Too Good to Be True
Page 4

“Hi, how are you?” I asked.
“Do you have an emergency, ma’am?”
“Oh, well, you know, I’m not sure,” I answered, squinting one eye shut to see the burglar better. No such luck; he’d disappeared around the far corner of the house. “I think the house next door to me is being robbed. I’m at 34 Maple Street, Peterston. Grace Emerson.”
“One moment, please.” I heard the squawk of a radio in the background. “We have a cruiser in your area, ma’am,” she said after a moment. “We’ll dispatch a unit right now. What exactly can you see?”
“Um, right now, nothing. But he was…casing the joint, you know?” I said, wincing. Casing the joint? Who was I, Tony Soprano? “What I mean is, he’s walking around, trying the doors and windows. No one lives there, you know.”
“Thank you, ma’am. The police should be there any moment. Would you like us to stay on the line?” she asked.
“No, that’s okay,” I said, not wanting to seem too much of a wuss. “Thank you.” I hung up, feeling vaguely heroic. A regular neighborhood watch, I was.
I couldn’t see the man anymore from the kitchen, so I slipped into the dining room (oops, a little dizzy…maybe that was three G&Ts). Peeking out the window, I saw nothing irregular at the moment. And I didn’t hear sirens, either. Where were those cops? Maybe I should’ve stayed on the line. What if the burglar realized there’s nothing to steal over there, but then took a look over here? I had plenty of nice things. That sofa set me back almost two grand. My computer was state-of-the-art. And last birthday, Mom and Dad had given me that fabulous plasma screen TV.
I looked around. Sure, it was dumb, but I’d feel safer if I was…well, not armed, but something. I didn’t own a handgun, God knew…not the type. I glanced at my knife block. Nah. That seemed a little over the top, even for me. Granted, I had two Springfield rifles in the attic, not to mention a bayonet, along with all my other Civil War gear, but we didn’t use bullets, and I couldn’t quite imagine bayoneting someone, no matter how much fun I had pretending to do just that at our battle reenactments.
Creeping into the living room, I opened the closet and surveyed my options. Hanger, ineffective. Umbrella, too lightweight. But wait. There, in the back, was my old field hockey stick from high school. I’d kept it all these years for sentimental reasons, harking back to the brief period of time when I was an athlete, and now I was glad. Not quite a weapon, but some protection nevertheless. Perfect.
Angus was now asleep on his bed, a red velvet cushion in a wicker basket, in the kitchen. He lay on his back, furry white paws in the air, his little bottom teeth locked over his uppers. He didn’t look like he was going to be much help in the case of a home invasion. “Cowboy up, Angus,” I whispered. “Being cute isn’t everything, you know.”
He sneezed, and I ducked. Did the burglar hear that? For that matter, did he hear me on the phone? I chanced a peek out the dining-room window. Still no cops. No movement from next door, either. Maybe he was gone.
Or coming over. Coming for me. Well, my stuff, anyway. Or me. You never knew.
Holding the field hockey stick reassured me. Maybe I’d just slip upstairs and lock myself in the attic, I thought. Sit next to those rifles, even if I didn’t own bullets. Surely the police could handle the thief next door. And speaking of cops, a black-and-white cruiser glided down the street, parking right in front of the Darrens’ house. Great. I was safe. I’d just tiptoe into the dining room and see if Mr. Burglar Man was in sight.
Nope. Nothing. Just the ticking of the lilac branches against the windows. Speaking of the windows, Dad was right. They did need to be replaced. I could feel a draft, and it wasn’t even that windy. My heating bill had been murder this year.
Just then, a quiet knock came on the door. Ah, the cops. Who said they were never around when you needed them? Angus leaped up as if electrocuted and raced to the door, dancing happily, leaping so that all four paws left the ground, barking shrilly. Yarp! Yarpyarpyarpyarp! “Sh!” I told him. “Sit. Stay. Calm down, honey.”
Stick still in hand, I opened the front door.
It wasn’t the cops. The burglar was standing right in front of me. “Hi,” he said.
I heard the stick hit him before I realized I’d moved, and then my frozen brain acknowledged all sorts of things at once—the muffled thunking of wood against human. The trembling reverberation up my arm. The stunned expression on the burglar’s face as he reached up to cover his eye. My shaking legs. The slow sinking of said burglar to his knees. Angus’s hysterical yapping.
“Ouch,” the burglar said faintly.
“Back off,” I squeaked, the hockey stick wavering. My entire body shook violently.
“Jesus, lady,” he muttered, his voice more surprised than anything. Angus, snarling like an enraged lion cub, took hold of the burglar’s sleeve and whipped his little head back and forth, trying to do some damage, tail wagging joyfully, body trembling at the thrill of defending his mistress.
Should I put the stick down? Wouldn’t that be the prime moment for him to grab me? Wasn’t that the mistake most women make just before they’re tossed into the pit in the cellar and starved till their skin gets loose? “Police! Hands in the air!”
Right! The police! Thank God! Two officers were running across my lawn.
“Hands in the air! Now!”
I obeyed, the field hockey stick slipping out of my hands, bouncing off the burglar’s head and landing on the porch floor. “For Christ’s sake,” the burglar muttered, wincing. Angus released the sleeve and pounced instead upon the stick, snarling and yapping with glee.
The burglar squinted up at me. The skin around his eye had already turned livid red. And oh, dear, was that blood?
“Hands on your head, pal,” one of the cops said, whipping out his handcuffs.
“I don’t believe this,” the burglar said, obeying with (I imagined) the wearied resignation of someone who’s been through this before. “What did I do?”
The first cop didn’t answer, just snapped on the cuffs. “Please step inside, ma’am,” the other officer said.
I finally unfroze from my hands-in-the-air position and staggered inside. Angus dragged the field hockey stick in behind me before abandoning it to zip in joyous circles around my ankles. I collapsed on the sofa, gathering my dog in my arms. He licked my chin vigorously, barked twice, then bit my hair.
“Are you Ms. Emerson?” the cop asked, tripping slightly over the field hockey stick.
I nodded, still shaking violently, my heart galloping in my chest like Seabiscuit down the final stretch.
“So what happened here?”
“I saw that man breaking into the house next door,” I answered, disentangling my hair from Angus’s teeth. My voice was fast and high. “Where no one lives, by the way. And so I called you guys, and then he came right up on my porch. So I hit him with a field hockey stick. I played in high school.”
I sat back, swallowed and glanced out the window, taking a few deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. The cop gave me a moment, and I stroked Angus’s rough fur, making my doggy croon with joy. Now that I thought of it, perhaps whacking the burglar wasn’t quite…necessary. It occurred to me that he said “Hi.” I thought he did, anyway. He said hi. Do burglars usually greet their victims? Hi. I’d like to rob your house. Does that work for you?
“You okay?” the cop asked. I nodded. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you?” I shook my head. “Why did you open the door, miss? That wasn’t a smart thing to do.” He frowned disapprovingly.
“Uh, well, I thought it was you guys. I saw your car. And, no, he didn’t hurt me. He just…” said hi. “He looked, um …suspicious? Sort of? You know, he was creeping around that house, that’s all. Creeping and looking, sort of peeking? And no one lives there. No one’s lived over there since I’ve lived over here. And I didn’t actually mean to hit him.”
Well, didn’t I sound smart!
The cop gave me a dubious look and wrote a few things in his little black notebook. “Have you been drinking, ma’am?” he asked.
“A little bit,” I answered guiltily. “I didn’t drive, of course. I was at a wedding. My cousin. She’s not very nice.
Anyway, I had a cocktail. A gin and tonic. Well, really more like two and a half. Possibly three?”
The cop flipped his notebook closed and sighed.
“Butch?” The second officer stuck his head in the door. “We have a problem.”
“Did he run?” I blurted. “Did he escape?”
The second cop gave me a pitying look. “No, ma’am, he’s sitting on your steps. We’ve got him cuffed, nothing for you to worry about. Butch, could you come out here a second?”
Butch left, his gun catching the light. Clutching Angus to me, I tiptoed to the living room window and pushed back the curtain (blue raw silk, very pretty). There was the burglar, still sitting on my front steps, his back to me, as Officer Butch and his partner conferred.
Now that I wasn’t in mortal fear, I took a good look at him. Bed-heady brown hair, kind of appealing, really. Broad shoulders…it was a good thing I didn’t get into a scuffle with him. Well, into more of a scuffle, I supposed. Burly arms, from the look of the way the fabric strained against his biceps. Then again, it could just be the pose forced on him by having his hands cuffed behind his back.
As if sensing my presence, the burglar turned toward me. I leaped back from the window, wincing. His eye was already swollen shut. Dang it. I hadn’t planned on hurting him. I hadn’t planned anything, really…just acted in the moment, I guess.
Officer Butch came back inside.
“Does he need some ice?” I whispered.
“He’ll be fine, ma’am. He says he’s staying next door, but we’re gonna take him to the station and verify his story.
Can you give me your contact information?”
“Sure,” I answered, reciting my phone number. Then the cop’s words sank in. Staying next door.
Which meant I just clubbed my new neighbor.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FIRST THING I DID UPON awakening was roll out of bed and squint through my hangover at the house next door.
All was quiet. No sign of life. Guilt throbbed in time with my pounding head as I recalled the stunned look on the burglar’s—or the not-burglar’s—face. I’d have to call the police station and see what had happened. Maybe I should alert my dad, who was a lawyer. Granted, Dad handled tax law, but still. Margaret was a criminal defense lawyer. She might be a better bet.
Dang it. I wished I hadn’t hit the guy. Well. Accidents happen. He was skulking around a house at midnight, right?
What did he expect? That I’d invite him in for a coffee? Besides, maybe he was lying. Maybe “staying next door”
was just his cover story. Maybe I’d just done a community service. Still, clubbing people was new to me. I hoped the guy wasn’t too hurt. Or mad.
The sight of my dress, which I hadn’t hung up in my furor last night, reminded me of Kitty’s wedding. Of Andrew and Natalie, together. Of Wyatt, my new imaginary boyfriend. I smiled. Another fake boyfriend. I’d done it again.
You may have gotten the impression that Natalie was…well, not spoiled, but protected. You’d be right. She was universally adored by our parents, by Margs, who didn’t give her love easily and, yes, even by Mémé. But especially by me. In fact, my very first clear memory in life was of Natalie. It was my fourth birthday, and Mémé was smoking a ciggie in our kitchen, ostensibly watching us while my cake baked in the oven, the warm smell of vanilla mingling not unpleasantly with her Kool Lights.
The kitchen of my childhood seemed to be an enormous place full of wonderful, unexpected treasures, but my favorite spot was the pantry, a long, dark closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Often would I go in and close the door behind me, eating chocolate chips from the bag in delicious silence. It was like a little house unto itself, complete with bottles of seltzer water and dog food. Marny, our cocker spaniel, would come in with me, wagging her little stump of a tail as I fed her kibbles, eating one myself once in a while. Sometimes Mom would open the door and yelp, startled to find me there, curled up next to the mixer with the dog. It always felt so safe in there.
At any rate, on my fourth birthday, Mémé was smoking, I was lurking in the pantry with Marny, sharing a box of Cheerios, when I heard the back door open. In came Mom and Dad. There was a flurry of activity…Mommy had been away for a few days, and then I heard her call my name.
“Gracie, where are you! Happy birthday, honey! We have someone who wants to meet you!”
“Where’s the birthday girl?” boomed Dad. “Doesn’t she want her presents?”
Suddenly aware of how much I missed my mother, I bolted from the cabinet, past Mémé’s skinny, vein-bumpy legs, and charged toward my mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table, still in her coat. She was holding a baby wrapped in a soft pink blanket.
“My birthday present!” I cried in delight.
Eventually, the grown-ups explained to me that the baby wasn’t just for me, but for Margaret and everyone else, too. My present was, in fact, a stuffed animal, a dog. (Later that day, according to family lore, I put the stuffed dog in the baby’s crib, delighting my parents with my generosity.) But I never got over the feeling that Natalie Rose was mine, certainly much more than she was Margaret’s, a feeling that Margaret, who was seven at the time and horribly sophisticated, nurtured in order to get out of her sisterly responsibilities. “Grace, your baby needs you,”