The Cinderella Murder

26

Lydia Levitt sat cross-legged on the sofa in her living room, her laptop perched across her knees. She typed a final period and then proofread her online review of Rustic Tavern, the restaurant she and Rosemary had selected for lunch the previous day. She deleted the last period and replaced it with an exclamation point. I will definitely be back-five stars! She hit the ENTER key, satisfied.

The website thanked her for her review. It was her seventy-eighth entry. Lydia believed in giving businesses feedback, for good or for bad. How else could they know what consumers valued and be able to improve? Not to mention, writing the reviews gave her something to do. Lydia loved to stay busy.

It wasn’t just the delicious food and beautiful patio that had made yesterday so enjoyable. She was excited to have found a new friend in Rosemary Dempsey. Lydia had lived at Castle Crossings for twelve years now, and the entire time, she had been older than almost everyone else in the neighborhood. These kinds of planned communities tended to attract young couples, eager for a safe, predictable, homogeneous place to raise their children.

For the most part, Lydia had found company among the self-named “Castle Crossings grandparents,” the parents of the young couples, living nearby to either help with child care or facilitate grandparent time.

But Lydia hadn’t met anyone quite like Rosemary at Castle Crossings. Rosemary struck her as adventurous. Interesting. And, maybe because of the terrible loss she’d suffered, she seemed a bit haunted.

Even so, Lydia could tell that Rosemary had been shocked at lunch when Lydia mentioned her wild-child days in the late sixties. If their meal had not been cut short by the phone call Rosemary had received from that television producer, Lydia might have found a way to fully explain the connection between that part of her life and her current identity as the rule-follower of Castle Crossings. Lydia had seen what life was like when everybody did whatever he or she felt like doing, willy-nilly. After she saw friends overdose, or lose their families to alcoholism, or get their hearts broken because one person’s idea of live-and-let-live is another person’s definition of betrayal, she saw the value in playing by the rules.

Lydia set her laptop on the coffee table and walked to the front window, parting the gray linen drapes with her fingertips. Rosemary’s driveway was empty. Shoot. She was looking forward to another visit.

She was just about to let the drapes close when she noticed a cream-colored pickup truck parked in front of the house next door to Rosemary’s. The driver exited, wearing cargo pants and a black windbreaker. He was probably close to forty years old, with a shaved head. He looked tough and lean, like a boxer.

He was walking toward Rosemary’s yard.

She let the drapes fall but kept a tiny slit open to peer out. Oh, how Don teased her when she did this. They both knew that everyone called her “the nosy neighbor.”

“What else am I supposed to do with myself all day?” she would ask Don. “I’m bored, bored, bored.” Spying on the Castle Crossings crowd, like posting online reviews of restaurants, kept her busy. She found such pleasure in conjuring up imaginary tales from the humdrum comings and goings around these quiet cul-de-sacs. In her alternate version of this neighborhood, Trevor Wolf’s band of teenage after-school buddies was plotting a series of bank robberies. Mr. and Mrs. Miller were cooking methamphetamine in the basement. Ally Simpson’s new rescue dog was actually a trained drug K9, working undercover to expose the Millers’ nefarious activities. And, of course, affairs abounded.

“You’ve got such an imagination,” Don liked to say. “You should write a mystery novel one day.”

Well, Don was at the health club, so he wasn’t around to catch her spying today.

She peered through the crack in the drapes as the pickup-truck man first knocked on Rosemary’s door, then leaned over to check out the view through her living room window. When he turned away and began retracing his steps through the yard, she assumed he was returning to his car. Instead, he turned left, facing away from her, and headed toward the side of Rosemary’s house.

Now, that was interesting. She began conjuring explanations: a burglar who had somehow slipped past security at the front gate; someone affiliated with that television show Rosemary had mentioned yesterday; a door-to-door proselytizer, out to introduce Rosemary to a new religion.

That’s it! Her church. She remembered Rosemary mentioning an upcoming flea market at Saint Patrick’s. She said she was grateful that she didn’t have to lug all of her giveaways to the church herself. A volunteer was supposed to come by to haul them for her. A pickup truck would be just the right vehicle for the job. Maybe Rosemary had arranged to leave the donations behind her house in the event she wasn’t home to meet him.

Lydia pulled on a fleece from the coatrack by the front door. She could help load the truck, or at least say hello on Rosemary’s behalf.

She crossed the street and then followed the same path the man had taken, walking to the right side of Rosemary’s house to her backyard. She found him trying the sliding glass door, unsuccessfully. She remembered how Rosemary had unlocked her front door when Lydia helped her with the groceries earlier that week.

“I told her she really doesn’t need to keep her doors locked,” Lydia called out. “That’s basically the reason most people live here.”

When the man turned, his face was expressionless.

“I’m Lydia,” she said, waving as she approached. “The neighbor across the street. You’re from Rosemary’s church?”

No change in expression. Only silence. Maybe he was deaf?

She stepped closer and noticed now that he was wearing black gloves. It didn’t seem quite that cold to her, but she always seemed to run a little warmer than other people. He finally spoke, only one word. “Church?”

“Yes, I thought you were from Saint Patrick’s. For the flea market? Did she tell you where she left everything? I got the impression she had a bunch.”

“A bunch of what?” he asked.

Now that she was right next to him, she noticed the insignia on the breast of his windbreaker.

“Oh, you’re from Keepsafe?” She knew about the company from Don’s days in the security industry. They were one of the most common providers of home alarms in the country.

At the mention of the company, the man appeared to wake from his daze. His smile was somehow even stranger than his previously blank expression. “Yes, I’m from Keepsafe. Your neighbor’s alarm sent an alert to our local station. She hasn’t cleared it and didn’t answer when we called. We automatically do a home visit to be sure. Probably just a misunderstanding-a dog knocking over a vase, that kind of thing.”

“Rosemary doesn’t have a dog.”

Another weird smile. “I meant that as an example,” he said. “These things happen all the time. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure you even have the right house? Rosemary doesn’t have an alarm system.” That was the kind of thing Lydia would have immediately noticed when she walked into Rosemary’s house.

The man said nothing, but the smile was still there. For the first time in her life, Lydia believed that the danger she sensed was anything but imaginary.