The Back Door of Midnight Read Free Page B

on the unsolved murder of Joanna O’Neill. He had attached to his letter a copy of a newspaper article, with the date circled.
    YOUNG MOTHER KILLED IN ROBBERY, the headline blared. I took a deep breath and read.
    Last Monday evening, twenty-two-year-old Joanna O’Neill, niece of William and Iris, was found murdered in their home. The crime occurred in the living room of the O’Neill homestead, “old Doc O’s house,” as it is commonly called, next to the bridge over Oyster Creek. When William O’Neill and young Anna, Joanna’s three-year-old daughter, returned from shopping, William noticed that the entrance hall of the home was in disarray. After putting the toddler back in his truck, he found the bloody bodyof Joanna. Rooms on both floors had been ransacked.
    According to the coroner, the victim died from blunt force trauma to the head. A pair of silver candleholders and a large amount of cash were taken from the house. No weapon for the murder was found. There was no evidence of forced entry.
    Iris O’Neill, William’s sister, was visiting a sick friend at the time.
    According to Sheriff McManus, Shore residents “aren’t in the habit of locking doors, and someone thought he could just walk in and help himself to whatever he wanted.”
    Joanna O’Neill, who was attending Chase College, hoped to embark on a career in health care. She was known in Wisteria as a psychic and had a loyal clientele for whom she read cards. A Mass of Christian Burial was offered for her last Thursday at St. Mary’s Church on Scarborough Road.
    My mother read cards? She was psychic like Aunt Iris? Why hadn’t Uncle Will told me? Maybe he didn’t like the idea.
    I slipped the letter and article back in the envelope, feeling strange. I knew I had loved my birth mother—I had seen pictures of us together. But the face I thought of with sadness was Uncle Will’s, when he saw the ransacked house, when he put me back in his truck, when he searched and found Joanna dead. The loss I felt from his death was beginning to seep through my initial state of shock, tightening my throat, making me blink back tears.
    A loud knock at the front door jolted me out of these thoughts.
    “Hello? Anyone home? Hello!”
    I wiped my cheeks and blew my nose. Leaving bills and ads on the kitchen table, I carried Uncle Will’s letter into the hall, stuffed it in my suitcase, then opened the front door.
    “So you found your way.” It was the guy from next door, without his hot costar. He held out his hand, a large hand with a silver wristband to show off the tan. “I’m Zack.”
    “I’m Anna.”
    Standing face-to-face with him—or rather, face-to-chest; he was about a foot taller than me—I found myself wanting to back up. His eyes were intense and didn’t miss a freckle.
    After a moment he said, “I see Iris isn’t home. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
    “No, I haven’t a clue. She rushed out of here.”
    He nodded, then glanced toward the vehicles parked at one end of the house. “My stepmother sent me over. She would like something done about the goats on the back lawn.”
    “The goats?”
    “You didn’t notice them,” he said. “Unfortunately, Marcy did, and she went ballistic. They don’t go well with her . . . garden soiree.”
    “Aunt Iris raises goats?”
    “No. They’re clients.”
    For a moment I was puzzled. “Oh, I see. She grooms goats.”
    “No, she’s their therapist, their psychologist.”
    “You’re kidding me!”
    “I think the goats take it seriously,” he replied, then smiled. “Here’s the problem: Marcy wants the goats gone, like, immediately. Perhaps you could talk to their owner—”
    I began to shake my head.
    “Or the goats, whichever works best,” he said, his eyes bright, as if laughing. “Iris usually goes along with what Marcy wants, and while I don’t care and Dad doesn’t care, Marcy’s throwing a major fit.”
    “Well, if she doesn’t want goats ruining her view, maybe she should