The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (23 page)

“Why are you accusing him?”

I sputtered, frustrated. “Okay, forget the gun. It’s only an example. Here’s another one. He’s got money hidden, wads of it, all over the house. Why?”

“Why not?”

Why not? “Nick, he’s gambling again.”

Nick shook his head, half-smirking.

“What? What are you smirking about?”

“You. You are so angry with him. You’re irrational.”

Irrational?

“He said it himself. It’s not illegal to have money or hide wads of it in your own home. Besides, the money doesn’t prove he’s gambling.”

I was exasperated. “You’re not getting it. He’s back to his old pattern. The weapon, the money, the women—they’re typical behaviors. They’re signals of his—”

“Zoe, your father is over twenty-one. He’s able to have women in his life. His gun is legal. His money is his own business.”

“And the gambling slips in Beatrice’s throat are just coincidence?”

“No. They’re not even coincidence. They’re entirely separate. Your father is doing fine. Frankly, I’m more concerned with you than with him.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yes. Really. You’re touchy and secretive. Withdrawn. Hypersensitive. You’ve taken crazy risks and shown a lack of judgment. Maybe it’s just the pregnancy, but frankly, Zoe, I’m worried about you. I can’t figure out what’s going on.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but closed it again. What was the point? I couldn’t figure out what was going on either.

“Take Stan Addison. Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

Oh, God. The interrogation was beginning again. “I’m tired, Nick.”

“Answer me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Like I said. I didn’t really have a chance.”

“Tell me now, then. What exactly did he tell you?”

I sank back against the cushions. Why couldn’t I simply open up to Nick and tell him how out of control I felt? How worried I was about the contractions and the possibility of premature labor? How upset by fragmented memories and nightmares? Why couldn’t I fall apart and sob in his arms until my fears and sadness drained? I eyed his shoulders, his chest, longing to crawl into his arms and nestle there. But I didn’t move, didn’t dare let on that I needed him. Instead, I bit my lip and answered his question.

“He told me why they founded Town Watch.”

“Rising crime?”

I nodded. “And the first murder.”

“First murder?” Nick sounded surprised.

“A guy named Gavin. I think his last name was Broderick. He owed money to a gang, so they killed his dogs, then him, apparently as an example to others.”

Nick watched me for a while. “And you couldn’t find time to tell me about that conversation?”

“Call me a dreamer, but I assumed the police would already know about that murder.”

His eyes shifted. “Officially, I’m not on this case. I’ll look into it.”

“You mean they didn’t know about it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So, you did know?”

Nick, as usual, revealed the absolute minimum. “I advised you not to hang around your father’s neighborhood, didn’t I? I told you it wasn’t safe there.”

To Nick, that was an answer. So he had known, but hadn’t told me. And he was complaining that I’d been secretive? Once again I was bickering with him. I wanted to have some peace, to go upstairs and climb into bed. By myself. I stood up, but sudden tightness grabbed my middle. The contraction came fast, hit hard. I wobbled, held my belly, plopped down again. Alarm flashed on Nick’s face; he reached out to steady me, held on to me even after I’d sat.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I was panting. “It’s okay.” Actually, my middle was being strangled. Tell him, I thought. He needs to know.

“You look pale.” Nick sat alert, eyes riveted on mine.

Oddly, as the contraction intensified, my feelings transformed, soared from annoyance to enchantment, aggravation to adoration. I reached out and clung to Nick, overcome with how much I loved him. What was going on? My emotions soared and plummeted every five seconds. Maybe it was pregnancy and hormones, but at that moment, I loved Nick from my soul. Totally. Without reservation.

As the contraction eased, I managed to speak again. “Nick, I’m sorry. I’ve been impossible.”

“Well, not quite.”

I let go of him and straightened up. Go on, I told myself. Get it over with. Tell him what just happened. I took a breath, held his hand, and before I could lose my nerve, I blurted it out. “I saw Dr. Martin again. I’m…I’ve been having some contractions.” There. I’d done it.

Nick’s skin went suddenly gray. “Contractions? What…Are you okay?”

“Yes. The baby’s fine. I’m fine. It’s nothing to worry about. I just have to take some pills and try not to lift any pianos. We’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Zoe, it’s only the fifth month—”

“I know. But this isn’t uncommon. My doctor’s watching me, and I’m taking medicine.”

“You’ll have to take it easy—”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

Nick watched me with gentle melting blue eyes, and we held hands, our silence binding us more tightly than any words we might have said.

F
RIDAY, THE LAST DAY
of my first half-week. Before my first session, I had scheduled a hypnosis session with Bertram. I knocked but got no answer. Damn. I was early. He wasn’t there yet. Breathing deeply, trying to ward off a contraction, the second that morning, I leaned against the door to Bertram’s office, telling myself to relax. Picturing my happy place.

“Door’s open.”

The voice was so small that at first I didn’t think it could be Bertram’s. But it had to be; it came from inside his office. I opened the door a crack and smelled stale air. The place was worse than it had been on Monday. Wads of paper were crumpled all over the carpet; journals and files were strewn over chairs and the table. Half-empty Styrofoam cups of coffee dotted the desk, open bags of chips and pretzels spilled onto furniture. And at his desk, tie loosened, head bowed, Bertram sat motionless. His shirt was wrinkled and unwashed. He needed a shave, seemed edgy and distraught.

Okay, this wasn’t a good time. Worse than last time, even. I began to back out. But Bertram glanced up. “Let’s reschedule,” I began.

“Zoe?” His eyes seemed to focus.

“Are you all right?”

His smile was twisted and pained. “Fine. Perfect.”

Obviously, he wasn’t either. The silence was awkward. I didn’t know what to say.

“My wife split. So, it’s perfect. First my job, now my wife. It’s all gone to hell.”

“I’m so sorry, Bertram—”

“No, don’t be.” He stared into space. “She hopped off a sinking ship, that’s all. Who can blame her?”

“Bertram. You’re no sinking ship. Your career’s having a setback, but you have so much to offer—”

“Tell that to my wife.” Bertram turned to me. “Come in, Zoe. Let’s get started.”

“Are you sure?” His skin was pale and clammy.

“Positive. Your pregnancy is far more promising than any of my worthless proposals. It seems that nobody wants to fund my research.”

“That can’t be true, Bertram—”

“Trust me, it’s true.”

“But your work is cutting-edge. It’s daring and prestigious—”

“If you’re so enthusiastic, maybe you want to fund it?”

I smiled. “Somebody will.”

“Well, if that somebody doesn’t show up soon, my days here are numbered. My sources have dried up, and I’m running out of funds. My wife, bless her heart, emptied our personal accounts. So I’m flat broke. It’s maddening, actually.” Tossing a stack of papers off his sofa, he took me by the hand and seated me, chuckling nervously. “But maybe that’s the answer: If I go mad, maybe I can stay. Do you think they’ll let me continue my research if I’m a patient?” His smile was disturbing.

“Something will come through for you. And your wife might be back.” Why had I said that? How stupid. I was sorry I’d come. “Seriously, why don’t I stop in later—”

“No.” His voice was oddly urgent. “Sit.” Dark circles underlined his eyes. “How are your contractions? Easier?”

I considered telling him that, no, they weren’t. But Bertram didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned forward, eyes intense, beginning the session.

“Go to your happy place.” He moved his chair closer. “Get comfortable.”

Get comfortable? How? His knees bumped mine; he was almost in my lap. I smelled sour coffee when he exhaled. And he watched me almost hungrily.

I sat, eyes closed, hearing Bertram telling me to relax, assuring me that my visit was more important than anything else he had to do. I breathed deeply, waiting to be hypnotized, doubting as always that I would be. Focusing on Bertram’s voice, I determined to remain consciously aware and to remember everything we said.

Except that the next thing I knew, tears were once again streaming down my face, and once again I didn’t know why. Bertram was still seated opposite me, watching, his eyes gleaming. I wiped my cheeks.

“I was crying again.”

He nodded.

“Why do I cry every time I come in here?”

He handed me a tissue. “You’ll remember if you want to. There’s nothing stopping you from remembering except your own will.”

Ridiculous. Why wouldn’t he tell me? “Is it about my mother? Am I crying about her dying?”

Bertram’s face was a mask. A clammy, annoying mask, giving away nothing. “When you’re ready to remember what’s upsetting you, you will. Apparently, you’re not ready to face those memories yet.”

Damn. Bertram absolutely refused to share what he knew. Why? What harm could it do if he simply told me that I was—or was not—crying about my mother? I was an adult, a coworker, not one of his patients or a participant in some experiment.

“I’m not here to solve personal problems,” I reminded him. “I’m here to ease my contractions. Any other topic that comes up during hypnosis—”

“—Is completely confidential. It never leaves this room, unless, of course, you yourself decide to talk about it elsewhere.”

“I know that. I mean, I think I should be informed of any topics I discuss other than the contractions themselves.”

Bertram smiled calmly, patronizingly. What had happened to him? How had he recovered from his despair? “Zoe. You’re a professional. You know that the whole process of hypnosis is about trust. You need to trust me to keep what you say confidential— even from you. More important, you need to trust yourself to reveal to your conscious mind what it can manage, to conceal what it cannot. It’s not my place to tell you what you talked about; it’s yours.”

Mumbo jumbo. As always, he refused to tell me a thing. Not a word. My eyes were red and swollen, my nose stuffed, my face streaked with mascara, and I had no clue why. Bertram peered into his computer, consulting his calendar, eagerly setting up our next session. Forty-five minutes had passed unaccounted for, and, somehow Bertram no longer seemed desolate about his plight.

For the rest of the day my body felt better, lighter, and I didn’t have another contraction. Not one. I wasn’t tired, either. The session troubled me; I strained in vain to remember why I’d been crying. But I had energy to deal with my patients, and I didn’t worry, not about Nick, my father, the baby, Molly or my job. Not about anything. At one-thirty, when my day ended, I still wasn’t tired. I felt energized, as if the day were just beginning. Actually, in a way, it was.

T
HAT EVENING, AS WE
entered Harrington Place, Molly held my hand, suddenly shy. She’d been asking for days to go visit her grandfather, but now that I’d made plans to have dinner with him, she clung to me, refusing to walk.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to see Grandpa?”

She looked up at me, whispering, “Everybody’s old here.”

Damn. How stupid of me; I hadn’t prepared her for the realities of a retirement community. Molly had never been to one before, let alone to the assisted living section of a retirement community. She hadn’t been around elderly people much, hadn’t even had a grandparent until a few weeks ago. Suddenly she was surrounded by old people. For the first time, Molly was seeing people who used walkers and canes, who sat in wheelchairs, staring into their own memories, or who waited in hushed plush alcoves, looking out at us as we passed. I stopped walking and led her into a nearby reading room. A white-haired man sat by the window looking at his newspaper. I stooped to meet Molly’s eyes.

Holding her hand, I explained as well as I could about the function of retirement homes. “As people get older,” I told her, “they sometimes don’t want to have to take care of a house or an apartment. And sometimes they have health problems or less energy than they used to. So they come to a place like this—”

“Is Grandpa going to die?”

The question took me by surprise. “Sooner or later, everybody dies, Molly.”

“Don’t baby me, Mom.” Her tone was grave, sounding way older than her six years. “Tell me the truth. Is Grandpa dying?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Answer me. Is he?” Her voice was loud. I felt eyes on us, knew the man across the room was listening, concerned.

“No.” I told myself that it wasn’t really a lie. As far as I knew, my father would survive that day and the next. “He’s here because his house is too big for him to take care of. And he has some medical problems. But don’t worry. Grandpa’s doing fine.” I said this loud enough for the man across the room to hear. Somehow I wanted to reassure him, too.

Molly nodded, absorbing the information, and slowly we resumed our walk to my father’s room. Molly ogled at residents as if at creatures in the zoo. Her honest and open amazement embarrassed me until she tugged at my hand with another question.

“Why is everyone staring at me?”

She was right. As we passed, people stared, studying her. A silver-haired woman wearing blue silk and large sparkly rings. Another in a pale green housecoat, her hair wrapped tightly in pink curlers. They stood still or spun their chairs our way and openly ogled. The old were eyeing Molly just as she was eyeing them. A heavyset woman with wispy thin hair gaped at her almost drooling, apparently fascinated.