Chapter 50
NOW
Bailey Andrews, Joan’s nephew, drives me home from the police station.
Bailey has a very nice car—a Range Rover—with cream leather seats and individual temperature control.
He asks me several times if I’m too hot or too cold, and shows me how to adjust it.
I feel like I’ve arrived at a fancy hotel.
Joan sits in the backseat with me and Bailey drives, which feels a little odd, as if we have a chauffeur.
Bailey is not a criminal lawyer, he explains to me, though he knows some defenders who could represent me if it is required.
In the meantime, the most important thing to remember is that I don’t have to speak to the police, and I shouldn’t speak to them, unless I am under arrest. Even then, I only have to tell the police my name and then I can request a lawyer.
“I highly doubt it will come to that,” he says. “I spoke to the detectives and all the evidence they have is circumstantial.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I appreciate your help more than I can say. I am interested, though, in why you are helping me.”
Bailey meets my eye in the rearview mirror. “Because,” he says, “my aunt told me to. And I am terrified of my aunt.”
I glance at Joan, who chuckles. “Quite right too.”
“In that case,” I say, “my question should be directed to you, Joan. Why are you helping me?”
Her smile fades, and she gets a flustered look about her. “How is your wrist, Elsie? Peter said your wrist was broken.”
Odd woman. I wonder whether to repeat my question, but I decide to let it go.
“Yes, broken.” I hold up my wrist, which is wrapped in a neat little cast, signed by Persephone in electric blue text. “But I’m perfectly fine.”
“It was very brave of you, intervening with that intruder there. At your age.”
I’m grateful that she added the last sentence, or I might have found myself in the bizarre position of receiving a compliment from Joan.
“I saw you confront that man who was bashing on Roxanne’s door the other night. None of the rest of us was game to do it, but you did.”
Only now do I realize that Joan, in her way, is in fact answering my question.
“Before I moved into Kenny Lane, Bailey did a little research on the street. He told me you lived there and I’ll admit, I was afraid of you.”
“I got that sense,” I tell her, remembering her scurrying away from me every time I said good morning.
“I had been hoping you’d move away, or perhaps die.”
I nod. Any offense I feel is offset by how charmed I am by this sort of honesty.
“So when Ishaan died, I thought it was suspicious,” she says, “which is why I told the police about your past. None of the neighbors were concerned. You’re incredibly beloved in Kenny Lane, Elsie. That says something. I should have paid attention to that.”
I feel a buzz of something, against all odds. A burst of adrenaline that comes after a moment of kindness. Careful, Elsie, I tell myself. Next you’ll be thinking that perhaps Joan isn’t so bad.
“Peter has been singing your praises since I moved in, which I didn’t understand.
I assumed you had him hoodwinked. But it’s not just him.
The Nguyens think you’re wonderful, Roxanne adores you, and of course little Persephone.
You’re her hero. She was talking about you after you left in the police car.
She said you’ve saved her life twice: the time the man came to the door, and the day those people sprayed you with the water pistol when you pushed her behind you to keep her safe.
It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a killer does, to me. ”
I want to tell her that it’s nowhere near as simple as that.
There’s no reason a murderer couldn’t kill one person and save another.
That being a murderer is nowhere near as binary as people think.
Sometimes murderers are bad people. Sometimes murderers kill bad people.
Sometimes murderers are good people who make bad decisions.
But Joan seems to be on a roll, so I decide it isn’t the time.
“In any case, I believe I owe you an apology. I think it was my speaking to the police about your past that kicked up this ruckus, and so the least I can do is attempt to sort it out. Or,” she says, “get Bailey to sort it out.”
“I just hope it’s not too late to sort out,” I say.
“Nothing’s too late,” Joan says. “Not with Bailey on the case.”
Bailey blanches. “As I said, Auntie Joan, I’m not a criminal—”
“He’s being coy. Don’t listen to him, Elsie.”
We pull into Kenny Lane. “You’ll have to drop in and tell Peter you’re all right,” Joan says. “He’s been worried sick all afternoon.”
“Silly man,” I say. “He doesn’t need to worry about me.”
“He thinks very highly of you, Elsie.”
Silly as it is, my frosty heart warms at this. “And I have a feeling you think very highly of Peter, Joan.”
She withholds a smile, poorly. It makes her look almost pretty. I have a strange feeling she is asking for my blessing.
“If you’re happy to spend your weekends at Aldi,” I tell her, “I think you and Peter will make each other very happy.”
Her smile vanishes, replaced by her typical stern face. “For pity’s sake, Elsie, if that man comes home with another two-man tent—”
And just when I thought I’d heard and seen it all, I find myself feeling fond of Joan.