As they snapped their satchels and cases closed, Detective Warner spoke to me. “Mrs. Murdoch, we’re sorry you’ve had such a scare, but since you say nothing else has been ransacked and nothing taken, I think this was just a random act of vandalism.” At my expression, he hurriedly said, “Not that that isn’t bad enough, but you’re unlikely to have a repeat visit.”
“Let us hope not,” I said, unable to stop wringing my hands. “But what about”—I turned and pointed at the center of the room—“that?”
“Well, that’s unfortunate, but fairly typical of a vandal.”
“Aren’t you going to take it with you? For DNA testing?”
He looked startled for a second, then smiled in a slightly patronizing way. “We usually reserve that test for major cases. It’s pretty expensive, you know.”
“Send me the bill.”
He stared at me for a minute, then turned aside. “Hey, Mac,” he said, stopping a passing officer, “be sure to get a specimen from”—he turned and pointed to the center of the room—“that.”
“Get more than a specimen,” I said. “Take it all, why don’t you? Just in case.”
After they’d left, Sam closed and locked the window—a little late, but even so. Then he stuffed a pillow in the gaping space where a pane of glass had been and anchored it with masking tape.
“I’ll get this repaired first thing tomorrow,” he said. “And I’m calling a locksmith to put keyed locks on all the windows. I don’t want to come home to something like this again.”
“Me, either,” I said, as I scrubbed the carpet on my hands and knees. “This is the worst thing in the world. Who could’ve done it, Sam?”
“Anybody passing by and seeing an empty house with a party next door, I guess.”
“Well, I’m just thankful that there were no presents under the tree. He surely couldn’t have resisted lifting a few.” I sat back on my heels, wiped my forehead with my arm, and said, “Sam, do you think we were targeted? I mean, a lot of people were at the party, so there were a lot of empty houses around. Why was ours chosen?”
“Honey, there’s no telling. And no need to worry about it. There’s unlikely to be a repeat performance.”
“Well, a lot of people could be unhappy with me because of how I feel about that house next to the Pickenses. And maybe about a few other things.” Images of Helen Stroud, Madge Taylor, and Pastor Robert Rucker—all of whom had reason to hold umbrage against me—flashed through my mind, but I, even in my outraged state, had to smile at the thought of any of them leaving such an unlikely calling card as the one we’d found.
Chapter 32
“Julia,” Sam said as we sat at the breakfast table the next morning, “I’m convinced it was just random vandalism, as the detective said, and a young vandal, at that. Think about it. No real damage was done, other than one broken pane in the window. Nothing else was broken, and nothing was taken. It couldn’t have been a professional looking for something to steal.”
“You’re right,” I agreed, “he didn’t take anything from us, he just left something for us.”
“Law,” Lillian said, who was as shocked and disgusted at what we’d found as we were, “that jus’ run all over me. What be in somebody’s mind to do such a thing?”
“It’s usually viewed as a message,” Sam said.
“Usually?” I asked. “You mean it’s done a lot?”
“Unhappily, it is. And it’s usually a message of disdain—to express his feelings toward the owners, even though he may not even know the owners. In other words, it’s not necessarily a personal message. The perpetrator feels put upon and resentful toward the world in general, and it’s his weak-willed way of getting back.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake,” I said, “you’d think he could come up with a better way to leave a message than that.”
“Actually,” Sam said, turning his coffee cup around in its saucer, “he did.” Glancing up at me, he went on. “I wasn’t sure I should mention it, but he left a note. I found it this morning when I was going through the papers he’d strewn over the floor.”
“Of course you should’ve mentioned it! What did it say?”
He reached into his shirt pocket and held out a folded pamphlet featuring a picture of some bare, ruined abbey he’d visited in Europe. Along the margin, in black magic marker, a message had been printed in wiggly letters:
QUIT BEING A JACKASS OR ELSE.
I gasped, then thrust it in front of Lillian. “Look at this! Does it bring anybody to mind?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, her eyes wide as she looked up at me, “it most cert’ly do.”
—
Later that morning, while thinking of what Sam had said, I realized that he’d been trying to allay my feelings of having been deliberately targeted. He had not succeeded, because I was convinced that we, or rather, I, had been the focus of the depositor. And, furthermore, I had identified the perpetrator to my satisfaction, and to Lillian’s as well. We knew who had been in our house and, between us, Lillian and I recounted to Sam the run-in Lloyd had had with Sonny Taylor.
“It’s still a guess,” Sam said, urging caution before we accused the rascal. “A good guess, most likely, but it’s not proof.”
I finally conceded that it was best to leave it alone because nothing had been stolen or irreversibly damaged. As Sam pointed out, the newspaper and television news would have a field day with a court case based not on fingerprints but on bowel contents. After considering the possibility that our elegant library might be referred to as a roadside rest stop, I sighed in defeat and put aside my desire to publicly accuse Madge’s son.
“And,” Sam had gone on to say, “I wouldn’t mention my suspicions
