The Easter Raid

On Easter Sunday, Shawna and I went home. Dinner was in Hayden, in the very house adjacent the house occupied by the artist formerly known as Melva. The eerie emptiness called to us and all it took was a short jaunt around the house to realize no intact door or window existed to keep us from some Scooby-Doo-gang type snooping...

Once we moved the large sheet of whatever shoddy material the ceiling was made out of from the doorway, all it took was a hop, skip, and jump through a rusty nail littered minefield to make it into the inner sanctum. Every room looked precisely as if a psychotic cat lady had been plucked out of it 20 years ago and given a thick dust coating. Otherwise untouched.

The floors were covered with clothing and knickknacks. Bra here. 1963 essay contest award certificate there. Book entitled "The Problem with Crime" underfoot. But what initially drew me in sat patiently on a coffee table in the front sitting room: a Mead spiral notepad filled with maniacal scribbles. Further investigation led to the discovery of another. And another. Altogether, 4 little notebooks and an inbound letter. We gathered them and passed through the tetanus minefield to the (mostly) asbestos-free air outside...

Now once I wrangle up a few pairs of rubber gloves, I begin to crack the code of Melva. Notepad one I tackled bare fisted and it left me with a whirlwind of unanswered questions. What money are you talking about? Who are you begging to release you? Why was it so important to you that Henry Mancini died? All questions I hope to answer after thumbing through the remaining three...

Also, I mowed down the legendary domestic desert cat of AZ Highway 177 that night. Hate to say it, but it was you or me, buddy. You or me.