Read Online The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) by Mery Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mery Jones
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we’d have Christmas and Easter; the next year, Hanukkah and Passover. Well, some years, we’d have both.”
“You’re serious?”
He was. “Two of us had confirmations; the other two had bar mitzvahs. Looking back, I guess it was odd. But it didn’t seem that way. To us, it was normal.”
His eyes gazed into his past, his childhood. They seemed pleased with what they saw. Nick turned, facing me. “So, we’re committed to Oliver?”
“I don’t know…”
“Eli Oliver. Anthony Oliver. Samuel Oliver. Oliver Solomon— or Solomon Oliver—”
I pounced, planting a kiss on his mouth to silence him. We laughed, rolling in each other’s arms, filled with joy and jitters, both acutely aware that picking a name was a heavy responsibility, loaded with repercussions. And that it would be merely the first of many such responsibilities on our imminent parental trek.
T HIRTEEN
T HE NEXT MORNING THE sky swelled with dark clouds that hung heavy and gray. Monday. The phone rang early, while I was getting dressed, and it took me a moment to identify the crusty voice. “How’s it going, girlfriend?”
Lettie’s unmistakable gravelly voice was checking on my father. “The whole neighborhood’s alarmed, girlfriend. Especially our Town Watch group. Beatrice was one of us, and we want to help out any way we can. People like Beatrice are rare to come by. Treasures. I always told her, ‘Beatrice, there isn’t anything in this world that will ever come between us. Nothing can tear apart our friendship. You and me, we’re friends for life.’ For life, I told her. ‘Til death us do part, just like a married couple. That’s how I do my friendships, girl. You’ll see. For life. So, have they arrested Walter? Because nothing was in the paper about an arrest. He wasn’t even mentioned by name.”
I was in a hurry to leave, but Lettie persisted, darting from one topic to another, asking if she could do anything for me, if little dollface was okay, going on about children and how they are God’s gifts. Asking, by the way, if I’d heard anything about the status of Beatrice’s body or funeral because nobody seemed to know anything about it, as the police had taken her away. Insisting that I stop by for coffee and cake next time I came over; she’d made fresh lemon poppy seed cake just that morning, which wasn’t easy anymore with her arthritis acting up like it always did before a storm. Dogs barked in the background, at times drowning her voice out, and I was desperate to get off the phone. I assured Lettie that we were all right, thanked her for calling, promised to be in touch and to have coffee with her, and hung up abruptly, trying to escape her raspy questions and the images they stirred up. I had no desire to bond with my father’s neighbors or to gossip about the brutal murder found in his house. I had to get away from all that. To work, to concentrate on my own life.
Outside, the air held still, cloudy and chilly, promising an October storm. I put aside thoughts of Lettie’s call, but the memories she’d stirred merged with the dark sky and damp air, unsettling me. The cabdriver who dropped me off on the circular drive to the Institute warned that it was going to pour; just like Lettie, he knew because of his rheumatism. It never failed. He could predict the weather by his joints.
Even the Institute seemed to foresee a storm. The sprawling bulk of the building seemed to lie low, as if trying to conceal itself among the trees and vast landscaping that surrounded it. Without sunshine, the place seemed more melancholy than usual, its Victorian red brick and stone facade dour with gloom.
For over a hundred years, the Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute had housed people afflicted with diseases of the mind. Their voices still echoed there, lost within its walls. My task was to help those voices express themselves, finding solace and direction through art. So I pulled open a heavy cut-glass door and, despite the
“You’re serious?”
He was. “Two of us had confirmations; the other two had bar mitzvahs. Looking back, I guess it was odd. But it didn’t seem that way. To us, it was normal.”
His eyes gazed into his past, his childhood. They seemed pleased with what they saw. Nick turned, facing me. “So, we’re committed to Oliver?”
“I don’t know…”
“Eli Oliver. Anthony Oliver. Samuel Oliver. Oliver Solomon— or Solomon Oliver—”
I pounced, planting a kiss on his mouth to silence him. We laughed, rolling in each other’s arms, filled with joy and jitters, both acutely aware that picking a name was a heavy responsibility, loaded with repercussions. And that it would be merely the first of many such responsibilities on our imminent parental trek.
T HIRTEEN
T HE NEXT MORNING THE sky swelled with dark clouds that hung heavy and gray. Monday. The phone rang early, while I was getting dressed, and it took me a moment to identify the crusty voice. “How’s it going, girlfriend?”
Lettie’s unmistakable gravelly voice was checking on my father. “The whole neighborhood’s alarmed, girlfriend. Especially our Town Watch group. Beatrice was one of us, and we want to help out any way we can. People like Beatrice are rare to come by. Treasures. I always told her, ‘Beatrice, there isn’t anything in this world that will ever come between us. Nothing can tear apart our friendship. You and me, we’re friends for life.’ For life, I told her. ‘Til death us do part, just like a married couple. That’s how I do my friendships, girl. You’ll see. For life. So, have they arrested Walter? Because nothing was in the paper about an arrest. He wasn’t even mentioned by name.”
I was in a hurry to leave, but Lettie persisted, darting from one topic to another, asking if she could do anything for me, if little dollface was okay, going on about children and how they are God’s gifts. Asking, by the way, if I’d heard anything about the status of Beatrice’s body or funeral because nobody seemed to know anything about it, as the police had taken her away. Insisting that I stop by for coffee and cake next time I came over; she’d made fresh lemon poppy seed cake just that morning, which wasn’t easy anymore with her arthritis acting up like it always did before a storm. Dogs barked in the background, at times drowning her voice out, and I was desperate to get off the phone. I assured Lettie that we were all right, thanked her for calling, promised to be in touch and to have coffee with her, and hung up abruptly, trying to escape her raspy questions and the images they stirred up. I had no desire to bond with my father’s neighbors or to gossip about the brutal murder found in his house. I had to get away from all that. To work, to concentrate on my own life.
Outside, the air held still, cloudy and chilly, promising an October storm. I put aside thoughts of Lettie’s call, but the memories she’d stirred merged with the dark sky and damp air, unsettling me. The cabdriver who dropped me off on the circular drive to the Institute warned that it was going to pour; just like Lettie, he knew because of his rheumatism. It never failed. He could predict the weather by his joints.
Even the Institute seemed to foresee a storm. The sprawling bulk of the building seemed to lie low, as if trying to conceal itself among the trees and vast landscaping that surrounded it. Without sunshine, the place seemed more melancholy than usual, its Victorian red brick and stone facade dour with gloom.
For over a hundred years, the Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute had housed people afflicted with diseases of the mind. Their voices still echoed there, lost within its walls. My task was to help those voices express themselves, finding solace and direction through art. So I pulled open a heavy cut-glass door and, despite the
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