Page 13 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

thirteen

. . .

Elle

Dragging a full-grown man across a dewy lawn is harder than it looks.

And by that, I mean it’s impossible. My arms ache from trying to move him.

My fingers are stiff with cold and damp grass clings to my knees.

I’m breathing like I ran a marathon in wet jeans.

Nothing like on TV or in the movies. Which should surprise exactly no one.

All the energy from my adrenaline rush is gone. I’m pretty sure I could close my eyes right now and sleep for the next twenty years. I don’t see where I’ve been able to move his body more than an inch. If that. I’m not out of shape. I mean, I’m not exactly in shape either.

My last doctor’s visit to discuss my hot flashes ended with, and I quote, ‘You need to be in the best shape possible going into menopause.’ Which is rich, considering I have kids in high school and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

So obviously there’s no way I’m going into menopause.

All this to say, I need help. And when I say help, I mean my best friend, Amy. She’s my ride or die. The one who has always sworn to help me bury a body if I need it. But, to call her, I need my phone. Which is on my nightstand charging.

I don’t want to leave Doug here alone while I go get it. Which is so completely irrational I don’t even understand myself. What do I think is going to happen? Still, I point at him and say, “Don’t go anywhere.”

Then I grab the gnome and sprint across the yard and up the roughshod stairs built into the embankment leading to mine. I turn to check on Doug once I reach my balcony. I can’t see him. Not clearly anyway since he’s on the ground and it’s dark. But I know he’s still there. I can feel it.

I step inside my room and grab my phone off the charger and hit the button to call Amy. I get her voicemail, so I hang up and call twice more, pacing the length of my bedroom. The third time she answers.

“Hey,” she asks groggily.

“Can you come over?”

She says something that sounds like ‘when’ so that’s what I go with.

“Now. I need you to help me bury a body.”

“Mmmhmm,” she mumbles sleepily. “‘Cause we’re ride or die, bitch.”

“Amy!”

“Yep.”

“I need you.”

“Hang on.”

I hear the rustle of her bed sheets as she struggles to get out of them. Unlike me, Amy has zero problems sleeping. She sleeps like a baby. For real. As in, she swaddles herself in her covers and is out for a solid eight hours at a time. It drives me nuts.

“Okay. I’m up.” She yawns. “Do you need anything? Wine? Ice cream? I think I have Girl Scout cookies in the freezer still.”

“Ames, why would need wine and cookies to bury a body?”

“Wait,” she sounds more alert now. “You’re serious?”

“It’s three in the morning, do you think I’m kidding?”

“Holy shit, Elle. Are you okay? Are the kids okay? Who died? Oh god, it’s not Kiki V-T, is it?” Her words run together she sounds slightly panicked. “You killed Noah?”

“The dog is fine. I didn’t kill Noah.”

“Thank God. Okay, then who are we burying?”

“I’ll explain when you get here. Come to the back yard. And don’t let anyone see you.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

It takes her a good twenty minutes to arrive.

In that time, I’ve checked on my kids once—they’re still asleep, and Doug twice—he hasn’t moved, and I’m feeling calmer.

Until I see her face, then I feel the panic rise again.

I run my hands through my hair and tug at it as I recount the events leading into tonight—his behavior at my house.

The things he said about Jaq and the way he looked at Jill. The confrontation in the Jenkins’ backyard, how Doug attacked me, and I fought back. And ending with how I’d swung that stupid gnome like it was my only chance at survival. “I killed him with a garden gnome,” I finish lamely.

“A gnome?” Amy stifles a giggle and stares at me as if waiting for the punchline of a joke.

“Yes! And now he’s dead!” The words tumble out in a rush, each one heavier than the last.

“Okay,” she says slowly, processing what I’ve just told her. “So, you’re saying you killed him with a garden gnome?” This time she doesn’t suppress the laughter. “I’m sorry, I know, inappropriate reaction. But, really, a gnome?”

“Yes.” I can’t believe she’s laughing at time like this. My life is falling apart. I point to the murder weapon. “A garden gnome.”

“In the head?” She confirms.

I nod.

She puts a finger against her lips, then points it at me. “So, you’re saying you gnome-domed him?”

Then, I can’t help it. I laugh with her. Uncontrollably.

“Gnome-domed?” I ask, gasping. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

“It’s a gift.” She shrugs.

When we sober she leans down to pick it up. “It’s heavy.”

“I know!”

“Oh shit,” she says. “Now my fingerprints are on the murder weapon too.”

“Pretty sure that’s the least of your worries at this point,” I say.

“Where is he now?” she asks.

“Who? Doug?”

“No, the gnome! Yes, Doug!”

“Sorry, I’m a little freaked out over having just committed murder. Excuse me if I’m not following the interrogation completely.”

“Well?”

“In the Jenkins’ backyard,” I admit, feeling shame wash over me like cold water.

Amy’s eyes widen. “You just left him there?”

“Yes, I left him there! What was I supposed to do, carry him out?” My voice rises in pitch as frustration bubbles over.

“Okay.” Her voice is low and serious now. “We need to call the police.”

“No!” The word bursts from my lips before I can stop it.

“If I call the cops, I don’t get to explain.

I just become a woman who killed a man. A mom in handcuffs.

That’s all they’ll see. Not the fear of Doug.

Or what a sleaze he is. Er was. Just blood and gore and a garden gnome.

They’ll think I’m a murderer!” I brandish the gnome to illustrate my point.

“Because you are!” She throws her hands up in exasperation.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen!” I feel myself bordering on hysteria like no other. “What have I done, Ames? I can’t go to prison, what will happen to the kids?”

“Okay,” she says again, softer this time. “It’s going to be okay. What about Noah? Can we call him?”

“Oh, hell no!”

“Okay, okay. We just need to figure out what to do next.” She takes a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as she thinks through our options. “We can’t just leave him there.”

“I know!” My heart races as panic sets in again. “Don’t you think I know that? I tried to move him. I can’t do it by myself.”

“Elle,” she says firmly, grounding me with her gaze. “We are capable, intelligent, resourceful women. We can handle this like adults.”

“Adults?” I scoff bitterly. “What kind of adult gets into this situation?”

“The kind who needs to bury a body,” she replies matter-of-factly.

I stare at her for a moment, disbelief mingling with admiration for her calmness in this absurd situation. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” she says with a smirk that almost makes me laugh despite everything.

For the first time I notice her outfit. She’s dressed in head-to-toe black looking comically bad-ass in tech pants, a slim fitting long-sleeve t-shirt, and a well-loved pair of Docs, complete with a beanie covering most of her bright red hair.

And then I realize she has brought a large duffel bag with her as well and the whole thing makes me smile because it’s kind of quintessential Amy to be so prepared.

“What’s in the duffel bag, Mr. Wolf?” I ask.

“Who’s Mr. Wolf?” she asks.

“He’s the clean-up guy from Pulp Fiction. You know, the one who comes to clean up the dead bodies after a kill. As in get rid of them.”

“Oh.”

“The joke isn’t as funny when you don’t get it,” I say drily.

“Don’t make it so esoteric then,” she says.

“Ohmigod, there’s nothing esoteric about Pulp Fiction . It’s Quentin Tarantino. He’s a national freaking treasure.”

“I forgot you like those kinds of movies.”

“Everyone likes those kinds of movies.’

“Not me,” she says.

I roll my eyes at her.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asks.

“What do you mean, what’s the plan?” I ask back.

“What’s the plan? Like what are we doing?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”

“So, I need to come up with the plan?” she asks.

“Yes, you’re good with that stuff. I mean, look at you—you’re dressed the part, and you brought a murder bag.”

“It’s not a murder bag, exactly.”

“What is it then?” I ask.

“Shovels, duct tape, rope, face paint, rags, bleach, that kind of stuff.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a murder bag at all.”

“I watch a lot of true crime, and it never hurts to be prepared.”

“Come on, we need to move him before the sun comes up or the kids get up whichever comes first,” I say.

We’re already halfway down the hill before I realize I’m still holding the gnome like Doug’s going to come after me again. Jesus Christ.