The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (7 page)

Emily avoided my eyes. “Oh, fine. Chinese. Whatever. I don’t even care. I’m not even hungry.” She pouted, martyr-like.

“Good. Chinese. Let’s go.” I helped Susan fold up the chairs while Molly and Emily headed to the car, carrying the cooler.

“So. What now?” Susan pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head.

“I guess we have Chinese.”

“I don’t mean about lunch. I mean about your father.”

Oh. “They’re doing a workup. He’ll be in the hospital for a few days.” I riffled through her knitting bag, hoping to find a granola bar. Even a cracker. Nothing.

“But what about afterward? You’ll have to find a place for him.”

A place?

“What is he—you said he’s about eighty?”

“Almost eighty-three.” We followed the girls toward the car.

“Well, assuming the DA doesn’t charge him with anything, it might be time for him to move out of the house. You said he was unkempt. He might need to live somewhere he can get cared for.”

Like a nursing home? I’d have to move him? The idea stopped me cold. I hadn’t yet decided that I would see my father again, much less that I would find a place for him to live. But Susan wasn’t finished. She kept listing things for me to do. “In that case, you’ll have to assess his belongings, maybe sell some or give stuff away. And you’ll need to get power of attorney. That way, you can sell the house. What shape is it in?”

My head was spinning, trying to absorb what she was saying, to comprehend what would have to be done. Visiting nursing homes. Moving my father. Packing up his house. Figuring out his finances, taking care of his bills. Getting the house in shape to sell. Susan was still talking.

“… But it’s got to be strange. All those years with not a word, and suddenly you’re in charge of the man’s entire life. His future is in your hands.”

Oh, Lord. I covered my eyes with my hands. Why had I gone to see him? Why had I answered the phone when Lettie Kinkaid had called? Why hadn’t I simply ignored her and stayed at home?

“But look at the bright side.” Susan smirked. “All the grudges you have against your father? Now’s your chance for revenge.”

I kept walking, suddenly cold. Susan was kidding, but in fact there had been years when I’d longed to get back at the man. The idea didn’t seem funny.

“And revenge, they say, is sweet.”

I supposed it could be. But it didn’t feel that way. “Well, they’re wrong. Revenge is overrated. The truth is, sometimes when you get what you want, you don’t want it anymore.”

Susan unlocked the car, and the girls climbed in. Nearby, a young woman ran down the sidewalk chasing a toddler. When she caught him, she tried to pick him up; he arched his back, shrieking, trying to slip out of her grasp. Watching them struggle, I wondered how I’d manage to keep up with a little one. I was over forty, a lot older and more tired than she was. I rested a hand on my swelling belly, wanting food. Susan and I got into the car, and she continued my to-do list as she pulled out of the parking spot.

“The most important thing is to find him a good home. He has to live somewhere.”

No matter how I tried to deny it, she was right. If my father was, in fact, unable to care for himself and the house, I was going to have to take charge of his life. Make his decisions, handle his affairs, secure his future.

“Look, Zoe. You can’t manage this on your own, especially with the baby coming. You’re going to have to make use of all of us— me, Nick, your other friends. I’ll make a list of what you have to do—the real estate, finances, medical stuff—remember, I had to do all this with Tim’s mom.”

I was reeling, light-headed. Already, I was over my head decorating the baby’s room, looking at bassinets and playpens and mobiles while working full-time. How was I to take on my father’s affairs, too? And where was the restaurant? I was ravenous.

“Mom, are you talking about Grandpa?”

“Yes, Molls.”

“Emily,” she continued. “Guess what? I went to see my grandpa yesterday.”

“So?” Emily was unimpressed. “I go to my grandpa and nana’s condo all the time. Except in the summer, we go to their house down the shore.”

“Yeah,” Molly bragged. “But yesterday my grandpa killed a lady.”

Emily paused. “No, he didn’t. You’re making it up.”

“Emily,” Susan interrupted. “Let it go.”

I closed my eyes, wanting to disappear.

“No, I’m not making it up,” Molly insisted. “He killed her. I saw it myself.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying—ask my mom.” Molly turned to me, indignant. “Mom, tell her: Didn’t Grandpa kill that lady?”

Susan glanced my way, frowning.

“W-we don’t really know what happened, Molls,” I stammered.

“Grandpa killed her,” Molly insisted. “Right in his kitchen.”

“The lady was in the kitchen. And she was dead,” I began. “But that doesn’t mean that Grandpa killed her—”

“So?” Emily, ever competitive, was not to be outdone. “That’s nothing. My pop-pop was in the war. He killed lots of people— hundreds …a thousand. Didn’t he, Mom?”

Susan didn’t answer. She pulled into a parking spot near Wing Yee’s Restaurant in Chinatown. “I’m up for some hot and sour soup.” She backed into a spot, looking over her shoulder. “And a big fat spring roll.” She turned off the engine. “Last one out’s a ninny.”

Seat belts came off instantly, and with a bunch of happy chatter, as if their argument had never occurred, the girls burst out of the car and ran toward the entrance holding hands, best friends ready for lunch.

S
USAN WAS RIGHT ABOUT
Nick. When we got home from Susan’s early that evening, Nick greeted us, his arms wide open for hugs, and as I accepted mine, I saw that the ice in his eyes had thawed, melted to mush. Nick’s eyes were uncertain and tender. And he touched me gently, protectively, as if even his hands were sorry. He had shopped and planned a feast for dinner, preparing it himself. Steaks, pineapple slices, corn on the cob and Portobello mushrooms grilled outside on the patio. He’d made fresh lemonade and set the table with a centerpiece of tiny pumpkins and bright orange lilies.

We devoured our meal, but Molly was so tired from the long day of soccer and playing at Emily’s that her eyes rolled and her lids drooped as she chewed. As soon as we finished dinner, Nick carried her up to bed, and together we tucked her in. Then, with dishes still on the table and leftovers sitting out, Nick and I fell onto each other. We didn’t talk about what had happened. Neither of us mentioned issues of child safety or parental behavior; nobody referred to trust or honesty or openness or secrets. The topics of my father or Beatrice or gambling or her murder did not come up. In fact, Nick and I didn’t speak at all. Silently, without a need for conversation, we concentrated on what was really important. Nick held me closely, preciously. His touch told me everything I needed to know; words would have been weak and redundant. His hand stroked my belly, caressing both the baby and me. His lips brushed my neck, his bristly whiskers skittering, tickling my flesh. My fingertips, my kiss told him I was sorry; my hips declared how deeply I treasured the life I carried. Slowly, gently, our bodies blended so completely that it was difficult to tell where one stopped and the other began, which leg was mine, which thigh his. We rolled together over waves, our bed a raft in the ocean, and we hung on to each other desperately, carefully, as if for survival.

Afterward, Nick lay back, eyes closed; I thought he’d dozed off. “What about Vanessa?” he said.

Who? “Vanessa?”

“If it’s a girl. Or Gabrielle?”

“Gabriella?”

His eyes opened. “No, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle? “So we’d call her Gabby?”

“We’d call her Gabrielle. I thought we should name her something unusual. Distinctive. I like Skylar, but it might be too trendy. Sibyl’s too witchy. What do you think of Meredith? It means ‘guardian from the sea.’ Or Arielle?” He was on a roll.

“You’ve been reading name books.”

Nick half-smiled. “Well, skimming through them.”

I nodded.

“Actually, I’ve been making lists.”

How adorable. I was impressed.

“So what names do you like?” He propped himself on an elbow, waiting. “If you want something more conventional, how about Hannah?”

I’d been thinking about names for weeks, searching through name books, reviewing names of people who’d meant something to me. I couldn’t bear to name a baby after my mother, Louise. Or after Hilda. “Maybe Susan.”

“Really?” Nick frowned. “But there are a million Susans.”

“It’s simple. Basic. Strong. My best friend’s name.”

“You want simple for our daughter?”

“You don’t like ‘Susan’?”

He shrugged. “For simple, I kind of like Judy.” He repeated it, doing an awful impression of Cary Grant. “Judy. Judy. Judy.”

“Okay, no Susan, no Judy.” I sighed, resting on his shoulder, and we lapsed into cozy silence. “We’ll keep on searching.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

“Molly’s set on Oliver.”

“I know. I think we’re stuck with it.”

“Oliver? You’re serious?”

“That’s why there are middle names.” Nick chuckled.

“Speaking of middle names, what’s yours?”

He winced. “No, uh-uh.”

“Come on, Nick.” I began to tickle him. “Tell me. Out with it— you know mine.”

“That’s not fair.” He was laughing. “You don’t have one— stop—” He was doubled up, protecting his ticklish spots, but I climbed onto him, keeping it up until, breathless, he belted out, “Okay, okay—Ambrogino.”

“What?” I stopped tickling.

He repeated it. Nicholas Ambrogino Stiles. “It’s Italian.” He felt the need to explain.

“Well.” I lay back, releasing him. “I guess Oliver’s not so bad, after all.”

We chuckled together, lying limbs entangled, imagining our future.

“Maybe we should name him after one of my brothers.”

I’d never met his brothers; all I knew was that he had three of them scattered across the country.

“What do you think of Eli, Samuel, or Anthony?”

I considered the series. Odd set.

“Or my father’s name, Solomon.”

“Solomon?”

“I told you. We’re half Italian, half Jewish. My parents took turns naming us.” Half of Nick’s face grinned. “They took turns at everything—one year, we’d have Christmas and Easter; the next year, Hanukkah and Passover. Well, some years, we’d have both.”

“You’re serious?”

He was. “Two of us had confirmations; the other two had bar mitzvahs. Looking back, I guess it was odd. But it didn’t seem that way. To us, it was normal.”

His eyes gazed into his past, his childhood. They seemed pleased with what they saw. Nick turned, facing me. “So, we’re committed to Oliver?”

“I don’t know…”

“Eli Oliver. Anthony Oliver. Samuel Oliver. Oliver Solomon— or Solomon Oliver—”

I pounced, planting a kiss on his mouth to silence him. We laughed, rolling in each other’s arms, filled with joy and jitters, both acutely aware that picking a name was a heavy responsibility, loaded with repercussions. And that it would be merely the first of many such responsibilities on our imminent parental trek.

T
HE NEXT MORNING THE
sky swelled with dark clouds that hung heavy and gray. Monday. The phone rang early, while I was getting dressed, and it took me a moment to identify the crusty voice. “How’s it going, girlfriend?”

Lettie’s unmistakable gravelly voice was checking on my father. “The whole neighborhood’s alarmed, girlfriend. Especially our Town Watch group. Beatrice was one of us, and we want to help out any way we can. People like Beatrice are rare to come by. Treasures. I always told her, ‘Beatrice, there isn’t anything in this world that will ever come between us. Nothing can tear apart our friendship. You and me, we’re friends for life.’ For life, I told her. ‘Til death us do part, just like a married couple. That’s how I do my friendships, girl. You’ll see. For life. So, have they arrested Walter? Because nothing was in the paper about an arrest. He wasn’t even mentioned by name.”

I was in a hurry to leave, but Lettie persisted, darting from one topic to another, asking if she could do anything for me, if little dollface was okay, going on about children and how they are God’s gifts. Asking, by the way, if I’d heard anything about the status of Beatrice’s body or funeral because nobody seemed to know anything about it, as the police had taken her away. Insisting that I stop by for coffee and cake next time I came over; she’d made fresh lemon poppy seed cake just that morning, which wasn’t easy anymore with her arthritis acting up like it always did before a storm. Dogs barked in the background, at times drowning her voice out, and I was desperate to get off the phone. I assured Lettie that we were all right, thanked her for calling, promised to be in touch and to have coffee with her, and hung up abruptly, trying to escape her raspy questions and the images they stirred up. I had no desire to bond with my father’s neighbors or to gossip about the brutal murder found in his house. I had to get away from all that. To work, to concentrate on my own life.

Outside, the air held still, cloudy and chilly, promising an October storm. I put aside thoughts of Lettie’s call, but the memories she’d stirred merged with the dark sky and damp air, unsettling me. The cabdriver who dropped me off on the circular drive to the Institute warned that it was going to pour; just like Lettie, he knew because of his rheumatism. It never failed. He could predict the weather by his joints.

Even the Institute seemed to foresee a storm. The sprawling bulk of the building seemed to lie low, as if trying to conceal itself among the trees and vast landscaping that surrounded it. Without sunshine, the place seemed more melancholy than usual, its Victorian red brick and stone facade dour with gloom.

For over a hundred years, the Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute had housed people afflicted with diseases of the mind. Their voices still echoed there, lost within its walls. My task was to help those voices express themselves, finding solace and direction through art. So I pulled open a heavy cut-glass door and, despite the ominous skies, put on a positive, professional smile and entered the marble-floored, elegantly domed rotunda, ready to face the day.