“We can’t really see his house from ours.” Kerry Seymour points through the storm door at the row of blue spruce trees that obscures the view of the Michaels house. “I planted them four years ago. For privacy.”
He adds the final word in a way that tells me the trees have more to do with complete separation than simple privacy, and it makes me wonder just how serious the issues between them had been. “I understand there have been some problems between you and Mr. Michaels,” I say.
“We’ve had a few skirmishes over the years.”
“What kind of skirmishes?”
“Our dogs got out a couple of times. He called the law on me.”
“They’re good dogs,” Mary Ellen adds quickly.
“I know about the citation,” I tell them. “Any other problems? Arguments?”
“I called the County on him once for burning trash during a burn ban.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “That guy never liked me.”
“Any particular reason?” I ask.
He stares at me, and I notice red blotches at the base of his throat.
“I know about your record,” I tell him.
As if unable to bear the tension, Mary Ellen pipes up. “Mr. Michaels threw some trash on our side of the fence once. Pop cans. Kerry went over and asked him about it and he denied it. Said our dogs had gotten into his trash and the wind blew it over.”
“How long ago was that?” I ask.
“Two weeks ago,” she says.
Kerry glowers at his wife and she swallows hard. I raise my brows and wait.
“I had a few words with him a couple of weeks ago,” he admits.
“About what?”
“In addition to his bogus trash complaint, he said our dogs were barking and keeping him awake at night.”
“They sleep inside with us,” Mary Ellen says quickly.
I ignore her. “Did any of these confrontations ever get physical?”
His wife laughs. “Of course not.”
I don’t take my eyes off Kerry.
He tosses me an I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this smile that isn’t friendly. I’ve met plenty of cop-haters in my time. People who, for whatever reason, detest anyone in law enforcement, and Kerry Seymour fits the mold to a T. “You got something to say, just say it,” he says.
“I’d appreciate it if you just answered my question.”
“I never laid a hand on the guy.”
I nod. “When’s the last time either of you saw Mr. Michaels?”
“Last week,” Mary Ellen blurts. “Wednesday morning. I was on my way into town to see the eye doctor in Painters Mill—Dr. Driver—and Dale was getting his mail at the end of his lane.”
I turn my attention to her husband. “And you?”
“I don’t recall. Couple of weeks, probably.”
“Can both of you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”
“Kerry was at work.” Mary Ellen fingers her coffee cup nervously. “He works for the railroad. Eight to four thirty.”
“Do you work, ma’am?”
“I’m the gardener, maid, and cook.”
“What about the last couple of evenings?” I ask.
“We were here. Both nights.”
“Can anyone else vouch for that?” I ask.
“Well, no,” she admits. “But he was here.”
The dogs have inched their way over to us. Feeling a cold, wet nose against my hand, I reach down and stroke the head of the nearest Labrador, which is sitting at my feet. “Pretty dogs.”
“Thank you.” She beams, and I’m instantly forgiven for asking such impolite questions.
Her husband isn’t quite so magnanimous. “So am I a suspect?”
“I’m still in the information-gathering stage of the case, Mr. Seymour.” I pet the other dog to give the couple a moment to consider everything that’s been said, everything they’ve learned about their now-deceased neighbor. “Is there anything else you can add that might help us figure out who might’ve done this?”
Kerry sighs. “Look, I barely spoke to the man. Didn’t know him.”
“Did either of you ever see or hear him arguing with anyone?” I ask. “Or do you know of any arguments or disputes?”
Mary Ellen shakes her head. “As far as I know, the only people he yelled at was us. Cussed me out once because Greta pooped in his yard. Shook me up something awful.”
CHAPTER 5