Chapter 29: A Doorbell

Many Cones, Based On True Crime

Chapter 29 begins with Delores Sparne tiptoeing through her son's room.
Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.
At the crack of dawn, Delores Sparne was tiptoeing around her son’s room. The elation she felt, caused by the end of the phase he was going through, stoked deep maternal instincts. Yesterday’s phone call made the sadness worthwhile. A simple “How are you doin, Mom?” and he was her baby again.

She had wanted to sit by his bedside and gently stroke his brow, just as she had when he was a little boy recovering from illness. That couldn’t happen now. She convinced herself that picking up and straightening his strewn clothes was enough. As long as she was tiptoe quiet, and didn’t touch him.

The room was a mess. Jeans, shirts, and socks scattered in small piles, like oversized ant hills on the sidewalk. Dog-eared school books lay stacked on his battered dresser. Crumpled papers and even a dirty dish or two that she had somehow missed.

The only thing orderly in the room was the row of trophies guarding the wall abutting the bed. Best this, best that, most valuable player, time and time again. Delores smiled as she counted the individual awards. Her husband had added the ledge to the wall when they ran out of surface space. The long wooden rack was quickly filled.

Echoes of his boasts saddened her a bit. “I’m gonna be a star,” she heard from deep in her heart. Now, he said it didn’t matter. Her hand was resting on his covered foot. She didn’t recall extending it. Delores indulged herself for a few more seconds and then began harvesting clothes.

The crumpled, dirty togs were piled near the door. The outfit, worn yesterday by Richard, had a few more days left. Delores lifted the jeans from the floor and tried to add crease, before draping them over a chair. She felt something in the back pocket and deftly removed it. Another three by five index card.

Delores squinted to read the inscription, straining the meager light from the still dim, venetian blinded bedroom. “Lawyer’s bitch,” and an address, whispered from her mouth. I have no idea in the world, what that means, she thought. The other side of the card said something about one man speaking for another. She shook her head. Kids always have their own brand of talk. I’m sure it’s important to Richard.

The jeans were still folded over her arm, and as she started to replace the card, Richard turned over. His stirrings commanded her attention. Her shoulders sunk in, her chin lowered, and she bent slightly, as if becoming smaller would erase her presence. It worked. Her baby continued on in slumberland.

She subconsciously deposited the card in the front pocket of her brightly flowered apron, then folded the pants over the chair. The shirt was hung across the seatback, left to unwrinkle itself. She softly tread across the room, retrieved the bundle near the door, and quietly exited.

Delores was too happy to start the laundry. She opened the basement door and flung the clothes down the steps, as much of a fling as an older, somewhat frail woman was able to perform. Some pieces littered the stairs. She would get them later.