Good as Dead(26)

CHAPTER 14


Too much free time is a dangerous thing.

With the girls still in school, the lasagna already prepped, and my workout, shower, and hair done, I had nothing better to do than rage about being snubbed by my new neighbor Holly Kendrick.

“What if she murdered him?” I asked Andy when he emerged from his writing to forage for some lunch. “Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t talk about it, because she had him, y’know . . .” I made a gun with my hand, pulled the trigger with my finger. “Poof. Disappear.”

“That’s plausible,” he said flatly. “When’s the lasagna going to be done?”

“The lasagna’s for dinner, have a sandwich,” I told him. “But seriously. Three months after her husband dying, she has a new boyfriend and a two-million-dollar house? How does that happen?”

“We don’t know Evan’s her boyfriend,” Andy countered as he pulled some bread from the freezer. “Is this all the bread we have?” he said, fondling a frozen Ezekiel loaf. He was curious by nature, but he never made assumptions. He knew from his past career how a wrong assumption could send an investigation completely off the rails. He was analytical to an extreme. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t prod him.

“There’s rye in the breadbasket,” I said, pointing. I could have made him a sandwich. I knew where all the condiments he liked were—pickles in the door, red onion in the bottom drawer. But I had been cooking all morning—that damn lasagna took forever—and I had just cleaned the kitchen and didn’t feel like messing it up again.

“If Evan’s not her boyfriend, then who is he?” I pressed. I knew he wouldn’t commit to a theory, but I wanted him to consider mine.

“I don’t know,” he began. “Could be a lawyer, real estate agent, her insurance adjuster, a family friend, her therapist, her sober companion—”

“All right, all right,” I interrupted. “You made your point. But what do you think is most likely?” He was looking through the refrigerator. “I’ll make your sandwich if you tell me I’m probably right,” I bargained.

“Right about what?” he asked. “Her being a murderer?”

“Well what’s your theory?” I said, nudging him out of the way and extracting the red onion from the crisper. “How does a newly widowed woman with no job and no class land the nicest house on the block?” I asked, knowing the “no class” remark was a low blow, but not inaccurate given how she had treated me.

“It is mysterious,” he said, probably because I was making his sandwich and he wanted to stay in my good graces, at least until I’d finished.

“I think she and Evan are a thing and have been for a while,” I said boldly. “He’s there at all hours, and reeks of money. Did you see his car?” I knew he had. My husband noticed everything, filing even the most minute details away in his brain until they fit together to tell the story. His analytical mind was one of the qualities I admired most about him, and I wanted him to put it to work.

“She’s got a brand-new car, too,” I added.

“Maybe they are a thing,” he conceded as I handed him his sandwich. “Thanks,” he said, and took a bite.

“She’s obviously hiding something,” I pointed out. “She ran away from me like I was holding a grenade.”

Just then the doorbell rang. Andy was eating his sandwich, so I went to answer it. I figured it was the gardener. We hadn’t paid him in two months, no doubt he wanted to collect. I loved living in the hills, but the upkeep was massive. If we didn’t trim our trees and clear away the dead branches, the fire department would do it for us and then charge us a fortune. I had taken over the upkeep of the flower beds, trimming my roses every week and planting the annuals, but we still needed our gardener to clear the hillside, so I had to give him something. I grabbed my checkbook off my desk in the hall, then opened the door, an apology on my lips.

But it wasn’t our gardener. “Hi, Libby,” my neighbor Holly Kendrick said as she handed me a snow-white orchid in an onyx china pot. “Here. This is for you.”

Shame rose up from the pit of my stomach. “Wow. Thank you,” I mustered, tucking the checkbook in my waistband and taking the flower from her. It was from Gelson’s down the street—I could tell by how it was wrapped, in premium-grade cellophane and a ribbon made of hemp. I liked to linger in their flower shop, but even the smallest arrangements were expensive, and I never indulged. Holly had bought the biggest one, two feet tall with over a dozen budding flowers. I knew it cost almost $100. I loved having orchids in the house, but I silently wondered if I could return it to pay my gardener.

“I felt terrible after what I said to you the other day,” she began. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just a little overwhelmed these days.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. The plant felt heavy in my hands. Almost as heavy as the shame weighing down my chest.

“I’d love to have you over for coffee,” she offered. “I have scones in the oven, they will be ready in about twenty minutes?” She said it like a question, and it took me a second to understand.

“Oh! You mean right now?” I confirmed.

“Or we could do it some other time,” she said quickly.