There Was an Old Woman

Chapter Thirty


Getting old sucked, Evie thought as she crossed back to her mother’s house. She left behind wet footprints in the tall grass, already flattened by the heavy rain. Would she go out flailing and dwindling like her mother or fighting—she noticed the open garage with the light on—and sweeping up cat litter like Mrs. Yetner?

She detoured to the garage. The pile of litter was mounded on the floor near the back, and the smell of gas had completely vanished. She’d deal with it tomorrow. She turned off the light, pulled down the door, and returned to the house. The minute she’d unlocked the front door and pushed it open, an overpowering smell, both acrid and sweet, sent her reeling back. Roach bombs. She’d forgotten all about them.

She took a deep breath before plunging in and racing from window to window, throwing them open. When she got to the back door, she pulled it open, stepped outside onto the back porch, and gasped for breath. The light mist and stiff breeze that whipped off the marsh felt good on her face. She stayed out there for a few minutes, giving the house and her own lungs time to air out before going back inside.

In the bedroom she found a sweatshirt and sweatpants in her mother’s bureau and a pair of warm socks. She shucked her damp clothes and changed. Returning to the living room, she stood there, looking around. Something felt off, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

The photos were still in their places on the mantel. The pattern of dust on the coffee table showed where Evie had cleared away ashtrays and papers. The TV was still on the wall. Still, she couldn’t shake a feeling of unease.

Her neck prickled as she realized what it was. The TV’s shipping box with the SONY logo was no longer leaning against the side of the sofa. It was gone. What else?

Evie walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Slowly she did a 360. Cabinets and drawers were open. She’d left them that way. The bills and statements were still in orderly rows on the kitchen table. Or . . . not quite. The rows looked as if they’d been slightly disturbed. She could easily have done that herself when she went crashing through to open the windows.

But when she looked more carefully at the piles, she realized it was more than that. The phone bill on the top of one of them was six months old. When she’d finished sorting, the newest one would have been on top.

Someone had been in the house, and it only now occurred to her that it was just possible that the person was still there. Evie grabbed her purse, ran out of the house, and dialed 911.



Evie waited outside in a light drizzle for the police, wondering if the officer who’d rousted Mrs. Yetner off Mr. Cutler’s porch would show up. But the two officers who climbed out of the cruiser that arrived after a ten-minute wait were strangers. One, barrel chested and straight backed, was not much older than Evie. She followed his gaze as he took in the house, reminded again of how appalling it looked: graffiti, sodden bags of trash, and a soiled mattress leaning up against the side, and landscaping that belonged in a vacant lot.

The other officer, an older man, tall with a stiff gait, went into her mother’s house while the younger one came over to talk to her. Evie felt silly telling him about the missing packing box and that papers had been rearranged. But he didn’t seem to think it was silly at all. He wrote down everything she said.

The older officer emerged from her mother’s house and strode over to them. “It’s okay. No one’s inside. There’s no sign of a forced entry. You sure you left the house locked?”

“Absolutely.”

“When did you leave?”

“At around eleven this morning.”

“Anyone else have keys to the house?” he asked.

“My sister. She’s in Connecticut. And”—Evie swallowed a twinge of guilt—“the man who runs the convenience store up the street has keys to the garage. Maybe to the house, too. I don’t know. He was over here this morning, helping me with my mother’s car.”

“You were right to get out of there and call us,” the older officer said. “I’m going to talk with your neighbors. See if anyone saw anything.”

He strode next door where Mrs. Yetner was peering out from behind her screen door.

The younger officer said, “So a cardboard box is missing?”

“I didn’t really have time to check. There might be more.”

“Why don’t we go in and you have a look around?”

Evie agreed, glad not to be going back inside by herself. The officer hung back, following her from room to room. In her mother’s bedroom, she checked her jewelry drawer. There, amid a jumble of rhinestones and fake pearls, were her grandmother’s diamond wedding ring and the sapphire earrings that her dad had given her mother on their twentieth anniversary. In the dining room, her mother’s few pieces of good silver were still there. Beyond that, there wasn’t much of value to take. Not any longer.

“Up until this morning,” Evie told the police officer, “there was a fair amount of cash in the house.”

That got his attention. “Really?”

“Thousands of dollars. I’d taken it with me.”

“Lucky thing you did. Who knew your mother was keeping cash in the house?”

“Obviously whoever gave it to her. But I have no idea who that was, and she’s not telling.”

“She didn’t have any friends?”

“There’s the man across the street. He came over to ask me if he could do anything to help. I got the impression that he and my mother were good friends.”

“What about the man with the keys to her garage? Was he a good friend, too?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Evie felt herself flush. “Not that kind of friend.”

When they got back outside, Evie glanced across the street to where the second officer was ringing Frank Cutler’s bell. That house was dark, and the garage was open and empty. The officer gave up and tried the house next door.

“Okay, then. I guess that about wraps it up,” the younger officer said, handing her his card. He put away his notebook and looked as if he was anxious to be off. “Call if you discover anything else missing. And if I were you, I’d get the locks changed immediately.”

The older officer came back. “Just the old woman living next door is around. She has an interesting theory. She says the man who lives over there”—he indicated across the street toward Mr. Cutler’s house—“was out in front of your house earlier today. Talking to a tow truck driver who picked up a car. She thinks she saw a box in the driveway. Says she’s sure the man took it with him. But you can take that with a grain of salt. She calls us all the time, almost always with some complaint about that neighbor.”

Evie looked next door. Mrs. Yetner was still standing in her doorway, the screen pushed open. Was she a reliable witness or did she see what she wanted to see?

“Besides,” the officer added, “I’m not sure her eyesight is all that good.”

Evie waved at Mrs. Yetner. Her neighbor certainly saw her well enough to wave back.