Falling For It - A mini mystery

Hannibal Jones knew that John and Alana Graham intended to move into his neighborhood. He had met the young professional African American couple twice. The first time was when they first came to look at the rundown building two blocks from his own place. He spoke with them again three weeks later after they had bought the house and they were exploring their new acquisition. As he remembered it, they had found the place in worse condition than it appeared during their original exploration, and they were a bit disheartened by the amount of work it would take to make the place livable. They had talked about how an urban renovation property can look like more of a bargain than it really is.

With only those two meetings behind them, Hannibal was surprised to be the first person John called when tragedy struck on a sunny Saturday afternoon. But Hannibal was used to being called whenever trouble arose, so he grabbed Cindy’s hand and they jogged to the Graham house.

“This damned place absorbed every penny we had,” John said, sitting near the base of the stairs when they walked in, “and now it has taken her as well.”

“Where’s Alana?” Cindy asked. John pointed up the stairs.

Hannibal remembered the three rooms at the top of the stairs. Two were usable, but in the third the floor had been so rotted that it had fallen away completely from the door to half way across the room.

Hannibal trudged up the narrow stairs, with Cindy and John close behind. At the top he was greeted by a note pinned to the door of the floorless room. It appeared to be written in haste, and simply said, “I’m sorry, it’s all just too much for me.” He turned to John.

“How long has this been here?”

“I don’t know,” John said, his lower lip quivering. “Alana came out early this morning, supposedly to work on the house. I came later to join her. She didn’t answer my shouts so I started looking around. When I got up here I found that note hanging there. I opened the door, and looked down and…”

Grief seemed to have choked off John’s words, so Hannibal nodded and opened the door. The smell of wet, rotted wood burst forward. Staring down into the darkness he thought he saw a form two stories below in the cellar. Knowing there was no electricity in the house he had brought a flashlight. Directing the beam down into the cavernous space, he stared until a female form came into focus. Behind him Cindy whispered, “Madre de Dios.”

“I knew she was depressed,” John said. “We were on the verge of bankruptcy because of this house. But I can’t believe she would kill herself.”

“Nor can I,” Hannibal said. “But then, I can barely believe that you would kill her.”

“Hannibal!” Cindy said as John shrank back against the opposite wall.

Hannibal turned to face John. “Is this the story you intend to give to the police? You came up the stairs, read this note, opened the door and found your wife dead at the bottom of a fall into the basement?”

“It’s the truth,” John stammered. “Why won’t you believe me?”

Hannibal had met so many cold blooded men in his life that he thought they shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but they still did. Clenching his teeth, he gathered John’s shirt in both hands and spun him around so that his back was to the space two stories above his wife’s body. John’s breathing pushed toward hyperventilation as Hannibal leaned him back over the empty space and one of his feet dangled in the air.

“Hannibal, what are you doing?” Cindy asked. Her man kept his eyes on John’s, and John’s eyes were pleading.

“Please.” John’s words were frantic. “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ll pull you back into the hall after you answer one question, stupid,” Hannibal said through his clenched teeth. “Just where was Alana standing when she turned around to close this door?”