Chapter 11
The phone rang just as I finished stacking the last of the adoption files on my dining table. I wiped the dust from my hands and checked the screen.
It was Simone.
“Have you been able to speak with Celia’s neighbors?” I asked.
“I talked to everyone—neighbors, dog walkers, the guy who waters the succulents across the way. They all knew Celia and seemed to have a good relationship with her.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“One thing. Most of the neighbors mentioned Celia didn’t get along with her next-door neighbor, Bernadette Armstrong. They said the two of them never spoke unless they had to for some reason.”
“Did any of the neighbors know what caused the rift?” I asked.
“No one seemed to know how it all started, but one of Celia’s neighbors recalled seeing them arguing in the driveway once, a few years back.”
“Did you speak to Bernadette?”
“I tried. I couldn’t get much out of her. Might be a good idea for you to stop by when you get the chance. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
“I will. Anything else I should know?”
There was a pause, and then, “I got the impression that the neighbors on Celia’s street keep an eye out for things. None of them saw anyone hanging around the day Holly was murdered.”
“So, either our person blended in and didn’t look like a person who posed a threat, or they snuck in without being seen.”
“Right.”
I thanked her for the information, ended the call, and stood a moment beside the table, deciding my next move. Did I dive into the box of secrets? Or did I save them for later, after I spoke with Bernadette?
I grabbed my keys and gave Luka a pat, promising to return soon, and then I headed for the door.
From the outside, Bernadette’s house mirrored Celia’s in size, but the yard told a different story. Celia’s place had planters, wind chimes, and a holiday wreath on the front door. Bernadette’s yard had bare soil, a cracked birdbath, and a single metal chair on the porch. No plants. No welcome mat.
I walked up the path and knocked, and moments later, the door opened a few inches. A woman in her mid-fifties peered through the gap. She wore no makeup, had short, curly, blond hair, and was dressed in a sweatshirt with the name of a boxing gym across the front.
“I’ve seen you around,” she said. “You’re the private detective.”
I nodded. “You’re Bernadette Armstrong, right?”
“I am.”
“I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes about Holly.”
She opened the door wider but kept her body in the frame.
“I talked to the police already,” she said. “And I said everything I needed to say. I don’t see why I’d waste time repeating myself.”
“I understand why you see it that way, but my goal is to finish the investigation as soon as possible,” I said. “Then everyone can go back to their normal lives.”
“Normal lives? After what’s happened, I’m not sure things will ever be normal again.”
“Maybe not, but as long as the case stays open, we’ll have to keep coming by, trying to piece together who murdered Holly and why. I’m sure you’d like to see it wrapped up sooner than later.”
She shifted her weight, placing one hand on the doorjamb. For a second I thought she might slam the door in my face. Then she stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind her.
“I’ll speak to you, but out here,” she said. “I don’t let strangers inside my house, and I don’t know you.”
We were a week from Christmas, and the cold cut straight through me. Anything under seventy forced me to bundle up like I was bracing for a blizzard. Still, she’d agreed to talk, so I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Talking on the porch works for me,” I said.
She nodded toward a chair. “You’re welcome to sit if you want.”
I remained standing. “One of the women who works for me was here yesterday, talking to some of your neighbors.”
“I remember. She was a bit … pushy.”
If you think Simone is pushy, wait until I get my claws into you.
“Your neighbors mentioned you and Celia didn’t get along,” I said.
Bernadette snorted. “It’s true. We didn’t get along, not for years.”
“Why not?”
“I have a daughter. Her name is Rochelle. Holly and Rochelle were the same age, and they went to middle school and high school together. Teenagers that age can be cruel. My daughter may have said some things she shouldn’t have, but I handled it.”
“Handled it how?”
“I’ll admit, I didn’t think it was a big deal, not at first. Then Rochelle made things worse by spreading a rumor about Holly, a rumor that wasn’t true.
I was called in by the school principal, and I yanked my daughter out of every class she shared with Holly.
I took her cell phone, her car keys, and I put her in therapy two days a week. ”
“Do you know why your daughter targeted Holly the way she did?”
Bernadette nodded. “Several years ago, my husband died. It was quick and unexpected. He got sick with what we thought was the flu, and a couple of days later, he was dead. Rochelle didn’t handle it well. Her grades started slipping, and she started hanging around the wrong crowd.”
“That must have been hard on you.”
“You’d think Rochelle and Holly would have bonded over it, given Holly grew up without a father figure in her life. The exact opposite happened. Holly started dating a boy at school whom Rochelle had liked for a while, and that did it. From then on, they were at odds.”
“Did Holly know Rochelle liked the guy?”
“I don’t believe so, but nothing I could say convinced Rochelle otherwise. She … ahh, she started a rumor at school, told everyone Holly had an STD. When Celia heard about it, she lost her mind, and well, any pleasantries we once shared ended.”
Seemed a bit harsh.
Then again …
“I understand Celia being angry, but it sounds to me like you tried to do the right thing,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I think she still blamed me for the whole mess. She acted like I raised a monster, like Rochelle acted out because of poor parenting. Thing is, kids can act like monsters when they’re hurting. It doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
“Where’s your daughter now?”
“Away at college, and she’s doing much better.
I wouldn’t say she’s back to her old self, but she’s getting there.
And as for Celia, I tried to fix things between us.
I mowed her lawn a few times when she traveled and pulled her garbage cans in when the wind knocked them into the street.
They may not have been big gestures, but hey, I tried. ”
I glanced at Celia’s house, noting the crime scene tape still stuck to the door. “Walk me through the day Holly died.”
She crossed her arms, her biceps pressing against the sweatshirt she was wearing. “I was watching a game show, and I heard a pop. It was sharp and distinct. Not like the sound of something breaking. More like a firecracker.”
“How long before you went outside to check things out?” I asked.
“I was out the door in under a minute. I stood on the front porch for a time, and I listened, but I didn’t hear anything.”
“Did you see anyone in the street?”
She shook her head. “All was quiet. I noticed Holly’s car in the driveway, and I knew she’d been in and out of her mother’s place, packing up her things.
I’d checked in on her a few times after the funeral, brought her over some food when I saw she was there, that kind of thing.
Thought I’d go over and see if she’d heard what I had. ”
“What happened next?”
“When I went to knock on the front door, it opened a little, which seemed odd to me. I called Holly’s name, and I didn’t get an answer.
I tried pushing the door open and was met with some resistance.
I didn’t realize that resistance was Holly, lying on the ground on the other side.
I put my weight against the door, and it opened just enough for me to step in. That’s when I saw her.”
“Can you describe what you saw?” I asked.
“Blood. A lot of it. Holly was on her side, and her eyes were open. I’m a nurse, so I knew to check for a pulse. There wasn’t one.”
“Did you touch anything in the room?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Not the first time through.”
“What do you mean ‘the first time,’” I repeated.
“I walked back to the living room and stood there, trying to make sense of what happened. Then my brain kicked in, and I realized she’d been warm to the touch when I checked for a pulse. I thought whoever killed her might still be in the house.”
“What did you do?”
“I called the police, and then I grabbed a knife out of the drawer in the kitchen. Then I checked every room in the house. When I didn’t find anyone, I went outside and waited for the police to arrive.”
We stood in silence for a moment.
Somewhere down the block, a dog barked.
I thought of her words and the story I’d just been told. It sounded realistic and believable, but it also sounded crafted and rehearsed.
Had she told me the truth?
Or a form of the truth, masking something she wanted to hide?
I wasn’t sure, but there was something I was certain of—the longer we stood, the colder I’d gotten.
“Thank you for your time,” I said.
She stepped back toward the door, reached out, and twisted the knob.
“Good luck with your investigation,” she said. “Oh, and, say hi to your mother for me.”
The comment was calculated and said with intent.
“My mother?” I asked. “You know her?”
“We see each other from time to time at the gun range.”
She slipped inside the house, the door shutting with a soft click.
I turned toward my car, her final words pressing against my thoughts like a tide that refused to recede.
She had greeted me as if I were a stranger, yet she had made it clear in the end that she not only knew who I was, she knew a member of my family.
If she’d known about me from the start, I had to wonder what else she may have been hiding.