“PROBABLE CAUSE, MY ass.”
The affidavit accompanying the formal complaint against Ray in Miss Mae’s death had been filed with five minutes to spare before the forty-eight-hour deadline, based on the fact that he was the last person seen talking with Miss Mae before her death.
Julia looked at the clock, its hands pointing to five PM. She’d have to wait until morning to call the jail and set up an interview with Ray. Better yet, she’d go in person.
But when the doors to the jailhouse lobby were unlocked at eight the next morning, the deputy sitting in the bulletproof-glass-enclosed admission booth had a message for her.
“Geary, right? Got something for you from Ray Belmar.”
Hope nudged her for the first time in days.
The deputy hit a few keys and brought up something on his screen. “Says he’s not seeing anyone. Especially you.”
“Now what do we do?” Marie asked after Julia had calmed down upon her return to the office.
Julia wondered if she’d been too quick to use we with Marie, creating the illusion of a true partnership. But it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t handle all of it alone, and the alternative was to turn to Adonis.
“You’re friends with Wayne Peterson.” So was she, but she wanted Marie to stick with the basics. “Can you please give him a call, sound him out about the report on Mr. Williams’ and Miss Mae’s deaths? Find out why they were so quick to pin both of them on Ray? I mean, Ray and Mr. Williams at least had an argument, but we haven’t heard anything like that with Miss Mae. Here.”
She handed Marie her credit card. “Take him to coffee, and not at the downstairs cart. Go to Colombia and get the good stuff. Maybe even some pie.” That would put them both in a good mood, she reasoned. “Expense it. Be sure to get a receipt.”
Her phone rang. She waved good-bye to Marie and grabbed it.
“Julia? This is Sasha Berman.”
It took Julia a moment to place the name. Right. A real estate agent, a friend of her mother-in-law’s. Beverly had suggested she contact the woman, even as Julia protested that, as Beverly knew full well, she wasn’t in the market for a house.
“She can help you with a rental. She owes me a favor. We’ve been carpooling to bridge for more than a year now, and guess who never, ever drives? I’ve heard every excuse in the book, with apologies to match. I’ve begun to wonder if she doesn’t know how to drive, which seems a liability in her line of work.”
Julia suspected Beverly just wanted her out of the house as soon as possible so that she and Gregory Abbott could set up their own little love nest. It didn’t matter. The sooner she moved, the better, before she got too deep in the weeds of Ray’s case. Cases, plural, she reminded herself, even as she listened to Sasha’s excited announcement.
“I’ve got a line on a rental house, one near downtown, not too far from Beverly’s. It’s a wonderful location and just perfect for you and your little boy. Three bedrooms, along with one full and one half bath, finished basement, fenced yard. You could get a dog if you wanted.”
Julia did not want. She could barely take care of herself and Calvin.
But even the few apartments in that area whose listings she’d scanned had been beyond her reach. “That doesn’t sound like something I can afford.”
“You can. It’s not online yet. Can you come look at it right now? I wanted to give you first crack.”
Julia looked at the clock. The day was already getting away from her. She’d have to bring a stack of work home in order to catch up—which she did most nights anyway.
“What’s the address?”
It turned out that Sasha Berman did know how to drive. At least, she alighted from the driver’s side of a gleaming maroon Lexus. She made a sweeping gesture toward a neat frame bungalow surrounded by an actual white picket fence. Trees—bare now, but whose spreading branches promised ample summertime shade—flanked either side of a deep porch. Julia could see more behind the house, hinting at an oversized yard.
Sasha confirmed her assessment as she held the gate open. “It’s a double lot. If the owner had subdivided, she could have retired on the proceeds, but …” She bit her lip. “Here. Let me get the door. We don’t even have a lockbox on it yet.” She fumbled with a key, talking fast.
“I’m sorry it’s unfurnished. Places always show better when you can see how people live in them. But the cleaning crew just finished up yesterday. It’s spotless now. You could move in tomorrow if you wanted.”
Julia’s mind snagged on “cleaning crew” and “spotless now.” What had it looked like before? Had it been one of those hoarder houses, something that necessitated an entire crew? But no, she told herself. Half the women in Beverly’s neighborhood used a cleaning service that saw battered cars disgorging pairs of exhausted-looking women lugging buckets of cleaning products and what Julia assumed were industrial-strength vacuums.
She forgot her misgivings as soon as she stepped into the house. The hardwood floor, immaculate as promised, caught the light streaming in through large windows flanked by built-in shelves.
She kicked off her boots, not wanting to mar the floor’s fresh polish. A short hallway, with the half bath, led to a sunny kitchen that ran the width of the house. Julia ran her hand across granite countertops, peered into the depths of a subzero refrigerator, and looked doubtfully at a restaurant range. Whoever had lived here before obviously liked to cook. This kitchen would be wasted on her own efforts, which made heavy use of the microwave.
“The owner had just remodeled,” Sasha said. “Just look at these cabinets.” She flung open doors, revealing shelves that slid on silent runners and lazy Susans that rotated for easy display. Julia’s things wouldn’t fill a quarter of the space. “These windows face east, so you’ll have morning sun when you come down for breakfast. And just look at the size of that yard! Plenty of room for a swing set. I’m sure the property manager wouldn’t mind. Oh, and there’s a dog door in the back door, so you wouldn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to let the dog out.”
“I don’t have a dog. My mother-in-law has a cat, but it will stay with her.”
Sasha bustled past her, beckoning her upstairs. “You won’t believe this. There’s a laundry chute in the hallway, so you don’t have to lug heavy baskets of laundry down to the basement. Aren’t these old houses charming?”
“Yes. Until you see the closets.”
The house was so perfect—the sort of place she and Michael had dreamed of having one day—that Julia felt obligated to find a drawback. Sasha glanced back with a sly smile and flung open the door to a surprisingly large bedroom with two deep dormer windows. Sliding doors ran the length of one wall. “Go ahead,” she urged.
Julia slid one open. The closet was bigger than the one in her room at Beverly’s, with one end given over to shelves for sweaters and racks for shoes. She offered Sasha a rueful smile, admitting defeat.
“The other two are a little smaller, but with the same sort of closet space. You could use one for a home office. But I’ve saved the best for last.”
A bathroom stood between the bedrooms, with a shower and a separate claw-foot tub the approximate length and depth of a tiny swimming pool. In her pre-Calvin life, Julia had been an aficionado of long, near-scalding baths, preferably with a book in hand and a glass of wine on the rim of the tub. Then she’d moved in with Beverly, who prided herself on thrift and set the water heater at the lowest possible temperature, ensuring quick showers.
Julia stood motionless before the tub, entertaining a brief, blissful fantasy before mentally slapping herself back to sanity.
“You’ll want to check out the basement. The house comes with washer and dryer—rare in a rental. And the rest would make a perfect playroom for your little boy. And a puppy, of course.”
What in the world was her fixation with a dog? Julia took a breath.
“It’s beautiful. And whoever gets this house will be lucky. But you know what I can afford, and we both know this isn’t it.”
“Oh, but it is.” Sasha lowered her voice, even though they were alone. “The, uh, the property manager is eager to see it rented. She’s from out of state and wants to get back home as soon as possible. And of course, she wants someone reliable. If you’re ready, we could sign the lease today.”
All of Julia’s antennae quivered, a sensation nearly as strong as her yearning for a house like this one. That old saying: If something looks too good to be true …
She heard the front door open. “Sasha? Is that you? I saw your car outside,” a woman called.
“Oh no,” Sasha breathed. “She’s early.”
Now, thought Julia. This is where I find out what the deal is.
She turned to Sasha.
“So, what’s the problem? Mold? Termites? Did someone get murdered here?”
A woman ascended the stairs, preceded by a bounding, half-grown floppy-eared dog that leapt at Julia until she stooped to pet it. Its silky white hair, generously splashed with patches of orange, was so soft that she automatically scooped it up, giving it an opportunity to cover her chin with enthusiastic swipes of its little pink tongue.
“Sorry.” The woman took the dog from Julia and put him down, whereupon he immediately began running circles around them.
“Jake, enough,” the woman said hoarsely, with no discernible effect. She removed a wool cap, revealing hair that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in days. Her eyes were red and wet, her skin mottled as though she’d just been crying; not the tears whipped from one’s eyes by Duck Creek’s cruel wind but racking, body-curling sobs.
“Is this the renter?” she asked Sasha.
Sasha looked at Julia. “We hope so.” But her voice sounded anything but hopeful.
“Oh, thank God. I can’t wait to get away from here.” The woman visibly steeled herself. “I’m sorry. I’ve been rude. I keep forgetting myself these days. I’m Caroline Harper.”
Julia stared, mentally twisting the lank hair into a chignon, replacing the yoga pants and oversize shirt with a severe black dress.
Harper. As in Leslie Harper? Found dead in this very house?
She looked to Sasha, who nodded confirmation.
“Caroline is Leslie’s sister.”
Their state didn’t require sellers or landlords to reveal that a death, even a murder, had occurred on a property. So why drop the rent so low?
Even if the killing was revealed, it might discourage a few potential renters, but the house was a jewel and the rental market was tight. If Julia didn’t take it, someone else would.
“Of course I love it,” she began. An understatement. She wanted to rip Sasha’s designer leather tote from her shoulder, root around in it until she found the lease agreement, and sign on the spot. The logical side of her brain—which was it, right or left? She could never remember—drummed insistence. Too good to be true, too good to be true, too good to be true.
“But why rent it? Why not just sell it?”
“It’s going to take a while to get my sister’s affairs in order. I want someone in here who will take care of it in the meantime. And of course”—Caroline’s voice took on a pleading look—“I’d look favorably on the renter when it came time to sell.”
As if she could ever afford a house like this. Julia’s fingers twitched, anticipating the feel of the pen in her hand, scrawling her name across the lease.
Caroline and Sasha exchanged a very long look, then started to speak at the same time.
“Just one thing …”
“There’s an unusual clause …”
Ah. Here it comes. Julia thought of the cookie-cutter apartment buildings on the edge of town, forcing herself to get reacquainted with reality. That would be her future—the sound of her neighbors’ televisions, their cooking smells, their weekend revelries, their fights and their makeup sex. She was so intent on her internal talking-to—for God’s sake, she’d lived a life of unearned privilege for so long—that she had to ask Caroline what she’d just said.
The woman lifted the puppy and held it out toward Julia.
“He’s part of the deal.”
What the ever-loving fuck?
Had Julia spoken aloud?
It didn’t matter. They’d probably anticipated her reaction.
“We should go,” Sasha said, with a real estate agent’s rehearsed practicality. When a deal falls through, move on to the next one.
But Caroline was an amateur, acting as though there were still hope. She stepped closer, practically forcing Julia to take him. He wriggled in glee for a moment before settling in her arms like an infant.
“My sister loved this little guy. Loved him! Every day, she’d text me photos. I’d take him if I could, but we live in an apartment in Manhattan and the kids are about to go off to college and I work about a million hours a week at a job that’s ready to fire me because I’ve been gone so long dealing with all of this.”
The puppy turned over, finding a more comfortable position. It was warm against Julia’s chest. No, she thought. No.
“Can’t you just adopt it out?”
Caroline flinched as though Julia had slapped her. “Send it to the pound? Are you out of your mind?”
“But it’s a puppy. Or at least, it was one fairly recently. It’s still a long way from being grown. Everyone wants puppies.” She peered at the creature in her arms. It was cute—of course it was; it was a goddamned puppy—but if possible even more winsome than most. She touched a finger to a floppy ear and once again marveled at its softness. Its large eyes flew open, gave her a long soulful look, and closed again.
“No. He’s already been through enough upheaval. He was here alone with her after … after …” Caroline’s voice broke. She turned away. Her shoulders heaved. The puppy in Julia’s arms whimpered.
The woman faced them again and the puppy relaxed. “Getting here from New York took three flights. A whole day of travel. A neighbor took care of him until I arrived. Can you imagine what those few days must have been like for him? He’s lost his person. I can’t stand for him to lose his home. I’m willing to drop the rent into the basement for someone who will take him and truly care for him.”
The plea in Caroline’s eyes stabbed Julia.
Behind her, Sasha shrugged. I know it’s crazy, her face said. So sorry.
Julia looked at the puppy, its butterball stomach, its legs limp in sleep. The outsize paws at their end. How big would it get?
They were still in the upstairs hallway, outside the bathroom. The door stood open. The tub awaited. The lease would probably only be for a year. But for that one year, she and Calvin could live in the sort of home she’d always imagined. Calvin was five, going on six, more helpful around the house every day.
“What’s his name again?” she said. “My little boy will want to know.”