Murder in Kenmore: Part 1

Is it customary for six-years-olds to take the garbage out? That dreaded chore is what kicked the whole thing off—the twisted series of events that would become known as the 'Murder in Kenmore'. 

That day lives in the minds of all seven of us. Rich, Nancy, Max, Anna, Char, Francie, Margaret. We will carry it with us always. But now, for the first time, this true tale of crime, mystery and heartbreak will be recorded and preserved for future generations. 

Let's hope they can make more sense of it than we ever will. 

*                      *                      *                      *

I clutched the greasy plastic knot and heaved the bag over my scrawny, six-year-old shoulder. Teetering under the heavy load, I walked out the front door into the open-air carport of 6227 NE 154th Street. My bare feet hit the cold cement floor, toes recoiling like snails in a windstorm. Goosebumps rose from my wrists to my neck and cool air wafted through my baggy t-shirt. 

Emerging from under the covered area, I stepped into the low sunlight of a late-August morning. The driveway was wet from rain and the air smelled of damp leaves. Signs that summer would soon be a fading memory. 

Turning right into the side yard, I set the garbage sack down and stopped for a minute to catch my breath. I peered up at the basketball hoop, with its frayed rope and and rusty rim the colour of dried blood. Maybe I'll shoot some hoops later, I thought. Even six-year-olds like to start the day with a plan. 

Truthfully, garbage duty or not, I liked being outside on my own in the morning. The calm. The quiet. I was less than 30 feet from my front door, but I felt totally alone. When you have a big family, you need moments of solitude to feel vulnerable—to feel alive. 

I decided to drag the bag the rest of the way, pulling it across the gravel path toward the backyard gate. Sour juices leaked from pebble-sized tears and left an acrid brown trail in its wake. I reached up and fiddled with the gate lock. It was a tricky one. My raised arm always got sore trying to undo the latch. 

Finally, the wood door swung open. And I saw them.

It took me a minute to realise what I was looking at. Two small, white shapes resting parallel in the bright green grass. They looked like matching hand towels, fluff matted by the wet hands of dinner guests. 

But no. They had eyes. They had noses. They had perky lemon-shaped ears with delicate pink lining. 

They were our pet rabbits—Binky and Dinky. 

Perfectly still. Perfectly dead.

TO BE CONTINUED...