The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (6 page)

I took the punches without flinching. What could I say? She was right. “Susan, please. It’s not like I deliberately kept him secret—”

“No, of course not. It was an accident. You accidentally, never in over a decade, thought of mentioning him. It’s totally understandable.” She closed her mouth and counted stitches, completing her row. When she was done, she set the knitting down on her lap and put on her sunglasses, staring out at the field. Shutting me out. Angry.

Great, I thought. First Nick, now Susan. Everyone close to me was mad at me, and all because of my father. Susan was hurt that I hadn’t told her about him. But why was that such a serious offense? It wasn’t as if I’d deliberately hidden him from her. We’d simply had no relationship. He hadn’t been part of my life, so I’d never talked about him. I’d had no reason to. Besides, given what I’d been through in the last twenty-four hours, couldn’t she cut me some slack?

Of course I knew the answer: No slack. Not an inch. Not a smidgeon.

And, in a way, I understood. Susan Cummings was my best friend. We shared just about everything. Openness was a given. Our friendship had grown and thrived on admitting the truth to each other, no matter how harsh. And I’d grown to depend on that unflinching friendship. Susan balanced me; I spent almost as much time at her house as at my own. Unlike mine, hers always smelled like fresh-baked banana bread or simmering marinara sauce or some other fragrant comfort food. The place literally buzzed with the sounds of children and vacuums and food processors and phones; it pulsed with the tensions of her criminal law practice and the never-ending, always competing demands of her various roles and relationships. Susan was a wife, mother, lawyer, housekeeper, decorator, hostess, daughter, cook, community leader, bargain hunter, recipe collector and loyal friend, not necessarily in that order. Her life was a cyclone of activity, a carnival act of juggled priorities. She made potato salad while on the phone with prosecutors, sorted laundry while rehearsing closing statements. And, although every project she undertook seemed chaotic, disorganized and subject to unpredictable interruptions, Susan managed miracles. Her children and marriage were robust, her clients usually satisfied. And her friends were always welcome, especially in moments of crisis. But now, she was closing me out. She was hurt, thinking that I’d violated the tacit terms of our relationship by keeping a hugely significant secret from her.

But, damn it, my silence about my father hadn’t been secrecy; I hadn’t intended to hide him. I hadn’t lied about him. I’d simply walled him out of my mind for a decade or two. And that had worked fine, until he had suddenly rematerialized, knife in hand, chopping my life to pieces. Couldn’t Susan understand? And if not, couldn’t she get past some petty slight? I took a deep breath, felt a warm October breeze stroke my face.

Around us, parents on bleachers and folding chairs stood and began to cheer, waving their arms. “Go, Tigers—Run! Go!”

A man a few feet away bellowed, “T-I-G-E-R-S! Go, Tigers!”

The Tigers were the other team. We were the Rams. I looked out onto the field, where a tall, lean Tiger was taking off with the ball, closing in on our goal. I held my breath, suddenly realizing that my little Molly was in the heat of the action, fearlessly storming the much larger girl who controlled the ball, heading in to intercept just yards from the goalie. Even in her soccer gear, with knee pads and protective clothing, Molly looked tiny and fragile, but she stormed the large girl without hesitation. Suddenly, the Tiger was swinging her leg at empty air while little Molly darted away, the ball spinning safely away from the goal, successfully passed to a Ram teammate. Gaping, the crowd of Tiger parents stopped screaming, sat down again, silent.

“Yes! Go, Rams.” Beaming, unembarrassed, I got up and clapped and yelled with Susan despite the glares of the home-team Tiger parents. I was relieved that Molly was having fun, that she was seemingly unscathed by the shocks of the day before.

“Unbelievable.” Susan stopped cheering, sat down again and reached for her knitting. “I didn’t even see Molly coming. Man, she’s quick.”

Yes, but not quick enough. The ball came back to her and, as she began to move it down the field, mammoth Tiger girls closed in from all sides, cutting her off. Molly tried to swerve, but swiftly, deftly, a large Tiger stuck her leg out and blatantly tripped her. Molly went flying, sprawling to the ground, about to be trampled by the other team. Tiger parents pounced to attention, roaring encouragement. The referee watched, did nothing.

I was on my feet, ready to jump onto the field and rescue my daughter, but Susan restrained me, shaking her head, ordering me to sit down. And before I could get free of her grip, Molly had bounced up again, back in the game, apparently unhurt. There was no danger, no harm. The girls were merely playing a sport, kicking and running and passing and panting. I was overreacting, still on high alert. My head ached where a purplish lump had risen, my stitches throbbed, and I hadn’t slept much. I was worried about my conversation with Nick, upset about my father, shaken by Beatrice and her death by betting slips, haunted by my dream. I slumped back onto the folding chair, wanting comfort. But Susan resumed her knitting, stiff and distant. Her feelings were hurt; she was punishing me with silence and feigned indifference. I closed my raw eyes, saw the red glow of sunlight through my lids, and the red liquefied, became Beatrice’s blood.

I opened them, but too late. The memories had begun. Again I saw the draped body being lifted into the coroner’s wagon. And, for the hundredth time, I tried to sort out the events of the day before—the mess of blood, the fury in my father’s eyes, the flurry of commotion as the police arrived. Betting forms clumped, swirling and bloody, in my mind. Lord, what had my father gotten into?

The thoughts chilled me, even in the October sun. I shivered despite the warmth of the day. No, I wouldn’t dwell on yesterday. Would not revisit it. I’d watch a mini-league soccer game and enjoy myself with other parents.

“Okay. You might as well tell me the rest.” Apparently, Susan’s curiosity outweighed her pique. “What happened? Who was that woman—what was her name again? I saw it in the newspaper—”

The paper had covered the story briefly, on page five.

“Beatrice. Beatrice Kendall.”

And so, despite my resolve, I did revisit the day, after all. While the girls kicked and ran and the sun beamed, I sat beside Susan under a tree, gushing out events like water, or maybe like welled-up tears.

M
Y TELLING WASN’T VERY
coherent. Ever since I’d stepped onto my father’s porch, I’d been squelching memories, holding back feelings. Finally, as I began talking to Susan, I began to lose control. Events blurred with emotions, emerged out of sequence, but I blurted out the basics. Finding my father as he was cutting into Beatrice, struggling for the knife, realizing Molly had seen it all, calling the police. Facing Nick and his concern. Finding out about the betting slips in Beatrice’s throat. Hating myself for endangering the baby.

“Here.” When I finished talking, Susan took a sweating insulated mug from her cooler. “Have some iced tea.”

Her mothering instincts were resurfacing; she was forgiving me. I drank, felt cold, minty liquid slide down to my belly, wondered if the baby could feel it.

“Nick’s never really been mad at me before.” I couldn’t get him off my mind. His reserve.

“Oh, please, Zoe. What did you expect? A man learns that his future father-in-law is alive and living five miles away only because there’s a homicide in said father-in-law’s home? Of course he’s mad. You kept a big fat secret from him. You shut him out.”

I shrugged, not ready to explain that the secrecy hadn’t really been what upset him. Nearby, the bleachers erupted in a rousing cheer. Apparently, the Tigers had scored. We paused, scanning the field, instinctively looking for Molly and Emily, finding them unscathed.

When the playing resumed, Susan pushed hair out of her eyes. “Zoe, I have to say this: I don’t get it. Why didn’t you tell us? What’s the big deal?”

How was I supposed to answer her? How could I condense into a coherent sentence or two a lifetime of broken promises and disappointments, my mother’s fatally broken heart, my father’s incessant gambling, his compulsive lying, our gradual complete estrangement? For years, I hadn’t let myself think, much less talk about any of it. And now, with Susan, just as they had with Nick the night before, words failed me. Circuits locked down in my brain, refusing access to the unbearable, protecting me, rendering me speechless. I floundered.

“After my mother died, Dad was gone a lot. He couldn’t handle her death and didn’t have a clue about how to raise a kid. He hired a widowed woman to take care of me.”

“Hilda?” Susan recalled; I’d mentioned her now and then.

I nodded. “She pretty much raised me, and over the years my father and I…drifted apart.” Fabulous. That sounded like a dodge, even to me.

Susan squinted, waiting. Caring.

Be specific, I told myself. Give her something concrete. Go ahead and blurt it out. “Look. My father’s a gambler. Big-time. On the surface, he’s charming. Witty, charismatic. But under his smooth façade he’s a sociopath, a liar, a compulsive, addicted gambler.”

Susan nodded, waiting, as if there had to be more.

“His gambling is pathological. He can’t help himself. And sometimes he loses. When I was a baby, he apparently lost everything. He kept our family broke and my mother miserable until she finally died. Thank God, he inherited the house from his grandmother—otherwise, we’d probably have been homeless. It’s a long, ugly story. I left it—and him—behind a long time ago.”

Susan’s eyes had softened. Maybe I’d been forgiven? “Well, you may have tried. But it didn’t work. He’s back.”

Oh, Lord. Yes, he was.

She lifted her mug with a smirk. “Well. Here’s to family reunions.” She chugged iced tea. I wished I could have something stronger. But I was thirsty and took a swig of iced tea despite the toast.

“And so, those betting slips. You think your father’s gambling had something to do with the murder?” She kept knitting, didn’t miss a stitch.

Of course I did. “I don’t know. He’s probably not gambling anymore. He’s over eighty, for God’s sake.”

She nodded, quiet for a while. I stared at running children. “So, what about Nick? You said he was mad.”

Oh, Lord. What about Nick? Exhaustion or pregnancy was getting to me. I felt woozy, leaned back on my aluminum chair.

“He’ll get over it,” she decided. “The man is nuts about you. And besides, he hasn’t always been exactly open—Nick’s in no position to be mad because you didn’t tell him something.”

She was right. Nick’s past was full of question marks. But last night, openness hadn’t been the issue.

“He’s not mad that I kept a secret. He’s mad that my father and I got physical. Because of the baby. I could have harmed it.” I swallowed, choking on the words.

Susan pushed a lock of shiny hair behind an ear. “You can’t blame him, Zoe. He’s about to commit to you for life, and, understandably, he’s scared. Add to that the fact that you’re carrying his baby. His first kid. And you went six rounds in a bare-knuckle fight. You scared the crap out of him. Men like Nick don’t do well with scared. They get mad. They’re more comfortable with mad— they understand it.”

Maybe. I appreciated the theory. Maybe Nick was just scared. After all, his life was changing, too. Marriage might scare him— his last marriage had ended badly when he’d tried to leave. His wife had died after shooting him in the face. Years had passed, but still, the prospect of having another wife—especially a pregnant one—might be scary to Nick. Oh, God. Maybe Nick was looking for a way out. Maybe my recklessness would give him an excuse to escape. I leaned back in my folding chair, looked up into a tangle of tree branches and dying leaves.

No, I told myself. I was simply off balance, overly vulnerable. In a single day my entire life had turned upside down. My father was back in it, involved possibly in illegal gambling and definitely in murder. Nick was upset. Susan was annoyed. And who knew how Molly was affected? I held the cold mug of iced tea against the lump on my head and closed my eyes.

“Give him some time.” Susan touched my arm. “Tonight, I bet he’ll be all contrite and lovey-dovey protective. Tim’s like that, can’t stay mad for long. Nick’s a marshmallow. You’ll see. He’ll feel guilty and protective and melt all over you.”

I wasn’t convinced, but the image of melted marshmallows drowned the other thoughts in my mind. Suddenly, the problems with Nick and my father seemed minor; what really mattered was lunch. I was famished. Probably that was why I felt light-headed. I hadn’t eaten since the cereal I’d toyed with at breakfast, and it was past one. Even if I weren’t, the baby growing inside me was hungry, demanding to be fed.

I
N THE END, THE
Tigers won, 7-5. Molly had scored two of the Rams’ goals. The coach and team members praised her after the game, and Emily, a year older, was jealous, pretending not to care.

“Let’s get some lunch.” Susan tried to console Emily, smoothing her hair.

“Whatever.” Emily shrugged.

“Can we get Chinese, Mom?” Molly was a fan of chicken with broccoli.

“I hate Chinese.” Emily sneered.

“You do not,” Molly argued. “You love Lo Mein.”

“That was a long time ago. I outgrew that.”

Ouch. Emily was pulling the “I’m older than you are” string, trying to make Molly feel bad. “Okay, so where would you like to go, Emily?” I tried to cut her off.

“I don’t care. Anything but Chinese.” Emily could be a brat at times.

“How about pizza?” Susan put iced tea mugs back in the cooler.

“Yeah—let’s have pizza!” Molly looked at Emily.

“Not again,” Emily whined. “All we ever eat is pizza.”

“Don’t whine, Emily.” Susan frowned.

“Then what do you want, Emily? You pick.” I’d had it. I wanted food. Any kind of food. And I wanted it immediately.