Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

“After all we’d been through, David cared more about my husband’s money than I did,” Cheryl continued. “He’d rather give me up than get cut out of his little scam with Walter. We were supposed to be reliving our senior year at dawn in the woods on that Sunday, the day after David won his trophy.”

Something was off. David had been killed at dawn on Saturday, not Sunday. I realized Cheryl had intertwined the events of thirty years ago with those of four days ago. A common occurrence among her classmates. Maybe I could take advantage of Cheryl’s confused state to best her.

Physical combat was not in my skill set, but I had to do something or I’d bleed to death through my nose. I wriggled, but only slightly, not to upset Cheryl, to determine on which side I had more freedom of movement. I was glad for my lightweight summer pajamas, which were less likely to get tangled than one of my oversize winter nightgowns.

My left side, toward the patio doors to the hallway, seemed my best shot. Mustering all my strength, leveraging my arms, I made a sudden turn, rolling to my left.

Crash!

One of my clay planters shattered on the floor next to me, where my head had been. Cheryl had missed, but recovered quickly, picking up another planter, this one with blooming mums. Again she hurled and missed.

I stood up, finally, perspiration running down my back. My attention shifted to a shadow behind Cheryl, in the glass doorway to the hallway outside Maddie’s room. The crashing pot must have wakened Maddie.

I panicked.

Though I averted my eyes so Cheryl wouldn’t follow my gaze, I caught a flash of neon green. Maddie’s pajamas. I was sure she’d fled to summon help; I wasn’t sure I could last as long as it took for help to arrive.

On my feet, I had the advantage now, unless Cheryl had an ace up the black sleeve of what looked like a Catwoman outfit.

She did.

She reached back and pulled a tire iron from my planter bed. Her tool, not mine. She came at me as if she were gathering momentum to jump on my shoulders. She held the tire iron like a baton.

Cheryl slipped a little while she swung the iron. More and more I had the sense that the effects of alcohol were working in my favor.

We grappled with it for what seemed like ages, switching positions of advantage. Finally the iron flew across the slate floor, sending scraping sounds up into the night sky.

The front of my pajama top was covered in blood pouring from my nose. Cheryl must have had some of it on her rappelling suit also. It was little comfort, but at least I knew a DNA match was possible should it come to that when Cheryl was tried for my murder.

I took a needed but dangerous breath and saw Cheryl headed for me. She’d retrieved the tire iron and had gained amazing speed, given that she had less than twenty feet of runway. I waited until she was almost on top of me, then swung my body down and away from the attack.

Cheryl hit the glass doors to my family room head-on. She lay crumpled, writhing in pain.

I guessed she was used to having a formation stand in place while she jumped on them.

The sound of sirens and the flashing of red-and-blue lights filled the open space in my atrium roof. I ran down the entryway and let in what seemed like a squadron of uniformed officers.

Then I ran back and into Maddie’s bedroom. I held her shaking body and rocked her until Officer Lavana Rollins found us and joined us for a three-way hug.

It took a couple of days for Maddie to leave my side. She was as concerned about me as I was about her. All there had been between Maddie and Cheryl was a locked glass door, which seemed entirely too flimsy to me. I hoped this was the closest she’d ever be again to the kind of ugliness that had taken place in my atrium. I finally got her to class the Monday after her dramatic rescue call. I worried that she wouldn’t finish her project, but she assured me she was way ahead and would be ready on Labor Day. One week from now, she’d demonstrate her masterpiece to the throngs who were due at my house for the annual barbecue.

Many of the calls and visits I received during my brief recuperation period included apologies. Allison Parker’s was first.

“I can’t believe what happened, Mrs. Porter. I feel so guilty. I called Cheryl when I got home and told her you were interested in where she got the glue and what brand it was. I thought I was helping you because you said you liked to collect that kind of information for your crafts classes.”

For Allison, it was a short apology. I assured her that I in no way blamed her for my bruised face, raccoon-like black-and-blue-rimmed eyes, sore back, and broken nose. Not to mention my destroyed atrium.

Skip and June took immediate charge of restoring my planter beds and adding a new, magnificent fern to change the look of the atrium.

June felt she should apologize, too. “I didn’t see or hear anything, Gerry. Someone was on your roof and I slept through it all. What kind of neighbor am I?”

“You’re a wonderful neighbor,” I said. “I’m sure Cheryl was visible only for a minute or so.”

“It was quite an impressive performance for a woman her age,” Skip said.

“Do you mean Cheryl or Gerry’s?” June asked. A nice gesture that caused Skip to stammer, “Both, I guess.”

“It’s a piece of cake to get to a roof in this neighborhood,” June said. “The roofs are low and flat and scaling the wall is not that big of a deal. I could do it.”

“I’d like to be here when you do,” Skip said.

June gave him a playful poke. “You wish. What I don’t get is how Cheryl knew Gerry would go to bed and leave the skylight open?”

Skip’s explanation brought me no comfort. “It didn’t have to be open. Cheryl has a retractable system just like Aunt Gerry’s, so she was aware that it could be pried open relatively easily even without the electrical power.”

Nice to know.

Rosie and Larry stopped by one evening with candy and flowers. “These really are from Dad and me, Gerry. It’s not a trick.” Her smile seemed relaxed and her good humor restored. She told me she needed just one more thing before she could start over.

“I’m hoping for your forgiveness, Gerry. I can’t even count the things I should apologize to you for.”

“Don’t bother, Rosie. Just get back to work and get busy with that list of books I gave you last week.”

She gave me a hug, then produced the order for the books. “Done,” she said. “And they’re on the house.”

“For the rest of your life,” her father added.

Every year that I taught I gave an end-of-year prize to the student who’d made the most progress. Today the prize would go to Rosie.

To add to my store of candy, Beverly brought her own homemade divinity, which I loved.

“Gerry,” she started, then teared up. “I’m so sorry-”

I cut her off by stuffing a piece of her own delicious candy into her mouth.

There was no note of apology from Barry for stealing my purse. He’d convinced Skip he had no idea that Cheryl killed David. I believed him and almost felt sorry that he’d essentially lost two of his closest friends. I had a note from Ben Dobson, no return address, saying, Nice work, lady. Sorry if I scared you. I knew I could count on you, which I took to be his admission to leaving the incriminating bank record in my car.

Ben didn’t know that he should have directed his praise to Larry Esterman, who had taken control of that piece of evidence.

One afternoon, Henry and Taylor paid a visit to my specially arranged lounge chair in my atrium. My face had turned a sickly yellow hue. My back was on the mend, but my family decided I needed to lounge a little while longer.