Murder On The Hill

CHAPTER ONE - HE’S DEAD Pete Picken had lived on Emerald Hill long enough to be very familiar with the contents of the houses and the secrets of their inhabitants. He earned his living trading in possessions, and his entertainment trading in gossip. As he got out of the truck, Pete was glad he wore his wide brimmed hat, which served as a portable roof to shed the rain. His red checked wool jacket was tattered but warm and well suited to ward off the damp fall chill. He carefully considered the impression which torn jeans and cowboy boots would give to a perspective client. Looking poor could be very advantageous in the antiques business. The house he was looking for was almost hidden behind wild shrubs and broken branches. Decorative Victorian gingerbread trim drooped from the porch eaves, and several boards on the steps were dangerously rotten. The house looked like a relic of better days passed and forgotten. Pete made his way carefully to the front entrance. The screen was torn, and the hinges protested as he opened the outer door to knock. However, before his knuckles rapped on the window, the door flew open without warning. “Well, there you are. I’m not surprised it’s you, and I must admit, I’m glad to see someone….anyone at this point..” The voice which greeted him was much larger than the person to whom it obviously belonged. A small, energetic woman stood in the doorway. Her hair was wet and disheveled. She wore a raincoat over tidy black trousers and a pink cotton shirt with a silk scarf draped, lopsided around her neck. Her bright eyes measured him up and down as if evaluating his worth in dollars and cents. A rush of stale warmth greeted Pete at the door. His nostrils were assailed by odours of smoke and mould which comes from old books and rotting paper. At the same time, the woman who stood before him wore far too much perfume suggesting a breath of spring enveloped in sticky candy. She blocked his entrance while peering around him to see if anyone else accompanied him. When she assured herself that he was alone, she stepped aside to let him into the dingy hallway. Then she began to chatter uncontrollably. “He’s dead. There’s no question about it. When I arrived, there was no answer when I knocked, but the door was open so I walked in. The house was quiet….. not a sound. I called out but there was no answer. So I came into the living room and there he was in his chair. Looked like he was sleeping. I said his name real loud to try to wake him. You know. ‘Mr. Schmidt,’ I shouted, ‘Mr. Schmidt.’ But when he didn’t move, I shook his shoulder. Then he fell out of the chair. Landed just like that. Dead . I tell you. Dead as a doorbell.” “Nail,” Pete corrected her. “That’s what I said,” Emily repeated, “dead as a door nail.” Then she went on , “And am I glad it’s you showed up, Mr. Picken and not some nosy neighbour or snoop. Now what are we going to do? “ Pete wondered how he got enlisted to help her with what was quite clearly her dilemma, not his. After all, she had been here first.Emily pointed to the crumpled body lying at the foot of the tattered arm chair. The corpse was a heap of corpulence clothed in old lounging wear: a moth-eaten grey cardigan, turtle neck with worn collar, stained jogging pants. The man’s hands were yellow with nicotine stains; his nails were long, like claws. He clutched his throat, as if trying to squeeze his last breath into life. His face was contorted into a crooked grin. His eyes bulged in excruciating surprise which could not let go of the final sight they beheld while in the throes of death. Pete could hardly draw his eyes away from the specter of horror before him, until Emily’s voice shattered his trance “Looks like he had good reason to be worried. It’s murder, you know. He didn’t just fall ill and die just like that.” . Her words brought Pete’s attention quickly back to his own predicament. He felt a shiver of panic overcome him. Not only did he have a very strong aversion to violent crime, in fact, he could do perfectly well without trouble of any kind. He preferred a life of predictable haggling. Bargains were one thing, ‘Buyer beware’ and all that, but ‘Better to be on the right side of the law’, he always said. The origins of antiques were too often questionable. In his business, a person could do without trouble with the law. Mind you, his dread of the legal system was also well founded in personal experience, although he chose not to dwell on past minor transgressions. The line was fine between ownership and borrowing for the purposes of passing on a profit. Nobody need know how familiar he was with the long arms of the police. “Murder? “he repeated slowly, looking around him cautiously. Pete quickly decided to vacate the premises. “Well, I guess I’d better be going. There’s nothing here for me to make money on.“ He surreptiously wiped his hands on his pants, as if to erase any fingerprints he might have deposited unknowingly just by standing in the middle of the room. “Nice to have met you again, Mrs. Blossom,” he whispered, as he backed toward the door. `”Oh no you don’t, Pete Picken,” she declared menacingly. “You’re not going to sneak out of here and leave me with this mess. Like it or not, we’re in this together. Now, help me figure out what’s happened here, and what we’re going to do about it.” “I just remembered that I’m supposed to be somewhere soon,” Pete excused himself as he turned to make a run for it. However, as old and feeble as she looked, Mrs. Blossom was no antique herself. She quickly slipped between Pete and his exit, slammed the door, turned the key, and deposited same into her bodice. Then she smiled sweet and sour at the same time. “Now you listen here, young man, and I’ll explain the facts of life to you, you young whipper snipper.” “Snapper,” Pete corrected her. “Whipper Snapper.” “That’s what I said,” Emily answered, “whipper snapper.” Then she continued unabashedly where she had left off, “If you think that you can waltz around town with your nose stuck in the air without even bothering to remember someone’s name, if you think that you’re too good to give somebody the time of day while you’re out scrounging around looking for a good deal, well then, you’ve got another thing coming. “I’ve spent a good many years waiting for something exciting to happen in my life, married a decent man and paid my dues. Now, finally, I get my chance to be in on the beginning of a good honest-to-goodness murder, and you want to walk out without even helping me solve the crime and be a hero on the front pages of The Hill News. No sirree. We’re in this together, my friend. And we’re going to take advantage of it.” She pushed her forefinger onto his chest and practically sent him tripping over an umbrella which had been lying , unnoticed on the floor behind the victim’s arm chair. They both looked down at the same time. Then Mrs. Blossom gasped, “ It’s the murder weapon!” She cried. Pete gasped as well, but for a different reason. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “ It’s the murder weapon,” Emily repeated as if he needed to be reminded. “Don’t touch it.” He certainly wasn’t about to. “Don’t you remember that story in the headlines about two years ago? A Russian spy was killed with the tip of a poisoned umbrella.” She paused for effect and then continued, “Notice, the umbrella’s still wet from the rain.” The tone of her voice was full of suspense and intrigue. “This man was murdered less than two hours ago. That’s when the rain began, and the umbrella’s still wet. “ Mrs. Blossom was quite obviously enjoying herself immensely. Pete, on the other hand, was not.