No One's Home Page 19

  “Glenda? Hey, this is Myron Spielman. The house on Lee Road? . . . Yeah. Listen, we have a problem.” Myron poured himself a scotch and took a long swig to keep himself from yelling. Margot sat on the sofa behind him, nursing a drink of her own. She’d decided it would be best for him to make the call. I’ll just start screaming. Besides, people prefer to talk to a man.

  After a moment’s listening, he continued, “Well, the problem is that you sold us a murder house. Those ‘rumors’ you alluded to? Turns out a kid was killed in our attic . . . When? Does it matter? . . . 1931 . . . Yes, I realize it was a long time ago . . . I don’t give a shit what your company’s policy is, we should have been informed! There’ve been some odd disturbances . . . No, I’m not claiming ghosts, damn it . . . My wife just found a bunch of newspapers about it up in the attic along with a goddamn gun, for Christ’s sake! A gun! . . . No, I don’t suppose you can be held responsible for the contents of the house, but what kind of ‘great investment’ is this if we can’t sell this damn place, huh? . . . We also suspect that there’s been an intruder here. Someone with a key . . . Of course we changed the locks, I mean a skeleton key for the doors inside . . . I want to contact the last owner . . . Well, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”

  He hung up the phone, slamming it onto the coffee table.

  “What’d she say?” Margot asked numbly.

  “What do you think she said? ‘Not my problem! It was almost a hundred years ago!’ Blah, blah, blah.” He pounded the rest of his drink. “She can’t give out any information on the last owner besides what is in the contract . . . Didn’t Max say something? During the reno, didn’t he talk about some issues?”

  “I have no idea.” Margot stared into her glass, her face blank. We’re screwed. This is a murder house, and now we’re trapped here.

  “It doesn’t hurt to ask, right?” Myron, determined to be a man of action for his distressed wife, picked up the phone again.

  “Max? This is Myron. Spielman. The house on Lee Road in Shaker? . . . Yeah . . . No. Everything is working just fine. Thanks again for putting in all of the overtime, we’re really happy with how it turned out . . . Right. Listen, we’ve run into a bit of an issue with the house itself. Nothing to do with you, but do I remember right that there were some problems, rumors among the guys about bad luck or something? . . . Did the guys ever see anyone on site? Like a trespasser? . . . No? Well, we just found out about a murder up in the attic back when it was built. That ring any bells? . . . Really? What was her name? Can you text me her number? I think we’d like to chat with her . . . Okay. Thanks!”

  The conversation lifted Margot’s eyebrows. What?

  Myron plopped down on the couch next to her and let out a stream of frustrated air. “I was right. Something had spooked the guys. He brought in some sort of psychic to take the curse off the house.” He let out a forced laugh. “Can you believe this shit?”

  “No, I can’t . . . So he sent you her number?”

  Myron picked up his phone and scrolled through his messages. “Not yet. Says he’ll send it when he gets into the office tomorrow. In the meantime, what about that security system? Did you make some calls?”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, shutting her eyes. “They can’t get here until Monday.”

  “You call anyone else?”

  “No, Myron. I did not call anyone else,” she spat. “If you want to call someone else, be my fucking guest. Okay?”

  Her venom made him flinch.

  “You’re just upset,” he said more to himself than to her. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll figure this out. I’ll take tomorrow off so you don’t have to be here alone. We’ll get a security system installed and the locks changed. It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “No. It’s not going to be fine. What are we going to do about this house, Myron?”

  “Hey. According to Glenda, stigmas on properties usually vanish after a few years. It’s going to be okay. All of that is ancient history.”

  He patted her knee, and she gave him an unconvinced smile for the effort, which fell the instant he looked away. She stared blankly out the window into the backyard and saw the white cat perched on a fence post.

  It was watching the house.

  36

  Later that night, Hunter still hadn’t come home. Myron fed his wife another martini and headed up the back stairs to investigate what she’d found and ferret out any intruders—real or imagined.

  There was no sign of damage to the attic door hardware. There was no sign of anyone lurking in any of the rooms or closets. Myron studied the attic lockset again, wondering if Margot was being entirely honest about what had happened. Is she taking her meds? Is she losing it?

  Still, he called a locksmith and left a message. “We need an estimate to change out the locksets for a 1922 house. Please give me a call so we can schedule something in the next few days. It’s urgent.”

  The newspapers up in the attic proved Margot wasn’t being hysterical, at least about one part of her story. Myron stared at the dark stain on the bathroom floor where little Walter had died and shook his head. Six years old. Memories of Hunter at that age ran through his mind. Hunter laughing. Hunter playing with toys. Hunter beaming with all the golden starlight promise of the very young. Heartbreaking in every way.

  Myron found the gun right where Margot had promised it would be. Lifting the silver-plated pistol into his hand, Myron aimed it at the far wall, squinting one eye down the sight, imagining what it would be like to pull the trigger. The chamber turned out to be empty. He counted the four loose bullets and put the gun back into the cigar box. He’d promised Margot he’d “take care of it.” All she’d done was nod. It was an act of wifely submission so rare he’d blinked twice.

  As he stood there at the top of the attic steps with the cigar box in hand, a faint melody drifted toward him. It came from two stories below. He followed the phantom sound down to the front entryway, but it slipped away from his ear.

  “Hon?” he asked softly.

  There was no answer.

  The muffled voices of the television in the den muttered softly back and forth. He turned a slow circle and noticed the bleeding roses on the hall table, their perfume thick and heavy. He flipped on the chandelier overhead and examined the red petals more closely.

  Margot sat curled in a corner of the couch, nursing her drink, ignoring the home-improvement show glowing in front of her. Hunter, where are you? Are you okay? We have to get you out of here before something happens to you. My God, that poor little boy . . .

  Myron set the cigar box and the gun inside it down on the built-in mahogany shelf and poured himself another scotch. After downing half of it, he pulled open one of the drawers and placed the box inside. Until I can figure out what to do, he told himself.

  He settled down on the other end of the sofa and patted Margot’s knee. “So . . . who were the flowers from?”

  The haze cleared from her eyes. “What?”

  “The roses. In the hall. They’re pretty. Secret admirer?” He raised his eyebrows at her. He didn’t mention what he’d seen on her laptop or any of his suspicions. He kept all that hidden as he waited for her answer.

  The question gave her a moment’s pause, but there was no knowing twinkle in his eye to tell her he’d sent them, just a vague sadness and a touch of something else. Jealousy? she wondered, then quickly dismissed the thought. She let out a cheerless laugh. “I wish. My mom. I guess she felt bad for not sending us a housewarming gift.”

  “That was nice of her.” He smiled for her benefit. If she’d been paying closer attention, she would have noticed his jaw tighten ever so slightly.

  “I guess.” She downed her martini and set it on the coffee table. With her other hand, she disarmed him of his drink and then buried her face against his neck. “Will you hold me?”

  He opened his arms and kissed the top of her forehead. She nestled in where she couldn’t see the hard line of his mouth or the anger flashing behind hi
s eyes along with images of Margot’s naked flesh on a computer screen. I’m a married woman.

  After he’d locked all the doors, after he’d assured her that Hunter would come back, after Margot had passed out from her third martini, after Myron had taken the last of his white pills and drifted into the abyss, a shadow crept into their bedroom. It hovered over them, watching them sleep.

  Margot’s brow furrowed, but the alcohol kept her from waking.

  Myron didn’t feel a thing.

  37

  The Klussman Family

  September 15, 1990

  Frannie Klussman slept through the flashing lights that came in the early hours that morning and the sound of police cars gathering across the street. The sounds bled into the white noise of the ambulances and buses that passed along Lee Road day after day.

  Hours later, she sat at the kitchen table with Bill, drinking her morning coffee. Her eyes were red and swollen from the night before. The fine lines of her hands and the gaps under her fingernails were stained red and black with Benny’s blood and dirt from the front yard. The memory of her son banging his head against the sidewalk outside replayed itself in her tired gaze over and over.

  He had a pretty bad seizure last night, was all she’d told the home health aide. She’d said nothing about Benny’s escape from the house.

  Bill had assured her when he arrived that morning that stitches weren’t necessary, but he’d recommended she take him to the hospital just to be sure. Frannie’s lips had pressed together at the advice. The hospital would ask questions she didn’t want to answer. Let’s see how it looks tonight.

  After a few prolonged moments of silence, Bill said, “I’m real sorry I wasn’t here last night. I should have stayed.”

  “Oh. It’s not your fault.” He would surely have called the social worker if she’d told him the whole story. “He just had a bad dream.”

  “You don’t have to do this alone.” Bill patted a spot on the table next to her hand. “There’s places he can go. Places that will keep him safe, Ms. Klussman.”

  She shook her head violently. “They’ll keep him drugged up like a vegetable. They’ll keep him in restraints. That’s what they did to him the last time. You’ve seen what they do. I can’t just let him live like that . . . what kind of mother would leave her baby in a place like that? I can’t! I just—”

  A knock at the door cut her words off. She stood up, and so did Bill.

  “You want me to answer it?”

  She wiped the tears from her swollen eyes and shook her head. “No. You drink your coffee. I’m fine.”

  On weak legs, she staggered through the kitchen to the dusty foyer and looked out one of the tall leaded glass windows flanking the front entrance. A police officer stood on the other side. Frowning, she opened the door.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” The officer flashed an apologetic smile and his badge. Shaker Heights Police Department. His name was a blur. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  Frannie reflexively glanced over her shoulder at the stairs behind her before stepping out onto the front porch in her bathrobe. Benny hated strangers and loud noises and any disturbance to his daily routine. A barking dog could send him into a seizure. She quietly shut the door behind her. “What’s this about?”

  Several police cars were gathered out in the street beyond the trees and bushes that shielded the house from the outside world. Frannie’s gaze fixed on them a minute and then the officer on her doorstep.

  He took out a clipboard and made a note of her house number. “Are you Frances Klussman?”

  “Yes?” She swallowed hard, surveying the flashing lights with a growing sense of dread.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “What’s this about?” she tried again. Panic took root in her stomach. She squeezed the door handle to keep her knees locked.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that a young girl was killed last night.”

  Her back pressed against the door, the cherub face of the bronze knocker cold and hard between her shoulder blades. “Oh my God! Here?”

  “Across the street.” He motioned to the large house on the other side of the road. Yellow tape had been strung across the sidewalk. A team of police officers had scattered throughout the yard, behind and in front of the tall hedge. “Did you hear anything unusual last night between the hours of eleven and one a.m.?”

  She shook her head slowly. Benny. Benny outside on the sidewalk. Across the street, a policeman was hunched down over the spot where she’d found him slamming his head against the concrete. Dried blood. “No. Not that I can think of.”

  “No screaming? No loud noises?”

  A young girl was killed last night.

  Her hand gripped the long cast-bronze door handle harder. “No. I was asleep. The television was on in my room, but nothing woke me up.”

  The policeman made notes on his clipboard. “Anyone else live here?”

  “Just my son, but he’s . . . he’s mentally disabled. He, um.” Her voice broke with fresh tears at having to say these things out loud. “He can’t speak. He doesn’t really leave the house.”

  The officer didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Can I speak to him, Ms. Klussman?”

  A trickle of blood seeped out of her palm onto the scrolled bronze door handle. A burr had dug into her skin, keeping her upright, keeping the shriek out of her voice and her legs steady. “He’s asleep, I’m afraid. He, uh . . . Sorry, it’s been a tough night. He had another seizure last night. We had to sedate him. You can get his medical records from the Cleveland Clinic. Benjamin Klussman. He’s twenty-four years old.”

  The officer looked up from his notes, his expression softening. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Were both of you home all night last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see any strange people or strange cars around here in the last week?”

  “Not that I can think of.” She shook her head again and kept squeezing pain into her palm. A young girl died here last night. “My God. Who? Who was she?”

  “High school student. From the Fernway neighborhood a few blocks over. We can’t release specifics just yet. Have you noticed a young girl riding her bike around this neighborhood late at night in recent weeks? Thin. Pretty. Ten-speed bike?”

  Frannie turned her head ever so slightly toward her house and its many eyes looking out over the street. Benny’s window sat just over her shoulder. “I can’t say I have, but we go to bed pretty early here.”

  “Is there a Mr. Klussman I can talk to?”

  She let out a breath of a laugh. “No. He left five years ago. I think he’s over in Lakewood now? You could try to reach him, but . . . he doesn’t come to visit Benny.”

  The policeman nodded, making another note. He took a respectful pause before asking, “I noticed a second car in the driveway?”

  “That’s our home health aide, Bill. He comes to help out with Benny.”

  “Was he here last night?”

  “No. He comes in the mornings to help. He got here around eight. Would you like to speak with him?” She shifted her weight against the door as casually as she could manage. Her heart pounded against the wood. Bill might talk about what had happened the night before. The blood. The laundry. Benny’s violent streak. It can’t be Benny’s fault. Can it? The bruises on Frannie’s ribs sent an almost imperceptible shudder through her. Benny had kicked her three days earlier. Her body was a map of old wounds.

  What if someone saw me dragging Benny into the house? The thought hung like a gasp in the doorway.

  Bill sat in the kitchen, doing the crossword puzzle. He didn’t like to meddle in Frannie’s business. That’s what he’d told his wife on the kitchen phone that morning while Frannie had slept. He’d found the bloody laundry and hadn’t known whether to call someone else. She doesn’t want the social worker to come . . . I can’t do nothin’ about it. Isn’t my business . . . they don’t pay me enough for that.
But then he’d hung up and lowered his head in prayer for her and poor Benny.

  Frannie motioned toward the house and Bill, a limp offer to open the door for the policeman.

  “No. That shouldn’t be necessary right now. We may have to come back to talk more. Would that be alright?”

  No. No. NO. “Of course. Do they know who did this?” Her eyes wandered across the road again to where the forensics team was hard at work collecting samples of Benny’s blood.

  He took the horror in her voice as a natural reaction to the news. “Not yet. But don’t you worry, ma’am. We’ve got Shaker’s finest on the case. We’re bringing in forensics from the county. Whoever it was won’t get away with this. I can promise you that.” He flashed a toothy grin that older women like her were meant to find charming. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. The fact that he was the same age as her son made his smile almost unbearable.

  She bowed her head and nodded, hiding her face. A drop of blood fell from her hand onto the sandstone stoop. The boy cop didn’t notice.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am, and I’m sorry to hear about Benny. You know they say the good Lord never gives us more than we can handle. You have a good day now.”

  She didn’t dare move while the young man strolled down the front walk. She didn’t move as he crossed the sidewalk past the bushes and tall silver maple to the next house. She didn’t move as he knocked on the door a hundred feet away.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Mind if I ask you a few questions . . .”

  She listened to the interview, still gripping the door. The same questions came one by one. Her next-door neighbor’s response was, “Oh my God! You have to be kidding me! Was it gangs? Oh, those poor parents!”

  Frannie didn’t move until she heard the answer to the next question: “No. We didn’t hear anything. Hon? Did you hear anything strange last night?”

  They hadn’t seen anything either.

  Only after the policeman had moved on and out of earshot did Frannie let go of the bronze door handle. The scratch in her palm ran in a jagged line. She cupped the pooling blood and headed back inside.