Scott Nicholson - Curtains

“I’d best be going,” Herman said.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Herman thought of the razor blades, and wondered for the first time if Peter Reynolds maybe had a knife in his pocket. “What?”

The hippie pointed to the leaning fence post. “I don’t know about you, but my mom taught me to leave things just the way I found them.”

Herman started to argue, then thought of the maybe-knife and swallowed hard. He eased the post perpendicular to the ground and stomped his foot to tamp the dirt tight. “Good night, now,” he said.

“Watch your step,” the hippie, Peter Reynolds, said.

“Sounds like good advice.” Herman didn’t look back until he was inside his own home. He closed the curtains and hid the Elvis decanter in the closet with the rest of Verna’s things.

The next day, he called the Sheriff’s Office. The hippie wasn’t the only one who knew how to work the system. Herman had to sit on hold for a couple of minutes, but he finally reached Bud Millwood, a deputy who had made an unsuccessful run for sheriff a decade back. Herman had supported his campaign with cash and two signs in the yard, and though Millwood had lost the race, rural politics required his repaying of such a favor.

“I need you to check something for me, Bud,” Herman said.

“The city council trying to zone you again?”

“No, nothing like that. We voted that bunch out five years ago. The ‘Z’ word is a one-way ticket to hell around these parts.”

Millwood laughed. “You can set that in stone. A fellow’s got a right to do what he wants with his land.”

“Sometimes. Maybe sometimes.”

“What’s your problem?”

“I wondered if you could run a check on a fellow. Name of Peter Reynolds. He might not be from around here, but he ain’t Yankee, judging by his accent. Has Tennessee plates on his car.” Herman read off the license numbers he’d written on a scrap of paper.

“He do something wrong?”

“No, not yet. He just moved into the neighborhood, and you know how it is.”

“A fellow likes to know who his neighbors are.”

“Yep. So if you can dig anything up, I’d appreciate it.”

“Well, normally I got to have a reason to run a check. But maybe if you think he was growing dope or something.”

“He’s the type who might.”

“Good enough for me. I’ll call you when I learn something. If there’s so much as a counterfeit aspirin on his record, I’ll drive out and pay a personal visit.”

“No, I can handle him. Just let me know.”

“Sure, Herman, whatever. If you smell something funny, though, give me a holler. The way they’re cutting into our DARE programs, it’s a wonder the whole blessed county ain’t going up in smoke.”

Herman was midway through his oatmeal and eyeing a grapefruit half when Bud Millwood called back.

“I ain’t for certain, but if your Peter Reynolds is the same as the one from Trade River, just over the state line, then you might want to lock your doors of a night,” the deputy said. “Got into a quarrel with his neighbor over there. Deputies got called out three times for a domestic dispute.”

“I thought a domestic dispute was when a man was beating up his wife.”

“Yeah, that’s what they thought this was, but turns out Mr. Peter James Reynolds was whopping up on a forty-year-old woman. He claimed she snuck out in the middle of the night and moved the surveying stake that marked the corner of his property. Eased it over a good three feet and then dug up the ground and planted gladiolas.”

“He beat a woman for something like that?”

“Might not be the worst of it. This woman up and disappeared one night. That was a few months after the complaints. A thing like that, you figure people need to talk it out for themselves, maybe take it to small claims court instead of declaring war.”

“Do they think this Reynolds fellow done her in?”

“At first. They had the bloodhounds out and shoveled up some of her yard, thinking he might have buried her there out of spite. They checked out his crawl space, took him in for questioning, but he said he didn’t know nothing, sat there as cool as a ladybug in a cucumber patch. Six months later, when no body turned up, the detectives over there let the case slide. Apparently the family was happy to see her go, sold the property and split up the money. Wasn’t long after that old Peter Reynolds put his own house up for sale.”

“Along about April?”

“Yeah.”

Herman wiped a gummy speck of oatmeal from his lip. “Probably ain’t the same Peter Reynolds. Even a cornshuck place like Tennessee probably got dozens by that name. And license plates have been known to get stolen.”

“Funny, though. The detective I talked to remembered something Peter Reynolds repeated over and over while they questioned him.”

“What’s that?”

“Said, ‘She had no respect for another man’s property.’ Just like that. Said ‘had’ instead of ‘has,’ like he knew she was dead.”

“Yeah. Funny, ain’t it? I appreciate it, Bud. Send along my blessings to your folks.”

“Sure will. Take care, now.”

Herman hung up the phone and looked out the window at the hippie’s house. All the hippies he’d ever heard of were into that peace and love business. Somehow that didn’t square with murdering your neighbor. But neither did razor blades in your fence posts. Or a cat nabbed on a fishhook and buried at the foot of a tree.

Herman didn’t mess around with stalking the bushes that night. He went straight down Oakdale, into the hippie’s driveway, and up on the porch. He knocked hard enough for his knuckles to ache. The mutt started yapping behind the closed door.

The door opened a crack. Peter Reynolds gave a smile as if Herman were delivering a bouquet of flowers. “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Weeks. Please come in.”

Herman’s anger took a left turn toward confusion. “Look here, I just come to talk about your fence.”

“I know. We’re neighbors. We need to talk these things out or else we’ll end up enemies. You know what the Good Book says.”

“You mean the Bible?” The mutt leaped forward and licked at Herman’s shoes. He looked down and saw dried oatmeal had formed white scabs on his trousers.

“It says to love thy neighbor.”

“It also says live and let live.”

“I hate to disagree since we’re trying to be friends, but that’s not written anywhere in the Bible. There’s an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, but not a thing about live and let live.” Peter Reynolds opened the door wider. “Please come in. The neighbors might be watching.”

Herman took a long look behind him at the row of houses. They seemed too quiet, still, and dark. What if Peter Reynolds had been busy over the last day or two, and there were now a dozen mounds of raw earth at the foot of the backyard dogwood? Mrs. Breedlove’s legs tangled in the roots, the Pilkingtons with dirt in their lungs?

He stepped inside, surprised at how bright and neat the room was. He’d expected it to be dank and furnished with heavy vinyl pieces, the way it had been when Ned and Eileen lived here. But the hippie must have watched a few home improvement shows. The carpet was plush and the color of gunsmoke, the window treatments were light gray, and the trim was painted in white semi-gloss, giving the room the sort of forced order you’d expect in an FBI office or a doctor’s waiting room. A computer sat on a bleached oak desk, and the rest of the furniture was arranged around it. Herman peeked into the kitchen and didn’t see a single dirty dish.

“Have a seat,” Peter Reynolds said, motioning toward the couch. It looked like a regular-guy sort of couch, the kind where you could prop your feet on the arm rest and balance a bowl of chips on the back cushions, scratch your balls if you felt like it. Watch the Panthers whoop up on the 49ers. Except the hippie didn’t have a TV. All he had was the computer.