The Last Minute Boarder, Chapter 12 Scene 1: On the Razor’s Edge

The setting Kansas sun pushed streams of light through the gathering clouds as it slid down the sky. Anni pulled her coat tighter against the freezing air. “Coming?” she called back through the open front door.

“Headed to the little boys room.” Perry yelled from inside.

“Thanks for that,” Anni said under her breath. She pulled the door closed and crunched across the snow in her mukluks. “I hate you,” she said, facing the dark lamp in the middle of the yard. She sighed and decided to wait for Perry before she unscrewed the head and dug around in the wires. Again.

She walked around the house to the garage for tools and listed Perry’s crimes as she went. One, he shared nothing about himself and revealed nothing.  Two, he misled her and he knew it. Three, he made her believe who he said he was. Four, he also made her trust him. Five, she still wanted to like him in spite of his crimes—but she could change that.

The garbage cans sat by the side door to the kitchen and when she passed she saw that both were full, their lids teetering like small metal hats on top of the overflowing garbage. “Crap,” she said out loud and it felt good.

She pulled one of the cans and drug it over the icy driveway to the curb, but trash spilled out making a grotesque trail of breadcrumbs. “Of course,” she said and bent to pick up a crumpled wad of paper. The paper turned out to be a half-empty bottle of Polish vodka wrapped in newspaper—newspaper covered in creases. Crease upon crease upon crease. She knew this newspaper; Lena had folded it during Roebeck’s inquisition, as Charlotte put it.

In the half dark, Anni squinted at the label on the bottle. The polish name was beyond her, but “96% vol.” was clear enough. Though she was not much of a drinker, she could not recall seeing a bottle of vodka this strong on the pantry shelf where Lena kept the liquor. Who would drink it? Maybe Mr. Baumgartner next door used their garbage to hide his empties from his wife, she thought and laughed to herself at the image of him sneaking through their yard and drinking in the shadows by the garage.

She picked up the rest of the garbage, then used the vodka bottle to smash the garbage down, forced the lid on, and drug the can to the curb.

As she pushed the can in place, she felt someone behind her. “I’ll get the other can,” Perry said and she jumped back, tripping over the curb. Perry grabbed her by the arm before she fell. “Whoa, sorry about that.”

She smelled his clean scent—soap. Crime number six: he smells good. Criminal should not smell good. “Thanks,” she said, breathing in. Always soap.

He held her longer than he needed to. “You’re welcome,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

She looked away. His face was so close to hers. “You can let go of me now.”

“I know,” he said. He walked up the driveway toward the garage.

Still breathing hard, Anni jammed her cold hands in her pockets and crunched across the snow to the lamp again, thinking about Perry’s eyes and mouth near hers, the smell of him, his strong hands. But he was a liar. Too many strikes against him. The bottle of vodka kept intruding on her thoughts. Who drinks that? she asked herself again.

Jack said that Mr. Kline had inadvertently mixed his medication with alcohol.

An accidental overdose.

But Mr. Kline never touched the stuff, Mr. Otis said.

Who drinks 96% alcohol?

Who in the house drinks that?

Why would anyone buy alcohol so strong?

Lena sat beside Anni and creased the newspaper over and over again.

Creased the newspaper.

The newspaper the vodka was wrapped in.

Lena.

“How do you want to do this?” Perry said, startling Anni out of her thoughts again.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” he said. “A person can’t make a move around you.”

“Maybe announce yourself better then.”

“You need tools.”

“In the garage,” she said, so she fetched them and he pulled the head of the lamp off the pole.

Perry examined the wires, pulling on each to find the loose connection.

Anni glanced at the garbage can. What if the coroner determined that Mr. Kline’s death was murder after all, and Roebeck decided to do his own search? He’d dig through the garbage—he was that kind of person—and find the vodka. Lena wouldn’t know to wipe the bottle clean of fingerprints, and even if she did, Roebeck would find a way to connect her to it.

“One twist . . .” Perry said. The light came on and Perry lifted the head back on the pole and tightened the screws. “Not too bad.”

Anni realized he’d been talking to her. “Thanks,” she said.  “Electricity isn’t my thing.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He put her hands in his and she tried to pull away, but he held on. “Your hands are ice blocks,” he said. “Ready to go inside?”

“Yes—I’m freezing. I’ll put the tools away and meet you in there.”

“I can do that,” he said, picking up the screwdriver and pliers from the snow.

“No, you go in. I need to check something anyway.”

He waited, as if he thought she would change her mind.

She didn’t. He wasn’t Perry the boarder; he was FBI, and even if she wanted to trust him with her suspicions, she didn’t dare. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay then.” He seemed disappointed, but he didn’t say so.

She watched him go inside, then after stashing the tools in the garage, she ran to the curb and dug out the bottle. She scanned the house and yard for a hiding place, not daring to take it back in the house. The snow-covered bushes seemed the best place for now, at least until after Agent Roebeck left. So she plunged the bottle as far in as she could and plugged the hole she’d made with snow.

She would sneak back later and drive it out of the neighborhood. After everyone had gone to sleep.