victor leaned back. “I…didn’t see anybody!”

           “You did see somebody!” Abigail growled. “You saw somebody because I know Alma and the only reason she wouldn’t listen to me is if she was kidnapped!” Abigail knew Alma and Alma knew Abigail, meaning that she knew that Abigail could blackmail the Martìnez family into oblivion without batting an eye.

           Somebody diabolical was out to get Alma. There were many options. It could be Martha, who had proven her control issues, caught onto Alma’s plan, and had taken matters into her own hands. It could be somebody else, jealous of Abigail and Alma’s moderate success. No, that made no sense. Abigail and Alma didn’t know anybody jealous of them, so why would one try to crawl out of the woodworks now? It could be Victor-Vincent and Richard—that would be a plot twist—trying to distract Abigail, but that would imply that they had any tactical thinking at all, which they had shown to not have. Abigail scratched her head. Why would somebody go after Alma and not her?

           Because Alma was technically the more dangerous one. Alma was the one who did the murdering and Abigail the one who collected the money. And that was why Abigail had hired Alma, because it would protect Abigail. Abigail shook her head. This was what happened when she let somebody else in charge. If you want to do anything properly, you need to do it yourself.

           “Goodbye,” Abigail declared, waving faintly at Victor-Vincent and starting off. “I need to find Alma.”