The Good Neighbor

by A. J. Banner

  “You’ve got obligations. The clinic.”

  “I’ll move the clinic.”

  “Your patients can’t move with you. They rely on you.”

  “Shhh.” Johnny touched his finger to my lips. “Let’s talk about this later. For now, I’ve got us a rental on the other side of town.”

  “So that’s where you’ve been all day.”

  “Not all day.”

  Close up, his face came into focus—his thick lashes, the barely noticeable white birthmark on his forehead, the stubble on his jaw.

  “How did you find a place so quickly?”

  “I ran into Maude. She was out hosing debris off her lawn. She said Eris Coghlan owns a rental across town. You know, the Realtor? So I gave her a call. Turns out she has a cottage, half-furnished but unoccupied. We can move in anytime. It’s on a quiet dead-end street.”

  “You’ve been there already?” My head began to spin again. Johnny worked so efficiently. Usually, I appreciated knowing he’d covered all the bases. I was thankful for a place to stay, so why did uneasiness tug at me? Perhaps because Johnny and I were homeless, forced to rely on the kindness of strangers.

  “I checked out the cottage, yeah,” he said. “It’s small, but it has a certain charm. After we stop by Sitka Lane, I’ll drive you out there. You can take a look and decide for yourself.”

  “I’m sure it will be perfect,” I said. The sanctuary would be a blessing. Change was born of necessity. I had to be practical now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On the drive back to Sitka Lane, I watched pedestrians strolling along the brick sidewalks of Waterfront Road, peering in shop windows and sipping iced coffees, as if their lives would always be normal. Dry leaves skittered along the gutters, maples turning deep shades of gold and crimson. Autumn was showing off, but sooner or later, autumn would turn into winter, and the trees would lose all their leaves.

  Johnny drove west through the old part of town, populated by Victorian homes built during the heyday of the timber industry a century earlier. At nearly seven o’clock, the moon rose behind us, the sunset a smudge of pink across the western horizon. As Johnny turned onto Sitka Lane, my heart fluttered with nervousness. What would remain of the two houses? Johnny parked at the curb and held my hand.

  The damage was worse than I’d expected. How could this horrible mess have once been our home? Blasted-out windows, blackened siding streaked with water damage, the roof caved in. The yard resembled a garbage dump surrounded by yellow FIRE LINE tape. The stink of burned wood and fabric remained in the air.

  Next door, only a shell of the Kimballs’ house remained. Two suited investigators picked their way through the rubble. The neighborhood was otherwise quiet, shadowed by tall firs, but I sensed people peering out their windows. The night of the fire rushed back to me—the flames, the smoke. Chad and Monique trapped inside their house, slowly suffocating.

  “Earth to Sarah. Where are you?” Johnny’s voice echoed down a long tunnel.

  “I’m here,” I said, but in my mind, I was back on the ladder with Mia in my arms. “Let’s go.”

  “You don’t want to see—?”

  “Not now.”

  Johnny pulled away from the curb. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “I wanted to come. I should’ve done more that night—”

  “You did everything you could.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without dissolving into tears. As Johnny drove back through town, retracing our route, I opened the window and inhaled the fresh air. He headed east into a heavily wooded area and turned onto a narrow, forested road. The street sign read SHADOW BLUFF LANE, and a smaller sign read DEAD END—NO OUTLET. He slowed past an imposing white Victorian mansion with pale green trim. In the driveway, men in coveralls packed equipment into a blue truck.

  “That’s Eris Coghlan’s place,” Johnny said.

  I leaned out the window for a better look. “She lives alone?”

  “Yeah. Divorced. Not sure about kids.” To the left, across the road, lay an expanse of dense forest.

  He kept driving past another grove of tall fir trees and pointed out a moss-colored cottage on the right, set back from the road and surrounded by a buffer of forest. “That’s the rental.”

  “You found us a fairy tale,” I said as he parked in the driveway. Through the trees, another neighbor’s house appeared at the end of the cul-de-sac—a modern cedar A-frame with large windows.

  Johnny’s shoulders relaxed. “Are you sure? Be honest. We can still go to a hotel.”

  “I am being honest.”

  “It has only two bedrooms, one bath—”

  “Do we need more than that? I lived in a rented room in college. It was good enough then, and it’s more than good enough now.”

  “It’s bigger than a room, at least.” He got out of the car and retrieved our meager luggage from the trunk, leaving the gifts in the backseat. Together we climbed the creaky wooden steps to the rickety porch. Birds twittered in the trees, and some larger animal disturbed the nearby underbrush. In the distance, a river rushed down from the foothills of the Olympic Mountains.

  Johnny slid the key into the lock. The door swung open, and he heaved the suitcases inside and dropped them in the foyer. Then he leaned back against the open door. “This is it. What do you think?”

  I stepped inside. The entryway opened into a well-lit living room painted in pale yellow, oak floors recently swept. Underneath the smells of cleaners and polish, I detected the subtle odors of decay, of old wood. A bay window, with a diagonal hairline crack in the glass, revealed a view of a grassy lawn, a tire swing hanging from a large fir tree, and a forest beyond.

  Johnny wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, his firm chest pressed against my back, and I gave in to his warmth. He touched his lips to the sensitive spot at the base of my neck, and I inhaled sharply. He knew me so well. I turned to face him, and he kissed me, his lips firm and insistent. There was something electric about him, a subcurrent of energy. A subtle, unfamiliar scent rose from him—maybe sandalwood. A new aftershave?

  “Excuse me? Dr. McDonald?” a mellifluous voice interrupted. “Oh, I’m sorry to intrude. I’ll come back later.”

  “Oh no, excuse us,” I said, stepping back, my cheeks flushed. Eris Coghlan stood on the porch, athletic and elegant in jeans, sneakers, and a turquoise short-sleeved shirt. I recognized her from the many times I’d seen her on Sitka Lane, showing the house on the corner, but I’d never spoken to her. Her shiny, russet hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She stood straight and strong, projecting a winning combination of ambition and approachability.

  Johnny reached out to shake hands with her. “Eris. This is my wife, Sarah.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Eris said, shaking my hand with cool fingers.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said.

  “All good things, I hope.” Eris laughed smoothly—a genuine, unaffected sound.

  “Fabulous things. Congratulations on selling the house on Sitka Lane.”

  “The house sold itself. Beautiful construction on a beautiful street.” Her eyes darkened. “I’m so sorry about the fire.”

  I nodded, dryness returning to my throat. “Thank you.”

  Johnny’s face was blank, but I recognized the slight twitch of his eyelid.

  Eris smiled. “Pedra Ramirez says you’re an author under your maiden name . . . ?”

  “Phoenix,” I said, relieved to change the subject.

  “I hope you find some quiet time here, for your writing. Would you like a tour of the cottage?”

  “That would be wonderful.” I stepped aside and Eris strode past me, leaving a trail of subtle perfume in her wake. She showed us the quirks of the cottage, from the finicky thermostat in the living room, to the stuck window in the kitchen and the temperamental flush in the bathroom. “I’ll get my guy to fix everything. I wasn’t expecting tenants.”

  “It’s perfect,” I said. �
�Thank you for renting to us on short notice.”

  “Wish I could do more to help.” She showed us the back master bedroom with its queen-sized bed and two nightstands, then the front bedroom, which she had converted into an office with desk, shelves, and a recliner in the corner. Through the window, I spotted a woman traipsing up the driveway in a black hooded coat, holding an envelope.

  Eris glanced outside. “I wonder what she wants.” The woman came up to the porch and pulled off the hood. Her beauty took my breath away. She resembled a young Elizabeth Taylor, black-haired and ivory-skinned, exotic and voluptuous.

  Eris ushered the woman inside. “Theresa Minkowski, meet your new neighbors. Johnny McDonald and Sarah Phoenix.”

  “Pleasure,” Johnny said. He shook Theresa’s hand, his grip lingering a moment too long. A shadow of recognition crossed his face, but he gave no indication that he knew her. Perhaps she’d been a patient. He’d treated nearly everyone in town for one skin ailment or another.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood.” Theresa withdrew her hand and shook mine. Her fingers felt warm, pliant.

  “We’re married,” I offered. “Johnny and I.”

  “But with different surnames,” Eris said.

  Theresa smiled. “I took my husband’s name. He and our son are both named Kadin. We live in the A-frame down the street.”

  “There you have it,” Eris said.

  Theresa handed the envelope to Eris. “We got your mail again.”

  “Oh, dear. I have to tell the new carrier.” As Eris tucked the envelope into her pocket, I glimpsed part of the return address, Attorneys at Law.

  Theresa smiled at me. “We’ll be seeing you both tomorrow, then?”

  “Tomorrow?” Johnny caught her gaze.

  Eris laughed. “She beat me to it. I’ve been meaning to invite you both for dinner.”

  “We appreciate the offer, but . . .” I looked at Johnny, hoping for a way out. I didn’t have the energy to socialize.

  He nodded and smiled. “Sure, yeah. Our cupboards are bare.”

  “But . . .” I began.

  “Good,” Eris said. “Around seven.”

  “See you then,” Theresa said, stepping out onto the porch. “Looks like you’ve got another visitor.”

  A truck marked “County Fire Marshal” crept up the driveway and parked behind Johnny’s RAV4. My stomach turned to nervous mush. I wasn’t ready to relive the fire, to answer questions, but it seemed I would have no choice.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Ryan Greene,” the fire marshal said in a deep, resonant voice. Tablet computer in hand, he stood a few inches taller than Johnny, who approached six feet. I couldn’t help staring at the man’s features, the stereotype of rugged handsomeness beneath cropped auburn hair—square jaw, a slight bump on his nose, and a strong, athletic build, as if he lifted weights and climbed mountains as well (perhaps at the same time). Eris and Theresa had made a hasty exit.

  My cheeks flushed, and I forced a smile. “Sarah Phoenix.”

  He shook my hand in an almost disabling grip. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am. How’re you holding up?” He let go of my hand and looked at my forehead. I touched the bandage self-consciously.

  “Better, thanks.” Better was a relative term.

  “Get you anything?” Johnny said. “Gourmet glass of tap water? We need to make a grocery run.”

  “I’m good,” Mr. Greene said. “Where can we talk?”

  I gestured toward the living room, and we all went inside, the wooden floor creaking beneath our feet.

  Mr. Greene sank into the couch. The computer rested on his thighs, and Johnny and I sat in two chairs across from him. The back of my chair felt stiff, unyielding.

  “How is Mia?” I asked. I could still see Monique’s shimmering blue dress, hear her lilting voice.

  Mr. Greene’s brow furrowed. “She’s one lucky girl to have a neighbor like you.”

  Lucky that she’d lost her parents? “Have you figured out how the fire started?”

  “We believe the fire was intentionally set.” Mr. Greene betrayed no emotion, no bias. “We’ve ruled out all accidental causes.”

  “Damn,” Johnny said, his face hard.

  The words intentionally set ricocheted in my brain, and I struggled for breath for a moment. “Can you tell us anything more?”

  Mr. Greene cleared his throat, looked down at his computer screen, and then at me again. “I can’t disclose anything yet, but it’s important that you tell me everything you remember about the night of the fire, even if it doesn’t seem significant.”

  I glanced out the window at the twilight sky. What would Mr. Greene find important? Monique’s tone of voice as she’d looked up the stairs and asked about Johnny? Adrian watching from Jessie’s front porch? “The Kimballs came back a few days early. They were on vacation in Hawaii, on the Big Island.”

  He typed on his tablet. “What time was that?”

  “Around dusk.”

  “Do you know why they came back early?”

  “Monique said it was complicated. Something like that.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “They had a barbecue in their backyard, and I went to bed. I heard a car prowling up the road, maybe around eleven. Then I fell asleep, and something woke me up. It was 1:17 a.m., I remember looking at my clock.”

  “Something woke you up?” His left eyebrow rose.

  “I vaguely remember a loud sound. And smoke and flames coming from next door, on the first floor, and the Kimballs’ fire alarm. I heard Mia crying.”

  Johnny remained silent, tense.

  Mr. Greene kept tapping on his computer, then looked up at me again. His direct gaze unnerved me. “What color was the smoke? Black, gray, white? The flames?”

  “The smoke was black, I think. But it was dark outside, hard to tell. The flames were bright orange.”

  “Did you notice anything else unusual before the fire? A dog barking? Anyone hanging around the neighborhood?”

  I felt both men looking at me intently. “Monique came over to borrow charcoal. But it wasn’t unusual. She’s always borrowing things. Was.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We saw Jessie across the street, sitting on her porch with a boy. I think it was her boyfriend, Adrian. Her parents weren’t home, but they came out later, during the fire.”

  Mr. Greene frowned as he tapped in more notes. He looked up at me again. “How do you know Jessie’s parents weren’t home earlier in the evening?”

  “They drive a silver Honda. They always take that car when they go out. There was a black Buick in the driveway. Adrian drives a black Buick. Jessie wouldn’t have him over if her parents were home. Do you think Jessie or Adrian set the fire?”

  “Jessie’s a good girl,” Johnny said. “She would never do anything like that.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Mr. Greene said.

  “We know Jessie,” I said. But did we? Did I know anyone on that street well enough to know if they would set a fire? Mr. Calassis? His wife, Maude? Chad and Monique? “Jessie took care of the house while the Kimballs were away. Picked up their mail and watered their plants. Monique mentioned something had gone missing this time. A gold pen. But she said it might have fallen behind the fridge.”

  Mr. Greene looked up at me again. “Did you see Jessie enter the Kimballs’ house that day?”

  “No, but I’m not always looking out my window.”

  “You said she had a key?”

  I nodded. “Sometimes we don’t bother to lock our doors. Didn’t. Nothing ever happens there . . . usually.”

  “Any reason anyone would want to set fire to the Kimballs’ house?”

  Johnny frowned and shook his head. “No, none whatsoever.”

  “No,” I echoed. “Why would anyone set fire to any house?”

  Outside, the sky had turned inky black, devoid of stars.

  “Did you ever hear the Kimballs fighting?” Mr. Greene asked. “Any sign of troubl
e?”

  “Sometimes they raised their voices,” I said. “All couples do that, don’t they?”

  “Did they raise their voices that night?”

  “I didn’t hear any arguments, no.”

  Mr. Greene gazed hard at me, as if trying to see into my brain. “Your window was open. You heard Mia crying, and you went outside . . .”

  I told him everything that had happened next, everything I could remember. “The fire shot out Mia’s window and jumped to our house.”

  “An open window can act as a chimney, sucking air in the bottom and shooting smoke from the top. Dry, windy night, embers flew . . .”

  “And burned down our house. I broke Mia’s window—”

  “You had no other choice. You saved the little girl, don’t forget.” Mr. Greene gave me a sympathetic look, and I fought tears again.

  “What about fraud?” Johnny said. “Could the Kimballs have hired someone to set fire to their own house?”

  I gazed at him, speechless. How could that be possible?

  Mr. Greene looked from Johnny to me and back. “Fraud is becoming more common these days. People want out—they’re underwater on their mortgages, or they’ve lost their jobs, their businesses are failing—”

  “Why would our neighbors kill themselves?” I said. I couldn’t imagine Chad or Monique concocting such a scheme.

  “Maybe they thought they could get out in time,” Johnny said. “I’m not saying that’s what happened, but . . .”

  “Why would they leave Mia in her room?” I said sharply. “They wouldn’t do that.”

  Mr. Greene raised a brow. “Never know. One thing I’ve learned in this profession. People do strange things, things you wouldn’t believe.”

  “But the Kimballs would not put their own child in danger,” I insisted. Or would they?

  Mr. Greene looked at Johnny. “You were away at a medical conference?”

  “Yes,” Johnny said.

  “In California?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Two nights before the fire. I flew down—”