ONE
The alleged murderer seemed hesitant to shake my hand when we were introduced on the front steps of her suburban home. Truth be told, she gave off an aloof, if not haughty vibe that made me think she’d be reluctant to shake anyone’s hand even under the best of circumstances. Only Sara Vaneps, the woman who had insisted on the introduction in the first place, assured her that I was a friend, so she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were long and delicate and her grip wasn’t particularly firm.
It must have taken some effort for her to bludgeon a guy to death, my inner voice told me.
“May we come in?” Sara asked.
The alleged murderer glanced quickly behind her as if she were afraid that something back there might escape and, after a moment, opened the door wider, giving us room to pass across the threshold.
“Where are my manners?” she asked. “Of course, of course, please.”
After we entered, she closed the door and led us deeper into her house, gesturing at the sofa in the living room where she expected both of us to sit. None of us were wearing a mask despite the most recent COVID onslaught. ’Course by then most of us were so tired of it, we were more than willing to roll the dice.
“I must say, this has been one of the warmest autumns that I can recall,” she said. “A warmer than average autumn after a warmer than average summer after a warmer than average spring. I’m wondering if this is the new normal. If it is, we might as well leave Minnesota and move to Arizona.”
The alleged murderer smiled while she waited for us to agree with her.
“It certainly has been warm,” Sara said.
I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t Jeanette Carrell. She was tall and attractive, almost statuesque, with brown eyes, short blond hair, and a dignity that seemed to transcend the simple blue shirtdress that she wore. She found a wingback chair across from us and sat. When she crossed her legs, I noticed the black electronic GPS monitor strapped to her ankle. She noticed me noticing.
“Court ordered,” Carrell said. “I was released on bail, yet only if I remain attached to this ornament. Do you realize that it costs me ten dollars a day to wear this thing? And unlike the cash bail I paid to the court, that money will not be returned to me when I appear for trial. Outrageous.”
“You posted your bail in cash?” I asked.
“Certainly more fiscally responsible than paying a bail bondsman ten percent off the top merely to handle the transaction, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Most people don’t have a half million dollars lying around.”
“I’ve always been good with money. In any case, my bail was set at two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Oh?”
That surprised me. In Minnesota, a charge of second-degree murder with intent is usually worth double that amount, if not considerably more.
“Apparently, the judge thought at my age I was a low flight risk.” The alleged murderer held her leg straight out toward me. “And, of course, there’s the anklet.”
Carrell studied me for a few beats and smiled some more.
“I gave you a lead, yet you didn’t follow it,” she said.
“Lead?”
“When I said ‘at my age’ you were expected to ask ‘how old are you?’ I would answer ‘I’ll be sixty-five on December fourth’ and you would say ‘you don’t look a day over sixty’ and I’d say ‘Oh, you charmer, you.’”
“My mistake,” I said. “I’ll try to do better next time.”
“It usually takes me five minutes to decide if I’m going to like or dislike someone. With you it might take a bit longer.”
“Stop it,” Sara said. “Both of you.”
The alleged murderer gazed deep into my eyes as if she was searching for something, a clue perhaps, that might tell her if I could be trusted. I stared back for the same reason.
“So, Mr. McKenzie,” she said. “Why are you here?”
Good question.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by David Housewright
