The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (18 page)

I continued down the steps, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The basement’s clammy air chilled my sweat-dampened skin, and the smell of decay churned my stomach. But Susan was still fixated on Hardy’s body parts.

“Seriously, did you watch his muscles ripple while he worked?”

“Susan, stop. Enough.” Of course I’d watched his muscles. But I’d also watched the hole grow deep and wide, and I’d thought about the pet that would lie in it. I wondered if it had been my fault it died, trapped and hungry in the basement, and I worried how my father would react to its death. I hadn’t known the dog, but I knew that it deserved better than to lie forgotten, rotting in the basement.

“Okay.” Susan peered down the steps. “Where’s the body?”

“Here.” Ignoring shadows and the stink of death, I led her to the corpse, stopping beside the exposed tail. Again, I felt a tightening around my middle, and, closed in by dank air and hovering memories, I swayed, struggling to steady myself. That was the third contraction this afternoon; I’d have to call the doctor.

“Looks like the poor thing burrowed under those papers.” She stared at the tail. “Well, here goes. Brace yourself for maggots.” Susan stooped and, holding her breath, lifted the newspapers that covered Jackson’s body. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, as if in slow motion, I turned away, grabbing my stomach, and Susan recoiled, grimacing.

It wasn’t maggots. It wasn’t rot or decay. What stunned us was the ravaged meat and exposed bone where the golden retriever’s eye had been. And the jagged hole ripped out of its throat.

I
COULDN’T STAND UP
. I plopped down right there on the steps, not necessarily by choice. My body insisted.

Susan recovered almost immediately, her forensic skills emerging. She knelt beside the body, examining the dog as if he’d been a murder victim in one of her cases.

“This dog was attacked by another animal.”

Our eyes met. Were we both thinking of Lettie? Of the dogs next door? I recalled the way one had snarled at me, rabidly baring its teeth. “You think Jackson wandered onto Lettie’s property? You think her guard dogs attacked him? You know, defending their property?”

Susan stood, shaking her head. “I don’t know.” She stared at the retriever, the place where his face should have been. She folded her arms, adopting an authoritative pose. “But the animal that did this is vicious. A real menace.”

“So what do we do? Call the police? The SPCA?”

Susan frowned. “What would the cops do? Nobody can prove which animal did it.”

“So it’s just a coincidence that the woman next door trains her dogs to attack intruders?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But we can’t be sure.” Susan ran a grimy hand through sweat-dampened hair. “It’s been a long day, Zoe.”

“But we can’t just leave him here.”

Susan stared at the corpse. “Right.”

We were both spent, silent. Finally Susan sighed. “I say we bury him and go home. There’s no way to prove what happened.”

And so, carefully, gently, we wrapped what was left of the dog’s battered and decomposing body in a plastic trash bag, and Susan carried it up the stairs. I followed her through the weeds where she deposited it in the grave. She wouldn’t let me help, insisting that I take it easy, and she began shoveling the piles of earth over the body. I watched, exhausted, grateful, wondering how I’d manage life without Susan. As she worked, I told her about Stan Addison and what he’d told me. About Gavin Broderick, and how his dogs had been killed days before his murder.

“That’s scary.” She grunted as she dug. “Think this is connected?”

I didn’t know.

She wiped sweat off her forehead. “Pretty big coincidence, though. Dogs dying, people being killed.” She looked around, as if expecting an ambush.

She was right, and suddenly I wanted to get out of there.

“Let’s get this done and go, okay?”

Susan patted the ground, finished. Replacing the soil had taken much less time than digging it. “Want to say some words?”

Oh. Yes, of course. Somebody should say something. And I was the only one here who was in any way related to the deceased. But what was appropriate to say over a dead pet I hadn’t even known? A dog who’d died terribly in a vicious, unspeakable attack.

Oh, God, what had happened to Jackson? I pictured hungry rats teeming, gnawing, ripping his skin and closed my eyes, chasing them away. Then, when Susan had finished the burying, I got up and stood by the grave.

“You were a fine dog, Jackson. You didn’t deserve to suffer. Rest in peace.” It didn’t seem at all sufficient, but then, what would.

“Amen.”

And with that, we headed back to the house, leaving the dog to his Master.

“H
OW DID IT GO
at Walter’s?” Nick stepped out of the shower into the bedroom. “Did you get much done?”

I’d taken a bath, soaking away the day’s dirt and dust, trying to scrub away the whole experience. Lying down, I watched him towel off, focusing on his abs, his chest, his need for a haircut. Anything but the events of the day.

“It was overwhelming. There’s so much to do there.”

He lay down beside me, propped up on an elbow, resting a hand gently on my belly. His skin gleamed, clean and moist, and his shoulders towered over me, a protective wall. He smelled like soap. It seemed like forever since we’d spent time alone together. I had so much to tell him. About my father’s dog. About Stan Addison, the other murder with the gutted dogs, the gangs. And, oh, yes. About my contractions. I’d called the doctor and made an earlier appointment, but Nick still didn’t know. How had so much happened in just a few short days? How had we fallen so out of touch? I rested against Nick, my muscles gradually losing their tension. Secure in his arms, I was about to tell him everything, deciding where to start. But Nick spoke first.

“Zoe. I’m still going to be working late a lot for a while. Picking up as much overtime as I can.”

He paused, his eyes studying the wall, then the floor. Darting. What was going on? Was he hiding something?

“And I’ve been thinking. I don’t want you to work on Walter’s house anymore. At least not by yourself.”

What? “Why not?”

“Well, first of all, there’s way too much for you to do.”

“I’m not doing it alone—”

“But it isn’t fair to ask so much of Susan—you can’t expect her to clean out that whole place herself. And in your condition…frankly, it’s too much for you.”

Frankly, I didn’t like him telling me what was too much for me.

“Besides, there are firms that do that. They go in, sort through, itemize and evaluate properties. They pack up what you want to keep, sell or give away what you decide to get rid of. They clean the place, too. I’ve already got the name of a reliable guy. He’s bonded and everything. I talked to him, and he can start with a week’s notice—”

What? “Wait. You already talked to him? Without talking to me first?”

“No, I was going to talk to you.”

“But you didn’t. You just went ahead—”

“Zoe, settle down. I didn’t commit to anything. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. We haven’t been in the same room long enough to exchange spit in the last few days. Anyhow, Greg Wyatt gave me this guy’s number—”

“Greg Wyatt?” Greg Wyatt was one of the detectives Nick worked with. I’d met him a few times, but doubted if he’d recognize me; whenever we’d met, his eyes had remained firmly planted on my chest. “You discussed my business with Greg Wyatt?”

“I didn’t discuss anything. I got a phone number. Look, Zoe. We need some help here.”

He was right. The house was too much for me. But he should have asked me, not decided on his own.

“Look. We’re in the middle of a high-risk pregnancy. You heard Dr. Martin. You should avoid stress and strain. Plus, you have a lot of demands on you: Your father. Molly. Your job.”

No, my half job.

“You’re already doing too much. That house puts you over the top. It’s too much physical work.”

“But it’s still my responsibility.” I sat up; my voice colder than I intended. I appreciated Nick’s intentions, but I was upset. Did he think I had lost the authority to make my own decisions?

“Chill, Zoe.” Nick sat up to face me. “I’m just trying to make things easy for you.”

I knew that. “Thank you. I know that. But the thing is, I didn’t ask you to.”

He exhaled. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I want to help. I just think you should take it easy until the baby comes.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Lie around and eat bonbons?” Stop, I told myself. He’s trying to help.

“If you want to, yes. Pamper yourself. Relax. Fix up the nursery. Knit booties. See a masseuse. Swim. Do anything stress-free. In fact, I wish you’d take a leave from work.”

“Are you serious?” Suddenly I was on my feet, explaining in clear language that I was pregnant, not brain-dead. That I was capable of deciding what I could or couldn’t do, what help I needed or didn’t need. If I felt my piddling half a job and its responsibilities were too much, I’d say so. But I told Nick that I didn’t want him to assume authority over my life or career or anything else of mine just because I was pregnant. My voice became louder and faster as I spoke. I vented, disturbed at my own temper.

When I stopped, Nick was still seated on the bed, completely relaxed. Unfazed. “Okay, Zoe. Okay. I get it. I hear you. You’re right.” His voice was patient, understanding. Infuriating.

“Damn it, Nick.” How dare he agree with me? “Stop agreeing with me.”

“Come here, Zoe.” He was calm, oddly unaffected by my explosion. He stood, reaching for me.

I stood, still fuming, aware that I was overreacting, unable to stop. And how dare he look at me so tenderly, much less offer me a hug?

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know.” His arms swaddled me.

“I love you. I know that you’re stressed out. The wedding. Your father. His house. Molly. Me. Your job. The pregnancy.”

The warmth of his body spread through me, comforting me. How could I have been so mad just a minute ago?

“And I know that you can’t help it. Being pregnant, your moods are going to be erratic, but—”

Being pregnant, what? My moods were what?

“—believe me. I know what I’m saying. Walter’s house is…well, it’s just too much.” He released me, put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m not trying to interfere with your independence. I’m not trying to control you. I’m merely trying to look after you and our baby. Maybe I’m clumsy about it, but that’s my intent.”

His eyes glowed blue, grabbing mine. I shrugged, acknowledging that I understood, calmed by his touch.

“So, promise me that you won’t go work on Walter’s house by yourself.” His eyes held mine until, hesitantly, I nodded, giving in.

“You promise?” His eyes clung.

“Fine. I promise.”

His arms enclosed me again, and I returned the embrace. When Nick let go and began to get dressed, I walked out of the room, still disturbed that Nick dismissed my moods and thoughts…just because I was pregnant? I knew he felt protective, but still, I was insulted. And I was afraid that if he knew about the contractions, he’d never let me out of the house. For the time being, I kept the contractions to myself, along with what had happened with Jackson and Stan Addison. And, most of all, that I thought his idea was great. The fact was, I’d be grateful as hell to have some help with my father’s house.

I
BROKE MY
promise just hours later. Maybe not physically, but mentally. I woke Nick up with my thrashing. And he held me, talking softly about how safe I was, how everything was all right. He said all the reassuring things sleepy people say to someone who’s just had a nightmare, and he kept trying to soothe me until, finally, he dozed off in the middle of a comforting phrase.

I lay still in his arms, not wanting to wake him. Nick was breathing on my neck, and his arms became dead weight, pressing into my ribs. I ached to roll over, but I lay there, uncomfortable, marveling at Nick’s ability to let go and sleep. How was it possible that we could lie together in the same bed, bodies tangled, and yet be in such different places? He was completely at ease, I was completely on edge. But then he hadn’t entered those hidden rooms, hadn’t been enchanted by their familiarity, their secrets. He hadn’t had the shock of seeing a dead dog where our baby should have been, hadn’t felt the warmth of its blood on his skin, and, surely, he didn’t have the taste of its blood lingering in his mouth.

No, Nick and I were in different places. It was largely my fault. I had kept too many secrets. I hadn’t wanted to talk, had kept my days, my experiences to myself. Why wasn’t I letting Nick in? Why was I constantly bickering with him? Was it what Susan had said, that pregnant women always got irritated by their mates? Was I simply at the mercy of hormonal bouts of mood swings? Or was it something deeper? And why, lately, was Nick gone so much, finding reasons to work late? Was it really to earn the overtime? Or was he avoiding me? Hiding something? My mind kept spinning until, finally, Nick rolled over, releasing me. Exhausted, finally able to move without disturbing him, I slid away but extended an arm. Drifting off, I kept my hand against Nick’s back. If I didn’t, he might soon be out of reach.

S
UNDAY MORNING
I
AWOKE
with tightness in my belly Expanding, sending waves up along my spine. I took deep breaths, worried, wondering how I’d get through the day, calling the doctor again, making an appointment for the next day. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again.

“I’ve been thinking.” Susan didn’t bother to say “Hello.” “Something bothers me about your dad’s dog.”

I made myself exhale before speaking. “What about him?” Besides the fact that his face had been missing.

“I keep wondering what attacked him. And how? Did he get killed in the house? And if so, how did the creature get in? Where is it now? Still in the house?”