18697 Long Castle Drive

by Rebecca Mannor, San Diego Jewish Academy '23

September 16, 2020

Untitled artwork by Annabelle Wang, Westview High School '23

18697 Long Castle Drive. That's where the blood will be shed and tears will be shared and our story will commence. Shrubs dot the landscape and pine trees loom over the lamp post lined streets of the city. Umbrellas of a multitude of colors shuffle along the grey roads. The pitter patter of a tear stained sky echoes throughout the neighborhood.

A taxi. That is where it all starts. Bright neon yellow bee in a sea of drowsy grey and blue. Anne Thompson lowers her polka dotted silk scarf and raises it protectively over her freshly cut six inch mousy brown ringlets. She is not about to suffer the humiliation of frizzy hair. Not on a night like tonight. The wind hisses and the few green carbon dioxide converters in sight shake in fury at the possibility of tipping.

Anne reaches the bee and lowers her scintillating ocean eyes to glance disapprovingly at the man opening the door out for her, a sloppy lopsided grin decorating his deteriorating features. Time has not been good to his wispy strands of hair that remain atop a balding scalp. Nor has it done any good to the wrinkles and crinkles adorning his paper flesh. If I could have warned Anne that her night would consist of overfilled coffee mugs and leaking attics I hope she would have turned and ran. Turned in her crisp black business suit and clinking high heels that stumble over every crack in the street - superstition creeping over her dimples- and ran. Turned in her smeared coral lipstick that made her eyes kinder than they deserved to be and ran. Turned in all her glory and ran as fast as her unproportionate stubby legs could carry her down the smog filled streets and the sweaty bodies hungering for warmth under a night of shadowed stars and silver moons.

But I did not warn her. And she did not run. Instead, she mouthed a hesitant thank you to the driver and scrunched her nose at the stench of alcohol that awaited her in the cab.

And across the trickles of teardrops sprinkling the gravel town Shannon Abbott is kneeling over the linoleum kitchen tiles scrubbing. Her light wash jeans crunching together as her meticulous nimble fingers launch at the disaster that the poor kitchen endured. Half forgotten noodles string together in an over boiling pot of water. Spaghetti sauce pools on granite counters and leaks through the paisley walls. Only the spot in the corner - the godforsaken calico cat sized spot in the corner - is free of the tomato juices and sausage chunks outlining not only the kitchen, but Shannon Abbott herself. Now if I weren’t so good at my job, I would say a murder took place here.

And in the distance. Maybe eight miles or so a rickety house stands on a grey streaked hill. Burnt grass whistles against the howling wind - creating a symphony of heartache for the old man inside. The grandfather clock strikes once, twice, three times before the fit of coughs escape old cracked lips. The night sky breathes out puffs toward the moon. The old man is now known as Ellroy Rollins. One thing you should know about Rollins is he is unorganized. Never messy, just paper stapled to the windows and above cupboards. A kettle constantly boiling, blocking out any other sound within a three mile radius. Too old and forgetful to lock the doors at night. He was just a burglary waiting to happen.

And now for the final character. The final body thrown into the plot. James Hartley. Twenty three year old businessman. Scrunched noise and crinkled dirty blond hair. Take away his pressed suit and you have a disaster waiting to happen. A ticking time bomb. Pacing his office for the hundredth time that night he stares at the yellow bees swarming the streets and the strangers wadling close together for warm in the chilly night. Cold seems to seep into jackets and scarves. Hands are beyond frozen and the air snips at the hem of untucked shirts. James doesn’t notice the haunting winter night as he glances down at his all too expensive watch. Tapping his toe on the navy blue carpet surrounding his office suite. Running his finger against the rim of the coffee cup, the smell of burnt coffee beans wafting through the air into the hair of his red clinking heel assistant as she trudged through the office. Her ponytail swishing behind her, whipping the wind even more.

Before soon, the pair of heels, the light wash jeans, the cracked lips and flop of soon to be grey hair, and the crisp suit hold their breath as they shuffle towards the point of no return.

It looked like a castle. Towering over all the shrubs and trees blending into the landscape. Vines creeping over the iron gate. A large emblem of the initials MO scrawled over the rusted steel decorating the door. Decaying flowers. That's the smell that first hit them. Or more like slammed into them. A nauseating wave of death mixed with the sickly sweet aroma of no longer fresh dandelions and roses.

Josephine Wolfe’s narrowed eyes shot daggers at them from her balcony. A flute of champagne clamped between a fist, her other hand resting on the railing. She was not a pretty woman in the traditional sense. A rats nest of unkempt curls sticking to her scalp as the droplets of water topple over her five foot frame adorned by a navy blue dress that cinches at her bony waist.

All of them knew the plan. They just had to see it through. Could they all do it. I would always wonder if anyone stumbled. If Anne Thompson regretted pouring the poison. If Shannon Abbott threw away the key rather than locking the ornate doors. If Ellroy Rollins didn’t hold a grudge. If James Hartley wasn’t so addicted to his job. If Josephine Wolfe loved her husband. If Mark Owens didn’t need to die. But, he did. And so one of them killed him. All had motive. All had opportunity. But who pulled the trigger? And who was the mastermind?

How to introduce our last character. Our victim. The causer of pain. Mark Owens. A sickly old man with a gruff voice and a salt and pepper mustache slipping along his upper lip. His greatest past time was smoking. Smoking. That's what killed him. Before the trigger, before the poison, before the bloody knife, it was the smoking. He always knew his time was limited. His lungs were not capable of fulfilling their purpose after years of being tempted by cigarettes. Smoking. The only substance he loved more than his wife. Smoking. If he could redo his early years in life, when he was just a blue boy in a city of grey and yellow skies and buzzing bees and red lipped ladies and fresh peaches, would he quit. Quit before he even started. Quit before it became him. We all assumed he died the day his heart was pierced, but I knew he was dead long before that. He was dead the moment he accepted the thin cigarette. He was dead the moment he breathed in the puff of smoke. He was dead the moment he didn't pull it from his cracked lips. He was dead the moment he took another drag.

The possible murders, except for Josephine Wolfe, stand in a line. Looking over their shoulders at each other. They have never met before. And by the end of the night, they will forget. Forget everything. They will go their separate ways. They will never see each other again. They will be lost in the night and the pitch black sky and the twinkling stars. They will become constellations.

Shannon Abbott, the breaker, rips the silence open. She starts by clearing her throat uncomfortably, earning unreadable expressions from the others. Anne Thompson is next, coughing into her now gloved hands. Gathering glances once more, their feet shuffle along. Coming closer to the slithering ivy and the rusted steel, the group shifts awkwardly.

Each of them have their purpose. Mark Owens must die. Only, they all believe this without knowing the agenda of the person to their right. As a result, Mark Owen’s death will not be pretty.

It was the poison. In the spaghetti. In the main course. In the meal. They were situated at the table. Mark Owens at the head, of course. Josephine seated to his right. An empty sea to his left. The seating chart of the others doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that Shannon Abbott had a red stain at the base of her left pant leg. A crimson flower, blooming. No one noticed. And if they did, they said nothing.

Then the gun went off. James Hartley five feet away in the study. They were all lounging on plush leather sofas. Enjoying the fading light. Cigarette between lips. Smoke drifting in the air. The hum of laughter. They were all on edge. All except Mark.

The knife wound was next. Lodged right under the heart, in between the rib cage. There were no muffled screams. No sobs or cries of pain. All somber faces. All bloody hands and whispers. Is he dead? Really, truly dead? There was no siren. No police or ambulance. There were no fingerprints, which troubled the officers assigned to the case the most. There was only gruff goodbyes and five figures of all shapes and sizes leaving the manor atop the hill. The wife didn’t stay. The businessman pulled into a limo. Anne Thompson rushed into a yellow cab. A bee drowning in the heavy downpour. Washing away the blame. The secrets. The blood. All the blood.

I don’t know if we'll ever know their true motives. It could only be a crime of passion. Of blame. Of regret. Of power. Of vengeance. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. But for Josephine Wolfe, James Hartley, Shannon Abbott, Anne Thompson, and Ellory Rollins, it was revenge served on a frigid day, in a town that none of them called home, inside a mansion of too many shades of gold, in a dish of poisoned pasta, or the bullet lodged in an enemy, or a bleeding dagger gripped too tight.

18697 Long Castle Drive. That's where the blood will be shed and tears will be shared and our story will commence. Shrubs dot the landscape and pine trees loom over the lamp post lined streets of the city. Umbrellas of a multitude of colors shuffle along the grey roads. The pitter patter of a tear stained sky echoes throughout the neighborhood. And somewhere, a body is lying on the ground. Ambulance sirens streaking down streets and the wail of police cars fight for noise against the downpour.

A taxi. That is where it all starts. Bright neon yellow bee in a sea of drowsy grey and blue. Anne Thompson lowers her polka dotted silk scarf and raises it protectively over her freshly cut six inch mousy brown ringlets. Tucked in her back pocket is the old hunting blade her father gave her on his deathbed. She was told to take it everywhere. To treat it with care. She never had an excuse to use it. That was before Mark Owens.

Anne reaches the bee and lowers her scintillating ocean eyes to glance disapprovingly at the man opening the door out for her, a sloppy lopsided grin decorating his deteriorating features. Time has not been good to his wispy strands of hair that remain atop a balding scalp. Nor has it done any good to the wrinkles and crinkles adorning his paper flesh. She thinks about releasing her vengeance and anger on the crumbling man before her but thinks better of it. It is too late to turn back now. If I could have warned Anne that her night would consist of screeching wails and careful analysis I hope she would have turned and ran. Turned and ran. Turned and reached for gloves that would keep fingerprints off of murder weapons. Turned and went home. Turned and disappeared. Out of town. Never to be seen again.

But I did not warn her. And she did not run. Instead, she mouthed a hesitant thank you to the driver and scrunched her nose at the stench of alcohol that awaited her in the cab.

And across the trickles of teardrops springing along the gravel town Shannon Abbott is kneeling over the linoleum kitchen tiles scrubbing. Her light wash jeans crunching together as her meticulous nimble fingers launch at the disaster that the poor kitchen endured. Half forgotten noodles string together in an over boiling pot of water. Spaghetti sauce pools on granite counters and leaks through the paisley walls. Only the spot in the corner - the godforsaken cat calico cat sized spot in the corner - is free of the tomato juices and sausage chunks outlining not only the kitchen, but Shannon Abbott herself. An extra wine glass, filled to the brim sat lonely on the glass coffee table. There is a thumb print streaking across the counter Shannon Abbott is furiously trying to bleach. There is crimson sap, deeper than any tomato sauce, dripping at the edge of the bread knife.

And in the distance. Maybe eight miles or so a rickety house stands on a grey streaked hill. Burnt grass whistles against the howling wind - creating a symphony of heartache for the old man inside. The grandfather clock strikes once, twice, three times before the fit of coughs escape old cracked lips. The night sky breathes out puffs toward the moon. The old man who is now known as Ellroy Rollins. One thing you should know is that Ellroy Rollins is an expert of deadly poisons. Those old grey eyes peering in a crowd, choosing the next victim. Rollins was never the type to back away from a challenge. Even if that challenge is death. And Ellroy Rollins is skilled in the art of death.

So he gathers his fraying coat, dusted in a sprinkling of lent, and meticulously settles a vile in the front pocket. Hands shaking. Breath uneven. Not a side effect of nerves. Ellroy Rollins doesn’t get nervous. Only excited.

And now for the final character. The final body thrown into the plot. James Hartley. Twenty three year old businessman. Scrunched noise and crinkled dirty blond hair. Take away his pressed suit and you have a disaster waiting to happen. A ticking time bomb. Pacing his office for the hundredth time that night he stares at the yellow bees swarming the streets and the strangers wadling close together for warm in the chilly night. Cold seems to seep into jackets and scarves. Hands are beyond frozen and the air snips at the hem of untucked shirts. James doesn’t notice the haunting winter night as he glances down at his all too expensive watch. Tapping his toe on the navy blue carpet surrounding his office suite. Running his finger against the rim of the coffee cup, the smell of burnt coffee beans wafting through the air into the hair of his red clinking heel assistant as she trudged through the office. Her ponytail swishing behind her, wiping the wind even more.

She gives him a knowing half smile, half smirk. And places a briefcase on the empty desk. James Hartley doesn't plan on coming back. Clicking the case open, a pistol makes an appearance. Seconds pass and the worn leather briefcase bows its head.

Not six minutes later, the characters meet. I'm sorry to say they will never see one another again. They didn't come tonight to make friends.

Before soon, the pair of heels, the light wash jeans, the cracked lips and flop of soon to be grey hair, and the crisp suit hold their breath as they shuffle towards the point of no return. It looked like decrepit castle about to come crumbling down.