The Stamford Pistachio Trail, Part II
The Kitchen
Rosie stayed with Merri for the rest of the night. They talked for a while under the covers, and then Rosie perched on her elbow, watching Merri sleep. Her slumber would slip into a loud snore...mouth agog, unaware, and then the wind or something else made its presence known within the house, and Rosie would give her cousin a nudge. Merri never woke fully but only changed position. Near dawn Rosie heard the light, persistent tapping of snowflakes against the house, and the wind seemed to have died down.
Merri did not wake kindly in the morning. All elbows as she rose, she croaked something about not having enough room and then left toward the bathroom, and Rosie didn’t see her again until they were all downstairs for breakfast.
As usual, Ronnie and Merri fixed breakfast for their cousins. The two showed flair in the kitchen, always to the amazement of Andy and Rosie. For one thing, they both liked to cook. But the truly amazing part was that they seemed to get along while doing it. And so it was toasted bagels topped with butter and jelly or cream cheese and lox, a fresh-cut fruit cup if you wanted it, and then a tomato and cheese omelette Ronnie whipped up with a hint of basil. A relative feast, so to speak.
Rosie helped Merri do the dishes, then they all went upstairs to get ready for church; hurrying to leave time to head out to the shack and look for any trail.
The snow had stopped falling, leaving an inch of fresh cover on the hard pack which crunched as they trudged across the field in their snow boots and Sunday best. The wind was light across the open expanse but it was very cold. They found a set of fresh boot-prints -- no mistaking it -- which led away from the door of the shack and toward the woods. Only they didn’t reach the woods: they simply stopped in the middle of nowhere. Rosie didn’t like it at all and ran -- or waddled, for the hard pack was slippery -- back to the house.
The others went into the shack. Cold and barren, it felt like a dead place. There was a lonely bench seat along the length of one wall, and a number of small rusted hooks protruding higher up on the ancient planking.
“They say,” said Ronnie, “when Creedy returns, all his tools are here as if he never left at all.”
Eventually the others joined Rosie out front in the driveway. She didn’t want to hear anymore about the haunted shack, and when Merri set out alone toward the road to wait, followed the elder under the guise of providing company.
The Adlers lived on a long, twisting back road lined with overhanging trees, dark gullies, and low, ancient stone walls. Gothic, ominous, and nothing like back home in New Hampshire. Now frozen over and blanketed in white, it was all rather lovely.
“There’s a strangler loose,” Merri said matter-of-factly with her breath of vapor, watching down the road, hands buried in the pockets of her coat.
“A what?”
“You know -- a killer. They’ve been trying to catch him for months. I follow it in the papers. Even The Times wrote about him. They say he came up from the city, but I think he’s local. He knows the area. Stamford, I mean.”
“Who does he strangle?”
“The weak, mostly. But he also killed a cop, so no one is safe.”
“Why does he do it?”
“That’s a good question.”
“What does he use?”
“Whatever’s handy…”
They were called back then; everyone was ready to go. They joined the others and piled into the rear of Aunt Ann’s station wagon. All except for Nana, of course, who had her own room on the first floor and watched church on TV, and Uncle Jerry, who waved them off from just inside the garage with the Sunday papers clutched under his arm.
“Why doesn’t he have to go?” Rosie inquired.
“He’s Jewish,” someone replied.
“Sounds good to me,” said Andy.