I had just walked through the door of my house, kicked off my shoes, poured myself a generous four finger scotch, and sat down on my couch when there was a knock at the door.
"Did you see what happened?" my neighbor asked, pushing her way into the house.
"No, I—"
"What? How could you have missed it?" she asked, staring and waving her hands at me.
I excused Imogen's rude behavior mainly because she was dressed in a slim-fitting outfit accentuating her fantastic body, and, more importantly, she had a lovely English accent. Not to mention I was in love with her.
"Missed what?"
"Max, the house down the block. The police are all over the place."
"What the heck happened?" I asked, taking a sip of Glenfiddich 18.
"You really are clueless sometimes."
"Well, I need a bit of liquor in me before I'm thinking clearly."
"What happened? How could you have missed it? Something big, around the corner!"
I let this information pour over me as my second sip of scotch warmed a path down my throat.
"Did you hear what I just said?" Imogen asked.
"How do you know?"
"I live here. It was hard to miss the screeching sirens. Come on!"
Imogen pulled my arm, almost making me spill my drink. I grabbed my coat and my drink, threw a leash on my black lab Jabber, and we all strolled down Seymour Drive. When we came around the corner, about a quarter of a mile down the road, I saw police tape boxing in the understated colonial mansion. How had I missed this? There were official emergency vehicles everywhere, flashing lights, and uniformed men darting every which way. A white van was in the process of unloading an empty gurney.
"Looks like we just made it," I said, standing with Imogen behind the police tape.
Do you know whose house this is?" Imogen asked.
"Ted Baxter's."
"You know him?"
"You could say that. I've had a history with him over the years."
I indeed had a history with Ted. We were both venture capitalists. Very good ones. And ones that ran in the same circles. Although I tried to limit my circle time with him.
Imogen and I, along with a few other neighbors, milled around just outside the yellow-taped perimeter. After chitchatting with some people whom I had never met, nor seen before, nor had any desire to see again, I waved over one of the uniformed police officers.
"What happened?" I asked.
"There was a death in the house. You a neighbor?" he asked, walking over, one hand resting on his holstered weapon.
"Yes, I live around the corner. Is there anything that I should be worried about?"
"As I have told some of your other neighbors, nothing you should be concerned about."
"Well, I see some guys running around here in suits. I'm no cop, but they certainly look like detectives to me."
"Move back, sir." The cop sternly directed me with his words and his hands. This conversation was over.
Every time I'd ever asked a cop what had happened, they have never answered. It was always nothing to see here, move along. They were all the same. They never wanted to open up.
We hung around for a few more minutes, saw a gurney—no doubt the one that we saw when we arrived, now with a white sheet covering a body being loaded into a white van. One of the neighbors had told me that a man had died. Apparently, he had gotten further with the police than I had. I knew that had to mean Ted. He had lived there alone with his wife. We watched the door shut. The show was over. I wasn't going to hang around and chat with the neighbors any more than I already had, so we decided to head back to my place.
When we arrived home, I let Jabber off her leash and poured myself a drink.
"What do you think happened?" Imogen asked, concerned, watching me fix my second scotch of this short evening.
I took a sip.
"If I had to guess, I'd say that Ted was murdered."
Once they threw the sheet over your body and you were loaded into one of those white vans, you usually didn't make it out for dinner. I was confident we wouldn't be visiting Ted in the hospital anytime soon. And I could not care less.
"Oh my!" Imogen raised her hands to her mouth. "Why in the world would someone do that?"
"I could give you ten reasons off the top of my head," I said, walking over to my couch, ready to sit down.
Imogen glared at me. "Max, you're such an asshole sometimes. Don't you care?"
"Sure I care. But I figure he's out of his misery."
Imogen stared at me as if bewildered. Just about to sit, I decided to head back over to the bar in the corner of my living room.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked.
"How can you just stand there stone-faced? You said you knew the guy."
"I know a lot of people, my dear. Scotch on the rocks?"
I knew her drink. After five years of dating, I should. But I liked to ask. I liked the banter. It kept the romance alive.
"Scotch and soda."
"Ah, yes." I mixed the drink and brought it over to Imogen. "Have a seat," I said, motioning over to the white Italian leather art deco couch adorning my retro living room.
Money could buy you a lot of things. Not all of them nice. The one thing it couldn't buy you was taste. Luckily for me, I had both. But some of the people around here were lacking on the taste front. They decorated their homes like they lived in manor house. I couldn't stand stuffy, stately looking rooms. Never could. I was not landed gentry. I didn't have a valet, footman, cook, and scullery maid. No use pretending that I was. I wouldn't be fooling anyone.
Imogen sat, took a sip of her drink, and put her feet up on the ottoman while staring at the pitch-black television screen. I sat down next to her, put my feet up, and took a long sip of my scotch.
"Who would do such a thing?" Imogen asked.
She looked puzzled. She looked concerned. There was nothing to worry about. Ted was dead. And, I hated to say it, the world was a little bit better of a place.
"Perhaps things will become a little clearer in the morning. Care to discuss it over breakfast?" I asked.
My phone rang. I answered it, excusing myself from Imogen's company, and walked into the kitchen.
"I need your help," the voice on the other end of the phone said.
Kitty. She was alive. Which meant it was indeed Ted who was dead. Why on earth would she be calling me? I would assume she'd be a tad occupied at the moment. Considering her husband had just died.
"How did you get my number?"
"I saw you outside of my house. Can you help me?"
"I'm not sure what kind of help you need, but surely you need to talk to the police first."
"I already did that. I need to talk to you."
"Then go ahead and talk."
"Not on the phone. Can I come see you?"
"Not tonight. I have company."
"Same old Dutch."
Dutch. She never called me by my name. I took a sip of my drink. It was much better than this conversation.
"I'll be over tomorrow morning," she said, and disconnected our call.
I strolled back into the living room.
"Who was that?"
"Work."
"Oh."
"You staying a while?"
I didn't know why I bothered to ask. That was typically what lovers did. They spent the night. But I liked to pretend I was still on the chase for her affections. She liked to play hard to get.
"I guess."
"Well, why don't you kick off your shoes and get comfortable." Imogen was halfway through her first drink.
"Max, you're terrible."
"I know you mean that in the best possible way, my dear." I leaned over and gave her a kiss.