The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (20 page)

I nodded. His eyes shifted, and he adjusted the waist of his pants. “Are you all right, Leonard?”

“Sure, fine.” He gazed down the hall. “So. Your father’s going home soon?”

“No. He lives here now.”

Leonard looked disappointed. “Because he says he’s going home.”

Of course he did. “No. He must have misunderstood.”

“Well then, I guess it’s going to be party party, all the time, day or night.”

“Sorry?”

“Walter likes to entertain.”

No surprise.

“And I mean all night. I can’t get any sleep, living in the same apartment. Three o’clock in the morning, people are talking out loud, drinking…playing cards.”

Playing cards? “I’ll talk to him, Leonard.” Especially about the cards.

“No. Don’t. I don’t want trouble. Besides, I shouldn’t let it get to me. I’m not staying here much longer. When my son gets back, I’ll be moving in with him.” He reached into his pocket.

Oh, no, I thought. He’s going for the itinerary again.

“Today, let’s see, he’s in Kenya. Next, he’s going to South Africa.”

Wait, weren’t those the same places he went last week? “That’s okay, Leonard. Let me speak with my father. I’m sorry he’s bothering you.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” he repeated, but I didn’t hear the rest. I’d gone back into the room, where Nick and my father were chortling, deep in conversation, sharing stories like a pair of old drinking buddies.

I couldn’t stand it. Avoiding them, I headed into my father’s bedroom to check out his clothing. I opened his closet to count clean shirts but was distracted by a sparkle on the nightstand. I turned, curious. Beside my father’s pillow, catching the sunlight, was a pair of light blue rhinestone earrings.

No question, Walter was thinner and older. Maybe he was subject to small strokes and his memory was failing; maybe he’d gotten deep into trouble with loan sharks or gangs. Maybe he was gambling again. But, no matter what else was true, one thing was certain: My father was back in the game.

D
R.
M
ARTIN’S HEAD REAPPEARED
over the sheet covering my knees. “You look fine. Baby’s fine. I don’t think you’re having actual labor.” Good news, but the doctor wasn’t smiling. It was Monday morning. I’d called the Institute to cancel my first session, had gone for an exam.

“Still, I don’t like the trend. It’s early in the pregnancy yet. You’ve got four and a half months to go. And the contractions are coming more often and getting stronger. So, here’s the plan. For now, if you have more than four of them in a day, or if you have more than two in an hour, call me. If any get really intense, call me.”

“How intense is ‘really intense’?”

She eyed me. “Oh, you’ll know. Meantime, I’m going to give you some pills to calm down your uterus.”

Pills?

“Brethine. Just a low dose. And listen. I want you to rest. Lie down with your feet up at least four hours a day.”

Was she serious?

“If you can’t do four hours, at least do two. Every time you can, lie down, even for ten minutes. Take it easy, Zoe. Give your body a break.”

Half an hour later, I swallowed a pill as I knocked on Bertram’s door, ten minutes late for my hypnosis session. Bertram opened his office door, frazzled, as if he’d slept in his clothes. His hair was greasy, his smell musky. He ushered me into his office, distracted, as if he’d forgotten I was coming by. The place was abnormally awry, papers scattered over the leather furniture.

“We can reschedule,” I offered.

“Nonsense.” Bertram took a stack of files off the leather chair. “I’m a little pressured, that’s all. I’ve been writing grant applications, making calls, searching for new funding. The Institute is completely reneging on my contract. They claim we never finalized the terms. I ought to sue them. I might, too.” He was pacing. The office was small, so he seemed to be spinning in circles, waving his arms.

“I should let you work.” I started to leave. “I’ll come back.”

“No, I need to take a break and do something productive for a change. Sit.” He moved a stack of papers off the chair.

I hesitated, but sat.

“So, how are you feeling? Are your contractions easing up? How’s the half day going for you?”

He fired questions at me, waited for answers as I settled against the cushions. I described my work, told him about my patients. Due to the half day, mostly they’d seemed removed, as if holding back from the program and our relationship, not certain how long I’d be there.

“Could be that they’re picking up on your attitude. Reacting to your feelings, mirroring them.”

Could be.

“Or maybe they don’t feel removed at all. Maybe you’re projecting your feelings onto your patients, so you don’t have to own them.”

Could that be true?

“Either way, hypnosis and relaxation will help. So let’s get to it. Breathe deeply.”

I did, and then I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Bertram was grinning. His mood seemed transformed, energized.

“Great session.” He stood to walk me to the door. “Let’s meet again as soon as we can. Tomorrow, if you want. Or Wednesday. Either one.”

Why so soon? What was the urgency? “I’ll check my calendar.”

“Let’s set up something, and you can call me later to confirm.

I think we’re definitely on to something. Progressing. It’s critical to continue.”

I opened the door, thanked him. Bertram followed me into the hallway. “Don’t forget,” he insisted. “Call me later.”

I nodded that I would. Of course I would. Hypnosis was good. It was necessary. It was helping me. I wouldn’t think of dropping it now.

B
EDTIME.
M
OLLY AND
I were going to read together. Trying to climb onto my lap, she pressed herself against my belly. Not good. I felt like I’d explode.

“Molls,” I groaned. “Ooof, not on my lap. Here. Sit next to me.”

Frowning, she jumped off me and stood, eyeing my waistline. “You mean I can’t sit on your lap anymore?”

“Well, maybe for a while. The baby’s getting bigger, but my lap’s not. It’s not comfortable.”

Her mouth dropped, speechless, as if it were unfathomable that my lap could be unavailable to her.

“Come sit with me.” I reached for her, but she stood frozen, crestfallen.

Oh, Lord. Was she resenting the baby? Feeling that it had stolen her place? If she felt that way now, how would she react once the baby was born, taking up my attention, crying, needing to be held. Suddenly I was guilt-ridden. Was I betraying Molly by having another child? Was I stealing from her the time, love, loyalty I’d give to her sibling? And since Molly was adopted, would she wonder whether I loved her as much as a baby I gave birth to?

“Did I hurt Oliver when I sat on you?” She had named the baby a long time ago.

“No. Of course not.” Oh my. Is that what she’d thought? “The baby’s fine, Molls. It’s just crowded on my lap.”

She nodded soberly and ever so cautiously climbed beside me, resting her curls gently against my side, opening her book.

“Molls.” I wanted to reassure her. “You know, when the baby comes, lots of things will change. But not how much I love you. That will never change. Never ever.”

“I know that, Mom.” She sounded patient, as if my point were obvious. “Love’s not a pie.”

Okay.

“Miss Sarah said if someone gets a big piece of pie, there’s less pie for everyone else. But with love, no matter how much one person gets, there’s still plenty for everyone else. Because love’s not a pie.” She turned pages, picking a chapter.

Once again, Molly’s wisdom took me by surprise. Apparently, her teacher was having a lot of influence on her. And on her reading skills. Molly read a whole chapter of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle with almost no help. Miss Sarah said she was an excellent reader. Miss Sarah had her read aloud to the class. Miss Sarah told her she read like a fourth grader. I tucked her in, telling her how proud I was of her. Privately scolding myself for being jealous of how much Molly revered Miss Sarah, I kissed her and turned out the light.

I was almost out the door when Molly called me.

“Mom? Once the baby comes”—her voice was tiny—”can I sit on your lap again?”

I came back and hugged her, promising her a reserved seat. When I left, she was almost asleep, a smile on her face.

T
HERE WAS NOTHING ON
television. I put on a rerun of Law and Order and put my feet up as Dr. Martin had instructed, waiting for Nick to come in. I needed to tell him about the contractions and the medicine, but I didn’t want to tell him on the phone. I called his cell to see how late he’d be, got his voice mail, tried the Homicide Division at headquarters. Nobody there had seen him. Odd that no one seemed to know where he was. Doubt rumbled in my head, thoughts about where Nick might be. Maybe he wasn’t really working. Maybe he was lying about that, cheating with somebody, having an affair. Stop it, I told myself. What’s the matter with you? You’re making up a whole scenario without cause. I called his cell again, heard his voice telling me to leave a message. Minutes passed, but Nick didn’t call back.

I watched the clock, listening to sounds of the night, wondering how late he’d be, imagining where he was and how dangerous it might be, feeling overwhelmed and alone. Anymore, I was upset all the time, and thinking about that made me even more upset. Calm down, I told myself. Relax. Using Bertram’s techniques, I lay on my side and gradually released the tension from my body, starting with my toes, moving up to my feet, my ankles, my calves…

When the fire alarm rang, I shoved Nick, who had somehow come home and been sleeping beside me, and leaped out of bed, heading for the hallway to grab Molly.

“It’s the phone,” Nick muttered. I was almost out of the room; he hadn’t stirred at all.

Oh. It wasn’t a fire alarm? It was the phone? I knew, even in my confusion, that he was right, so I reversed my steps and ran back to the nightstand to answer it. By then, Nick had rolled over, actually lifted an arm and picked it up.

“It’s for you.” Yawning, he held it out. I blinked at it, hesitating to take it, wondering who would call in the middle of the night, knowing it had to be someone with bad news. Oh, God. What had happened? Who’d died? Or been in a car accident? I braced myself to hear a catastrophe and answered the phone with a timid hello.

“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Hayes. This is Phyllis McHenry, an assisted living nurse at Harrington Place.”

Oh, Lord. My father. “What’s happened?” Had he had a heart attack? A stroke? Slit another woman’s throat?

“What is it?” Nick sat up, repeating his question. “What, Zoe? What?”

I grabbed his arm. “It’s about my dad.”

“I don’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that yours is the phone number on Mr. Hayes’s paperwork.”

And? “Is he all right?”

Nick tried to wake up, rubbed his eyes.

“Well, to be blunt, I’m afraid he’s gone.”

Oh my God. “He died?”

Nurse McHenry and Nick spoke at the same time. “Walter’s dead?” he asked, while she exclaimed, “Dead? Oh, no—at least, I don’t think so. He’s just gone. Nobody can find him. I was hoping he was with you.”

With me? My brain tried to wake up and follow her, and Nick stared at me, his face asking questions.

“No, he’s not here.” I looked at the clock. Two thirty-seven. What could have happened? Where could he be? Rhinestone earrings sparkled, teasing in the darkness. Oh, of course. “Are you sure he’s gone? Maybe he’s just, you know, visiting somebody? Or playing a late card game?”

“Ms. Hayes. I wouldn’t have phoned you if I weren’t sure.

About five minutes ago, his roommate told me that Mr. Hayes had packed up his things and left the premises.”

Oh goodness.

“His last words to Leonard Parks were, ‘The party’s over. It’s time to go.’” Phyllis McHenry remained silent, waiting for me to absorb the situation.

Nick nudged me. “Zoe? What’s happening?”

“But it’s almost three in the morning.”

“Our residents don’t always keep track of the time. Some don’t sleep well. You know how it is.”

I didn’t, but I could imagine.

“At any rate, I hoped he was with you.”

“No.” But I knew where he’d gone.

“Well, in that case, we’ll need to notify the authorities—”

“No, not yet.” I pictured police cars hunting the streets for my father, his picture on the news, on flyers and milk cartons asking, “Have you seen this man?” “I might know where to find him.”

I thanked her and ended the call, promising to call her back in a few hours. Then I grabbed a pair of baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, telling Nick I had to go find my father.

Nick was on his feet. “What? Where? It’s the middle of the night.”

I zipped up the jeans. “He decided that his stay at the senior hostel is over.” I stepped into a pair of sneakers. “I think he’s gone home.”

“He left?”

“With a packed bag. Remember? He thought it was a vacation spot? They said he checked out.”

“So you’re going to look for him?”

“Just at the house.”

“Okay.” Still half-asleep, he got up and began pulling on a pair of jeans.

“Don’t get up, Nick. You’re exhausted. Go back to bed. I’ll be fine.”

His foot fumbled with the leg hole, and he danced around, hopping, until it found its way through. “You can’t go alone— especially at this hour.”

“Nick, it’s okay I can handle this.”

“It’s no problem.” He was bleary-eyed. “I’ll go with you—”

“And what about Molly? Are we going to wake her up and take her along, too? She has school tomorrow.”

“So you stay here, and I’ll go.” He was clearly half-asleep.

“No. He’s my father. It’s my responsibility. Don’t be overprotective. I’m going.”

“Zoe, be reasonable. This is not about me being overprotective. It’s about that it’s the middle of the night, and your dad’s house is not in the safest part of the city, and you’re a pregnant woman—”