Murder Thy Neighbor Read online

  Her fellow board members examine the photos with interest, even though most of them have seen the house themselves.

  This is their neighborhood, after all.

  “Since Roy bought the property on Lawn Street,” Ann says, “the state of disrepair has actually worsened. His front yard has become his own personal junkyard, which is the opposite of the ideals we want to put forth with this association.”

  Roy’s stare burns into her. Gone is the hurt boy. The person glowering at her is an angry, frightening man.

  Ann softens her tone, not necessarily because of his glare. This was her planned rhetorical move all along: first, be harsh—then be compassionate.

  “I like Roy,” she says. “We all do. He’s a nice guy. He means well. But he clearly has too much on his plate. He can’t give the time to the presidency that the position needs. If we remove him from the presidency, that’s one less thing for him to worry about.”

  She says that maybe Roy can focus his attention on his home renovations and get his houses looking like something he—and the rest of the community—can be proud of.

  “This is what’s best for the board,” Ann says, “but it’s also what’s best for Roy.”

  Henry, an electrician who lives a few blocks away from Ann, turns to Roy and says, “I’d like to hear from Roy. Maybe we don’t have to do a vote of no confidence. If this is what he wants, he could simply resign.”

  Every face in the room turns to Roy, whose incensed expression has reverted back to that of a wounded, sad young man.

  “Thank you,” he says, and rises from his chair to address the room. “I appreciate the opportunity to defend myself against this outrageous attack from Ann Hoover, who has proven time and again that she has a personal vendetta against me.”

  Chapter 13

  Ann feels a chill at Roy’s words.

  Outrageous attack?

  Personal vendetta?

  The guy is an irresponsible homeowner who has turned his front yard into his own private scrap heap. And he thinks her actions are the ones that are outrageous?

  “I will not resign,” Roy says from the start. “If you don’t want me as your president, you’ll have to vote me out.”

  After this, Roy begins a long speech. He admits that he has neglected his duties as president of the association. However, he explains, the big plans he has for the community will take time. He can’t get immediate results overnight. He has been working on the group’s bylaws, he says, which he thought would be the best first step for the group.

  “As for my own house, the one on Lawn Street next to Ann’s, I’ve turned a corner on the renovations,” he claims. “I really think things will start to move much quicker. Sure, the place looks rough now, but that’s what it takes to make improvements. Sometimes you’ve got to tear a thing down before you can build it back up.”

  Ann rolls her eyes, but the others are rapt. Roy can be so charming that Ann fears his words are having an effect on the board.

  “Let’s talk about what this really is,” Roy says, leveling his eyes on Ann. “Character assassination.”

  Her breath catches in her throat.

  “Ann isn’t satisfied with my progress on the Lawn Street property,” he says. “As soon as I bought the house, she was riding me about fixing the front porch when I had other things I should have been dealing with. But I tried to be a good neighbor and went along with what she wanted.”

  Ann is fuming. He tried to be a good neighbor?

  “This isn’t the right venue for Ann’s grievances,” Roy says. “What happens at my property has nothing to do with this association. She’s trying to punish me with this passive-aggressive attack.”

  “That’s not true,” Ann replies, barely able to control her trembling voice. “This association exists to help beautify the neighborhood. Your house is the biggest black mark in the neighborhood. As president, you should be the model for other residents. Instead, you’re the model of what not to do.”

  “I own eight properties,” Roy says. “All of them are in various states of renovation. But you don’t see any of my other neighbors in here complaining about me. You’re the only one being unreasonable.”

  “Maybe those roofs aren’t leaking and causing water damage to the neighboring properties,” Ann snaps. “Maybe you’re not using those yards as landfill. Do you take garbage from your other houses and dump it in the yard on Lawn Street? You’re certainly not doing enough work on the house to accumulate that much trash!”

  Roy leans over, clenching his teeth and pointing toward the table, as if ready to shout at Ann. But before he can say anything, Ted Fontana speaks up and says, “All right, all right. We’ve heard from both Roy and Ann. Does anyone else want to say anything before we vote?”

  The association members look around, everyone too timid to speak up.

  Finally, Marjorie Wilson says, “I’m going to vote to have Roy removed.”

  She turns to Roy and says she’s sorry.

  “I like you, Roy. I wish you the best in all your projects. I really do. But Ann’s right. You need to focus on your own properties. I hope someday we can welcome you back to this association.”

  “Marjorie’s right,” Ted says. “You focus on your own homes—let us focus on the neighborhood.”

  The others speak up and concur with Marjorie and Ted—they all want Roy to know there are no hard feelings but that they think this is what’s best for everyone.

  “All in favor of removing Roy Kirk as president?”

  “Aye,” they all say, though no one says the word emphatically.

  Even Ann feels sad, rather than pleased—she can’t believe it’s come to this. But hopefully, this will serve as a wake-up call for Roy.

  “Sorry, Roy,” Ted says.

  Roy doesn’t respond. He walks out the door without a word. There seems to be a collective sigh of relief in the air.

  After the meeting, as people are milling about chatting, Marjorie finds Ann, who is still shaken.

  “You okay?” Marjorie says.

  “Did you hear him?” Ann says, upset. “Passive-aggressive attack? Not the right venue?”

  “It’s okay,” Marjorie says. “You got what you wanted. Calm down.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Ann says, “if he doesn’t make some serious progress on that property—fast—he’s going to be sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If he wants me to go to the right venue to air my grievances,” Ann says, “I’ll call the city housing inspector.”

  “Ann,” Marjorie says, trying to calm her friend. “You have to live next to this guy—try not to go to war with him.”

  But Ann doesn’t seem to be listening.

  “Passive-aggressive? Humph. He doesn’t want to see me aggressive-aggressive.”

  Chapter 14

  Use the black keys to tell you where you are on the piano,” Ann instructs Jody, her nine-year-old piano student. “That’s what they’re there for.”

  “Okay,” the girl says, orienting her fingers into place.

  “Ready to start again?”

  Jody begins to play Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” a good song for beginners. The notes ring through the house beautifully.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The cacophony from Roy’s house next door breaks Jody’s concentration, and the little girl stops, exasperated.

  It’s annoying, but Ann can’t be mad at Roy. The truth is she wants him working. Hopefully, if he’s over there making noise it means he’s one step closer to finishing his renovations.

  “Try not to get distracted,” Ann tells Jody. “Think of this as good practice for when you’re giving a recital. You can’t control the noise the audience makes. Talking. Coughing. Sneezing. You have to concentrate on what you’re doing, not the noises around you. You should be able to play even if the sky is falling.”

  Jody positions her hands again, ready to begin. Another sound interrupts her—this time it’s a soft knock at the front door.

  “Your mom’s here,” Ann says.

  When Ann opens the door, Jody’s mom, Jennifer, gives Ann a hug. They visit for a few minutes on the front porch, catching up. When Jennifer was Jody’s age, Ann used to babysit her and give her piano lessons. The two have kept in touch on and off ever since. So when Jody expressed interest in learning to play the piano, Jennifer knew just who to call.

  “Sometimes when I’m sitting next to Jody at the piano,” Ann says, “I get this feeling of déjà vu, like I’ve gone back in time and it’s you sitting next to me at the piano.”

  Jennifer laughs. As they talk, more banging comes from inside the house next door.

  Jennifer comments on the growing garbage pile in Roy’s front yard.

  “I know,” Ann says, shaking her head in embarrassment. “At least he’s working.”

  Roy has been there erratically since being kicked off the neighborhood association board a month ago. Ann had worried that he might retaliate by refusing to work, but the opposite was true, at least for a while. At first he tackled the work with what seemed like renewed vigor. But, as always, Ann has trouble seeing any real progress. It’s unclear exactly what he is doing. More garbage bags have appeared in the front yard, while building supplies are now occupying Roy’s side of the porch. There’s a stack of two-by-fours and a box of drywall nails. There is also a single bundle of shingles. Ann has no idea what he plans to do with them—the whole roof needs to be reshingled. One bundle won’t do much good. Her roofer confirmed as much when he came to check her roof. He said Roy’s place must be leaking like a sieve, and he even took some photographs for Ann while he was up there.

  The weather has been cold in Pittsburgh for the past month, but today has been unseasonably wa
rm—one last Indian summer day before winter really sets in. But the warmer weather has also revealed a new problem: an odor emanating from the garbage in Roy’s front yard.

  Ann wants to move the conversation into the house, but Jennifer says she and Jody need to run. As they turn toward the street, the nine-year-old shrieks, “Look, Mom!”

  Ann follows Jody’s finger and also finds herself gasping.

  They all watch as a rat—its black fur wet and scruffy—crawls out of a hole in one of the garbage bags. It pushes between two other bags and its pink tail disappears out of sight.

  “Ann,” Jennifer says, facing her old babysitter, “this is disgusting. I’m sorry, but I can’t bring Jody back here until that place is cleaned up.”

  Ann is speechless, still in shock herself. She feels like she suddenly needs a shower.

  Where there’s one rat, there have to be more.

  And these rats could get into her house!

  As Jennifer and Jody drive away, Ann stomps over to Roy’s front door and begins pounding as hard as she can.

  “Get out here, Roy! Right now!”

  Chapter 15

  Roy opens the door a crack and sneers, “What do you want?”

  He looks terrible—his eyes are bloodshot, his hair is growing long and needs to be brushed, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in a couple weeks. He doesn’t step out, and the door isn’t open far enough for Ann to look inside. All she can see behind him is darkness. There’s no sign of the extension cord, and it doesn’t appear that the electricity is working, either.

  How can you work in the dark? Ann thinks.

  She points to the trash heap in his yard and says, “There are rats. You have to get this garbage out of here.”

  Roy smirks, annoyed. He steps out of the house and closes the door behind him. Close up, Ann can see that his hands are filthy, and an unpleasant odor emanates from his body, as if he’s gone as long without a shower as he has without a shave.

  He steps around his two-by-four pile and looks at the yard.

  “Are you sure?” he says. “Maybe it was a stray cat.”

  “I know the difference between a rat and a cat, Roy!”

  Roy turns on her, his eyes flaring with anger.

  “Take it easy, Ann. You’re always getting so mad about everything.”

  “Take it easy?” she repeats, dumbfounded.

  “Relax,” he says. “And mind your own business.”

  Ann’s blood is boiling.

  “This is my business, Roy,” she says, her voice shaking. “You still haven’t fixed the roof. Every time it rains, the water leaks over into my house. I just lost a piano client today because she doesn’t want to bring her daughter to a house next to a scrapyard crawling with rats.”

  “You’re overreacting,” Roy says, going back inside. “Let’s agree to just leave each other alone. I won’t bother you if you won’t bother me.”

  With that, he slams his door shut. He throws the deadbolt loudly.

  Ann can’t believe it. She is shaking.

  She stews over his words. I won’t bother you if you won’t bother me. She’s a good neighbor—she’s never given him any reason to bother her!

  Ann storms into her house, slamming her own door.

  “I’ve had it,” she says out loud, virtually in tears.

  She goes to the phone book, flips to the section with the numbers for city officials, and places the call.

  “Hello,” she says into the receiver. “I’d like to talk to the city housing inspector.”

  Chapter 16

  Roy’s fiancée, Rebecca Portman, knocks on his front door. She takes a moment to look behind her at the rain just beginning to fall. When there’s no answer, she knocks harder. Finally, Roy comes to the door, looking surprised to see her, then his expression quickly turns to a dawning realization.

  “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I totally forgot you were coming over.”

  He opens the door, and she is greeted by the familiar smell of wood chips. But there’s another odor, too, an unpleasant one. As she walks through the front hallway, she quickly figures out what it is. Although Roy is ordinarily really good about cleaning the animal cages, keeping the feces buildup to a minimum, now the cages are full of droppings. The mice and hamsters are crawling around in their own waste.

  The rest of the house is messier than usual, too. Roy is ordinarily fastidious about keeping everything in its proper place, but tonight she sees shoes and clothes lying around the living room, along with a handful of balled-up fast-food wrappers on the coffee table and a couple issues of Playboy lying on the floor. She’s surprised to see them out; she knows Roy owns some adult magazines, but he usually keeps them hidden when she’s around.

  “Are you okay, Roy?” Rebecca asks, genuinely concerned.

  In a moment of vulnerability, Roy once told her that he’d spent time in a psychiatric hospital as a teenager for being what he simply called “obsessive-compulsive.” He said he’d been fine since then, and she’d never noticed any problems or had any complaints—besides, of course, all the animals.

  “I’m fine,” he says, plopping onto the couch. “Just a little stressed is all. I told you that woman, Ann, got me kicked off the neighborhood association, right? Well, now she’s got the city housing authority on me. I’ve got an inspection tomorrow.”

  Rebecca sits down next to him on the couch and places a comforting hand on his knee.

  “I keep getting crank phone calls,” he says. “All hours of the night, the phone rings like crazy. I finally took it off the hook.”

  That explains why I only got a busy signal when I tried to confirm our dinner tonight, Rebecca thinks.

  “She’s turned the whole neighborhood against me,” he complains. “Someone threw a firebomb at the house.”

  “A firecracker?”

  “No. A bomb. A Molotov cocktail. I had to put it out with a fire extinguisher.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Yeah, I told them my neighbors are harassing me, but they just told me I need to work it out with them.”

  Roy throws his head back and rubs his eyes. He looks terrible. And now that she’s sitting next to him, she can’t help noticing that he has an odor to him as well. How long has it been since he took a shower?

  “Please let me talk to this woman,” Rebecca says. “I bet I can help smooth things out.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s too late for that.”

  He is quiet for a moment, and all Rebecca can hear is the sound of the rodents squeaking in their cages. Most of the cages are in the hallway, but there are several in the living room as well. She notices something in one that makes her skin crawl.

  “Jesus, Roy, is that one dead?”

  They both approach a metal cage full of mice. One of the mice—with white fur and a red nose—lies on its side in the wood chips. A fly is crawling on its face.

  “Damn,” Roy mutters. “I guess I forgot to feed these guys.”

  Rebecca feels sick to her stomach.

  “Speaking of feeding,” he says nonchalantly, “I bet the beast is hungry.”

  “Can’t that wait until I leave?” Rebecca says.

  “I don’t want her to starve,” Roy says, as if another hour or two would make a difference.

  He pulls back the door at the top of the cage and reaches into the squirming mob of mice. They writhe in a frenzied mass as he dips his fingers into the pile. A second later, he lifts a live mouse by its tail.

  The little white mouse flails about like a fish hanging from a hook. He carries it through the house, twisting and kicking. Rebecca doesn’t usually like to watch this, but she follows Roy upstairs anyway.

  He opens the bathroom door and pulls back the shower curtain. Inside a claw-footed tub lies an eight-foot python, its head bigger than her fist, its shiny skin a yellow color blotted with patches of reddish tan.

  “Hello, beautiful,” Roy says to the snake, and Rebecca feels ill when she realizes it’s the same greeting he gives her.

  He lowers the mouse into the tub. It tries to scurry up the side of the porcelain, but it can’t get a grip and keeps sliding back down. The snake, moving patiently, starts slithering toward the tiny mouse.

  As the python approaches its prey, Rebecca stares at its cold, reptilian eyes. She averts her gaze and finds herself instead looking at Roy’s face. He stares down at what’s about to happen with the same cold detachment as the snake slithering toward its victim.