The Nosy Neighbor (20 page)

Wylie pointed to the pile of food on the floor. Frozen food was heavy. “How are we going to get this home?”

“I guess we have to bag it and tie it around our necks or our waists. Hey, look, there’s a sled hanging on the wall. Rachel’s grandson comes to visit, so I guess the sled is for him.”

“Nah, we don’t have anything to tie it on with. Besides, it will be more trouble to pull the sled than it will be to drag the sacks. We’ll double some garbage bags and just drag them behind us. Unless you have a better idea.”

“Nope. Let’s do it.”

“It should be easier going home since we made tracks coming here.”

“Yeah, well, those tracks are probably full of snow by now,” Lucy grumbled.

Back inside Rachel’s house, Lucy dressed, rummaged for plastic sacks for the food as Wylie turned the thermostat down to seventy and let the faucet in the kitchen sink drip. Within ten minutes they were ready for the trek home, with each of them dragging one of the sacks of food.

“You’re right, Lucy, I feel like a damn Pilgrim on the hunt. I’d beat my chest, but I’m too damn tired.”

Lucy knew Wylie was talking, but his voice was carried away on the wind. Her head down, she concentrated on stepping into the tracks he made. She lost track of time and was so exhausted she bumped into him when he came to an abrupt stop. She was colder than she’d ever been in her life. She couldn’t feel her feet inside the high rubber boots. All she knew was they were full of snow. “What’s wrong?” she managed to gasp.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I overshot my house. We’re at Nellie’s house.”

“Nellie’s house!” Lucy screamed. “Nellie’s house!” she screamed again.

“Lucy, I can’t see in front of my face. Yeah, Nellie’s house. It looks like we’re in her driveway. I know it’s her house because I can see that metal sun sculpture she has nailed to the garage door under the overhang. You know what else. Someone is here because there are footprints going around to the back.”

“Who cares? It’s probably Nellie’s grandson. More than likely he got stranded at the train station and made it here. He lives in South Plainfield. Let’s go, Wylie. Get your bearings and move. I can’t believe we’re at Nellie’s house. Weren’t you a Boy Scout?”

“No, I wasn’t a Boy Scout. I was too busy mowing lawns, shoveling snow, and delivering papers. God, I hate snow—or did I say that already! I feel like a damn packhorse,” Wylie said as he turned around and moved across the virgin snow toward his own house. Lucy followed him blindly.

If it hadn’t been snowing so heavily, or if the wind hadn’t suddenly ratcheted up, one or the other of them might have seen the curtain on the upstairs bedroom window move as a man peered out of it.

At seven o’clock that morning Jonathan St. Clair let his gaze sweep the hotel room he’d been staying in. He grimaced at the cowhide suitcase, thinking of the cheap European clothes inside. He fumbled around inside until his fingers touched the canvas fanny pack that held numerous passports, matching IDs, and a stack of CD-Rs. The laptop glared up at him. Take it or not take it. Better to leave it, but first he had to dismantle it, just in case he wasn’t able to return to the hotel.

Working with an economy of motion, Jonathan ripped out the motherboard and stuffed it into his fanny pack. Now, he was ready to go.

Just minutes ago, he’d used the laptop to access MapQuest to get directions to Lucy’s house. But instead of listing Lucy’s address, he’d substituted the words, Golden Acres Shopping Center. He copied down the information, then deleted the request.

Jonathan walked back over to the window. Suddenly, he felt nervous, uneasy. He didn’t like the feeling. Not at all. He felt bile rising in his throat, the heavy breakfast threatening to erupt. Was he losing his edge? “Three strikes and you’re out,” he muttered.

Never a serene person, he realized he was fast coming up on strike three.

First it was Lucy and her strange behavior. The second was his decision to put his business on hold and fly to the States. Third was this unprecedented snowstorm and the house in Watchung that was compromised. Maybe he was on strike four and too stupid to recognize it. He shivered with the draft coming in around the windows. So much for hermetically sealed windows.

Jonathan shivered, not with cold but a mixture of fear and apprehension.

According to MapQuest, it was a little over four miles to the shopping center near to where Lucy lived. Knock off a quarter of a mile, and it was still almost four miles. Would he survive in the weather outside? Not unless he had a pair of boots. He shivered again as he imagined being brought down for lack of a pair of storm boots. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

His heavy wool coat over his arm, Jonathan marched to the door and thrust it open. He half expected to see the maids working in the hallway, but it was empty. That meant no one would be getting clean sheets.

The elevator was full when he stepped in and rode to the lobby. He wasn’t surprised to see the milling crowds of people, some sleeping on the leather furniture or in the wooden chairs in the lobby restaurant. He took his time as he meandered around looking at people’s feet, then at his own. Most of the men were wearing either Brooks Brothers tasseled loafers or wing tips like he was wearing.

Jonathan walked to the back entrance, hoping to see a door labeled
MAINTENANCE
. When he found it, he knocked softly and opened the door. The room was empty. Seeing no boots, he backed off and walked toward the glass doors that led out to the snow-filled parking lot, where hundreds of cars were parked every which way, all covered with mountains of snow. He didn’t know if it was his imagination or not, but it looked like the snow was abating somewhat.

He saw the maintenance workers then. Some with shovels, some with snowblowers. All were fighting a losing battle. All the men he could see wore high, rubber boots. Now, all he had to do was get a pair of those boots. Eventually, one or more of them would take a break, come indoors, and go to the maintenance room, where he would be waiting.

Jonathan backtracked and boldly walked toward the maintenance room, where he opened the door and walked inside as though he belonged there. As far as he could tell, no one paid him any attention. He held his breath to see if anyone followed him into the room demanding to know what he was doing. His sigh was mighty when nothing happened. He looked at his watch—7:30.

He waited.

It was nine o’clock when the door finally opened and two weary men stepped into the room. Jonathan watched from his position behind a tall metal cabinet as both men shed their plastic outerwear, winter clothing, and heavy, rubber boots. The taller of the two men rummaged in a bag on the floor and brought out a huge Thermos of coffee. He poured for both of them. Neither man said a word as they gulped at the hot drink. When they finished their coffee, the same man reached again into the canvas bag and brought out an ordinary-looking kitchen timer. Jonathan could hear the clicks on the timer as the man turned it on. He waited five minutes, then another five minutes before he stepped out from behind the metal cabinet. Both men were sound asleep, both snoring loudly. Cautiously, he removed both men’s boots, stepped into one pair, folding down the others and stuffing them into the canvas bag along with his wing tips. He looked back at the men. Neither had moved. He was almost to the door when he remembered he needed a hat. He ran back and snatched a wool cap off the table. His nose wrinkled at the cheap scent that wafted past his nose as he drew the hat down as far as it would go over his ears.

Three minutes later he was outside, trying to make his way to the driveway that led to the road. He had memorized the MapQuest directions and knew exactly where he was going. All he needed was to get to his destination.

By the time Jonathan worked his way to the front of the hotel and the downward-sloping driveway, he was already exhausted. The boots were impossibly heavy, and, before he knew what was happening, he was on his rear end, sliding down the partially cleared drive. When he finally used the heels of the boots to bring himself to a skidding stop, snow had ballooned up and around him, going up his sleeves and down his boots. Overhead, the stinging flakes beat against his face as it covered him better than any blanket. He looked over his shoulder and saw the handles of the green canvas bag at the top of the driveway. He had no conscious memory of dropping the bag. It looked, from what he could see, like it was in a drift. If the snow continued the way it was, it would be covered completely in another hour. It would be sheer torture to try and make his way back to the top of the driveway. So he would lose his wing tips. He made the decision to leave the bag.

Somehow, Jonathan managed to get to his feet. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but a vast wasteland of snow. There was no sign of humanity, no cars, no trucks, no sign of life. He knew, as he climbed over a steep snowdrift, that to his right was the Metro train station. All he had to do was make it to the traffic light, cross over, and he would be on Wood Avenue. A steep hill if he chose to go that way. Or, he could make a left on Route 27 and walk to the town of Metuchen, where he would then follow Central Avenue to Edison. There he would make another left on Park Avenue and take that directly to the development where Lucy lived.

His head down, Jonathan trudged on, opting to take Route 27 in the hope snowplows had been through earlier.

Time lost all meaning as Jonathan urged his body and his feet to cooperate.

He talked to himself when the images of warm waterfalls and tropical breezes failed to help him. He cursed and vented, his lips blue with cold.

It was eleven-thirty by his watch when he came to an intersection.

Jonathan had yet to see a human being or a vehicle. He kept slogging forward, past Saint Joe’s School for Boys on the left, private homes on the right. He trudged up a small hill and saw a huge sign that said
CHARLIE BROWN’S RESTAURANT.

The scarf around his neck was full of ice and bone cold on his neck. He knew he was in trouble when he started to feel light-headed. Would he die out there?

He heard the sound, saw dim yellow lights through the swirling snow, and knew instantly that it was a snowplow. He didn’t stop but kept moving. The plow turned right. There was supposed to be a traffic light, but it was out. It had to be Park Avenue.

Jonathan turned and followed the plow. It was easier going. Maybe he wouldn’t die after all. Still, it took him another twenty minutes to trudge to the gas station on the corner of Stephenville Parkway and Park Avenue. He walked the half block, falling twice, face-first into the snow. He managed to get to his feet knowing he was close to Nellie’s house. Just a little farther. He literally staggered to the corner of David Court and turned right. He fell again, got up, and fell back down. He rolled and rolled, over and over, until he came to the first house on David Court. Using the last of his strength, he struggled to his feet, forged his way up the driveway and around to the side door of the garage. With his elbow, he smashed one of the small panes of glass, slid his hand inside, and undid the lock. He literally fell through the open door.

The boots were the first thing to come off before he entered the kitchen. He felt drunk when he lurched his way to the thermostat to turn it up. When he went back to the garage to close and lock the door he thought he heard voices.
I must be delirious.

Back inside Nellie’s house, he looked around. Other than the furnishings, the house had the exact same layout as Lucy’s. He started to shed his clothes as he made his way to the first-floor bathroom, where he turned on the shower. Thank God there was hot water. His body burned and tingled as he stood under the steaming spray. Maybe he should use cold water, tepid water. Like hell.

He still wasn’t sure if he was going to die or not. He told himself at that point he didn’t even care. All he wanted was to be warm again.

When the hot water ran cold, Jonathan stepped from the shower and put on Nellie’s flannel bathrobe, hanging on the back of the door. He shuffled out of the steamy bathroom in search of liquor. He found a bottle of cognac and a bottle of apricot brandy in one of the kitchen cabinets. He couldn’t get the bottle to his lips fast enough. When his throat and stomach protested, he capped the bottle.

The house was cozy warm as he made his way to the second floor, the brandy bottle clutched tightly in his hand. He’d read somewhere that old people liked to use electric blankets. He hoped Nellie was one of those people. She was. He turned the blanket to high before he pulled down the covers. While he waited for the bed to warm up, he rummaged in Nellie’s drawers and found a pair of flannel pajamas. Nellie must be fat, he decided as he climbed into them. One leg into the pajama bottom, he jerked to awareness and hobbled to the bedroom window when he heard what he thought was Lucy’s voice. And then another voice carried on the wind. A man’s voice. Lucy and a man, literally outside this house. A devilish smile ripped across his face. He yanked at the pajama bottom as he made his way to the bed. “Glad to know where I can find you, Lucy. See you later…”

Jonathan fell into the bed. He had the presence of mind to turn off the blanket before he pulled the covers up to his chin. His last conscious thought was that he wasn’t going to die after all. The watch on his wrist said the time was 1:12.

•   •   •

Jake and the dogs were waiting in the foyer when Lucy opened the door. Wind and snow spiraled through. Coop reared up and started to howl. Sadie followed suit. Lulu danced around in a circle, yapping and growling.

“We must look like something from another planet,” Wylie said. “It’s us!” he said to the howling dogs as he dropped his sack of food. The moment he ripped off his dark hat, the dogs stopped their racket.

“You look…frozen,” Jake said.

“Guess what, Jake, we
are
frozen. You’re in charge of this food,” Wylie said, pointing to the sacks of food that were dripping melted snow onto the floor. “Lucy and I are going to get into some warm clothes and sit by the fire. I don’t know when I’ve ever been this exhausted.”

Lucy just shook her head as she stepped out of her boots and weaved her way to the steps. “I’m going to take a warm bath. I’d appreciate it, Jake, if you’d make a blazing fire. I’m going to wrap myself in a blanket and take a nap.”

“Me, too,” Wylie said. “You’re in charge, Jake.”

“Hey, Lucy, the FBI called. They want you to call them back. The agent said it was urgent. I left the number by the phone in the family room. And, before you can ask, they said they got Wylie’s number from the phone book. I guess they assumed you would be here. Those guys don’t miss a trick. I didn’t confirm or deny but said if I saw you, I’d give you the message.”

Lucy’s response was to raise her middle finger high over her head. Jake chuckled as he picked up the sacks of food, a happy smile on his face. He wasn’t going to starve after all.

•   •   •

It was seven o’clock, and time to wake up his hosts, when Jake set the table. The timer for the oven pinged, confirming his intention. Ah, his Bisquick biscuits were done. They were a rich golden color. Perfect. The pot on top of the stove held chili, the only thing he really knew how to cook. He hoped he hadn’t made it too hot. He himself loved hot, the hotter the better. Who was he kidding? He loved food, anything that was chewable. He’d chopped onions and grated cheese to sprinkle on top of the robust meal. He’d even baked the pie he’d found pushed back behind bags of soup bones in the freezer. The expiration date on the box said the pie had expired six months ago. He ignored the date and cooked it anyway. Pie was pie, and it was frozen, so how could it be bad?

He’d played housekeeper all afternoon while his hosts slept. He’d replenished the fire three or four times, cleaned the hallway, set the capons in cold water in the laundry room sink to thaw, put everything else away, then watched the snow fall outside.

Jake walked over to the sliding glass doors, where he turned on the deck lights. Damn, it was still snowing. Perhaps not as heavily, but it was still coming down.

He went into the family room, where he bent down to wake up his hosts. “Rise and shine, boys and girls, dinner is ready. It’s seven-thirty, and it is still snowing. Chop-chop. I slaved all afternoon in the kitchen, and I don’t want it to get cold.”