The Eviction of Hope: the 509 Crime Anthologies, #1

By Colin Conway, Holly West, Joe Clifford and 12 more

With blistering stories from Hector Acosta, Mark Bergin, Joe Clifford, Paul J. Garth, Carmen Jaramillo, Dana King, James L'Etoile, Gary Phillips, Matt Phillips, Tom Pitts, Travis Richardson, John Shepphird, Holly West and Frank Zafiro.

 

It's eviction day for The Hope Apartments. The residents have known about it for over a year. It's too bad they ignored all the warning signs.

 

More than a century ago, developer Elijah Hope constructed a state-of-the-art hotel. As the generations passed and tastes changed, The Hope spent two decades as an underutilized office building before conversion into a low-income housing project.

 

Rundown by years of human occupation, The Hope has become a hollow shell of its once great self. It is home to drug addicts, petty criminals, and those hiding from others. The city has long turned a blind eye to The Hope as surrounding neighborhoods gentrified and pushed their disaffected in its direction.

 

But now The Hope is preparing a return to its original glory. The current owners plan to convert it into a boutique hotel. The only thing standing in their way is the eviction of over one hundred units.

 

Each resident knew this fateful day was coming, yet most chose to believe it would never arrive. They ignored the posted signs, the hand-delivered warnings, and even the actual notices.

 

Many stayed until the bitter end.

 

These are their stories.

 

The Eviction of Hope is a collection of fourteen short stories from crime fiction's freshest voices. Get your copy today and experience The 509 in a completely new way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: High Speed Creative, LLC
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393784319

Book preview

What is the 509?

Separated by the Cascade Range, Washington State is divided into two distinctly different climates and cultures.

The western side of the Cascades is home to Seattle, its 34 inches of annual rainfall, and the incredibly weird and smelly Gum Wall. Most of the state’s wealth and political power are concentrated in and around this enormous city. The residents of this area know the prosperity that has come from being the home of Microsoft, Amazon, Boeing, and Starbucks.

To the east of the Cascade Mountains lies nearly two-thirds of the entire state, a lot of which is used for agriculture. Washington State leads the nation in producing apples, it is the second-largest potato grower, and it’s the fourth for providing wheat.

This eastern part of the state can enjoy more than 170 days of sunshine each year, which is important when there are more than 200 lakes nearby. However, the beautiful summers are offset by harsh winters, with average snowfall reaching 47 inches and the average high hovering around 37°.

While five telephone area codes provide service to the westside, only 509 covers everything east of the Cascades, a staggering twenty-one counties.

Of these, Spokane County is the largest with an estimated population of 506,000.

You will never find

a more wretched hive

of scum and villainy.

Introduction

Most readers of crime fiction anthologies skip over the introduction to get to the good stuff. Who can blame them? Not when there is mystery, mayhem, and murder in the pages that follow. Heck, even if it were only general mopery that followed, most would still gleefully jump over the introduction.

But not you.

You, my friend, are a smart one. And for that, I’m about to reward you with an insider’s tale that will make reading this anthology even more enjoyable.

But first, I need to tell you about the Hope.

The Hope

Years ago, I wrote a short story titled Foolproof that appeared in a local anthology, A Dead Night in Spokane. As part of my tale’s tapestry, my protagonist faced eviction from his apartment building due to a planned redevelopment. That building was the Hope Apartments.

I liked that story but loved the idea of the Hope as a hotbed of criminal activity. It was based on the Otis, a single-room-occupancy hotel built in the early twentieth century converted to low-income, non-subsidized housing. Only a few rooms on each floor had private bathrooms. The rest shared a restroom down the hallway.

As a police officer, I visited the Otis several times. It was not a pleasant place to go, and it seemed a tough place to live. When the building was sold shortly before the Great Recession, it was primed for redevelopment. Unfortunately, it sat vacant for more than a decade. I once toured the building in that empty and dilapidated state. It was an odd (and slightly scary) feeling to prowl those once-bustling corridors with nothing more protective than a flashlight. At that moment, I missed my gun and police radio.

The 509 Crime Stories is set in Eastern Washington. As that series has grown, I’ve kept coming back to the idea of the Hope. I wanted to do something meaningful with it. An occasional passing reference in one of my novels or short stories never felt enough.

The Hope was bigger than that. It wanted to stand by itself.

Then an idea hit me.

The Invitation

My perspective is skewed. That doesn’t take much introspection to understand since we all have biased viewpoints. It makes us individuals, and that’s okay. We need to embrace who we are so we can accept the differences of others.

I’ve spent most of my adult life in Eastern Washington. I try hard to see the world through the eyes of others, but it’s still a view I can only see through my own lens.

The proximity of so many together in the Hope made me think of people coming from outside the region. There had to be some living there who viewed the world radically different than their next-door neighbor. For a fleeting moment, I considered writing a book of short stories all told from various viewpoints. Then I realized there would be a better, more fun way to accomplish that goal. I would ask other authors to tell the stories of Hope residents.

Of course, the whole thing seemed an excellent excuse to have some of my friends come and visit my fictional playground of the 509. I invited several, and they jumped immediately. Many had participated in themed anthologies before and got what I was after. When these friends introduced me to other friends, I suddenly had a full slate of contributors.

However, there was one author who was a bit mercenary with his demands.

The Insider Tale I Promised

There was an author I desperately wanted to be part of this anthology—I won’t name names.

I’d met him at a writer conference, and we enjoyed a beer together. The guy is one of the best storytellers I’ve had the pleasure to meet. He also had a unique life history that would bring a certain validity to the Hope.

However, he also carried a strange appreciation for Taylor Swift.

This author—I mentioned him being a mercenary type, didn’t I? Well, he listened to my anthology pitch then said he would participate if I did one thing.

What’s the thing? I asked.

Say Taylor is better than Britney.

You see, somewhere along the line, I made the ill-advised comment that I liked Ms. Spears better than his favorite and he wouldn’t let me live it down.

Did I want to say the Holy Spearit was less than Tay-Tay? No. Not at all. But an editor must occasionally do an awful thing to appease the artists he works with. So, I said, Taylor Swift is better than Britney Spears.

Now, I’m not going to name names, but I’m glad I did it. You see, this unnamed author brought along his writing partner, Tom Pitts, and contributed one heck of a great story.

Am I sorry I threw Britney under the bus for the greater good of the anthology? Yes, for sure. But in her defense, I offer this vital insight—while those two might be the peanut butter and jelly of crime fiction, I got to write the final story in this anthology.

And that’s your reward for reading this introduction. You’re an insider now.

Enjoy the book!

Colin Conway

May 2021

Spokane, Washington

The

Eviction

of Hope

a 509 Crime Anthology

Just to Watch Him Die

Holly West

I didn’t kill my husband. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. Despite everything, I still loved him.

Mind you, I’m not a suspect. The official cause of death, according to the Spokane County Medical Examiner, was drowning, a probable suicide. David Severance jumped—or fell—into the Spokane River.

Assuming he jumped, he didn’t leave a note, so the precise reasons for his choice were known only to him. Some people probably believe our breakup had something to do with it, but I can’t—I won’t—let myself go there. If I’d had any indication he was suicidal, I would’ve done something to stop him. I was clueless about this and so many other things.

A week after I learned about his death, I arrived at the Hope Apartments, where he’d been living since I kicked him out of my house. Stepping into the building’s lobby, I was reminded of an old fleabag hotel, the sort that charged by the hour and cost two dollars extra for a set of sheets. As I waited for the elevator, I read a notice posted nearby: The property was being redeveloped into a hotel, and all residents had to move out by October 31, less than thirty days from now. Gentrification, it seemed, had managed to find its way to the Hope.

I was surprised David hadn’t mentioned his impending eviction. It would’ve been a convenient excuse to snake his way back into my life. Another reminder that I’d never really known the man and another clue as to why David killed himself, if, in fact, he did. I didn’t quite believe he’d done it, even if the prospect of homelessness would make anybody desperate.

The elevator was too slow, so I opted for the stairs instead. The morgue attendant had given me a bag of David’s belongings after I identified his water-logged body, which included a ring of several keys. I cycled through a few before I found the one that opened the apartment door. Flipping the light switch, I got my first glimpse at David’s living conditions these last three months.

The building might be called the Hope, but this room, stinking of stale cigarettes and mildew, was closer to hopelessness than I’d imagined. To the right of the door was a small kitchen consisting of a shelf, a cabinet with a sink, a two-burner stove, and a mini-fridge. There were two empty liter-sized bottles of vodka in the sink, which puzzled me. David did like his booze, but this seemed excessive, even for him. The rest of the room was furnished with items that looked like they’d been found curbside next to trash bins, and the bed was made with linen I recognized from my own closet.

I went to the window at the far end of the room and pulled the cord on the vertical blinds to let in more light. Opening the door to what I assumed was the bathroom, I found a closet. The apartment didn’t seem to have a bathroom at all.

David was a sharp dresser, and the tiny closet was stuffed full. I ran my hand along his suits, sending a whiff of his cologne into the air. It made me dizzy with memories.

We met at a bar two years ago, shortly after he relocated from Seattle to Spokane, where he told me he was temporarily staying with a friend. He was mid-forties and handsome, with charm to spare. I was fifty-five, but I take good care of myself and wear my age well. We were instantly drawn to each other. A few hours of conversation and a few too many drinks later, I invited him back to my place, and he never left. A few weeks later, I married him on a cloudy afternoon at the courthouse. Last June, I asked him to move out after a year-and-a-half of marriage.

The recollection of our first meeting brought tears to my eyes. I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror and wiped them away. Even dead, David didn’t deserve my tears—he’d hurt me too much. He’d had affairs with at least three women during the time we were together. Meanwhile, I paid off thousands of dollars of his debt, hoping to set a solid foundation for our future. Stupid, thou hast a name, and it is Cheri.

I stood on my tiptoes to reach a suitcase on the top shelf and began to take his clothes off the hangers, working like a robot to empty the closet. I retrieved a couple of garbage bags from the kitchen to hold what remained, then went to work on his bureau. Halfway through the first drawer, I discovered a framed photograph of a somewhat younger David with a frail older woman sitting in a wheelchair, along with a man and woman who appeared to be in their twenties. In the photo, David stood behind the woman’s chair with his hands on her shoulders. She’d raised her left hand to meet his, lightly touching it.

Who were these people?

I’d seen a photograph of David’s parents—this wasn’t his mother. But what stood out the most was her left hand. I could clearly see the ring on her third finger.

It was the same one David had given to me when he proposed.

***

David took the ring with him when he moved out. I had hoped to find it amongst his things, but now, seeing the way he was living, that seemed unlikely. Chances were, he sold it.

I took the picture out of its frame and examined it more closely. Turning it over, I saw that David, Alice, Shane, Kathy, December 2016 was written on the back. It was taken nearly four years ago.

I opened the browser on my phone and typed in their names: David Severance, Alice, Shane, Kathy. It wasn’t much to go on, but the first link that came up was a brief obituary in the Tacoma News Tribune. Alice Grundy Severance, age 63, died after a long illness on April 21, 2017. Survivors included her devoted husband, David, her son, Shane Grundy, and his wife, Melissa, and Alice’s daughter, Kathleen Grundy Chapin, and her husband, Michael. Three grandchildren were mentioned but not named.

David told me he’d never been married. Watching his parents’ marriage deteriorate convinced him he never wanted to walk down the aisle himself. Until he met me, of course.

There’d been men in my life—plenty of them—but I’d never married, either. A male friend once told me he could sense the desperation coming off single women over the age of forty—it was like a smell. I was in my early thirties then, and I laughed, thinking I’d be married long before that. Forty came, then fifty. I was pretty enough, had financial independence, and a lot of friends, but finding a life partner was something that eluded me. When David got down on one knee and held up the ring, a ruby surrounded in diamonds set in white gold, and asked me to marry him, it felt like a miracle.

But apparently, David had a whole other family, including grandchildren. Why had he kept them a secret from me? And had he been in touch with his stepchildren after Alice’s death?

I considered knocking on his neighbors’ doors, asking if he’d had any visitors while he’d lived in the building, on the offhand chance that one of them might be part of this family. But it was nearing one o’clock, and I had to get to the salon for an appointment. In the lobby, I stopped by the manager’s window, where a stick-thin older woman with faded red-blonde hair sat, busy with paperwork. I introduced myself, and she told me her name was Dorothy Givens, the onsite manager.

We’re all so sorry about Mr. Severance’s death, she said. She had a slight accent I couldn’t identify, comforting and down-home sounding. And such a terrible way to— she stopped herself. Well, that can’t be helped now, can it?

I saw the eviction notice, I said. I’ll have David’s things moved out by next week.

That’s probably for the best. You have until the thirty-first, but I expect there will be a lot of last-minute scrambling by our tenants to get out. The evictions are quite a disruption for most of them, even though they’ve been given ample notice.

Did David know about the evictions when he moved in?

Yes, ma’am. That’s why we required him to sign a month-to-month lease.

Knowing David, he probably expected to find someone else to take advantage of before he was forced to move. While I’ve got you, did you happen to notice David with any visitors while he was living here?

The police asked me the same question. I’ll tell you what I told them: we don’t monitor the lobby twenty-four hours a day, and our security cameras are recorded over every two days. I can’t possibly keep track of everybody’s comings and goings. But I did see Mr. Severance with a woman a few weeks ago, the only visitor I ever noticed.

I took the picture out of my purse and showed it to her. Is this her? I said, pointing to the woman I believed to be David’s stepdaughter, Kathleen.

Dorothy shook her head. She was heavier and blonde. About the same age, though.

That old feeling I used to get when I found evidence of David’s infidelity rose in my throat. It didn’t matter that we were separated or that he was dead. It still hurt.

***

I arrived at my salon, Coiffures by Cheri, a half an hour late for my best friend Renee’s appointment. I expected her to be testy about it, but instead, she hugged me. How are you doing?

I leaned into her embrace. I’m okay. Sorry I’m late—I was cleaning out David’s apartment.

Renee made a face. The Hope had a reputation. What’s it like in there?

Grim. I almost can’t believe that’s where he ended up.

Any news?

I set her up in the chair and caught her up while I applied brown dye to her roots. He was seeing someone. Some young blonde.

Renee made a face. And you’re the one cleaning out his apartment? Let his new girlfriend do it.

I’m still his wife. And some of that stuff is mine. He stole my sheets; can you believe it?

Oh, I believe it.

That’s not everything. He had a family he never told me about. At least, I think he did. A wife and two stepchildren.

Renee turned so quickly in the chair that my brush slipped, marking her cheek with dye. You’re joking.

Rubbing her skin clean with a towel, I told her about finding the photograph. Alice died in 2017. Six months before I met David.

And he never mentioned her?

Never, I said. His stepchildren have children. He was a grandpa. I’m trying to decide if I should let them know he died.

You know how vain he was about his appearance. He probably didn’t want you to know he was old enough to be a grandpa. She got serious. Honey, I know you loved him, but he was a dirtbag, plain and simple. I don’t care if he is dead. She took out her phone. I’m gonna look them up. What did you say their names were?

I hesitated. This was probably a mistake. But I was curious about them, too. The son is named Shane Grundy, I finally said. He’d be in his late twenties or early thirties, and he’s married.

Here’s a phone number. Should I call?

It was scary how much you could find out about a person in just a few moments on the internet. I set the empty dye bowl on the tray beside me and fiddled with the brush, giving myself a second to think. All right.

She pressed the numbers and put the phone to her ear. My heart beat faster as I heard the faint ringing sound, then a trio of beeps. She held the phone out and put it on speaker, letting me listen to the end of the message. …this number is out of service.

I guess you can’t find everything on the internet, I said, mildly relieved.

There’s another number listed for him. Should I try it?

No. Maybe this is a sign I should let this be.

Nonsense. What’s the daughter’s name?

Kathy… no, Kathleen. I re-checked the obituary on my phone. Her married name is Chapin.

Got it, Renee said. She ran her index finger along the screen. Here’s one. Kathleen Chapin in Seattle. She dialed the number before I could protest then quickly handed the phone to me.

I had no idea what to say, so I was relieved it went to voicemail. I don’t know if this is the correct number, but I’m looking for Kathleen Chapin. My name is Cheri Severance. David Severance is—was—my husband. I recited my number and asked her to call me.

What now? Renee said.

We wait for her to call back, I guess.

***

The next morning, I stopped by the police station to speak with Andrew Parker, one of the detectives who worked David’s case. He led me to his cubicle and invited me to sit in the chair next to his desk. What did you want to see me about, Mrs. Severance?

Being in the station made me nervous. And Detective Parker, with his over-confident swagger and watermelon-sized biceps, reminded me of a guy I’d dated once, a bodybuilder with a walnut-sized brain and a penis to match.

The manager at David’s apartment building told me she’d seen him with a woman in the weeks before he died. I was curious if you’d spoken to her.

Detective Parker folded his hands in front of him. I can assure you we interviewed all pertinent witnesses and examined all the available evidence.

It just… it came as a surprise to me. Not that he had a girlfriend, but I told you before that David wasn’t the type who would kill himself. When the manager told me about the woman, I thought that maybe there was some connection.

"Mrs. Severance, I know it’s upsetting to find out your husband had a girlfriend you didn’t know about. But you were separated—he wasn’t exactly cheating. As for his suicide, he was facing the breakup of his marriage, eviction from his apartment, alcoholism—"

David wasn’t an alcoholic.

The detective’s voice was gentle. We found evidence of abuse. Whether it was chronic is difficult to know.

We were getting off track. Did you speak to this woman? I asked.

At this, his face showed the first sign of annoyance. We couldn’t locate her.

I felt vindicated. And did you know he’d been married before? He had a whole other family he never told me about. If he lied about that, who knows what else he lied about? The man had secrets.

What are you suggesting, Mrs. Severance?

I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of all the factors surrounding his death.

It’s always difficult to accept a loved one’s suicide. As painful as it might be, my advice to you is to close this chapter of your life and move on.

I left the police station feeling surly and dissatisfied. Detective Parker clearly hadn’t taken my concerns seriously. In his mind, the matter was settled. David had committed suicide.

***

I was halfway to the salon, stopped at a light when my cell phone buzzed. I pressed the hands-free button. Hello?

Cheri Severance?

Yes?

This is Kathleen Chapin, returning your call.

I pulled my car to the curb at the first available space. Thank you for getting back to me, I said.

"I wasn’t going to call you back. I didn’t see the point—my family’s relationship with David ended on bad terms, and I haven’t