The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (4 page)

“Mom, the phone,” Molly announced, as if I couldn’t hear it. “I’ll get it—”

“No, Molls. Don’t. Let the voice mail pick up.”

“But maybe it’s important. It could be Grandpa—” She looked around the kitchen, ran into the hall. “Where is it?”

The fact was I had no idea. The cordless was always disappearing, traveling on its own. It could be anywhere, and I was grateful when it stopped ringing before Molly could locate it. The bump on my head throbbed, and every muscle in my body ached. Thoughts of Nick, of my father, of Beatrice, of shadows I couldn’t identify and questions I couldn’t articulate rattled around my head. I fought them off, keeping busy. While Molly soaked in the bathtub, I threw our clot-covered clothes into the trash bin, wanting never to see them again. I took a long shower, scrubbing away basement grime and crusted blood. It was after eight when, feeling faint and vaguely nauseous, I remembered we hadn’t eaten dinner.

“Mollybear, want a hot dog?” I hoped so. It was about all I had the energy to cook.

Molly wasn’t thinking about food, though. She’d spotted the clothes toppling out of the trash can. “Mom, are those my clothes?” She looked mortified.

I nodded. “Mine, too.”

“You threw out our clothes? Why? Mom, why?” She repeated the question, trying to make sense of the inexplicable.

“They have stains, Molls.”

“So? We can wash them.” She stood at the trashcan, staring.

“Some stains don’t wash out.”

“But you didn’t even try.” She reached into the can, removing a bloody yellow sneaker.

“I didn’t have to try. I know those stains won’t wash out.”

“Why won’t they wash out? We can use stain remover.”

Why did she have to know so much? “It’s blood. A little blood might come out. But not that much.”

She was digging deep into the trash, anyway, retrieving what she could. “But my sneakers—my yellow sneakers.”

“Molls, they’re ruined. I’ll get you another pair.”

“I don’t want another pair. I want these.” She held them up. The sneakers were caked with dark brown splotches.

“The new ones will be just as good.”

“No, they won’t. These are my favorites.”

I stood beside her, taking the grisly items from her hands and dropping them back into the can. “Molly, please. Leave them there.”

As fast as I replaced things, she pulled them out again. “No— it’s my stuff. You can’t just throw it out.” She was indignant, her arms filled with bloodied clothes.

She was right. The clothes were hers. I stopped grabbing and let her hold a sneaker and a blood-smeared T-shirt. Slowly, she looked them over.

“Mom.” She looked up at me, her large eyes welling with disappointment. “My sneakers are ruined.”

I sighed, stooping to face her. “I know. Sometimes stuff gets ruined, Molls. If you can’t fix it, you just have to let it go.”

Her eyes widened, accepting the awful truth. Then, somberly, slowly, she dropped her clothes one item at a time back into the trash. “Good-bye, yellow sneakers. Good-bye Dora T-shirt. Goodbye daisy socks.” She stood at the can, mourning, addressing each item.

“We’ll get new stuff. I promise.”

She nodded soberly.

“I have an idea.” I stood, struggling to sound cheerful. “How about we order a pizza?”

She stopped her farewells, silent for a while. Then, in a soft, serious tone, she uttered, “Pepperoni?”

Somehow, a pepperoni pizza lifted her spirit and restored her faith in life, and we made it through the evening. By the time she went to bed, Molly was chattering about her soccer team practice and teacher, Mrs. Kellen, and her friend Hari’s dog, Lucy, who was about to have puppies. Amazingly resilient, she seemed already recovered from the crises of the day.

Unlike her mom. For me, the upheaval, like the night, was just beginning.

I
WENT INTO THE
living room and curled up on my purple velvet sofa, waiting for Nick to come home, remembering the trouble in his eyes, preparing for the inevitable conversation. Nick would be steady and controlled, never admitting that he was hurt. But I could see him almost as if he were in the room with me, his gaze accusing me of being a hypocrite. After all, hadn’t I been the one who’d insisted on unflinching honesty and openness? Hadn’t I hesitated to get involved with him because I wasn’t sure he could be completely forthcoming? Hadn’t I been concerned about the secrets in his past, about his former “work” relationship with a sexy forensic psychologist, about his role in his former wife’s death? Hell, hadn’t I been alarmed that Nick hadn’t volunteered the truth about the scar on his face, that he’d neglected to mention that the bullet that had paralyzed half his face had been fired by his own late wife? Hadn’t I preached to him about the virtues of honesty and openness? And now, after all my preaching and probing, hadn’t I proved that I was just as guilty as he was of keeping secrets?

I listed Nick’s imagined accusations, accepting my guilt. It was true, all of it. I’d kept secrets. For all my insistence on full disclosure, I had held back a number of significant facts. I’d told him that my mother had died, but left out the circumstances of her death. I’d skimmed over details of my motherless childhood, had barely mentioned Hilda, the housekeeper who’d helped raise me. I’d only vaguely referred to the string of holidays I’d spent with friends and college roommates, only hinted at the dread I’d felt at having to return home. And I’d omitted telling him anything at all about my father.

How could I defend myself? What could I say that would explain? No doubt, Nick would accuse me of walling myself off, not exposing my weak spots, not trusting him, not being capable of trust. Would I have a defense? Was there one?

The fact was that all of those accusations were accurate. I didn’t know if I was capable of fully revealing myself to anybody. It wasn’t just Nick—it was everyone. I hadn’t told even my closest friends about my childhood or my father. But that wouldn’t wash; Nick wasn’t just anyone. He was the man I was about to marry. The daddy of the child I was carrying. The man I loved. Presumably, Nick was closer to me than anyone. Shouldn’t I have clued him in on the fact that his future father-in-law was alive and residing a few miles away? Shouldn’t I have explained the reasons for our estrangement, told him why Dad’s name wasn’t on the wedding list?

Okay, yes. I should have. Definitely. So, instead of defending myself, I would simply admit my mistake. Apologize. Pledge never to withhold again. Swear that I had no other secrets. And Nick would probably forgive me, or at least pretend to. After all, he was pragmatic, and he had to deal with the pressing issues first. The circumstances of Beatrice’s death would take priority; the murkier issues of our relationship would wait until later and, with any luck, they’d fade away without further conflict. I practiced my lines—my description of my father, my abridged family history. I rehearsed assurances that my father wouldn’t disrupt our lives any further, that I had no desire to maintain a relationship with him. Good. I was ready to face Nick. But Nick was working nights, still wasn’t home.

I turned on the television but couldn’t focus. The images flickering on the screen transformed into a dark basement, a blood-spattered kitchen, an old man brandishing a carving knife. A gaping wound in a woman’s throat.

Eleven o’clock came and went, then twelve. Nick still wasn’t home, hadn’t called. I got up, ate another pizza slice. A banana. Swallowed a glass of milk. I waited for Nick in every room of the house. I logged on to the computer to check e-mail, shut it down even before entering my password, distracted. I kept seeing my father poised over Beatrice’s bleeding neck, and I watched myself fly across the room, knocking over furniture, fighting him for the knife. Scenes replayed on an endless loop in my mind, and I lamented that alcohol was verboten to pregnant women. I longed for a big fat Scotch on the rocks. Or maybe a tall cold vodka with cranberry juice. Anything to ease my aches and shut down my mind.

When Nick finally came in, it was after one. I was in the bedroom lying down, revising my speech. But I didn’t want to face Nick lying down. Lying down was too vulnerable. So I got up and went downstairs, meeting him in the kitchen.

He was rooting around in the refrigerator. He looked wiped out. Wilted. He made no move to kiss or hug me. He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re still up?”

Of course I was. How could I sleep? I went to kiss him; he accepted my lips automatically, without energy. Maybe he was too tired to respond? He took a swig of orange juice, right from the container. I tried to remember my speech. How did it start again?

“You okay? They checked you out?”

“Fine. We’re fine.”

“Your father’s in the psych ward. He’s getting a complete psych workup as well as a physical. The works.”

The psych ward. Was my father actually crazy? “Okay. Good.” I didn’t know what else to say. Nick drank more juice. Something was off. He kept his distance, his eyes avoiding mine.

“Did you have dinner?” That hadn’t been how I’d planned to begin my speech.

“Cheese steak about eight.”

I nodded. “Want me to fix you something? Or there’s leftover pizza—”

“No, I’m good.” He took the half gallon of mocha-almond out of the freezer. Good, I thought, eyeing the carton. We’d cuddle and talk over ice cream. Nick took spoons from a drawer and offered me one, but there was a shadow in his eyes. Reflexively, I shook my head—no, thanks—backing off. Damn. What was wrong with me? Why was I holding back? Why didn’t I go to him, grab the spoon, lean against his chest? It was my own guilt, I told myself. Nothing else.

Nick replaced my spoon and sat across the kitchen on a stool, casually, as if nothing were wrong. He opened the ice cream and dug in. I could almost taste it. Change your mind and ask him for the spoon, I thought. Or get it yourself.

“Turns out your dad was right.” He sucked on a cold mouthful. “The victim, Beatrice? She was choking, just like he said.”

Choking? I’d been completely focused on bittersweet mocha; it took a few seconds to digest what he’d said. “Is that what killed her?”

Nick nodded, swallowing. “Her windpipe was completely blocked off.”

So my father hadn’t killed Beatrice, after all. She’d choked to death from swallowing too much or too fast. Maybe she hadn’t chewed long enough—I made a mental note to warn Molly about that. Remember to chew each mouthful until it’s mush. The ice cream on Nick’s spoon gleamed softly, promising to require no chewing at all. “So what was she eating?”

“Thing is, she didn’t choke on food. Her throat was stuffed with paper.”

Paper? “She swallowed paper?” Why?

“Wads of it. Small pieces, crammed down her throat.” He swallowed ice cream. “Each piece had a name and some numbers on it. Dollar amounts.” He licked the spoon. “Looked like betting slips.”

Betting slips? Good God. I sat down, suddenly queasy, Nick’s words clanging in my head. Betting slips. She’d choked on betting slips. Oh, man. Not possible. Memories buzzed inside my skull, dangerous as angry bees. Betting had been my father’s true love, his mistress and passion. He’d bet on everything traditional—horses, cards, games, sports of all kinds. But he’d also make bets on random events. The date of the year’s first snowstorm. Whether or not passing strangers would return a smile. How many noodles were in a plate of spaghetti—and, to the nanny’s chagrin, he’d have me count them. My father would bet ten dollars on the length of the pastor’s sermon in church, or how many times his sermon would contain the word “evil.” Early in my childhood I’d been captivated and delighted by my father’s antics. He charmed and enchanted me, as he did many others. But gradually, my father’s endless gambling became less attractive. It had brought his downfall, and our family’s. And so, when I heard “betting slips,” I had to sit. There could be no coincidence. If there were betting slips in Beatrice’s throat, my father had to be involved somehow. Oh, God. What had my father gotten into? What had he done now?

“She choked on betting slips?” My voice was a croak. “That’s what killed her?” In a way, I supposed that was good news; at least she hadn’t bled to death from a slit throat.

“Looks that way.”

But why would someone swallow betting slips? “Was she trying to get rid of them? Why wouldn’t she burn them? Or flush them down the toilet?”

“Zoe.” Nick spoke slowly, patiently. “She didn’t swallow them on purpose. It’s a homicide. Somebody stuffed them down her throat.”

Oh. Of course. Obviously. I pictured strong fingers, thrusting, forcing small tidbits into a moist gaping hole, recalled stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey.

“Look, I can’t say any more about it. I shouldn’t even have said that.”

Of course he shouldn’t have. It was amazing that he had. Nick revealed the absolute minimum about his work; less if possible. But why would someone kill Beatrice with betting slips? How was my father involved? Obviously, he had to be. Where there was gambling, my father couldn’t be far away. I knew I should tell Nick about my father’s history, but I hesitated, not ready yet to face the implications.

“Anyhow, that’s pretty much all I know. Because, officially, I’m not involved in the case.” He dug out yet another spoonful of glistening ice cream. “My relationship with you gives me a conflict. But I’ll stay in the loop; keep my eye on him. Don’t worry.”

His tone was kind but cool, almost professional. He hadn’t really touched me since he’d come home. Normally, Nick and I were physically magnetic, almost inseparable. What was going on? If he was hurt or angry, why didn’t he say so instead of being distant? Where were the questions about my secrecy, the resentment about my duplicity?

I inhaled, remembering my speech, bracing myself to begin. “Nick—”

“So, are you really feeling all right?” He cut me off, sliding a glistening ball of ice cream into his mouth. “You got pretty banged up today.”

“I’m fine.” Why had I said that? Why couldn’t I admit I felt miserable?

He watched me tenderly. “Good. I guess you look worse than you feel.”

Did I? I had a blue-green lump on my head, stitches above my right eyebrow and a swollen red scratch on my chin, but did I look that bad? I hadn’t realized. I smoothed my hair back, lifted my shoulders, and watched ice cream glide through Nick’s lips. Rich and enticing, it offered soothing, cool comfort. I stared at his mouth, thought about how slippery it would be, how sweet it would taste. Stop it, I told myself. Focus.