Brock first checks the foyer window, with me following, checking myself. A squad car is still there, and I wonder how long he’ll be there until Officer Lopez replaces him.
“Okay, the house is still being watched, so we can go out back and check the shed,” Brock says, going back into the living room and to the sliding glass door. Herc is behind us, wagging his tail furiously.
I follow Brock outside; the sun is bright, and it feels slightly cool but not bad. Thankfully, no snow has fallen for a few weeks, so no worries about ice. Herc starts growling at the stupid cat in our tree. I swear he lives there. “Shhhh, Herc,” I slightly scold him. I bend down and rub his neck. “It’s just a cat.”
Brock opens the door and we both go in. He flips on the light, the one I asked him to replace because it’s dimming. Hopefully, it holds out while we’re here. I wonder if we should tread lightly, but then why? This is our property, our shed. Still, I can’t help but feel a little anxious about what we’ll find.
Brock heads to the back, where the large blue canisters stand. The shed is fairly large; Brock built it about 20 years ago, close to when we moved in. The old one was smaller, with the gray paint chipping off. It looked weather-worn, and I wanted a larger area for all my garden stuff. So, he built me a new light crème color shed with two matching window boxes I fill with colorful plants each year. Inside, toward the front, a row of shelves houses my fertilizer, pesticides, and herbicides; underneath, there is a large enough area for soil and mulch. On the back wall, the lawnmower and edger sat. He installed a row of hooks on the east wall to place the shovels, rakes, etc. The two blue canisters fit under the shelves along the west wall.
I’m unsure if I should help him open them or let me have a go at it. I scan the yard as he’s pulling them out from underneath so he can grasp the lid of the first one. Herc is still eyeing the cat, sniffing the air. “Okay, you ready?” Brock claps his hands.
“No, and yes.”
He grabs the lid and starts turning it. Curiosity and all that leads me to watch. My heart is beating fast, and I feel my stomach turning somersaults. Once it’s turned all the way, he opens the canister, and we both stare at gallon-sized white bags of white powder, dozens of the stuff packed in the container. “Oh my God,” I clamp my hand over my mouth.
“Trice, this has got to be worth a ton of money.” He pulls the other one out and opens it. More drugs in bags are in this one, too. “We can’t touch this and need to contact Gray now.” He’s right. This is evidence.
He screws both lids back on and pushes them under the shelf. We leave the shed, and this time, Brock locks it, telling me the key is on his keyring.
“One thing that still bothers me,” I say. “We were gone for nearly a week. Why didn’t they try and find whatever he stashed then?”
“Well, the police were parked on our street every day and night, remember? They would have been caught.”
“Ah, true.”
When we go back inside, I call Gray and tell him what we discovered.
“You’re kidding,” was all he said. He then promised to be over with his officers and the drug unit ASAP. “Stay inside until we arrive.” He ends the call, and Brock and I sit on the couch, both shocked at the discovery that has been in our shed for probably close to a year.
“Now, it makes sense,” Brock says.
“Yeah. The amount of drugs in those canisters amount to probably a million dollars or more, and it’s all in our backyard shed.” The realization sinks in, and I get why our home and our lives have been targeted.
A few minutes later, I hear a knock at the door and Gray announcing his arrival. Brock and I rush to the door and let him in.
‘Okay, show me.” Following him are drug-sniffing dogs, two more officers, and another officer in charge of the drug unit. Soon, the street will know something is up. At least four police cruisers and the Canine Unit van are parked on our street. Thankfully, kids are in school at this hour.
We all file out back and to the shed. The police officers are stationed on both sides of the yard, watching the area and standing guard. Brock opens the canisters and Gray has the drug-sniffing dog go to work. His tail is wagging hard and Gray says, “It’s definitely drugs.” With his latex-gloved hand, he pulls out a bag, opens it up, and sniffs the contents. “Smells like Coke.” He takes another bag from the second canister and does the same thing. “This smells different. Could be Fentanyl.” I’m dumbfounded. The two most lethal drugs have been sitting in my shed, and my neighbor, whom I mourned and grieved his passing, was dealing drugs and used our property to stash them.
The bastard.
“So, this is why you two have been targeted for so long. I’m so sorry,” Gray says, shaking his head. “I’m going to take the heat off you. We will have a press conference and announce what we found and that it will be removed and sent to a secure location, so this thug or thugs will have no reason to keep targeting you. I’ll notify the news stations. This will not stand on my watch.”
Oh great, now our home will be broadcast to the whole world, but I can’t argue with him; this is the right thing to do. It’s just when it’s removed, what happens then? Will we ever find out who killed Goldie? Will we be back to square one?
“If it’s moved, how will you catch the people or person? Wouldn’t it be better to trap them? We know they will try and find the drugs. Maybe we should let them keep trying and then catch them in the act,” Brock says, which does make sense. “If you take it, we may never find out who killed Goldie and is after us.”
Gray contemplates Brock’s question as he inhales deeply and puckers his lips. “You have a point. Okay, but you must leave again for a few days or so. If they get wind that you’re leaving the house, they may decide to try and find the drugs. We will stay hidden and have the officers in an unmarked vehicle. Officer Lopez and Holder will stay there at night with your dog, but stay out of sight. You have cameras on the perimeter, right?”
“Yeah, two in the front, on each side of the house, and three on the back, one in front of the sliding glass doors and two by the side fences,” Brock says, pointing to the area.
“Okay, they will monitor the cameras. If there’s any movement, they will see it. Hopefully, this perp will be caught. When we leave, tell your neighbors you thought you heard someone in your garage, but it was a stray cat.”
“What about the Canine unit?” I ask, knowing there will have to be a good reason why the dog is here.
Officer Lopez speaks up and says, “Tell them you found a cat who knocked over a bag of white powder in your garage you hadn’t seen before and wanted to know if it was a drug. When the results came back, it was just diatomaceous earth that Brock had bought years ago and put into a box. The cat found its way inside, knocked the box over, and spilled the contents. Enough said.”
That would work.
“Okay, we’ll go with that plan,” Gray says, seemingly impressed with her clever excuse. “Can you take off again for a few days, say to a Hotel in Salt Lake?”
Brock and I look at each other and nod. “Yeah, we can do that,” Brock says. “At this point, I’m willing to do what it takes to put the thugs behind bars.”
“Same,” I pipe in. “I just want this nightmare to end.”
“Okay, get your reservations for tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. The weekend is a perfect time for them to try again. You’re off for a romantic weekend for an anniversary or something,” Gray says.
“My birthday is coming up in April,” I announce.
“Well, there you go. Brock is taking you away for a birthday weekend celebration in Salt Lake City.”
I just remembered that tonight is Garden Club. We are discussing Spring planning. I can’t miss it, as we’ve only held it four or maybe five times in the last year. Two times, I couldn’t meet, and one time, we canceled because only one person was coming. The rest of the time, we dealt with Leah and Trevor’s home being broken into, us being threatened, and others ill or away on vacation. Plus, it’s been winter, and no one really cares about gardening until Spring, which meteorologically begins next week. March is planning month for gardeners, and April and May are typically for buying and planting. I plant all season, though.
This is the first time that everyone is supposed to come. I won’t tell anyone of our plan, well, maybe Leah. I’ve hidden so much from her, and we rarely talk now. She’s busy with her new adventure as a vintage boutique shop owner - they opened late last year. She’s there quite often, and when I do talk to her, she seems happy to be busy. I also haven’t released a YouTube garden video in almost a month, and have decreased my marketing consultant business while dealing with this mess.
We all file out of the backyard; by now, the street is humming with people gawking and whispering. Our street has had its fair share of shocking events this past year. I wouldn’t be surprised if people started moving out and our property value decreased.
“Nothing to see here, folks. Mrs. Summers wanted a box of powder tested a cat had knocked over in the garage. It wasn’t drugs, just some old pesticides,” Gray tells the growing crowd.
“I guess that’s what happens when you live with a gardener,” Brock jokes as he grins and shrugs. That gets some laughs, and people start leaving.
“Let me know when you two are going to leave tomorrow, and I will get Officer Lopez and Holder here,” Gray says before leaving. We nod, with me feeling guilty they have to leave their families to stay in our home, but Officer Lopez said her boyfriend would take the kids to his parents for the weekend, and Officer Holder is young and unmarried.
I still hate that we are once again in danger. But at least now, we know why.
After everyone left and Officer Lopez and Holder pledged to be here when we leave tomorrow, Brock and I flopped on the couch, each absorbed in our thoughts. I have to call a Salt Lake hotel and get reservations. We’re supposed to only be gone for a few days, but what if the person targeting us doesn’t show up while we’re gone? Do we stay longer? What if they come back tonight before we leave? Our street was once again center of attention today and will be when the gardening group meets again tonight.
“I’ll call Marriott in Salt Lake and see if we can get reservations for tomorrow night and Sunday,” I tell Brock.
“Yeah, okay.” As I watch him, I notice he looks more tired than usual. Dark circles look prominent under his eyes, and fine lines are more pronounced. His gray hair is nearly all gray now, and it seems both of us have aged a decade in the last year. I don’t think I’ve had a good night's sleep all year.
After getting our reservations and packing – yet again – I get ready for the gardening group. Since we’re nearing Spring, this is the time to start planning our gardens, but I haven’t had any desire to plan, let alone think of the plants I want to grow this year. My mind keeps wandering to the shed and what is contained in two blue canisters – the amount of drugs is mind-blowing, and no doubt, whoever is after them will go to great lengths to ensure they get them.
I look in the hall mirror before opening the door to the first gardening group member. I rub my lips together after putting on some rose lipstick and smoothing my hair, which is nearly to my shoulders now. I lightly pinch my cheeks to bring some color to my cheeks, a trick my mother taught me when I was younger. Squeezing your cheeks lightly brings the blood to the surface so you display a pinkish tint.
I think back to the gardening group. If they knew our home had been cased out, broken into, and there were possibly hundreds of pounds of drugs worth a ton of money sitting in our shed, they’d never believe it. Hell, sometimes, I can’t believe what I saw in my own backyard.
Officer Lopez was in an unmarked car next door, watching the house. She didn’t like that we were having people over, but I told her this meeting had already been canceled several times. We have to act normal – at least for tonight.
“Welcome,” I say, taking the cheese and crackers tray from Roger, a new group member as of a few months ago. He’s wearing light jeans and a black hoodie. His sandy brown hair waves to the side, reminding me of a California surfer, which is apt since he’s from the state. His blue eyes stand out and are a deep hue piercing you when you stare back. He looks about as tall as Brock, around 6’2, and a slight pinkish scar runs down his neck. I wonder about the story surrounding the wound.
“Hi Patrice, your home is gorgeous,” he says, his eyes following up and down and around as I lead him to the living room. I place the platter down and motion for him to sit on the sectional and wait for the remaining members. He’s single, says he went through a divorce last year, and is trying to put the pieces of his “dreadful” life back together again. He’s a mechanic and works 10 hours daily to pay for child support for his 8-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter. I feel bad for his situation, especially when he told me his wife had an affair and petitioned for a divorce six months later. What is it with couples having affairs and then divorcing their spouses shortly after?
The doorbell rings, and I quickly walk to the door—Herc’s in Brock’s office with him while I host the group. I told Officer Lopez I was planning on seven people tonight and that each person would bring a platter of food, so if anyone showed up without one, she would know to be suspicious.
After everyone shows up and the food has been passed around, Leah starts the conversation surrounding today’s police call. “Trice, what was really going on here earlier?” She asks me after taking cheese and crackers. She’s holding a butter knife and waving it around. “I mean, we all know, or should know, you don’t just call the police to check if something is poison or not.” of course, I dread where this is going, and I feel trapped. What can I say? You’re right, Leah. The police were called because a ton of drugs were found in my shed, and our home has been a target for nearly a year, if not longer now. Instead, I tried to make it into nothing.
“I didn’t call them; Brock did. A stray cat pulled over a box of some white substance in our garage. We don’t know how the cat got into the garage in the first place, and we were concerned that Herc would mess with it and possibly end up ingesting it or getting into his skin. We had to ensure it was safe, and since I didn’t remember purchasing it, it was better safe than sorry.” And that was that. A few members seemed to buy it, but others still looked at me as if I was telling them a lie, especially Leah and Veronica, my true crime partners.
It was nearly 9:30 when the meeting ended. I put away the remainder of the plates and cups and was now reading in my bed. For the most part, the meeting went well. We actually talked about gardening, and by the end, I was getting excited about the plants I would grow this year. For a few hours, chatting about nothing but gardening felt normal. We each had developed our gardening plan, and I was given them so I could “grade” the space, plants, water, fertilizer, soil, etc., to ensure they chose the best garden for their space.
Our reservations were for the morning. I told Brock we could spend the day in the city and check in that evening. We would stay until Monday morning – three nights. If whoever was coming to get the drugs did so in that period, Officer Lopez and Holder would be ready.
I just pray everything goes as planned.
And if it doesn’t … who knows what will happen?
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