Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
SUNDAY, AUGUST 27
I thought about Mary dozens of times over the next week. Had she been telling the truth about how Bill died, or had I merely witnessed the ravings of a drunk? There was no way to know for sure unless I asked her when she was sober. I didn’t intend to do that. Mary was off-limits. Tasha was too. I had no desire to see her anytime soon. I texted her I’d be busy this coming Thursday, so she’d need not drop by after work.
Thinking about Tasha, my body stiffened. How would she react if I tried to stop her from soothing her little ones? I imagined her composure might slip, giving me a glimpse of the fierce resentment that could turn her beautiful face ugly. I mean, honestly, the basis of our friendship was our shared motherhood, wasn’t it? It was really the only thing we had in common.
But without Mary or Tasha I was alone. I’d lived in town less than a year and was now freshly separated. The only other woman I’d befriended was Muzzy Owen, who probably wouldn’t let me step onto her property, much less invite me in for coffee. I sighed and stretched my neck to the left and right to ease the sudden tension in my shoulders. I must discover whether Tim felt he needed Muzzy as much as I did. And if that need was reciprocated.
Time to go back , said Mother.
“Go back,” I repeated out loud.
To the place you always go.
* * *
I scooted from Woodmint onto Primrose, after studiously ignoring Jane’s house as I passed it. That bitch couldn’t keep me out of her neighborhood. Her street had become the only way to reach Muzzy’s house. Since being spooked on Pine Hill, I avoided that road altogether. Just thinking about Melanie on that fateful evening made my stomach cramp. I was no closer to solving the mystery of what had happened that night, so I tried to put it out of my mind for a while. If I was going to teach Emmy society’s rules for fitting in, I had to curb my obsessive tendencies.
I paused in front of Muzzy’s house, bending over the babyzen , pretending to minister to Emmy. Hoping my former friend would emerge from her front door with her welcoming smile and a plate of home-baked sugar cookies. We’d hug, and I’d apologize for what I’d done months earlier. She’d graciously accept and explain how she and Tim had become friends, how he’d listened to her troubles with sympathy. Tim, I knew, could be a very good listener when he wanted to be. I stared at her windows, unable to see past the sun’s rays bouncing off the glass.
Muzzy never came out of the house, and I was afraid to knock on her front door, having predetermined the reunion would be more successful if we appeared to meet by chance. The more often I passed by her place, the better my odds of catching her coming or going.
I straightened and looked around the street, noticing no cars in front of Muzzy’s. I glanced at my former friend’s yard, my gaze taking in the still swing set and the trampoline, one side of it sunk lower than the other. I sighed. Muzzy used to spend every day outdoors, weather permitting. Had I ruined that for her? Was that my lot in life? To devastate everything and everyone I came into contact with?
I risked a glance up ahead, gritting my teeth. The small pond’s fountain spewed effusively, as if putting on a great show. Vying for my notice. I forced myself to look at the gushing water pumping with the enthusiasm of an attention-seeking child. Look at me! Look at me!
I shivered, gazing at the gentle ripples ruffling the pond’s surface, my lips pressing into a hard line. Blinking rapidly, I tried to displace the image of little Brandon’s body floating motionless in the vast expanse of water, and my own flailing form, also stretched out on the water’s surface. I wouldn’t allow myself to look away.
Hearing the rhythmic lapping against the muddy bank, a tangy, unpleasant taste, like bile, traveled up my windpipe, stinging my throat and settling on my tongue. I knew the mesmerizing motion of the water concealed the pond’s inherent dangers, so why hadn’t I tried to rescue the toddler the day of Muzzy’s picnic? And how the hell had I, myself, ended up in the damned thing less than two weeks earlier?
I looked down, knowing why I’d always preferred the honest pounding of ocean surf. The relentlessly smashing waves warned of hazards that still pond water cleverly veiled.
An image of Tim at the beach invaded my brain. We’d honeymooned in an oceanfront condo in Key West, but I’d never gone near the water. Two years later, just before I’d gotten pregnant, Tim had taken me to the Jersey Shore for a few days, claiming he was sick of my nagging for a vacation. Once again, I parked myself in the sand as Tim—with exaggerated eye rolling—filled a toy bucket with ocean water for me to drizzle onto my sun-heated skin. He’d had no patience for yet another weakness. Why take beach vacations if you hate the beach?
What he hadn’t considered was that I loved the beach. Cuddling into the warm sand, enveloping as a lover’s embrace.
I closed my eyes, my mind ballooning with all the thoughts colliding in my head—Tim and his eye rolls, my last day with Muzzy and her terrified face, Jane’s knowing look, Mary’s boozy confession, Melanie’s intense stare. I snapped my eyes open. I had to clear my head. I hurried past Muzzy’s at a near run, emptying my mind of everything but the smooth pavement under my feet and the pristine lawns hemming the street—endless yards of turf without the weeds that muscled out the grass in every other neighborhood.
It was no use. I thought of Matt tending his weedless yard, the rich green hue a perfect complement to the cheery red custom Cape. The image in my mind so perfectly at odds with the scene I’d witnessed in the upstairs bedroom window. The thought struck me like a blow to my head: none of my problems would be resolved if I couldn’t figure out this one. That’s what 21 Pine Hill, and the lives attached to it, had become for me. Not only a big problem, but a referendum on my life. Was I going to step up and admit what I’d seen, and possibly help the woman I thought of as Melanie, or would I cower in fear as I’d done that day at the pond, with Muzzy? The day I’d allowed my deep-seated dread to guide my actions—or, more appropriately, my complete lack of action.
* * *
Sleep once again eluded me. My mind spun like a dozen pinwheels in a wind gust, but one thought emerged above all others: if I could convince one person of my story, I wouldn’t be alone in this quest to discover what happened. I wouldn’t be crazy. Closing my eyes, I saw Melanie on the backs of my lids, but her image shattered as Emmy’s cries invaded the stillness. My eyes flew open, and I felt my way along the darkened walls to my baby’s bedroom.
Tending to Emmy’s needs was grounding. I was profoundly thankful for the respite—the all-consuming process of mothering—before having to focus once more on Melanie and her injuries—possibly deadly injuries.
Possibly deadly injuries . That was the thing, wasn’t it? She might not even be dead. But how could she not be? I was not a medical professional, but that gash in her throat looked fatal. Yet I knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving.
Jeffrey Trembly’s appearance at Matt and Melanie’s house had certainly been convenient. I rocked Emmy back to sleep, thinking the man whom I’d looked upon as a helper could have very well been a killer. Perhaps he’d slashed Melanie’s throat in the house he had a key to. Then he’d heard me enter downstairs and snuck up behind me, smashing something into my skull and knocking me out.
But it couldn’t have happened like that. There was only one staircase. I would have seen him descending the steps.
Perhaps he’d climbed out a front upstairs window, dropped onto the porch roof, and shimmied down the post to enter the house from the front door behind me. I hadn’t closed it, had I? Once I was out cold, he could have loaded Melanie, Emmy, and me into his Jeep, conveniently concealed in the garage. He’d dumped my unconscious body in the pond, assuming I’d drown, ditched Emmy on the side of the road, and stashed Melanie elsewhere. Or maybe he’d deposited her in the water too. The thought of struggling to swim mere feet away from Melanie’s dead body turned me instantly cold. I rubbed my upper arms.
It made sense. I’d been unconscious for hours, giving Jeffrey plenty of time to clean up the mess. He’d be able to account for his whereabouts. He could say he was out on the beat, investigating a news story when all along he’d been at the Pine Hill house. Hell, when I’d seen him pull up to the pond, he might have just completed his grim cleanup.
I could go to police headquarters. Share my story. My heart lifted at the prospect but dropped just as quickly. Why would the authorities believe me now when they hadn’t before? There still wasn’t evidence of a crime, was there? Other than the partial fake fingernail I’d dislodged from between the master bedroom’s floorboards. They’d surely wonder when I’d found it, which would lead to the revelation that I’d been in the house after my visit from the police officers. Rather than being convinced a crime had occurred on the property, they could launch an investigation into me , discovering how I liked to take my sketchy nighttime strolls and spy on the residents of Deer Crossing.
I moved into the living room and turned on the end-table light. If I didn’t reveal I had the nail fragment but simply shared my knowledge of Jeffrey’s key to the Pine Hill house, police would want to know how I knew that. They’d eventually learn I’d trespassed onto the property but probably wouldn’t care about him having a key to an empty house.
I ran both hands through my hair as I began pacing. If I wanted to know why Jeffrey had the key, I’d have to ask him, which would be foolish. I had Emmy to think about. I couldn’t expose myself and my infant to a possible murderer. Even if I went to the police with my “evidence” and somehow convinced them to scrape DNA off the fake nail, it would turn up nothing about Jeffrey or Melanie if their DNA wasn’t already in the system. I pressed my lips together tightly. As far as I knew, no woman had been reported missing. According to police the residents of the property had sold it and moved away.
The sudden knock on my front door made me flinch. Who could it possibly be? It had to be close to midnight. Fear stalled my breath in my throat, until I heard Mary’s voice on the other side. When I yanked the door open, I was greeted by her crooked smile as if it were the middle of the day. I noticed again her top row of teeth looked like they’d been packed together haphazardly, as if someone had shoved them into her mouth quickly without taking the time to ensure they were properly aligned. In the dim night, the effect was creepy jack-o’-lantern rather than friendly neighbor.
“What are you doing here this late at night?”
“I saw your light pop on. Figured you couldn’t sleep either.”
“Now’s not a good time?—”
“Not too busy now, I hope. I just made that long trek from next door...” She tilted her head to one side and raised her brows inquiringly.
“Actually, I’m in the middle of something. Emmy’s restless tonight, and it’s been crazy around here lately.” And I’ve had my fill of potential murder suspects, thank you very much.
“Tell me about it,” she said, stepping up next to me so we both stood just inside the doorframe. “The timing’s off, but I’ve finally carved out a few moments for you.”
For me? I tried not to roll my eyes. How was I going to get her out of my house without physically pushing her past the threshold? I’d have to humor her for a minute or two and then plead fatigue.
“I need to check on Emmy. There’s seltzer in the fridge if you’d like some.” Maybe she’d scoff at my paltry drink selection and go home.
When I walked into my kitchen a few minutes later, Mary had two cabinets open and was rifling through one of them.
“You’ve got an awful lot of baby food, Caroline. Looks like you’re creating a fallout shelter. Hundreds of jars?—”
“Not hundreds.” I tightened my lips into a thin line. “Dozens, maybe.”
She looked skeptical. “Do you eat this stuff?”
“Sometimes. Baby food is very nutritious.” I knew my tone sounded defensive, but honestly, I was just starting Emmy on the stuff. Why waste the food she didn’t eat?
“That’s why you’ve turned to skin and bones, girl.” She closed the cabinets. “Living on baby food.”
I looked down at the pouch in my midsection. “I’m afraid I’m still fighting off the excess pregnancy fat.”
Mary rammed her hands onto her hips, her gaze scanning me from head to toe. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You could stand to gain at least ten pounds.”
I looked at the older woman’s plump form, the approximate shape of a ripe lemon. I decided against a retort. After all, my mother had taught me to treat my elders respectfully.
My mother.
Something about my mom made me feel uncomfortable suddenly. And then I remembered: the first anniversary of her death was approaching. “Would you like a drink, Mary?”
“What have you got?”
I opened the fridge. “Like I said, seltzer water.”
“I suppose, if it’s all you have.” She dropped heavily into a kitchen chair and rested her elbows on the table. “I meant to ask you the other day, was that a police car in your driveway in the wee hours of the morning early last week?”
I looked at her. Mary’s powers of observation were stronger than I’d given her credit for. But to notice the police cruiser just hours before dawn? Did the woman ever sleep?
“Yes, actually.”
She studied my face, looking worried. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”
“No, I’m fine.” I opened the fridge door and ducked my head inside, afraid to show her my reddened face. I was an abominable liar. Snagging the seltzer bottle, I tried to make my voice sound light, carefree. “Tim signed us up for some police fundraiser when we first moved here. They’ve been buzzing around here ever since. Looking for donations.”
“Before sunrise? Rubbish. Why were they really here? Did it have anything to do with you and Tim and the...”
I twisted the bottle top off with a loud pffft and poured the bubbly water into the glass. I crossed over to her and held out the drink. “It’s kind of crazy, really.”
“Try me,” she said, grasping the glass with both hands.
I supposed there was no reason for secrecy. Mary interacted with fewer people than I did. Even if she shared my story, she was unlikely to get a better reception for what surely sounded like a tall tale. Her age and incessant drinking wouldn’t add to her credibility.
“Okay,” I relented, sitting across the table from her. It took about five minutes to relay the events of the night at Matt and Melanie’s. I left out my suspicions about Jeffrey Trembly. Instinct told me to keep that to myself.
“So you think the woman you saw in the house was trying to kill herself or a murderer was inside too?” She replaced the glass on the table without bothering to drink from it.
I shook my head. “I have no idea, but since the police say the house has been empty... well, the whole thing seems ridiculous.”
Mary rubbed her chin, her eyes going softly out of focus. “Very interesting. Certainly, something to consider. Where is the house?”
“Over in Deer Crossing—21 Pine Hill Road.”
The way she sat forward in my chair, suddenly perky, I could tell I’d added a dimension to our relationship that would give her reason to drop by frequently. I’d shared a secret. A fact, in her mind, that bonded us. I stifled a sigh. It was going to be impossible to avoid her now. Her unannounced drop-ins, her neediness and, most of all, her loneliness. I envisioned myself in her same lemon-shaped body a few years from now. Once Emmy had grown and moved on. Here I’d sit, wishing, hoping, longing for my life to mean something to someone other than me. Knowing all along that, like Mary now, I was sadly delusional.