The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (3 page)

And so, with a carving knife, on the kitchen floor, my father, who’d had no medical training whatsoever, had decided to perform delicate throat surgery.

“I was opening her airway. I was doing fine until you knocked the knife out of my hand.” He regarded me with a withering glare. “Dammit, Louise. You as good as killed her.”

There was no point in arguing that the woman had died because he’d sliced into an artery and she’d bled to death. Or, for that matter, that I was not Louise.

My father knelt beside Beatrice, his knees in her blood, cradling her head. “Beatrice. Stupid, stupid Beatrice.” He caressed her bloody cheek. “Why the hell didn’t you listen?”

He scolded her, questioned her, drifting in conversation with a corpse. I put the knife on the counter, safely out of his reach, and finally went to Molly, who still hadn’t moved or spoken. She was standing by the basement steps, wide-eyed, watching, twisting a ringlet of hair with her fingers.

“Molls? Are you all right?”

She nodded silently and stood still as I hugged her, then allowed me to usher her away from the blood and the body. When I turned back to him, my father sat dazed on the kitchen floor, watching Beatrice as if unaware that we were there. Cuts and scrapes from our struggle dripped blood over his face and arms. He needed to go to a hospital, get examined. A wound on my forehead rained blood into my eyes, a painful lump was rising on the side of my head, and a chunk of skin was missing from my chin. I took a paper towel from the counter, an ice cube from the freezer, pressed them against my sores. Then I retrieved my purse from the floor, took out my cell phone, and called Nick.

Nick Stiles was my fiancé, the father of my unborn child. He was also a homicide detective for the Philadelphia Police Department. But he wasn’t there. His voice mail answered. “This is Detective Nick Stiles…” Cool and professional, it asked me to leave a number and promised to return my call. Damn. Why wasn’t he there? Trembling and cursing, I dialed 9-1-1.

As my call went through, I tried to piece together what had happened. Who was Beatrice? A neighbor? A friend? And how in touch with reality was my father? He’d confused me with my mother; had he also been confused about Beatrice’s choking? Would he be arrested? Charged with killing her?

A voice interrupted, calmly asking how it could help, and as I explained that someone was dead and that we needed an ambulance, I was distracted by another, smaller voice. “Don’t worry, Grandpa,” it promised. “It’s okay.”

I turned to see Molly taking hold of my father’s blood-crusted hand. When he didn’t respond, she climbed onto his lap and rested her head against his chest. His eyes didn’t move, but his hand rose on its own, gently supporting her back.

T
HE REST OF THE
day passed in a dizzying frenzy. While we waited for the police, a woman’s head suddenly popped up at the kitchen window, a drowsy puppy in one hand, cigarette in the other. Fit and petite, skin weathered by the sun, Lettie Kinkaid radiated energy. Racially mixed, her hair the color of straw, her eyes gleaming with specks of gray and red, gold and green, she might have been thirty-five, might have been sixty. She stood outside exhaling smoke through the screen, a chorus of barking dogs backing her up.

“Walter?” Her voice was a baritone, deeper than my father’s. “Are you in there? Hey, Walter—I know you’re home—open up, handsome. I gotta talk to you.” She began rapping on the window frame.

Awkward and dazed, aware of an unfamiliar tightness around my middle, I went to the window and waved her away through the screen, making excuses, explaining that we were busy at the moment. But she wouldn’t leave. “You’re the daughter?” She assessed me through the screen, insisting on seeing my father. “Tell him Lettie’s here. I need to see him a sec.”

Finally, I went to the adjacent mudroom to open the door. Before I could ask her in, though, Lettie had readjusted her puppy and yanked the screen door, bursting inside, brushing past me to get to my father.

“Hey, Walter? Have you seen Bea—” She stopped cold, struck speechless at the sight of Beatrice’s blood-drenched body.

I knew I should say something, but my voice didn’t seem to be working. Words wouldn’t come. I watched mutely as Lettie’s eyes moved from Beatrice to my bludgeoned father and back to Beatrice, her hand rising to her cheek.

“Oh my God, Walter. God Almighty. What have you done?” Her voice was gravelly, tobacco-stained. She wore lots of blue eye shadow and a powder-blue sleeveless sweater over bright yellow capris. Her small frame was draped with lots of loosening leathery skin. Her puppy blinked sleepily, indifferently as Lettie shook her head, gawking at the body. “I knew it. I said he wasn’t right, didn’t I, girlfriend? On the phone? See what I was talking about?”

“Can I pet him?” Molly had wandered over to look at the puppy.

Lettie blinked, seemingly confused first by Molly’s presence, then by her question. She gaped at Molly, her cigarette ashes falling onto the floor.

“Your puppy,” Molly explained. “Can I pet him?”

Lettie’s dazed eyes moved from Beatrice to Molly, to the puppy, to my father, to me. “Oh. Not a good idea, dollface. I’m training him to be a guard dog.”

Molly pouted, confused.

“Nobody but his owner should pet him.” Lettie paused, watching Molly’s face. “Oh, what the hell. Just this one time, go ahead.”

Molly reached up and tentatively stroked the puppy’s head. “What’s his name?”

But Lettie didn’t answer, distracted. In the distance sirens wailed, announcing the approach of an ambulance and the police. Lettie sidled back to the mudroom. “I’ll let you handle this by yourselves. Better to keep it simple with the cops—but I’m not running out on you. I’m right next door. You need anything; you let me know.”

On her way out, she turned to me. “Call me, hear? I mean it. Christ Almighty.” The mudroom door slammed behind her as the sirens peaked.

Within minutes, gawking neighbors lined the sidewalks. Dogs barked restlessly, relentlessly. Police rushed in, trampling the overgrowth along the front path. An ambulance pulled up, then the coroner’s wagon. Uniformed officers asked our names, our relationship to the victim. One of them asked what had happened here. I heard myself give out information; my voice had returned and seemed to function independently, answering questions on its own. Molly clung to me, hanging on my arms. But my father became unresponsive. He sat staring with hollow eyes at Beatrice, apparently oblivious to the crowd of strangers invading his home.

N
ICK SHOWED UP SOMETIME
later. I felt him enter the house, a wave of pulsing energy. He scanned the room, his eyes lingering nowhere, taking in details. I actually felt an electric jolt as his gaze landed on me, lingering, checking to see if I was all right. Thank God, I thought, Nick’s here. Nick’s going to take charge now. We’ll be okay.

The detectives who’d been assigned to the case came over to fill him in, formed a tight triangle. But Molly was undaunted. She burst away from me and barreled over to him, dodging police officers, throwing her arms around his waist. “Nick, know what? My grandpa killed that lady.”

Nick knelt to speak to her as his eyes drilled into mine. Boosting Molly into his arms, he carried her back to me, his bagged shoes avoiding blood puddles and smears. A uniformed officer tagged along, hanging on Nick’s ear, still trying to fill him in on what he’d learned so far. I waited, too depleted and bruised to move, until Nick set Molly down beside me. Then, relieved and ready to be rescued, I reached for him. But Nick didn’t embrace me, didn’t place even a perfunctory peck on my cheek. Instead, he gently lowered my hands and stood back, studying me, his head bent, listening to the officer. I felt my face heat up, embarrassed, not sure about what. When the officer finally finished, Nick’s pale blue eyes examined me, tenderly touching the sore spots on my face, assessing my injuries.

“You’re hurt.” Nick finally spoke; the unscarred half of his face was tense. Alarmed. He knelt beside me, gently cloaking me in his arms.

“I’m okay.” I was, as long as he was here, holding me. But his embrace was tentative, too short.

“What the hell happened here?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure, exactly—”

“Is it true the old man’s your father?”

I squirmed, sort of nodding. “Yes.”

Nick said nothing. His eyes settled on me, waiting for me to continue. I was aware of his breathing, steady, heavy. Impatient?

“Nick, I…I’m sorry. I have a lot to tell you.”

He exhaled, holding on to my hand. “First, you need to see a doctor, get checked.” Why was he scowling? Did I really look that bad? Was he worried about the baby?

“I’m okay, Nick. The baby’s fine. I see the doctor Thursday for my regular appointment. I’ve just got some scrapes and bruises.” All I wanted to do was go home, curl up on my purple velvet sofa beside him. Eat some mocha-almond ice cream.

He shook his head, dominant and protective. “You’re going to the ER, Zoe. No discussion. You’ll give your statement later. Molly’s going, too.”

“Why? Molly’s okay.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Sit here a minute; I’ll get you a ride.” He watched me for a moment, but that was the end of our conversation. Nick’s fingers carefully grazed my cheek, and his lips brushed my forehead. But he didn’t hold me again; he whispered no more private words. He went about his business, speaking in hushed tones to the officer beside him, giving instructions, assigning tasks. I reminded myself that this was a police matter. I would have to wait. Nick had to do his job. But my skin still tingled where he’d touched it, and I ached to be wrapped up in his arms.

“Nick—” My voice surprised me, calling him on its own, sounding needy.

He turned, still moving away, distracted. And something else. Angry? He waited; his eyes definitely looked disturbed.

“Nothing, sorry.” I backed off. “Never mind.”

Uh-oh. What was wrong? What was bothering Nick? And then: Bam, the answer hit me. Nick’s feelings were hurt. Of course they were. I should have expected them to be; I’d be hurt, too, if I’d met his father only because of a homicide at his home. But I told myself that Nick would be okay; I’d explain why I hadn’t ever mentioned my father, tell him that I’d never meant to hide anything from him. As soon as he knew the facts, he’d recover. I’d talk with him as soon as we had a moment alone. Meantime, I had to be patient. Nick had to talk with the other detectives. The scene had to be processed, and Beatrice’s body had to be removed. And my father…What would happen to my father? Oh, Lord. Would they put him in jail? No, he was in no condition for jail. Nick would take care of him.

Under Nick’s influence, the scene bustled. My father resisted, accusing the medical team of being kidnappers. He turned to me for help, still addressing me by my mother’s name. Even so, they lifted him onto a stretcher bound for Germantown Hospital. I was not permitted to go with him; technically, he was in police custody. Instead, Molly and I were assigned to the care of Officer Cal Hollister. He was to drive us to the Emergency Room in our car and to stay with us until we were released, when a police car would pick him up. Nick and his colleagues were efficient, taking care of everything. I tried to get Nick’s attention as we left, but he didn’t look my way. He was busy, I reminded myself. It was best not to bother him. We’d have time to talk later; it didn’t really matter whether or not we said good-bye.

B
Y THE TIME WE
got to the hospital, Molly was tired and cranky. I was edgy, exhausted. I wanted to go home. In the waiting room, I felt trapped. Officer Hollister couldn’t sit still; apparently he hadn’t been thrilled at his baby-sitting assignment. Pacing, he drank coffee from the vending machine, repeatedly wandering to the triage desk to chat up the nurse, urging her to have us seen promptly. Time blurred as it does in waiting rooms. Molly whined and hung on me for moments that dragged on, tiresome and endless, until she became too lulled by boredom even to complain. I watched the clock or the walls, trying not to stare at the others in the area: the preteen boy icing his elbow, his weary mother leaning her head back against the wall, eyes closed; the obese couple, rasping in tandem, seated side by side like corpulent mirror images; the impatient mustached man with jeans hanging low enough to expose a substantial section of his hairy hindquarters, pacing from the waiting room to the hall, the hall to the waiting room. We were caught in a timeless loop, a community of strangers, waiting without any idea of why or for how long. Molly leaned on my arm, clung to me, occasionally whining that she hadn’t had lunch, and I struggled to ignore the pain in my skull and the blood-drenched images in my mind until, finally, we were called to an examining room.

It was pale green, with stark neon lights that hurt my head. A flimsy white curtain separated us from the hallway. The space was stacked with sterile bandages, bedpans, miscellaneous monitors and machinery, tubing and packaging, instruments of unknown purpose. Our move revitalized Molly. She began talking again, asking what each item in the area was for, why we had to wait so long, when we could eat, why we were there, when we could leave. An endless singsong lament. Eternity, it seemed, was to be spent in small increments, in waiting rooms or behind white curtains.

Finally, a harried young doctor looked us over and basically pronounced us fine. When he asked Molly what had happened, she said she’d just met her grandpa for the first time. Other than that, she said she was hungry and bored and wanted to go home. He checked the baby’s heartbeat, cleaned my scrapes, prescribed an ice bag for my emerging lumps, told me I had a mild concussion and should rest, and had me sign a paper. We were released. Free to go.

Amazingly, the outside world remained unchanged. When we stepped outside, bright daylight still gleamed, as if not eons, but only a couple of hours had passed. The warm city air welcomed us, embracing us with soot and car exhaust, replacing the sterile chill of the hospital. Officer Hollister left in a police cruiser and I drove us to our town house in Queen Village, and for the rest of the day, for Molly’s sake, I tried to be cheerful, to act normal, fix lunch and follow our routine. But I couldn’t, not even almost. A dull pain rolled inside my skull, separating me from those around me, preventing me from thinking clearly. When the phone rang I didn’t want to answer, couldn’t bear to make conversation.