Disturbed

by Kevin O'Brien

  The police asked if Angela had mentioned any other strange goings-on. Molly remembered the attempted breakin at Larry’s house two weeks ago. “She said the kitchen window screen had been removed,” Molly recalled. “But it didn’t look like anything was missing.”

  The police already knew about it. Angela and Larry had reported the incident twelve days before.

  The two detectives said they wanted to talk to Jeff as soon as he came home. His flight was due into SeaTac at 3:55. “Where’s Mr. Dennehy flying in from?” one of the cops asked.

  “Washington, D.C.,” Molly replied. “He’s been there since Monday.”

  “Where was he staying?”

  “The Capital Hilton,” Molly answered. But then she remembered talking to the hotel operator earlier. Molly watched the police detective writing it down, and decided not to say anything.

  The cops said they’d be back to talk with Jeff.

  As Molly showed them to the front door, she glanced outside. Two TV news vans were parked in front of the house. No one had rung the bell yet. But the vans had attracted a few onlookers. Three strange cars were parked on the block, and about a dozen people stood in the middle of the street, gawking at the news vans and the house. An older couple had their bikes with them. They must have been out for a ride when they spotted the TV news trucks.

  Half hiding behind the door, Molly watched the reporters and cameramen rush out of their vans to interview the two policemen.

  Molly noticed yet another van crawling down the cul-de-sac, but this one was a moving van.

  The vehicle made an incessant beeping noise over a chorus of hissing and grinding as it backed into Kay’s old driveway next door. Molly couldn’t help thinking that the new neighbor had picked one hell of a lousy day to move in.

  The police hadn’t been gone five minutes when Lynette Hahn came by with Courtney, Carson, and Dakota in tow. She’d pulled the kids out of school so they could help Chris and Erin through this awful tragedy. Just in time for lunch, she’d also brought along enough McDonald’s to feed a small army. It was actually a good call. With a Happy Meal and Lynette’s bratty kids to distract her, Erin seemed to perk up a little. She and the little monsters parked themselves in front of some cartoons on the Disney Channel.

  Chris remained barricaded in his room. He didn’t want to see anyone — including Courtney. So she spent most of the time sitting at the breakfast table, sipping a milk shake and texting friends on her iPhone.

  Molly never thought she’d be grateful for Lynette Hahn’s company, but she was. Lynette helped screen the calls, and twice she chased away reporters who dared to ring the doorbell. And having not had a scrap of food all morning — when she was eating for two — Molly was glad for the cheeseburger and fries. She devoured them.

  She was able to steal a moment and brought some of the food up to Chris’s room. She gently knocked on his door.

  “Could you go away, please?” Chris called, in a voice hoarse from crying.

  “I know you don’t want to see anybody,” Molly said, leaning close to his door. “But you need to eat something. There’s a double cheeseburger, large fries, and a Coke for you. I’m leaving it outside the door here.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Chris?” she said. “I just want you to know, you were so good with Erin this morning. The way you took care of her and got her to calm down, I think your mom would have been very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Molly,” he said, still raspy. “Can you leave me alone now?”

  “Sure, Chris,” she said. Then she left the McDonald’s bag and the Coke by his door.

  In the upstairs hallway, she could hear Lynette down in the family room, chiding one of her children: “If you want to make yourself sick to your stomach with even more candy and more soda pop, Dakota, you just go right ahead.”

  Molly felt a little sick herself. Either she’d eaten that burger too fast, or the baby was stirring things up. She hurried into the master bathroom and stood over the toilet for a few minutes, hoping the nausea would pass. As she tentatively stood there, Molly began to weep. She wasn’t sure why. She’d never liked Angela very much.

  She remembered Angela telling her at lunch yesterday how scared she was. She’d talked about calling a truce. The person calling Angela must have been responsible for hiring the investigator in Chicago, for the smashed pumpkins, and for Chris’s broken locker.

  Molly hadn’t told the policemen about any of those things. They just didn’t seem to have anything to do with the cul-de-sac killings.

  But maybe they did.

  Suddenly, she felt her stomach churn, and she thought for certain she was going to throw up. But she held back and took a few deep breaths. The awful sensation passed — for now.

  When she came back out to the hallway, she smiled a little. The McDonald’s bag outside Chris’s door wasn’t there anymore. At least he was eating something.

  In Erin’s room, the bed covering was askew. Molly stepped in to straighten the quilt on the bed. Leaning beside Angela’s rocker, she glanced out the window — at the crowd in front of the house. Now there were three TV news vans, a cop car, and about thirty people just gaping at the house.

  Next door, movers were unloading furniture from the van and hauling it into Kay’s old house.

  Natalie, in her usual running attire, jogged down the block, passing people on her way back to the Nguyens’ house. Her dark blond hair, in a ponytail, slapped back and forth between her shoulder blades. She barely slowed down to see what everyone was gawking at.

  Down the block at Hank and Frank’s old place, Jill’s car was parked in the driveway. In a first-floor window, Molly could see the flickering light of a big-screen TV.

  Stepping away from the window, she put a hand on the back of Angela’s rocking chair. Molly remembered something else the now-dead Mrs. Dennehy had said to her yesterday.

  “Do you think it’s possible somebody is trying to pit us against each other?”

  She easily blended in with the rest of the crowd loitering in front of the Dennehys’ house. Another patrol car had come up the street and parked beside the TV news vehicles. For a while, the only thing the crowd had to look at was the furniture being unloaded from the moving van parked next door. But now, Lynette Hahn was giving them a show.

  Standing on the Dennehys’ front stoop as if the place were hers, Lynette held her youngest child, Dakota, in her arms while the TV news cameras rolled. “Angela was a wonderful mother, a great neighbor, and my dear, dear friend,” she announced with tears in her eyes. She patted Dakota on the back. “It’s such a tragedy, and so senseless. Two of the nicest kids you’d ever want to meet are now without a mother. We’re on a cul-de-sac here. Angela moved from one cul-de-sac to another. You never think anything like this will happen to someone you know, someone you care about and love. But it just goes to show — until this maniac is caught, none of us who live on a cul-de-sac in the Seattle area is safe. . ”

  The crowd seemed pretty mesmerized. But then, what did they know, a bunch of idiots who had nothing better to do than follow TV news vans around?

  They had no idea what Lynette Hahn was really like.

  Courtney Hahn’s former guidance counselor at the high school had referred to Lynette as a “royal pain in the ass.” She used to phone Ray Corson constantly with complaints — and at his home, too. Why wasn’t her daughter given the solo in the school concert? How could the coach let Courtney sit on the bench for the entire first half of the volleyball game? Why did she only get a C+ on that English literature test?

  Mr. Corson wrote in his notes after a parent-teacher conference with Lynette Hahn, to which she’d brought along Dakota:

  For someone who considers herself Supermom, she does very little to keep her kids in line. Dakota was a terror throughout the whole session. Lynette Hahn is one of those parents who suffers under the delusion that everyone should think their children are cute. It’s as if the rest of the world has to make
concessions for her coddled, bratty kids. No wonder Courtney’s so screwed up and selfish. Lynette Hahn’s brand of motherhood is helping to turn out a generation of spoiled snotty kids with an exaggerated sense of entitlement and no accountability. .

  Ray Corson wrote about the only time he met Courtney’s dad. It was another parent — teacher conference:

  I don’t like Jeremy Hahn at all. The guy is very arrogant. He had his BlackBerry on throughout the entire parent-teacher session. He made one call and took two — neither of which were related to his business or his daughter. For one of those calls, he was talking about getting tickets to a Mariners game. Courtney once told me that she thought her father cared more about his fancy car, his clothes, and his high-tech toys than he did for his family. I don’t think she was exaggerating about him, and that’s very disturbing. It gives credence to the more sordid things she has told me about her father — like his fondness for teen porn (she claims he has a collection of adult DVDs hidden in the back of a cabinet in his study), and the way he sometimes looks at her girlfriends. Courtney said her mother has totally blinded herself to it. I thought she might be making it up to get my attention & sympathy. Now, after meeting the SOB, I’m not so sure. .

  She observed Lynette Hahn in front of the Dennehys’ door, holding her daughter in her arms. “I’m just stunned,” she told the TV newspeople, her voice choked with emotion. “I’m overwhelmed with grief. . ”

  Watching Lynette in action, she wondered how the self-delusional Supermom would handle the press next time — when they’d be gathering outside her door.

  Molly didn’t say anything.

  She just slumped back in her chair and smiled at Jeff, who sat beside her at the head of the kitchen table. She held on to his hand.

  On the countertop behind her was a large Pagliacci Pizza box with one piece of discarded crust in it and an emptiedout salad container. Chris and Erin had cleared their plates away. Erin was now parked in front of the TV in the family room. Chris was upstairs in his room with Elvis, who had stopped by after dinner.

  It almost seemed like a normal night.

  Jeff looked tired. He was finishing off his second glass of merlot. As much as she could have used a nice, big glass of wine, Molly had insisted she was in the mood for a 7UP. “I get the worst headache after drinking wine lately,” she’d said. And Jeff had seemed to buy the excuse.

  Apparently, Jeff had managed to catch an earlier plane. There had been some confusion when the cops had gone to meet him at the gate at SeaTac for his original 3:55 flight. But it all got straightened out, and the police detectives interviewed Jeff in the living room for ninety minutes.

  While the police were still talking to Jeff, Lynette and her tribe headed home. Molly thanked her for the lunch, for talking to the TV reporters, and for being such a good neighbor. She felt beholden to Lynette — until she caught her little speech on the 5:30 news. It was tough not to take it personally when Lynette said, “Two of the nicest kids you’d ever want to meet are now without a mother.”

  The TV news vans and the crowd of onlookers had dispersed a while ago. It was quiet out there now.

  Molly didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to sit and hold Jeff’s hand.

  The doorbell rang.

  Molly closed her eyes. “Oh, go away,” she muttered.

  Jeff sighed, and got to his feet. “I’ll get it. You stay put.”

  But Molly followed him into the front hallway and watched him open the door.

  Chet Blazevich stood on the front stoop in jeans, a rumpled shirt, a jacket, and a tie. His short brown hair was a bit messy. He had his wallet out with his police ID to show Jeff. “Mr. Dennehy? I’m Detective Blazevich, Seattle Police.”

  Molly could tell from his stance that Jeff was tensing up. “Oh, c’mon, give me a break,” he grumbled. “It’s been a lousy day, and I’ve already spent two hours talking to you guys.”

  “My sympathies, Mr. Dennehy,” he said. Then he glanced over Jeff’s shoulder, and shyly smiled at her. “Actually, I was hoping to talk with you, Molly. It would just be a few minutes.”

  “Molly?” Jeff repeated, obviously confused.

  Molly stepped toward the door, and put her hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Detective Blazevich and I are veterans of two Neighborhood Watch potlucks at Lynette Hahn’s house, which makes us like war buddies. Please, come in, Detective.”

  Jeff and the handsome cop awkwardly shook hands. Molly led him into the living room and offered him something to drink. All the while she wondered why he wanted to talk with her.

  “No, thanks, I’m fine,” Chet Blazevich said. “I just had a cup of coffee at the Hahns’ house.” He sat down in the easy chair while Molly and Jeff settled back on the sofa in front of the picture window. She put her hand on Jeff’s knee and watched the detective take a little notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.

  “Mrs. Hahn called me,” he continued. “She wanted to tell me some things she thought might be relevant to our investigation into the deaths of the first Mrs. Dennehy, her companion, and his daughter.”

  “Angela went back to using her maiden name, which was Dwyer,” Jeff said coolly.

  Chet Blazevich nodded. “Thank you. Mrs. Hahn was telling me about some phone calls that Ms. Dwyer had been getting.” He turned to Molly. “Apparently, Angela thought you might have been the one calling her.”

  “Yes, I know,” Molly said. “I had lunch with Angela yesterday, and we straightened that out. I didn’t make those calls. But I know Angela was concerned, because the calls were sort of threatening. I discussed this already with the two policemen who were here earlier today.”

  “Mrs. Hahn said that Angela had hired a private detective to uncover some information on your family, your brother in particular.” He glanced at his notes and winced a little. “I haven’t verified this yet, but according to Mrs. Hahn, Angela said your brother was responsible for shooting several people in a college in Evanston, Illinois.”

  “Oh, shit,” Molly muttered angrily. She rubbed her forehead. She could still see Angela sitting across from her at their booth in the restaurant, a hand on her heart, so sincere: “You should know, I haven’t told anyone about your brother.”

  She didn’t want to think ill of the dead, but what a goddamn liar.

  “Mrs. Dennehy?” the handsome cop asked, leaning forward.

  “Nothing,” Molly muttered. “Yes, that’s true about my brother. He was mentally ill. He shot seven people in a cafeteria at a community college in Evanston. Two of those people died. Angela led me to believe she hadn’t shared that information with anyone else.”

  “Mrs. Hahn said you accused Angela of breaking into her son’s school locker and—”

  “Yes, yes, I did, I accused her of that,” Molly said, nodding emphatically. “And I accused her of smashing some pumpkins on our front stoop. I’m sure Lynette told you about that, too. During our lunch together, Angela claimed she didn’t do any of it. And I believed her. Though now, I’m not so sure.”

  Beside her, Jeff restlessly shifted on the sofa. “I don’t understand the purpose of these questions.”

  “I’m just trying to verify what Mrs. Hahn told me,” Blazevich said.

  “Well, I’m verifying it,” Molly said edgily. “And if Mrs. Hahn told you that Angela and I really didn’t like each other, I’ll verify that, too.”

  “What is this anyway?” Jeff asked hotly. “Is my wife a suspect or something? Do you think she’s in cahoots with the Cul-de-sac Killer?”

  Chet Blazevich shook his head. “No, Mr. Dennehy. I’m just trying to cover all the bases here. I didn’t mean to upset you folks, especially after what you’ve been through today. I just have one more question, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Go ahead,” Molly said with a sigh.

  He looked at Jeff. “Where were you when you got the news about your ex-wife?”

  Jeff hesitated.

  Molly impatiently chimed in: “He’s been in W
ashington, D.C., since Monday. He was staying at the Capital Hilton. I already told that to the two policemen I spoke with this afternoon.”

  Nodding, the handsome cop quickly got to his feet. “Well, thank you, Mr. Dennehy. . Mrs. Dennehy. Once again, I’m sorry to have intruded on you during this difficult time.” He stuffed his pen and notebook inside his jacket pocket.

  Molly walked him to the door. “It sounds crazy, but should I be worried? Do the police really think I had anything to do with—”

  “No, not at all,” he assured her. “Like I say, I’m just following up on things.”

  Molly nodded, and opened the door for him. “Well, I apologize if I got a little snippy. It’s been a long, tough day, and I’m a bit on edge. You’re just doing your job.”

  “You shouldn’t apologize,” Blazevich said with a kind smile.

  “You’re damn right she shouldn’t apologize,” Jeff said, standing behind her.

  Chet Blazevich nodded at him sheepishly. Then he turned and retreated down the walkway.

  The November night air was chilly, but Molly remained in the doorway with her arms folded. Behind her, Jeff put his hands on her shoulders. She reached up and took hold of his hand. “You know, his last question reminded me of something,” she said. “It’s weird, but this morning, when you didn’t pick up on your cell right away, I phoned the Capital Hilton. The operator said you weren’t registered there.”

  “Oh, I should have let you know, this thing was at the other Hilton,” Jeff said.

  “Well, I’ve told the police you were at the Capital Hilton. You better let them know I had it wrong.” She sighed. “That’s all we need, one more thing to make us look suspicious.”

  Jeff gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Like Blazevich said, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. C’mon, let’s get inside. You’ll catch your death standing here.”

  “In a minute,” Molly murmured. She lingered in the doorway while Jeff headed toward the kitchen.