Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

Ann thought it over a moment. Then she said, “Maybe you’re right. It’s just that I don’t like sneaking around-I want to be honest with Amy.”

“And I agree-you should be honest with her. But give yourself a little slack, dear! You’re entitled to a little privacy in your life; Amy doesn’t have to know your every move. If something develops with this guy, by all means tell Amy about him and go from there. But until then, let it be a non-issue.”

Even though Karen’s sober advice made her feel a little better, Ann was still unsure of herself.

“I guess I could just tell Amy that I’m going out for dinner tomorrow night and leave it at that. She’s going to the school football game so I’ll probably make it back home before she does. She’ll never know the difference.”

“There you go! It’s no big deal when you think about it. I have to admit I’m excited for you, though. Where are you two going?” Karen inquired enthusiastically.

“I have no idea-he never brought it up.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

Ann sighed. “I was until I thought about Amy. Now I’m not so sure.”

“C’mon, get excited! Amy will be fine. You’re going to have a great time, dear. I just know it!”

“I’ll probably feel better once he comes by to get me. Until then I’m going to be a nervous wreck,” Ann declared.

“You’ll be fine. Remember, it’s just a dinner date with a nice guy. That’s it-no big deal. Right?” Karen coaxed.

“I guess so… I think I just heard Amy out front so I’d better go.”

“Okay. We’ll talk more about this at the office tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

“All right, Karen. And thanks. See you tomorrow.”

Amy was coming in the front door as Ann hung up the phone. She snatched up Jerry Rankin’s business card from the kitchen table and slid it into her purse just as Amy entered the room.

“Hi sweetie! Did you get all your homework done?”

Amy threw her books down on the table with a scowl then walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. “I hate algebra! This dick we have for a teacher assigned us two whole pages of problems for tomorrow!” Amy whined.

“Were you able to do them all?” Ann asked, watching her as she took out a can of Pepsi and popped the tab.

“Most of them. I’ll do the rest in study hall,” Amy replied, taking a slug. “We have anything to eat?”

“There’s some fried chicken in the fridge. Didn’t you eat over at Amanda’s?”

“I had some ice cream.”

Ann looked at her reproachfully. “You told me you were going to eat supper at Amanda’s-ice cream sure doesn’t sound like supper to me.”

Amy grimaced and said, “Her mother made a casserole and I swear to God it looked just like dog barf, Mom! I couldn’t have eaten it if someone paid me!”

“Well, eat some chicken then. There’s a tossed salad and some Jello in there too.”

“I’ll just have potato chips instead. Where are they?”

Ann stood up and went over to Amy. “You have got to start eating right, Amy! I’ll fix you a plate and you’re going to eat it.”

“I don’t want chicken, Mother!” Amy protested, glaring at Ann defiantly. “Can’t I just order a pizza instead?”

Ann wanted to put her foot down, but refrained. She sighed and said, “I guess so-it’s better than potato chips, anyway.”

Amy smiled triumphantly, having chocked up another victory. “Thanks, Mom.”

She picked up the phone and ordered a medium pepperoni pizza from the local pizzeria, to be delivered, and gave them the address. After hanging up she turned to Ann and said, “A bunch of us are staying over at Amanda’s after the game tomorrow night. Is it okay?”

Ann wanted to say no-she didn’t particularly want to spend another weekend night alone-but reconsidered when she realized that she could avoid explaining her dinner plans to Amy if she wasn’t going to be home anyway. “No boys, I presume?”

Amy gave Ann one of her finer performances. “Of course not, Mom! Amanda’s mom is very strict about that sort of thing, as you well know.”

No, she didn’t know, Ann thought to herself. She only knew what she’d been told by two teenage girls. “I guess it’s okay, then,” she said. “What time has Mrs. Givens told you to be home after the game?”

“Ten-thirty,” Amy answered.

“Well, see that you mind her, then.”

“I will, Mom.”

With that, Amy left the kitchen and headed for the stairs. Moments later, Ann could hear Guns ‘n’ Roses blaring from her stereo and sighed as she took out her billfold and found a ten dollar bill to cover the pizza. She strode into the living room and laid the money on the table by the front door then made her way into the family room. She sat down on the sofa, turned on the T. V, and picked up the romance novel lying on the coffee table.

Before she began reading, her eyes stared out the window at the backyard, now brightly illuminated by the floodlight that Mr. Ogilvy had fixed last Sunday. She breathed a silent sigh of relief. There hadn’t been any more signs of prowlers or any obscene phone calls since last weekend. She had called the police as Karen had suggested, and the officer promised her that a cruiser would do routine drive-bys past the house for a while. There was little else they could do, he’d told her. As for the obscene phone call, he suggested that she call the phone company and inform them of the call, which Ann had done. The phone company rep told her that if the calls persisted she might want to consider getting an unpublished phone number. Ann had thanked the woman, telling her she would think about it.

Sam had called later that same evening to ask how she and Amy were doing. He’d told her that there still weren’t any significant breaks in Marsha’s murder investigation, but that the police had a lead they were checking on that could be important. He didn’t elaborate. Ann almost told him about the prowler and the obscene phone call but decided against it. She figured it would only needlessly worry him. And besides that, Ann had resolved, she was on her own now and had to start learning how to deal with her problems herself instead of relying on Sam.

Ann opened the paperback to the bookmarked page and began reading. As she read, her upcoming dinner date with Jerry Rankin was in the back of her mind. Since meeting him, she’d whimsically substituted the tall dark stranger in the novel with Jerry, and the heroine with herself. Their relationship was really starting to bloom as the story progressed.

Sam pulled off Route 52 and proceeded to make his way down the winding, slippery road. Rain was coming down in buckets and there was a thick dense fog setting in as he navigated the Jeep effortlessly through the quarter-mile long quagmire leading to his country home.

When he pulled up beside the house and cut the engine, he could hear the roar of the swollen creek over the din of the pelting rain. He grabbed his briefcase, opened the door and bailed out, holding the briefcase awkwardly over his head. He slammed the door shut with his foot and bolted toward the porch, deftly side-stepping the puddles along the way. Once inside, he made his way into the den, set the briefcase down on his desk and emptied out its contents before plopping himself down in the swivel chair.

Fridays were always hectic at the paper, but the latest developments in the Bradley murder case had made this a particularly grueling one. Roger had received another call from Lieutenant Mancuso of the N.Y.P.D. earlier that morning. The DNA samples taken from Marsha Bradley’s body had been compared to those taken from Sara Hunt’s body. Lieutenant Mancuso had called to report the results: a perfect match.