Idaho Fall: A twisty whodunit, page 1
Idaho Fall
A twisty whodunit
D.J. Maughan
Hulyeseg Inc
Copyright © 2024 by D.J. Maughan
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For you, Laurie. From the first time you welcomed me into your home as a sixteen-year-old kid, you made me feel part of the family. You are a wonderful example of love, kindness, and compassion. Thank you for being the best mother-in-law a man could have. I love you!
Chapter 1
Rita
The cost: $2.27 million. Not pesos. Dollars. Good old Uncle Sam American currency. That’s what I paid for this house only six months ago. The median home value in Idaho Falls is $425,000. This means that I paid $1.845 million more than almost all the other twenty thousand homeowners in the area.
All that money, yet the simplest thing doesn’t work. I mash the garage door opener harder this time, digging my nail into it. Nothing happens. I grit my teeth and push open the driver’s side door of my Mercedez Benz S class.
Aside from the smattering of outdoor lights adorning the brick structure, the house is dark. I walk down the driveway and up the steps leading to the front door, my tennis shoes silent on the newly formed concrete.
I peer through the expansive custom iron door window at the entrance. It’s dark. Not a light on inside. I curse and pull on the door handle. Nothing happens. I press the handle, squeezing the latch. It doesn’t give. Muttering, I bang on the door. Silence. I reach inside the jacket of my coat but feel nothing. It’s empty. I turn back and look at the beam of headlights and exhaust streaming from my car. When I exited the gym fifteen minutes ago, my heart was pumping so hard I could barely bring myself to wrap my jacket around me. Now, with the coolness of the morning and dampness of my clothing, I can feel the nip of the air biting my skin. It does little to help my mood.
Before turning back to the car, I reach over and press the button on the video doorbell. A chime sounds, and the ring around the button lights up and dances with flashing lights in a clockwise direction. Echoing within the house, I can hear our speaker system announce, “Someone is at the front door.”
That does the trick. The large chandelier hanging in our entrance bursts to life. I can see my husband, James, coming down the stairs. He’s wearing his normal bedtime attire—sweatpants and a white T-shirt. When he reaches the front door, he looks out, trying to determine who might ring the doorbell this early in the morning. He sees me, and I can tell from the blurriness in his eyes, I’ve wakened him. No surprise there, his laziness is a constant point of frustration. He unlocks the door, and I push it open as he pulls. I’m so angry I brush past him, shaking my head, my ponytail flipping from side to side.
“What time is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. Like always, he’s oblivious to my emotions. “Did you forget something?”
I turn back to glare at him as I continue down the hallway to the garage. I can hear him trailing after me. I open the door, push the button on the wall, and slam the door in his face as I descend the stairs and walk toward the car. When I reach it, I shift into drive and enter the garage. James stands at the opening of the house, watching me. I press the button on the vehicle and watch with frustration in the rearview mirror. Nothing happens. It doesn’t work.
“What’s with you?” he asks as I exit the car and walk toward him.
I glare at him, shake my head, and look away.
“What?”
“What time is it, James?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Exactly. “Are any of them awake?”
I needn’t have asked. His silence says it all.
“It’s already seven ten. David’s going to be late, again… Donovan too. If they get one more tardy, they’ll be marked ‘unsatisfactory.’ Do you know what that means? They’ll have to pay a fine and do makeup work or they won’t graduate.”
I brush past him in the doorframe, and he mutters something.
“What?” I ask, flipping around. I’m challenging him with my eyes, daring him to repeat it. I’m at least a head shorter, and probably a hundred pounds lighter, but he knows better than to say what’s on his mind and looks away. I watch him, my eyes smoldering, then turn away and walk down the stairs to the basement.
Everyone knows about a new-car smell. That smell lingers in a new vehicle after purchase but eventually fades the more it’s driven. New houses have a new-home smell. It’s different from the car, but no less potent. Maybe it’s the fresh paint or the new carpet and flooring. Maybe a combination of everything. Our house still has it.
We have four sons. The two oldest, David and Donovan, have bedrooms downstairs. The two youngest, Gilbert and Reed, share the upstairs with us. Our home is a large, modern, two-story structure with an acre of land behind it.
I flip on the lights on the stairway, cross the large family room, and reach my oldest son’s bedroom door. I don’t bother to knock and push it open. The smell of teenage boy overwhelms me. It’s a mixture of body odor, sweaty feet, and rotting food. I flip on the light, and he jerks in the bed. His phone rests on the nightstand beside him. It’s buzzing and lighting up.
“David, get up!” I shout. “You’re late.”
He groans, and one eye opens, his thick, brown hair matted on his head. He turns away from me toward the wall. I walk across the room, grip the covers, and pull them down. He jerks again and turns his head back toward me.
“What’s your problem?” he says without opening his eyes.
“You can’t be late again. If you’re late, you’ll have a U.”
“So?”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t see it. His eyes are still closed.
“David… get up.”
He opens one eye, blinking against the light. He’s wearing nothing but black underwear. A smattering of body hair around his nipples and on his stomach. He’s a big kid, as big as his father, and recently I can’t stop from wondering how I pushed him out of my body seventeen years ago.
Seeing I won’t back down, he pushes up from the bed. “Fine.” He walks past me toward the bathroom and shuts the door.
I step to it. “And the shower has to be short. You can’t be in there over two minutes.”
He speaks, but not to me. He tells the speaker system to play a band I’ve never heard of, and loud rap music blares. I exhale, shake my head, and leave his room. I cross the basement and approach my second son’s bedroom door. I’m about to barge in, but stop when I see light emanating from below. I knock, pause, then enter, not wanting to see another naked teenage boy.
Donovan sits on his bed, fully clothed, staring at his phone. His backpack lies beside him. He looks as ready as he can. Only his shoes are missing. His glasses are crooked, and one pant leg is tucked into his sock. I enter the room, but he’s still not looking at me.
“Donovan?”
He turns, startled. “Hey, Mom.”
“What’s with this room?”
“What?”
“Look at it,” I say, demonstrating with my hand toward the floor. “Why can’t you clean up after yourself? Look at this. You can’t even see the carpet.”
It’s true. The floor is covered with clothes. It seems every piece of clothing he’s ever owned adorns it. He has no idea what’s clean and what’s dirty.
He looks at me, then the floor, then back at me. “Sorry,” he says and looks down.
I sigh and shake my head. “Are you ready to go?”
“Almost.”
“Okay. Well, get your shoes on and come upstairs. David’s not ready yet, so you can eat something before you go. And I want this room cleaned up after school or no video games.”
He nods, and I exit the room. I walk back to the bathroom door and hear the shower running. David’s singing at the top of his lungs to a song I’ve never heard. It’s off-key and sounds terrible.
“David! Shut off the water and get dressed. You have to leave in five minutes!”
He doesn’t reply, so I bang on the door. The water turns off, and I can hear him moving around. After a few seconds, the bathroom door opens, and he jumps when he sees me standing there, arms crossed.
“Gosh, Rita. Take a chill pill.”
I hate it when he calls me Rita, which seems to be all the time now. “You have three minutes,” I say.
He’s wearing only a towel around his waist and walks past me into his room. He drops the towel, exposing his naked butt. He turns his neck and smiles a “kiss it” smile.
I throw my hands in the air, shake my head, and walk up the stairs. I enter the kitchen and see my three youngest boys sitting at the bar. Donovan followed my instructions and came up to eat breakfast with his younger brothers.
Our kitchen features a large quartz island with six barstools scattered across one side. James stands at the sink; he’s now wearing a dark hoodie and sweatpants. Gilbert, my second youngest, sees me and swivels away from his Life cereal.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi,” I say grumpily and cross my arms, looking at all of them. “You know, I want you to understand something. I can’t do everything in this house. I work so hard every day, providing all this. I can’t be responsible for all of you too. I need you guys to take some responsibility. I need you to help.”
James turns from the sink, and we look at each other, but he says nothing. I
“Donovan,” I say, “go with your brother.”
Donovan gives me a “Why me?” look, takes another spoonful of his Fruit Loops, and grabs his backpack, running after his brother. David reaches the front door, and I can see he’s got white earbuds in his ears. I walk down the hall after them to watch from the front room window as they climb into the old Toyota Camry James had once used as his commuter car.
James’s deep voice coming from the kitchen pulls me away from the window.
“Come on, boys, let’s go. We’re carpooling today.”
Gilbert is in his second year of junior high, and Reed is in his first. I leave the front room and head them off as they reach the door to the garage. I reach out and hug Reed. My baby with blond hair and green eyes is almost as tall as me now. I wish him a good day, and Gilbert wraps an arm around my shoulder. He passed me in height a couple of months ago. It won’t be long before he towers over me like his big brothers.
“Bye, Mom,” Gilbert says, and the two boys walk down the stairs to the Tahoe, looking at their phones as they go.
I feel James beside me before I turn around. We look at each other, and he says, “Sorry.” He keeps his distance, making no effort to touch me. He shrugs and half smiles. “What can I say? I like my sleep. I guess that’s where David gets it.”
He’s trying to pass it off as no big deal, but I hear it as just another excuse. Why can’t he shut up and own his mistakes? We stare at each other, the two feet between us feeling farther with every passing day.
For years, we were happy. I should say, he was happy. I was the mother at home, raising the children, running the kids to school, and volunteering in the classroom. He was the husband hustling off to work every morning, late. Life was hectic, and money was tight. Nothing like going to the grocery store praying your card works when you checkout. The embarrassment when it didn’t.
It was on a day like that when inspiration struck. Frustrated with my life and looking for more, I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair didn’t have any gray yet, and wrinkles had yet to appear around the corners of my eyes, but lumps appeared under my clothing. The toll of carrying four babies inside of me for nine months was visible. I was a mom now. Men no longer gave me a passing glance. I dreamed of a nonsurgical solution. Something that a common woman, like me, could afford. What if clothing could accentuate your assets while minimizing your flaws? I got out the sewing machine I was so accustomed to using to mend and fix the boys’ clothes, making them last just a few months longer until they outgrew them. I worked for weeks, day and night, taking advantage of any minute I could find in the day. I was obsessed. Finally, after countless hours, I had it. It was a bodysuit I wore under my clothing. It did exactly what I wanted. My body was mine again, like it had been before the stretch marks and nursing.
I began wearing it under everything. I knew it worked; James couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I caught men checking me out. It fit with any outfit. I felt young and confident, and other women were noticing too. Before I knew it, my friends were asking if I was going to a trainer or on some special diet. They asked if I could make them one. I was getting so many orders I couldn’t keep up. That’s when my clothing line, BEAU, was born.
“I can’t be the one to wake them every morning, James. You’re the adult. David and Donovan are in high school now.”
His jaw sets. “Exactly. They should be able to get themselves up. It shouldn’t be up to me all the time.”
I fight to control my voice. “And what else do you have to do? You don’t work. They follow your example. You expect teenage boys to get up when you can’t even get yourself up?”
He glares down at me, then walks past, raising his hand in an “I give up” gesture. He descends the stairs, gets in the car, and starts it up. I step forward, but he’s reversing out of the garage without so much as a glance back. I shake my head and close the door. I lean against it, enjoying the silence but angry with yet another fight, when I look down at my watch. It’s two minutes to eight, and I’ve got a video call in two minutes. I rush into the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, and run up the stairs to our bedroom. I grab my laptop from beside the bed, put my coffee on the nightstand, and walk toward the double doors that open onto the balcony overlooking the back of our house, my de facto office. I love this spot, especially on days like today.
The balcony opens to the west. In the mornings, the sun rises behind the house, casting a blanket of light on the view in front of me. The mountain range in the far distance makes me feel comfortable and familiar.
I hold the laptop in one arm while typing my password with the other. When I reach the balcony, my foot slips, and I lose control. The laptop flies forward, and I react by stretching to catch it before it falls. It’s a mistake. I know it immediately, but it’s too late. I catch the laptop just in time for my body to slam into the short railing at the edge of the balcony. I almost go over but stop myself. I look down, blowing out air in relief. That was stupid. If I had gone over the edge, it might have killed me. It’s a long way down to the patio. A movement catches my eye, and I turn to see someone coming toward me. The face is hidden beneath a black hoodie, but I know exactly who it is. The figure pushes me, and my momentum is too great now. I can’t stop it. I flip over the rail, arms and legs flailing as the blue sky and sun’s rays pass further from me. After twenty feet, I strike the composite wood surface with a loud thump, and everything goes black.
Chapter 2
I don’t quite know how to describe it. It’s not like I opened my eyes and suddenly became aware of my consciousness. I don’t even have eyes. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t have shape. I just…am. I don’t have physical constraints, but something is pulling me. It’s not above me. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Only a massive shade of blue and the sun. The sun lights the area all around me, but I can’t feel its warmth. Although the colors are vibrant and intoxicating, it’s no more potent than a lightbulb. It’s not the sky above that calls to me. It’s something on the ground. Some gravitational pull.
I look down and see a body. It’s a woman. Her legs and arms are spread. She’s lying on her back. Her brown hair with blonde highlights is pulled back in a ponytail. Only a portion of it is visible under her head. As I examine her, my consciousness moves closer. Her skin is pale, lifeless. A ripple like a cool breeze flows over me as I approach. Her eyes are shut. She looks as if she’s asleep. She’s wearing a bright-pink long-sleeve shirt, black leggings, and bright-pink tennis shoes. A logo of a B is embroidered on the left side of her chest. Something’s wrong.
Beneath her, on the deck surface, pools a crimson liquid. She shouldn’t be here. Something happened to her. As I search for the origin of the crimson liquid, a sound from within the house grabs my attention. I move away from the body. Inside the house, a man enters the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of coffee. He exits the kitchen and ascends the stairs. I follow him as he enters the large bedroom. I know him. I recognize him, as if he’s someone close to me. The blankets on the bed are disheveled. He moves toward the bathroom but stops. Taking a sip of his coffee, he looks at the coffee cup on the nightstand beside the bed. He walks over to it. Seeing it full, he turns and looks to the balcony. His expression changes, and he walks toward it.
When he reaches the threshold, he stops.
“Rita?” he calls, looking around. “Rita?”
Rita? Is that the woman on the ground?
He steps out onto the balcony and nearly slips, gripping the railing. The railing is low, only reaching partway up his thigh. He looks down. “Rita!” he screams when he sees her. He drops his coffee cup and sprints through the room and down the stairs. He runs out the back of the house to the patio deck.
“Rita!”
The woman doesn’t respond or move. He kneels beside her, reaching out tentatively, then stops.
“Rita,” he calls, but she doesn’t react. I can see the source of the crimson liquid now. The back of her hair is matted with blood. It pools on the surface and drips down.
