Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

“Never mentioned it,” Miss Patsy said, folding her hands on her lap. There was a moment of silence, then Miss Patsy regarded D.D. straight in the eye. “Did Ozzie do it? Rumor mill is the whole family was slaughtered like chickens. Always thought that boy would do something terrible one day. Though maybe,” she sighed, “not as terrible as this.”

“Miss Patsy, what makes you think Ozzie might be capable of doing something like murder?”

Miss Patsy sniffed a little. “Heavens, what to mention? Boy was up and down, up and down the street all day, sunup to sundown if they’d let him. At church, he still had to attend the toddler room, ’cause he couldn’t make it through the service. Had the worst case of fidget you ever did see. Rolling up his pant legs, rolling down his pants legs. Sitting up, sitting down, shifting right, shifting left. Never saw a child so ready to burst out of his own skin.

“And no sense of boundaries. Child would walk through your front door without knocking if you left it unlocked. Several of the neighbors kept finding him in their yards, sitting on their patio furniture as if he owned the place. Then there was the incident with him and Mr. Harding’s barbecue. Boy said the grill turned over by ‘accident,’ but I gotta say, I wouldn’t put it past him to dump hot coals on a wooden deck. When he felt slighted, he could be cruel. Did I mention the squirrels?”

“You haven’t mentioned the squirrels.”

“He liked to throw stones at them. I yelled at him more times than I could count to leave the poor squirrels alone. Then you know what he did? I caught him one day in my own backyard, yanking a squirrel off the bird feeder. Guess he’d crept up on it while it was eating. Why, he grabbed it by its tail, whipped it around two or three times, then slammed its head into the feeder post. Terrible, terrible thing. Blood everywhere. He just stood over the poor creature, and smiled.

“Normal boys don’t smile like that, Mrs. Detective Sergeant. Normal boys don’t lick the blood off their hands.”

D.D. couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Apparently, neither could Phil or Alex. “When… when did this happen?” she ventured finally.

“May, or maybe June. Beginning of summer, we’ll say. Ozzie wasn’t allowed out of the house alone after that. Mostly, his older brother, Jacob, came out to keep tabs on him. Now, Jacob’s a good boy. Strong and fast. Good arm, I’m told. Makings of a first-rate quarterback, to hear his father speak. Jacob seemed to be able to keep Ozzie in line.”

Miss Patsy paused, seemed to realize she had just spoken of Jacob in the present tense, and caught her breath in a small hiccup. “Oh,” she said, and that one sad word spoke volumes of a family that did not exist anymore.

D.D. gave the woman a moment. She took another sip of her iced tea. She was almost done with her glass; Alex and Phil were as well.

Alex leaned forward, seemed to have something to say. D.D. nodded slightly and he cleared his throat.

“Miss Patsy?” he asked gently.

The old woman turned her gaze to him.

“Were you home last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What exactly did you hear?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. But I was inside, had the air conditioners running. Can’t hear much of anything over that hum.”

“Did you talk to any of the family members earlier in the day?”

“No, sir. Just saw Denise out, sweeping the front porch, when I went on my evening shuffle. I gave her a little wave and she waved back.”

“Did she mention having company?”

“Not to me, sir.”

“Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood?”

“Oh, there were several. Always is this time of year, with all the summer barbecues.” She smiled faintly. “We folks in Dorchester like to have fun.”

“Do you know of anyone who might bear a grudge against Patrick or Denise?” D.D. spoke up. “Did either of them mention getting in a fight with anyone? How was their relationship with their ex-spouses?”

“Patrick was a widower; Denise never spoke of her former husband. I got the impression he was out of the picture. Maybe not so interested in domestic life. I certainly never saw anyone coming by to take the kids every other weekend.”

D.D. made a note. “Times are hard,” she said softly, looking at Miss Patsy. “Sounds like Patrick and Denise had a lot on their plate. Three kids to manage-one with some challenges. Plus, they had an entire triple-decker to remodel, then Patrick lost his job. That’s a lot of stress for one family. Things happen when people are under that kind of stress.”

“The Harringtons are good people,” Miss Patsy repeated firmly.

“And the last time you spoke to either Denise or Patrick…?”

“Two days ago. Denise came by around nine o’clock and we had a little wine on the front porch. Jacob was starting up football practice and had just been picked for the first string. She was gonna take Molly back-to-school shopping this weekend.” Miss Patsy shrugged. “We talked of normal things, everyday things. Denise seemed happy enough to me.”

D.D. nodded, made another note-Money??-then rose off the chair, digging out her card. “Thank you for your time, Miss Patsy. If you think of anything else, please give me a call. Oh, and, of course, thanks for the excellent iced tea.”

Miss Patsy nodded, shuffled to her feet. Phil offered to carry their glasses and iced tea pitcher back to the kitchen. Miss Patsy let him.

“It’s true they’re all dead?” Miss Patsy asked as she escorted them to her front door. “Patrick, Denise, Jacob, Molly, and Ozzie?”

“Patrick’s hospitalized. Critical condition.”

“Poor, poor man,” Miss Patsy murmured. “I don’t know what’s worse: for him to join his family in Heaven, or for him to recover all alone. Sad choices for a good man. I guess you just never know what’s really going on with your neighbors, do you?”

“Nope,” agreed D.D. “You never do.”

By the time they were done with Mr. Dexter Harding, it was after twelve and D.D. was starving. Alex proposed that they break for lunch. He knew a great little Italian bistro not far from here. He said this more to D.D. than to Phil, and Phil took the hint, ducking out with some mumbled excuse about stacks of paperwork waiting for him on his desk.

D.D. was suspicious of her partner’s abrupt departure, but it was Italian food, so she didn’t press the matter.

She and Alex caravanned to the corner restaurant, which featured green awnings and the smell of garlic and fresh baked bread. D.D. inhaled twice and decided she’d found a new home.

Alex ordered lasagna. She went with chicken parm. The waitress brought fresh bread to dip in olive oil. D.D. tore her way through the steaming loaf while checking phone messages. Patrick Harrington remained in a drug-induced coma. Neil, D.D.’s other squadmate, had made it through the autopsy of the wife with no surprises. The ME would start in on the girl after lunch.

Finally, she had a message from Chip, the almost-got-laid accountant, wondering if D.D. wanted to try dinner a second time around. She did, but given the way the morning was going, Chip was going to have to be a very patient man.

“Okay,” D.D. declared half a loaf later, trying to check surreptitiously for olive oil dripping down her chin. “We spent last night with one crime scene and the morning with two neighbors. You’re the professor-what d’ya think?”

“Will there be a quiz later?” Alex asked mildly; he’d also been checking messages. Now he put away his phone and reached for the bread basket.

“Please. This case was supposed to be wrapped up five hours ago. You’re gonna have to start detecting a lot quicker if you wanna roll with my squad.”