The Neighbor's Secret
L. Alison Heller
This one is for all the caregivers
and also for Z, for whom I’d do (almost) anything
Curses, like chickens, come home to roost.
—SUSANNA MOODIE
I saw the two of them leave the party.
They were five minutes apart, but they each slipped through the back gate and into the woods the same way—quick as foxes, like they didn’t want to be seen.
I could think of no appropriate reason for them to sneak off together, but I told myself it was none of my business.
Since they found the body, I’ve been replaying what I saw. What happened between them, out where no one could hear?
I think it was murder.
ONE YEAR EARLIER
To: “The Best Book Club in the World”
From: [email protected] Hello Cottonwood Book Club!
If you haven’t picked up your copy of LOLITA it’s time to get cracking.… Our first meeting of the year is September 4th at Harriet Nessel’s house, 7:30 sharp! Are you as excited as I am???
We’re baaaaaack!
Xoxo, Janine P.S. Themed snacks only, please!
SEPTEMBER
CHAPTER ONE
It all started that brilliantly sunny Thursday morning, with Janine and her gossip.
As the familiar green minivan cruised around the bend in the road, Annie considered flattening herself against the Jensens’ hedges. She truly appreciated Janine and everything that she did for the neighborhood, but sometimes, especially first thing in the morning, the woman could be a lot.
Like how now, Janine had pulled over to the side of the road with a screech, zipped down her window, leaned out her head, and excitedly flapped her hands in front of her face, like she’d taken a bite of a scalding-hot breakfast sandwich.
Gossip, Annie suspected, as she tugged the dog’s leash to coax her over to Janine’s car. Or worse, bragging.
Janine’s daughter Katie was always achieving things, which was wonderful. In theory, Annie rooted for Katie—for all children—to succeed, but something about Janine’s presentation always caused a flash of panic within Annie: Should Hank and Laurel be composing oboe concertos? Why haven’t they written cookbooks for charity?
Annie would have to remind herself that Laurel’s grades were excellent, that Hank was a joy, that both were curious and kind people, and that people who bragged about their children were usually overcompensating for something.
“Did you hear about the vandal?” Janine asked. Her face was pink with excitement and there was a halo of frizz around her blond ringlets.
“The what?”
“Read your texts, Annie. Someone spray-painted the street sign on Canyon Road, right by your house. It now says SLOW CHILDREN PEE.”
Annie swallowed her laugh and matched Janine’s frown. Janine leaned further out of her car window.
“The Gleasons claim he also yanked the windshield wipers off their son’s van, although honestly that thing is in such bad shape, I’m not entirely convinced it even had wipers before. Anyway. You fixed your conflict for tonight?”
There had been minor drama when Sandstone K-8 had scheduled its annual blood drive on the same night as the September book club meeting. Because the eighth graders handed out juice to the donors, Laurel’s attendance was mandatory.
“Mike’s rearranged his schedule to take the kids,” Annie said. Not like anyone will be eating at the restaurant anyway, he’d said glumly.
Janine gave a satisfied nod. “Until tonight then.” She blew an aggressive kiss in Annie’s direction. “Mwah!”
As she zoomed off, Janine’s voice trailed out the open window, “Remember to park in your garage, Annie!”
Annie and Mike had the only one-car garage in all of Cottonwood Estates: someone was always going to have to park outside.
As she continued uphill, Annie tried to retrieve the vague feeling of contentment she’d been enjoying before Janine appeared. Her daily walks were meditative and, if Annie was honest, less for the dog than for her.
She’d started the habit almost fourteen years before, when Laurel was a newborn. At first, the four-mile loop around her neighborhood had taken Annie hours to complete. Her entire existence had felt wispy and unfamiliar back then, and some days the sound of her sneakers slapping on concrete seemed the sole proof that Annie was real.
(Sole proof! Back then she wouldn’t have had the brain power to catch the pun.)
What had she been thinking about before Janine’s announcement?
Not that.
Janine, Janine, the Cottonwood Queen, May I recommend a little less caffeine? Annie wished she could take credit for the couplet, but Deb Gallegos had come up with it a few years back at a barbecue. Janine had laughed harder than anyone.
The neighborhood would probably be up in arms about the graffiti; it took effort to maintain the safe, deceptively low-key feeling that Cottonwood Estates cultivated, and occasionally, people cracked under the pressure of doing so. Last Memorial Day weekend, all hell had broken loose after the McNeils’ friends parked their RV on the street for three days. There had been months of angry memos and name-calling until an emergency meeting amended the neighborhood bylaws to ensure such a blight would never again stain the pristine lawns of Cottonwood Estates, at least for no more than twenty-four consecutive hours.