The Good Neighbor

CHAPTER ONE

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

That early October evening, everything on Sitka Lane was still perfect. The twilight sky blushed in iridescent shades of pink and gold. The first fallen leaves tumbled across the lawn, cedar and alder trees swaying in the ocean breeze. I still felt robust and healthy as I straightened the painting of Miracle Mouse on my studio wall. The furry detective perched on a stack of books, her bespectacled eyes bright and perceptive.

I needed to write her next adventure, but when Johnny went away, I ended up chewing the tip of my pen and staring off into space. Every time my cell phone rang, I imagined his arms around me, his hand at the small of my back, circling lower. After three years of marriage, I still felt like a revved-up newlywed.

I pictured him at his conference in San Francisco, captivated by the latest advances in the treatment of acne and eczema, while I puttered around in the sleepy town of Shadow Cove, Washington, decorating our dream house. Or technically,
Johnny’s
dream house, since he’d bought the place before I’d ever met him.

I focused on rearranging my studio, which held the evidence of my busy life—boxes of books to donate to the library, my reading club schedule, notes from writers in my critique group.

At six thirty, my cell phone buzzed, the letters
BFF
popping up on the screen. I hit the answer button. “I thought you and Dan had left for India.”

“Our flight’s in four hours,” Natalie replied, Miles Davis playing in the background. “I had a weird feeling about you.”

“What is it now?” Natalie was the queen of outlandish premonitions. Ten years earlier, when we’d met as undergrads, she’d predicted the apocalypse before every exam.

“I worry one of those tall trees will fall on your roof.”

“You get this way before you travel,” I said.

“I know, but you’re alone in that gigantic house, and—”

“It’s not so gigantic.” It was true, but still, I shivered. The wind picked up outside, rushing through the trees. “I still can’t believe you’ll be gone for six months.”

“The clinic wanted Dan for a year, but his patients need him here. I’ll bring you some silk and sandalwood.”

“And Darjeeling tea,” I said.

“Green tea is better for your health, if you’re trying to get preggers.”

“I prefer black tea. You know that.” I felt a twinge beneath my ribs. Johnny and I had been trying to conceive for nearly a year.

“One cup a day,” Natalie said. “Or drink decaf.”

“Yeah, yeah. Do you ever stop being a nutritionist?”

“Only in my sleep. Give that hunky husband a hug for me.”

“Likewise.” I hung up, missing Natalie already. As I finished tidying my desk, her words played through my mind.
I had a weird feeling . . .

A few minutes later, my phone rang again, the word
Johnny
lighting the screen in blocky white letters.

“I missed you all day, Dr. McDonald,” I said, smiling.

“I missed you more,” he replied in his sleepy baritone voice. “I’ve been up to my ears in hidradenitis suppurativa—”

“Suppura-what?”

“It’s associated with high morbidity.”

“I hate that word,
morbidity
. Sounds like death.”

“It
is
about death. I need to come home.”

“You mean you’re not turned on by exciting lectures on flesh-eating bacteria?”

“I’m turned on by you. What are you wearing?”

“That little lace number you got me for Christmas,” I lied, looking down at my T-shirt and denim coveralls.

“Mmm. We could, you know . . . over the phone.”

“Wait a minute. Someone’s at the Kimballs’ house.” A car rumbled up the neighbors’ driveway, the engine kicking off.

“They’re allowed to have guests.”

“But the Kimballs are in Hawaii. They asked me to keep an eye on their house. Hang on.” I headed for the kitchen, pulled up the blinds. In the darkening twilight, two figures emerged from a station wagon in the neighbors’ driveway. Only a narrow strip of lawn separated their house from ours. I recognized Chad Kimball, thick and stocky, built like a football player except for his sloping shoulders. Monique resembled Marilyn Monroe in a striking way, curvy and breathless, with her shimmering blue dress flapping against her legs.

But where was Mia? Probably asleep in her car seat. “It’s them,” I said, letting the blinds drop. “They’re back early. Maybe Mia got sick. I’ll talk to Monique in the morning.”

Johnny yawned. “G’night, my sweet. I love you only.”

“Me, too. I love you only.” I hung up and finished tidying my desktop. Miracle Mouse watched me from the wall, every brushstroke of her fur lovingly painted by my grandmother. Nana had given me the picture when my first Miracle Mouse mystery had been accepted for publication. Now Nana was gone, but her memory haunted Miracle’s discerning gaze. As usual, I touched Miracle’s nose before retiring for the night.

On my way upstairs, I heard the melodic tones of the doorbell. I found Monique Kimball standing on the porch, the wind blowing white-blond hair across her face. At close range, her movie-star features came into focus—pouty lips, expressive gray eyes, and thick, curved lashes. Her skin was lightly tanned, a sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. The faint smells of travel rose from her—airplane, sweat, and expensive perfume.

“You’re back early,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

She smiled wanly. “It’s complicated. But I didn’t come over to complain. Could I borrow a bag of charcoal?”

“Come on back. We’ve got a bag on the deck.”

Monique stepped inside and followed me down the hall. As we passed through the family room, she whistled in delight. “
Oh la la!
I love the way you’ve redecorated. Is the blue couch new?”

“I got rid of that old black monstrosity. It screamed ‘bachelor pad.’”

“You’ve really fixed up the place.”

“Thanks, it’s been fun.” When I’d moved in, I’d added silk throw pillows, lavender sachets, scented soaps. I had a few nice pieces of furniture made from sustainably harvested wood, including a pearl diver chest in the hall.

Out on the windy back deck, a lawn chair lay on its side, and a garden rake had toppled over. I picked up a small bag of charcoal and handed it to Monique. “Sure you can get a barbecue going in this weather?”

“You know my husband. He likes a challenge.” Monique tucked the bag under her arm. Back in the foyer, she hesitated. “Jules is okay? He’s gone to bed early?” She gazed up the staircase, as if she might want to borrow Johnny as well. Occasionally, she reverted to calling him “Jules” and her husband “Jim,” after characters in
Jules and Jim
, a French movie the four of us had watched together, about two men in love with the same woman. But Monique and I had argued about who most resembled the
femme fatale
, Catherine.

“Another conference,” I said. “How’s Jim?”

“Tired and sunburned. His skin is too sensitive.” Monique seemed about to say something more, but instead she turned to peek out through the narrow window next to the front door. Across the street, Jessie Ramirez sat on her front steps in a sweatshirt and jeans, her dark hair whipping across her face. A tall boy sat next to her, dressed in a hoodie and smoking—her new boyfriend, Adrian, his low-rider black Buick parked in the driveway.

Monique frowned. “Why does she hang out with him?”

“She’s seventeen, the age of raging hormones. But she’s a good kid.”

“She takes good care of our house when we’re away, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I kept a gold pen by the phone, and now I can’t find it. Maybe it fell behind the fridge.”

“You think she stole it?”

“I’m sure it’ll turn up. Please don’t mention it to her.”

“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

Monique left in a rush, hips swaying as she crossed the narrow strip of lawn toward her front door. Jessie and the boy watched her go. Jessie had been a model student before she’d taken up with Adrian. But even now, I couldn’t imagine the girl stealing from anyone. She’d always been helpful and honest, but who knew the deeper mind of a teenager?