Behind the Spice Cabinet

Behind the Spice Cabinet

By Heather Ann Martinez

You could say I knew my place as a guest in Monica’s home that summer. It was so kind of her to let me stay while my new home was being built. Flooding along the coast delayed my house from being built sooner. I had saved for years to build this house, and I would do just about anything to make that dream become a reality. Monica was tall and thin. She was always making a stew or casserole. I always told her I would be happy to order a pizza or grab fast food somewhere but she would not hear of it. Her kitchen was full of plants and ivy hung along the wall behind the sink. She proudly displayed her spice cabinet next to the herb garden. The spice cabinet was full of small glass jars of spices from around the world. Monica was born in the Netherlands. Her father had been in the military. She spent most of her childhood living out of suitcases. She had a lot of trouble making friends, because she moved so often. As she grew older, she found dating to be challenging. She eventually got married and got divorced almost three weeks later.

Monica was left with the house and the cat in the divorce agreement. Her cat, Smithers, is the most spoiled feline this side of the Mississippi River. Her ex, Declan, lived nearby. I knew not to pry about their brief relationship. Monica was a reserved person, somewhat of a fragile chipped cup. We used to work at an investment bank together years ago. She was fired from her position and we met when I was giving her notice of her termination. I remained at the investment bank for a few more months and decided to teach economics at the university. I texted Monica when I found out my new home was being built a few miles from her house. That’s when she insisted I stay with her. I knew I would be walking on eggshells living in her home to some degree. She was still healing from her divorce and she was quieter than she had been before meeting Declan. I never knew if I should engage her in conversation about anything other than traveling. I don’t think there was a country she had not been to at least once. She knew bits of over ten languages and had explored so many coastlands. She settled here in the Florida panhandle for Declan. I don’t think I realized how much of her world revolved around him until much later.

I taught class during the day and went to Monica’s in the evening. Her house had three bedrooms and there was a smaller bedroom off the kitchen. I chose to reside there for the summer. I didn’t want to disturb Monica in the evenings. The police asked me much later if I actually knew what Monica did to pass the time. I told them I really didn’t pay much attention. She and I were friends. We were both going through different seasons in our lives. My grandparents had left me an inheritance and my extended family lived in Los Angeles. I was focused on my students and finishing out the summer session. The police asked me if Monica’s mood had changed or if I knew she struggled with depression. They asked me a lot of questions about Declan, but I didn’t know anything about him. I didn’t attend their wedding. I was shocked when they divorced, but I knew Monica had a reason for ending the relationship. She always did. She was a great investment trader. She knew when to go after something and when to cut the tie. Unfortunately, she did not work well on a team.

The grandfather clock in the living room seemed louder that Saturday evening. I was sitting on the bed in the guest room responding to a few emails on my laptop. Monica was carrying Smithers in one arm and a cup of tea in her other hand. She seemed agitated and said Smithers had been sick the night before. She said walking the floors seemed to calm him down. I left the door to my room ajar and told her she could interrupt me if she needed my help with Smithers. She smiled and hummed as she walked away. It was then that I saw a tall dark shadowy figure pass by my room. The lights went out. The power had been cut. I jumped out of the bed and shut my laptop lid. I peaked out of the bedroom door trying not to move the door or put pressure on the older floorboards. The figure was in the kitchen getting a butcher knife out of the drawer. I heard Monica humming and I froze. I wanted to warn her to walk Smithers in the other direction, but all I could do was stare. The dark shadowy figure headed towards Monica’s direction. Smithers fell onto the floor and Monica fought the uninvited guest to the ground. Then I heard it. The cracking of a bone, the last breath of the unknown assailant. I saw Monica take the butcher knife and she placed it behind the spice cabinet. I called the police.

The first patrolman arrived within a few minutes followed by a detective and a sergeant.  Monica was calm and quiet as if nothing happened. I ushered the police into the kitchen expecting them to see a dead intruder and a bloody butcher knife. I told them everything that happened from the minute I opened my eyes that morning to that very minute but there wasn’t a body! With the exception of the chairs being moved and there being a lot of cat fur on the floor, the police were speechless. Monica told the police I had a flare for the dramatic and said nothing of the sort happened. She said her concern was Smithers and she carried her cat upstairs. The police searched the house. I suggested looking behind the spice cabinet for the butcher knife but it was gone. It was definitely missing from the drawer it had been stored in. I thought the police would find some evidence of blood or struggle on the kitchen floor, but they didn’t even move the kitchen rug. There wasn’t any evidence of foul play. They told me not to contact them again unless I had real evidence. With that, they left. I looked behind the spice cabinet and opened every drawer in the kitchen. I looked in the garbage, the living room and thought I might be losing my mind.

The next morning, Monica came down the steps with Smithers following behind her. She asked me how I slept and said I really needed to be more careful about calling the police for anything. She said they really didn’t like to have their time wasted. I assured her that I knew what I saw. I asked her if she had been hurt. She said she hadn’t been. We heard a knock at the door. It was the police sergeant. He said that Declan was missing. He wanted to know if Monica knew anything about Declan’s whereabouts. His co-workers went to his house and found his car missing and his front door was open. Monica told the sergeant she didn’t know where Declan was and couldn’t remember the last time they talked with their lawyers present. The sergeant reminded her that withholding any information could be incriminating. She said she simply couldn’t be helpful to his investigation. She said she couldn’t offer anything useful. I walked the sergeant to his car and he said I might want to consider leaving Monica’s. He said the detective had started running an extensive background check on Monica. In addition to having struggled with depression, she had been in an abusive relationship with Declan. There had been a couple of domestic abuse calls prior to the two marrying. He said he couldn’t prove anything but felt Monica was unstable.

After he left, I walked into the house. Monica was in the kitchen cutting a tomato with the bloody butcher’s knife. She looked up at me still cutting down on the hard surface. She said I could have ruined everything. She said I now cast suspicion on her. I asked her where she found the knife. She said the spice cabinet has a double back panel. If the police had shaken the spice cabinet, they would have heard more than glass jars breaking. I asked her where Declan was. She said he was fine. He couldn’t bother anyone anymore. I asked her what she did with his body. She stopped cutting the tomato and rolled the kitchen rug with her foot. There was a door in the floorboards. She said that he was down there with the others.

“Others?” I asked.

“Yes, my parents. My former manager at the investment bank. I have them in freezers under the steaks and chicken. Now, did you want cheese on your omelet or just the tomato slices?”

“Just the tomato slices.” I said.

Yes, I definitely knew my place as a guest in Monica’s house that summer.