CHAPTER 11
“Is he going to watch us the entire time?” Trey asked, shooting a nervous glance in Mr. Eckhardt’s direction. “He’s really creeping me out.”
We were on our knees digging shallow holes for the tomato plants. I’d actually had the foresight to buy stakes and some wooden lattices, and it seemed I could at least prop up the wilted vegetables until they grew heartier. The back portion of the yard I’d devote to herbs. The pickings were slim at the nursery, and I knew I was planting the lesser-used varieties—sage instead of basil, marjoram instead of oregano, borage instead of parsley, lemon balm instead of mint. Behind the garage, I’d found some large, flat paving stones left over from the previous owner that we’d never gotten around to throwing away. I could use them as dividers.
Neither of us wore gloves, and the earth was still damp, sticking to our skin and wedging under our nails. We’d stopped wiping smudges of dirt off our faces about five minutes in, and we resembled matching coal miners, streaked with black.
“He’s still watching,” Trey whispered.
I winked at him and rose to standing. “Mr. Eckhardt!” I called over the fence. “Would you like to help us with the planting?”
He stood in one swift motion, and I heard not a single joint crack. “You’ve gone crazy,” he said. “This is an ecological disaster.”
“Isn’t that overstating it a bit?”
“The first thing I’m doing when I go inside is calling the village police department.” He leaned over the fence. “Do you understand me, Paige? This has gone too far. If you’re having a breakdown, do it privately, instead of tearing apart your lawn for attention.”
“She’s not having a breakdown,” Trey said.
“Your family had a breakdown,” Mr. Eckhardt said. “I’m sorry for your loss, but you are letting it destroy your sensibilities.”
I took a step closer to him. “That was uncalled for.”
Mr. Eckhardt crossed his arms over his chest. He had to have served in the military. I thought of Hollywood movies with the drill sergeants yelling at privates until they broke down or cried. I would do neither of those things. “What are you waiting for? Go inside. Call the police.” I thought of Officer Leprechaun’s twinkling eyes. “Go right ahead and call them. You can use my cell.”
He stared at me a moment with cold, empty eyes. “Don’t think I won’t,” he said, then turned on his heel and disappeared into his dark kitchen, one I curiously had never seen. I had lived next to the man for over a decade and never once saw past his foyer.
“Do you think he’ll call the police?” Trey was trying to come across as nonchalant, but I could tell he’d been rattled.
“I don’t know, but at least I got rid of him. That man is a menace to society. He just wants his way or no way. It’s not a wonder he never married.”
Trey didn’t seem to want to converse, so we worked in tandem for a while longer, silently, but a conversation was gurgling underneath the placidity of our quiet. It was dangerous, a possible volcano of emotion, so I started moving more quickly, hoping to avoid it.
“You know, there is some truth to what he said.” Trey fingered a tomato plant leaf instead of meeting my eye.
“What’s true?” Though I knew what he meant.
“Our family did break down. Without Dad . . . it’s not the same. It’s broken.”
I tossed the trowel I was holding. My hands had begun to shake. Trey rarely spoke of Jesse—was this why? Because he thought we were irreparably damaged? “Is that what you think, sweet boy?”
Trey found the courage to look up at me. When he did, I could see he wore an expression I was not accustomed to—a very adult, almost clinical look of analysis. “Dad held everything together. When he died, it was like”—he struggled for the word—“the mechanism had broken down.”
At least he hadn’t said “the center” was gone. I’d spent two years trying my damnedest to be a strong center, to hold everything together, but it was like being the center of a tornado. Eventually, I’d have to deal with the swirling emotional forces threatening to level us.
“I can be a mechanism, too,” I said, trying to reassure myself as much as him. “Or I can at least try.”
“Yeah, you can,” Trey said, but he sounded unconvinced. He finished packing the dirt around a sad-looking tomato plant and said, “I’ll text you from Colin’s when I get there. I’m taking my bike.”
“I could drive you.”
“And ruin the show for Mr. Eckhardt?”
“You could drive you, if you had a license,” I said, trying desperately to keep my tone light. “I’d let you use my car, honey. Anytime.”
Trey ran his hand over his face, smearing the dirt farther, up to his hairline. He sighed deeply, a sound that was so like his father’s that I felt Jesse’s presence. “This is what I’m talking about, Mom. You stay so focused on the surface things, the meaningless things. The wrong things.”
That insight, even if it was faulty, found its mark. I bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m searching for . . . stuff. Myself, I guess. I thought about what we said last night, and figured maybe I was being unfair. Maybe you do have a right to explore things. I thought you tearing up our backyard meant that was what you were doing, but I think you just want to piss off Mr. Eckhardt.”
I studied my nails, broken, dirty. A year ago I would have run to the manicurist at the first sign of a chip, but now? “That’s not true.”
“Sure about that?”
Was I still thinking in superficialities? I had started digging in the adrenaline rush of anger, fueled further by booze. I kept on digging because . . . I’d have to think about that one.
“These plants will probably die,” Trey said. “What are you going to do then?”
“I won’t let them die.”
“You can’t control everything,” Trey said as he kissed my cheek goodbye. “Why is that so hard for you to accept?”
I wanted to lash out, to tell him he was the one having control issues, but thanks to some newfound wisdom I’d mysteriously acquired, I stayed silent and let him think he had the last word.
After Trey left, I decided to plant the two blackberry bushes I’d bought. He was right in a way—I couldn’t control the weather, pests, or the bunnies and squirrels that frequently thought they owned our backyard, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t try. The man at the nursery said the berry plants had a 50/50 shot of taking root, but I bought them anyway, even though I would have much preferred blueberries. Like the other plants I’d purchased, the humble blackberry was second best. It wouldn’t even start producing for a year, at the least, but I didn’t care. It was the thought of them that gave me the energy to start digging up a spot.
The only place it made sense to plant them was at the corner of our property, up against the fence we shared with Mr. Eckhardt. I liked the thought of plump, juicy berries falling on his side of the fence, staining dots of deep purplish blue on the painted wood.
The backyard was perfectly quiet, the afternoon shifting into evening gear. Mr. Eckhardt’s house was still and dark—he obviously hadn’t called the police. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t ever call them—but for some reason, tonight he’d decided to back off. And anyway, Officer Leprechaun would probably write me a warning, at worst. At best, he’d probably help me plant the young blackberry bushes.
I got a shovel from the garage—berry bushes needed a much deeper hole than our delicate tomato plants. The sun began to dip. I couldn’t remember what Google had told me—was I supposed to plant things in the evening? It didn’t matter—I had to get them in the ground. And regardless of what Trey or Mr. Eckhardt thought, I had a feeling those bundles of roots were hearty and waiting for the opportunity to burrow in.
I put myself fully into the task, using my foot to wedge the shovel deeper in the soil, getting perilously close to Mr. Eckhardt’s property line. I glanced again at his house, but it was still dark. I needed to dig out a section just under the fence between us. Technically, it was right on the dividing line, but getting to it required standing on his side to make it even.
Casually, I walked around the fence, moving as swiftly as I could, my hand drifting over the fence posts. When I reached the corner, I was reasonably sure the angle would make it difficult for Mr. Eckhardt to see what I was doing. Then again, he probably had supersonic bat ears and could hear even the subtlest shift of the dirt.
I slowly worked the shovel into the soil, brought up a wedge, and gingerly dropped it onto my side of the fence. It still hit the ground with a thunk, and I impulsively shushed it.
I repeated the process a few times, getting the shovel in pretty deep. When it was ready, I decided to dig out just a little bit more, figuring if it was too deep I could fill it in a little, but if I’d misestimated, I didn’t want to have to return to the Eckhardt side of the fence.
When I pushed the shovel in one more time, I stopped short, nearly clipping my chin on the handle. I tried again, but from the scraping sound, something solid blocked my shovel from digging in. Had I hit a stone?
Oh my God. Had I hit a gas line? Was my whole property about to blow?
Carefully, I twisted the shovel and realized it was scraping against metal. Ditching the shovel, I bent over, thrusting my hands into the hole I’d made, and my fingers felt something smooth and flat and undeniably metal. It was too broad for a gas line, and buried in between the two properties, right under the fence. I skulked back over to my side, hoping to free it without disturbing Mr. Eckhardt’s grass. With a shiver of excitement, I dug, lying on my stomach, pawing at the ground like a puppy. I used the shovel to loosen the edges of the hole and dug some more, eventually clearing enough dirt to pull what I now realized was a metal box, sort of like the ones military guys used. It was heavy but had handles at the sides, and, squatting, I hoisted with all of my might, falling backward when it came free. Then I tucked it under my arm and ran inside like a quarterback.
“What do you think is inside?”
Jackie eyed the dirty, rusted box on my kitchen table with wary skepticism. “Could it be from the fifties, like when everyone had a bomb shelter? Maybe there’s Yoo-hoos and Twinkies inside.”
“It could be a bomb,” Glynnis said in a whisper. Jackie and I gave her a look, and she flushed. “Well, you never know.”
Deciding I wanted coconspirators to deal with possible unearthed treasure, I’d texted Jackie and Glynnis, and both had accepted my invitation in seconds, which I wasn’t going to overanalyze. They’d come immediately, and brought snacks and wine. As far as I was concerned, this was a party. It was Saturday night, and I hadn’t actually cared about a Saturday night in years.
When I could see the box more clearly, I could tell it was old, but not that old, and not military. There were no identifying numbers. There was, however, a rusty lock keeping us out. Jesse’d once bought bolt cutters when he had a brief flirtation with handyman status, and I stood holding them, wondering if my natural curiosity would win out over my suspicion that I was getting myself into something I would have a hard time extracting myself from.
“Open it,” Jackie said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “What if it’s full of money?”
I eyed her wineglass. How much had she drunk?
“Nooooo,” Glynnis said, shaking her pale red curls adamantly. “What if it’s a time capsule? You’d ruin it.”
That gave me pause. I was violating someone’s privacy. But . . . technically it was half on my property, and I was curious as hell. I slipped the nose of the cutters underneath the lock. With some effort, I cut through the metal. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Jackie.
“No!” said Glynnis.
I opened the box. It creaked, and some dirt crumbled onto the table.
Glynnis gasped. “What is that? Oh, we shouldn’t have done this.”
Neatly placed inside, wrapped in watermarked silk fabric, was a gauzy dress, a simple ivory shift, the kind sold in tourist traps all over Mexico. Age had stiffened and yellowed the fabric, but it was cut simply, in a style that never seemed dated. A beautiful red patterned scarf was wrapped around the waist.
“There’s something else in there,” Jackie said, pointing to a small, flat box.
I was pretty sure it was a jewelry box. Opening that seemed more personal, but I did it anyway.
“Oh, those are so pretty,” Glynnis said.
I held the finely etched silver hoop earrings in my open palm. Though tarnished, they looked handmade by someone who’d lovingly crafted them.
While Glynnis found the courage to run her hand over our treasure, Jackie narrowed her eyes. “Where did you find this?”
“Sort of under the fence, on the line between my property and Mr. Eckhardt’s.”
“How long has he lived here?”
The question chilled me when I realized the implications. “Forever. Like, I think he’s been here since the houses were built.”
We stared at each other, wide-eyed.
“What if he’s a serial killer?” Glynnis said, terror clearly etched on her face. She snatched her hand back from the box and cradled it to her chest. “What if that’s a souvenir of his victim?”
“What if there are boxes buried all over the yard?” Jackie added, running with it.
I took a gulp of wine, and the alcohol loosened my imagination. I pictured dozens of metal boxes, buried under Mr. Eckhardt’s property, full of dresses and jewelry and the sad belongings of the women he’d strangled.
“What does the inside of his house look like?” Glynnis asked.
I took another sip of wine and said, “I’ve never been inside.”
An ominous pause. What if he had a skin suit in his living room, à la Silence of the Lambs?
Glynnis placed her hand protectively over the dress. “Should we call the cops?”
I thought of Officer Leprechaun laughing at me through his reddish whiskers. With a start, my common sense returned. If Mr. Eckhardt was a mad murderer, why hadn’t he done away with me and put my yoga pants and Pandora bracelet into a box and buried it? “Maybe it belongs to the woman who used to live here.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Jesse and I saw the house unoccupied, and I believe it was sold from an estate, but I don’t remember. I guess I could look at our original closing papers.”
Jesse had always been in charge of storing all the old file boxes, and I had no idea where to begin looking. Searching through all those memories seemed like opening a can of worms. I needed my worms for my garden. “But isn’t that information a matter of public record? I could look it up at the village hall.”
Jackie raised an eyebrow. She could tell I was practicing avoidance. Glynnis was too young and inexperienced. “I’ll go with you,” she said eagerly, forgetting for a moment that she’d concluded we had a serial killer right next door. “If you don’t mind me going.”
“I’d love to have you along. We’ll sneak out at lunch sometime this week.”
“Petra wouldn’t approve,” Jackie said, her words dripping with sarcasm.
“Oh, but I think she would. I’d be going for the brass ring and all that.”
“I hate the brass ring,” Glynnis said. “But I do like a good mystery.”
Later that night, I wiped the dirt from the box and carried it up to my bedroom. With the blinds firmly shut, I turned on the soft light next to my bed, took off everything but my underwear, and tried the dress on. It fit, but it probably would have fit someone twenty pounds heavier than me or twenty pounds lighter—it was one of those dresses. I tied the scarf around my waist to make it suit me, and then I walked up to the full-length mirror and held the earrings up to my ears. Who did they belong to, and why would someone bury something so pretty?
I could always ask Mr. Eckhardt, but then he’d probably call the police for real and have me arrested for trespassing.
They did, in all likelihood, belong to the woman who lived here before us. Who was she? Did she mean for someone, someday, to unearth her secrets?
Because I was sure the story attached to this box was juicy. Scandalous, even. The thought appealed to my imagination.
But as I was carefully refolding the dress, my Pandora bracelet caught on the hem and snapped one of the fine threads. Was it symbolic? Was I unleashing something I couldn’t contain?