The Nuts on Maple Street

         

THE NUTS ON MAPLE STREET / 3,432

The Nuts on Maple Street

1

I have learned there is insanity in every neighborhood and sometimes it might be your own. It usually rears its demented head on a Monday morning just after the quiet has returned. Someone with a nut allergy gets their face licked by a dog, has a fit, runs their car into a tree and dies. That old song, "What a wonderful World", comes to mind now and somehow doesn't fit the scene out on Maple Street this morning. The wonderfully hypnotic rat-tat-tat sound of the sprinklers next door, the buzzing of flying critter-bugs, chattering chipmunks and scolding squirrels are lost to the smell of tire smoke, burning brakes and the sounds of cop cars and scrambling paramedics.

Detective Roberts looked at me questioningly, as he scribbled on his notepad. "So, Mr. Peters, you're telling me your assessment of this car accident, is the Higgin's dog, Peanut the pug, is the murderer? Am I getting that right, Mr. Peters?"

That is what I had, in fact, told Detective Roberts, the officer in charge at the accident scene. Mary Higgins, my neighbor, had apparently died from a peanut allergy induced convulsion when their pug, Peanut, licked her face good-bye this morning. She then crashed their car into the neighbor's oak tree.

"Also, Mary Higgins is attempting to kill her husband, John Higgins" I added.

Detective Roberts looked down at me strangely, raised his graying eyebrows, the wrinkles in his forehead furrowing deeper and continued writing, "You do remember that you are retired now, right, Mr. Peters? I mean, I know you were a cop, so your help is appreciated, but I hope you don't get any ideas about poking around in this investigation, OK?"

"Oh, I know, this is an open and shut case, Detective Roberts. I guess now that Mrs. Higgins is dead, the fact she was trying to kill her husband is a non-issue. What gets me is how that dog found the peanuts? That's the only mystery still unsolved in my opinion. Although, that dog was fond of getting into the neighbor's garbage cans."

Detective Roberts stopped writing, "OK, Mr. Peters, fill me in on how you concluded that Mrs. Higgins was trying to kill her husband. You know we normally don't investigate food allergy deaths, which this case appears to clearly be. Mrs. Higgins was wearing a medical alert bracelet indicating a severe food allergy. Am I understanding you correctly, Mr. Peters?"

I did my best to recall the events of the past few weeks.

"I watched Mary Higgins start her car at 9:30 am this morning. She let it warm a bit before opening the driver's side door and walking back into the house to grab her suitcase. Peanut circled her legs and jumped up, she bent down to rub his head and he licked her face. Peanut the pug killed her right there."

"Yeah, Yeah, I got that, very funny. Like we can arrest a dog for murder," Roberts said a slight chuckle escaping his whiskered lips.

"I was watching the news this morning when she drove past my house. I only looked away for a moment when it happened. I heard the squeal of brakes and yelling outside. I pulled back the curtains and that's when I saw Mr. Sanderson bolting across his scraggly lawn and into the street in front of Mary Higgins car, which was stopped directly in front of his house. What I could make out, appeared to be a convulsion happening in the front seat of the station wagon, violent enough to shake the whole vehicle. Mr. Sanderson was pounding on the driver's side window and yelling at her. Suddenly the car lurched again and Mary's head, bobbing back and forth like her neck was made of limp spaghetti, smashed into the driver's side window. The Higgins' old car took off at full speed up over the right curb. The big station wagon crashed straight into the base of that big oak tree. That's what I saw."

Detective Roberts continued to write in his little book and motioned for me to continue, "Then I saw John Higgins limping out of his house, dragging one foot behind him across the lawn. He had one of those EpiPens in his hand. He made it to the passenger's side door and flung it open. I finally got through to emergency dispatch on my house phone and gave them the address and told them what had happened. Mr. Sanderson finally got into the back seat and was attempting to help John, but basically just held her feet as John tried to drag her out of the passenger's side door. I yelled at them both to stop, knowing she might have a neck injury."

Detective Roberts pulled me out of the street and onto the sidewalk to give the paramedics more room to do their job. "OK, so to sum up, you figure that Peanut the pug somehow ate some sort of nuts from a trash can, licked Mary Higgins' face causing her to go into anaphylactic shock, resulting in the car accident and her untimely death. So why do you think Mary Higgins was trying to kill her husband?"

So, I told him.

2

"On Monday morning, one week ago, Mr. Higgins came out of his house to walk that dog. I wasn't, in fact, aware the Higgins had a dog. I had never met John Higgins before then either. He walked slowly. He carefully put one foot in front of the other and that little fat pug dragged him reluctantly off the sidewalk and up Maple Street just in front of my house. I watched from my window, the plump tan and black wrinkly-faced dog jumped my curb and squatted right there on my freshly manicured lawn and proceeded to do his business. I know I started swearing out loud as I opened my front door. This unassuming man who stood in my yard, appearing to be in his early seventies, you know, looked at me all scared like. He said, 'I'm so sorry, I'm not sure what has got into Peanut here.'

"I was still angry, but a little less, you know, I told him 'That's OK, I guess. Just pick up after him, will you?'

Higgins said, 'Oh, yes, of course,' His hand was shaking as he pushed an old worn out blue fedora off his forehead, I could see a thinning patch of gray hair. He said, 'I don't get out much I'm afraid.'

'Why is that?', I asked him, somewhat interested in the old guy now. John looked around nervously, you know, scared like. But I didn't know then why he was so afraid."

Detective Roberts waved his pen for me to continue.

"John says, 'She doesn't like it when I do go out. I mean, I do go out at times, but the wife takes the car now to the airport. She flies out to Baltimore, gone from Monday till Friday, corporate job, you see. Every week she's gone. So, it's just me and old Peanut here.' His countenance started to fall a bit then.

I'm telling you, Detective Roberts, If I hadn't known different, John Higgins could have been in a spaceship with no human contact all this time, and mine was the first face he had seen upon his return. His communication and behavior were that disjointed."

Detective Roberts stopped me and pointed his pen at my chest, "So the guy's walking his dog and the wife doesn't want him out of the house? I mean is he mentally ill or dangerous, Mr. Peters?" Detective Roberts scratched his gray head with his pen.

"No, I don't think he's crazy at all. It took me a moment to digest what John was saying to me, detective. John's face continued to change, almost pleading, 'I think she is trying to kill me,' he said, his pleading eyes searched my face as if he knew what he was saying sounded crazy, that he HAD to say it to someone, and that someone was me, apparently.

So, I say to him, 'Whoa, wait, are you sure, John?' I remember I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up at attention. The kind of attention thirty years on the police force will give you, Detective Roberts. You just know, right?"

"Yeah, I do, Mr. Peters," Roberts said with a concerned expression, a little softer tone this time.

"So, John goes on, 'I'm sorry, I know this seems ridiculous, and maybe it is, but I know she's killing me. It's her, she's doing it, I don't know how, exactly, or what to do.' He was looking around at the neighboring windows suspiciously.

I knew who he was, retired high school teacher, everyone in the neighborhood had the same gossip dossier on them living in that big five-thousand square foot house at the end of Maple Street. Mary Higgins did something in the computer healthcare industry. No children, third marriage. We suspected big money.
'Well, John,' I say, 'That's quite an accusation. Are you aware that I am, or was, a police detective?'

'Yes, I did know. Detective Wallace Peters, correct?'

'Retired.'

'Yes, of course. I suppose that is why I was so forward. It's just, I have no one else to talk to, maybe I am crazy. Peanut here is all I have to talk to, you know, the wife is gone all week and even when she flies home, it's like we're not married anymore.'

'What do you mean?', I asked him.
         
'We were in love once, I think. She respected me then, before I retired, you know. But I see things. She's different now. For the last few months, she's very careful what food she buys. Even coffee for God's sake. Mary buys only the whole coffee bean stuff now and I must grind it at the Sanderson's. She watches me like a hawk when she's at home. She says it's because of her peanut allergy, we must be careful and check all the labels. But she orders me about, tells me what to do. She has lists of rules; all my meals are prepared by her for the week while she's gone. I think she is poisoning my food, Detective Peters.'

'What happens if you break the rules, John?'

He stared at me, then his eyes filled up with tears, 'I really don't want to talk about that.'"

"Go on," Detective Roberts said.

"I studied the man, Detective Roberts, trying to determine if he was, indeed, going crazy and I had been duped by a classic suburban nut job out for a harmless walk. I'm a frigging cop, I should know, right?"

"Was. You've retired now Mr. Peters," Detective Roberts interjected.

"Anyway, it was then we both noticed the dog had vanished. A grunting and slobbering came from across the street. Peanut, his genetically-smashed nose buried deep inside Sanderson's toppled-over trash can was having the time of his life digging into the garbage like it was buried treasure.

'Oh, that dog...' Higgins says, all afraid and fearful like.

I thought for a moment and said, 'Wait, Mr. Higgins, your story is not uncommon, I may be able to help. I still have some contacts at the station. If you get me a sample of something you think is poisoned I can find out for you. We can go from there.'

He looked shocked. 'I didn't think you would believe me,' he whispered. He looked around again nervously like a man ready to rob a bank. I remember telling him he looked kind of sick, no offense intended. He said, 'Yes, I know I do, I don't think I have long to live to tell you the truth.'

That's when he smiled for the first time, a bit of hope in his dull eyes. He waved goodbye and crossed Maple Street to retrieve Peanut. 'You'll be the death of me if she finds out you've been in the trash again,' I heard him say.

Later that Monday morning, his wife drove off to the airport. An hour later, Higgins shows up holding a small Tupperware bowl with what looked like homemade chicken soup in it."
.
"So, what did you do with the soup, Mr. Peters?" Detective Roberts asked.

"I called in a few favors downtown and had it analyzed. The old man was right, the lab called me at 8 am this morning, they found traces of a poison commonly used in cleaning products at dangerous levels. I guess chicken soup is not good for the soul sometimes, right? My old partner, Detective Barnes, assured me he would get the ball rolling. He told me John Higgins had taught his kid's high school chemistry, and no way would he let him be slowly murdered by his wife. Mary Higgins was not going to bump off the old guy on my neighborhood watch. But I guess all that doesn't matter now, does it?"

"Probably not, but we will get with Detective Barnes and check it out, OK?" Detective Roberts said quickly, his face seeming unimpressed.

He stopped writing in his notepad. "I think that's enough, for now, Mr. Peters, I'll let you know if we find anything, and please, just forget all about John Higgins and this business of his wife trying to kill him. Just let us do our jobs."

"No, no I will, I'm not the busy-body type, Detective Roberts," I said quickly and we shook hands goodbye.

I watched the last of the emergency crews drive away, still missing the old life a bit. I cracked a beer and watched the shadows settle on Maple Street.

I didn't attend Mary Higgins' funeral.

3

I live on Maple Street and observe the lives of The Watchers of Maple Street, their sweaty, pudgy fingers pulling back dusty old draperies peering out at their frightening world with an imprisoned fear. I wondered what more they knew and were too afraid to talk about. Their fear had no name, only a reaction to everything, and this fear ruined a perfectly good morning with a flood of negative thoughts, including the ability to warp everything they saw, "The neighbors grass is dying, mine must be next..." and the morning accounting of how many cars were still parked at the Sanderson's. "Probably some sick gathering of reprobates still lounging all over the furniture. That sort of behavior didn't exist when the Cooper's lived there."

The fact that Stan Cooper had killed his wife, Ellen, in that very living room eleven years ago, long before the current degenerates bought the place, was only brought out occasionally during a bridge game. Stan Cooper was a good worker, kept his lawn trimmed and washed his truck every Sunday afternoon, "His wife must have been cheating on him and those kids of theirs, my god, little vagrants, always yelling and running on people's lawns. I bet they did something too. They caused poor old Stan to lose it."

Everyone on the block had heard the shots, myself included, we saw Stan Cooper stumble out drunk onto the lawn that Friday evening, pants open, belt dragging behind him, as he waved the gun high above his head, those kids of his running out on the lawn after him screaming.

He had shot his wife in the house, then both kids, then himself, right there on that nice lawn.

"She must have driven him to it", said the gossiping card players.

I was living in the house across the street on that horrible evening eleven years ago, I was off duty but I remember fumbling for my sidearm, wrestling it out of the holster. I ran outside but I was too late. I saw the aftermath, took the statements and closed that case. I made it my last case. The devil and his details how they haunt me. Ellen Cooper. My precious Ellen. It was all my fault. The memory, my prison. My peace is knowing Stan Cooper's prison is entirely different. I suppose it's a pity he survived shooting himself. I visit him once a month at the hospital for the criminally insane. He just lies there now paralyzed, struggling to breathe, his bloodshot eyes watering when I show him that picture of her beautiful face and his children.

4

Over the next two days, police cars parked outside the Higgins and Sanderson houses and went inside. On the third day, I saw Mrs. Sanderson, in handcuffs, being hauled off in a patrol car. Also, a real estate agent installed a "For Sale" sign on the front lawn of the Higgins house.

Oh, John, you really had a good plan going, didn't you? But I'll help you sell your house, we need to keep an eye on just who moves to Maple street, don't we?

The phone rang.

Detective Roberts said, "Good morning, Mr. Peters."

"Good morning, Detective Roberts. So, what's all the hub-bub at the Sanderson's?"

"Mr. Peters, when is the last time you saw John Higgins?"

Oh, I had seen John Higgins escape silently the day of the accident, but Detective Roberts doesn't need to know about that.

"Gosh, I guess the day of the accident, now that I think of it, he left with the ambulance or the police I guess. Why?"

Detective Roberts cleared his throat. "Well first, about the dog, Peanut, he probably didn't cause Mary Higgins' death. At least we never found a reason to have the dog examined."

"No? Why not?" I asked, a slight smile escaping from my calm tone.

Imagine Higgins trying to make me believe Peanut, the harmless pug, was responsible for killing his wife, it was a nice try, Ole Johnny boy.

"Our investigation uncovered that Mrs. Sanderson found out that her husband was having an affair with Mrs. Higgins. Furthermore, the medical examiner's report said Mrs. Higgins had way more peanut particulates in her airway than was first believed. On further examination, her car A/C vents were full of finely ground peanut dust, allegedly put there by Mrs. Sanderson. The minute Mary Higgins turned on her car heater, her lungs were filled with particles causing her death. We matched the peanut dust to samples found in a coffee grinder in Sanderson's kitchen. We did find an empty EpiPen on the car floor and the medical examiner found a puncture point on her leg, but it is inconclusive if it was administered correctly or not. They are still running chemical tests on it to see if it was defective."

There certainly is insanity in every neighborhood. Oh, I bet John Higgins made sure that EpiPen didn't do its job. You crafty milquetoast, putting peanut dust in the car vents, tisk, tisk, naughty boy. Mrs. Sanderson doesn't deserve to take the rap for your tricky little plan. That hits a little too close to home.

"You there, Mr. Peters?"

"Yes. Why do you need to talk with John Higgins?"

"Just to follow up, we did find some food in his house that was poisoned, as you had discovered, we need to find him right away, he needs to be treated. Also, we must file a report on the murder of his wife, it will change the legality of the one-million-dollar life insurance policy they each had for the other. I checked with the insurance company and John Higgins has already received the payout. He may have to return the money or face charges, but he has disappeared."

Well, You're not going to find John Higgins, Detective Roberts. I did thank John for the money, it will help me keep him fed for a long time. He will have to get used to my basement and not that beach in Mexico where he was headed. That was the best part, John Higgins giving me poisoned chicken soup to have me believe his wife was trying to kill him. That rascal.

"...also, Peanut is named Newman, and he's the Sanderson's dog, I'm surprised you never saw him with the Sandersons. The Higgins were only dog sitting while the Sandersons were at work."

"Oh, I guess I missed that. So, you're saying, Detective Peter's that..."

"If you see John Higgins, please have him contact me. But yeah, the Higgins never had a dog."

I think I'll make John some nice chicken soup for dinner. I doubt he will notice the funny aftertaste. I bet he would like that.

The End