Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 141, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 858 & 859, March/April 2013

Neighbors by Bill Pronzini

MWA Grand Master Bill Pronzini has a new book out in collaboration with fellow Grand Master Marcia Muller, The Bughouse Affair: A Carpenter and Quincannon Mystery (Forge/January 2013). The Carpenter and Quincannon series has been running in EQMM at short-story length for a number of years, started by Bill Pronzini. This is the first novel employing the pair, but not the first time these two writers, who are husband and wife, have collaborated on a novel. See Double and Beyond the Grave.

It was one of those rare late-summer evenings just past dusk, a light breeze blowing to soften the day’s heat, the air so clear the town lights spread across the shallow valley below had an unwinking, crystal clarity. Lorraine and I were sitting on the back deck with coffee and after-dinner brandy, enjoying the view and the quiet. At least I was. The neighborhood we live in, spread across the brow of the western hillside, is a haven of home and property improvement; the daylight hours, especially on weekends at this time of year, are filled with the racket of leaf blowers, chain saws, circular saws, electric hedge clippers, banging hammers.

But Lorraine had other things on her mind than the peaceful night. “Harry,” she said abruptly, breaking the long, mellow silence, “there’s something wrong with the Gundersons.”

“The Gundersons? What do you mean?”

“They’re not what they seem to be.”

I sighed. Here we go again, I thought.

“They struck me as a nice enough couple the one time we met them.”

“Well, I don’t think they are. They don’t fit into a neighborhood like this. Everyone else here is a homeowner. They’re transients.”

“A one-year lease doesn’t make them transients.”

“They’re standoffish. And secretive. Not our kind of neighbors.”

I happened to think the Gundersons, who had lived in the house slightly below and to the left of ours for over a month now, were exactly our kind of neighbors. Exactly my kind, anyway. They may have preferred keeping to themselves, but they were pleasant enough and, a major plus in my book, they were quiet — no home-improvement projects, no loud parties.

Lorraine leaned forward in her chair to look over the low deck railing. From here, unfortunately, she had a clear view of the near side of the Gundersons’ house and most of their front yard. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me,” she said, “but there’s something very strange going on with those people. No, not just strange... sinister.”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”

We’ve been married thirty years, Lorraine and I, and in most ways she’s been a good wife, mother, and companion. But she has two incurable flaws. She’s a busybody, poking her nose into other people’s business at every opportunity. And she has an overheated imagination that she fuels constantly with lurid novels, soap operas, and bad TV movies.

I made no comment, in the slim hope that she would drop the subject. No such luck. She said, “Their drapes and curtains are always closed, day and night, even the ones overlooking their patio. As if they’re trying to hide something. And Paul Gunderson, if that’s his real name... well, I don’t think he’s the architect he claims to be.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Architects keep regular hours, for one thing, and he doesn’t. Some weekdays he doesn’t leave the house at all.”

“Maybe he works at home part of the time. Some architects do.”

“And for another thing, he doesn’t know anything about Le Corbusier or Peter Eisenman.”

“Neither do I. Who are they?”

“Famous architects. I looked them up on the Internet so I could have an informed conversation with him about architecture if the opportunity came up. He knew Frank Lloyd Wright’s name, but not theirs.”

“When did you find this out?”

“Three days ago. I happened to be outside when he came home from... wherever, and I went over and tried to be neighborly. He didn’t want to talk to me. He was almost rude, in fact.”

“Well, maybe he had something important to do.”

“He also sneaks around in the middle of the night,” Lorraine said.

“Now how do you know that?”

“I got up to use the bathroom last night and happened to look out the bedroom window, and there he was leaving the house all by himself. At three A.M., and without any lights on. Don’t you think that’s odd behavior?”

“Not if he had a good reason for leaving home at that hour.”

“That’s not all,” she said. “Strange men keep coming and going over there during the day and sometimes in the evening, did you know that?”

“What do you mean by strange?”

“Different ages, different types. Half a dozen of them. For all we know Fran Gunderson could be prostituting herself.”

I managed not to laugh. “Or selling drugs.”

“Yes, or selling drugs.”

“Like what you thought Marguerite’s Mexican neighbor was doing to high-school students last year,” I said. Marguerite, our married daughter, lives in a development on the other side of town. “When what the woman was really doing was tutoring them in Spanish.”

“You don’t have to remind me of that,” she said stiffly. “We all make mistakes.”

Yes, and she’d made more than her share with her prying and spying. The time she convinced herself Tom Anderson had done away with his wife because Mary hadn’t been seen for three weeks and Tom was “acting suspiciously,” when the truth was Mary had gone off to a fat farm and Tom was too embarrassed to talk about it. And the time she was sure she’d seen the Brewsters’ sixteen-year-old daughter shoplifting perfume at Kohl’s and told the girl’s mother, only to be confronted with a sales slip. There were other incidents I could have reminded her of too. But all I said was, “Yes, dear.”

“But I’m right about the Gundersons,” she said. “I know I am. They’re not ordinary people who just want to be left alone, they’re criminals. Thieves planning a robbery, or fugitives hiding out from the law.” Then, ominously, “Or something even worse.”

“And what would that be?”

“Spies. Terrorists. One of those strange men I told you about looked Middle Eastern.”

I made an effort to hang onto my patience. “You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing,” I said. “Those men could be friends or relatives who were invited to see the Gundersons’ new house. They also could be salesmen like me.”

Lorraine made an exasperated noise. “The trouble with you, Harry, is that you look at the world through rose-colored glasses. You think everyone is basically good and honest and it’s just not so. There are a lot of bad people out there.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, then? Can’t you conceive of the fact that your new neighbors, living right next door, could be two of the bad ones?”

“Yes, dear.”

“You don’t mean it, I can hear it in your voice. You’re so mild-mannered about everything, it drives me crazy sometimes. I wish you had more gumption.”

“Yes, dear. So do I.”

She subsided, which meant she felt that she’d made her point. I sipped brandy and resumed my enjoyment of the cool breeze, the stationary light show, the quiet. But not for long.

“Harry.”

“Mmm?”

“Do you have to go away on Monday?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It’s that time again.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Depends on how long the sales meetings last. No more than a week.”

“A week,” she said. Then, “I really wish you didn’t have to travel so much.”

“But I don’t travel much,” I said. “Just one week, two at the most, a couple of times a year.”

“Couldn’t you get another salesman to cover for you this time? Or call and tell the company you’re ill?”

“You know I can’t do that. I might lose my job. Why would you even ask?”

“I hate the idea of being here alone. Especially now, with the Gundersons in the neighborhood.”

The Gundersons again. “If you’re so nervous, why don’t you ask Marguerite to come and stay with you? Or stay with her and Neal in their guest room?”

“I don’t want to impose on them. Besides...”

Lorraine let the rest trail off, but from past experience I knew what she’d been about to say. She may not have liked the idea of being here alone, but she was determined to keep a close watch on the Gundersons.

I didn’t try to argue with her; it wouldn’t have done any good. All I said was, “Do what you think is best. And try not to worry so much.”

On Monday morning I flew down to L.A. as scheduled. I was gone six days, and too busy to call home more than twice. Lorraine hadn’t seen any more “strange men” coming and going at the Gunderson house, or conjured up any more fantasies about the new neighbors, but this didn’t mean that her latest teapot tempest was ready to go away like all the others.

When I got home, she met me at the door all red-faced and breathless, and the first thing she said was, “Harry, the police were at the Gundersons last night. Two officers, just before midnight.”

“The police? Why? What happened?”

“Fran Gunderson claimed they had a prowler, but that’s ridiculous. A prowler, in this neighborhood!”

“How do you know about the prowler?”

“I went over there this morning and spoke to her. Tried to speak to her, I should say. She was very short with me. Covering up.”

“Covering up what?”

“The real reason the police were there so late.”

“Which was?”

“To question them about their illegal activities, whatever they are. You mark my words — they’ll be arrested before long and then it will all come out.”

I went into the kitchen, made myself a drink, and took it out onto the back deck. Lorraine followed me, talking the entire time, but I was no longer listening. I was thinking, defensively, about the assignment in L.A.

It had gone smoothly, as always. A dark street, a casual approach, the usual single shot behind the right ear. No witnesses, nothing overlooked or unaccounted for. How many did that make now? An even dozen? Three or four more, and I’d have enough saved to retire from the Company and live out the rest of my life in relative peace and quiet. If Lorraine would let me. And if Zagetti would keep his promise in the first place. “I’d hate to lose you, Harry,” he’d said to me once. “You’re the best shooter we got on account of you look and act just like what you are most of the time, a timid little salesman...”

Lorraine’s voice, raised querulously, penetrated again. “Harry? What’s the matter with you? You’re not paying attention!”

“Sorry. I was thinking about business.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake listen to what I’m trying to get through to you about the Gundersons. I told you all along they’re not normal people like us. Now will you believe me?”

“Yes, dear,” I said. “Not like us at all.”