Desperate Measures

The thief knew what to do and how to do it. With closing time only minutes away, no one would notice items surreptitiously removed from stock. An inventory would eventually disclose the inaccurate count, but it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Small counting errors happened all the time.

“Besides,” reasoned the thief, soon to become a murderer by proxy, “I need to protect my investment.”

When it came to safeguarding one’s interests, desperate measures were often necessary. What did it matter that they included cold-blooded murder?

###

“It’s all ours!” Heather Samuelson jammed a slim key into the lock of the townhouse she and her sister Sally had purchased in Lewisburg, Oregon. Moving-in day had arrived. She twisted the key once, then twice.

“Hurry up. This is heavy.” Sally shifted the weight of a box she was holding.

“The lock won’t turn,” Heather complained, twisting her key a third time. She brushed damp curls from her forehead, eager to get out of the hot July day. “My key worked yesterday. Do you think we need to call a locksmith?”

“It’s not the door or your key. It’s you. Try again.” Sally shifted the heavy load once more.

“Maybe it’s that ghost our realtor was telling us about.” Heather paused reflecting on their realtor’s parting comments once the sale closed.

“You told me to wait until you’d signed the final papers before I got specific about ghosts.” The realtor waited until both Sally and Heather nodded. Then she continued, “I’ve never seen one. That’s the good news. The bad news is, strange things happen here. Your new home has an interesting history. Should I continue?”

The sisters had nodded, eager to take possession of the two-story townhouse. It had been affordable, the bank had been eager to get rid of it, and the timing was perfect for two young women concentrating on their careers.

With a sigh the realtor continued, “Neighbors complain of doors slamming when there’s no wind, and they told me no one has lived in the house for ages. They also said children have avoided it for generations, but of course we know that isn’t true.”

The sisters laughed, waiting for the punch line.

Only there hadn’t been one.

The realtor wished them well, promised to handle the sale if they decided not to stick around, and with a wave, hurried to her car.

###

WHAT SHOULD BE AVOIDED?

Add one letter to each of the words below to form a new word. The addition may be at the beginning, end, or within the word. Place the added letter on the line below the boxes. The added letters, reading from left to right, will form two 6-letter words that answer the above question.

G, H, I, N, O, O, O, P, S, S, S, T

Heather jammed her key in the lock once more. “Either there really is a ghost and he wants us to stay out, or we need a locksmith.”

“More repairs?” Sally sighed. “The next house we buy better not come equipped with a ghost and things that don’t work. Hold this.” She pushed the heavy box into Heather’s arms and fished in the pockets of her shorts. “I’ll bet you’re planning to add our ghost to your next computer game.”

“Good idea,” Heather nodded. As a successful computer game developer she was always looking for story ideas.

“Got it!” Triumphantly Sally displayed a slim key and shoved it in the keyhole. When the lock turned she pushed the door open and took the heavy box from her sister. As they stepped into their barren living room, they heard an unfamiliar burring. “Is that a telephone?” Sally set the box she’d been carrying on the floor.

“I’ll get it,” Heather said, racing to the kitchen. “Hello?” she gasped when the receiver was in place.

“Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound out of breath.”

“Aunt Myrtle?” Heather smiled and settled down to talk to her absentee relative. She glanced back at Sally, amazed to see her tall blond sister standing beside a frail-looking woman who seemed to have materialized in the center of their living room. Heather shivered. Was she one of the spooks?

“Heather? Are you there? Answer me. What’s wrong?”

“We’re fine, Aunt Myrtle. Sally and I just came in the door with our arms full. You’re the first person to call our new phone number.”

“Do I win a prize?” Myrtle Wilson was always optimistic.

“No prize. It just means the phone is working.”

“No prize, huh? We’ll have to see about that. Now then, the reason I called is to tell you I’m moving to smaller digs. I thought you’d want to know. Since my furniture has been handed down from your great-great-grandparents, I’m passing some of it on to you girls. For your new home.”

“Thanks, Aunt Myrtle, but…”

“Don’t interrupt, Dear. That’s bad manners. I’ve already shipped some nice pieces. They’re promised for delivery at noon tomorrow. I’m arriving in Portland in the morning at eight. On United. Make sure someone picks me up.”

“But…”

“You’re doing it again, Dear. Stop interrupting. As I was saying, after I help arrange your new furniture and tell you its history, I’ll get out of your hair and go home. That’s a promise. See you in the morning, darling. Be on time. Bye now.”

“Wait a minute, Aunt Myrt!” Heather raised her voice and leaped to her feet. Ordinarily she never shouted. “Aunt Myrtle?”

The dead phone buzzed in response.

“Aunt Myrtle hung up on me,” Heather complained as Sally entered the kitchen with a plate of cookies. “Where did those come from?” she asked, slamming the receiver into its cradle.

Sally thrust the plate into her sister’s hands and helped herself to a cookie. “The old lady who brought them said her name is Laura Bender. She lives on the west side of our living room wall. I suspect she’s the one who’s been leaving cookies on our doorstep all week.”

The sisters had purchased the center unit in a triplex. During the week, as new carpet was being laid and a new furnace installed, pastries had mysteriously appeared on their doorstep.