Ellen James - The Man Next Door

Somehow they’d gotten offtrack here. “Mr. Turner, you must be a peculiar sort of author. You’re writing about some woman, and you don’t even know what she looks like.”

“I just described her. That should do.” He sounded oddly grudging, as if he didn’t want his heroine to give him too much trouble. By now he’d dug all the way around the bush. He began rocking it back and forth, chopping at the roots underneath with the tip of the shovel until eventually it came free of the ground. As he pulled it up, Kim saw the dirt clotted to the sickly roots.

“It needs to be put out of its misery,” she said. “There’s no point in trying to save it.”

“Lost causes are my specialty,” he remarked sourly.

The whole situation seemed absurd to Kim. She’d just wanted to get rid of the damn evergreen. Now, because of Michael Turner, she felt guilty, as if she hadn’t given the bush a fair chance.

“Mr. Turner,” she began, and then stopped herself. She didn’t even know what she had to say to the man.

“Gardening is supposed to be therapeutic,” he told her. “I don’t think you have the hang of it yet, but if you need any tips…I’ll be around.” He started back toward his own yard, only to stop. “Don’t worry about your window. I’ll take care of it. Andy and I will take care of it,” he revised. Then he did walk away, carrying the bush with him, its tufty green pom—poms wagging pathetically in the air.

Kim watched until Michael Turner disappeared around the back of his house, taking the same route Andy had earlier. When she could no longer see him, she surveyed the damage around her: the shattered front window, the gaping hole in her lawn. She wished the two Turner males hadn’t moved in next door. Of course Kim had wished for a lot of things lately—like a divorce, instead of a murdered husband. Not that wishing had done her any good.

She stared at that raw hole left in her once—neat yard. It made her feel regretful, but only for an instant.

Surely the time for regretting—and wishing—was past.

MICHAEL SAT in his Jeep across from the public library. He took a sip from his Coke, but the ice in the cup had melted a long time ago. It was a hot, oppressive afternoon, nothing unusual for a Tucson summer. Idly he glanced at his watch again. Kim Bennett had been in the library for an hour and twenty—two minutes.

Michael considered what he knew about her so far: Kimberly Marie Lambert Bennett, born in Pinetop, Arizona. Her parents had owned a small restaurant, but her mother had died under questionable circumstances when Kim was twenty. Kim had moved to Tucson immediately afterward, taken a secretarial job at Bennett Investing, Inc., and married the boss three months later. Now, at twenty—nine, she was the very wealthy widow of Stanley Evan Bennett.

Those were only the dry, straightforward facts, of course. Michael had always been interested in the less tangible aspects of a case—the thoughts and emotions of a suspect. Those were hidden; you wouldn’t find them on a computer data base or in a file on someone’s desk. You had to speculate, use your imagination, ponder a little. And Michael had definitely been pondering Kim Bennett.

This morning he hadn’t met her exactly the way he’d intended; your son’s pitching a ball through the neigh bor’s window was one of those unforeseen events of parenthood. He’d had no alternative but to follow Andy across the yard and introduce himself. Right away he’d been able to tell that something was bothering the widow Bennett. She’d handled that shovel as if she’d wanted to bury something, not merely dig up a bush. There’d been a haunted look in her eyes. He didn’t need to be a detective to have seen that much.

But the questions still remained unanswered. What was it that made Kim Bennett look tormented? Sorrow, grief over a dead husband? Or was it guilt? Had she killed him, after all?

Michael shifted position, taking another sip of Coke. Wealthy widow…murderer…maybe both. Not to mention loyal patron of the local library. She’d been in there almost an hour and a half now.

Michael pictured her: sun—streaked hair, vivid blue eyes, dusting of freckles across her pretty nose. An attractive woman, Kim Bennett. Very attractive. Maybe even beautiful.

He reminded himself that she was just a case he was working on. He didn’t need to get carried away. Maybe he really could do with more of a social life. Since the divorce, he hadn’t dated a lot. Okay, make that no dating. He was out of practice with women, and maybe that was why Kim Bennett looked so good to him. He sure as hell hoped that was the only reason.

Just then his partner’s van pulled up; she was right on schedule. After a moment Donna climbed out, moving slowly. Her blouse billowed over the bulge of her stomach, and she walked with that telltale waddle of a pregnant woman—as if her back ached and her feet were made of stone. Opening the passenger door of the Jeep, she slid in beside him. She didn’t say anyting, just sat there for a second or two, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. Then, with a grimace, she reached under her blouse, pulled out a small weighted pillow, alias baby, and tossed it into the back seat. Michael observed her gravely.

“So,” he said, “still haven’t told her, have you?”

Donna gave him a withering glance. “Does it look like I’ve told her?”

He didn’t say anything. Donna let out an explosive sigh.

“What kind of idiot am I, anyway?” she muttered.

Again, silence was the only diplomatic answer. Donna gave another sigh, a heavy one.

“Think about it,” she said. “Is this the act of a rational woman? Pretending to be pregnant for my blasted mother-in-law?”

Michael settled back in his seat. He’d been through this before.

“And for that matter,” Donna said, “what kind of man did I marry? What kind of man, just out of the blue, tells his mother that his wife is expecting when she isn’t?”

Michael almost felt sorry for Brad. The guy was going to pay for this one, big time.

“Okay, so she wants a grandkid. Is that any reason to invent one? Heck, why not just tell her I’m having triplets!”

Michael swirled the Coke in his cup. He sure could’ve used some more ice.

Donna groaned. “For crying out loud, I don’t even know how pregnant I’m supposed to be. Four months? Five months? Three?”

Michael thought it over. “I’d say that pillow is a good five months along.”

Donna scowled at him. “Oh, I could throttle Brad! ‘Mom, guess what, we’re pregnant.’ Hah. What’s this ‘e’ stuff? I don’t see Brad carrying a pillow around in his pants, do you?”

“No,” Michael said solemnly, “I don’t.”

She rubbed her hands through her hair. “Just tell me. What kind of idiot am I to go along with this for even a minute? I’d really like to know.”

Michael finished his Coke. Perhaps it was time for a real answer. “I’d say you were just trying to be nice—in the beginning, at least. Trying to spare the feelings of an aging woman who dreams about grandchildren. As for now, though…I’d say you have a husband who doesn’t know how to stand up to his mother. And I’d say you’re starting to get into this pregnancy thing, too. You already have the walk down—that’s a good touch.”

She stared at him. “You can’t possibly think I’m enjoying myself.”

Michael wished he could stretch out his legs more. Such were the hazards of a stakeout—sore butt and muscle cramps. “Maybe you’re just trying it on for size,” he told Donna. “Trying to figure out what it really would be like to have a kid.”

She looked peeved. “That’s ridiculous. Brad and I don’t want children. Not for a very long time, anyway.” Suddenly she didn’t seem to want to talk about it anymore. She snatched up Michael’s log sheet and scanned it.