My husband left for a business trip less than 48 hours after the movers delivered our boxes and furniture to our “almost” famous home. I was anxious to unpack and settle in during the last two weeks of summer vacation. Normally I enjoy the time alone, when I tackle a long To Do list of items, but that was not the case. I felt paranoid, just a bit. I kept the front and back porch doors closed and bolted, and up until this move, I had never been a locked-door kind of person. When night descended on the house, and all was quiet except for the unfamiliar faint sounds of clicks or creaks or car engines, my heart raced with fear, an unrealistic fear that someone would come into the house at night and attack me.
By the fourth day, I let my guard down more and opened up the front door so our dog, Ivy, could look out the glass storm door and watch the dogs and people pass by.
This isn’t so bad, I thought. Neighborhood kids, dog walkers, commuters, runners and cyclists traveled up and down the sidewalks all day long. It seemed safe.
Around 6 p.m. I entered the kitchen and was preparing to cook dinner, when I noticed Ivy’s tail wagging anxiously back and forth while she stood at the front door. Cautiously I peeked around the kitchen archway to see if someone was approaching our house.
Ivy began barking. A man was on our porch, his left side partially visible through the glass door.
My heart raced. I didn’t move or say anything. I watched from the kitchen as the front door handle turned and slowly opened. A hand reached in…and offered a dog biscuit to Ivy.
The door closed and I leaned over the sink to see if I could get a glimpse of the intruder. Sure enough, I saw the back of a man with long stringy gray hair cutting through our side yard to our neighbor’s house. The one where the murder took place.
It was Ron, our mailman.