Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
I waited for Mrs. Haggerty to retire for the night before I headed to Vero’s room. The house was dark and unsettlingly quiet, and I felt a little safer as I closed and locked her door. I changed into a comfy pair of sweatpants I’d found in the dryer and crawled into Vero’s bed, pulling the blankets all the way up to my chin before turning off the lamp. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, listening for the sound of breaking glass or a door creaking open.
What if Stacey was right and the real killer was still out there? What if they came back?
I squeezed my eyes shut, frustrated that I had let that thought enter my mind. Gilford Dupree had been murdered five years ago, and whoever killed him probably didn’t care one iota about me or my family. If anything, Mrs. Haggerty had far more reasons to be afraid than I did.
That thought didn’t make me feel any better.
What if the killer came here looking for her?
I threw an arm over my eyes. I was being ridiculous. No one was going to break into my house tonight. No one except for Nick.
I bolted upright in the bed.
Oh, god . What if Nick did come after work? What if he used the key to let himself into the house? What if he snuck into my bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and accidentally spooned with Mrs. Haggerty?
I threw off the covers and tucked Vero’s pillow under my arm, carrying it with me downstairs to the living room. The sofa wasn’t as comfortable as Vero’s bed, but if I slept within sight of the front door, at least I could prevent any traumatic late-night booty calls.
I fluffed the pillow and arranged the blanket on the couch, but I couldn’t seem to settle in. I got up and tested the dead bolt on the front door. Then I headed to the kitchen to check the one in the garage, hoping Vero had remembered to lock up when she’d left.
I opened the service door and turned on the light, relieved to find the bay door shut.
Before I could turn off the light and lock up again, my gaze snagged on my small collection of household tools on the pegboard on the back wall. I entertained the thought of bringing one of them into the house with me for protection, but I didn’t have a great selection of pointy garage implements to choose from.
As I closed the door, an idea began to form.
When Steven had moved out, he’d taken everything in the garage with him but my tiny pink garden trowel. He’d argued that I didn’t know how to use most of the home-improvement tools anyway, and he’d promised to come back to fix anything that broke.
I reached for my phone, my anxiety yielding to hope as I sent a quick text to Steven, telling him I needed a favor and asking him if he could drop by my house with his tool kit tomorrow. He replied almost immediately with a thumbs-up emoji and said he and the kids would be there around noon. I had told Brendan his grandmother could stay until her power and water were fixed. Steven was handy when it came to repairs, and in his line of work he knew a lot of contractors. If I asked him to take a look at Mrs. Haggerty’s house, I’m sure he could figure out what needed to be done. With any luck, I could have her back in her own home before the weekend was over.
I poured myself a glass of wine and turned the TV on at a low volume. Then I flipped past a few police procedural dramas before settling on a Hallmark rom-com. I sipped my wine, waiting for the alcohol to settle my nerves as I burrowed under the throw blanket. My situation could have been worse, I reminded myself. The kids were safe with their father, Vero was safe with Javi, and Mrs. Haggerty was probably fast asleep. With any luck, the only body that would turn up here tonight was toned and perfect and definitely warm. I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Nick.
Instead, a message from my literary agent was waiting on the screen.
Sylvia: What are you doing this weekend?
I tapped the edge of my wineglass as I weighed my options. 1) Answer her, a choice that hadn’t ended well for me lately. Or 2) Ignore her, text her back on Monday, and suffer her agent wrath.
My phone lit up with a new notification.
Sylvia: It’s Friday night. I know you’re not busy. Call me .
Sylvia: Unless your hot cop is with you. Then by all means, take whatever time you need and call me when you’re done.
I put my phone down out of spite. I had no intention of working this weekend. I had turned in my last revision less than two weeks ago and my newest book was off to production. I deserved a break, and I was damn well taking one. The screen lit up again.
Sylvia: If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes, I’m calling your next of kin.
I swore to myself as I muted the television. I had no idea if Sylvia actually had my mother’s phone number, but I wasn’t willing to test that theory. Georgia and I had both been avoiding our mother’s calls about a dinner invitation since we’d returned home from Atlantic City, and the last thing I needed was for Sylvia to ping my mother’s radar.
I dialed Sylvia’s number.
She answered on the first ring. “Is he there?”
“Who?”
“You know who! Your hot cop. How was it? Tell me everything.”
“All ten minutes of it?” I asked, pointing out the ridiculousness of her last text message.
“I saw your hot cop on those TV interviews, Finlay. He’s exactly how you described him in your books. If it takes you more than ten minutes to climax with that man, there’s definitely something wrong with you.”
“You can call off the search party. And no, he isn’t here.”
“Good, then there’s nothing to distract you.”
“From what?”
“Work. Something urgent has come up, and I need you to meet me in the city on Monday.”
“That’s three days from now! I can’t go to New York.”
“Not New York. I’m coming to you.”
I sat up, my wineglass nearly tumbling onto my lap. “You’re coming here?” Last time my agent had splurged on a train ticket to meet me, it had been to tell me my career was in the toilet and I was about to lose a book deal. That otherwise normal morning had then spiraled into disaster. “Why?” My next book proposal wasn’t due to my editor for at least another month.
“Remember that Hollywood executive I told you about? The one who wants to turn your novels into a TV series? He’ll be in DC next week filming some hot new FBI drama. I told him you live just outside the Beltway. He wants you to come into the city and have lunch with him on Monday. But don’t worry, I’m coming, too.”
My stomach bottomed out. “I can’t!” I sputtered.
“Get your ex to take the kids. Or better yet, let your accountant do it. I’ve seen your royalty statements, Finlay. It’s not like she has anything better to do.”
“I have company,” I argued, grasping on to Mrs. Haggerty for an excuse.
“Unless your houseguest is Reese Witherspoon, you’re going to this meeting. I’m leaving on the first train Monday morning. I’ll need you to pick me up at the station in time for lunch.”
“Sylvia, please, it’s not a good time—”
She growled in frustration. “We’ve discussed this, Finlay! We both know exactly what your problem is.”
“I don’t have a problem! I just…” I what ? There wasn’t a single legitimate reason I couldn’t make that meeting. This was exactly what Sylvia had diagnosed me with in Atlantic City— impostor syndrome , she’d called it. She and Nick were right. I was terrified of my own success. Of what it could lead to. But I’d be crazy to pass up an opportunity like this, wouldn’t I? “What time does your train get in?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I’ll text you the details,” Sylvia said in a rush. “I need to book my ticket. I’ll see you Monday.”
I stared at the screen when she disconnected, wondering exactly how I was supposed to prepare for a meeting with a TV producer. Was I supposed to come up with answers to questions like: What inspired you to write this story? What kind of research did you do for the book? Are any of the situations you write about based on real people or events? Well, I’m so glad you asked, Mr. Fancy TV Producer. Actually, yes, I do have a lot of experience with organized crime. I also own the highest-rated garden shovel money can buy. I could tell you exactly how many hours it takes for a frozen body part to thaw, how many bath bombs it would take to cover the smell, and in a pinch, I could probably figure out how to operate a backhoe. My research on the topic of murder was extensively (and disturbingly) thorough. My knowledge of Hollywood, on the other hand, was not.
Downing the last gulp of my wine, I traded my cell phone for the TV remote and turned up the volume. I switched from the Hallmark Channel to a cop drama, chalking it up to preparation for my meeting as I settled back under my blanket to watch.
I stirred some time later, roused from a deep sleep. I blinked, barely awake as the TV suddenly turned off.
A man-shaped shadow hovered over me. With an ear-splitting shriek, I bolted upright. My skull smacked against something hard and Nick barked out a curse. I slapped a palm over my throbbing forehead, squinting as he slowly came into focus. I could barely make out his dress shirt and tie in the dim moonlight sifting through the blinds. He massaged his forehead and sat down beside me.
“Hello to you, too,” he whispered.
“I thought you were still at work. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I did.” He pushed my cell phone across the coffee table toward me. An unread notification waited on the screen. “I would have knocked when I got here, but you told me to use the key.” He sank into the cushions of the old sofa, took off his holster, and loosened his tie as I read his message. I set my phone down and knelt on the cushion beside him.
“How was your day?” I asked, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where our foreheads had smacked together.
He dropped his head back against the sofa and threw an arm over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. How about yours?”
Aside from Delia being suspended from preschool, Mrs. Haggerty moving in, and a possible killer on the loose? “I don’t want to talk about mine either. I’m just glad you’re here.” I slid one leg over him and sat on his lap. He peeped out from under his arm as I ran my fingers through the short, dark waves of his hair and stole a kiss.
His brown eyes twinkled in the dark. “How glad?”
“Very glad,” I said as I loosened the top button of his shirt.
His hands moved to my waist and pulled me closer. He’d only used the key under the downspout twice since we’d come back from Atlantic City, but we were already good at these stealthy middle-of-the-night visits, the near-silent sex, and sneaking him out of my bedroom before the children woke up. Mostly, we were good at not talking about all the delicate and dangerous topics we’d been avoiding, namely my involvement with several unsavory culprits in a few criminal cases Nick had been tasked with solving.
“Want to go upstairs?” he asked, his body responding as I untucked his shirt from his slacks.
“No.” I definitely did not want to go upstairs.
“What about Vero?”
“Gone for the night—” He took my whole mouth with a savage, hungry kiss. I felt his arm loop around my waist, and I was a little dizzy as he slid me off his lap and set me down onto the couch. We were both breathing hard as we fumbled with my elastic waistband and his belt buckle. I hoped I had remembered to wear cute underwear—or at least, not old and hole-y underwear—as we took turns stripping each other of our pants, too impatient to waste time taking off anything else.
I took him by his tie and dragged his body down onto mine, arching against him as his hand slid under my T-shirt. I grabbed the ends of his boxer briefs and started to pull them down.
“Finn?” His entire body had gone rigid above me—every part but the one I had been hoping for. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a slow, hard swallow as he stared over the back of my sofa. “Why is Mrs. Haggerty in your house? And why is she pointing a gun at me?”
“ Oh, god! ” I said, scrambling out from under him.
“Put your hands where I can see them, home invader, or I’ll shoot!” Mrs. Haggerty cried.
Nick sat up very slowly and put his hands in the air.
“Stand down, Mrs. Haggerty!” I lunged for the lamp switch, tripping on our pants, certain Mrs. Haggerty wouldn’t be able to see Nick’s raised hands if he’d been waving them right in front of her face. I turned on the light, momentarily blinding all three of us. “It’s only Nick!”
Mrs. Haggerty squinted in his direction. “Detective Anthony?” He shielded his head, tucking me behind him as she waved her gun at the wall clock. “It’s past eleven o’clock, young man. What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
He raised his hands higher, the half-buttoned shirt and loose ends of his tie lifting to reveal the fire-engine red boxer briefs I thankfully hadn’t had the chance to strip off him.
“I just came to see Finlay.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes locked on her weapon. It looked old and solid, like something Dirty Harry might have carried. If I hadn’t seen her handle a .357 Magnum revolver during our police academy firearms class, I might have doubted her ability to shoot it. “She invited me,” Nick said. “You can put the gun down. Please,” he added with another tight swallow.
Mrs. Haggerty threw me a scandalized look as she lowered her weapon.
Nick dropped his hands. “I’m assuming you have a permit for that?”
“This old thing?” she asked as she waved it again. “It’s not mine. It’s my late husband’s.”
I refrained from pointing out the fact that it was, by default, now hers.
“What is it doing in my house?” I snapped, tugging my T-shirt down to cover myself. Apparently, I had not worn proper underwear for a make-out session or a holdup at gunpoint.
Nick flinched as Mrs. Haggerty gesticulated wildly with her gun. “I have a right to defend myself. There could be a murderer in the neighborhood! A dead man was buried behind my house and the killer is still at large.”
“Which is one of many reasons it’s a bad idea for you to have this,” Nick said, taking a cautious step toward her. “May I?” He reached out a hand for the gun. She looked put-upon as he deftly and gently relieved her of the weapon. “I promise, you and Finlay aren’t in any danger while I’m here. Are there any other firearms in the house?” he asked her.
Mrs. Haggerty crossed her arms. “Of course not. Who do you think I am? A felon?”
Nick’s jaw tensed as he refrained from answering that.
I clutched a hand to my racing heart. “Please, Mrs. Haggerty. We’re all safe. You can go back to…” I narrowed my eyes at the winter coat zipped securely around her. A flashlight handle stuck out from one of the pockets, and the ends of her nightgown protruded from the hem. Her legs were clad in a pair of my black yoga pants, the long ends of which were tucked into a mismatched pair of my socks. I raised a suspicious eyebrow at her orthopedic sneakers. “I thought you had gone to bed?”
“I did,” she said defensively. “I wanted to be fresh for my Friday night watch. Weekends are busy in South Riding. All those hoodlums and teenagers running around making mischief,” she griped, “toilet-papering houses and vandalizing mailboxes… I was in my room getting dressed when I heard a kerfuffle down here and decided to investigate. Your gentleman caller is lucky I see so well in the dark. Otherwise, he might have been shot.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that it was in fact my room she was occupying. And that if her night vision was so exceptional, she would have chosen matching socks.
“Still, I think it would be best if I hold on to this,” Nick said, unloading her gun.
“Fine, but I expect my personal property to be returned to me in the morning. I’ll just be going,” she said as she headed for the door.
Nick called after her, “Mrs. Haggerty, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out by yourself so late at—”
She either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to let him finish as she slammed the door behind her.
Nick hastily pulled on his pants. “Why is Mrs. Haggerty sleeping in your house?” A sheen of nervous sweat still glistened in the hollow of his throat as he shrugged on his holster and tucked her empty gun in his belt.
“Because her house has no power or water and she needed a place to stay. Her grandson dropped her off a few hours ago. He didn’t know what else to do with her.”
“So you agreed to let her stay here?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice low. “She’s a suspect in a murder investigation, Finlay.”
“ Was a suspect,” I clarified as I picked my pants off the floor and turned them right side out. “What was I supposed to do, Nick? She had nowhere else to go.”
“She had a gun . In your home .”
“Don’t remind me,” I said, dragging on my clothes. “I had no idea she had that thing in her suitcase. I’m sure Brendan didn’t either. He promised to have her out of here as soon as her heat’s back on.”
Nick took my chin in his hand. “Tomorrow,” he said, his stare unrelenting. “Promise me you’ll call her grandson first thing in the morning and tell him to pick her up.”
Normally, I would have objected to being told what to do in my own home. But after what she had just put us through, no one was more ready to be rid of Mrs. Haggerty than me. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Nick seemed to relax at that. He pulled me against him, his heart still quick in his chest as he pressed his lips to the top of my head. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I should probably go with her.” I peeled myself from his arms to put on my sneakers.
“Wait for me. I’ll go with you in a minute.” He cast a glance toward the stairs. His eyes had taken on that sharp, focused look. I had known enough cops in my life to recognize it. “Give me permission to search your room first.”
“You can’t do that! You don’t have a warrant to go through her things.”
“I’m not searching her room. I’m searching yours. She brought a gun into your house, Finn. I’m not leaving you alone here tonight without making sure she’s not a threat to you.”
“But—”
“Do you trust me?” His eyes bored into mine. There was only one right answer.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” I said as I put on my coat, “but don’t go poking around in my drawers.” There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as he started up the steps. “Two minutes, Detective,” I called up after him. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
I waited for Nick on my front stoop, looking both ways down the street for signs of Mrs. Haggerty. I caught the flash of her bright white sneakers as they passed under the streetlamp at the end of the block. She turned left at the stop sign and disappeared from sight.
“Shit,” I muttered, venturing out into my front yard to keep an eye on her. I turned back to my house, but Nick’s shadow was still moving behind the curtains in my bedroom. I couldn’t very well let an eighty-one-year-old woman wander the neighborhood alone at night. He would just have to catch up.
I zipped my jacket and started after her, not bothering to call out to ask her to wait. There was no sense in waking everyone on the street. Besides, if I lagged a little, Nick would have an easier time finding us.
When I made it to the end of the block, I spotted Mrs. Haggerty ahead of me. She carried her flashlight in her hand but hadn’t bothered turning it on. She walked with a purpose, pausing only once to scowl at a car full of teenagers as it zipped by. They rolled through a stop sign, nearly running her over, their music blaring loud enough to rattle the windows of their car. I expected her to whip out her neighborhood watch diary and write down their license plate number—some scathing documentation she could present at the next meeting of the homeowners association in an attempt to flush out the names of the guilty kids’ parents. I was sure I wasn’t the only person in South Riding who had fantasized about burning those diaries in a bonfire. Mrs. Haggerty only shook her head at the car and kept walking.
I followed, watching her from a distance between glances over my shoulder for Nick. At the next corner, she paused to turn on her flashlight. She fiddled with the switch and shook the handle until the beam finally flickered on. She held it in front of her, clicking it on and off several times before finally giving up and turning it off.
A curtain in the upstairs window of the nearest house parted. I cringed as I wondered who Mrs. Haggerty might have disturbed as she’d been carelessly waving her flashlight about. Mrs. Haggerty, however, didn’t seem concerned. She shambled to the mailbox at the foot of the driveway and tucked a folded piece of paper inside it.
This house probably belonged to the teenager who had almost mowed her down just now. Of course, she hadn’t needed to write down his license plate number when he’d zipped past her, because he had probably done it countless times before. She probably already knew who the kid was, had already documented his infractions in some neighborhood watch grievance report, and had come here prepared to deliver it straight to his parents’ mailbox.
When I glanced up at the house again, the curtain was closed. I lingered there a moment as Mrs. Haggerty resumed her walk. A niggling suspicion burrowed in the back of my mind when no one inside the house bothered to come out. Weren’t they curious about all the flashing lights? Or why someone had visited their mailbox in the middle of the night?
I paused beside it. Curious, I opened the latch and unfolded the paper under the faint glow of the moonlight.
It wasn’t an infraction report. In fact, it wasn’t a neighborhood watch form at all. The note was handwritten on blue-lined paper in Mrs. Haggerty’s shaky, careful penmanship.
Book Club. Saturday. 11am at Vi’s.
I folded the note and placed it back in the mailbox, feeling like a nosy fool as I followed Mrs. Haggerty away from the house. Footsteps echoed behind me. I spun around, hand to my chest as Nick jogged to catch up to me.
His breath steamed as he fell in step beside me. “I thought I told you to wait for me.”
“I thought I told you two minutes,” I whispered. Mrs. Haggerty maintained her steady pace ahead of us, apparently none the wiser that either of us were there. Clearly her hearing was as good as her vision. “Did you find anything noteworthy in my room?” I asked him.
“Your nightstand was particularly interesting. So was the second drawer of your dresser.”
“The granny panties belong to Mrs. Haggerty.”
“I was talking about the second drawer down.”
My face flushed at his smoldering sideways glance. Vero and I had been at the mall a few days ago when I’d spotted the slinky red negligee in a Valentine’s Day clearance bin. Vero had insisted I buy it, but after I’d brought it home, it had seemed a frivolous, impractical purchase. I was pretty sure my kids would be grown and moved out before I’d ever have an occasion to wear it.
“I might have some follow-up questions about the contents of that drawer when your houseguest is gone.”
“Anything else?”
He shrugged. “Nothing dangerous. Just her clothes, some medications, a few books.”
“No manifesto of a criminal mastermind?”
“Not unless you count her neighborhood watch diary.”
I choked on a wry laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly call her diaries harmless.” Mrs. Haggerty had documented more than just rule violations in those diaries. As far as I could tell she had recorded plenty of private dramas as well, including Steven’s and mine. And yet, for all the times she’d shoved her nose into my personal business over the last few years, I still felt guilty for reading the note she’d left in her friend’s mailbox just now.
Mrs. Haggerty turned at the next corner and retraced her steps to my home. I glanced at the time on my phone. We had been patrolling for less than thirty minutes. For someone who had been so concerned with the state of the community, her watch rotation seemed awfully short.
“Looks like she’s heading back to bed.” Nick slipped his hand in mine as we followed her up the driveway. “About that negligee… Is Mrs. Haggerty a sound sleeper?”
I laughed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Detective, but I’m not really in the mood to try after our last encounter.”
His smile was wicked as he pulled me closer to his side. “Promise me you’ll get rid of her tomorrow.”