Read Online A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Santogrossi
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dreaming about?
The clock on her side of the bed glowed a liquid green. Almost ten. It sat on one of the night tables Iâd built when Deirdre moved in, and I remembered the time a few months later when she spilled nail polish remover on the tabletop. It damaged the finish and left an ugly mark. Deirdre had been upset for hours, crying that sheâd ruined the only bedroom set we would ever have. Before then, Iâd been unsure of her thoughts on marriage. The following day I proposed.
I went out the front door into the electric desert night. My car was sitting at the curb. I opened the trunk and peered inside, searching for the heavy duty flashlight we kept there for emergencies.
The flashlight hadnât been used in years and I hoped the batteries werenât dead. But the light barreled out brightly, stabbing the darkness. I hurried across the street to where Branson and I had talked yesterday morning. I pointed the flashlight into the gutter, sliding the beam back and forth. Nothing. I wondered if I had the right spot, looked up at the house and knew I did. Remembered the wind blowing Bransonâs cigarette ash and widened my search. A moment later, found what I was looking for.
It was in the street now, flattened by a few tires. An empty matchbook. I turned it over and saw
BLUE BIRD MOTEL
INDIO, CA
in blue letters across the front. A small bird between the name and the location. The cardboard had been dimpled from the gravel in the street. One of those narrow ones, looked like eight matches, all gone now.
The cops had missed it. They probably hadnât come anywhere near it, other than when Branson had parked here, since it was across the street and two houses away. I looked up and down the block. Nothing moved. The wind had died down, and an expectant pause seemed to hang over the area. The hair on my arms was standing up, as if there were a static charge trembling in the atmosphere.
I sat down at the curb, thinking. The matchbook didnât appear to be very old despite having been run over. I tried to remember what Branson used to light up yesterday. Saw him flick a lighter and put it back in his pocket. So I knew the matchbook wasnât his.
Pure luck that Iâd found it. My eyes had seen it yesterday, but my brain hadnât. Rattled around upstairs for two days, until my hands were busy and my mind was relaxed. But where did it come from? Did it even matter?
I decided to do my thinking inside. Locking the front door behind me, I went into the kitchen and put the flashlight and the matchbook on the counter. The phone was sitting there, now without its mating handset. That was still lying in pieces on the floor, under the dent in the wall on the other side of the kitchen. In the shadowed room, the hole looked deeper than I knew it was. I went over and inspected the drywall, running my fingers over the damage. A little of it flaked away and fell to the floor in tiny chunks next to the broken phone, tapping the polished hardwood as they landed. The sound was amplified by the silence of the rest of the house. The harm Iâd done to the wall looked repairable, but I couldnât say the same for the phone. I picked it up and laid it on the kitchen table where it sat in silent rebuke.
There was a bottle of bourbon on one of the top shelves. I poured three fingers in a glass, and sat down at the table with the drink and the matchbook. Absently turned it over in my hand, as though I was doing a card trick. I gulped half the bourbon and it burned on the way down.
The Blue Bird Motel. Iâd never heard of it. Probably a low-rent, pay-by-the-week or -month place off the beaten track, light-years away from the glitzy resorts that populated the Palm Springs area. The fact that it was in Indio, and not part of a chain, suggested that.
Again I wondered if the matchbook had anything to do with anything. Probably just a random piece of trash. But the cardboard was still shiny and stiff, the
The clock on her side of the bed glowed a liquid green. Almost ten. It sat on one of the night tables Iâd built when Deirdre moved in, and I remembered the time a few months later when she spilled nail polish remover on the tabletop. It damaged the finish and left an ugly mark. Deirdre had been upset for hours, crying that sheâd ruined the only bedroom set we would ever have. Before then, Iâd been unsure of her thoughts on marriage. The following day I proposed.
I went out the front door into the electric desert night. My car was sitting at the curb. I opened the trunk and peered inside, searching for the heavy duty flashlight we kept there for emergencies.
The flashlight hadnât been used in years and I hoped the batteries werenât dead. But the light barreled out brightly, stabbing the darkness. I hurried across the street to where Branson and I had talked yesterday morning. I pointed the flashlight into the gutter, sliding the beam back and forth. Nothing. I wondered if I had the right spot, looked up at the house and knew I did. Remembered the wind blowing Bransonâs cigarette ash and widened my search. A moment later, found what I was looking for.
It was in the street now, flattened by a few tires. An empty matchbook. I turned it over and saw
BLUE BIRD MOTEL
INDIO, CA
in blue letters across the front. A small bird between the name and the location. The cardboard had been dimpled from the gravel in the street. One of those narrow ones, looked like eight matches, all gone now.
The cops had missed it. They probably hadnât come anywhere near it, other than when Branson had parked here, since it was across the street and two houses away. I looked up and down the block. Nothing moved. The wind had died down, and an expectant pause seemed to hang over the area. The hair on my arms was standing up, as if there were a static charge trembling in the atmosphere.
I sat down at the curb, thinking. The matchbook didnât appear to be very old despite having been run over. I tried to remember what Branson used to light up yesterday. Saw him flick a lighter and put it back in his pocket. So I knew the matchbook wasnât his.
Pure luck that Iâd found it. My eyes had seen it yesterday, but my brain hadnât. Rattled around upstairs for two days, until my hands were busy and my mind was relaxed. But where did it come from? Did it even matter?
I decided to do my thinking inside. Locking the front door behind me, I went into the kitchen and put the flashlight and the matchbook on the counter. The phone was sitting there, now without its mating handset. That was still lying in pieces on the floor, under the dent in the wall on the other side of the kitchen. In the shadowed room, the hole looked deeper than I knew it was. I went over and inspected the drywall, running my fingers over the damage. A little of it flaked away and fell to the floor in tiny chunks next to the broken phone, tapping the polished hardwood as they landed. The sound was amplified by the silence of the rest of the house. The harm Iâd done to the wall looked repairable, but I couldnât say the same for the phone. I picked it up and laid it on the kitchen table where it sat in silent rebuke.
There was a bottle of bourbon on one of the top shelves. I poured three fingers in a glass, and sat down at the table with the drink and the matchbook. Absently turned it over in my hand, as though I was doing a card trick. I gulped half the bourbon and it burned on the way down.
The Blue Bird Motel. Iâd never heard of it. Probably a low-rent, pay-by-the-week or -month place off the beaten track, light-years away from the glitzy resorts that populated the Palm Springs area. The fact that it was in Indio, and not part of a chain, suggested that.
Again I wondered if the matchbook had anything to do with anything. Probably just a random piece of trash. But the cardboard was still shiny and stiff, the
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