She waves goodbye to the sergeant, then drives out of the parking lot. We’re silent for the entire ten minutes it takes to get to our street, where she lurches the car into a sudden park in my driveway.
“Aren’t you getting out?” she asks.
“Doris,” I hiss, “you killed your husband. We both know it. You weakened him at home, poisoning him slowly through exposure to peanuts. The only part I got wrong is where you killed him, but I know now. You killed him in Spain. Admit it.”
Doris sighs, then taps her perfectly manicured fingernails on the steering wheel. “I told you before, Marge. If you don’t live life to the fullest, you deserve to die.” She smiles then, a smile so sinister it chills me to my core.
“People will figure out the truth eventually,” I say. “Because Bob isn’t ever coming back.”
Doris shrugs. “True,” she says. “He’s not returning, but who’s going to care? He’s just another old white guy shacking up with a younger woman abroad. Something I’ve learned through the years is that a few compliments, greased palms,and pretty tears shed at the right moment is all it takes to get away with anything, even murder.”
“No one will believe you!” I shout.
“They will, Marge. Come on,” she says, “let’s get you inside.”
Spry and appearing well rested despite a long flight home, she hops out of the car while I struggle, my legs jiggling from exhaustion. She offers an arm to help me up my porch steps, but I push it away.
“Need help, Doris?” I hear behind me.
It’s the mailman—mail “carrier”—looking on from the sidewalk.
“Aren’t you just the sweetest young man,” Doris drawls. “Not to worry, honey. I’ve got this. Marge here had a rough spell this morning, but I’ll fix her up good!”
The mailman nods and saunters away.
How dare she. And how dare he. I’ve waved at him every day, for months and years, and he’s never so much as acknowledged my existence, yet he knows Doris by name?
I make it to my front door unassisted. “Goodbye, Doris,” I say.
“Oh, this is not goodbye. Not quite yet,” she replies. “Funny—years and years of being watched and judged by your neighbors, and then one day, you realize you just can’t take it anymore. Shame about poor Harold, falling off a ladder the way he did, smacking his head on your garage floor. Pity, too—you finding him there, bled out and dead. A terrible accident.” She turns then, click-clacking her kitten heels down my stairs and marching across the street to her home.
I watch her, a cold dread spreading in my stomach.
I go inside and lock the door behind me. I collapse into my easy chair by the window.
I look over at the urn on the easy chair. “Harold,” I say. “I owe you an apology. I really thought it was an accident. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she did you in.”
The silver urn glints and shines, reflecting my exhausted face back at me.
“Well,” I say, “I guess this means I’m next.”
