Chapter 27

That man was out there again. Enid Carmichael knew faces, but even if she hadn’t recognized the guy’s face, she’d still remember him. Not a lot of people dressed this way, decked out in a suit and shiny shoes. It had been a few months, but she hadn’t forgotten.

She was about to eat lunch, had her turkey sandwich almost to her lips when she spied him. She took a quick gulp of sherry and deposited the sandwich in the refrigerator in case Fancy Bad Guy Man stayed a while. She took her place by the window.

Hmm. She might need to intervene this time, march right out to him and demand to know what he was up to. No good. He was up to no good. That much she knew.

She peered closer. Her eyes weren’t as good as her ears. Were his lips moving? Was he talking to himself?

She turned the latch and carefully, silently, swung wide the window so she could hear. Her tiny dog, Snowball, took that moment to skitter across the floor chasing a shadow. He slid into the table leg, knocking over her glass of sherry, which rained down on him like the Newfoundland drooling on that hot summer day. Snowball barked and barked, his high-pitched Bichon Frise yip, as if he’d been hit with a frigid dog shower instead of a tiny dollop of liquor.

Mrs. Carmichael recoiled from the window as the man looked up. He couldn’t see her, she knew that, but reflexes were reflexes.

She retrieved the turkey sandwich from the refrigerator and plopped it on the floor by the frantic dog. He set on it at once, and she returned to the window.

If he had been talking to himself, he wasn’t now. Darn. He might have spilled a secret. Let slip his mission. Loose lips sink ships. She’d be ready if he did decide to speak. Her ears were ready.

Last time, he’d just ambled up and down the sidewalk, slowly back and forth, eyes locked on their building.

It reminded her of when she used to saunter past her husband’s apartment building before he was her husband. Hoping he’d come out and she could say, “What a coincidence, I was just visiting my friend Lois who lives on this street, I didn’t know you lived here too.”

She needn’t have bothered with all that pretending. All that time wasted. He never came out. Her friend Lois had to come right out and tell him Enid was interested, and he called her immediately and the rest was history.

Oh, they had some fun times. That was before Clarice was born, before all the fights about who should stay home from work when she had an ear infection, who should go out in the night to get the milk when they ran out, who should get her to and from her ballet lessons. They never figured out the logistical part of parenting. Well, that’s not true. They never figured out anything about parenting at all. When Clarice turned twelve, she painted her face with lipstick and eye shadow and hemmed her skirt up above her knee and expected them to just accept it. Stanley never said a word. Mrs. Carmichael thought he might actually have been scared of their own daughter. Understandable. The girl was a force.

That left Enid to deal with her all by herself. No help from the man of the house. The man of the house wasn’t home much by then. He was “at the office” or “out with clients.” She knew where he was. He didn’t fool her. He was with some young thing whose skirt was as short as Clarice’s.

Their teenager turned on them, and her husband turned tail and ran.

Good riddance, that’s what she said. What was the point of it all? She made the decisions about Clarice alone anyway, whether he lived in the house or not. She confiscated the pill bottles, took away the cigarettes, paced the floor at night waiting for Clarice to return. “Just wait ’til you have children of your own! Then you’ll see,” Enid shouted. But Clarice would never know these traumas of parenthood. Clarice didn’t have children, wasn’t even married. Go figure.

Stanley never knew either. He never helped Enid before or after he left. They were not a team.

Not like Mr. Glenn and Bessie. Now there was a team, dealing with drug-addled Lionel together, dealing with Bessie’s cancer together, a rock-solid marriage right up until Bessie died. Now look at him with Alma Gordon. They looked like a team as well, the way they took care of that baby, taking weekend trips together, bowling. Alma even got him to go to yoga.

Like the murderer.

Mrs. Carmichael frowned at the man across the street. What did he want with them?

There were murderers in this city, and they looked just like you and me, Mrs. Carmichael thought. This man could be a murderer for all she knew.