The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (19 page)

I held my belly, closing my eyes, wishing I hadn’t answered the phone. No. The creature wasn’t, couldn’t be in the house. “No, there’s a doggie door downstairs. Animals can come and go that way.” After all, I had many times. And, on one occasion, so had Molly.

“Oh.” Susan was thinking fast. “So Jackson must have been attacked outside and crawled back home to die. That fits.”

“Unless,” I suggested, “the creature came in and left through that same door.”

She dismissed the idea. “No. It wouldn’t come inside. Not its territory.”

She seemed certain. I lay back, resting. The contraction had finally completely passed.

“Okay, Zoe. I’m going say something but you’re not going to like it. Ready?”

I waited.

“I think it might have been deliberate.”

What?

“Think about it. You told me your father gambles, right? And you told me about his neighbor—what was his name? That guy who got killed?”

“Gavin Broderick.”

“And you said his dogs got killed first. As a warning, because he owed a gang money.”

Right. I’d told Susan what Stan Addison had said. Two dogs had been torn apart, and their owner had been killed, probably by a gang, probably because of unpaid debts.

“Think about it. It can’t be a coincidence. Your father’s dog was killed viciously, just like the neighbor’s dogs. A guy was murdered after his dogs. Beatrice was murdered, probably soon after your father’s dog.”

I fidgeted, not liking where she was going.

“So, I’m guessing your father and Gavin might have owed the same people.”

The idea was appalling. Unacceptable. Completely logical.

“So what exactly are you saying?”

“I don’t know. Maybe your father placed bets with the gang. Maybe he lost and couldn’t pay up, so they killed his dog to scare him. And maybe he still wouldn’t pay, so they killed Beatrice as a final warning.”

I didn’t say anything. Stan Addison’s voice echoed in my head, telling me that Susan could be right. After all, Gavin Broderick had apparently been killed for not paying the gang what he owed. I rubbed my temples, wishing that my head would stop pounding.

“Look—you’re the one who said your father has a gambling problem—”

“My father would not deal with a gang.” Why had I said that? How did I know what my father would or would not deal with?

“But you said yourself that he’s addicted to gambling. You said he’d gambled everything he owned and lost it all. Isn’t it possible that in his old age he might not be real particular about the people he places bets with?”

“He wouldn’t deal with people like that.” I pictured Beatrice’s death grimace, her bulging eyes. Why was I resisting Susan? Hadn’t I already had the same ideas myself?

“Because…?”

“Because they’re unspeakable. Because they torture animals and kill people. Because…you saw Jackson. Do you really think my father could be part of that?” And, by the way, did I?

Susan didn’t answer. Molly galloped into the room, hopping onto the bed.

“Get off the phone, Mom.”

“Hi, Molls.” I collected myself, kissed her.

Molly tugged at my legs. “Get up. Nick’s making waffles.”

I nodded. “Susan …I got to go.”

“Zoe, don’t be so defensive. Look …I shouldn’t have told you what I think. Clearly, you can’t be objective about this.”

“Of course I can.” I held no illusions about my father’s character. Molly kept pulling at me, repeating that breakfast was almost ready. “Give me a break,” I told her.

“What?” Susan was confused.

“Mom, you’ve been talking for hours.”

“One minute, Molls.”

“Okay. One. I’m counting to sixty. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.” She darted out of the room. “But we won’t save you any. First come, first served. Three Mississippi…”

My stomach rumbled; the baby wanted food. But Susan wasn’t finished yet.

“All I’m saying,” she went on, “is that we can’t ignore the facts. Are you saying all these deaths are just coincidence? That they have nothing to do with each other?”

“Susan.” I tried to hide my misgivings. “My father would not deal with violent street gangs. Gangsters, yes. Gangs, no way.”

“Even with good odds?”

“Not funny.”

She waited.

“No matter what the odds were. He wouldn’t.” The idea was too vile. Still, I’d wrestled with it for days.

“Fine, Zoe. I hope you’re right. But I’m going to ask Ed to look into it, to see if he can find out what’s going on.” Ed was one of Susan’s detective friends, her closest link to the police grapevine.

We were silent, breathing into the phone for a long uncomfortable moment, stewing the way we do when we disagree. Then, promising to talk later, we hung up. My stomach rumbled, demanding food. But I didn’t rush downstairs for breakfast. I sat for a while thinking about dead dogs, violence, street gangs, my father’s questionable ethics. And the possibility that, once again, his incorrigible gambling had cost lives.

S
UNDAY AFTERNOON MOLLY WENT
to a birthday party for her friend Serena, but I didn’t stay to visit with the other moms. Instead I went to see my father. Nick insisted on coming along. I didn’t argue, even though I wanted to see my father alone. I had serious questions for him. But Nick was trying to be supportive, and I appreciated his attention, if not his energy. He was all good cheer, talking about names again. Paige. Brooke. Kendall. Naomi. He went on, listing names for boys. Everything he said chafed my nerves. My mind wasn’t on baby names; it was on my father and his old habits. So, by the time we got to Harrington Place, I was relieved to get out of the car.

We found my father in the lounge. He looked like a different man from the one who’d moved in days earlier. His silver hair was cut and groomed, his face clean-shaven. He wore a polo shirt and khaki pants—casual but sleek. And clean. He was still too thin, but his dark eyes beamed good humor and energy. When he grinned, his teeth sparkled like a movie star’s. Oh, God. My pulse skipped a warning. My father was himself again.

Nick greeted him warmly, and the two of them stood smiling at each other, shaking hands, doing their male ritual.

“Good to see you. It’s Nick, right? The cop?” He remembered Nick’s name and job? Dad turned to me, held his arms out for a hug. My God. Who was this guy? And what had he done with the emaciated, disoriented old crank I’d fought with in his kitchen?

“Come in, come in. I’m glad you’re here.” He led us to his suite.

“Have a seat.” He gestured, showing the space. “Not bad for an elder hostel, is it? I’m having quite a time here.”

An elder hostel? “Dad, it’s not a hostel. It’s a retirement community.”

“Fancy name. Same game. So what have you brought me?”

I handed him the box of crunchy nut toffee I’d been carrying. “I haven’t been shopping yet. I’ll bring you more clothes this week.”

“No need. I’m fine. They have a laundry service here, and I don’t need much.”

“I’ll bring it anyhow.”

I sat on the sofa, Nick beside me, facing my dad in his easy chair.

“So, Walter. How is it here? You finding your way around?”

“Nice enough. They have a pool, a gym, a decent library, a barber. Even a gift shop. They show films. There’s a lot to do. People are friendly. It’s okay. Thanks. Thanks a lot. You must have spent a bundle for my spot.”

“Not really, Dad…your insurance—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Nick interrupted. I blinked at him. Nick and my dad went on talking, deep in conversation. How had it happened that I was the outsider in this threesome?

I leaned back, pouting. Annoyed. Until I realized that they were talking about Beatrice.

“It was those damned gangbangers. Those slime,” my father said. “They killed her.”

“Who exactly? Can you give me names?”

“Names? Could be any one of them. Or the whole bunch.”

I looked at Nick. But he nodded as if my father’s answer made sense, even wrote a note on a pad of paper. “Anybody specific?”

“How should I know their names? They’re everywhere, taking over the whole neighborhood. I told Beatrice. I warned her to keep her distance, and certainly not to cross them. But she didn’t listen. She went ahead. Lord knows what she was thinking, and now she’s dead. Tell you what, though. No matter what they do, nobody’s going to drive me out of my house, no way. In fact--oh, say—that reminds me—can you give me a ride?” He started to get up, as if to leave. “I got to go back there and look after Jack.”

Oh, God. He still didn’t know about his dog.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I found him.”

“You don’t say. Where was he?”

“In the basement.” I hoped we could leave it at that. But he went on.

“In the basement?” He seemed bewildered.

“Jack,” Nick repeated. He had no clue. “Who is Jack?”

Damn. How had it happened that I still hadn’t told Nick?

Nick looked from me to my father, blank, waiting for an answer.

“Jackson,” I began, but I couldn’t deal with Nick’s questions and my father’s at the same time. Nick would have to wait. I took a deep breath and made my voice as gentle as possible. “I’m sorry, Dad. I got to tell you. Jack’s dead.”

“Dead? What are you talking about?” My father looked aghast. He stood, turned in a circle, sat back down. “He’s dead? But I left him plenty of food. What happened?”

“Jackson’s a pet?” Nick was catching on.

“His dog.”

“Tell me,” my father insisted.

I hesitated, trying to soften the facts. But then I thought about what Susan had said, that my father’s gambling might have led to Jackson’s, even to Beatrice’s, death. In that case, I couldn’t sugarcoat the truth. “He was torn apart, Dad. Attacked. His face was pretty much gone.”

“His face was gone?” Nick asked, but my father talked at the same time.

“Damn them. Goddamn bastards.” My father’s hands covered his face.

“What happened, Dad?”

“Zoe, why didn’t you tell me about this?” Nick’s face had darkened. His eyes beamed trouble.

“Hell if I know.” My father looked bereft. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I called him, but nothing. I thought he ran away. But it was those damned gangsters. Damn them to hell.”

“Dad? Are you gambling again?”

He looked up suddenly, stunned. “What? Who said so?”

“Answer me. Are you placing bets with a gang, Dad? Do you owe them money? Is that why they killed your dog?”

“What?”

“Answer me, Dad.”

“How can you even ask me that?”

“Zoe, what are you talking about?” Nick tried to break in.

“Tell me.” I watched my father, wouldn’t back down.

“No. I already told you.” My father shook his head. “I haven’t got a thing to do with any of this mess. Beatrice did whatever she did on her own. I’m damned if I know anything about any of it.”

“Don’t you?” I wasn’t giving up; I knew how easily he lied. “How about the money, then? Why is money hidden all over the house?”

He blinked at me, the face of innocence. “Money?” His face was completely convincing. He hadn’t lost his touch.

“I was over there, cleaning, and I found wads of cash. Hidden all over the place. Gambling stashes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Zoe, enough—” Nick tried to break in. “The man just found out his dog is dead. Lay off.”

But it was no use; I couldn’t stop myself.

“Dad, don’t bullshit me. I think you’re gambling again, and I think that’s why you have money stashed everywhere. And you know what else? I think Jackson and Beatrice both got killed because of your gambling—”

“Now, just a minute.” He raised his voice, pointed a finger. “What the hell were you doing in my house?”

“I was cleaning—”

“I don’t remember saying I wanted you to clean my house.”

“Well, somebody has to—”

“Listen here. Nobody’s allowed in my house without my permission. Trespassing is illegal. You’re all alike. Sneaking around, taking liberties, trying to drive me out—”

“Walter. Zoe. Settle down, both of you.” Nick tried to take control.

We both ignored him. “Tell me about the money, Dad.”

“What money?” Nick was still trying to follow us.

“The money,” Dad repeated. He seemed puzzled. “The money’s none of your business. I’m an American, aren’t I? I can keep money anyplace on my own property that I want, can’t I? Since when do I have to explain what I do with my money to you? Or anybody else?” Dad was angry now, fists clenched, half-standing.

“Just once, Dad, tell me the truth. Just once.” I stared into his eyes. “Are you gambling?”

He glared directly back at me. “For the thousandth time: I don’t gamble anymore. I’m a respectable man. Give me some peace, will you? Just trust me, Louise, and let it be.”

Louise again.

Nick closed his hand around my arm. “Zoe, lighten up.” His voice was low. A growl.

“No, I will not lighten up. And, dammit, Dad, I’m not Louise. I’m Zoe.”

My father sat back, dejected. “Poor old Jackson,” he sighed. “Dead.”

“What exactly happened to his dog?” Nick still wasn’t entirely sure.

“I found him in the basement.”

“You didn’t tell me.” He seemed amazed.

“I know. I meant to. I just never got around to—”

“You said he was torn up?”

“His face and throat…his ear. He was mangled. A mess. Susan and I buried him.”

Nick gaped at me in somber disbelief. “You and I have to talk.”

W
E DID HAVE TO
talk, but we couldn’t, not there, not then. Instead, Nick changed the subject, distracting my father from his loss, being deliberately cheerful and sociable, protecting my father from me. I couldn’t sit there, listening while Nick fell prey to my father’s manipulative charm, as if no murders or mangling whatsoever had occurred. My pulse was racing, and I was fed up with them both. I needed to breathe, so I got up and stormed out of the suite, almost knocking over my father’s roommate, who’d been leaning against the door.

“Leonard?”

“I live here.” He pretended that he hadn’t been eavesdropping. “You’re the daughter.”