Rumble Bumpkin by Sam Cheever

Author:Sam Cheever [Cheever, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Electric Prose Publications

13

Maeve Rodriguez lived in an apartment building at the edge of New Fredrickstown. It was a ten-apartment complex built on one level, and looked like it might have once been a motel. The front was covered in aged gray cedar and the roof had probably once been black, though it was faded and stained from the weather. The apartments all shared a single grassy area in front that could loosely be called a yard, but I could see privacy fencing in the back, presumably giving each resident a secluded outdoor space.

Hal’s first two knocks went unanswered. When we were about to leave, we finally heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

It was opened by a tall woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. She was attractive in a slightly worn way, her long, curly hair framing an oval face with large amber eyes. She pushed hair off her damp face with the back of one gloved hand. “Can I help you?”

Hal showed her his credentials. “I’m Hal Amity and this is my associate Joey. We wondered if you could answer some questions about your ex-husband?”

To her credit, tears filled her strange-colored eyes. “Are you working with the police?”

Technically, we weren’t, but Hal told her a version of the truth that wouldn’t get us thrown out on our ears. “There’s been some speculation that Gary’s death was an accident. We’re trying to find out what happened to him.”

She nodded, stepping away from the door. “Come on back. I’m working in my garden. We can talk while I work.”

We stepped into what was basically a one-room apartment, slightly larger than a motel room and tidy, but worn around the edges. A queen-sized bed was angled in the back corner, with a bedside table to one side and a tall dresser against the wall on the other side.

A large television hung from the side wall and a couch and two chairs were arrayed around it. On the other end, a small but spotlessly clean kitchen dominated. Maeve led us through the kitchen, which was floored in curling orange and green linoleum and had a table that was only big enough for two.

“It’s through here.” She opened a screened door and we stepped out into a magical place.

The postage-stamp-sized space was dominated by flowers of all colors and shapes. Bushes of densely flowered lavender shared a bed with pink and yellow dahlias, and gorgeous green and pink coneflowers were nestled among a variety of ornamental grasses. The aged wooden privacy fence was all but invisible behind a wall of mature bamboo plants. Small, decorative trees anchored the outside two corners and a row of late blooming rose bushes hugged the house walls. Tucked beneath the occasional plant or tree were kitschy metal statues. I saw a dachshund, a couple of playful kittens, and a butterfly that danced on the end of a springy metal rod.

A waterfall pond in the center of the outside wall sent the soft sound of falling water through the space, giving it the final touch it needed to be perfect.

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