Kevin O'Brien Bundle (28 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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“I’m pretty sure what this is all about,” Lynette whispered, rocking Dakota in her arms. “Well, I’m sorry, but I felt it was my duty to talk to that police detective the other night. I wasn’t looking to get you in trouble.”
“You didn’t get me into trouble,” Molly said. “So don’t worry about it.” She gently dabbed Carson’s hands with a paper towel. “He’s going to need some antiseptic on this scrape from when he fell. . . .”
“So—you expect me to believe you’re not upset?” Lynette pressed. “And you’re not the one who called me?”
“What are you talking about?” Molly asked, concerned. “What call?”
Lynette quickly shook her head. “Nothing, forget it. I—I can carry on from here.” She nodded toward the door. “
Thank you,
Molly.”
Her tone sounded more like a
fuck you
than a
thank you
. But Molly just let it go. She needed to get home to Erin. She quickly dried off her hands and then headed for the door. Outside, she found Rachel standing at the end of the Hahns’ driveway. “Are the kids okay?” Rachel asked.
Molly nodded tiredly. “Where did that man go?”
“Oh, he slinked off into the sunset with his tail between his legs.” She nodded toward Lynette’s house. “Well, I’m not too crazy about her. I can’t believe she actually accused you of cutting up her kids. Who would do something like that? And the other one—with the chubby kid who looks like Pugsley on
The Addams Family
—she practically gave me a full body check to get at her kid. I guess I shouldn’t judge them during a situation like this.”
“Oh, you’ll find once you really get to know them—”
“That they’re both bitches?” Rachel finished for her.
Molly laughed.
“Seriously,” Rachel said. “I think you’re the only nice person on this block. I mean, look over there at that one.” She nodded toward the Nguyens’ house. “After all the screaming and commotion, it was enough to wake the dead. You’d figure any normal person would offer to help—or at least be curious about what happened. But she didn’t even bother to step outside.”
Molly noticed Natalie in the second-floor window. She was slouched in a rocker with one leg over the chair arm. It looked like she was reading a magazine.
He glanced in his rearview mirror at the turnoff to Willow Tree Court.
He’d known beforehand that it was a cul-de-sac. Lynette Hahn had told him—on the TV news, when she’d talked to reporters in front of her dead friend’s former residence:
“We’re on a cul-de-sac here. Angela moved from one cul-de-sac to another. You never think anything like this will happen to someone you know, someone you care about and love. . . .”
The brief news clip hadn’t given him a very good idea of the street’s layout. It wasn’t until last night, when he’d done a brief survey, that he realized most of the houses on the street were at the edge of a forest. He liked that. And the vacant lots—two of them with half-built houses—gave him so many places to hide while he studied the habits of the residents.
Of course, the house that piqued his interest the most was the Dennehys’. Angela’s ex-husband seemed like the most logical suspect in the Alder Court murders. The man in the driver’s seat intended to find his copycat—which meant watching the house and following around the ex-husband.
With Willow Tree Court behind him now, he studied the road ahead. It was starting to get dark. He switched on his headlights.
He glanced down at his beige jacket—at the blood on his sleeves.
Lynette Hahn’s little brat had bled on him. That was what he got for being a hero. He wondered if the broken glass scattered through that lot had been planted there on purpose. Perhaps someone had a grudge against Lynette and her children. Did the same person have a grudge against Angela Dennehy?
Maybe he wasn’t the only one with a score to settle on Willow Tree Court.
He rather liked the cul-de-sac. He’d already been inside the Hahns’ place. He thought about coming back. Or maybe he’d find a way to get inside one of the other homes—a night visit.
He glanced at the stains on his sleeves again.
Funny, he was usually so careful when he left a cul-de-sac. He hardly ever had a speck of blood on him.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
He caught only fleeting glimpses of her. She was down on her knees, working in the garden on the other side of the bushes. He couldn’t really tell what she looked like. In the middle of the backyard with the rake in his hand, he was too far away.
Chris was curious about her—maybe because Molly had mentioned at dinner the other night that the new neighbor was “quite a dish.” She and Molly were getting to be fast friends. Molly had nothing nice to say about the other two women who moved onto the cul-de-sac over the summer: Jill Somebody and Natalie Something. Chris still hadn’t met either one yet. He’d only seen Jill at a distance—or in her car. And he’d yet to lay eyes on the unfriendly jogger woman, Natalie. He figured he’d probably meet them eventually. He wasn’t in any hurry.
But he was kind of intrigued by this Rachel person. Through the foliage, he could just make out that she had brown hair and fair skin.
Chris wiped the sweat off his forehead and went back to work. His dad had asked him to do something about all the leaves in the backyard. They were having people over for brunch after the funeral on Tuesday. Molly was freaking out, deep-cleaning every room in the house. Apparently, she wanted it looking immaculate, which didn’t make any sense. If ever they had a good excuse for letting the place go to shit for a few days, it was now. Chris imagined telling company,
“Sorry I didn’t get around to raking the backyard, but my mother died.”
It was nuts, because he just wanted to be alone to think about his mom—and maybe even have a good cry. Instead, he was running around doing all these chores for the wake tomorrow and the funeral the next day, and the reception after the funeral. They were busting their humps to make sure they were—as Molly put it—“dressed to the nines” in different outfits for each service. She needed to prepare about a dozen different dishes for the brunch, and his dad was stocking up on booze for the fifty or so guests. And the place had to look like
House Beautiful.
All these distant relatives and old friends his dad hadn’t talked to in years were coming to this thing. Were they ever going to see these people again? Chris wondered if these “mourners” would have cared as much or even known about his mom dying if she hadn’t been murdered.
As he raked the leaves into a big pile, it occurred to him that his mom—more than anybody—would want them to put on a first-class funeral and brunch for her. She was always big on impressing people and keeping up appearances.
He was doing this for her. Suddenly it mattered that the backyard looked nice. He felt tears in his eyes, but kept on working.
Up until last year, he’d attended only two funerals in his whole life—and both of those were for grandparents. His mother’s funeral on Tuesday would be his third in six months: first Mr. Corson, then Mrs. Garvey, and now his mom. He still felt awful every time he thought about what Mr. Corson’s sister and his widow had said to him. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t help wondering if they were right. Maybe he was just a lousy guy, and his mother’s murder was some kind of karmic punishment directed at him.
He wished like hell for another dull weekend in Bellevue, another night on Larry’s lumpy foldout bed in the mallard shrine of a study, just one more weekend with his mom.
“Hey, how’s it going over there?”
Chris glanced over toward the neighbor’s yard. At a break in the bushes dividing their yards, the pretty brunette smiled at him. She wore a gray sweatshirt, jeans, and gardening gloves. “Are you Chris?” she asked.
He quickly wiped the tears from his eyes. “Hi, yeah, hi,” he replied awkwardly. With the rake in his hand, he stepped over toward her.
“I’m Rachel,” the woman said. “I was really sorry to hear about your mom.”
He nodded. “You’re the one who brought over the apple pie, right? It was really good, thanks.”
“Well, you’re very welcome,” she said. “I got to meet Erin the other day. Now, except for your dad, I’ve met the whole family.”
“Dad’s at the office today,” Chris explained. “He figured he’d catch up on stuff for a few hours while it was dead there, being Sunday and all.”
Frowning, she glanced past him at the yard. “Are you burning leaves?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, I thought I smelled smoke. Well, the yard’s looking good. Maybe next summer, if you’ve got time, you could mow the front and back here. No pressure. Knock it around and name your price. We can haggle over it later.”
“That sounds good. I used to mow the lawn for Mrs. Garvey.”
“Garvey?” She seemed puzzled for a moment. “Oh, of course,
Garvey
, that’s the woman who used to live here— with a teenage daughter. The Realtor told me about her. Were you close to the daughter?”
Chris shrugged. “We hung out sometimes. I haven’t really seen her since she moved in with her dad and her stepmother.”
Rachel blinked. “Oh, really? What happened to her mother?”
“Well, she’s dead,” Chris replied, matter-of-factly. Then he saw her stunned expression and immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. Didn’t you know that? There was an accident. Mrs. Garvey fell and hit her head.”
Rachel stared at him. “In the house? My God, did she die in the house?”
He gulped. “I’m sorry, I figured you knew. . . .”
She shook her head. “That damn Realtor, he should have told me,” she muttered. “I think he’s legally obligated to inform me, the son of a . . .” She trailed off, and rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Chris. Do you know what room she died in?”
He hesitated.
“No, don’t tell me.” She put up her gloved hand. “I don’t want to know. Besides, I already have a feeling where. I’ll bet it happened in the big bedroom. There’s a cold spot in there, right by the door. I get chills every time I stand there.”
Chris just stared at her. He couldn’t believe it. From what he’d heard, that was exactly where Mrs. Garvey had fallen and bashed her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a long sigh. “I don’t mean to act like such a baby about it—especially in front of you, after what you’ve been through. It’s still a beautiful home. I’ll just hire a shaman and have the place smudged and blessed.”
She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “Somebody’s burning leaves, because I can smell it. Can’t you?”
Chris glanced over her shoulder and saw black smoke billowing out from the other side of her screened porch. “Oh, Jesus!” he cried. “The house. . . .”
Rachel turned and let out a scream, “Oh, my God!”
Without thinking, Chris tore through the bushes and rushed past her. From working in Mrs. Garvey’s yard, he knew the hose connection was by the screen-porch door. As he got closer to the house, the smoke became thicker. Every time he took in a breath, he tasted it. He heard a crackling sound. “Call nine-one-one!” he yelled.
“I don’t have my cell phone with me!” Rachel replied helplessly. “Oh, God. . . .”
“Our back door’s open. Use our phone!” Chris reached the outside spigot and saw the garden hose was connected to it. He quickly twisted the valve open. With a hiss, water shot out of the nozzle end. Grabbing the hose, he ran around to the other side of the screen porch, toward all the smoke. He prayed the hose was long enough and didn’t snag on him.
“Chris, be careful!” he heard her call.
His eyes hurt, and he tried to hold his breath as he got the hose ready. He suddenly stopped in his tracks. The smoke wasn’t coming from the house, but from Mrs. Garvey’s toolshed—about ten feet away from the screened porch. A rope of fire shot up from a pile of what looked like old newspapers by the shed’s door. Little scraps of burning paper floated around the shed. Flames licked at the mossy roof, creating plumes of black smoke. But the roof hadn’t caught on fire yet.
Coughing, Chris staggered back from the smoke. He directed the hose toward the shed—aiming near the roof and working his way down the line of fire. For a few moments, it didn’t seem to do any good. The smoke only grew thicker. But then the flames started dying under the jet spray of water.
Chris heard Rachel clearing her throat, and he glanced over his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he gasped. “I think we’ve got it under control. Did you call nine-one-one?”
“No, I didn’t want to leave you out here all alone.” She fanned the air in front of her face.
Chris kept the hose on, dousing the side of the shed. The smoke started to clear. The corner of the little shed was charred black; it looked like the shadow of a ghost against the blistered wood. At the base of the door, amid a smoldering pile of soot, he could see some patches of wet newspaper that hadn’t burned up.
Chris finally twisted the hose nozzle, shutting off the flow of water.
“God, thank you, Chris,” Rachael said, squeezing his arm. “You’re a lifesaver. I wouldn’t have known what to do. Hell, I didn’t have a clue! If you weren’t here, I think the whole house might have burned down.”
She took a step toward the shed. “What is that anyway?” she asked, pointing to the mound of refuse by the door. “That wasn’t there earlier. I walked by this shed a half hour ago and didn’t see any newspapers there. What’s going on? Did you see anybody else out here?”
Chris just shrugged and shook his head.
“This is crazy,” she muttered, a hand at the base of her throat. “They—they must have snuck back here while I was planting the annuals. I don’t understand. Why would anybody do something like this?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said, baffled.
“Is this normal around here?” she pressed. “I mean, two days ago, those kids got cut up by all that glass in the vacant lot, and now, someone decided to set fire to my toolshed. What’s going on?”
Chris glanced over at the mound of burnt debris by the shed’s door.
He had no idea how to answer her.
Molly wondered where Lynette Hahn was.
Despite some residual tension after the glass-in-the-dirt incident, Lynette had offered to co-host the funeral brunch. Bizarre as the arrangement was, it made sense to Molly that Angela’s best friend play hostess in Angela’s old house. Molly really didn’t mind taking on the role of caterer. It kept her busy—and gave her an excuse to keep the awkward small talk with Angela’s friends and relatives down to a minimum. Lynette had invited some of Larry’s friends, too.
A light, misty rain had descended on the burial service in Lakeview Cemetery, where Jeff and Chris remained stoic and unshielded by the drizzle. But Erin sobbed quietly from and clung to her Aunt Trish, who held a red umbrella for both of them. Molly stood behind Trish.
Lynette’s husband, Jeremy, had a sudden business thing and couldn’t attend. But Lynette promised he would be at the Dennehys’ in plenty of time to set up the bar and start passing out drinks to the first arrivals. She’d brought Carson and Dakota to the cemetery. They were fidgety as ever, fighting over their umbrella and picking at the Band-Aids on their hands. Courtney had her iPhone out most of the time, texting through most of the service.
Molly slipped away early to set up for the reception. She’d asked Rachel if she would like to attend. “Thanks anyway,” Rachel had told her. “I didn’t even know Angela. Besides, I’m giving Lynette and her kids a wide berth for a while. I can’t help thinking those kids had something to do with my toolshed catching on fire. It’s not that big a leap from throwing dirt balls at cars to playing with matches and setting toolsheds on fire. The cops said it was definitely arson—and sloppy arson, at that.”
Just the same, Rachel had been nice enough to make a rice salad for the party—wild rice with sun-dried cranberries, smoked turkey, and green onion. Giving in to a craving, Molly had had three helpings that morning before the funeral.
She’d managed to set out all the food and plates before the first wave of guests started drifting in. Jeremy Hahn had never shown up, and Molly had played bartender for the first half hour—until Jeff had taken over, thank God.
Now she was playing hostess and fighting some morning sickness as she smiled through several Angela stories told to her by total strangers. For two hours, she made sure her guests’ glasses were filled and took their empty plates. All the while, she wondered what the hell had happened to Lynette. She even asked a few people. Apparently, Lynette and the three kids had disappeared right after the burial.
Molly started to feel so sick and light-headed that she snuck upstairs to lie down. But there were about forty coats piled on Jeff’s and her bed. Some woman—Molly was pretty sure she was Angela’s cousin—was breast-feeding her baby in Erin’s room. A man she didn’t recognize was sitting on one of the twin beds in the guest room, talking on his cell phone. Chris’s door was closed. She knocked and poked her head in. Chris was at his desk, and Elvis sat in the beanbag chair. They both had beers and plates of food. Chris’s sweet, four-eyed portly pal gave her a goofy smile. “Hi, Mrs. Dennehy. Great rice salad!”
“Thanks, Elvis,” she said weakly. She turned to Chris. “If your dad should ask, I’m not feeling well. I’m going upstairs to rest for a few minutes. And I never saw the beers.”
She closed the door, and heard Elvis call out: “Thanks, Mrs. Dennehy!”

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