The Good Neighbor

by A. J. Banner

  Nobody answered the doorbell at the Ramirez house, and the driveway was empty, but I could sense someone watching me. I walked around to Jessie’s room. The moss beneath the window was scuffed and flattened. She could’ve sneaked out, dropped to the ground, and slipped along the side of the house and down to the road. And Felix Calassis, insomniac glued to his night-vision binoculars, would’ve watched her, keeping her secrets. My mind raced in crazy directions. Had Jessie set fire to the Kimballs’ house? Had she been jealous of Monique? Had she somehow expected Chad to survive?

  “What are you doing?” a voice said nearby.

  I turned to see Jessie approaching me through the grass. “Looking for you,” I said.

  “Why?” Jessie stiffened, suddenly guarded. She looked exhausted, her mascara smudged beneath her eyes. “I’m so burned out. Everything sucks.”

  “I’m glad you’re home.” She wore large hoop earrings—she’d been wearing the same earrings the night of the fire. In that moment, I realized what had been nagging at me about her. “You were already up when the fire started. You were dressed when you came over.”

  “Yeah, so what?” Jessie stepped back, an invisible wall going up around her.

  “You changed pretty quickly. Hard to pull on those skinny jeans, isn’t it? You have to lie down on the bed, hold your breath, and—”

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “Did you sneak out your window that night?”

  Jessie leaned on one hip, looked at her shoes, canvas Keds. The left shoe had a small rip near the toe. “They already asked me five thousand questions. The investigation is an epic fail.”

  “What should they be doing?”

  Jessie shrugged, then looked at me through those wide, kohl-rimmed eyes. “They should be catching the guy.” She traipsed around to the front porch, and I followed.

  “You left through your bedroom window to meet Adrian, didn’t you?”

  Jessie’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t have anything to do with the fire. I swear.”

  “What about him? Did he have anything to do with it? Could he have . . . left something at the scene?”

  “Like what? He was with me. When we got back, Adrian coasted down the road with the lights off . . . and I came home.”

  “You climbed back in your window.”

  She looked up at me with desperation in her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  “Sarah, please! I didn’t do anything. Adrian didn’t either. I swear.” Jessie bit her lip, looked down at her shoe tapping the step. “Why does everyone think Adrian is some kind of criminal?”

  “Did you see anyone else out that night?”

  “Nobody.” Her gaze shifted to her cell phone. A text had just come through. She looked up at me. “So, you’re moving away.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “I heard it—some place up north?” She gave me an accusatory look.

  “I saw a nice place, yes.”

  “You didn’t want me to run away, but now you’re running away.”

  “I’m not. I have a book signing next week, things to do here. I’m not going anywhere.” This was true. I couldn’t move so far away from Jessie, from Mia, from Harriet. From Natalie, when she got back.

  From Johnny.

  “I’ll try to, like, make your book thing,” Jessie said. Adrian’s low-riding black Buick turned the corner, its deep bass beat thumping along the road.

  “You’re still with him?” I said. “He nearly yanked your arm out—”

  “He didn’t mean it. He’s not like that.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I’m home, aren’t I? Isn’t that what everyone wanted?”

  “Oh, Jessie, it’s about your future.”

  “This is my future.” The car pulled up to the curb, the engine idling. Adrian turned down the music. I had no time to ask any more questions. Jessie was already hurrying down the driveway, and I could do nothing to stop her from getting into Adrian’s car with him and riding away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I couldn’t get much writing done in the cottage. I missed Johnny. The trouble was, I loved him. Love—mysterious, inexplicable, perhaps self-destructive. I felt bereft without him, like a ghost pretending to live. When I imagined spending days, months, years without him, my muscles tightened, and my head ached. I’d find myself crying at odd times—in the middle of the night, or if I spotted a rabbit in the underbrush, or a rainbow at dawn, or a deer standing motionless at the edge of the woods. I would almost go and ask Johnny to come and see, and then I would remember that he wasn’t there, and my heart would sink. And the longer he stayed away, the farther from me he seemed to become.

  The Minkowskis appeared to be gone. Had Theresa been an interlude, another temporary fling? When I had confronted him about his clandestine side trips to the Minkowskis’ house, he’d said, It’s not what you think. Eris kept urging me to make an offer on the writer’s retreat up north. But her friend, the owner, was in no hurry to sell. And I could not bring myself to make a decision.

  I had called the hotel in San Francisco. It had taken some sleuthing, but I had eventually spoken to the bartender who’d been on duty the night Johnny had met his colleague in the bar. The colleague had left without him, and Johnny had remained in the bar for a while on his own, talking to a male friend before returning to his room. Score one point for Johnny.

  But still, many questions remained unanswered. Who’d been calling him and hanging up? Another woman, about whom I knew nothing?

  I had almost canceled the book signing, but Eris had encouraged me to go. She’d loaned me a black Chanel sweater with a gold border. “You’ll have fun,” she’d said. “The signing will be a good distraction. The bookstore is lovely, too.”

  She was right. In an elegant blue Victorian, Shadow Cove Bookstore sat on a gentle hillside overlooking the ocean. The night of the signing, the owner, Mary Wells, greeted me at the door with her high-wattage smile.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” she said. She’d made flyers and posters and had arranged cookies and drinks on a table, my books displayed on another. How could I say no?

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you for everything.” Families began to show up with their children, until a dense crowd formed in the rows of chairs in front of the podium. I had not imagined so many fans in such a small town. Mary introduced me with aplomb, and I thanked her, then stepped up to speak. The room quieted. I had to survive this evening, the launch of my latest Miracle Mouse mystery, the book so crisp and new that the spine cracked a little when I opened to the first page. The smell of freshly inked paper gave me a small thrill, despite my sadness, and reminded me that I was still alive.

  I spoke a little about the origins of Miracle Mouse, and then I read from the book. Miracle’s adventures felt trivial, but the children loved the drama. They sat cross-legged in the front row, enraptured.

  And then, Johnny arrived. He stood in the back of the audience, half in shadow. He was still in a formal shirt from work. Theresa arrived at the same time. She and Johnny stood shoulder to shoulder. She wore her hair swept up in a carefree way, as if the style was an afterthought, revealing the curve of her neck.

  I faltered, then kept reading, determined to reach the end of the passage. Applause rippled through the front row of kids, and one shouted, “More!” Mia and Harriet stood off to the side, near the children’s book section.

  “Sarah will be signing books,” Mary said, coming to the front of the crowd. “If you would like to ask any questions, now is the time.”

  Hands shot up in the audience. In the back, Theresa bent her head a little, turned toward Johnny. He leaned down, and she cupped her hand against his ear, whispered something. He straightened up and smiled. How could they do this? Come to my book signing together? Share secrets? Mock me?

  Mary chose someone to ask a question, a white-haired man in the second row
. He stood and cleared his throat. “My question is, what’s your writing process?”

  I smiled at him as I tried to formulate an answer. Did I even have a process anymore? “I write every morning for a few hours before other obligations intrude,” I lied. I had once done so. Now I struggled. “Writing is part of who I am. Every day.” Another lie.

  The man nodded and sat down.

  Theresa whispered to Johnny again. How could she have so much to say to him? She caught my eye and waved at me. I did not wave back. More questions followed, about where my ideas came from (I had no clue), whether Miracle Mouse was anything like me. An autobiographical mouse. Or not. Finally, Mary rescued me, taking my arm. “If you’ll line up at the front, Sarah will sign books now.”

  “I have to make a pit stop,” I said to her. I could no longer see Johnny through the throng. I dashed to the bathroom, but Harriet stopped me. Her face looked pale and drawn. Mia stood next to her, eyes wide, gripping her grandmother’s hand.

  “Mia, Harriet! Thank you for coming,” I said, realizing I should have said hello to them earlier. I reached down and hugged Mia. “How is my little princess?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Mia was unnaturally polite, perhaps subdued by all the people. “Am I going to your house?”

  “I don’t know—what does your grandma say?”

  “Grandma says we’re going home for now,” Harriet said.

  I touched her arm. “How are you? I left you a few messages.”

  “I meant to call you back, but I’ve been preoccupied,” Harriet said. “I have to go in overnight again.”

  “Harriet, oh, my goodness.”

  “Could you take Mia? I know it’s short notice.”

  A man jostled me as he passed. “Certainly, of course. I would be happy to . . . But when?” I would have to do this one alone.

  Mia tugged at her grandmother’s arm. “I want to go to Auntie Sarah’s house. She has a donut swing.”

  “You can come back anytime,” I said.

  “Thank you, Sarah.” Harriet gave me a grateful smile.

  Somebody was calling for me, and Mia and Harriet disappeared in the crowd. I rushed to the bathroom, locked myself inside, splashed cold water on my face. I couldn’t go back out there, couldn’t face all those people. But there was no other exit from the bathroom.

  I had no choice. I had to sign books. When I opened the door, Johnny stood in front of me. He had the haggard look of a troubled, haunted man. He took me in his arms, held me tight. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “I’ve missed you, too.” It was the truth. But my body could not relax against him.

  “I want to come home.”

  “Home? You mean the cottage?”

  “Wherever. Home is with you.”

  “I’m not ready. What about Theresa?” I pulled away, my body stiffening.

  “I need to show you something. I wanted to do this earlier, but the Minkowskis were away.”

  “I have to sign books.”

  “That’s okay,” Johnny said, taking my hand and leading me back out into the crowd. “I’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Johnny followed me back to the cottage in his RAV4, parked behind my car, and walked me over to the Minkowskis’ house. A soft rain pattered down in the darkness.

  “What are we doing here?” I said.

  He took my hand. “You wanted to know what’s been going on. I’m going to show you.”

  “So, you have been coming here to see Theresa.”

  “Give me a chance.” He looked at me with that clear-eyed, sincere gaze. “I was going to wait, but now, considering you and I are not even sleeping under the same roof, I have to show you.”

  “What do you mean, show me?”

  “Bear with me.” He steered me up the steps and in through the front door. Theresa must’ve known we were coming. I smelled chemicals again, and perfume.

  “Kadin’s out with his dad,” Johnny said.

  “Hey, Sarah,” Theresa said, coming down the hall. She looked stunning with her hair swept up.

  “What’s going on?” I said, a bitter taste on my tongue.

  “Come on back. I want to show you something.”

  Johnny let go of my hand and ushered me forward, ahead of him.

  I followed Theresa down the hall, and into a spacious room in the back. Johnny stayed right behind me. The lights were dim, large windows facing the backyard. The room was lined with shelves and supplies—bottles of cleaners, chemicals, lacquer, oils. Brushes and glues. There were two long worktables with myriad pieces of artwork and ceramics in various states of disrepair or repair, depending on one’s viewpoint.

  There was an easel covered in burlap. Theresa walked into the center of the room. Then she spread her arms and took a deep breath. “This is it, my home workshop.” She and Johnny traded another knowing look. I pictured him veering off the main trail in the woods, heading here to rendezvous with Theresa.

  Johnny gave her a subtle nod, and she lifted the canvas cover and flipped it back over the easel. The cover fluttered to the ground. The smell of paint grew stronger. She stepped aside to reveal a painting I had never expected to see again. I gasped, unable to speak.

  “This is what I’ve been working on, when I have time,” Theresa said. “Johnny brought it over after the fire.”

  I stared at Miracle Mouse, the painting partly restored. No frame. A gray film of soot still covered the bottom third, the paint darkened as if a permanent diagonal shadow had fallen over the canvas. But the darkness gave way to light. The top two-thirds of the painting looked new, replenished, vibrant.

  I moved in slow motion toward the picture, reached out, pulled back my hand. The paint was still wet. This was Miracle Mouse, her whiskers alive, almost twitching. Miracle with her shiny spectacles, her erudite eyes. One ear flopping forward, the round glasses slipping down her nose.

  I turned to Johnny, my eyes full of tears. “When did you find this? How did the painting survive?”

  “It was the only thing in your study that wasn’t completely burned. A miracle.”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “It was blackened and warped,” Theresa said. “The canvas was cracked. The painting was badly fire-damaged. When Johnny brought it to me, he wasn’t sure if it was salvageable, and neither was I. But I told him I would try to save it. He said it meant a lot to you.”

  Tears slipped down my cheeks. “Thank you—yes. My grandmother painted it. I thought . . . I thought Miracle Mouse was gone.”

  “I can brighten the rest of the painting, but it’s going to take a while,” Theresa said. “We were going to give it to you by your birthday in December.”

  “But you kept following me over here,” Johnny said. “I came to check on the progress of Theresa’s work, but then you decided to be a sleuth.”

  What was I seeing? A glimmer of our former life, like a single ray of sunlight in the darkness. “I . . . didn’t realize. Theresa, thank you. You can work miracles.”

  “I can’t. But I try. Not everything can be saved,” she said. “Miracle will never be entirely new again, but I can bring her pretty damned close.”

  “Restoration is her specialty,” Johnny said. “I was going to give it to you good as new, but as you see, it’s not done.”

  “This is why you were coming over here,” I said.

  He nodded, and Theresa looked down at her shoes. “When you started asking me questions, I had to think fast,” he said. “I kept compounding my lies. I’m not used to doing that. I’m not perfect, but I’m not a liar.”

  I wiped away my tears. “I’m almost disappointed that it’s not going to be a surprise.”

  “We held off as long as we could,” Theresa said, smiling at Johnny. He shrugged, looked at the floor.

  We all went back to the front door, and Johnny walked me back to the cottage.

  “When can we resolve this?” he said. “I want to be with you.”

  I looked into
his eyes, not sure what I saw there. He looked so sincere, regretful. “I believe you, and what you did . . . it’s beautiful and thoughtful.”

  He stepped closer. “I don’t want you away from me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.”

  Neither can I. “I need a little more time. To process everything.”

  “Is there a chance for us?” he said.

  I hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, there is a chance.”

  He breathed a deep sigh of relief, his whole body relaxing. “Good.” He touched my cheek gently, and as he turned and headed for his car, Ryan Greene drove up and parked. When he got out, his face was grim. He appeared to have been interrupted in the middle of a workout. He wore running shoes and a jogging suit that conformed to his tall, muscular frame, his hair windswept and damp.

  I instantly tightened, wanting to turn and stride away from him. If he planned to interrogate me again, I would have none of it.

  “Thought you’d like to know,” Ryan said. “We believe we’ve identified the arsonist.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Shadow Cove Register

  Arsonist suspect found dead of an overdose

  Forty-year-old Todd Severson was found dead in his Olalla home today of an apparent overdose of methamphetamine, according to police, although further details will not be released before an autopsy can be performed. Mr. Severson was a person of interest in the arson investigation into the deaths of two Shadow Cove residents last month and the destruction of two homes in a fire on Sitka Lane, in addition to other unsolved arson cases in the county.

  “We cannot draw conclusions at this time,” said Fire Marshal Ryan Greene of the Shadow Cove Fire Department. According to Severson’s neighbors, he was a quiet man who kept to himself and ran Severson Home Repair and Remodeling, helping various residents with projects around town. He was also a volunteer firefighter.

  “You never would’ve known he was into drugs,” said neighbor Kathy McClinnon, forty-nine. “Course, after his wife left, he kept to himself more. Worked a lot more.”

  Severson’s estranged wife declined to comment . . .

  Eris put down the newspaper and shook her head. “I can’t believe he was the arsonist. I had him coming to your cottage—and working on other properties.”