Anie Freytag clutched a mixing bowl to her chest and churned a wooden spoon through thick, chocolate batter. She watched out her kitchen window as each piece of furniture, each box, was being moved into the residence across the street from her own. As she watched, the snow which none but an occasional rabbit or squirrel had dared to trod upon was dirtied, and the door through which she had once entered opened and closed, again and again with activity.

Her husband, John, strolled into the kitchen and stepped up behind her. He smelled of shaving creme and shampoo, of coffee with creme, and thus banished her intruding, sensory, memory of mold and mildew.

“Chocolate?” John questioned.

Janie turned toward her husband, “Want a lick?”

“Hmm . . . I’ll wait. Do we have ice cream to go with that?”

“Actually, the cake isn’t for us. You better settle for a lick of the batter.”

John’s eyes registered momentary confusion before moving to the path Janie’s had been on when he entered the kitchen. Peering though the window, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the activity of moving day.

“You’re not thinking . . . Christ, Janie.”

“I can’t stay on my side of the street forever.”

Without argument, John left her standing with her planned rebuttal on the tip of her tongue. She would have relished the opportunity to verbalize her rationale, to defend it. She poured the batter into a pan and set the oven for thirty-five minutes. As she sat at her kitchen table to wait, the unyielding memory descended.

A throw smelling of mold and dampness was being snugged around Janie’s shoulders. The hand which patted her back, brushing briefly against her cheek, felt icy cold. A stranger’s voice spoke. “There, there, dear, rest a bit.”

The words entered Janie’s head as a jumble of sound. She felts disoriented; as though she had been awakened suddenly from a nap. She surveyed the room through hazy eyes, watching the woman who now sat herself on a chair. Janie’s mind managed a little: Nora Kinninger, neighbor. In the distant reach of her mind was more . . . Steamy tea was slid across the table, touching her fingertips. She raised the offering to her lips and sipped.

“You’ve had quite a shock,” the neighbor said. “I expect you’ve never killed a man before.”

Janie looked up at Nora Kinninger, the cup of tea shaking uncontrollably, splattering hot liquid on her hand and onto the faded luncheon cloth. She sat the cup down, numbly noting the scarlet hue of her hand, before looking at Nora. She was startled by the piercing green of the woman’s eyes and adjusted her view upward, to the coarse, curling hair of the woman’s brow.

“You do remember, Darling?” Nora said.

Janie gulped the bitter brew, emptying the cup and burning her throat. She sat, unable to move, rolling Nora’s accusation around in her head. Vague images of a man, of Nora, and a hoe, tried to take shape in her head.

Nora lay her hand over Janie’s. “Why have you never visited before?”

Janie tried to shake off the lethargic feeling which was numbing her brain. Visited? she thought, Are you mad? Do you accuse me of murder and speak of visiting in the very next breath? “What is this about?”

“First degree murder, I’d wager, but don’t fret. I’ve taken care of it.”

“Taken care of what?”

“The body. No need to call the law.” Again Nora patted Janie’s hand before adding water to Janie’s spilt cup. She bobbed a sterling ball packed with tea in and out of the hot liquid. The water darkened instantly.

The aroma which came to Janie on waves of steam strangely calmed her. Through heavy lids, she watched Nora cross the kitchen and struggle with a cabinet drawer swollen by the humid, August air.

Nora laid an Edward J. Dunn cigar box upon the counter, swearing under her breath, “Damn drawer always sticks. Gets all whopper-jawed.”

Janie studied her neighbor. She observed bare feet slipped into tattered mules, dirt embedded under toenails, and a crone’s face lit with anticipation.

Nora tapped the box. “It’s all in here, Missy. You’ll see why I’m not calling the cops.”

Janie felt a wave of panic course though her body. “Maybe the man isn’t dead yet. It was a man, didn’t you say? How do you know he’s dead?”

Nora cackled. “Dead is dead.”

“You’re laughing. Is this you’re idea of some sick joke?” Her head reeled with dizziness. “I never killed anyone!”

Again the woman cackled. “You needn’t plead amnesia. I won’t tell a soul.”.

Despite a vague recollection, Janie couldn’t grasp the accusation as truth. “I don’t believe this. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

“Hurt him? You didn’t hurt him, Sweetie. You killed him dead.”

Janie felt like she would be ill. She swallowed back the bile which had risen to her throat. An hour earlier she had stood looking out her kitchen window and across the street to Nora’s porch. She had a vague recollection of Nora and a man. When her mind tried to place herself at the scene, she disallowed the memory. A tiny cry of pain came unbidden from the depth of her.

Janie’s painful release pleased the older woman. She clapped her hands excitedly. “Ah,” she said, “it’s coming back.”

“No,” Janie pleaded, “it’s not.”

“Of course it is . . . think hoe.”

The memory flooded back. Janie pressed her palms against her temples attempting to erase the clearly formed image of Nora, a man, and a hoe.

Nora tapped the cigar box with a long, yellowed nail. “My secrets,” she cackled.

She’s out of her mind , Janie thought. “I’m calling the police.” She pushed her chair from the table. Nora quickly positioned herself in Janie’s way.

“Get out of my way.”

Nora’s chest jutted forward. “Sit your skinny butt down!”

Janie shoved the table away from herself and toward Nora, trapping the woman between the table and the counter. “Don’t make me hurt you,” she warned, “just calm down. I’m calling 911.”

She hurried out of the kitchen, frantically searching for a phone. She found one in the adjoining room and had it to her ear when she noticed the door. It would be better to call from home, she thought. Forgetting the phone in her hand, Janie hurried toward the door. When the cord stretched its length, Janie turned in realization. She had but a brief second to look once again into her captive’s eyes before darkness swirled in her brain. Her knees buckled. Her weight came crashing down upon her.

She awoke in stages, trying to regain consciousness, but slipping again and again into that non-thinking place where her body felt safe. When she did at last wake, she found herself in another room of Nora’s house. Daylight had slipped away along with her consciousness. The room was partially illuminated by moonlight coming from a curtainless window with a torn, paper shade. A single bulb hung from a ceiling socket and moved with the draft coming through the window. Gooseflesh-covered arms that were now bound to a chair. Her pounding head commanded all of her attention until she heard the shuffling of Nora’s mules.

Nora entered the room carrying her box of secrets. She held a flashlight which she laughingly shone in Janie’s eyes.

Janie squinted against the light. “Please. What do you want from me?”

“I thought I had made that clear. Hold your head up and look at me.”

Janie raised her head defiantly. “No, it’s not clear,” she answered. “Why do you have me bound like this? You’re crazy, aren’t you!”

Nora stared at Janie for a long moment.“I don’t think I like you very much, Miss Fancy Pants,” she said. She placed the box on a folding table, pulling the whole works in front of Janie. A sliver of a nail pierced the lid of the cigar box which Nora raised. She began removing items, laying them on the table. Janie’s mind raced as she watched the process. She studied the items as Nora removed them. There were several snapshots taken with black and white film. Nora dropped them on the table where they spread out with only one totally exposed to view. It was a picture of a girl eight to ten years of age. She wore a simple dress. A strand of pearls circled her neck. The child had looked directly into the eye of the camera. She had not been smiling when the shutter clicked, immortalizing her image. Among the treasures was a braid of hair. Many hues of soft beige convinced Janie the hair had been clipped from a child’s head. Lastly, was a muslin pouch stained with brown. Nora shook the pouch and smiled before dropping it to the table.

But none of these had been what Nora was seeking. In the bottom of the cigar box was an envelope too large for the box containing it. Nora struggled to remove it, smiling when it was held free. “Here! Here it is!”

Janie rightly guessed that all that had transpired over the last several hours was directly connected to the contents of this envelope. “Is this why you are keeping me? To show me what is in there?”

“I could have shown you in the kitchen and saved both of us a bad time. I’m pretty much tired of you, Miss Skinny Britches, so don’t give me any bull.”

Janie found herself touching the large goose egg on her head. “What did you hit me with?”

“A skillet. They’re ‘bout as handy as a hoe.”

Janie flinched at the mention of the hoe, delighting her captor. “I told you, you got no worries. No one is going to bother you, ‘cept maybe me. I moved the body where it won’t be seen.”

Janie looked at Nora’s feet. That’s how she got dirt under her nails. She dragged the body over loose soil. A garden? Why does she tell me not to worry? “You’re letting me go?”

“Maybe.”

“But you said . . .”

“I said you don’t need to worry about going to jail. I didn’t say no more.”

“You’re not alone. Someone is helping you hold me here.”

“You young whippersnapper! You think ‘cause I’ve got a few years on me I can’t carry my own weight. You don’t know what I’m capable of and don’t be forgetting that. Now we’re going to look at what’s in this here envelope. You’re going to read these clippings. Can’t see so good as to read, but I’m strong, as we’ve decided, so don’t go getting ideas.”

“I can’t see to read in this light.”

“You’ve been warned, Girly. I’m not putting up with your shenanigans. I brought all the light you’ll need. Read this.”

VAGRANT CHARGED IN MUTILATION DEATH OF YOUNG GIRL

Janie remembered hearing a story relating to Nora’s house and a horrible crime. That had been years ago, when she and John were house hunting, before they purchased the house across from Nora Kinninger. The tale was being told to their daughters by a neighborhood boy. John had stopped the boy, believing the story designed to frighten the girls and give the pimply-faced adolescent a feeling of power over them. She felt a sudden bolt of relief that the girls were grown now and needed her less. But there was John . . .

“Nora, please, it’s too close to my face.”

Nora pulled the clipping back. “There. Read.”

Janie began.

Able Simon, boarder of Mr. and Mrs. George Kinninger, was charged in criminal court in the death of 10 year old Marie Ann Kinninger. Miss Kinninger’s mutilated body had been found in a shed on the Kinninger property.

Janie paused. The unsmiling child in the photograph must have been little Marie Ann. Her mother’s heart caused her throat to constrict. It would have been easier without a face to put with the headline. She looked into Nora’s eyes. They were cold and unmoved by the memory.

The woman pounded the table. “Read.”

Janie’s heart fluttered. She continued:

Simon, nineteen years old, had resided with the Kinninger’s for the last three months and was employed by them as a handy man. He was taken into custody after police found evidence linking Simon to the murder among his personal belongings.

Nora laid the first of the articles down and held up the second. Janie read:

CHARACTER WITNESS APPEARS IN SIMON’S BEHALF

In the third day of trial, the defense for Able Simon calls a single character witness. Marshall Wyen, a guidance councilor at Beyond Boundaries [a halfway house in Cincinnati] testified Simon completed residency six weeks prior to his arrival at the Kinninger home. Wyen described Simon as model resident, setting an example for fellow inhabitants. On cross-examination, Wyen described Simon’s past conflicts with the law as cumulative, non-violent cries for recognition and related a history of foster care. Further testimony revealed Simon left the halfway house to seek his biological mother.

“Biological mother! Come knocking on our door he did, looking for his momma. ‘I don’t intend to be your Momma, I told him. Never choose to be anyone’s momma.”

“But Marie Ann . . .”

“Marie Ann was a mistake. Just like Able was a mistake. But she weren’t crazy like Able. She weren’t crazy. George wanted to keep her. Bring her up. No matter to him I was in my change. Fine, I said, you want her, you take care of her.”

Janie’s eyes locked on the remnants of the child carelessly strewn on the table. A snapshot, a lock of hair. Her heart broke at the innocence and fear still visible in the creased and worn photo. She tried to put aside the anguish she was feeling. There was another body now. A body that might still be warm with the life Janie had so easily snatched from it. As if she reading Janie’s mind, Nora spoke.

“That was our Able you killed out there on the porch.”

Janie was stunned. “He’s not in prison?”

Nora grunted. “Circumstantial evidence. More than enough to convict him, mind you. Two of Marie Ann’s teeth were found in his duffle. Not teeth he had sneaked from under her pillow, teeth he had yanked. That’s what nailed him”

“They why?”

“Why no conviction? Bleeding heart bullcrap! That damn lawyer of his tugged on the hearts of the jurors. Portrayed Able as a poor waif shuffled from place to place all his lone life when all he ever wanted was his momma. Horseshit! Why would he kill a sister when he longed for a family, he asked them. Look elsewhere for a motive, he tells them and looks straight into my eyes.”

Janie shuddered. Yes, she thought, looking into Nora’s eyes, I could see this cold hearted witch killing one child and framing another.

“Weren’t no evidence ‘gainst me. Weren’t none at all. Let Able walk though. Let him walk on reasonable doubt.”

Nora went quiet for a moment, her eyes seeking out a blank bit of space to dwell on, but the lapse was momentary and she held up another headline.

CHILD’S TEETH RECOVERED FROM DUFFLE

The atrocity of the murder whirling Janie’s head, her eyes moved to the little pouch which Nora had rattled prior to laying it on the table. She had little breath as she pondered what it held.

“Read it. Read about the teeth.”

“No.” Janie’s voice was course, constricted by the pain of fear and emotion. “I can’t do this any more. Please.”

Nora pounded a clenched fist on the table, startling Janie and sending Marie Ann’s picture fluttering to the floor. Janie realized she needed to change her approach to Nora. But her head was pounding, the circulation to her arms was cut off, her bladder was full, and she wanted to bawl. Only her wit might save her, but she felt witless. I need to convince her that I’ve seen the light, she thought. But how? After a prolonged silence, she tried, “I’ve been so stupid causing you this trouble. If I had known about Able, if I had known he was a murderer, I wouldn’t have attempted to call the police.”

“Yes, you would have. You’re a Little Miss Goody Two Shoes.”

“No, I’m not, really. You don’t know how much I’m not a Goody Two Shoes.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Janie was quick and sharp with her response. “I didn’t know it was a child killer injured.”

Injured?”

“Killed. I meant killed. You see, I have children myself. I’m not sorry, Nora, and I don’t want trouble from the police.”

Taking courage in the brightening of Nora’s eyes, Janie continued, “We won’t report this. I’ll help with any clean up left undone. I swear. I don’t want trouble. I just want to go home to John and forget this all.”

Nora looked at Janie’s bound body. “Looks like you already have trouble.”

Janie managed a natural sounding laugh. “You never would have tied me up if I hadn’t been so stubborn. I’m sorry. I got what I deserved. You would agree, wouldn’t you? At least we’ve had time to become friends.”

Janie searched the old crone’s face, looking for any indication that she had bought Janie’s spiel. She found nothing she could take to the bank but she sensed Nora’s guard was coming down. Another laugh would be good. She was afraid to chance it a second time. Instead she continued, “And do you know what the worst of it is?”

Nora’s thick brows furrowed.

With little left to lose, Janie said, “I’m about to pee my pants.”

Nora cackled. As she laughed, she moved toward Janie and began to undo her bindings. Janie held her tongue, fearing the utterance of the single word which would break the spell so vicariously held. When the last of the muslin strips fell free she casually looked up at Nora. “Which way to the bathroom?”

Janie breathed with relief when they reached the bathroom and she discovered a window large enough to accommodate her small frame just above the toilet. The frosted-glass window had a latch at the bottom which she would have to release in order to push the window open. She assured herself that if she could get her head through the opening, her body would follow. There was a slide bolt on the bathroom door. She calculated it would take Nora about fifteen seconds to destroy it: less time than it would take Janie to release the latch and exit the window. If Nora allowed Janie to close the door behind her she wouldn’t risk putting Nora on alert by locking it.

For effect, Janie pranced like a child busting to pee. Inside the bathroom door with her hand on the knob she said, “Thanks, Nora, I’ll try to be quick. Could I have some of that tea we had earlier?” She groaned slightly and undid the button of her jeans, all the while shifting her weight from foot to foot. “And some toast or cookies?” Then she closed the door and held her breath.

Seconds ticked off as Janie listened to the silence behind the door. She looked toward the window and mentally practiced her escape. Step on the toilet. Release the latch. Bail.

In the stillness behind the closed door Nora spoke, “Cream and sugar?”

Janie replied with a racing heart, her breath trapped in her chest. “What? No. Just black.” She exhaled as Nora’s footsteps moved down the hall.

The bottom of the cake pan still warm in her hand, Janie gave John a goodbye peck.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

Janie smiled at the man who ranked neighborly visits at the very top of his hate-to-do list. “It’ll be fine. Remember, John, Nora is gone. I’m tired of looking across the street and being reminded and feeling frightened. I need to confront the house and conquer it’s power over me..” She glanced down at the chocolate frosting topping the oblong cake. “It’s time to make a new friend.”

John touched her shoulder. His eyes were sympathetic. “You have to forgive yourself, Janie Girl. What happened to Nora was an accident. And you need to accept the truth about Able Simon.. They found no body. Nora’s tale was a fabrication.”

Janie nodded and smiled again. She would allow John this belief and carry the burden of her knowledge alone. She would never buy the synopsis the investigators had concocted with the failure to uncover Able’s body. They had lay the blame on the tea Nora had served that day. Tea which analysis had found to contain a potentially fatal combination herbals which had the power to blur the mind and leave it susceptible to suggestion.

But Janie knew she had not imagined a man standing at Nora’s door. She had not imagined the hoe that took Able’s life and later Nora’s. They could talk hallucinations all they wanted; nothing would shake the memory of her dive out the bathroom window and the mass which broke her fall. A mass softer and rounder than the ground she was expecting: a mass unseen, but clear in her mind as Able’s body.

At the door through which she had first entered Nora’s domain, Janie’s nerve was slightly shattered. She touched the back pocket of her Levis for assurance but stammered slightly as the door opened and a man stood in front of her, “I . . . I hope I haven’t come too soon,” she said, “I know you’ve only just rid yourself of the movers. Maybe I’ll just leave this and come back another time.”

The man who stood on the other side of the threshold smiled at Janie. He looked to be in his late thirties to early forties but still wore his hair long and held it at bay with a blue bandanna, folded and tied around his forehead. His green eyes twinkled as he spoke. “No, please,” he gestured toward the couch, “stay for a bit. Maybe you can help me figure what to do next. I’m afraid I’m not very adept at this moving business.”

Sidestepping boxes and three paperback towers, Janie claimed a spot on the couch. As she settled into position, her eyes took in familiar pieces of furniture. The round table where she had found Nora’s phone stood in the same spot.

Her host started to sit but stopped himself, “Tea?”he asked.

The suggestion of tea sent a quiver through Janie. With a tone sharper than her intent, she answered, “What?”

“Some tea,” he repeated, “to go with the cake you’ve brought?”

Janie steadied herself with a breath. She forced a smile. “Got milk?”

“You bet, two tall glasses of cold milk coming up.”

Janie’s host turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen. Janie tried distracting herself from the unease which rumbled in her stomach by looking over the paperbacks but soon found herself standing in the kitchen doorway. She watched milk being poured from a fresh carton into a glass void of drugs or noxious herbs.

Leaning against the open doorway she spoke. “I see you purchased some of the former owner’s furnishings.”

She received no direct comment on her observation, only a sly grin. Two slices of cake were placed on Nora’s chipped china and sat on the painted wooden table along with glasses of milk. She took a seat and inserted the edge of her fork into the rich frosting. Her host remained standing at a comfortable distance.

Janie felt the need to chatter. “The last time I sat at this table, I was served tea.. It was served in a china cup that matches these plates. I find it interesting that so many of Nora’s things remain.”

The man pulled the chair next to Janie’s out from the table, turning it around and straddling it. He ignored the cake he had sliced for himself and Janie’s comment.

Despite her original intent to spare the new owner the story, Janie found it impossible to keep the subject out of her thoughts. To her dismay, she found herself saying, “I suppose you’ve heard what happened here. The little girl?”

“I’d be more interested hearing about Nora’s murder, Miss Muffet..”

The flesh on Janie’s arms prickled.

His grin was sinister. “You will tell me how it happened, won’t you?”

“There was nothing . . .”

“In the papers? No, there wasn’t. But tell me, how did you manage to strike her with a hoe, attract not a single witness, and have it ruled an accident?”

Janie was infuriated. “I didn’t strike Nora. She ran from the house and tripped. Her neck struck the blade of a hoe laying near the porch. It had nothing to do with me.”

Her host threw his head back and laughed. “Nothing to do with you. What a gem you are. And Able? Nothing to do with you?”

Janie’s head was spinning. “What do you know about Able?”

“Bet you didn’t even mention poor Able to the police. Was Nora planning to? Is that why you killed her?”

“Listen you, whoever the hell you are, I didn’t kill Nora. And Able . . . I’m sorry about Able. I didn’t mean to . . . hurt him. But how do you know any of this?” She pushed her chair back. “I regret this visit and will in the future stay on my side on the street. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

It came as no shock when Janie found herself pinned against the wall. She stared up at her captive. Green eyes, heavy brow. Her breath came in short, heavy bursts as realization set in. “But you are dead!”

“Not quite yet.”

It can’t be Able! she thought. Her hand shot up, yanking the bandanna from the man’s forehead. Scarred and reddened flesh seemed to have oozed and then petrified from a gash beginning just above his brow, following the curve of his head. A sound foreign to her ears came from her. Her abdomen twisted in fear. She whispered to herself in confirmation of her discovery, “Able”.

The glint from the knife twice flashed over her field of vision before her attention was diverted from the scar. She stared at the blade estimating the damage it might do. Her voice nearly inaudible, she pleaded, “Able, please. I know it wasn’t you that killed little Marie Ann. It was your mother, wasn’t it. She pulled Marie Ann’s teeth and planted them in your duffle. This rest are in a little pouch she keeps. I can show you where it is. You can clear yourself. Able, please listen to me.”

Adept at ignoring her, Able spoke. “It was I that broke your fall from the bathroom window. I thank you for that. It brought me back to consciousness. I have Momma to thank for still being alive as well. She dragged me through moist soil, packing the wound and keeping me from bleeding to death. Or was it you that did that?”

Janie’s voice was no more than a whisper. “No. I must have passed out. The tea must have come later.”

“Aw yes, the tea. Potent stuff that tea. She use to give it to George when she wanted to torment Marie Anne. Probably killed him with it in the end.”

“Why are you back? Why did you come here?”

“I’m the sole survivor. All of this is mine now.”

Realization struck Janie. “Is this what you wanted all along. This house, these things? You didn’t come back for a family?”

Able laughed.

“But why kill me? I can clear your name once and for all. I’ll find the pouch.”

With his free hand, he reached into his trouser pocket. “Just so you know,” he said and formed Janie’s fingers around the stained cotton pouch.

“Able, don’t do this. There’s no reason.”

“I don’t need a reason, Janie girl.”

“Able, don’t make . . . me . . . ”

She slid slowly down the wall, Able’s weight pressed against her. It had been an afterthought, the blade, a little bit of security, a precaution. When their bodies reached the floor, she relaxed, releasing the pouch and allowing pearls from a broken strand to roll free.