Before
I’m driving down the world’s most perfect, tree-lined street. Red maple and yellow aspen trees canopy over the narrow street, their leaves raining down. It’s too early for trick-or-treaters, the little misfits still in school for an hour or two. But the million-dollar homes wait for them, tucked behind impeccable landscaping and lawns that actually necessitate a riding lawn mower...though no one around here dares mow their own lawn. They’re all decked out with hay bales and corn stalks and perfectly round pumpkins with the unblemished stalks.
The mailman is closing in on the Dennetts’ mailbox when I pull into the brick drive. I settle my piece-of-shit car beside Mrs. Dennett’s sedan and wave a friendly hello as though I might just live here. I make my way to the brick mailbox, more spacious than my own john.
“Afternoon,” I say as I thrust out a hand for today’s mail.
“Afternoon,” he replies as he sets a stack of mail into my hand.
It’s cold out here. And gray. It always is, every single Halloween that I can ever remember. The gray clouds descend to the earth’s surface until you can no longer tell the difference between land and sky. I tuck the mail under an arm and plunge my hands into my pockets as I make my way up the drive.
Mrs. Dennett has this way of thrusting open the front door every time I arrive. There’s a great gusto about it, her face awash with enthusiasm until she sees me. The smile disappears. Her wide eyes vanish. Sometimes there’s a sigh.
I don’t take it personally.
“Oh,” she says. “Detective.”
Every time the doorbell rings, she’s sure it’s Mia.
She’s wearing an apron the color of mustard over a whole yoga ensemble.
“You’re cooking?” I ask, trying not to choke on the smell. She’s either cooking or a small animal has crept into the basement and died.
“Trying.” She’s already walking away from me, leaving the front door hanging open. There’s a nervous laugh as I follow her into the kitchen. “Lasagna,” she says, slicing a mound of mozzarella cheese. “Ever make lasagna before?”
“I specialize in frozen pizza,” I say, setting the mail on the island. “Thought I’d save you the trip.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says, dropping the cheese slicer and reaching for an “explanation of benefits” from the insurance company. She wanders off in search of a letter opener while, on the stove, Italian sausage begins to burn.
I do know a thing or two about lasagna. I watched my mother cook it about a million times as a kid. She’d trip over me in our tiny kitchen, while I hounded her—Is it ready yet? Is it ready yet?—while playing with my Matchbox cars on the kitchen floor.
I find a wooden spoon in the drawer and give it a whirl.
“What was I...” she asks mindlessly as she returns to the kitchen. “Oh, Detective, you don’t have to,” she says, but I tell her that I don’t mind. I set the spoon beside the skillet. She’s sorting the mail.
“Have you ever seen so much junk?” she asks me. “Catalogs. Bills. Everyone wants our money. Have you ever even heard of—” she holds up the envelope for a closer look at the name of the charity “—Mowat-Wilson syndrome?”
“Mowat-Wilson syndrome,” I repeat. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Mowat-Wilson syndrome,” she says again, settling the envelope on a pile of mail that eventually works its way into a fancy-schmancy organizer on the wall. I would have thought for sure the Mowat-Wilsons were going to be recycled; turns out they just might get a check. “Judge Dennett must have done something special to deserve lasagna,” I say. My mother cooks lasagna all the time. There’s nothing special about it. But for someone like Eve Dennett, I gather that a home-cooked meal, one like this, is a rare treat. Depending, of course, on if ones lives through the meal; based on the looks of this, I’m rather happy I haven’t been invited to stay. I’m an expert at stereotypes, sure that Mrs. Dennett is a one-trick pony in the kitchen. She’s probably got a chicken recipe and chances are she can boil water. But that’s all.
“It’s not for James,” Mrs. Dennett says as she moves behind me to the stove. The sleeve of a black spandex top grazes my back. I’m sure she doesn’t notice. But I do. I can still feel it, seconds after she’s gone. The woman tosses a pile of onions into the skillet. They hiss.
I know that it’s Mia’s birthday.
“Mrs. Dennett?” I ask.
“I’m not going to do this,” she vows, completely absorbed in cooking the charred meat, quite a turn of events for someone who, two seconds earlier, didn’t give a shit. “I’m not going to cry.”