CHAPTER EIGHT
C HAPTER E IGHT
Renata Zucco stopped at the supermarket for a cat box, litter, and the brand of food she’d seen in the Masons’ pantry. Then she drove home and carried everything into the foyer of her mother’s house. A real estate agent would call the small bungalow cozy , but the house sat on a nice, large lot, and her mom—before she’d gotten sick—had tended her garden like a pro.
Renata opened the pet carrier, and Chunk strolled out, seemingly unconcerned with his change of venue. He wound around Renata’s legs, then sniffed. His nose wrinkled with curiosity.
How would her mother take to the cat? Would she trip over him? She was already unsteady. Anxiety knotted in Renata’s belly.
“Mom?” Renata called.
“In the kitchen,” her mom replied.
Renata scooped up the cat. “I see how you got your name. I could use you to do weighted squats.”
Chunk purred.
Renata walked to the back of the house. The morning sun poured in the windows. Her mom sat at the table, a steaming mug in front of her. Her fancy big-wheeled walker with a seat and brakes was parked at her side. The scent of coffee and toast made Renata’s stomach rumble.
Her mom’s eyes perked up at the sight of the cat. “Who is this?”
“This is Chunk.” Renata leaned forward so her mom could pet him.
Her mom reached out a hand to stroke the cat’s side. Chunk cranked up his motor in approval. Her mom smiled. “Isn’t he sweet? Where did he come from?”
“A crime victim.” Renata explained about Claire. “I didn’t want her to lose her cat. She’s been through enough. So, I volunteered to babysit him for a while. Is that OK?”
“It’s lovely.” Her mom pushed back her chair and motioned to her lap. “Let me have him so you can get some coffee. It’s fresh.”
“Prepare yourself. He’s not a small boy.” Renata carefully lowered the cat into her mother’s arms. She’d seen no sign that the cat would scratch, but any animal could try to bolt if frightened. Chunk settled in, continuing his contented purring. Her mom’s face brightened into a soft smile.
Renata should have gotten her a pet months ago.
“That’s a good boy. How long can we keep him?” Her mom bent over Chunk and planted a kiss on his big noggin. Chunk bumped his head against her chin.
“I don’t know.” Renata went to the coffeepot and poured a cup. She shook the pot at her mother. “More?”
Her mom didn’t look up. She was busy loving on the cat. “No, thank you.”
“I’m in the mood for some eggs. Can I make you some?”
“Yes, please.” Her mom sighed. “I wish I could make you breakfast.”
“I’m not changing my name to Julia, but I can manage a few poached eggs.” Renata pulled out a pan and added an inch of water from the tap. She turned on the burner, then took a few seconds to check her mother’s pill dispenser. The A . M . compartment was empty. She hadn’t forgotten.
So many pills.
Still, they were both grateful the meds were available, and her mom’s cancer was treatable. Renata poached four eggs and served them on avocado toast. Renata scarfed hers down. Her mom picked at her food.
Renata eyed her mom’s thin arms, paper-white skin, and prominent veins. Her mom was sixty, but the disease had aged her. She looked ten years older. Renata crossed her fingers the treatment would work, and her mom’s life could return to some semblance of normal.
“I’m going to shower and change. Then I’m going back to work. Will you be OK here with the cat?”
“We’ll be fine, won’t we,” her mom crooned. “I’m going to enjoy his company.”
Renata rinsed plates and washed the pot with the efficiency of someone accustomed to squeezing daily chores into every spare moment. Then she filled bowls with cat food and water and set up the litter box in the laundry room. She carried Chunk to the box. He climbed in, used it, then trotted right back to the kitchen, found the kibble, and crunched away.
Very chill.
Renata’s mother got up and carried her mug to the sink. She kept one hand on the walker but seemed steady today. Chunk moved out of the way, giving her space, as if he instinctively knew what she needed. Her mom went into the tiny sunroom that adjoined the kitchen. Her book and the afghan she was knitting sat on the wicker table. As she settled on the couch, Chunk leaped up next to her and curled against her legs.
“Oh, my.” Her mom laughed. “I guess I’ll have to knit around him.” But her eyes sparkled as she stroked his tubby side.
“Well, Chunk is content.” Renata went to her room, showered, and dressed in a fresh uniform. Back in the kitchen, she kissed her mom on the cheek. “You have your cell phone?”
Her mom patted her pocket. “I do.”
“Text me if you want anything on my way home. I can run by the grocery store.”
“I will.” Smiling, her mom opened an app on her phone, and a true crime podcast played from a nearby speaker. She picked up her knitting, and the needles began to clack. The knitting was supposed to be therapeutic. Her mother had been NYPD, same as Renata, until she’d retired and moved upstate. How did she not lose her mind being stuck in the house?
Renata would rather stick one of those needles in her own eye than sit and knit all day. “You know, after Chunk returns to his owner, why don’t we adopt a cat from the shelter?”
“I would love that.” Her mom paused to give the cat a pat. Chunk closed his eyes.
“Be careful not to trip over him.”
“I will. Don’t you worry. We’ll be fine. I’m going to enjoy having him here.”
Then it was decided. Renata had been worried a cat would be too much to manage. She worked as many hours as she could get. Luckily for her, the sheriff’s department was always shorthanded. She could usually grab an extra shift or two per pay period. The additional money was helpful—her mom’s treatment meds didn’t come cheaply, even with insurance—but she felt guilty leaving her mother alone. She couldn’t drive right now. The ladies from her bridge club collected her for a weekly outing, but other than that, her mom was mostly homebound.
Renata filled an insulated bottle with ice water, locked up, and set the alarm on her way out. She’d brought her patrol vehicle home so she could drive directly to the Masons’ neighborhood. She was right on time—nine thirty—when she parked at the curb behind another patrol car and reported her location to dispatch. Then she climbed out of the vehicle.
The morning sun already felt hot on her face. By lunchtime, she’d be cooking inside her body armor and uniform. At the Masons’ house, crime scene tape fluttered across the front entrance and between sawhorses at the end of the driveway. Renata shuddered. The Masons hadn’t been the first dead bodies she’d seen. In her experience with the NYPD, she’d worked patrol and vice. She’d gone undercover. She’d seen dead people, murdered working girls, women she’d known. But the scene in the Masons’ bedroom had been jarring in a way she couldn’t explain. The deaths she’d seen before had been in a different context, people who engaged in high-risk activities: hookers, pimps, addicts, dealers. But the Masons’ perfect bedroom, saturated by liters of their blood, had shaken her. If death could find them in the perfection of their suburban neighborhood, then no one was safe.
No one.
Nowhere.
Another deputy emerged from his car and met her on the sidewalk. “These are the houses we need to visit this morning.” He handed her a list, then pointed across the street. “You take that side. I’ll work this one.”
“Got it.” Renata strode up the walk and rang the first doorbell. No one answered. She noted the address on the list and moved on. They’d have to come back in the evening and try again. At the second house, an elderly woman answered the door. She was about seventy years old, in psychedelic-print yoga pants and a pink zip-up jacket. Her pink sneakers would no doubt glow in the dark. She rocked short, spiky gray hair with a purple streak and held a ridiculously small dog in one arm. The bow holding back the dog’s hair matched its owner’s hair.
Renata smiled. “I’m Deputy Zucco. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m Helen Haverford. Is this about last night?” The woman’s eyes gleamed with macabre interest.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Haverford stepped back. “Please come in so I can set down Squidward.”
“Squidward?” Renata couldn’t hold back a short laugh as she walked into the house. If ever there was a name that did not fit an animal’s appearance ... The little poof ball should be called Princess or Fluffy.
Mrs. Haverford closed the door. “My grandson named him because he’s so grumpy.” She set down the dog, who gave Renata the stink eye and growled. “Hush.” Mrs. Haverford gave him a gentle nudge. Squidward retreated down the hallway, looking over his shoulder and grumbling. “Now then, what did you want to know?”
“Did you see anything unusual last evening? Anyone out and about? Strange cars?” Air-conditioning, an instant relief from the heat outside, wafted over Renata.
Mrs. Haverford clasped her hands together. “I did. I saw a car parked down the street. There was a man sitting behind the wheel. He was there for at least fifteen minutes.”
“What time was this, ma’am?” Renata pulled a notepad and pen out of her pocket.
“About eight fifteen. I know because I always walk the dog from eight to eight thirty, and we were halfway through our walk.” Mrs. Haverford’s eyes sparkled. She was clearly enjoying the interview.
Renata sighed. People were morbid. “Can you describe the vehicle?”
“I can do better than that.” Mrs. Haverford raised her chin with pride. “I took a picture.” She produced a phone from the pocket of her jacket. “I always take pictures when I see strange vehicles, so I can send them to the head of our neighborhood watch. So much crime these days, you know. One can’t be too careful.” She turned the phone screen toward Renata, showing her an image of a dark SUV parked at the curb under a tree. Details were murky in the darkness, but it looked like a Ford Explorer.
“You can’t see the license plate because of the dark, but I wrote it down.” Mrs. Haverford turned to a small hall chest. On it, a silver tray held keys, a purse, and a notepad. She ripped the top page from the notepad. “Here you are.”
“You take pictures of every car you don’t recognize in the neighborhood?”
“Always.” Mrs. Haverford tapped the notepad. “I keep them all in here.”
Seriously? Who does that?
She answered her own question. People with a lot of free time on their hands.
Renata took the paper. “Thank you, ma’am. Did you get a look at the driver?”
“No. He was wearing a baseball cap.” Mrs. Haverford toyed with the spiral binding of the notepad. “Do you think he was in a gang?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hear there are gangs everywhere now. It’s terrible. I hate the thought of violent gangs roaming the streets of Grey’s Hollow. Have you seen any?”
Renata blinked. “No, ma’am. Can you describe the hat?”
Mrs. Haverford shook her head. “It was dark. Black or navy blue? I can’t see colors that well anymore.”
“OK.” Renata pulled out a business card. “Would you please email the photograph of the car to this address?”
Mrs. Haverford took the card, her face drawn in a doubtful frown. “I don’t know how to do that. I’m pretty good at texting, but email ... My computer never works right. My grandson says I click on the wrong things and get viruses and things called mall ware .”
“Malware.” Renata gestured toward the phone. “You can send it right from your phone. May I?”
Nodding, Mrs. Haverford handed it over, but her email wasn’t set up on the phone.
“Is it OK if I text the picture to myself?” Renata asked.
“Of course.”
Renata texted the photo to herself and gave back the phone. “Thank you for your help, ma’am.”
Mrs. Haverford beamed. “Always happy to do my civic duty.” Her face sobered. “Plus, the Masons seemed like nice people. I can’t believe this happened to them right here.” She hugged herself, rubbing her biceps.
“How well do you know the Masons?”
Mrs. Haverford’s lips pursed and wrinkled with concentration. “Not that well. They always waved when we saw them, but they didn’t attend the neighborhood parties. They were good neighbors, though. Kept up their property. Never a bit of trouble.”
“Thanks for your help,” Renata repeated. “Call us if you think of anything else.”
“I will.” Mrs. Haverford nodded and lifted her phone. “I have your number since you texted yourself from my phone.”
She’s sharper than she looks.
“Yes, ma’am.” Regret flashed through Renata, and she wondered how many calls she would be getting from Mrs. Haverford in the near future. Small-town living, she supposed.
The second deputy was called away, leaving Renata to finish. She had less luck at the other twelve houses she visited. No one answered the door at five addresses. She spoke to seven additional neighbors who didn’t remember anything odd about the previous evening. By eleven thirty, Renata returned to her vehicle. The interior was an oven. She started the engine and lowered the windows to let out the hot air. Sweating, she used her cell phone to report back to Chief Deputy Harvey.
“Any luck?” he asked.
Renata filled him in on what Mrs. Haverford had seen. “It feels too easy.”
“Run the plate. You never know,” Harvey said. “Mrs. Haverford could have caught the killer on camera. I’ve seen stranger things.”
“That’s the truth.” Renata checked the picture information.
Mrs. Haverford had snapped the photo at 8:16. The Masons had died between eight thirty and nine thirty. What if Mrs. Haverford had caught the killer in her photo?
Cool air began to flow from the dashboard. Renata sipped water from her insulated bottle. She adjusted her air vents and reached for the button to close the windows. Renata froze. The hairs on the back of her neck quivered. Something—no—someone moved in the window of the Masons’ house. The shadow shifted again. Something pale flashed from behind a sheer curtain. A face? Definitely a person.
Renata’s ice water flip-flopped in her belly.
The crime scene had not been released. No one was supposed to be inside the house.