I stood while the coffee percolated, and Shirley exclaimed over the residents’ fine qualities. Then, just as I poured for us both and sat, her true reason for bringing me cake came to light.
“I should warn you about your neighbor,” Shirley whispered, her eyes round.
“Which one?”
Jacking her forefinger toward Brody’s house, she went on. “That one. He’s a bad one, dear. Never talks to anyone, has people coming and going at all hours.” Her whisper lowered until I barely heard her. “He’s a druggie. Sells it, too.”
I controlled my eye roll. “I haven’t noticed that.”
“You will, dear, you will. The police have been all over his house.” She sipped her coffee, her wide eyes meeting mine over its rim. “And the fires. Good gosh, that’s terrible. I’m sure there’s a gang war going on. And on our street, too.”
As I’d only add fuel to the mix, I didn’t tell Shirley the truth. That a drug dealer had targeted Brody but not because he was the competition. “Those were accidents,” I said. “Just bad luck.”
“No, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “Mrs. Jenson saw a strange car right before the fires. She told me so.”
“I won’t dispute that,” I replied, drinking my coffee and wondering how long I’d be catering to her neighborhood gossip.I’ve got work to do, and this confounded headache I’ve got is already screwing up my writing.
“That man is wanted by the police,” she went on. “And the FBI. Just you watch, he’ll be arrested.”
“For what?”
Shirley’s lips formed the word before her breathy hiss spoke it. “Murder.”
I blinked. “Who’d he kill?”
“His wife.”
“Oh, no,” I protested with a half-laugh. “He’s too nice to have killed anyone.”
“That’s what they said about Ted Bundy,” she intoned. “And Jeffrey Dahmer.”
I hesitated, sipping my coffee.That’s impossible. Brody is no murderer. If he was, he’d be in prison.But what did I actually know about my neighbor, Brody? Could she be right? Did he lie through his teeth about Austin Rivers? Did he kill his wife and is now hiding behind a friendly, kind, façade? Shirley was right about Bundy and Dahmer. Both seemed like nice, young men to all who knew them.
Until they found the bodies.
“I don’t believe that,” I said, my voice unsure.
“Believe it. Stay away from him, Lindsey. He’s trouble, and he’s dangerous.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “That he killed his wife?”
“Mrs. Jenson said she recognized him from a newspaper article.” Shirley nodded with emphasis. “From another state. From before he came here and bought that house.”
I absently rubbed my chest. The scar there from my past life in California. The life I’d run from. “That’s not a lot to base an accusation on,” I said slowly.
“He never got to trial,” Shirley whispered. “They say he fled justice.”
“Then I’m sure justice will find him.” I sounded unconvincing even to myself.
“Just stay away from him, Lindsey. I’m telling you for your own good.”
“Thank you.”
Having delivered her dire warning, Shirley chatted while I listened, talking of church, neighborhood barbeques, the kids next door. I drank coffee until the need to pee nearly burst my bladder, and she finally stood. I walked her to the door, the uneasiness she planted in my mind working its way into me like a porcupine’s quill.
“I’d sure love to see you in church on Sunday,” she said gaily, waving as she walked down my drive.
“Not bloody likely,” I muttered under my breath as I smiled and waved goodbye.
