The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (22 page)

“Good. Tell me what happened here tonight.”

“Tonight?” My father glanced from me to the ceiling, searching the beams for an answer, stalling. Clearly he had no idea what Nick was referring to. Finally, he frowned. “Which part of tonight do you want to hear about?” He was covering up, too proud to admit he had a memory lapse.

“Well, start with Stan Addison.”

“Who?”

“Stan Addison. Your neighbor?”

Dad just blinked.

“The Town Watch guy.”

“Oh, him? He’s an idiot. Trash. You say his name’s Stan Addison? What about him?”

“Did you see him tonight?”

“No. Why would I? He doesn’t come around here. He knows I don’t suffer fools or hypocrites.”

Nick leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. “Walter. Your daughter told me you had a gun tonight.” He nodded toward the dining room, where detectives had bagged the weapon. “She says you were firing at her. You almost shot her.”

“No, ridiculous. I wouldn’t shoot at my daughter. I was chasing away those damned trespassing gangbangers. They’re trying to take over and run me out of here. Those people will stop at nothing—”

“Walter, did you shoot at Stan Addison?”

“Why would I? I told you. I haven’t seen him.”

Nick sighed. “He’s dead, Walter.”

My father scowled. “Dead? Christ. Are you serious? That fool with the helmet and glow-in-the-dark vest? The flashlight? That’s who we’re talking about?” There was a pause. “You don’t say.”

“He’s outside lying on the porch.”

My father gaped at Nick. “He’s what? Lying on the porch? My porch? They killed him, too?”

Nick watched my father’s eyes. “What do you mean, ‘they’?”

“The ones who killed Beatrice. And Jack. The same ones I’ve been telling you about—the gangs.”

“Walter. Think for a minute. Is it possible that you shot Stan accidentally? Maybe mistaking him for an intruder? A gang member?”

“Me?”

“Well, you were shooting.” Nick looked at the bullet hole near the front door, then at the burned-out chandelier. “Maybe you hit Stan. By accident.”

“That’s absurd.” My father dismissed the idea.

“Maybe Stan saw a light on, and, since he knew you were away, since he was involved in Town Watch, he came by to see what was going on. Maybe you heard him out there and thought he was an intruder, so maybe you fired—just to scare him away. But maybe the bullet actually hit him. Unintentionally, I mean.”

My father shook his head at each suggestion. “No. No. No and no. Never happened. He had no business here, and he knew it.”

“Okay.” Nick studied my father. “Tell me about Stan. How well did you know him?”

“Man’s dead. I don’t want to speak ill of him. Thinking he could pull wool over everybody’s eyes. That community or Town Watch thing? They wanted everybody to ante up ten bucks for dues. Let’s see, ten dollars times how many—maybe a hundred neighbors? But it was all a scam. A cover-up, a complete fraud. The guy was so dumb, afterward, he broke out on his own, trying to start his own deal, independently, on the side. I warned Beatrice, but she wouldn’t listen. Stan Addison conned her into it, the stupid son of a bitch.”

“Dad.” I was appalled at his attitude. “Stan Addison died trying to protect your neighborhood.”

“Really? What do you know about it?”

“I know what he told me. About the gangs taking over, and the violence—and that you were the only one who wouldn’t join Town Watch—”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Town Watch? Baloney. You know what that guy was really trying to sell? Protection. He was one of the—”

“Wait, back up. What did you say, Zoe?” Nick’s eyes had narrowed, razor-like, slicing me with their gaze. “You knew the victim?”

Oh dear. More information that I hadn’t shared with Nick. “Not really. I met him. Once.”

“How? When?”

“The other day. I ran into him in the alley. He told me about Town Watch, that’s all.” “What exactly did he say?”

“He was worried about gangs. He said they were taking over the neighborhood.” I turned to my father. “He also said he thought my father might owe the gangs money. Is that true, Dad? Did you gamble their money and lose? How much do you owe?”

“Zoe.” Nick’s voice was a low rumble. “Cool it.”

“Is that what Addison told you?” My father seemed astonished. “That I owe a gang? I told you he was a son of a bitch.”

“Answer me, Dad.” I avoided Nick’s eyes and his questions. “Where did you get a gun? Who were you ready to shoot tonight? Gang members who might be coming to collect their money? People you placed bets with?” My voice was louder, higher, unstoppable. “Tell me. Are your debts why they killed Beatrice?”

“Zoe.” Nick’s voice glowered. “That’s enough.”

My father stared at air; I stared at him. I felt Nick staring at me. For a moment, nobody spoke.

“Dad,” I insisted.

“Zoe,” Nick persisted.

My father clenched a fist, his eyes flashing, resisting. “Did Beatrice die because of you and your gambling?” I went on, couldn’t stop. “Tell us. How many people have to die because of you? Let’s see. Beatrice. Now Stan. Oh, yes. I almost forgot Mom. Who’s next, Dad? Tell us. Who’s it going to be?”

I stopped, eyes burning. Except for my furious heartbeat, the room was silent. Slowly, wordlessly, my father’s thin frame lifted itself from the chair and hobbled to the front door. I watched him stand there, surveying the scene. The police, their cars. The flashing lights. The corpse on the porch. He ran a gnarled hand through his silver hair. He looked genuinely distraught. And fragile.

Suddenly I felt ashamed. Damn. Why did I feel guilty for speaking up? How could my father cause so much harm and still work his way into my heart? Why, after all this time, did I still simultaneously feel the urge to curse and embrace him?

“Zoe.” Nick’s voice slit like cold steel. “It’s time we had a serious talk.”

Warily I met his eyes. They were frosty and critical. And disappointed.

“Okay.”

“What else haven’t you bothered to mention?” His voice was a gravelly whisper.

“Nick, how could I mention any of this? How can I talk to you about anything when you’re never around until the middle of the night? I simply haven’t had a chance.”

“You haven’t had a chance? Zoe, there is a murder investigation going on. No—two murder investigations. You needed to find a chance.”

He was right, of course. “Nick, I’m sorry.”

“Let’s continue this later.” Abruptly Nick stood and started toward the doorway. “Walter,” he called. “Come back inside. We have more to talk about.”

Why? What did he want to talk to my father about? Oh dear. Was Nick going to have him arrested?

“Wait… Nick.” I went after him. “You don’t really think Dad shot him?”

He shrugged. “Ballistics will tell.” He was trying to act detached, as if this case were impersonal, like any other. He was annoyed with me, but I couldn’t let him take that out on my father.

“But think about it. If Dad shot him, it would only have been because he thought Stan was breaking in. Dad was barricaded in here, protecting his home. He didn’t mean to kill anybody.” Why was I defending my father?

Nick turned to me. His gaze chilled me, and I felt the need to keep talking, to thaw him. “So, even if he did shoot him, it would have been because he thought somebody was breaking in…And in that case—”

“Did I shoot him?” My father, dazed, went to sit on the sofa.

“Go home, Zoe.” Nick was curt, impersonal. “We’ll finish this later, after things are settled here.”

I searched his eyes, saw sadness and anger, no affection. Nick led me out the kitchen door and walked me around the house, past Lettie silhouetted at her window, through tall weeds, past police cars and flashing lights, away from the howling of neighborhood dogs.

“You’re sure you’re okay to drive?” He held the door for me.

“I’m fine.” If I weren’t, he’d be even more upset.

As I was about to pull away, he leaned into my window. “Here, don’t forget this.” He held out my cell phone. “Not that you ever use it.”

Then, without another word, he turned away and headed back to the house.

G
UILT WAS ALL
I could feel. It swelled and swirled inside me, sucking me into itself inch by inch, organ by organ. It poured over me as I showered away the shock of the night and the blood smears from falling onto Stan.

I felt guilt physically with every breath, hanging on my lungs, twisting my stomach, accusing, demanding answers. What kind of person are you? How unfeeling about the death of a man on your father’s porch? How indifferent to your father, how insensitive to your daughter and your fiancé? How irresponsibly reckless with your unborn baby?

I stood at the bathroom mirror, toweling my hair, examining my face. My eyes looked back at me drawn and hollow, knowing they’d done wrong. Not sorry. Just guilty. Guilty of not being sorry? My head throbbed. I couldn’t sort one feeling from another. One second I was angry, the next guilty about being angry, blaming myself for feeling what I felt, unsure what those feelings were. Whatever I did, thought, said or didn’t say, I felt wrong. I glared at the mirror, wanting to jump from my body and run. Wondering how much I really looked like my mother. And the thought of her gave me chills, stirring up cold currents of more guilt.

In my way, after all, I’d let her down just as much as my father had. In fact, my anger at him was no greater than my anger at myself. If only I’d been a better child, if only I’d shown my mother how I loved her. Maybe if I’d helped her more …If I’d dried more dishes or kept my room clean. Or if I’d just stopped her from going downstairs …Oh, God. How many times through my childhood had I gone through the list of things I could or should have done to change the outcome? How many years had I spent blaming myself? How was it that guilt still consumed me, even though my adult self had learned, and my professional self had determined beyond any doubt that my mother’s death had been beyond my control, had not been my fault?

I turned on the faucet, held a washcloth under cold water, pressed it against my face. Felt it cool my eyes, my temples. Slow down, I told myself. Breathe.

But the guilt stayed with me as I left the bathroom, churned in my abdomen as I went downstairs to make some mint tea. It was with me still as I sat on my purple velvet sofa sipping hot liquid, hoping the tea would steam away my failings before they erupted and spilled over—onto Nick, Molly, my unborn child.

And what about my father? Why did I feel guilty about him? He had destroyed my childhood and my mother’s life. But somehow my anger at him seemed out of place; the man he’d been back then was gone. Now nobody else saw what I saw when they looked at him; nobody knew what I knew. Now my father was old. His shoulders were stooped, his mind confused. And although his age merely meant that he’d survived when others hadn’t, it still felt wrong to be unkind to him. And so I was guilty again.

The tea had gone cold in the cup, and dawn had risen. When I finally heard Nick come in, I was still on the purple sofa, clinging to its cushions, riding a tidal wave.

“Y
OUR FATHER’S BACK AT
Harrington, safe and sound.” Nick dropped his jacket on the back of the sofa.

“He wasn’t arrested?” Thank God.

“Nope. We don’t think Stan Addison was killed with his gun, and your father has a license to carry. For now, seems all he was doing was protecting his premises.”

I waited, but that was all he said. I heard him walk back down the hall, mess around in the kitchen, make himself a sandwich. I stayed on the sofa, chewing my lip, tears brimming, not sure what to do or say.

“What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be in bed.” When he came back into the living room his mouth was full of Swiss on rye. He held a Yuengling, and he looked disheveled, exhausted.

I shrugged, not able to form words.

“Apparently, your pop’s got a girlfriend.” He sat beside me, absorbed in his food. “At least one. Maybe more. His roommate— that guy Leonard—was up when we got back there, and he seemed pretty bent out of shape that Walter’s such a chick magnet. When word got out that he’d left, women were banging on the door, going nuts. The roommate doesn’t get it. Apparently, the ladies don’t give Leonard the time of day.”

I nodded, felt a smile emerging as I pictured tubby Leonard with his unbuckled belt and hiked-up, unbuttoned pants wondering why women preferred my slender, smooth-talking father.

“Did he tell you about his son?”

“The one traveling in Africa?” Half of Nick’s face smiled sadly as he took a swig of beer. “Between you and me, I think that trip ended years ago. That son’s in no hurry to let his father know he’s back.”

We sat, chatting tentatively on the sofa, each of us trying to act normally, as if nothing much had happened earlier. Each of us failing.

“Nick—,” I began, and he said “Zoe—” at the same moment. We grinned, paused, began again, bumped each other again. “You start.”

“No. Go ahead.”

“You.”

Okay. I would. “It’s just… having my father back isn’t easy. It brings up all kinds of issues. I haven’t been myself.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched me and chewed his sandwich.

“To you, I know he seems like a charming old man, but it’s not that simple.”

“Meaning?”

What could I say that would make it clear? “He had a gun, Nick. Where did he get it?”

“Apparently, he’s had it for a long time.”

“Okay. But he was firing it at me.”

“Zoe, he was confused. He didn’t know who you were. Even now, he’s not sure who you are.”

“See that? You’re defending him. That’s what happens. People don’t see him as he is. They forgive him—”

“Forgive him for what? You’re accusing him without cause—”

“It’s okay with you that he had a gun?”

“The gun’s legal.”

“But not to shoot it at people—”

“Like you said before, if he thought he was defending his life—”

“Nick, why are you standing up for him?”