Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

“What’s the plan?” I asked as we walked across the parking lot to the SUV.

“We’d like to talk to the neighbors on either side of Edison,” Rose said. “As well as the people across the street.”

“The police already talked to them and didn’t come up with anything,” Mr. P. said, “but I think it’s worth a second conversation.”

“As usual, I’m not going to ask how you know that,” I said.

He gave me an enigmatic smile. “Sometimes talking to somebody other than the police is a lower-pressure situation and people remember things they didn’t know they knew.” He raised an eyebrow. “I know that from my psychology class.”

“Remind me never to do anything illegal when you’re around,” I said.

Mr. P. gave the slightest of shrugs. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, my dear. You forget that I’ve driven with you more than once.”

Rose started to laugh. I had a bit of a lead foot when I drove, although I tried very hard not to speed when I had anyone other than Elvis in the car.

It was a beautiful spring morning and I cracked the driver’s window of the SUV just a little as we drove over to Edison Hall’s neighborhood. I parked at the curb in front of the house. Maybe it was just knowing what had happened in the little bungalow, but the place seemed to have an air of sadness about it. I hoped that once the investigation was over and we’d cleared out the place, a family would move in and fill the little house with happy memories.

Rose was on the front passenger side and she turned to look at Mr. P. “Where do you think we should start?” she asked.

I shifted in my seat to survey the area. The houses were a mix of small bungalows and equally tiny Cape Cod–style houses and there were large trees along both sides of the narrow street. It was a beautiful neighborhood.

Diagonally across the street from us, a gray Cape Cod with sea blue shutters caught my eye. “May I make a suggestion?” I asked.

“Of course,” Mr. P. said.

“I think you should start with the gray house across the street.”

They both turned for a look and then Rose looked at me again. “Why there?” she asked.

“Because I just saw a man with a little kid head into the backyard and I’m pretty sure I know him.”

“Splendid!” Mr. P. said from the backseat.

“I’m almost certain it’s Paul Duvall,” I said. “He was friends with Josh when we were kids. He’d be a couple of years younger than I am. He’s a townie.”

Josh was Josh Evans, a local lawyer who had helped us out a couple of times. He’d grown up in North Harbor just a few houses from my grandmother’s, which was how we’d gotten to know each other, even though I was just a summer kid.

Rose frowned. “Tall and skinny? Delivered the newspaper?”

I nodded. “That’s Paul.”

“He had lovely manners as I remember,” she said approvingly. She looked from me to Alfred. “Everyone ready?”

We climbed out of the SUV. Rose patted her white hair and smoothed the front of her skirt. She reached over to adjust Mr. P.’s collar, giving me a quick appraising look as she did so. I had changed out of my jeans into a pair of gray pants and my favorite black boots. Rose didn’t say anything, so I assumed she’d decided I looked presentable.

We crossed the street and followed the interlocking brick path around the side of the house to the backyard. It was deeper than I expected, rimmed with evergreen trees that provided lots of privacy.

Paul was pushing a blond, curly-haired little girl on a swing. He frowned, squinting as he first caught sight of us, and then the frown turned to a smile. “Sarah?” he said.

I nodded, returning the smile.

He said something to the little girl, then came around the swing set and met me in the middle of the lawn.

“Josh told me you were living here now,” he said. “The repurpose store about halfway up the hill—it’s yours?”

“It is,” I said. I had to look up to meet his gaze. He was easily a good six inches taller than my five foot six, towering over me even with the extra couple of inches my boots gave me. He was wearing glasses with thin wire frames, and his egg-shaped head was shaved smooth. He still had the same intelligent blue eyes behind those glasses.

I looked around. “How long have you been here? I thought you were in Oregon.”

“We were,” Paul said. “We’ve been back about three months and we moved into this house about six weeks ago.” He half turned and smiled at the tiny blonde slipping off the swing. “That’s Alyssa.”

The preschooler ran over to us, stopping beside her father. She looked up at me, curiosity in her blue eyes that mirrored her father’s. “My name is Alyssa,” she said. “What’s yours?”

I leaned forward and smiled at her. “My name is Sarah.”

“Sarah and I were friends when I was a little boy,” Paul told her.

“That’s a long ago time,” she said, the expression on her tiny face grave.

Paul laughed, smoothing a hand over his scalp. “That it was.”

Alyssa turned her attention to Rose and Mr. P. “Are they your mommy and daddy?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “They’re my friends, Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Peterson.” I looked at Paul. “Actually we were hoping you could answer a couple of questions for us about the house across the street.”

Alyssa had let go of her father’s leg. She walked over and looked up at Mr. P., tipping her blond head to one side. “Are you a papa?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

“Can you push me on my swing?”

“Alyssa,” Paul said, a slight edge of warning in his voice.

She glanced back at her father for a brief moment. “Please?” she said. She reached for Mr. P.’s hand and gave him a smile that I knew I wouldn’t have been able to resist.

“I’d love to,” he said, clearly enchanted by her. He looked at Paul. “As long as your daddy says it’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” Paul said.

“I like to go high,” I heard Alyssa say as she pulled Mr. P. across the grass.

Paul shook his head. “Sometimes I think she’ll run the world someday.”

“Then it will be in good hands,” Rose said. She smiled at Paul. “You probably don’t remember, but you were my paperboy a good many years ago.”

“I do remember, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “You made the best oatmeal cookies with raisins and walnuts. You used to leave a couple in a little bag on the doorknob for me every Saturday.”

Rose beamed back at him. “And you never just threw the paper on the lawn. You always put it between the doors.”

Paul laughed. “Well, I have to admit those cookies were a pretty good incentive.” He looked over at the swings where Alyssa and Mr. P. were talking as he pushed her.

His gaze came back to me. “You said you had some questions, Sarah, about the Hall place across the street?” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “The police have already been here asking questions. You know someone found a body over there?”

I nodded. “I’m the one who found it.”

His eyes widened. “You did? Wait a minute, you’re the people who are going to clear out the house?”

“Yes. The family hired us.”

He looked past us toward the street. “I didn’t make the connection. I’m sorry.”

“Paul, Rose and Mr. Peterson are private investigators. They’re looking in to what happened.”

If Paul was surprised, it didn’t show.

“Did you see anything?” Rose asked. “Or anyone hanging around that you hadn’t seen in the neighborhood before?”

Paul shook his head. “I’m sorry. We weren’t even here most of that day. We drove down to Portland to see my sister and we stayed the night. My wife had a meeting.”