Selling Murder House

Chapter 7 (Continued)

Then I was alone in the Madsen House. I looked around the room, taking in the white kitchen, the only reprieve from the pink monstrosity. The whole house was quiet, too quiet. I could hear the sound of my own breathing. It made me want to hold my breath.

I'd brought my laptop with me, thankfully. I pulled it out of my bag and set it up on the counter, then I thought better of it and took it to the office. The office was pink, of course, with fluffy red velvet curtains with gold accents. Much of the walls were covered by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, but the books they held were mostly varying shades of pink and purple. The desk was a deep brown wood, shiny beneath its layer of dust. I set up my laptop, covering up the space the doll had sat. I wondered who had moved it. Paul? It didn't seem likely, what business did a grown man have with a creepy little doll? Maybe a maid, I wondered, before remembering the dust and Paul's apparent lack of liquid cash.

I opened a new document to type up a listing description, which was used to tell house hunters about the house, what were its features, what was the neighborhood like, etc. It would accompany a series of photographs of the house. I pulled up the pictures I'd taken, trying to imagine what it might look like with a fresh coat of white paint. It was nearly impossible to picture. The dollhouse theme was dominant, all-encompassing.

I started to write.

This beautiful Saddlebrook home boasts six bedrooms and four and a half bathrooms. Its Edwardian style architecture combined with its classic Victorian details make this historic home a one-of-a-kind gem. Saddlebrook is one of the safest, most-sought-after communities in the city, so it's perfect for young families. Young professionals will love the close proximity to Uptown, where upscale bars, restaurants, and many offices can be reached in just a short, scenic walk . . .

A bump from above startled me out of focus. I looked at the ceiling, as if whatever had caused the noise would be visually apparent through it. I shook my head.

They say old houses make strange noises, that things go bump in the night. This sound though, I was loud. It reverberated through the house, cutting through the eerie silence like a gunshot. I waited for another sound to follow, hoping to make sense of it without the distraction of the initial shock. Nothing came.

But just as I was settling back into work, a knock at the door made me jump so high I hit my knee on the desk. Someone was at the door.

I peeked through the curtains, but a dead shrub blocked my view of the front porch. What was the protocol for this, I wondered? Was I authorized to answer the door while the homeowner was away? I suppose I'd been trusted to stay in the house alone, so there shouldn't be an issue with it. It felt strange though, making my way to the front door to answer it like I owned the place. I had a strange desire to pretend I was the homeowner, the same way I often pretended I was a resident while I walked my dog around the neighborhood. It was probably just someone selling something, what was the harm in it?

But when I opened the door, I quickly realized this wasn't someone selling something. The man on the porch was the tall man I'd nearly collided with outside the house just days before. He wasn't wearing the blue ballcap, but I recognized him all the same. He had a memorable face, with a thin, long nose and piercing green eyes.

"Mary Lately?" he asked, and, ironically, this fed right into my game of pretend.

"Uh... yes?" I said.

He nodded. He already knew who I was.

"I'm detective Anthony Chase," he said, and he showed me his badge.

I inspected the badge, as if I knew what to look for, the nodded. A detective? This I hadn't anticipated. From seeing him in passing, I would have never guessed he'd be a cop. In that moment at the end of the walk, he'd looked more like he'd be on the other side of the law, wild-eyed and secretive.

"Are.... are you here about the vandalism?" I asked.

It was a guess, but it was also a hope. There was something off about this guy. He knew my name. Maybe Stassi or Paul had called in the report, and gave the operator my name?

But he looked confused, as if he'd somehow missed the scrawling spray paint all over the front of the house.

"No, but I can get you in contact with the department about that if you haven't already filed a complaint," he offered. "I'm actually here hoping to talk to you about Paul Madsen."

So he knew Paul wasn't home. Had he been watching, waiting for him to leave? I didn't like the thought. Just then, a cloud passed over the sun, shrouding the porch in shadow. In that moment, in the shape of his bald head and the square of his shoulders, I knew who he was. I had seen him before, and not just in the light of day.

"Have you been following me?" I asked, and the anger in my voice surprised me.

The detective took a deep breath. I nearly shut the door in his face, but then he was speaking.

"I was following a lead on the case," he said, his eyes downcast.

"On the Madsen case?" I said, my voice rising nearly to a shout.

"It was a dead end, of course," he said, placating. "Some neighbors had reported sightings of a blonde woman wearing a dark trench coat hanging around the neighborhood at night. You matched the description."

My head was spinning with anger and confusion. And oddly, embarrassment, because I had been the blonde woman hanging around the neighborhood. I didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," he said, meeting my eye. I saw the whites of his eyes were bloodshot.

"So you thought I might have something to do with... with what happened here?" I asked, and my own words brought down a new, horrific reality: I was standing in the house where a brutal murder had taken place.

"Well, yes. I thought you might have some information that could help the investigation," he said gently.

"I'm working with Paul Madsen as his listing agent," I explained. "And I just started this week. I don't know anything about the case."

"I know you don't," he said. "I just wanted to warn you, about Paul."

"Was Paul involved?" I asked.

"Well, not officially," he said.

"I thought the case was closed?" I said.

"It is," the detective said, and there was a glint in his eye like fire, "Let's just say, I didn't necessarily agree with the ruling."

I shook my head. I didn't know what to make of this conversation. He had admitted to practically stalking me, and now his vague, elusive language was making me distrust him even more. I cleared my throat and corrected my posture, mustering up strength and confidence. Right now, I had to think of the listing, first and foremost. If I were Stassi, I thought, this would simply be another interesting challenge to get through in order to sell the house.

"Thank you for your concern, detective," I said sweetly. "But I'm here to help Paul sell this house so he can move out and forget about this whole thing. He should be home soon, and I don't think he'd be very happy to see you. You understand, right?"

It was as if I'd been possessed. I heard the words flowing from my mouth, saw the way they twisted the detective's face, the way they sagged his shoulders.

"Of course," he conceded.

He handed me a business card.

"Call me if you ever need me," he said, then he turned around and walked away.