The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (16 page)

No, I insisted. Do not get swallowed up here. Do what you came to do and no more. Girding myself with a deep breath, I willed my feet to go no farther down the hall. I turned left to face my parents’ room, and I opened the door.

The curtains in my father’s room were open a crack, enough for a single beam of light to slice the shadows. Dust floated aimlessly there, without hurry. I opened the drapes, agitating the air, and the particles scattered, hiding in the must.

When I looked around, I was tempted to close the curtains again, sealing the place permanently. The room was a shambles of pathways carved among mounds of clutter. It smelled close and stale, held the odor of an unwashed man and unlaundered clothing. I waded through wadded clumps of T-shirts and shoes, extension cords, used cups and empty sacks, hangers, books. Several old televisions sat in random locations, towels hung over one, a lamp stood in front of another. I could trace my father’s movements, his regular routes from the hall to the bathroom, the bathroom to the bed, the mattress barely visible under heaps of unfolded, probably unclean, linens and clothes.

How was this room possibly my father’s? My father had always been dapper, dashing. Vain. A stickler for neatness and appearances. I pictured him again, his hair sparkling salt-and-pepper, his eyes flashing black, his stature tall and handsome in his dark pinstriped suit, a fresh handkerchief in his pocket. How could that man have lived in this sty? He’s failing, I reminded myself. He’s not the way he used to be. Just stick to business. This is not the time to get overwhelmed. Do not linger, analyze or reminisce. Do not even wonder. Just find some clean jackets and sweaters, a spare pair of pants, pack them up, and go. Leave the rest for another time. Do not consider how long it’s been since the bed was made, let alone since the sheets were changed. Don’t look into the mounds of clutter coating the floor.

Determined to be quick and efficient, I went to the dresser and opened a drawer, expecting boxer shorts. The scent hit me first, wafting out and embracing me like a spirit. My mother’s scent, dusty but still distinct. The drawer held her lingerie, her potpourri. Her stockings, panties and bras. I blinked with disbelief and slammed the drawer shut, shaken. Why were my mother’s clothes still here, decades after her death?

Tentatively, my fingers tried another drawer. This one held her sweaters. Cashmere and lamb’s wool. I touched a pink cardigan, its pearl buttons. Did I remember it? Or the black one beside it? The camel cable-knit on the end? No. I didn’t. Wouldn’t.

My eyes burned. I closed the drawer, unsettled. My mother had been dead for thirty-five years. But her clothes were still here, untouched? I opened another drawer, bracing myself for nightgowns or sundries. But this drawer contained men’s socks. Three of them. One black, one brown, one argyle. Other than that, the drawer was empty. Apparently, my father hadn’t done laundry in a while. From the look of his room, his socks were well-worn and lying all over the floor.

The drawer beneath that one held a single undershirt. The bottom drawer contained odds and ends. I sifted through suspenders, belts. Handkerchiefs. A couple of old watches. Brand-new lined leather gloves, sunglasses, a rabbit’s foot, dice, poker chips, an old wallet. Half of a two-dollar bill. A quarter with heads on both sides. A box containing cuff links and tie clips, a fraternity pin, a class ring. Under the box, a piece of manila paper, frayed at the edges. I unfolded it, saw the big lopsided heart colored with red crayon, the words in awkward, uneven print, all the e’s backward. “To Daddy. Be my Valentine. I love you xoxox, Zoe.”

I stared at the card, trying to remember making it, trying to picture the child I’d been. Amazed that my father had kept it all these years. And I looked around, curious. Was there anything else of me here? I stooped down, searching the drawer. Deep in the back of the drawer, behind cans of wax shoe polish, nail clippers and an IOU from a guy whose signature was illegible, I found birthday cards, Father’s Day cards. Pictures I’d drawn, a scrawny self-portrait, a family of four. And photos. My mother, pushing a newborn in a pram. A skinny pigtailed girl with knocked knees and the sun in her eyes. A teenager wearing borrowed pearls, posing for her senior portrait. Or standing awkwardly in a formal gown next to tall and gangly Billy Monroe before the prom. My past, the girl I’d been, squinted at me from faded glossy paper.

My belly began to tighten, and I felt woozy. Bertram had shown me some relaxation techniques. Take deep breaths, I reminded myself. Let the tension out of your muscles. Inhaling, I looked around the messy room. How long had I been up there? Somehow, sucked into the room, engulfed by clutter, I’d lost my grasp of time. Put down the pictures, I told myself. Close the drawer. “Get his clothes,” I said out loud, reminding myself why I was there.

I scanned the place. My father’s usable clothing was lost in the piles around me. I wasn’t about to sort it all, comb through his laundry, searching for a wearable shirt or a decent pair of black socks. Better to buy him a new wardrobe. I’d already bought him some basics. I could get him a few more golf shirts, some pajamas, a suit or two, underwear, shoes, a couple pairs of khakis. Socks. It would be worth the money not to have to sort through all this stuff. That’s what I’d do. I’d toss all this stuff into Susan’s bags and give it to charity. But not today. I drew long, slow breaths as my belly relaxed. Today, I’d done enough.

On my way out, I checked the closet. Maybe Dad had some suits in there. As I opened the door, I was assaulted by the smells of camphor, cedar and dust. I looked inside, but didn’t see my father’s clothes. On one side were clothes bags full of coats and dresses. Skirts. My mother’s shoes sat neatly arranged on racks, as if she’d step into a pair in the morning. I walked into the closet and unzipped a bag, touching the tweed of a suit, the silk of a blouse. I looked at a terry-cloth robe in perfect condition. My mother’s clothes waited for her, unaware that time had passed or that she was gone. Someone could use these things, I thought. I took out a black satin sheath, held it up, trying to remember my mother’s size. It seemed a little tight at my hips, but not very. If I weren’t pregnant, it might fit. I went through her clothes until suddenly, examining a loose flowery purple skirt, I had the sense that I was doing something wrong. It’s okay, I told myself. She’s dead. She doesn’t care about her old clothes.

Even so, I had the feeling that her things weren’t mine to dispose of, even to touch. They’d fit her form, still carried her scent. And, if I took her clothing, what of her would be left? What evidence that she’d ever lived? If I got rid of her possessions, in a way wouldn’t I be killing her all over again? Maybe that was why my father hadn’t discarded them. Maybe I should put everything back the way it was, leave it for now.

I began to replace the items. One by one, I hung each neatly inside the closet, arranging them as they’d been before I found them. When Susan came upstairs, I was about to zip up the last clothes bag.

“Zoe, hey—”

She startled me, and I jumped, pulling my hands behind my back as if I’d been caught pilfering. The sudden movement yanked the bag, dislodging a loose fold of plastic at the top. And a shower of tens and fives slipped out, sprinkling the shoulders and waistbands of my mother’s old clothes.

“W
HAT? MORE MONEY?”
S
USAN
helped me gather up about a hundred dollars. “Your parents didn’t believe in banks?”

“It’s my mother’s closet. She probably just wanted to keep some cash around.” Or to keep it from my father. I pictured her slipping bills into the seam of a clothes bag, taping it to the bottom of a drawer, hiding bits of cash here and there.

Susan didn’t press the subject. “I guess we should be careful what we throw out. There might be a treasure in the tea bags.”

A treasure? An image skittered through my mind. What was it? A box? A safe? I shook my head, not able to grasp it, letting it go.

“Anyway. There are dishes of food and water downstairs,” Susan went on. “Does your father have a dog?”

A dog? Vaguely, I remembered seeing dishes filled with dog food the day Beatrice died. Did my father have a dog? I had no idea. “Maybe. If he has dishes, he must.”

“So where is it? I haven’t seen it, have you?”

No. And, if the food had been there all this time, why hadn’t the dog eaten it? We wandered the halls, calling for a doggie, listening for a bark, a pant, a whimper, a growl, hearing nothing. Maybe he was hiding, frightened that my father was gone. Or, I realized with a sudden pang, maybe he hadn’t eaten the food because he himself was gone. Who knew? Given the way my father had treated my mother’s clothes, the dog could have died years ago.

Still, for a few minutes we wandered the halls and the stairs, looking for a dog that might have been dead for a decade. “Here, pup,” “Here, doggie,” we called, listening for a bark, a whimper, a growl, a yip, hearing nothing but floating dust.

We gave up, leaving the food and water in case there was an actual dog. In case he returned. Susan went back to work, tackling the refrigerator. I sat at the table watching her, my eyes drifting to the door to the basement. Maybe, it occurred to me, the dog was downstairs, unable to get its food because the door was shut. Oh, God. Maybe it was down there starving. Probably not. But maybe. After all, that’s where the doggie door was.

“Man.” Susan was wincing, holding up a container full of black fuzz. “Look at this. Label says cottage cheese.”

“Looks about ripe.” I went to the basement door, opened it. “Help yourself.”

She grimaced. “Now I know where you got your culinary skills.”

I turned on the light, looking down, my eyes straining in dim shadows. Something didn’t smell right. I hadn’t noticed such a strong odor a few days earlier, when Molly and I had been down there. Uh-oh.

“Doggie—” I took a step down, then another.

“Zoe? Where are you going? Wait… take this.” She came after me, arms loaded with flashlights, testing them.

I waited until she found one with working batteries, holding my breath to avoid the smell of death. Halfway down the stairs, flashing the light ahead of me, I stopped.

Susan stood watching from the kitchen doorway. “What’s the matter?”

I couldn’t talk. I just pointed.

The answer lay at the bottom of the stairs. Emerging from a blanket of old newspapers was a limp rust-colored tail.

U
NDER A WILLOW TREE
we found a good spot for a grave. Quiet, undisturbed. Best of all, the earth was loose and soft, easy to shovel, and the tree provided some relief for the grave diggers from the hot sun. We began to dig, but as my blade struck earth, memories burst out at me, teasing, flittering too quickly for me to catch. Long-forgotten moments taunted me, dancing just out of reach. Maybe I’d dug in the mud here, playing near the creek as a child. Or maybe I’d planted stuff in the garden? I had no idea, and it was no use trying to recall; the images were gone. Instead of chasing them I thought of my mother, imagined her silhouette gliding through the house, hiding cash, squirreling it away in small bundles designated for school supplies or winter coats, for mortgage payments or dentist appointments, protecting it from the squandering hands of her husband. I wondered how she’d felt. Angry? Afraid? Desperate? What would it have been like, sneaking around, stashing a hundred here, two hundred there? Not trusting her husband at all? I thought of Nick. Of marriage. Of trust. There was a lot I didn’t confide in Nick. Was I any different from my mother?

I stabbed the ground with my shovel and began to wedge out a clump of moist soil, wondering if I’d been responsible for the dog’s death, if it had starved to death because I’d closed the door and shut it off from its water and food. Guilt ripped through me; I ripped at the earth.

“You know I love you, Zoe.” Susan wiped sweat from her forehead, smearing it with dirt. “But I’ll tell you what—grave-digging pushes the limit.”

“Look. Dealing with my father’s house is a grave responsibility.”

“I’m serious,” Susan grunted. “This is the last time I will ever dig a grave with you, no exceptions.”

“That attitude”—I jabbed my shovel into the earth—”is hole-ly uncalled for.”

“Ouch.” She smirked, hefting another clump of soil. “I’ll tell you this, though: Your family seems to have a lot of dirt to dig up.”

“Yes. And plenty of mud to sling.”

“I can dig it.” And she did. Heaps of dirt flew off Susan’s shovel. She was a dynamo, a human backhoe. We were working in rhythm, making progress, when suddenly the sweet smell of earth seemed cloying, sickening, and a sharp pang ripped through my gut. I stopped digging and drew a deep breath, waiting for the tightness to ease, wondering if the chokehold gripping my belly could simply be Braxton-Hicks. It was the second one that day. I put the shovel down and sat.

Susan stopped digging. “Zoe? Are you okay?”

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure. The contraction was more defined than the earlier one. Not painful, exactly. But it made me feel light-headed. Maybe I should call the doctor. She’d said I should if they got worse. Was this “worse” enough? I hoped not; the threat of bed rest loomed ahead of me like a jail sentence. I’d better take it easy and forgo digging the grave.

“You all right? Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this. Bending and lifting probably isn’t a good idea.”

I sat under the tree, not arguing. The doctor had told me to avoid doing anything strenuous, although she hadn’t specifically cautioned against digging a grave.

Susan put down her shovel and knelt beside me. “Seriously. Are you all right? Should I get you some water?”

“I’ll just sit a minute.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll sit, too.”

She plopped down beside me, and we sat together under the willow tree beside the pathetic patch of dirt we’d dislodged, listening to the breeze gently rattling the leaves. Nearby, dogs were yapping.