by Ellie Tandeta

 

            Samson woke up from his mid-afternoon doze in his office when his red rotary phone let out a loud, clanging ring, causing him to nearly fall back in his chair. Startled, and still drowsy, he picked up the phone.

            “Samson Dell, private investigator, what can I do for ya?” he asked while rubbing his tired eyes.

            “Hi, my name is Jenine Murray,” a quiet, shaky voice said back, “and I’m pretty sure someone is trying to…KILLLL MEEE!”
            Jenine said the last two words so loudly; Samson held the phone a foot away from his ear. He waited for more shouting, and slowly brought the receiver back to his ear.

            “You heard me right? Someone is trying to kiiiiiill meeeeeee!”

            “Okay, okay, so how do you know this Jan?”

            “Jenine,” she corrected.

            “Right. Jenine, sorry.” He rolled his eyes and wished he was still asleep.

            “Well, last Tuesday I came home from the store and my dryer was on, with no clothes in it and it was smoking, my poor kitty's food was almost on fire too! Someone tried to burn my house down! Then, this morning I woke up because I heard the bathtub running, I walked into the bathroom and it was completely flooded! And then I saw that the hair dryer was on, thank goodness it didn’t get wet or else we would have been electrocuted. Please Mr. Dell, I know someone is trying to get rid of me, I just know it!”

            “Okay Jenine, I’ll take the case, lets meet tomorrow night and we can talk for longer about what we should do.” He almost couldn’t believe the words that had come out of his mouth.

            “We can meet at the church parking lot across the street from my house; you know where the Mormon temple is? 8pm? Good see you there Mr. Dell.”

            Samson jotted down the time and place, but before he could say anything else, he heard a click on the other line. He leaned back in his chair. He had never taken a case like this. Usually he was hired to catch cheating husbands or find runaway children. He was a respected private investigator, not some cheap, last resort detective to paranoid old women.

            The next night, Samson sat inside his navy LeBaron convertible, parked next to the visitor’s center of the Mormon temple. The lights that lit the parking lot were so blinding, it seemed like daytime. The wind outside blew hard, rustling the seven-foot tall fern-like plants that made 30-foot shadows dance across the concrete walls of the church auditorium. He looked at his watch, 8:15. She was late, which made Samson incredibly uncomfortable. He felt like he was intruding here, invading the sacred space. He looked through the huge windows of the visitor’s center to the larger than life size interactive Jesus statue with open arms. He shuddered at the thought of a talking Christ figure, while trying to block out the memories of his childhood in a Mormon home. Faint organ music floated through the static air, sometimes drowned out by the loud winds. He could hear cars rushing by on highway 13 just up the street. Feeling cramped, Samson got out of his car and leaned against the side of the door. The wind whipped his brown suit jacket open, letting in a wave of cold air.

            Samson was leaning on the roof of his car when he heard quick, light footsteps, pattering across the parking lot. He looked up to see a woman with white frizzy hair that stuck out straight from behind her ears. She wore a floor length, purple flowered skirt and a pink wool sweater that made her resemble a marshmallow. Samson waved at the woman, almost positive it was his new client.

            “Mr. Dell, Mr. Dell, Mr. Dell! Hello, hi!” Jenine blurted out in a loud, hoarse, whisper.

            “Hello Jenine. Anything happen since yesterday?”

            “No, but why am I late? Because I was TRAPPED in my house! Right before I left I looked out the window and saw a CAR parked right outside my house. See!” she pointed across the street to a small green house with white trim. Samson noticed a small grey sedan parked right in front. There wasn’t anyone in the car.

            “…and that is why you’re late?” asked Samson.

            “Well, that and the fact that my neighbor was LOOKING at me through her curtains.”

            “So that is why you’re late?” he asked again.

            “Yes,” Jenine yelped. “She should be our prime suspect! She threatened my life!”

            Now they were getting somewhere. Samson got out his small yellow Steno notepad and pen.

            “Why don’t we go sit down on those benches over there,” Samson suggested. He pointed to two white concrete benches by three 60 foot palm trees, covered in Christmas lights, even though it was the middle of January. They walked over a small bridge that went over the creek that ran from the street to the front door of the church, almost 100 yards.

            They sat down, and Samson asked, “So what happened with your neighbor?”

            “Well recently, my cat Colonel Fluffy became an outdoor cat. My neighbor, Mrs. Salzburg has a parrot, or cockatoo, or something, it’s a bird okay? Anyway, the bird is perched night and day right by the window and my cat sits on the outside windowsill and bats the glass with her paw. Then, finally like two weeks ago Mrs. Salzburg told me that I had better keep my cat inside or else. It’s her. I know it.”

            A break in the wind and the end of her story resulted in silence, an eerie quiet that made Samson shiver. Then they heard a car start, the roar of the engine splitting the silence. Jenine looked up and gasped. She shook her finger in the direction of her house.             

            “Loooook! Loooook! The car is driving away!”

            Samson stared at the fading taillights on the road. “Why don’t we just go check out your house, make sure everything is alright.”

            “Are you sure? Shouldn’t we call the bomb squad just in case? Do you have a gun, or a knife?” Jenine asked franticly.

            “That probably won’t be needed,” Samson reassured her, thinking that all she needed was a psychologist or maybe a nap.

            He locked his car, the beep echoed across the parking lot, and they crossed the street to her small green house. Samson was astonished at the amount of stealth with which Jenine climbed the stairs to her front door. She tiptoed so quietly, the faint squeak from his shoes seemed deafening. She clutched her key so hard her knuckles were white, and for a minute Samson didn’t even think she was breathing. He was standing behind her as she opened the door, and once it had swung open, Jenine quickly turned to Samson, pointing at him with two fingers on each hand and motioned to him (by pointing at her eyes and back at his chest five times) to keep watch. Once her back was tuned Samson rolled his eyes and mockingly tiptoed into the front hallway.

            Her house smelled like rotten fish that immediately made Samson’s gage reflex activate, making a soft gurgling cough break the silence. Jenine twirled around and slammed her finger onto her lips. He shrugged in response and started to look around the cluttered living room of his client. It felt like he had just walked into an abandoned antique shop; three brown armchairs made a half circle around a small radio. Lace doilies were draped over every table and chair. The carpet was a burnt orange shag that made Samson want to throw up as much as the fish odor had. The walls were lined with horrible Thomas Kincaid paintings and shelves covered with small ceramic cats. The only picture in the room was of Jenine and her cat posed together and placed in the center of the white mantelpiece.

            “Ahem.”

            Samson turned away from the tacky living room when he heard Jenine clear her throat. She waved her hand at him, motioning him to follow her into the back part of the house. Ahead of him, Jenine continued to tiptoe down the hall, which was also covered with Kincaid paintings and pastel sketches of kittens. Samson noticed the thermostat as they walked on, which read 80 degrees. He had been so preoccupied with the disgusting decoration and being silent, he hadn’t realized how sweltering it was. He also hadn’t noticed that every light in her house was on.

            This is ri-di-cu-lous, thought Samson as they walked into Jenine’s bedroom, which was an exact extension of the living room, same carpet and fishy smell.

            “The coast is clear,” Jenine said, with a sigh of relief.

            Samson stood in her doorway trying not to pass out from the smell, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He turned quickly to face the window at the end of the hallway. He nearly jumped out of his socks when he saw a huge, grey, furry face staring right at him.

            “Oh, Mr. Dell, this is Colonel Fluffy, my cat.”

            Samson looked at the cat again and forced a smile, which made him even more uncomfortable because he was smiling at the cat, which was equally ridiculous to its name.

            Suddenly, a noise that sounded like heavy footsteps made the cat leap off the windowsill. Jenine grabbed Samson’s arm and pulled him into her bedroom. She looked at him with her huge eyes, and he strained his ears to hear exactly what was making the noise.

            “Someone is outside my back door,” she hissed.

            Something clicked in Samson’s head. Maybe this woman wasn’t (totally) insane after all. There really could be someone outside her house that could potentially be after her.

            “Stay here,” Samson whispered to her, as he secretly wished he had brought a gun with him, picturing his holster in the glove compartment of his car. He slipped off his shoes and softly padded down the hallway. Heavy static breathing behind him made him turn around, coming face to face with Jenine. He widened his eyes and frowned at her as if to say ‘I told you to stay there.’ She just shrugged and waved her hands forward, signaling him to keep walking. As they approached the kitchen the noises of footsteps grew louder. They were slow, and heavy. As Samson listened he noticed that they were uneven; thump tha-thump, thump tha-thump.

            He peered around the corner of the kitchen doorway, straining his eyes to see through the window of the back door into the darkness, searching for a face. The doorknob jiggled. Then came the sound of a key. A click. The door swung open.

            A short, bald man stood, hunched over in the doorway, a wooden cane clutched in his right hand.

            “EDMUND?!?!” Jenine exclaimed. “What are yoooou doing here?”

            Samson was speechless. All he could do was stare at Jenine, and then back at Edmund. Back and forth, dumbfounded.

            Edmund just stood there, his mouth hanging slightly open, surprised at being discovered. He wore glasses that covered half of his face and were about one inch thick. His pants were pulled up above his waist, wearing an orange sweater vest that matched the shag carpet in the living room. His jowls hung below his chin and his bent over back made him no more than five feet tall.

            Samson actually had no clue what was happening, and hoped to find out soon because the silence was making him uncomfortable.

            “Sorry, uh, who are you…Edmund?” Samson broke the silence.

            “I'm Jenine's older brother.” Samson didn’t doubt this statement, guessing he was maybe 350 years old.

            “Ed! Have you been watching me? Are you the one trying to hurt me?” she shrieked.

            “No Jeni, no, no, no, no,” his voice wavered and his cheeks shook. “I never wanted to hurt you, it’s, it’s…”

            Right then, Samson felt something brush against his leg. He grimace as the grey fluff ball entered the kitchen.      

            “It’s that filthy animal I’m after, dagbernit,” yelled Edmund, suddenly lunging at the cat with his cane pointed straight at it.

            “Ed, no!” Jenine screamed and covered her face with both her hands in shock.

            Samson, who had been frozen, suddenly snapped back to reality and rushed to stand between the old man and the cat. “Whoa, whoa Mr. Murray. Calm down. It was you? All this time, you were trying to kill your sister’s cat? Why?”

            “Do you know what she did?” Edmund pointed at Jenine. “Don’t look at me like that Jeni, I read your will, and I know you didn’t leave me a dime.” He turned to Samson. “She left all her money to the cat! Don’t be stupid Jeni, cats can’t shop, and they don’t need money! Be reasonable!” his voice cracked and wavered. All Jenine could do was stand in the doorway with her mouth hanging open, small gasps occasionally escaping her throat.

            “I thought…I thought…you were going to…” she stopped.

            “Die?” Edmund finished. “Yeah, well I’m still here.”

            Samson couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle. The whole situation was so insane he almost didn’t believe what he had gotten himself into.

            “Ms. Murray, you owe me $3,800. I’m glad no one is trying to kill you. Your brother is correct; don’t leave your cat money. Goodbye.” And he walked into the front hall, slipped on his shoes, and walked out the door.