Authors: A. J. Banner
The Good Neighbor (17 page)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I couldn’t get much writing done in the cottage. I missed Johnny. The trouble was, I loved him. Love—mysterious, inexplicable, perhaps self-destructive. I felt bereft without him, like a ghost pretending to live. When I imagined spending days, months, years without him, my muscles tightened, and my head ached. I’d find myself crying at odd times—in the middle of the night, or if I spotted a rabbit in the underbrush, or a rainbow at dawn, or a deer standing motionless at the edge of the woods. I would almost go and ask Johnny to come and see, and then I would remember that he wasn’t there, and my heart would sink. And the longer he stayed away, the farther from me he seemed to become.
The Minkowskis appeared to be gone. Had Theresa been an interlude, another temporary fling? When I had confronted him about his clandestine side trips to the Minkowskis’ house, he’d said,
It’s not what you think
. Eris kept urging me to make an offer on the writer’s retreat up north. But her friend, the owner, was in no hurry to sell. And I could not bring myself to make a decision.
I had called the hotel in San Francisco. It had taken some sleuthing, but I had eventually spoken to the bartender who’d been on duty the night Johnny had met his colleague in the bar. The colleague had left without him, and Johnny had remained in the bar for a while on his own, talking to a male friend before returning to his room. Score one point for Johnny.
But still, many questions remained unanswered. Who’d been calling him and hanging up? Another woman, about whom I knew nothing?
I had almost canceled the book signing, but Eris had encouraged me to go. She’d loaned me a black Chanel sweater with a gold border. “You’ll have fun,” she’d said. “The signing will be a good distraction. The bookstore is lovely, too.”
She was right. In an elegant blue Victorian, Shadow Cove Bookstore sat on a gentle hillside overlooking the ocean. The night of the signing, the owner, Mary Wells, greeted me at the door with her high-wattage smile.
“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” she said. She’d made flyers and posters and had arranged cookies and drinks on a table, my books displayed on another. How could I say no?
“I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you for everything.” Families began to show up with their children, until a dense crowd formed in the rows of chairs in front of the podium. I had not imagined so many fans in such a small town. Mary introduced me with aplomb, and I thanked her, then stepped up to speak. The room quieted. I had to survive this evening, the launch of my latest Miracle Mouse mystery, the book so crisp and new that the spine cracked a little when I opened to the first page. The smell of freshly inked paper gave me a small thrill, despite my sadness, and reminded me that I was still alive.
I spoke a little about the origins of Miracle Mouse, and then I read from the book. Miracle’s adventures felt trivial, but the children loved the drama. They sat cross-legged in the front row, enraptured.
And then, Johnny arrived. He stood in the back of the audience, half in shadow. He was still in a formal shirt from work. Theresa arrived at the same time. She and Johnny stood shoulder to shoulder. She wore her hair swept up in a carefree way, as if the style was an afterthought, revealing the curve of her neck.
I faltered, then kept reading, determined to reach the end of the passage. Applause rippled through the front row of kids, and one shouted, “More!” Mia and Harriet stood off to the side, near the children’s book section.
“Sarah will be signing books,” Mary said, coming to the front of the crowd. “If you would like to ask any questions, now is the time.”
Hands shot up in the audience. In the back, Theresa bent her head a little, turned toward Johnny. He leaned down, and she cupped her hand against his ear, whispered something. He straightened up and smiled. How could they do this? Come to my book signing together? Share secrets? Mock me?
Mary chose someone to ask a question, a white-haired man in the second row. He stood and cleared his throat. “My question is, what’s your writing process?”
I smiled at him as I tried to formulate an answer. Did I even have a process anymore? “I write every morning for a few hours before other obligations intrude,” I lied. I had once done so. Now I struggled. “Writing is part of who I am. Every day.” Another lie.
The man nodded and sat down.
Theresa whispered to Johnny again. How could she have so much to say to him? She caught my eye and waved at me. I did not wave back. More questions followed, about where my ideas came from (I had no clue), whether Miracle Mouse was anything like me. An autobiographical mouse. Or not. Finally, Mary rescued me, taking my arm. “If you’ll line up at the front, Sarah will sign books now.”
“I have to make a pit stop,” I said to her. I could no longer see Johnny through the throng. I dashed to the bathroom, but Harriet stopped me. Her face looked pale and drawn. Mia stood next to her, eyes wide, gripping her grandmother’s hand.
“Mia, Harriet! Thank you for coming,” I said, realizing I should have said hello to them earlier. I reached down and hugged Mia. “How is my little princess?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Mia was unnaturally polite, perhaps subdued by all the people. “Am I going to your house?”
“I don’t know—what does your grandma say?”
“Grandma says we’re going home for now,” Harriet said.
I touched her arm. “How are you? I left you a few messages.”
“I meant to call you back, but I’ve been preoccupied,” Harriet said. “I have to go in overnight again.”
“Harriet, oh, my goodness.”
“Could you take Mia? I know it’s short notice.”
A man jostled me as he passed. “Certainly, of course. I would be happy to . . . But when?” I would have to do this one alone.
Mia tugged at her grandmother’s arm. “I want to go to Auntie Sarah’s house. She has a donut swing.”
“You can come back anytime,” I said.
“Thank you, Sarah.” Harriet gave me a grateful smile.
Somebody was calling for me, and Mia and Harriet disappeared in the crowd. I rushed to the bathroom, locked myself inside, splashed cold water on my face. I couldn’t go back out there, couldn’t face all those people. But there was no other exit from the bathroom.
I had no choice. I had to sign books. When I opened the door, Johnny stood in front of me. He had the haggard look of a troubled, haunted man. He took me in his arms, held me tight. “I’ve missed you,” he said.
“I’ve missed you, too.” It was the truth. But my body could not relax against him.
“I want to come home.”
“Home? You mean the cottage?”
“Wherever. Home is with you.”
“I’m not ready. What about Theresa?” I pulled away, my body stiffening.
“I need to show you something. I wanted to do this earlier, but the Minkowskis were away.”
“I have to sign books.”
“That’s okay,” Johnny said, taking my hand and leading me back out into the crowd. “I’ll wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Johnny followed me back to the cottage in his RAV4, parked behind my car, and walked me over to the Minkowskis’ house. A soft rain pattered down in the darkness.
“What are we doing here?” I said.
He took my hand. “You wanted to know what’s been going on. I’m going to show you.”
“So, you
have
been coming here to see Theresa.”
“Give me a chance.” He looked at me with that clear-eyed, sincere gaze. “I was going to wait, but now, considering you and I are not even sleeping under the same roof, I have to show you.”
“What do you mean, show me?”
“Bear with me.” He steered me up the steps and in through the front door. Theresa must’ve known we were coming. I smelled chemicals again, and perfume.
“Kadin’s out with his dad,” Johnny said.
“Hey, Sarah,” Theresa said, coming down the hall. She looked stunning with her hair swept up.
“What’s going on?” I said, a bitter taste on my tongue.
“Come on back. I want to show you something.”
Johnny let go of my hand and ushered me forward, ahead of him.
I followed Theresa down the hall, and into a spacious room in the back. Johnny stayed right behind me. The lights were dim, large windows facing the backyard. The room was lined with shelves and supplies—bottles of cleaners, chemicals, lacquer, oils. Brushes and glues. There were two long worktables with myriad pieces of artwork and ceramics in various states of disrepair or repair, depending on one’s viewpoint.
There was an easel covered in burlap. Theresa walked into the center of the room. Then she spread her arms and took a deep breath. “This is it, my home workshop.” She and Johnny traded another knowing look. I pictured him veering off the main trail in the woods, heading here to rendezvous with Theresa.
Johnny gave her a subtle nod, and she lifted the canvas cover and flipped it back over the easel. The cover fluttered to the ground. The smell of paint grew stronger. She stepped aside to reveal a painting I had never expected to see again. I gasped, unable to speak.
“This is what I’ve been working on, when I have time,” Theresa said. “Johnny brought it over after the fire.”
I stared at Miracle Mouse, the painting partly restored. No frame. A gray film of soot still covered the bottom third, the paint darkened as if a permanent diagonal shadow had fallen over the canvas. But the darkness gave way to light. The top two-thirds of the painting looked new, replenished, vibrant.
I moved in slow motion toward the picture, reached out, pulled back my hand. The paint was still wet. This was Miracle Mouse, her whiskers alive, almost twitching. Miracle with her shiny spectacles, her erudite eyes. One ear flopping forward, the round glasses slipping down her nose.
I turned to Johnny, my eyes full of tears. “When did you find this? How did the painting survive?”
“It was the only thing in your study that wasn’t completely burned. A miracle.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“It was blackened and warped,” Theresa said. “The canvas was cracked. The painting was badly fire-damaged. When Johnny brought it to me, he wasn’t sure if it was salvageable, and neither was I. But I told him I would try to save it. He said it meant a lot to you.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks. “Thank you—yes. My grandmother painted it. I thought . . . I thought Miracle Mouse was gone.”
“I can brighten the rest of the painting, but it’s going to take a while,” Theresa said. “We were going to give it to you by your birthday in December.”
“But you kept following me over here,” Johnny said. “I came to check on the progress of Theresa’s work, but then you decided to be a sleuth.”
What was I seeing? A glimmer of our former life, like a single ray of sunlight in the darkness. “I . . . didn’t realize. Theresa, thank you. You can work miracles.”
“I can’t. But I try. Not everything can be saved,” she said. “Miracle will never be entirely new again, but I can bring her pretty damned close.”
“Restoration is her specialty,” Johnny said. “I was going to give it to you good as new, but as you see, it’s not done.”
“This is why you were coming over here,” I said.
He nodded, and Theresa looked down at her shoes. “When you started asking me questions, I had to think fast,” he said. “I kept compounding my lies. I’m not used to doing that. I’m not perfect, but I’m not a liar.”
I wiped away my tears. “I’m almost disappointed that it’s not going to be a surprise.”
“We held off as long as we could,” Theresa said, smiling at Johnny. He shrugged, looked at the floor.
We all went back to the front door, and Johnny walked me back to the cottage.
“When can we resolve this?” he said. “I want to be with you.”
I looked into his eyes, not sure what I saw there. He looked so sincere, regretful. “I believe you, and what you did . . . it’s beautiful and thoughtful.”
He stepped closer. “I don’t want you away from me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.”
Neither can I.
“I need a little more time. To process everything.”
“Is there a chance for us?” he said.
I hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, there is a chance.”
He breathed a deep sigh of relief, his whole body relaxing. “Good.” He touched my cheek gently, and as he turned and headed for his car, Ryan Greene drove up and parked. When he got out, his face was grim. He appeared to have been interrupted in the middle of a workout. He wore running shoes and a jogging suit that conformed to his tall, muscular frame, his hair windswept and damp.
I instantly tightened, wanting to turn and stride away from him. If he planned to interrogate me again, I would have none of it.
“Thought you’d like to know,” Ryan said. “We believe we’ve identified the arsonist.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Shadow Cove Register
Arsonist suspect found dead of an overdose
Forty-year-old Todd Severson was found dead in his Olalla home today of an apparent overdose of methamphetamine, according to police, although further details will not be released before an autopsy can be performed. Mr. Severson was a person of interest in the arson investigation into the deaths of two Shadow Cove residents last month and the destruction of two homes in a fire on Sitka Lane, in addition to other unsolved arson cases in the county.
“We cannot draw conclusions at this time,” said Fire Marshal Ryan Greene of the Shadow Cove Fire Department. According to Severson’s neighbors, he was a quiet man who kept to himself and ran Severson Home Repair and Remodeling, helping various residents with projects around town. He was also a volunteer firefighter.
“You never would’ve known he was into drugs,” said neighbor Kathy McClinnon, forty-nine. “Course, after his wife left, he kept to himself more. Worked a lot more.”
Severson’s estranged wife declined to comment . . .
Eris put down the newspaper and shook her head. “I can’t believe he was the arsonist. I had him coming to your cottage—and working on other properties.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said, sitting at the table in Eris’s kitchen. The scent of blueberry muffins wafted from the oven. Todd had warned me about crazy people in Shadow Cove. He’d been referring to himself.
Nobody was supposed to die.
“What if he’d lit a match when one of us wasn’t home?” Eris went on. “The man was a pyromaniac. I thought I knew him.”
“He seemed regretful,” I said. “Maybe he thought the houses would be empty.”
“Why would he think such a thing?”
“Maybe he’d been watching the Kimballs’ house while they were away, and he didn’t expect them to come home early.”
“We can’t know what was going through his mind,” Eris said.
“They found methamphetamine at his place. But he didn’t seem like an addict.”
“Nobody ever seems like it.” Eris wiped the counter, put a carton of milk back in the fridge.
I gazed out through the trees toward the cottage, clearly visible from here.
“He was a firefighter. I still don’t understand how he could do this.”
“Did you ever see that movie
Backdraft
? The arsonist was a firefighter in that one, too. They’re drawn to fire. They set one, and then they get to return to the scene of the crime and become all heroic dousing the flames. A double whammy.”
“Not all firefighters are like that,” I said.
“Nope, but you get your one bad seed—”
“He did seem remorseful.”
Eris shrugged. “Speaking of remorse, what about that husband of yours?”
“I’ve been too hard on him.”
“You’ll find someone better.”
“He’s flawed. But aren’t we all?”
“Some of us are more flawed than others.” Eris took a plate of butter out of the fridge, then busied herself loading dishes from the sink into the dishwasher.
“It wasn’t all a lie. I mean, he hurt me, but I believe he loves me. He wishes he’d told me about Monique.”
“I’ll bet he does.” Eris turned off the oven, brought out a tray of muffins, and set them on the stovetop to cool.
Tears pushed at the backs of my eyes.
Eris came and sat next to me, rested a hand on mine. “I felt sad about my ex, too. But I survived. So will you. You’ve got your friends, your writing. You are strong.”
I nodded, still bereft. “He was having a painting restored for me. He’s a good man.”
“Of course.” Eris nodded sympathetically. She got up and took a tub of yogurt from the fridge. “Smoothie to perk you up?”
“Thank you.” I needed to talk to Natalie, but I would have to wait. She was en route back home.
Eris threw yogurt in the blender. Then she chopped up bananas and turned on the blender. The grating noise jarred my eardrums, but the resulting smoothie tasted heavenly. “You’re an expert at this,” I said. “I feel better already.”
She sat next to me again and grinned. “My smoothies are the Rx for grief. Your life is going to get better.”
“I hope so.” I gazed into my half-empty—or half-full—glass, but the smoothie gave up no secrets. “I’m going to take a leap. I’m going to try again with Johnny.”
Eris regarded me with curiosity and concern. “You think he can change?”
I sipped the last of the smoothie, letting the cool, thick liquid slide down my throat. “He can’t change what he did before he met me.”
Eris nodded thoughtfully. “Like I said, I got a little wild when I was young. But I got over it. I matured. I wouldn’t want anyone judging me for my past, either.”
“That’s what I mean.” I finished off the smoothie.
I turned the empty glass around in my hand. Afternoon sun cast a ray of almost-white illumination across the tile floor. A play of light and leaves danced across the wall above the sink.
“I understand,” Eris said, and got up. “But you may regret it later.”