Listen

6

Damien drove toward his work, glancing at Jenna every few seconds, trying to figure out what to say. She only leaned against her window, gazing out, seemingly not even there. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“This is unlike you. You’re not one of those kids.”

“And what kind of kid would that be?”

“A kid that hits other kids. You were a pincher in preschool, but you got over that phase.” Damien smiled, but Jenna didn’t. “Look, why don’t you just explain it. I want to hear your side of the story.”

“It won’t change anything. I’m suspended. Probably grounded.” She looked at Damien.

“Well, um, yes. Of course. But still, you need to tell me what happened.”

A long, strong sigh escaped from Jenna, and she finally sat up. “It goes down like this. A girl was being mean. To another girl. So I hit her.”

Damien didn’t react. He wanted to listen, hear her out. “Okay.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“This isn’t some epic tale.”

Damien took a deep breath, trying not to lose his patience.

Jenna turned the radio on, switching the channel to some horrid sound called alternative rock.

Damien pushed it off. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your attitude, but it’s not acceptable.”

“You want to give me some speech about the power of words, Daddy? Something about how I should’ve tried to use my words? You know what? Sometimes words are the problem. And sometimes they can’t fix things.”

Damien nodded, alarmed at her tone, but glad she was at least talking. “Okay. I understand that.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“Then help me understand.”

“Just ground me. And let’s leave it at that.”

“Fine. You’re grounded.”

“From what?”

“You pick, since you want to go this thing alone.”

Jenna’s scowl couldn’t hide the surprise. She attempted a halfhearted shrug. “Whatever. Fine. The Internet.”

“Perfect. One week.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

Frank told the Caldwells to go inside and wait there. He backed the crowd away to give them their space. Gavin was calling animal control and covering the cat with a sheet so he could take his coat back. Frank turned to cross the street.

Tim Shaw stood still, watching the scene.

A nearby man approached Frank before he got to the other side of the street. “I have some information.”

“About the cat?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I work at Al’s Hardware Store. Tim’s a frequent customer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, he was in the other day. And he paid with cash.”

“He paid for what in cash?”

“His items.”

“You’re saying he bought a rope?”

“No. He didn’t buy a rope. He bought some weed killer. But he paid in cash. He pays for a lot of things in cash. You know, maybe trying to cover something up.”

Frank glanced at Mr. Shaw, who was still standing there, looking worried. “All right. Thank you.” He started to walk off.

“It’s just, you know, there was a conversation.”

“On the Web site.”

“Yeah. Something about getting even.”

“How do you know it was Mr. Shaw talking about Reverend Caldwell?”

The guy shrugged and pointed to the tree. “The cat kind of says it all, doesn’t it?”

Frank continued across the street. As he neared Mr. Shaw, the man looked more and more alarmed. “You’re Tim Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk inside.”

He led Frank inside the house. A woman, presumably his wife, stood near the large front window, like she’d been peeking out the country blue curtains. She walked across the country blue carpet and stopped by the country blue couch. A collection of rooster images, from framed prints to metal-and-wire cutouts, hung on a far wall.

“I’m Officer Merret.”

“Darla.” She gave a limp handshake and sat down. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” Frank asked.

“We went over this morning when we heard all the commotion, and Beth yelled at us to get off their lawn,” Tim explained. “I’m not sure why they’re so upset with us. We’re friends.”

Frank sat down in a dark blue recliner. Through the kitchen he saw two poodles anxiously panting at the door. “You’re aware their cat was hung-” he cleared his throat-“from a tree.”

“Yes,” Darla said, squeezed close to her husband on the couch. “That’s awful.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

Darla’s mouth dropped open, and Tim’s eyes widened. “They think we hung their cat?”

“That’s what they said.” Frank gave them a moment to process it, closely reading their reaction.

“Why would they think that?” Tim said, anguish in his voice. “I’m the head deacon at their church. We’ve known Ted and Beth for years.”

Frank wasn’t sure how to broach the next subject. He took his time figuring out how to say it right. “Okay, look; they mentioned a Web site. Are you aware of it?”

“A Web site? What Web site?”

“It’s called Listen to Yourself.”

“Never heard of it,” Darla said and looked at her husband. “Have you?”

“No. What is it?” Tim asked Frank.

“I’m not sure. I only recently discovered it myself. A fellow officer told me about it. Apparently someone is going around town recording conversations and posting them on the Internet.”

Tim and Darla stared at each other, then at Frank. This wasn’t sinking in.

“According to the Caldwells, there is a conversation on there-you’re talking about them. I don’t know the specifics because I haven’t seen the actual conversation. But whatever it was, they’ve concluded that you’re angry with them.”

As if guilt had cloaked Darla, everything about her changed, from her expression to her posture. She turned to Tim, who still didn’t seem to follow.

Tim asked, “What do you mean, our conversation?”

“Like I said, I don’t know that. But this Web site is called Listen to Yourself and-”

Tim walked over to the breakfast bar, where a laptop was open. He cleared the screen saver and typed quickly.

“What are you doing?” Darla asked.

But Tim didn’t answer. He seemed to be scrolling. Then he stopped.

Beyond the hum of the refrigerator, silence hung as Tim leaned toward the computer, reading. Frank looked at Darla, who continued to glance between Tim, Frank, and the front window.

Then Tim turned. “Oh no.”

Darla stood. “What’s the matter?”

Tim didn’t seem to know what to say. He stared at the floor, shook his head, his hand on his cheek.

“Tim! What’s the matter?”

“It’s… it’s the conversation… the other night, when I was mad.”

“About the vote?”

“Yes, yes. About the vote. The whole conversation is on there. Except there are, uh… The, um, curse words. Aren’t.”

Frank had noticed that too. Whoever was recording these conversations seemed to be taking out the cusswords.

It felt like the air in the room disappeared. Frank said, “Why don’t you both sit down.”

Tim made his way to the couch, his eyes distant. Darla looked totally stunned. They sat down, this time a small space between them. Both stared at Frank as if he had an answer.

Finally Tim spoke, his face tightly drawn. “They think we hung their cat just because I was mad at him?”

Frank decided to take it a different direction. “Sir, do you go to the hardware store? Al’s?”

“Yes. All the time. Why?”

“Were you there this week?”

“Yes.”

“What did you buy?”

Darla’s face looked like it hadn’t seen the light of day in a decade. She tried to keep her composure, but her hands were shaking. “Weed killer, wasn’t it?”

Tim nodded.

“Did you pay cash for it?”

“You really don’t think we did this, do you?”

“Did you pay cash, sir?”

“Yes, we pay cash for everything.”

“You pay cash for everything?”

“Yes.”

“No credit cards or debit cards? What about checks?”

“No. Cash. Except for bills.”

“Why?” Frank asked.

“It’s the envelope system,” Darla said.

“The what?”

“It’s a method for getting out of debt, living within your means,” Tim said. “You pay cash for everything, like clothes, groceries, things like that.”

Darla hopped up and grabbed her purse, pulling out a small, yellow book. “See? Here.” She handed it to him. Inside were small envelopes filled with cash. Each envelope was labeled differently: Groceries. Dining. Date night. Pharmacy.

Frank handed it back and scribbled a note about it.

“It’s Dave Ramsey’s idea,” she said.

“Who’s Dave Ramsey?” Frank asked.

Darla pointed behind Frank and he turned around. There, standing in the darkness of the far corner of the room was a life-size cardboard cutout of a man, balding, fiftyish, pointing his finger toward Frank.

“He’s a financial guy. Writes lots of books,” Tim said. “To help us stay on track, we took him and had him blown up.”

“Enlarged,” Darla said quickly. “What Tim means is that we had him enlarged. We don’t blow things up, of course. Or people. Or hang things.”

“Look, Officer, I don’t know what’s going on or how they heard our conversation, but we did not kill the Caldwells’ cat. I was angry when I was speaking to my wife. But that was a private conversation, and the next day I was over it. Ted has not mentioned a thing about it to me. I didn’t even realize he was upset. He canceled coffee early this week, but he said he was busy. I didn’t think twice about it.”

Frank stood and closed his notepad. “All right. We may need you to come in and answer some more questions later.”

Darla seemed to be in full-blown panic. “Do we need a lawyer?”

“No,” Tim snapped. “Of course not. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I can’t answer that question, ma’am. Do what you need to do. But for now, I’d advise staying away from the Caldwells until this thing is sorted out.”

Tim seemed sad more than anything. He walked to the window and looked out, his back slumped. “I can’t believe this is happening.”