“I’ll stay here with the kids. You follow Mrs. Haggerty and see what she’s up to.”
I put my coat on over my pajamas, slipped on my shoes, andhurried out the front door, following the same path Mrs. Haggerty had walked the last time she had snuck out for her late-night walk. I avoided the streetlamps, careful to stay a block behind her.
Mrs. Haggerty paused in front of the same house she had before. I hid behind a tree trunk as she turned on a small pocket light and flashed it twice at the window. Then she strode to the mailbox and tucked a note inside.
A curtain parted in the window upstairs. Mrs. Haggerty closed the mailbox and started walking back the way she’d come.
I didn’t dare to breathe as she strolled past my hiding spot and headed home.
When Mrs. Haggerty was gone, the front door of the house cracked open. A woman I’d seen at the book club meeting stepped out—the one who had dropped her book in her hurry to get home. She shuffled to the mailbox in her slippers and robe, darting cautious glances at the windows of her own house as she retrieved the slip of paper Mrs. Haggerty had left. It occurred to me then that I didn’t know the woman’s name. But why? Vero and I had looked into every license plate of every vehicle that had been parked on the street near Elizabeth Chen’s town house that night, and yet somehow, we had missed the one that belonged to their guest of honor.
Had the woman taken an Uber? Or had she parked so far down the street that I hadn’t seen her car?
She read the note, folded it into her pocket, then looked furtively around her as she hurried back into her house. When her door finally closed, I pulled out my phone, dimming the screen and angling it close to my body to keep any of her neighbors from noticing the light.
I typed the woman’s street address into a search bar. The home was owned by Robert and Sally Mullen. According to the countydepartment of revenue, they only paid property taxes for one car—a luxury sedan listed solely under Robert’s name. I googled him and found a LinkedIn page featuring a robust profile. Robert Mullen, CPA, was employed at a large local accounting firm. When I googled Sally Mullen, I found no more than a brief mention in a church newsletter where she was listed as a volunteer. No Facebook or Instagram accounts. No LinkedIn. Not even a chat group.
Robert doesn’t know I’m gone. He’ll be angry if I’m not back by the time he gets home.
Sally must have found a ride and sneaked to that meeting to avoid upsetting her husband. That explained all of Mrs. Haggerty’s cloak-and-dagger visits to the woman’s mailbox, but why come again tonight? What had the note said? The book club had already met twice that week. What more could they possibly have to talk about?
On Saturdays, we discuss. On Tuesdays, we vote.
But what did they do after that?
CHAPTER 20
Vero poured tomato juice and vodka into a coffee mug the next morning and grimaced as she chased two ibuprofen with the hair of the dog. She shuddered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then frowned at her dry toast.
I wondered if the brownie had contributed to her hangover or if it was all the junk food and wine she’d consumed while she’d been stoned. She’d awoken later than usual that morning in a foul mood, if not because of her hangover, then probably because Javi hadn’t come over or called the last two nights. He’d claimed he had a big job he needed to finish at the garage, but Vero was convinced he was avoiding her so he wouldn’t have to revisit their conversation about the history of his love life.
I carried my breakfast to the table and sat down beside her, leaning close and keeping my voice low so Mrs. Haggerty wouldn’t hear us in the next room. She and Delia had been playing homeschool all morning, and they were both engrossed in some kind of art project involving dried soup beans and glue.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I asked as Vero picked at her toast. She was still looking a little green and I didn’t imagine she was looking forward to executing the plan we had concocted the night before.
“We can’t just walk into that shelter and ask to speak with Patricia Mickler,” she said, careful not to let her voice carry. “Those places have cameras. We can’t afford to be seen with that woman. Especially if Mike Tran has doubts about who really killed Patricia’s husband. If he gets wind of the fact that you and Patricia know each other, then it won’t be Steven in jail on suspicion of murder—it’ll be me and you.”
“We’ll wear baseball caps and sunglasses. No one will recognize us.”
“After the last time, you’d better hope not.” During our last trip to the shelter, Vero had unleashed chaos, literally, unlocking all the cages and freeing about a dozen cats and dogs to create a distraction big enough to conceal the fact that I was searching the lockers in the employee break room.
“Don’t worry. I have a plan.” I’d been (mostly) clearheaded when I’d gone to bed last night, and I’d been awake for several hours already, thinking it through. “We’ll fit right in.”
“And what are we going to do with the kids? We can’t leave them alone with Mrs. Haggerty.”
“We’re not. I called a babysitter.” I checked the time on my phone, expecting Cam any minute. I had texted him first thing that morning and told him I’d make a chocolate cake to go with that spaghetti dinner if he came over a few hours early to keep an eye on the children and Mrs. Haggerty.
Vero and I both fell quiet as Zach padded into the kitchen. It was well past noon and he was still wearing his pajamas, but at leasthe was dressed. He hid behind a wall, peeking into the dining room with a covetous expression as he watched his sister glue brightly colored beans onto a piece of construction paper under Mrs. Haggerty’s watchful eye. He toddled closer and tugged on Mrs. Haggerty’s pants. She looked down at him over the rims of her glasses and frowned at his rumpled sleepwear.
“I go potty,” he said, puffing out his tiny chest. Vero quietly sniffed the air. I set down my coffee, ready to take him upstairs to change his Pull-Up, but Mrs. Haggerty was first to speak.
“Well? What are you waiting for, boy—an engraved invitation? The day’s almost over already. Go do your business and come back when you’re ready for school.”
“This ought to be interesting,” Vero whispered out of the side of her mouth.
Zach blinked at the woman, then at his sister, who was contentedly gluing her beans. He tore out of the room, and I considered pouring myself a Bloody Mary as his bare feet thundered up the stairs. Vero and I braced for the inevitable tantrum to start—the slamming doors and thrown toys, clothing being stripped off and tossed down the steps—but it never came.
A toilet flushed.
