sputtering noise from the love seat; iced tea down the wrong pipe. Phil obligingly whacked him on the back.
D.D. ignored them both. “How often did you see the family?”
“Oh, least once a week at church. More during the summer. This is a nice neighborhood. Lots of kids play outside during the day. I like to take my tea on the front porch and watch the little ones riding their bikes and whatnot. Does a body good.”
“And the Harrington kids? What did they like to do?”
“Football, the boys. You’d see the older one and younger one playing catch. The girl, she was getting to that age where she just wanted to hang out with her friends. Denise commented that Molly was always pestering her for a ride to the mall. But sometimes, on the cooler evenings, you’d see a whole group out playing capture the flag or maybe hide-and-seek through everyone’s yards. Not a bad place to live, our neighborhood.”
D.D. made a note. “What were the kids doing this summer? Once school was out?”
“Summer camp at the Y,” Miss Patsy answered. “’Course, their father was home during the day, working on the house. Sometimes you’d see them hanging out with him. They liked to take breaks on the front porch. Renovation this time of year had to be pretty hot work.” Miss Patsy fanned herself.
“Family entertain much? Socialize with the rest of the block?”
“Yes, ma’am. They were happy to live here, wanted to get to know everyone. I had the impression their previous home wasn’t in a very safe neighborhood—not a good place for kids, Denise would say. Like I said, they were real happy to move here.”
“You ever hear them fighting?” D.D. asked bluntly. “Patrick and Denise?”
“You mean screaming at each other in the middle of the night?”
“Yeah, that sort of thing.”
“No, ma’am.” Miss Patsy said it primly.
“We heard Patrick lost his job. Money must’ve been tight.”
“Tough times all over,” Miss Patsy observed. “I still saw themputting a dollar or two in the tithe plate when it passed; they weren’t destitute yet.”
“Never heard them argue about it? Or taking an extra cocktail or two to help them unwind?”
“Never saw them drinking anything stronger than wine and beer. They were responsible people.”
“Drugs?”
“I already told you—no need to go down that road. Not with the Harringtons.” Miss Patsy gave a little sniff, as if maybe the same could not be said for some of the other neighbors.
“What about Denise and the kids? Did they have a tendency toward large bruises, broken bones? Report a lot of strange accidents?”
“Like falling down the stairs or running into doorknobs?” Miss Patsy asked.
“Exactly.”
“No, ma’am. Patrick didn’t beat his family. Maybe he should’ve with the younger one. Lord knows I watched that kid provoke his father time and time again. But Patrick held his temper. He was a good man. In church, he would pray for patience. He knew what he was up against.”
D.D. exchanged glances with Phil and Alex. “What do you mean, ‘what he was up against’?”
“The younger son, the adopted child, he was trouble. Face of an angel, soul of the Devil, if you ask me.”
“The youngest child was adopted? The boy?” D.D. flipped through her notes. “Oswald?”
“Ozzie’s mother died when he was three years old. Guess folks didn’t find her until months later. All that time, he lived in the apartment with her body, eating every last piece of food in the cupboards, including flour, cardboard, powdered lemonade. Denise told me when the social workers tried to take him away, the poor child broke down and started screaming uncontrollably. He spent some time in a psychiatric unit for little kids. I never knew they even had such a thing.”
This was news. D.D. could feel both Alex and Phil leaning forward. She kept her eyes on Miss Patsy. “Know the name of the hospital where they admitted the child?”
“Someplace in Boston. He was
D.D. ignored them both. “How often did you see the family?”
“Oh, least once a week at church. More during the summer. This is a nice neighborhood. Lots of kids play outside during the day. I like to take my tea on the front porch and watch the little ones riding their bikes and whatnot. Does a body good.”
“And the Harrington kids? What did they like to do?”
“Football, the boys. You’d see the older one and younger one playing catch. The girl, she was getting to that age where she just wanted to hang out with her friends. Denise commented that Molly was always pestering her for a ride to the mall. But sometimes, on the cooler evenings, you’d see a whole group out playing capture the flag or maybe hide-and-seek through everyone’s yards. Not a bad place to live, our neighborhood.”
D.D. made a note. “What were the kids doing this summer? Once school was out?”
“Summer camp at the Y,” Miss Patsy answered. “’Course, their father was home during the day, working on the house. Sometimes you’d see them hanging out with him. They liked to take breaks on the front porch. Renovation this time of year had to be pretty hot work.” Miss Patsy fanned herself.
“Family entertain much? Socialize with the rest of the block?”
“Yes, ma’am. They were happy to live here, wanted to get to know everyone. I had the impression their previous home wasn’t in a very safe neighborhood—not a good place for kids, Denise would say. Like I said, they were real happy to move here.”
“You ever hear them fighting?” D.D. asked bluntly. “Patrick and Denise?”
“You mean screaming at each other in the middle of the night?”
“Yeah, that sort of thing.”
“No, ma’am.” Miss Patsy said it primly.
“We heard Patrick lost his job. Money must’ve been tight.”
“Tough times all over,” Miss Patsy observed. “I still saw themputting a dollar or two in the tithe plate when it passed; they weren’t destitute yet.”
“Never heard them argue about it? Or taking an extra cocktail or two to help them unwind?”
“Never saw them drinking anything stronger than wine and beer. They were responsible people.”
“Drugs?”
“I already told you—no need to go down that road. Not with the Harringtons.” Miss Patsy gave a little sniff, as if maybe the same could not be said for some of the other neighbors.
“What about Denise and the kids? Did they have a tendency toward large bruises, broken bones? Report a lot of strange accidents?”
“Like falling down the stairs or running into doorknobs?” Miss Patsy asked.
“Exactly.”
“No, ma’am. Patrick didn’t beat his family. Maybe he should’ve with the younger one. Lord knows I watched that kid provoke his father time and time again. But Patrick held his temper. He was a good man. In church, he would pray for patience. He knew what he was up against.”
D.D. exchanged glances with Phil and Alex. “What do you mean, ‘what he was up against’?”
“The younger son, the adopted child, he was trouble. Face of an angel, soul of the Devil, if you ask me.”
“The youngest child was adopted? The boy?” D.D. flipped through her notes. “Oswald?”
“Ozzie’s mother died when he was three years old. Guess folks didn’t find her until months later. All that time, he lived in the apartment with her body, eating every last piece of food in the cupboards, including flour, cardboard, powdered lemonade. Denise told me when the social workers tried to take him away, the poor child broke down and started screaming uncontrollably. He spent some time in a psychiatric unit for little kids. I never knew they even had such a thing.”
This was news. D.D. could feel both Alex and Phil leaning forward. She kept her eyes on Miss Patsy. “Know the name of the hospital where they admitted the child?”
“Someplace in Boston. He was
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