The Woman Next Door (25 page)

She was thinking about that now, sitting in a rocker on the porch. It was barely seven-thirty and the neighborhood was melodic. Bird sounds came from lawns and trees, bee sounds from rhodies, kitchen sounds from open windows. Georgia came around the side of her house with an arm around Allison’s shoulder in a way that Gretchen would have given
anything
for from her mother when she was fourteen. Lee opened his garage door, went inside with Julie, and began rummaging about noisily.

All was quiet at the O’Learys’ house, as it so often was. They were trying to have a baby. Graham had told her that, and Gretchen was rooting for them. She would like it if they had a child close in age to hers. That would be a bridge.

As though conjured up by the thought, Amanda emerged from the breezeway. She wore a shirt and pants the color of celery and looked attractive and petite in ways Gretchen had never, ever been. Opening the door to her car, she put her briefcase inside. Rather than following it in, though, she started down the driveway. Gretchen fully expected her to join Georgia and Allison, who sat now on the curb. She was startled when Amanda headed
her
way.

Her heart began to pound. Amanda had been kind yesterday, but there was no cause for her to return. She wondered if Graham had sent her, and if so, why.

“Hi,” Amanda called from the head of the walk and continued straight on up.

“Hi,” Gretchen called back.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Amanda stopped at the foot of the steps. “Are you feeling less shaky?”

“Some.”

“Did you sleep?”

“A little. I alarmed the house.” Gretchen paused, waiting for Amanda to nod, say something short and sweet, and leave. But she didn’t. She stood there at the bottommost step with her hand on the rail, looking at the flowers in the nearby beds. So Gretchen asked, “Would you like coffee or something?”

Amanda shot her a small smile. “No. Thanks. I’ve had too much already. I have to get going to school.”

“Then”—a brainstorm—“some tulips? I cut some before, but there’s lots left. I could cut some for you to take to school.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“You don’t have tulips.”

“Funny thing about that, with what my husband does for a living.”

“I wasn’t criticizing,” Gretchen put in quickly. The last thing she wanted was to offend Amanda. “He put other things in your yard that are just as pretty. Tulips would have cluttered it up. I love your yard.”

Amanda smiled. “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

“Your husband is very talented.” She looked across the street just as Graham appeared. Loping off the breezeway he strode toward his truck. He raised a hand high in a generic wave their way.

Holding her hands in her lap, Gretchen let Amanda be the one to return his wave. Watching Amanda watch her husband climb into the truck and back out of the driveway, she felt a great wave of envy. “You’re lucky to have him.”

When the truck disappeared around the curve, Amanda looked back at her. “You’re lucky to have a baby coming. We’d like one, but it’s taking a while.” Her eyes touched Gretchen’s stomach. “How are you feeling?”

“Fat,” Gretchen said.

“Fat is beautiful when you’re pregnant.”

“It doesn’t feel it.”

“I think pregnancy is the most beautiful state a woman can be in.”

Gretchen didn’t have to be a friend of Amanda’s to imagine her thoughts. “I’m sorry. It must be hard for you seeing this.”

Amanda didn’t respond. Instead, she climbed two steps, put her back to the rail, and held on. “Is the baby active?”

“Yes. At night, mostly. That’s what was the hardest last night. I’d be sleeping, and a kick would wake me, and I’d remember what happened.”

“Any thoughts on who the vandal might be?”

Gretchen shook her head. Needing to think about something else, she looked across at Amanda’s yard. “You have mountain laurel. I don’t have those. I used to love them. They were all over the place where I grew up.”

“That was in Maine?”

“Uh-huh. Can’t you hear it in the way I talk?”

“Only once in a great while,” Amanda said with a gentle smile. “A word here and there.”

“I work at that.”

“Why? Maine’s a pretty way to talk. Whereabouts was it in Maine?”

Gretchen grew uncomfortable. “A small town. A no-name place. Too small for a map.”

“If you’d asked Graham, he’d have been glad to plant mountain laurel for you.”

“He suggested it. He said mountain laurel was acid-loving and would go with my conifers, but I told him no.” When Amanda gave her a puzzled look, she explained, “Bad memories.”

“I’m sorry.”

Gretchen shouldn’t have said anything. “It was a long time ago. Well, not so long ago. But it feels it. Anyway, it’s history.”

She stopped talking and looked away. In the next breath, though, she heard Ben’s voice saying that the women in the neighborhood would like her once they got to know her. Amanda had taken a first step by crossing the street today—and Gretchen desperately wanted to air her fear. At least then, if she was found dead in her kitchen, the police would know where to look.

“My family was not very nice,” she blurted out. “Bad things happened in that town. When I left, I just left. I didn’t tell anyone
where I was going. There are times I worry they found out anyway.”

Amanda frowned. “Weren’t they at your wedding?”

“Oh, no,” Gretchen said. “That was one of the reasons we got married in Paris.” She saw what was either surprise or doubt on Amanda’s face. Resigned, she added, “I know you all thought Ben married me on impulse. But he didn’t. We planned it out. We knew that his sons wouldn’t be happy with us and wouldn’t come if we invited them, and I didn’t want my family invited at all.”

Amanda came up another step. “Do you think one of them might have slashed the painting?”

“I don’t know. But I keep getting silent calls. I don’t think it’s Ben’s sons, and I don’t have any other enemies. Except my family.” She watched Amanda closely, looking for revulsion. “Sick, isn’t it, to say that about your own family?”

But Amanda seemed more worried than revulsed. “I’ve heard worse. If you tell the police, they’ll check it out.”

“But if they do that, my family will know where I am. I mean, maybe they already do, if they’re the ones making the calls. But then again, maybe they don’t, and in that case, I don’t want them finding out.”

“I see your point.” Worried still, she asked, “About the phone calls—do you have caller ID?”

“No. Ben wasn’t into things like that.”

“It’s easy enough to hook up. You could buy something today.”

“Hi, Amanda!” called Julie Cotter as she ran across the lawn. “I’m getting a new bike.”

“Are you?” Amanda asked, taking the girl under her arm.

“My daddy’s gonna put on training wheels. But he has to put the bike together, and he can’t find the right tools.”

“Oh dear.”

“Can I stay here with you?”

“For a second or two. Then you have to go to school, and I do, too. Want to show Gretchen your teeth?”

Facing Gretchen, Julie bared a grin that was toothy enough to show a big gap in front. “Two teeth out?” Gretchen asked.

The child nodded.

“That’s nice.”

“Are you having a baby?”

“Yes.”

“My mommy says it has to have a father.”

Gretchen swallowed. “Uh, right now, it just has me.”

“My mommy says it
has
to have a father.”

“It does,” Gretchen said, figuring that would be the only way to quiet the child. She braced herself for the next question.

But Julie only looked adoringly up at Amanda. “Maybe if you come over later, we can put the bike together faster.”

Amanda shot Gretchen a conspiratorial look. “Tell you what,” she told the child. “If your dad has trouble, we’ll get Graham to help. He’s better at things like that than I am. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’d better go now. The bus’ll be here soon.”

Julie ran off, and Amanda turned to Gretchen. “I’d better go, too. Will you give me a call if there’s any problem?”

***

Gretchen had said that she would, assuming the offer to be a figure of speech, albeit a kind one. She didn’t expect to be in need of help as soon as that afternoon. But that was when the next problem arose.

Unfortunately, Amanda was at school and Graham was at work
later when Gretchen’s doorbell rang. Coming from the kitchen, she looked out over the dining room drapes. Two strange cars were parked in front of the house, both late enough models to preclude either one having been driven by a family member of hers.

A man and a woman stood on the doorstep. She didn’t recognize either one, and opened the door only because the screen door was locked.

“Mrs. Tannenwald?” the woman asked. “We’re with the company that insured your husband’s art.”

“My art,” Gretchen said quietly. “I did not call you.”

“No. We received a call from David Tannenwald. He wanted an appraisal of the damage.” David was the younger of Ben’s two sons, though he was still ten years older than Gretchen.

“I don’t know why he wanted that done. The paintings belong to me.” She thought of something else. “How did he find out about the vandalism?”

“I don’t know. I just know that we got a call. We also got a call from his attorney, Oliver Deeds. He agreed that an appraisal was in order.”

The male half of the team said, “We want to see the damage, take some pictures, ask you some questions.”

Gretchen didn’t want her house entered, particularly by these people. But the rest of her things were insured by them, so she didn’t want to offend them. Besides, if they saw the damage for themselves, they could report it back to David Tannenwald and Oliver Deeds. She didn’t want to see either one.

So she would let these people in to see the painting. But she was no fool. She had learned not to trust. “Do you have identification?”

The woman looked annoyed. “We’re with Connecticut Comprehensive.”

Gretchen didn’t speak. Nor, though, did she reach for the lock. She simply stood there and waited until finally, with a grunt, the woman dug into her purse and the man into his pocket. Only after she had studied their identification cards did she unlock the door.

Stepping back, she let them enter. With a minimum of talk, she showed them the painting in the foyer and the two in the living room. They stood looking at
La Voisine
for a while.

The woman said, “Odd. This was the least expensive of the three.”

“Yes. But it held the most meaning for me.”

“We can’t reimburse you for meaning.”

“I haven’t asked you to reimburse me for anything.”

“Are you saying that you’re not filing a claim?” the man asked.

“I don’t know. I probably will. That’s what my husband would have wanted. That’s why he insured the pieces.”

The man raised his camera and focused. “Who else has seen these?” The shutter clicked.

“The police. My neighbors.”

“No,” the woman specified. “Before. Who else knows that they exist?” There was another click, then another.

Gretchen was mystified. “Anyone who’s walked in here in the last two years.”

“Can you give us a list?”

“No. There were dozens of people here for the funeral. I didn’t know them.” She stepped back when the man indicated he wanted to photograph the painting from where she stood. He took several more shots, then turned to photograph the other, less damaged painting in the room.

“All right,” the woman said with a sigh. “Let’s start with frequent visitors. Can you name them?”

“Why?”

“Because it might help us assess whether you have a legitimate claim.”

Gretchen was growing uncomfortable. Yes, she had seen identification cards that looked legitimate enough. But something didn’t feel right. “I don’t understand. This art was insured. Now it’s ruined. Does it matter who did the damage?”

“Very much,” the woman informed her. “If you did it yourself, we owe you nothing.”

“If I what?”

“If you did it yourself—”

Gretchen was appalled. “Would
I
do this? Would I destroy something I loved?”

“I don’t know what you’d do and what you wouldn’t.”

“I loved this painting. It was the best thing my husband left me. I would never do anything to it. I feel sick every time I see this.”

“We’re only trying to assess the extent of your claim.”

Gretchen was furious. “I think you should leave.”

“This is a necessary process. If we leave, someone else will have to come. It’s all part of filing a claim.”

“I think you should leave,” she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

From the door came the sound of a throat being cleared. “Excuse me?”

Gretchen looked around to find Oliver Deeds standing awkwardly under the arch. He was a midlevel partner at the law firm that Ben had used, and had served as the executor of the will. Just Gretchen’s height, he wore a dark suit and nondescript tie, though that wasn’t what made him seem older than the forty-something she knew him to be. He was almost entirely gray, for starters, with the usual thin swatch of hair separating from the rest and sloping across his brow. He was also pale and looked overworked, if the
strain around his eyes meant anything—and those eyes were sad. They were red-rimmed and made even more woeful by the slight downturn of his mouth. When he smiled, he could be good-looking, but he rarely smiled.

He wasn’t smiling now. “Is there a problem?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes,” Gretchen said, because, after all, he was supposed to be her lawyer, too. “These people are from the insurance company, but I didn’t call them. Can you ask them to leave?”

The woman apparently recognized him. “Mr. Deeds,” she said in a resigned voice. “We were just trying to explain that this is all standard procedure.”

But Gretchen had turned away from the door and was watching the cameraman. “That last picture you took wasn’t of my art,” she accused.

“I’m trying to put its location in context.”

“No more pictures. I want you to leave.” She shot a beseeching look back at Oliver Deeds.

“Perhaps if I walk through with him?” the lawyer asked.