Black Cat Weekly #87

Chapter 6-2

“This is going to break Father’s heart.” Emily felt she and her sisters could easily bear this. They were adults and could see Branwell for what he was. She didn’t know if he really did kill someone, or if there was another explanation. But he continually placed himself in dangerous situations and broke their father’s heart. “How—why…”

“Please, don’t turn me in. I’m begging you.” Branwell grabbed her hand and hung onto it as if it were his only lifeline.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everyone—especially their father—had high expectations for Branwell. From the time he was young, to the present, he was the favorite. The one who might follow his father’s footsteps in the ministry or tap into his creative abilities and become a famous artist, or perhaps be a bestselling author. The sky was the limit. Unfortunately, Branwell never lived up to anyone’s expectations. He was a careless, aimless, college dropout who jumped from job to job.

Emily withdrew and rubbed the blood flakes from her hand. “This isn’t like when we were kids, and you broke the neighbor’s window. You may have taken a life.”

“I’m sorry.” Branwell dropped his head in his hands.

“Sorry won’t cut it this time.”

She wouldn’t turn him in, she couldn’t. He may not be guilty. While he caused pain and turmoil, he was her brother and she loved him.

Anne checked her phone, and she was right. They had been standing at the back part of the fence a good ten minutes, taking in the sight of two red handprints on the wooden planks.

Charlotte figured for Branwell to get to the back door, he had to climb over the fence, and this proved it. Can you get fingerprints off wood? She didn’t dare google it; in case the police were already monitoring their internet searches. Charlotte tugged on her arm, and they moved down the alley.

“I can’t believe this.” Anne whispered. The police were in front of the druggies’ house, and it would only be a matter of time before they discovered the red-stained fence. “Branwell is innocent.”

“He’s not the same brother we grew up with.” Charlotte replied.

“But he is,” Anne insisted, as they stepped out onto the side street. “Deep down Branwell is still Branwell. He lost his way. What is lost can be found.” Cliché as it was, she believed it with her whole heart, her faith mirroring Father’s. “It’s what we believe, it’s what we live by.” Charlotte snorted.

I’m right. Anne nodded to herself. Things looked bad, yes, and Branwell was an addict and he made mistakes, but that didn’t mean he killed someone. He was her brother, the one who was protective of her when she was small, who spoiled her because she was the youngest, the one who never let her voice be drowned out by their bolder sisters.

Their childhood was a unique one. After Mother died, Father juggled raising four children alone and working as a full-time minister. Rather than send them to public school, he home schooled them. With each other as playmates, they had no interest in other children. They lived in their own little world, full of fantasy and games and roughhousing. Unfortunately, it made it challenging for them to venture out in the world. In comparison to the other three, she did well, working as an au pair for a handful of spoiled children for five years. Were it not for the pandemic, she would still be employed. When everything shut down, the parents came home and she was relieved from her position. When it’s over, you can come back. They said, shooing her out the door.

You’re not very adult. Father commented once. You’re still like children, just bigger versions of yourselves. And he was right. Branwell, who led the pack in his youth, didn’t fare well in a world that didn’t place him on a pedestal.

Anne and Charlotte crossed over to the sidewalk and nonchalantly headed back toward their house. Toward the police. Nearing the growing group of spectators crowding near the barricades of the crime scene. She and her sister put their masks on. A few others wore masks, but the majority of the faces were bare.

This neighborhood meth house was generally avoided by all, except for those connected to the d**g trade and those interested in buying drugs. The house itself was a slum, missing windows, siding, roofing shingles. Trash and dirty mattresses were strewn across the property. The smell of ether, lead, sewage, and gasoline often permeated the air, signaling that someone was cooking. Fancy vehicles stopped by at odd hours of the day, for no more than fifteen minutes, before peeling out after the drivers got what they wanted. In the past, a pair of shoes tied together dangling from power lines was an indication that there was a d**g house in the midst. Now d**g houses, this one included, were marked by an abandoned, dilapidated vehicle on flat tires parked in front.

“Please stay back, everyone.” Arthur Bell, one of the police officers motioning for the people to move away, was a member of Father’s church. In the past, when Father was unwell, Arthur would step in as lay minister. “Ladies,” he greeted upon noticing them.

“Good morning…or not so good.” Anne blushed, thinking how crass pleasantries were in the face of a heinous crime. She cast a glance at the house. The area was crawling with police officers, and the property was taped off. But there was no sign a murder occurred outside. “May we ask what happened?”

Arthur gestured them to the side. “Joe Leland was stabbed last night. He didn’t make it.”

He observed them carefully and she suspected what he would say next. “John Brown says Branwell was involved, but he’s not the most reliable witness. Where is your brother?”

“We don’t know. He didn’t come home last night,” Charlotte answered shortly.

Anne didn’t miss the skepticism in Arthur’s eyes but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t press the matter. He had been in love with Charlotte for years. But her older sister remained unaware of his feelings. And she never knew how to broach the subject, since Charlotte was still pining for a married college professor from her university days. Her petite, dark-haired and dark-eyed sister loved fiercely and loyally.

“Can we do anything to help?” Anne asked, hoping to distract the police officer. “We’ll certainly be thinking of and praying for the Leland’s.”

“There are b****y handprints on your fence. Yes, we saw and photographed it.” Arthur c****d his head to the side. His expression was hidden due to the mask, but it was obvious he was cautioning them. “Your brother is a person of interest. We can get a warrant to search the parsonage. If you see Branwell, convince him to come down to the police station. Please.”

“We will,” Anne promised. “Thank you.” She and Charlotte hurried off down the street.

“He knows, they all know!” Charlotte hissed, desperately grasping her wrist. “Maybe we should…”

Anne patted Charlotte’s hand to pacify her. “No, we have some time. We can’t write Branwell off so easily. He’s our brother—he’s our Branny.” Her eyes burned from unshed tears.

She lost count of the number of times she cried over Branwell. But she had to be strong, for everyone’s sake. “Whatever problems we’ve had, we have to put that aside.”

Charlotte stiffened and then pulled away. Her sister didn’t hate Branwell per se, otherwise she would have turned him over to the police immediately. But the harsh tone she used if she happened to speak to Branwell, her cool behavior, the way she distanced herself… Behind all of that was wounded love.

“Hey!”

They stopped and looked back. Willie Weightman, one of the druggies, was running after them. When he reached them, he was out of breath and panting. Pale and skinny as a rail, he was still as good looking as when he was a seminary student and served as Father’s associate pastor.

His longish golden curls waved and shone beneath the morning sun. William’s cornflower blue eyes had lost their sparkle, but they never lost their beauty or warmth.

Warmth flooded to Anne’s cheeks. Though she hated to see Willie in a bad way, she couldn’t deny she still had a crush on him. He was a good man who made bad choices.

“Yes, what?” Charlotte impatiently tapped her foot.

Willie flinched at her sharpness and hunched his shoulders. “Sorry, I…I am trying to quit this.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the meth house. There was something in his hand, but she couldn’t see what. “Anyway, you should know the truth. Branwell and Joe threw some punches last night. Then things calmed down. But Branwell wouldn’t have stabbed Joe. He couldn’t have.”

Charlotte heard enough and marched off.

But Anne couldn’t dismiss Willie so easily. Not when he was trying to be helpful.

“You’re certain?”

“For what it’s worth, I’d stake my life on it. Branwell was mostly upset, crying about letting you all down.”

“Thank you, Willie,” she said. “You’re a good person.”

Willie gulped and then held out what was in his hand. It was a sprig of newly bloomed lilac from the bush in the meth house’s backyard. It was the only bit of beauty on that whole property.

She was happy to accept it and decided when she got home, she’d press it in her Bible. That way she would remember Willie in her prayers, that God might help him find his way out of that life.

Charlotte hadn’t rested in over twenty-four hours, and she was mentally and emotionally exhausted. Yet sleep wouldn’t come. You’d think after everything that I’d be dead to the world!

She gave up trying when she heard the grandfather clock chime twelve, turned on the light and tried to read. The words on the page blurred, disturbing her focus. Her thoughts wandered to Branwell. Emily and Anne looked after him, making frequent trips to the basement, while she went out of her way to avoid him.

She spent the evening distracting Father with books and theological discussions, to prevent him from listening to the TV or the radio, which referenced the crime in detail. To her surprise, the police never came to their door with a search warrant, or to question them. Doesn’t make sense. Unless they were pursuing a different angle. Branwell was guilty, but maybe some other unfortunate soul fell under suspicion. Or the police could still be collecting evidence and witness statements.

Charlotte sniffed and sneezed. A hint of smoke tinged the air. Stupid d**g addicts.

Occasionally, they’d burn things in their backyard, pouring gasoline on it, allowing the flames to shoot higher and higher. Gosh, that’s strong. She got out of bed and looked out the window, but no one was out there.

“There’s a fire in the basement!” Emily’s shout echoed through the house. Branwell!

Charlotte dashed out into the hall, meeting Anne there. She opened her mouth to speak when Father stumbled out of his bedroom and stopped herself before she let anything slip. Emily stomped up the stairs, her auburn hair loose about her broad shoulders. A tall, sturdy woman, with amber colored eyes, little in the world fazed her. If all was well at home, all as well with her. However, this time, the customary grim expression she wore had given way to an anxious one.