A Noise Downstairs(76)
He stared back for several seconds before summoning the strength to approach. Crossing the street, he shouted, “What the hell do you want?”
Hitchens held his spot, had another lick. “I wanted an ice cream,” he said.
“I’m betting that guy goes through your neighborhood, too,” Paul said, stopping within ten feet of the man. “Get the hell out of here.”
Hitchens nodded slowly. “Soon as I finish. Can’t drive and eat an ice cream with one hand.”
Hitchens took one more lick, tossed the unfinished cone at Paul’s feet, then turned and walked slowly up the sidewalk to his car, limping severely. He opened the driver’s door and gingerly got behind the wheel.
Paul watched until Hitchens had reached the end of the street, turned, and disappeared.
_________________
ANNA WHITE SAT AT HER OFFICE DESK AND GLANCED AT THE WALL clock. It was nearly three in the afternoon.
Two o’clock had come and gone.
Paul Davis had not shown up.
Forty-Five
It was almost the time when Charlotte, on a slow day, might have gone home. But then a couple from Boston came into the office without an appointment. They had been driving around Milford when they spotted a house for sale on Elmwood Street, half a block from the sound. It was a beautiful three-story with a strong Cape Cod influence. Cedar-shingle siding, a balcony on the third floor. Two-car garage. And out front, a FOR SALE sign with the name CHARLOTTE DAVIS on it.
Charlotte sent Paul a text to tell him she would be home late. He’d gotten plenty of texts like that before.
Charlotte showed the couple the Elmwood house and drove them around town to check out a few more properties.
It was nearly nine-thirty by the time they were done.
Charlotte had a small briefcase with her that was stuffed with various documents and real estate flyers. She decided to toss it in the trunk of her car, where it would be out of sight.
She got the remote out of her purse and hit the trunk release button. Lights flashed, and the trunk yawned open a few inches. She lifted it up and set the briefcase next to the tarp-shrouded typewriter.
She pulled the tarp back and stared, briefly, at the exposed Underwood. She then pulled the tarp back over it and slammed the trunk shut. She got into the car, turned on the engine and headlights, and pointed the car toward home.
She saw the emergency lights as she turned onto her street.
There were so many, they were almost blinding. It was difficult to tell just how many vehicles there were up ahead. She could see at least two police cars, an ambulance, and what even looked like a fire truck.
They appeared to be clustered either right in front of her house, or just beyond it. Either way, the street at that point was impassible.
A male officer standing in the middle of the road held up a hand to stop her. She powered down her window.
“Road’s closed, ma’am,” he told her.
“My house is right there.” She pointed. “Can I get that far?”
Her words made an impression on him. “ That house?”
She nodded.
“Okay, go on ahead.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Just go on ahead.”
She put the window back up and crept the rest of the way, edging past a Milford Police cruiser and turning into the driveway behind Paul’s car. As she opened her door she found a uniformed female officer waiting for her.
“You live here?” she asked.
“Yes,” Charlotte said.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Charlotte Davis. Could someone please tell me what’s happening?”
“Please wait here.”
“Can I go inside?”
“Please wait here.”
The cop walked off, threading her way between the emergency vehicles blocking the street. Charlotte saw her conferring with someone. A fortyish black man in plainclothes with what appeared, at least from where Charlotte was standing, a badge of some kind clipped to his belt.
The man looked in Charlotte’s direction and approached.
“You’re Mrs. Davis?” he asked.
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“My name is Detective Arnwright. Milford Police.”
“No one will tell me what this is all about. Give me a second. I want to let my husband know I’m home.”
“What’s your husband’s name, ma’am?”
“What? It’s Paul. Paul Davis.”
Charlotte had reached her front door, tried opening it first without a key, and when that did not work, started fiddling with the set of keys still in her hand.
But before she could insert it into the lock, Arnwright said, “Mrs. Davis, I have some difficult news for you. There’s been an incident.”
Charlotte turned to look at the detective. “What are you talking about? What kind of an incident?”
“There was . . . a drowning,” Arnwright said.
“What?”
The detective nodded solemnly. “A man was found on the beach. His body had been washed up.”
“Why are you—what are you saying?”
“The man was fully clothed, and his wallet was still tucked down in the pocket of his jeans. We found a driver’s license and some other ID in there.”