Chapter Eight

Like Garrett, my next best step seemed to be centered on the house’s history. I hadn’t made much note of the residents at the end of the street over the years, less so once I’d moved into my own place. I was sure I recalled sale signs but I couldn’t be sure when. As a teen, I’d mostly been interested in the immediate neighbors or the homes where Lily and I had friends and often hung out.

Yet it seemed my time might be best served knocking on some doors and asking what the immediate neighbors remembered. Garrett planned on doing the same thing, but I could narrow the search. Plus, I could drop in on Mom and Dad directly afterwards.

As I headed to the neighborhood, myriad ideas whizzed through my mind but they were less about Roger the corpse, and more leaning towards the person who’d buried him. Was it one person or more? Would a woman be strong enough to dig a grave, move the body, and conceal it? Or was our mystery gravedigger more likely to have been a man? Why didn’t the neighbors notice a missing neighbor? Did the digging happen at night? Were the residents known for night gardening, or had the neighbors turned a blind eye?

By the time I parked at the end of the block — a squad car parked outside, and crime tape spanning the downed sections of fence — I had more questions than answers.

I started with the immediate neighbor but there was no answer and the house seemed still and lifeless. The mailbox had a number of items inside and the small, soft parcel on the porch carried a date from four days ago. All the blinds and drapes were shut. I tried the house on the other side of the empty one but the bespectacled man told me in halting English that they had lived there just five years. Another dead end.

Returning to the end house, I crossed the road and entered the yard of the opposing end house.

“Hello?” The woman who answered the door had a sweep of white hair, a floral housecoat, and was using a walker.

“Hi, I’m looking for some information about the house over there,” I said, pointing.

“Oh, yes? The detective last night told me what happened. I sat up and watched them take the body. Imagine that! A body! Probably the most exciting thing to happen in this neighborhood in forever.” Her crinkled eyes lit up.

“Have you lived here long?”

“Oh, yes. My husband and I bought this house in the seventies. Brought up our children here and now they bring their children to visit.”

“That’s lovely. You must remember some of the residents across the street?” I asked, struggling to recall any children. Perhaps they’d been my older siblings’ contemporaries, not mine.

“Can’t say I was friendly with any of them beyond saying hello. We were good friends with the other side but they’re gone now.”

“Moved away?”

“In a word, heaven.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s a lovely couple of girls there now. I think they’re best friends. Raising their kids together too! The kids call both of them Mom. Isn’t that the nicest?”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“Very over familiar with each other,” she added, frowning. “Always cuddling. Sorry, what were you asking?”

“If you remembered any of the residents from that house,” I said, pointing to the house across the street.

“No, can’t say I do. I think the house changed hands a few times.”

“Nothing stands out? No fights? Or anything like that?”

“Maybe. I suppose everyone fights some time, but, no, can’t say I noticed anything. I’m not sure I’d remember at my age. I’m not sure what I had for breakfast.” Footsteps sounded behind her and young woman in a nurse-style uniform, a navy tabard embroidered with “Home Help” came out.

“It’s time we got you some lunch, Miss Pearl,” she said, smiling.

“This is Ronnie. She helps me out. I call it bossing me around.”

“I do a little of both,” said Ronnie, chuckling now. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said, showing my license. Ronnie took it, examining it with interest before returning it. “I’m looking into what happened next door.”

“I see. Let me get Pearl settled and I’ll be back with you.”

I waited a few minutes and then Ronnie opened the door again. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I’m employed by Pearl’s children to look after her. She has dementia but we’ve found it best not to mention it in front of her. It’s not too far progressed yet but her memory isn’t what it was. She’s very lucid today but I’m not sure she can help you at all; and I’ve only worked here six months so I don’t think I’ll be any use either. The detective that came by yesterday evening said the body was in the ground a long time.”

I thanked Ronnie, and told her a few simple details she could pass on to Pearl’s children to reassure them she was safe before saying goodbye, knowing I wouldn’t find any information here. As I returned to the street, my stomach gave a low grumble so I figured now would be a good time to visit my parents and their kitchen.

~

I arrived before Garrett. I tried the door but it was locked and when I rang the doorbell, no one answered. Just as I was about to step back, I heard footsteps on the path behind me.

“There you are,” said Mom. “I thought you’d be by earlier. Did you come by earlier? We were out. Your father needed a new drill so we went to the hardware store.” My father, coming up the path behind her, waved.

“No, I just came now. I didn’t realize you were out. I thought you’d be home. You said to come for lunch.”

“Why would you think that?” asked Mom.

“You texted me!” I checked my watch. It was definitely a reasonable time for lunch.

“I do leave the house, you know. Just because we’re retired doesn’t mean we don’t have busy lives.”

“Got a great drill,” said Dad, holding up a box so I could see. “I’m going to put up shelves.”

“Sounds amazing,” I said.

“We do more interesting things than buy drills and put up shelves,” continued Mom, huffing at my father ruining her attempts to sound interesting. “I picked up a brochure for the archeology course at the adult education center. It doesn’t say anything about digging up skeletons. You’d think that would be on the syllabus.”

“Thankfully not,” said Dad, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

“I suppose you’ve had enough experience with that,” huffed Mom as he headed into the kitchen.

“I have,” he called back. “I don’t need to see any more dead bodies in this lifetime.”

Mom shook her head and continued, “I went down the street to check on the Dugans’ house first thing and see what the situation is. They have one police officer stationed outside.”

“He looked bored,” said Dad, returning. “He said they expect to be finished soon. The cadaver dogs went over the house and yard and didn’t find anything else.”

“Garrett mentioned that,” I said. “There’s no need for a police presence once they removed the body and finished examining the yard.”

“You tell your father that like he’s not a retired detective,” said Mom, shooting me a look.

“She’s right,” said Dad, without specifying which “she” he meant.

“Can you imagine cadaver dogs inside the house?” Mom shook her head as she stepped past me and whacked me with her shopping bag.

“Ow! I can. It was sensible to do.” I rubbed my arm and pulled a face at her back.

“Hmph,” snorted Mom.

“We’re glad we don’t have an unsanctioned graveyard on the street,” said Dad. “Although I always fancied living next to one, if only for the quiet.”

“Absolutely not,” said Mom, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She hustled to the kitchen as we trailed behind her. The house was quiet, cool, and unnaturally still. It felt less like home without the chaos of my siblings, nieces, and nephews, although I was sure my mom probably appreciated the peace. I could only secretly hope that I would contribute to the noisy brood sooner rather than later.

“So, what can you tell me about the former occupants? Did you know any of them?” I asked.

“I told you she’d ask. Didn’t I, Steve? Didn’t I?” Mom bristled happily.

“Yes,” said Dad. “Do you want to see my drill?”

“Maybe later.”

“It’s cordless!”

“She doesn’t want to see your drill. She wants to pump us for information,” cut in Mom.

“And lunch,” said Dad.

“Terrific idea,” I said. “Garrett is going to come by too.”

“I thought you picked a convenient time to drop in,” said Dad skeptically. Just as I was going to remind him, again, that Mom invited me, he continued, “I thought our grocery bill would go down once you all moved out but no.”

“Shush, dear. Lexi has questions. What were they?” asked Mom.

“The former occupants,” I reminded her. “Did you know any?”

“A few yes. You should have asked me last night. Did the Dugans ask you to take the case? I knew it was a good idea to call you!”

“They did, and thanks. The residents?” I prompted again as Mom started unloading her bag onto the kitchen counter.

“When you were a baby, we used to go to barbecues at the Batleys when they lived there. Now I wonder if I was standing on a corpse eating a hotdog. You probably crawled over it. It’s tainted the memories somewhat. I must tell them when I send a Christmas card.”

I swallowed and resolved to wash my hands more often. “Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes, absolutely. There will be more information to tell them at Christmas. If I tell them now, they’ll only have questions and there are no answers and then what will I have to write at Christmas?” Mom gave me a stern look. “Can you wrap this up by Christmas?”

“It’s months away!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Roger probably wasn’t in the ground when I was a baby.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief. I’ll tell the Batleys.”

“Who’s Roger?” asked Dad.

“The corpse. Keep up, darling,” said Mom.

“Can you remember any other residents as…” I stopped at the sound of the front door opening and footsteps in the hallway.

Garrett called out, “Hello?”

“In the kitchen,” called Mom. “Should I make food for everyone? I got fresh rolls from the bakery this morning. I can do cheese salad. And there’re fresh cookies.”

“Sounds good,” I decided as Mom headed to the refrigerator. “Garrett wants to hear everything too,” I told her.

“I feel like I’m the star witness,” said Mom, brightening.

“You are,” I said and she straightened, making herself a fraction taller, apparently ready to give her star turn in the witness kitchen.

“I’m glad I sprung for the good cookies,” she said. “What a treat.”

“I was just asking Mom about the past residents,” I said when Garrett appeared in the doorway.

“And I told your sister she probably played on the corpse as a baby.”

“We concluded I probably didn’t. Mom’s worried she was standing on the corpse at some point.”

“We probably all did,” said Dad cheerfully.

“When the ME narrows the dates down, I’ll be sure to let you know,” said Garrett. “So whom do you remember? Have there been many residents?”

“I helped them tear down a shed one year. You must have been fourteen,” Dad said to me. “Do you remember? I think you helped.”

I frowned, trying to recall the incident. “No, that was across the street,” I said. “They had a three-legged Labrador.”

“Oh,” said Dad, and shrugged.

“I’m surprised you two don’t remember but I suppose you never had friends in that house,” said Mom. She loaded the bread board with cheese, salad, condiments, and returned to the fridge for a slab of butter. “Let’s see. It’s not been occupied since the Singhs sold it to the Dugans but you already knew that. There were the Weinbergs, the Longs, the Singhs, and the Batleys were there when we moved in. The Longs were tenants because a landlord bought it to lease out but the rest were owners. Do you think the Dugans will stay? They seem such a nice family and we do need nice families in the neighborhood or we’ll just turn into an old people community and I don’t think that will be so nice if all we have to talk about is our aching hips and what kind of buffet we’ll have at our funerals.”

“Okay,” said Garrett, raising his eyebrows at me behind our mom’s back.

“And my drill,” said Dad.

“We didn’t really know the Weinbergs,” continued Mom, “but the Batleys were good friends. Do you remember them? Annie Batley used to braid Serena’s hair for her and you boys used to play with their boys? David and Matthew. They’re both married now. Matthew married a man but he never did like soccer so I suppose that’s why.”

“I don’t think that’s why, Mom,” I said.

“I don’t like soccer so much either and I married a woman,” said Garrett. “I remember David and Matt. David was rowdy. Matt spent a lot of time in the greenhouse with his dad.”

“That’s right, and digging in their vegetable garden. He’s a landscape designer now.” My mom stopped and gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “He would know how to bury a dead body! He got a lot of digging practice.”

“We all know how to bury a dead body,” I said. “You don’t need to take classes.”

Mom’s attention turned to me and she shook her head. “I raised you wrong,” she said. “But you are entertaining for the most part. Nothing like your sister.”

I held back from agreeing with her but it was an internal struggle.

“I think the body post-dates the Batleys,” said Garrett.

“That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure how to word the news that Matthew might be a murderer in the Christmas card to his parents,” said Mom.

“Do you recognize this man?” asked Garrett, taking a plastic baggie from his suit jacket as he stood. He crossed the kitchen in light, easy steps and handed it to Mom. I resisted the urge to finger open his pocket and see exactly how many baggies he stored in there. Were they all fresh? Did he ever reuse them? Did he bulk purchase them?

“Why are you looking at me like I smell?” asked Garrett.

“No reason. Is that the photo from the wallet?” I asked and he nodded.

“Hmm, there’s something familiar about him,” said Mom. “The man more than the boy. Put it on the table and let me think while I make the sandwiches. Stop hovering, Garrett, and sit down.”

“Yes, Mom,” said my big police lieutenant brother as he promptly pulled out a chair.

“Sit,” instructed Mom and Dad and I did too.

Mom set a plate each in front of us and another for herself, then she grabbed a pack of chips from the counter and juice from the refrigerator, directing me to immediately get up and find glasses in the cabinet. As she tipped the chips into a bowl, she said, “So the Batleys sold to the Weinbergs. Mr. Weinberg inherited a house in New Jersey from his parents so they sold it to the landlord. There were only a couple of tenants, I think. A family and then a single man. I don’t think he stayed long. The house was probably too big for him alone. No, Long wasn’t their name, was it? Let’s see. Long? No, that’s not right. Lang! It was Lang. Nice family, boys yours and Serena’s age.”

“Mine?” asked Garrett. He bit into his sandwich.

“No, Lexi’s. Nice family but their boys had different interests to our girls so that’s probably why we didn’t get together much and I remember the parents worked a lot so the boys were often staying with their grandparents, I think. The Langs stayed a few years, then bought a house in Chilton, I think. Then the man moved in a couple weeks later. Just him.”

“Do you know why a single man would want a house to himself?” I asked.

“I might have asked at the time but I really don’t recall. I do remember he worked away a lot. Always traveling. We had him over for neighborhood barbecues here and there. He was quite the charmer, I can tell you. Everyone liked him. He had a way with words. All the ladies thought he was wonderful; all the men liked him too because he always wanted to hear about their police stories. I’m not sure your dad liked him.” Mom paused to sip her juice, then reached for the photo, scooping it from under Dad’s reaching hand. “That could be him but his hair was different. A little longer, and he often had a beard.”

“Do you remember what happened to him?” I asked.

“No. I don’t think I even knew he left until I saw a realtor’s ‘for sale’ sign go up in the front yard. I wondered if he’d ripped off the landlord and gotten evicted, or if he’d run off without paying rent, because we never saw him again after that.” Mom continued studying the photo. “I think he did mention having a son that he didn’t see much but I don’t recall why. His name was Joe. The man, not the boy.”

“Joe what?” asked Garrett.

“Brown, maybe.” Mom shrugged.

“No, that’s not it,” said Dad, still trying to reach the photo as Mom moved it out the way, studying it intently.

“What was the name then?” asked Mom.

“I don’t remember,” said Dad “but it wasn’t Brown.”

“Anyway, then the Singhs moved in during your senior year, Lexi, and they were there for years. Or was it your junior year? Rav and Charvi. Two girls almost grown.”

“I remember them,” said Garrett.

“I don’t,” I said.

“You were in your wild era,” said Mom. “And the girls were all star track athletes.”

“That explains why I don’t remember them,” I said, deciding not to add because I was an all star underage drinking and party champion who used to make fun of the athletes.

“They went to the girls’ school,” said Mom. “Such pretty girls. Clever too. Someone once tied their car handles with shoelaces and dangled their sneakers from the aerial.”

“Now I remember them!” I brightened.

Mom narrowed her eyes. “I always suspected it was you.”

I feigned shock. “I would never!”

“Hmm,” snorted Mom, apparently unconvinced.

“Why did they move?” I asked, hoping to prod the subject along.

“Rav Singh got cancer a few years ago. He died within months, such an awful shame, and Charvi didn’t want to live there anymore. The girls had settled elsewhere and I think she left to be closer to them and the grandchildren.”

“That’s sad.”

“It is, but the silver lining is the house doubled in value since they bought it. Oh, you know what? I think I got the order wrong. Joe rented first, then it was the Langs. Joe Smithson.”

“Joe Smithson?” asked Garrett.

“That’s right. Yes, I’m sure this is him. Why? Where did you get this photo anyway?”

“From the corpse’s pocket.”

Mom screamed and dropped the photo. “Why would you hand it to me?!” she asked. She scraped her chair backwards and hurried to the sink, adding a double pump of hand soap, then plunging her hands under the faucet.

“It’s wrapped in plastic,” protested Garrett.

“Is that who the Dugans found? Was it Joe Smithson buried in the yard?” asked Dad.

“Hard to say,” said Garrett. “The driver’s license photo is the same man as this photo, but the name you suggested is different. I’m thinking it’s an alias.”

“Why would Joe need an alias?” asked Mom.

“A very good question,” said Garrett.