The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (25 page)

“Mom.” Molly was relentless. “Grandpa’s not a kid, you know. He’s a grown-up. If he gets into trouble, he’ll deal with it.”

I stared at her. She was so small; her sturdy little legs didn’t even reach the floor. How did she know so much?

I kissed her forehead and thanked her for her advice. “Grandpa’s lucky to have you for a granddaughter. How about we go get him the stuff he asked for.” I opened the car door but stopped, looking up the street. The houses seemed off-balance, as if something intangible had shifted. Stop it, I told myself. It was the same street as always. The old house that had been Professor Hogan’s. And the wrought-iron fence around what used to be Dr. Hennigsman’s property. Lettie’s front yard. But now it all seemed altered, palpably forbidding, as if daring anyone to come near. Absurd. What was wrong with me? I looked at my father’s house, and it, too, seemed somehow different, off-balance. The windows seemed to sneer, and the eaves hung dark and sinister.

I told myself that I was being foolish. Nothing had changed. It was simply dusk. Under the fading light and in shadows, everything looked different. Still, I didn’t get out of the car. I sat there, assuring myself that uneasiness was uncalled for. It was a remnant, a residual feeling left over from a miserable childhood. Or from the night I’d found Stan’s body on the porch. Or from the day Beatrice had died. Or from the day I’d found Jackson’s body. In fact, it could be left over from any of my visits; whenever I’d come near this house, something gruesome had occurred.

So? Don’t you get it? I asked myself. How many hints do you need? Don’t come back anymore. Leave. Start the car and go. But I didn’t. I couldn’t give in to groundless fears. Despite my instincts, regardless of my nerves, I was determined not to let the scars of my past dominate. The worst was over. The house was no longer a crime scene. There was nothing anymore to be afraid of. I was here to pick up my father’s slippers, not to grapple with memories. And so deliberately, almost defiantly, I got out and helped Molly climb from the car. And for the second time in two weeks the two of us headed unsuspectingly up the narrow overgrown path to my father’s door.

N
OTHING’S GOING TO HAPPEN
, I told myself as I felt shadows close in around us. The streetlights dimmed faintly, and something chilly tickled the nape of my neck. I glanced around. Lettie’s house seemed to tremble just slightly. No, that was me, shivering in the cool October air. We’re fine, I insisted as we climbed the front steps. My fingers were unsteady, fumbling with the key as I unlocked the door, but we went inside, stopping in the foyer, since Dad had shot the lights out, to let our eyes get used to the dimness. There. See? Nothing happened. No corpse lay on the front steps. No body was splayed out in the front hall. No catastrophes greeted us.

When I could see well enough, I went into the dining room and turned on the lights. Looking around, my breathing was shallow, my fingers tightly clutching Molly’s, my skin contracting in nervous gooseflesh. Stop it, I told myself. Relax. But I couldn’t, felt tempted to run and hide in my childhood hiding place, the closet under the staircase.

“What’s wrong now?” Molly released my hand and crossed her arms, sighing, impatient.

“Nothing.” Except that the house was different. Disturbed.

“Where should we look?”

“What?”

“For Grandpa’s stuff. Where should we look?”

Probably I was imagining things. After all, I’d just had dinner seated beside my dead mother; my imagination was in high gear.

Enough. I kicked into action, ignoring my instincts, and joined Molly in her search for my father’s slippers and photograph.

“Let’s sneak,” Molly suggested. “Let’s pretend we’re on a spy mission.”

We began sneaking in the dining room; moved stealthily into the living room. The wedding picture wasn’t on the coffee table or the mantelpiece. It wasn’t on the shelves, either. But something else was on the shelves. Or rather, not on them. I stared, trying to figure out what was wrong. And then I saw the clean spots, free of dust. Someone had been there, had removed—I didn’t know what. Maybe a vase? A decanter? I wouldn’t even have noticed the pieces were gone if not for the half inch of dust surrounding the imprints where they’d stood.

Damn. Someone definitely had been there and taken some of my grandmother’s bric-a-brac. Or no—not taken it—the stuff was on the floor, beside the sofa. Just sitting there. A big old turquoise vase, a rather ugly green glass decanter, a floral-patterned china candy dish, a pair of pewter candlesticks.

Oh, God. What was going on? Would the police have moved this stuff? No. Why would they move a bunch of old keepsakes from a shelf to the floor? It made no sense. I grabbed Molly’s hand and raced through the shadows of the house, aware that nothing that remained there was of much value, and that, amid my father’s clutter, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell if anything else had been moved. But I was angry. Incensed. Everywhere I saw evidence of an outsider. Someone had opened closet doors and dresser drawers and not closed them, had removed books from their shelves in the study, had tilted picture frames just slightly on the walls. A prowler had been here, had rearranged my father’s luggage, tampered with the items on my mother’s vanity. But, even stranger, nothing seemed to be missing. Things had been bothered, but not removed. The intruder had apparently come in, moved things around, and left. Why? Why would someone ransack a house and not rob it?

“I think I see them, Mom.”

See what? Oh, Molly was still looking for my father’s things. His slippers and wedding picture. She flew across my father’s bedroom, reached under his bed and pulled out a pair of worn leather slippers.

“Great, Molls. Good job.”

But she wasn’t finished. She peeked behind a stack of magazines on the nightstand, and voila: an ornately framed eight-by-ten wedding picture of my father and mother.

“Is this it? Did I find it?”

I reached for it and saw my parents in the peak of their romance. My father a debonair chap in his tuxedo. My mother a dark siren in a beaded, lacy gown. “This is it, Molls.”

“Is this your mom?” She pointed.

“Yes.”

“She’s pretty. She looks like you. Exactly like you.”

“You think so? Thank you.”

“What happened to her?”

Oh, God. I didn’t want to go into it. “She died.”

“How?”

“Molls, it was a long time ago. An accident,” I lied. But what was the point of burdening her with the truth?

Molly looked up at me. “How old were you?”

Oh dear. Was she afraid that I’d die young, too? “Around your age.”

“Really? Poor you, Mom. That’s so sad.”

“It was. But I survived.” Sort of.

She looked back at the picture. “I like her dress.”

While Molly admired the wedding wardrobe, I looked around for more signs of the burglar. Wasn’t the furniture out of place? Hadn’t the bed been moved a little farther from the wall? The dresser edged a few inches away from the window?

“Mom.” She was at the window, looking out. “Look.”

Across the hedges, beyond the fence, in the moonlight, Lettie was running a small herd of puppies. “That’s Lettie. She raises guard dogs.”

“They’re so cute. Can we go see them?”

Maybe. It was early. Why not? Lettie had said to come by anytime. Besides, I should update her on Dad and thank her for being so concerned and helpful, letting Hardy help us bury Jack. First, though, I thought I should call the police and report a burglary. But I couldn’t even be sure that anything was missing, hadn’t found a broken window or point of entry. The only proof that someone had been there were a couple of clean spots in an otherwise dirty house. For all I knew, Dad had moved the things himself during his visit home. There was no point, I decided, in calling. There was nothing, really, to say. And besides, I didn’t want to deal with the police again. I’d tell Nick; that would be enough.

Yes, I told Molly. We could go.

And we started to. I stuffed the photo and slippers into my bag, and we descended the rear stairs, passing through the kitchen to the hallway. We didn’t stop for anything, not even to find out why the door to the basement was ajar. Or why a bucket sat in the middle of the kitchen floor. At that point, I didn’t dare to know. I just kept going, holding Molly’s hand, until we were safely outside, heading for Lettie’s house, feeling the evening breeze chill our skin.

That’s when we looked down the street and, right in front of what used to be Dr. Hennigsman’s yard, saw a crowd gathering at a gate.

M
OLLY LOOKED AT ME
with eager eyes. Without discussion, we walked hand in hand across the street to see what was going on. People were of mixed races, all ages, dressed casually in jeans and sweatshirts. Maybe it was a block party. Or a fund-raiser, a benefit of some kind. I pictured a backyard full of rock-climbing walls and trampolines. Face-painting. Music. Clowns. Molly would love that. We approached the crowd in front of the still stately property. The gate was open; people were lined up along the driveway, heading for the backyard fence.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Don’t know. Maybe a block party.”

“What’s a block party?”

“It’s where everyone on the block chips in and has a party.”

She thought about that for an eye blink. “Can we go?”

I didn’t think so. We didn’t live here, didn’t know anyone.

“Please?” Molly made her pleading puppy face.

I looked around. The people were casual, seemed to be a bunch of couples and families hanging out together, some children and teens among the adults. Still, I wasn’t sure we should stay. We didn’t know what exactly was happening or even how much it would cost to get in. And, as an outsider, I felt awkward, hesitant to ask.

Curious, we drifted hand in hand to the crowd.

“Mom. Do you think it’s a family-fun night? Like at school?”

“I don’t know, Molls.”

“Can we look?”

Okay. What would be the harm in that? We’d just peek in and see what was going on. It was still early. If we were welcomed and it seemed like fun, maybe we’d stay awhile. We went to the gate and looked onto the property.

“Ten minutes,” a heavyset woman barked. “Ten-minute call. Ten minutes.”

Suddenly, people on the street converged as if magnetized, closing us in. In a heartbeat the straggly line became a throng and we were sandwiched among a solid mass of bodies, unable to turn or edge our way out. I hung on to Molly, but she seemed unperturbed, striking up a conversation with a boy in line behind us. He was about two inches taller, older, probably around eight.

“No. But my grandpa does.” I heard her tell him.

“Who’s your grandpa? Because you have to live around here to get in.”

“My grandpa lives here, but he’s in assistant living.” Molly pouted.

“Molls.” I started to lead her away. “We ought to go. This seems to be a private party.”

“Nonsense. Don’t be silly.” The boy’s mother was about ten years younger than I was, and about fifty pounds heavier. Her rings dug into the flesh of her fingers, and her short hair was dyed an unnaturally bright shade of yellow. “Who’s your grandpa, honey?”

“My dad lives down the block,” I answered for Molly. “Let’s go, Molls.”

“Nonsense. I’ll vouch for you. I’m Yvette Williams, and this is my son Brett.”

Yvette and Brett? I blinked. “Zoe and Molly Hayes.”

She offered her plump moist hand; I shook it. Brett and Molly were deep in conversation, like old friends.

“Thing is”—Yvette leaned over, speaking confidentially—”with all that trouble lately, you know, they’re keeping security tight.”

I nodded, as if I knew what she meant.

“But I’m a good judge of character. I can tell you’re okay.” She eyed me, then Molly, smiling coyly. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

Okay how? “Sure we are. But look, we don’t need to stay—”

“Of course you’ll stay. No problem. You’re with us.” She slipped her hand through my arm, guiding me along, as Brett and Molly chatted.

The line moved forward, carrying us along with it, progressing through the gate where the ticket seller collected entrance fees. Unprepared, I faced him, an unshaven man wearing a purple bandanna around cornrows, a sleeveless sweatshirt. Scars of artistic carvings ran up his muscled arms and along his massive shoulders. He held his hand out for our admission fee.

“New neighbor?” He leered at me.

“It’s okay, beefcakes, she’s with me.” Yvette stepped up and shoved him playfully. Familiarly.

“Hey, there.” He grinned, revealing a gold front tooth. “Where you been, Yvette?”

“Nowhere you’d be.” She gave a bawdy, suggestive laugh, and handing him a handful of cash, she leaned over to plant a sloppy kiss on his mouth.

When he could breathe again, he wiped his lips with his arm. “Okay. Let’s keep it moving.” He slapped her bottom as she passed. “Yo, Brett.”

Brett gave him a high five as he passed. Behind him, an even larger man in a cowboy hat guided Yvette and Brett along toward the garage. Suddenly I wanted to leave. I felt trapped, panicky. The line pressed us forward, as eager and unstoppable as the tide; Molly had to cling to me to avoid being swept away. The man with the bandanna held his hand out, waiting for my cash. I fumbled inside my bag, fingers blocked by slippers and my parents’ wedding picture, and I searched clumsily behind and under them for my wallet, finally pulling out a twenty.

The man rolled his eyes. “This all you got?”

Oh, God. Wasn’t it enough? I had no idea.

“I got no singles.” He handed me a five. “Next time bring exact.” He smiled, revealing the gold tooth, resembling a pirate. I half-expected him to snarl, “Aaargh, shiver me timbers.” Gooseflesh rose on my arms. Who the hell was he? And what were we doing here?

Surrounded, bumped, pushed and jangled from all directions, we moved along with the crowd through the backyard into a huge five-car garage. We passed no entertainment on the way. No trampolines or face-painting or three-legged races. Someone was selling beer, and people smoked marijuana openly. But the great attraction was inside the massive garage, and it appeared to be a primitive sort of boxed-in plywood stage, mounted there like an arena. Maybe a hundred people crowded around it, shouting, shoving, chewing gum or sipping beers, a few holding kids on their shoulders. I looked around for Yvette, saw her standing with some other women on the other side of the stage. Brett had joined a bunch of older kids, teenagers. Molly held my arm with both hands, and she said something I couldn’t hear. I leaned toward her so she could repeat it.