And now, back to our story

Let’s see, where was I? Oh, right: dead assistant, bloody mattress, dark night, killer still on loose.

To be more accurate, Adelle was no longer my assistant before she died. I had left our common employer almost 23 months earlier. Unlike most of the other faithful subordinates who, over the years have declared to me, “when you leave this place, I’m resigning,” Adelle was good to her word. She had started her own business, based out of her home aka scene of the crime.

How to describe Adelle? She was maybe 5’5” brown hair, brown eyes, caps in front with a slight overbite. She wore a skirt suit with hose and matching pumps everyday; I stood in her closet looking at those dozens of outfits that would soon be sold or given to charity. She had curves, the kind that Dashiell Hammett could describe so well, but which have never done much for me. She had a hard edge, and smoked as only a European or Fullerton resident can. Finally, and it may be uncharitable, were the sporadic episodes of halitosis. The smoking, combined with the kava she continuously drank (and, I suspect, less than complete attention to dental hygiene) made her breath potent enough to bring tears to your eyes even as she sat on the other side of your desk. Fortunately, these episodes were not a daily occurrence; it is easier to fire someone than to have the personal hygiene discussion.

Rereading this description, I see that you might get the impression that she was not attractive. To the contrary, I think many men found her attractive - there certainly appeared to be many men in her life. Now she was dead. As I wandered through the house I noticed it was dark, even with every light turned on, lots of dark wood and carpeting. Most of the walls were festooned with kiddy art, drawn by her son and not unlike the colorful items that decorate cubicles everywhere.

“I Love Mommy.”

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

Well, I thought, there won’t be any more of those. I tried to remember the name of the last guy who lived with Adelle. After I left our common employer we kept in touch, but not frequently. There was almost always a guy living with her. She would go out on Friday nights to drink and dance, bring some guy home and he would stay for six months. Pizza cartons and beer bottles littered the family room. A late model import sat in the garage - totaled.

I found the liquor cabinet, which appeared untouched and full of exotic liqueurs from Europe. I thought I needed a drink, or at least deserved one. I grabbed a bottle of Bols Advocaat but, I wrongly assumed, the eggs had gone bad. I later discovered that there are two varieties of Advocaat: a more liquid "export" version found in the U.S. and the "thick" Advocaat which is sold mostly on the Dutch market and eaten with a spoon. Not the time to be drinking, I thought, best to keep your wits about you.

I would have had that drink if I had known that this was not to be a one time event. Adelle’s son had done this. A decade later, the son of yet another of my employees would also commit a cold blooded murder.

Not far from where I stood, an elderly man, a man I knew, was committing unspeakable wrongs on the people who trusted him the most.