CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

C HAPTER T WENTY -O NE

An hour later, after a run to the bakery, Chloe knocked at Dianne Abbott’s door. Dianne worked part-time at Sutter Hospital, and Chloe knew she had Thursdays off. In her moment of reflection earlier, she’d thought it might be nice to try to make things right between her and Dianne. Dianne, like her husband, Jason, wore an attitude of defiance on most days. But that little hiccup shouldn’t come between their friendship.

The door came open. Dianne’s gaze fell on the pastry box tied with a white satin ribbon. “It’s about time,” she said. “I wondered when you would come. Did you bring a vanilla latte with oat milk?”

Chloe smiled. “I did. It’s in the car. I couldn’t carry everything at once. Here. Take the pastries and I’ll grab the coffee.”

Chloe returned with two cups, shut the door, and went to the kitchen, where she found Dianne pulling plates from the cupboard. “Come on,” Dianne said. “Let’s go to the dining room.”

Chloe felt the urge to blurt out another apology, but she held strong. She needed to learn to be patient, to see how things played out. She didn’t have to wait long.

“I’m still extremely angry at you for tossing Jason’s name out there,” Dianne said. “Everyone knows he has a short fuse, but do you have any idea how tough it has been for Jason and me?”

Chloe said nothing. It was too soon to give her opinion, especially when Dianne was wound up tight.

“Ever since that bitch—sorry, I mean Rosella—sent a letter to Jason’s boss accusing Jason of embezzling, his anger has increased tenfold. And maybe that’s why your words struck deep last night.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

Chloe wasn’t catching on. Dianne couldn’t possibly be saying—

“Wondering if Jason killed her.”

A bite of scone got stuck in Chloe’s throat. She quickly took a gulp of coffee, her eyes tearing as the hot liquid burned her throat.

“Last week, after Rosella told Jason she had found his mail in her mailbox and tagged it all as ‘return to sender,’ he marched into the house, and under his breath so the kids wouldn’t hear, he told me was going to kill Rosella.”

“I’m sure it was only his anger talking,” Chloe said, but was worried just the same.

Dianne blew hot air out through gritted teeth. “I know you’re not here just to make amends.”

“That’s not true.”

“I know you, Chloe Leavitt. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I know you better than most. You’re stubborn as all get-out, and you certainly don’t have the patience to wait for the detectives to do their jobs. You’re here to question me. I’m a small cog in the wheel of the investigation you’re plotting in your head. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got Shannon Gibbons to join you since she’s new to the block.”

Dianne took a couple of swigs of coffee before setting her cup on the table. “I’m going to make this easy on you and tell you everything I know.” She jabbed a finger into the hardwood table. “I would never, ever have harmed that woman. She was insane—as loony as they come.” Dianne leaned closer. She met Chloe’s gaze and held it captive. “I’m not as stupid as some people around here might think—”

“Nobody thinks you’re st—”

Dianne sliced her hand through the air to shut Chloe up. “Let me talk. I know that hatred can be a destructive emotion. Hell, my husband is proof of that. Hatred can dehumanize a person. It eats away at a person’s ability to feel empathy. And with all that said, I can tell you I hated Rosella with unbridled passion.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you want to write that down? Did you bring a notepad with you?”

Chloe sighed but kept her thoughts to herself. It was good to see Dianne get it all out or, at least, rid herself of some frustration, even if it was at Chloe’s expense.

“There you have it. Maybe Jason killed Rosella. Maybe he didn’t. I don’t care. In fact, if I’m honest, I’m glad she’s dead.” A tic set in Dianne’s jaw. “You should know that I’ll stand by Jason and do whatever I must to protect him. He’s a good father to Finn. And I love him.”

They spent the next few minutes in silence, eating their croissants and scones while sipping coffee.

“What else do you want to know?” Dianne finally asked. “Because this is it. After today, I won’t be talking about Rosella, let alone thinking about her. I stopped talking to Rosella after she accused me of leaving a dead rat on her welcome mat. Why the fuck would I go out of my way to find a rat, let alone kill one and wait for the perfect time to leave it by her front door?” Dianne shook her head in disgust. “The old hag wouldn’t stop harassing us. She didn’t appreciate one of the tree branches in our backyard hanging over our shared fence, but when Jason cut the branch, hoping to shut the bitch up, she complained about the chain saw noise and told us we should have given her notice. She even called the police. And do you want to know something else?”

Chloe did, so she nodded.

“When Rosella’s husband was in the hospital, on my floor, under my watch,” Dianne said with an air of smugness, “and when she thought no one else was around, that horrid woman would lean low, close to his ear, and tell him he was an idiot. That he never should have been driving in snowy conditions. She told him he was old and decrepit. Rosella Marlow blamed Lance for killing her only son.”

Chloe felt sick to her stomach. “That’s horrible.”

“It’s beyond horrible. It’s fucked up.”

“How long was he in the hospital after the accident?” Chloe asked.

“Lance was in a coma for five days, and there wasn’t a time I was there watching over him that I didn’t hear her muttering under her breath, as angry as a cornered rattlesnake. She was always mean, but after her son died, she became insufferable.” Dianne’s hands clenched. “Do you think hatred is a motive?”

“For murder?”

Dianne rolled her eyes. “Yes. For murder.”

Chloe sighed. “I don’t know. If it is, that would mean the killer could be anyone on the block.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve gone over and over the night Rosella was killed,” Dianne said, her voice softer now. “Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been practicing for when the detectives show up. All you have to do is a quick Google search to see what kind of questions they might ask. Like, Where were you when the murder went down? ” Dianne spread her hands wide. “How the fuck can I answer that question when I have no idea when she was attacked? Monday night or Tuesday morning?”

“Good point,” Chloe said.

“Good point or not, it’s not going to be a good enough answer to send them away. I realized I better know where I was and what I was doing from, let’s say, Monday eight p.m. until Tuesday eight a.m.?” Her eyes held on to Chloe’s. “Can you answer me that?”

Chloe felt like a deer caught in headlights. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“You might want to do some math before you go around checking on all of us, pretending to be the perfect little neighbor instead of the prying little busybody you’ve always been.”

Chloe flinched. That one hurt.

“Um. Let’s see.” Dianne rubbed her chin. “Where was I during those particular hours? I didn’t go to work until after I walked with all of you. I picked Finn up from day care at six p.m., and when I arrived home, Jason had already made dinner.” She stopped talking. Just sat there quietly, giving Chloe a strange look.

“What?”

“Did I just tell a truth or a lie?”

Chloe wasn’t sure she liked this game. “It was a lie.”

Dianne laughed and gave the table a slap. “And why do you say that?”

“Because at least once a week when we walk, you talk about Jason never helping you make dinner.”

She smacked her hands together. “Maybe you will be able to figure out who killed the old lady, after all.”

“She wasn’t old,” Chloe said.

“Maybe not in the conventional sense that marks the number of years, but the resentment and bitterness inside her spoke volumes. It made the old hag look ancient.” Dianne ate a piece of croissant and chased it down with coffee. “Anyway, moving on, I would tell the detectives about how Jason made spaghetti and french bread, because who can’t make spaghetti and french bread? I might say he made a salad, too, trying to bore the shit out of them, then add stupid details like how he put too many onions in the salad. And I’ll make a face because I don’t like onions.”

Even though the conversation had become worrisome, Chloe kept a straight face. Why in the world would Dianne go to all this trouble? Couldn’t she simply tell the detectives the truth?

Chloe remained lighthearted as she asked, “You do have this down, don’t you?”

Dianne clicked her tongue. “That I do.”

“And I guess your answer would take care of Jason’s whereabouts, too.”

“Sort of.” She shrugged. “He made dinner. We were home together. We didn’t kill Rosella Marlow.”

“Sort of?” Chloe asked.

“Well, it doesn’t tell the whole story, does it?”

“Like what you did after dinner?”

“Bingo. Jason played with Finn while I tidied the kitchen,” Dianne went on, as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. “We put Finn to bed. He’s usually asleep by eight.”

“And afterward?”

“And after that, we’re fucked. Unless I lie again. You see, Jason had a sore throat, and we were out of throat lozenges and Nyquil, so he ran to the store.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Chloe said.

“Neither did I until I went to check the medicine cabinet and the bathroom, the car, the kitchen, and every other cabinet in the house. Nothing. No Nyquil. No lozenges.”

“I guess you’ll leave the part about Jason going to the store out of the equation?”

“Yeah,” Dianne said. “that’s what I plan to do. The only problem is ...” She pointed a finger at Chloe and waited for her to finish her thought.

“You’re worried Jason did have something to do with Rosella’s death.”

“Correct.”

Shivers coursed up Chloe’s spine. She collected herself and said, “I really did come here to tell you how sorry I am for the things I said last night. I brought the pastries and coffee as a peace offering. Not because I wanted to interrogate you, even though I must say this impromptu visit satisfied something inside of me.”

Dianne looked at her with renewed interest.

“You’re right about me being the meddlesome, prying, nosy-as-all-get-up neighbor. I’ve been called ‘security guard,’ ‘Forty-Fifth Street cop,’ and ‘guardian of this block.’ Believe it or not, I’m going to change. At least, I’m going to try. You’re also right about my preoccupation with wanting to know who killed Rosella. I’m going to do whatever it takes to figure it out. You can tell the neighbors what I said, or not, but I’m not going to let it go. We all deserve to go to bed at night feeling safe and protected.”

Dianne crossed her arms. “What are you going to tell me next? That you’re doing this for Rosella, because she cared about the community and that she was one of us?”

Chloe surprised herself when she said, “Yes. I’m doing this for Rosella, too. She was cruel. And maybe she won’t be missed. But nobody, not even Rosella, deserves to be murdered.”

Dianne walked her to the door. When they stepped outside, the sun’s rays were shimmering off the pavement. Dianne said, “For the record, we’re good. No need to bring me any more pastries.”

Chloe was glad they had made up, but why did she feel even worse? She gave Dianne a hug, which felt like embracing a two-by-four. Chloe let go, but she couldn’t leave yet. Not with one burning question begging to be asked. “Why did you tell me all of that about Jason, knowing Shannon and I are determined to find Rosella’s killer?”

“Because I trust you. And although Jason might look guilty, I believe he’s innocent. Besides, you’re not the only one who wants the truth.”

The roar of an engine caught their attention, and they both turned to watch Becky and Holly’s college-age babysitter, Stephanie, pull to the curb in front of the Bateman house.

“I wonder what Stephanie is doing over there in the middle of the afternoon?” Dianne asked.

Stephanie was popular with all the kids due to the old Volkswagen van she drove. The kids thought the van was cool. It was orange and Stephanie called it Pumpkin, as if it were a beloved pet.

“She’s probably watching the kids while Becky runs a few errands,” Chloe said.

“Holly would be pissed if that were the case.”

“Why would that upset Holly?”

“Are you kidding me? You must be losing your know-everything mojo. Holly and I are regulars at the cafeteria at Sutter,” Dianne said confidently, as if she liked knowing more than Chloe, “and Holly is always talking about ‘poor Becky’ having to work at home with the kids, and how they rarely hire a babysitter anymore and never have time for each other. Holly has been working overtime because they need the money.”

Stephanie disappeared inside the Bateman house.

Neither of them moved. Within seconds, Becky exited the house. She was wearing skinny jeans, white tee, and fitted blazer. Her hair was curled, makeup done. Chloe rarely saw Becky in anything other than sweatpants and moth-eaten tees. But she had looked nice the other day when Chloe had stopped by, too.

Dianne said, “What the hell am I doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“If anyone saw me standing here beside you, they might think we were collaborating. You know, coguardians of Forty-Fifth Street.”

Chloe laughed.

“I’ll see you later. I’m already regretting telling you my life story.”

“Don’t worry,” Chloe said.

But she didn’t mean it. Dianne should be worried. Very worried. Because at the moment, Jason Abbott was their number one suspect.