by Ellie Monago
She’s not really on my suspect list, and the rest are, for lack of a better word, clean. It’s just the ordinary paper trail and detritus of life. I don’t care about the processed foods my neighbors hide or their brand of personal lubricant. I don’t care about their fungus cream, their stool softener, their Viagra, their probiotic pills, their Rogaine, their facial lotions and potions. Brandon takes Ativan; Yolanda takes Prozac. They see the same psychiatrist. But that hardly seems like a smoking gun.
I don’t have time for garden-variety snooping. I’m looking for something very specific, though I can’t say precisely what it is. Like porn, I’ll know it when I see it.
Gina and Oliver’s papers are shredded; everyone else has their bills, paycheck stubs, canceled checks, and other financial documents right out there for anyone to see. The numbers are, often, astounding. I’m amazed that anything legal can yield that kind of return. But it’s confirmation that my neighbors have the means to obtain anything, including that virus. Not that that’ll convince the police to do their jobs.
I mean, wouldn’t it have made the most sense for them to start questioning my neighbors yesterday, since they were already on the block? Instead, they just got in their cruiser and drove away, and I’m not sure when they’ll be back. Despite what they heard about the poisoning of a baby, they clearly feel no urgency. I need to create that urgency.
I cross the street and visit Andie and Nolan’s house. When I open their trash can, the stench of dirty diapers assaults my nostrils and almost prohibits me from going further. Almost.
I steel myself and paw through. No bills or financial documents, no embarrassing Twinkies. It’s like they want to make sure their garbage is of the highest quality. Everything organic, quinoa, spelt, high-fiber bread, sugar-free and low-salt marinara sauce . . . their nutritionist must be proud. No cheating on their diets here. There are some Q-tips and cotton balls but no old jars of moisturizer or other products. Diapers notwithstanding, they’re keeping it classy, those two. Well, three, counting Fisher.
I close the lid. I move back toward home and stop at Val and Patrick’s, leaving no stone unturned. If Val’s garbage is any indication, it seems like there’s nothing she won’t try to keep her weight low and the wrinkles at bay. Empty containers from detoxing fasts, supplements, and shakes, plus creams and supposed miracle products from QVC abound. Meanwhile, Patrick just has a can of old-style shaving cream from Gillette. The double standard of men’s and women’s aging is on full display.
I glance toward June’s house. I don’t want to snoop on my new best friend, the one person I’ve come to count on, since I can’t seem to count on Doug these days. But I need to be thorough, for Sadie’s sake.
At first, it’s going well. There’s nothing incriminating in the garbage. It’s just Goth makeup (Hope stuff) and auburn hair extensions (June) and food wrappers and sundries. I’m about to turn back toward my own house, satisfied, when some sixth sense tells me to look in the recycling. That’s where I see the dining room chair cardboard, what’s left of it.
I try to think of any other explanation for it being here weeks later, anything besides June being the author of the notes. When I told her about them, she acted surprised. Now she’s getting rid of the evidence, a day after the police were here. Their squad car was right in front of my house, so either she saw it or someone told her, with the AV being what it is.
If she was scared of getting caught, does that mean it’s over, or will she just move on to some new way of terrorizing me? Or could she have had a change of heart after all this time?
None of it makes any sense. She’s been the only thing keeping me going, besides Sadie herself. She took care of me. I cried in her arms. She understood because she went through it with Hope all those years ago. She volunteered to be with me, day after day. She was by my side, on my side, I could feel it. She hated that Sadie was in pain. I know she did. I felt it.
Could someone else have put the cardboard in her recycling to frame her? They all told me how transparent I was, like it was an endearing quality. Maybe I telegraphed my next move in that GoodNeighbors message. The real perpetrator is one step ahead of me.
My first AV best friend is probably sleeping with my husband; my second AV best friend may very well have poisoned my daughter.
It can’t be true. It can’t.
I go back over each conversation June and I had, as best I can remember it, and yes, she asked a lot of questions, but I thought she was just trying to understand me better.
Or she wanted to find out things she could use against me. But why? How could someone I’d never met before hate me so much?
She’s sent me only one text since I’ve been home, asking how Sadie was; I told her, and then she didn’t respond. I’d thought, just for a second, how strange it was that June would spend all that time with me at the hospital only to disappear once Sadie was out of the woods.
She was there when I was at my most vulnerable. By design. Because it served her somehow.
Some part of me just can’t believe it, though. June? I felt like I’d known her forever, like I could trust her with my life and Sadie’s life. How could I have been so wrong?
That last day at the hospital, there was something about the glow in her eyes when I talked about Crayola, the way she wanted me to leave Doug rather than fight for my marriage. That glow didn’t care. It just wanted me gone.
But I saw how she looked at Sadie. I saw the tears in her eyes. Could anyone possibly be that good of an actress?
Maybe she meant to hurt me, not Sadie. The leptospirosis was meant for me, and when she saw Sadie there . . . those were tears of guilt.
I could call the police and tell them that the cardboard’s in June’s recycling, but they’re not going to make it here before the recycling truck does. It’s already less than a block away.
I could take a picture or take the cardboard out of June’s recycling, but it’ll really just be my word against hers. She’ll deny it, of course. I know she’s an excellent liar. The neighborhood will take her side. She’ll have a block full of character witnesses, one of them a cop, and I’ll have nobody. Maybe not even my own husband.
I need to turn the tables somehow. I just can’t let her, or anyone else, know that I’m onto her.
The AV is where people know everything about their neighbors, where there are no secrets. So somewhere on this block, someone must have the goods on June. They have what I need. I’ll just have to get it out of them.
CHAPTER 35
Doug told me that his manager gave him the day off today, after seeing yesterday just what a toll everything has taken on him. Another lie, but I’m not going to call him on it right now. I don’t have the energy for a come-to-Jesus conversation about our marriage.
What matters right now is protecting Sadie, and the fact that he’s inside, sleeping, with her down the hall means I can start my mission. I’m going to level the playing field. June thinks she knows me; well, I’m about to get to know the real her. And why she’s after me.
At seven a.m., I start going door to door with my petition. Ostensibly, it’s to increase funding for children’s hospitals; really, it’s to get samples for a handwriting analysis. The notes are my only real clue. I imagine that no one will check whether Proposition 29 is for real; no one reads fine print.
I figure it’s early enough that everyone’s up and getting ready. I plan to knock as insistently as everyone else does in the AV.
Raquel steps outside in a robe, closing the door behind her. I go into my spiel, explaining what great care Sadie received and how everyone should be able to get the same care, regardless of their economic means. Raquel doesn’t listen or ask for any particulars, and she signs without hesitation, telling me how happy she is that Sadie’s all right. “I was so worried!” Then she grabs me in an impromptu hug. I thank her and extricate myself quickly, asking if Bart is home and would be willing to sign.
“Of course he’d sign! But are you OK? Like
, really OK?” She’s studying me with concern.
“Sure, I’m fine.” I try to assemble my face into the appropriate expression.
“Because I saw your post.”
Shit. The GoodNeighbors post. I hadn’t exactly forgotten about it, but I have no prepared response.
Seeing how tongue-tied I am, Raquel says softly, “I know how it is. When you see your child sick, it can play tricks on your mind.”
“That’s what it was.” I agree immediately. “Everything with Sadie was so stressful, and I think I just misread some things. Read into them, I mean.”
“I have the best therapist. Do you want her name?”
I can just imagine the GoodNeighbors post about that, all the folks in the neighborhood recommending their own therapists. Who does June see? Is baby poisoning confidential? “Maybe,” I say.
“Well, you’ll let me know.” She smiles at me with something like affection. Then she tells me she’ll get Bart so he can sign, too. I’d almost forgotten I was holding the clipboard.
She goes back into the house, and when she emerges, Bart is with her.
“So sorry you went through that,” he says, “but happy to hear your little one is all right.” It’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak. His cadence is polite and formal, almost like a military man on leave.
“Make sure you print on this line”—I point—“and sign on this one.” All the notes were printed.
I figure it doesn’t hurt to get handwriting samples from the whole block, in case I’m wrong about June. In case someone else, say, put the dining room chairs in her bin to frame her. It’s a long shot, but I’ve always been cursed with hope.
“June was such a help while I was at the hospital,” I say. “I want to get her a thank-you gift. Do you know what kinds of things she likes?”
Raquel and Bart look at each other, with identical thinking expressions. Then they start to laugh, at I don’t know what. They actually seem, bizarrely enough, like a good couple.
“I’m not sure,” Bart says. “Sweetie, what do you think?”
“She’s got so much Hope drama. Maybe a massage?”
“That’s a great idea,” I say. “Do you know if her ex-husband helps at all?”
Raquel shakes her head. “Total loser.”
“Really? That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, it is. I love June. She deserved better than that guy.”
Bart casts her a sideways glance. “He was all right. He was more blue collar than the other guys around here.” So blue-collar guys stick together.
Raquel exclaims, “He was all right? June let him have everyone on the block, and then he still went and had an affair with someone he worked with! Then he left her with Hope, with no emotional or financial support! And he cancels half the weekends he’s supposed to take her!”
Bart chuckles. “OK, OK. You win.” His eyes stray across the street. “I don’t know how she gets by. I never got how they afforded that house to begin with, and she hasn’t gone back to work. It’s like she has a sugar daddy or something.”
At that, I notice that something in Raquel’s face closes off, like Bart said too much.
“We should get back to breakfast,” Raquel says. “So glad Sadie’s better and that you’re home. You just need to catch up on your sleep. That’ll make a world of difference. Hey, maybe you and June can get massages together.”
“Maybe,” I say.
Gina and Oliver are pleasant, brisk, and efficient. They sign with little fanfare, like people with nothing to hide. “We’ve got to get the kids ready,” Gina says. Then, before she turns away, “Do you want to come out for girls’ night tomorrow? Same time, usual place.”
Didn’t she see what I posted on GoodNeighbors? If she didn’t, someone must have told her. So the invitation is pretty weird. It’s like she wants fireworks; she wants a powder keg of crazy in their midst.
“You probably haven’t even had a chance to consider,” she says, “with everything that’s been going on.”
Consider? Then I realize: she means the openness. I still haven’t officially opted out.
“We’d still love to have you as a regular. Come out tomorrow night, OK?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll have to talk to Doug. We haven’t really had a chance to think about much other than Sadie.”
She smiles briefly. I see how sad her eyes are. Oliver puts his arm around her in a perfunctory way, and then that door is swinging shut, too.
Stone and Brandon are up next. Brandon is his usual voluble self. “I wish I could have done more for you while you were in the hospital,” he tells me as he scrawls his name. “I felt like the worst neighbor in the world.”
“I appreciate how you respected my wishes. We just needed to be together as a family.”
“I can understand that,” Stone says, taking the petition from me. “See you around, I hope?”
It’s an odd question. I’m right across the street. But maybe not that odd, given the GoodNeighbors post. I smile back at him, and then he withdraws into the house. Brandon stays where he is. Perfect.
“Did someone really leave you notes?” he asks.
“They really did. But I probably blew them out of proportion. They were just like, ‘Don’t park your car in my spot.’”
“But they were anonymous?”
I nod.
“Must have been Gladys, then.”
“With Sadie being sick and with Oliver next to Stone, I just started to dabble in some conspiracy theories.”
He lets out a delighted laugh. “That must be it!” Then he lowers his voice and leans in. “No one else could have done it except for Gladys. I know everything that goes on around here. No one can keep a secret. Not from me, anyway.” He sounds a little bit territorial and a little bit proud. “We’re good people on this block. Flawed, sure. And quirky, what with the openness and all, but good.”
“I kind of wish you’d been the one to come to the hospital instead of June,” I say. “You would have made me laugh.” I have the sense that his currency is flattery.
“I wish I could have gone, too. But honestly, I can’t stand those places. I smell that disinfectant, and I’m reminded of the super-germs they’re trying to kill. So when June volunteered, I was relieved.” There’s a funny quality to him, like guilt with some additive I can’t quite place.
“She did a good job, though,” I say.
He nods, and that’s all.
In my admittedly limited interactions with him, Brandon never just nods.
“You don’t like June?” I ask.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . .” He leans in and lowers his voice again. “I think her husband told her some things about me that weren’t true, and she believed them, and it’s never been the same between us.”
“What kind of things?”
He looks left and right exaggeratedly, like the shifty eyes of a picture in an old episode of Scooby-Doo. “He wanted to be dominated, but only by a man. He was into it, but he made it sound to her like I was somehow forcing myself on him.” Brandon makes a face. “Some people just don’t want to own what they’re into. It doesn’t fit with their image of themselves. Sexuality can be a messy, ugly thing, and I’m OK with that. But he definitely wasn’t.”
“I hear he wasn’t such a great guy.”
“Really? June said that?”
“No. Raquel said it.”
“I was hoping June was finally ready to admit it and file for divorce. They’ve been separated for years now. She deserves better.” It’s clearly the party line. He looks over my shoulder, and then he does this theatrical sort of ducking down, like he’s hiding behind me. “Nils again,” he explains.
“What?”
“Nils drives around just to get a look at me. He’s like this lovesick puppy. I should never have gotten involved with him. I had a suspicion he was closeted.”
“Nils? As in, Nils and Ilsa?”
“As in, the people who used to live in your
house. I was so glad when Ilsa insisted they move away. At least now it takes him some work to stalk me. Before, it was way too easy. He’d just walk out his front door and ta-da!”
I’m trying to think how to get the conversation back on track, back to June, when he says he really needs to go.
“Don’t tell June I said anything about her husband, OK?” he says.
“I won’t. Thanks for signing the petition.”
“Anytime. Love to Sadie!”
So June had a bad marriage, to a bad man, who she tries to believe is good. She may have a sugar daddy, and I know she has a daughter who’s out of control. But what does any of that have to do with me?
Tennyson answers her door next, her hair unkempt, in a robe loosely belted over a black satin negligee. “Vic goes to the gym at the ass-crack of dawn every day, but I know he’d want to sign this,” she says. “Come back in an hour?” She writes her name and scribbles an absolutely unreadable signature beside it. Then she hands me the clipboard with a huge smile. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get down to business.” I look at her nervously. “Is Sadie really and totally better? Please say yes!”
I relax and smile. “Yes. She just needs to drink lots of milk and get lots of sleep, but it’s a full recovery.”
“I can’t wait to see her. Can you take her out of the house yet? Like, could you bring her over to the park today? It’d be great to catch up.”
“Not quite yet, but I’ll let you know.”
“So someone’s harassing you?” she says conversationally. “Who do you think it is?”
Of the three neighbor reactions to my post, this one seems strangest. Raquel assumed I was having some sort of a breakdown, Brandon assumed it was Gladys, but Tennyson seems to find it not only plausible but a general topic for conjecture. It’s like she was completely oblivious to the panicked tone of the post—a woman with her back against the wall, coming out swinging.