‘Yes.’
‘I’m Barbara Wantanabe. Violet told me you wanted to talk?’
Faith had almost forgotten about Harding’s next-door neighbor. ‘Thanks for getting back to me. I was wondering if you could tell me about Dale Harding.’
‘Oh, I could give you an earful,’ she said, and then she proceeded to do just that, complaining about the smell from his house, the way he sometimes parked his car with the wheels on the grass, his foul language, the loud volume on his television and radio.
Faith followed along as best she could. Barb was even more verbose than Collier. She had a way of saying something, then contradicting herself, then restating the first thing she had said, then equivocating, and by the fifth time she’d wound herself into a rhetorical knot, Faith started to understand why Harding had hated her so much.
‘And don’t even get me started on the music.’
Faith listened as she started on Harding’s music. The same rap album, morning noon and night. Her grandson said it was Jay Z, something called The Black Album. Faith was familiar with the record, which her own son had played loudly behind the closed door of his room because it was the perfect backdrop to his white male privilege and early acceptance to one of the most prestigious universities in the country.
Faith tuned back into Barb, looking for a chance to jump in. Finally the woman had to stop to take a breath. ‘Did he have visitors?’
‘No,’ Barb said, then, ‘yes. I mean, I think so, yes. He might have had a visitor.’
Faith covered her eyes with her hand. ‘I sense some uncertainty.’
‘Well, yes. That’s true. I am uncertain.’
She had to float Collier’s drug-mule theory. ‘Did you see people coming in and out? Like a lot of people who looked like they didn’t fit in with the neighborhood?’
‘No, nothing like that. I would’ve called the police. It’s just that I thought there might be someone else, another person, over there at some point.’
‘At which point?’
‘Recently. Well, no, that’s not right. Last month.’
‘You thought someone was visiting at Dale’s house last month?’
‘Yes. Well, maybe staying there? Visiting might not be the right word.’
Faith gritted her teeth.
‘I mean to say that there could’ve been someone living over there. I think. When Dale was gone. Now, he was usually not there during the day when he first moved in, but later, he was always there. Which was when the problem started. When he was there. Which sounds mean, but there you go.’
Faith tried to wrap her brain around all the information. ‘So, when Dale first moved in six months ago, he was never home, but then you noticed that changed last month?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And around the time that changed, you heard sounds from next door that indicated someone other than Dale might be living there?’
‘Yes.’
Faith waited for the contradictory no, but it never came.
‘I heard sounds, you see.’ Barb paused before the next hedge. ‘Not sounds, per se. I mean, they could’ve been from the television. But who watches television and plays a rap album at the same time?’ She immediately went back on herself. ‘Then again, some people might do that.’
‘They might,’ Faith said. Especially if they wanted to cover up a noise, like a junkie beating on the closet door demanding to be let out. She asked, ‘Did you ever hear any banging?’
‘Banging?’
‘Someone banging on a wall or banging on a door?’
‘Well . . .’ She took her time considering the question.
Faith called up a mental image of the Tahoe floorplan at the Mesa Arms. The guest room was against the shared wall of the duplex. The master was to the outside, which gave the room more windows, but it also afforded more privacy.
Large master closet ideal for keeping women!
Barb said, ‘I guess you could say the noise sounded like a hammer.’
‘Like a hammer pounding something?’
‘Yes, but repeatedly. Maybe he was hanging pictures.’ She paused. ‘No, that would’ve been a lot of pictures. Not that it was constant—the noise—but it was long enough. I suppose he could’ve been assembling some furniture. My son does that for me. But only when he can find the time. My daughter-in-law, you see. But really, with Dale, the excrement was the real problem.’
Faith felt her mind boggle. ‘Say what, now?’
‘Excrement. You know . . .’ she lowered her voice, ‘doo-doo.’
‘Waste?’
‘Human.’
Faith had to repeat the two words together. ‘Human waste?’
‘Yes. In the backyard.’ She sighed. ‘You see, Dale would rinse out this bucket every evening, and at first I thought that he was painting inside, which made sense, because you would listen to music while you paint, yes?’
Faith threw out her hand. ‘Sure.’
‘And so I assumed that he was painting his walls, and not a very nice color, but then my grandson went into the backyard one day looking for twigs for Mr Nimh to chew on. Their teeth grow constantly, you see. Oh!’ She sounded excited. ‘Thank you, by the way, for finding him. I was persona non grata with my daughter-in-law for that particular crime. Believe me, she keeps a list. Now, I wasn’t a big fan of my own mother-in-law, but you do what you have to do, yes? It’s called respect.’
Faith tried to get Barb back on track. ‘Let’s go back to the excrement.’ There were six words she never thought she’d say. ‘You saw Dale cleaning out the bucket every night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Starting when?’
‘Two weeks ago? No.’ She doubled back. ‘Ten days. I would say ten days ago.’
‘A large bucket, not the kind you’d use to mop your floor?’
‘Right. Yes. For paint. Or I suppose solvents, but that size. Big.’
‘And one day your grandson went into the backyard and he found something? Smelled something?’
‘Yes. No. Both. He smelled something, and then he walked over. It was a slime, sort of? Whatever it was, it got all over the bottom of his shoe.’
The rat must have been thrilled.
Barb said, ‘I had to wash the sole with the hose. It was disgusting. And his mother was furious at me. Now, she’s my daughter-in-law, and I know that I have to play by her rules, but honestly—’
‘Did you ask Dale about the excrement?’
‘Oh no. I couldn’t talk to Dale about anything. That would be pointless. He would just curse at me and walk away.’
Faith understood why. ‘Did you ever see a different car at Dale’s house other than his white Kia?’
‘Not that I recall.’ She showed an unusual certainty. ‘No, I’m sure I never did.’
‘Are you home much?’ Faith tried to tread carefully, because a lot of times even well-meaning people stretched the truth. ‘I’m asking because you weren’t home this afternoon.’
‘I’ve been volunteering more at the YMCA. I fold towels, help keep things straightened up. I’m very clean, you see, which is why I had some issues with Dale. I don’t like things messed up. There’s no reason not to pick something up and put it right back where you found it, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Faith covered her eyes with her hand again. The woman never met a tangent she didn’t travel. ‘So you stepped up your volunteering to get away from Dale?’
‘Correct. At first volunteering was just a way to get out of the house for a few hours. And to help people. Of course to help people. But then it became my only respite away from the noise. And the odor. You smelled the odor, yes? I couldn’t live with it all day, you see. It was unbearable.’
Faith wondered if Barb’s absence had been the very thing Harding was pushing for all along. If he was keeping Delilah locked in the closet to dry her out, he would want to make sure no one would hear her screaming and call the police.
Faith asked, ‘When did you start spending more time away?’
‘Last week.’
‘So, seven days ago?’
‘Yes.’
Which meant that Dale had managed to drive her out after three days of relentless torture.