The cabin, p.9
The Cabin, page 9
Fiona set a bowl of food in front of Crackers. He dug in. “You are grateful, aren’t you, boy?” He wagged again.
That was the difference—one of the differences—between her and Devon. Fiona was a big believer in intuition and instinct. She thought Crackers was grateful because he seemed grateful. She could shell out a meal of Porterhouse steak to some dogs and never feel a second of thankfulness from them. Crackers was a special animal.
This, in her opinion, was the problem with all the research Devon was doing about dog breeds. Oh, it was fine to decide you wanted a shepherd mix, or a lab mix, or a chihuahua, or whatever you had a hankering for. And it was true that different breeds had tendencies toward different behaviors, but she had met all kinds of dogs in all kinds of dog bodies. She’d met sweet and submissive pit bulls and golden retrievers that would tear your face off. She was sure she’d know the right dog for their family when she met it.
She glanced at the clock. The first appointment at the studio wasn’t until 10:00. She had time to call Dev and Caleb before she got ready. She walked into the living room, plucked her phone from the coffee table, and called.
The phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail. She disconnected and stared at the screen. Maybe they were out tromping in the snow. It had dumped on them during the night. She’d checked the weather in Big Bear while she’d had her first cup of coffee.
She opened her text messages and typed, Call me when you can. Then headed to the shower. After she was dressed, she tried calling again. Again, it went to voice mail. She chewed her lower lip. Maybe they’d gone sledding? She’d try at lunchtime.
The studio was dark and cold when she arrived. The Fishbowl sparkled on sunny days, but on days like today, it felt oppressive. She turned on an instrumental Christmas carol playlist, shelved some of the packages that had come the day before and put the rest into the storeroom. When she was done, she stood and watched the churning gray waves outside the window until she heard the front door chimes, then turned to face her first round of students.
When the last of the morning clients disappeared into the rain, Fiona fished her phone from her bag and tried Devon again. They must be home by now. It was noon. Caleb got hangry if he wasn’t fed on time.
The phone rang so many times she was about to hang up, but Devon’s breathless voice stopped her. “Hello.”
“Hello to you. Where’ve you been all morning? This is my third call.”
“We, ah, we were out playing in the snow. I guess I didn’t hear the phone.” Devon sounded distracted.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?” He spoke quickly, defensively. Fiona was used to his distracted voice, but defensiveness was unusual.
“I don’t know. You don’t sound like yourself.” Her son’s face appeared in her mind. She’d been concerned about sending the two of them off together. Devon was often preoccupied with work, maybe too preoccupied to care for a three-year-old. “Is Caleb okay?”
“Caleb is great. He misses his mom, but he’s great.”
“Can I talk to him?”
There was a long silence on the other end. “He went down for a nap. Maybe later,” he finally said.
Fiona’s gaze strayed to the clock on the wall, 12:12. “It’s awfully early.”
“We were up at six, and all this outdoor exercise is knocking him out.”
It was Fiona’s turn to remain silent. Devon’s explanation was logical, but something about it didn’t feel right. “You sure he’s okay? Maybe he’s coming down with something. Did you feel his forehead?”
“He’s fine, Fi, really.” Now Devon sounded irritated. Maybe having Caleb all to himself was more stressful than he’d realized? He’d probably been relishing his few quiet minutes of nap time, and she’d interrupted it.
“Okay, then. Sounds like you have things under control.”
“I do.”
That was abrupt. Based on his mood swings during the conversation, she wondered how he’d react to what she was about to say. “By the way, I may not be able to make it up there on Monday night.” She’d been hoping to drive up after her last appointment on Monday, but if the police hadn’t caught her half-brother by then, she couldn’t take the chance of leading him to her family.
She heard an intake of breath and braced herself for an argument.
“That’s probably for the best. It’s been snowing like crazy here. I doubt they’ll have the roads plowed by then. I hate to think about you driving the ridge in this weather.”
“It almost sounds like you’d rather I stayed home.” She added a playful note to her voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Fi. Of course, we want to see you.” He didn’t respond in kind. He still sounded irritated, distracted, and defensive. “We miss you, both of us do. But the most important thing is that you’re safe.”
A flash of lightning out on the ocean put an exclamation point on his comment. “You stay safe, too,” she said.
“We will. Don’t worry about us, babe. I love you.” She thought she heard a hitch in his voice when he said he loved her and didn’t know whether to be relieved or more concerned.
“Love you, too.” And they hung up.
Fiona sat staring at the rain. It was coming down in sheets, billowing like a sail in the wind and creating pockmarks on the sea below. Everything Devon had said made perfect sense. Neither one of them should be driving in this weather, but she couldn’t shake the uneasiness she felt. Something was wrong. She heard it in his voice and felt it in her bones.
Thunder boomed. Crackers slunk from his bed in the corner and tried to shove his whole body under her stool. He wasn’t happy either.
MOLLY: As I said in the intro to the episode, faulty assumptions are being made and faulty assumptions can be dangerous. Devon still thinks Rico has been sent by Myron, and that he can control the situation with money.
Fiona thinks Devon’s attitude on the phone is about family dynamics. She’s been struggling with her own family guilt. Because this impacts the way she feels about herself, she assumes it has impacted the way Devon feels. Consequently, they’re both missing the real problem—Rico.
My question of the week is a little different than the usual. If you’re willing, share a time when you made a faulty assumption that resulted in unintended consequences. It’s time to get vulnerable, people.
Join me next time for more Murders Under the Sun.
(cue music)
VO: This episode is brought to you by Oasis Air, your wings to Paradise. Murders Under the Sun is edited by Jim Wilbourne, theme music is by Eclectic Blends, and I’m your host, Molly Shure.
Part Four
MURDER UNDER THE SUN
SEASON SEVEN; EPISODE THREE
* * *
MOLLY: Welcome to Season Seven of Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.
Today, Devon’s nightmare gets darker, Fiona gets even more worried about what is happening up on the mountain, and Gwen makes an appearance. But before we get into that, I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you to all you lovely people who told your stories on the Facebook page this week.
I laughed, and I was in tears. Several people shared about health assumptions they’d made that turned out to be tragically wrong. A cough that wasn’t the flu, but was lung cancer. A pain in the side they’d thought was from spicy Mexican food until the moment they were being wheeled into the OR for an emergency appendectomy. On a happier note, there was a woman who believed she was in early menopause only to discover she was six months pregnant.
Several stories revolved around disappointing relationships. People who’d accepted others at face value only to discover they were cons or worse. A recurring theme in these anecdotes was a line that went something like this: It never occurred to me that people could lie or cheat or steal with such impunity.
I believe this is an indication of one of the most common and problematic assumptions of all—that others look at the world the way we do. It’s called cognitive bias.
My belief—hopefully it isn’t too idealistic—is that most people are decent. They might shave a little off their taxes if they think they can get away with it, but they’d tip a hard-working waiter well.
This is why, those who have a very different worldview often take us by surprise. We don’t understand narcissists and psychopaths because we aren’t narcissists and psychopaths. We don’t understand people who’ve lived on the edge of survival their whole lives, because we have been comfortable most of ours.
Part of my mission as a crime journalist is to make you—the lovely, honest, thoughtful people—a bit more skeptical. To put you on your guard, just a little. To help you become wise as serpents but remain gentle as doves.
Poor Devon is having his eyes opened. Because he’s a lawyer, you’d think he’d be less gullible than the average person. But his experience was primarily with one flavor of bad guy—the guy who preyed on his wife.
Devon isn’t a wife or a woman, and perhaps being exposed to only one kind of criminal did him a disservice. Cognitive bias may have given him a false sense of security. Possibly even a sense of superiority. I hate to think that about him, but I understand how it could happen.
Let’s get into today’s episode and see if my musings have any bearing on the events. Here’s Devon.
When they returned from the bank, Rico posted up on the living room couch and began trolling the internet on Devon’s phone. Devon went directly into the kitchen, poured himself the end of the morning coffee, and put it into the microwave to warm.
He didn’t need more caffeine. There was enough adrenaline pumping through his veins to keep him awake for a week, but he wanted the sound of the microwave to mask his real chore.
As it whirred, he slid open drawers looking for a weapon that could compete with the knife Rico had pressed against his throat earlier. There were butter knives in the top drawer, and every kind of utensil you could think of in the second, but no sharp knives. He yanked open the drawers next to the refrigerator, nothing. Then the cupboards. No knives, not even a cast iron frying pan. Rico must have hidden them while Devon slept.
The microwave dinged. Agitation flushed Devon’s face and heated his body. He loosened his collar, struggling to breathe. Air. He needed air.
He strode into the living room. “Want to make snow angels?” he asked Caleb, who was sitting on the living room floor running a toy truck across the brick hearth.
“Yes.” Caleb leaped up and headed toward the door.
“Snow suit,” Devon said.
His son pivoted and raced to the bedroom. Devon caught Rico’s eye as he followed. Rico gave him a curt nod. He looked away. He wasn’t asking for permission. Rico wasn’t his warden.
Ten minutes later, they were packed like sausages into their snow clothes and heading out the door. “Stay where I can see you,” Rico said.
Rage mixed with the agitation coursing through Devon. He didn’t trust himself to answer. He slammed outside.
Caleb dropped to the ground in the front yard and began swiping his arms and legs frantically, but there was no smile on his face. The joy his son had exhibited in the snow their first day in the mountains was gone. Devon had to fix this, but he couldn’t see any way to do it before Monday when the banks opened. He paced between the house and road thinking while his son created angels.
Five or six angels later, Caleb said, “Can we go sledding, Daddy?”
Devon stopped pacing. He was surprised by his son’s request. He thought he’d have to drag Caleb to the hill after his accident. “Sure, but not today. When Rico leaves.”
Caleb stood. “When is Rico leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” Devon said with more confidence than he felt.
Caleb moved three feet to the left and dropped to the earth again.
“How many of those angels are you going to make?” Devon said.
“All the way around the house.”
“That’s a lot of angels.”
“They’re safe.”
Caleb’s words were like a punch in the gut. Devon couldn’t protect him from the tension in the cabin. He might not understand the danger. Might not understand what was happening, but he knew something was wrong, and he was doing the only thing he knew to do—make angels.
Devon wished he could shield Caleb emotionally as well as physically. He’d have to try harder to act as if Rico weren’t a threat.
“Hello, there.” A voice startled Devon from his thoughts. He glanced up to see a tall man, gray hair sticking out from under a hunter’s hat with earflaps.
Devon smiled, but felt his shoulders tense. He shot a glance at the house. “Hello.”
The man waved behind him. “I’m your neighbor, from down the road. The green A-frame.”
Devon hadn’t noticed the house, but it must have been at least a quarter of a mile away. He’d watched the odometer from the last house to the cabin on the way back from the bank. He’d wanted to know how far he’d have to run if he got the chance.
“Name’s Bob,” the man continued.
Devon stuck out a gloved hand. “Devon.”
“I’m friends with Roger and Gayle,” Bob said as he shook hands. Devon must have looked blank. “The owners of your cabin.”
“Oh, right,” Devon said. “I forgot their names.”
“I told them I’d pop by since I was in town this weekend. They had a little trouble with the hot water heater last month. Wanted me to check everything was working right.”
“Seems to be,” Devon said. “We’ve got plenty of hot water.”
Bob’s eyes shifted toward the cabin. “Maybe I should take a look at the pilot.”
Devon stiffened. “It’s fine.”
Bob chewed the inside of his cheek, obviously torn between his promise to Roger and Gayle and being pushy.
What if Devon let him in? What would Rico do? Nothing most likely, but Devon didn’t want to anger the man. On the other hand, if he could get it through to Bob that there was a problem, that he should send the police...
“I makin’ angels.” Caleb interrupted their conversation.
Bob pointed to the pile of snow and branches they’d erected yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? Seemed like so much longer. “I like your snowman,” he said.
Caleb popped up, his back as covered with white powder as a sugar donut and ran to the dilapidated edifice. “He lost his face.”
“We can fix that.” Bob walked over and began wiping at the snow. “Here’s your eyes.” More digging. “And mouth. A raccoon must have eaten the nose. I’ve got a carrot at my place you could use.”
Bob turned to Devon again. “Want to stop by later for a hot drink and a visit? It can get lonesome up here in the winter.”
“And a carrot.” Caleb pumped his fists.
Rico wouldn’t allow that. Devon pulled his son into a hug. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
“It’d be nice to have company.” Bob grinned.
Devon gazed at him for a long moment trying to think of what to say and how to say it in front of Caleb, but Bob spoke first.
“Well, I’d best be heading back before the snow starts again.” The man put a finger to his hat and shot it forward in a kind of salute.
“Thanks for stopping,” Devon said, then hesitated. He needed to say something before he let him wander away. This could be his only chance to get help. A creak and a slam sounded behind him.
“Hello there,” Rico said.
Caleb wilted in Devon’s arms. The smile on Bob’s friendly face wilted as well. Rico’s poison infected everybody, apparently. Devon had sensed it as soon as he’d seen him in the doorway, but he hadn’t trusted his instincts. He’d relied on logic, and logic had failed him.
“Hi.” Bob’s eyes shifted to Devon. “I thought you and the boy were the only ones here until your wife came up?”
“Rico’s car—“ Devon started to say, but Rico interrupted.
“My car broke down last night, and Devon was nice enough to let me sleep on the couch.”
“Do you need a ride to town? I have my truck back at the A frame,” the ever-helpful Bob said.
Rico shook his head. “Nope. Tow truck is on the way. Devon, here, offered to give me a ride home. We’re good.”
“All right, then. Let me know if you need anything. I’m just down the road.” And with that, he trudged off in the direction he’d come.
Devon watched his retreating form with a sense of loss completely out of proportion to the event. Even if he’d gotten a message to Bob, and the cops came and arrested Rico, what was to stop Myron from sending another thug?
No, the best plan was to pay off Rico, suggest he tell Myron he’d roughed Devon up, then he could collect whatever Myron was going to pay him, as well. It was a win-win for Rico, and Devon could be rid of both of them.
Bob stopped and turned back. An illogical hope leaped into Devon’s chest. “I’d double check the pilot light on that heater if I were you,” Bob called.
The hope burst like an over full water balloon. What had Devon expected him to say? I’ll let the Sheriff’s Department know what’s going on up here. Or, I’ll be back with my shotgun. “Will do,” Devon said and steered Caleb into the house.
7.3.2
FIONA
The afternoon appointments ended at 3:30. Fiona spent the next two hours vacuuming, dusting counters, and sterilizing equipment. At 5:25, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and she decided to make a run for the car. She drove home slowly on the slippery roads, listening to the music of the windshield wipers.
As she pulled up to her house, she searched the street. She’d seen police cars patrolling last night and wished there was one around now. She’d feel better if an officer checked under the beds and in the closets before she entered the house.
