Lavina
was short, with a peaked face and a wild mane of salt and pepper hair
best described as frizzy. The kind of woman Danny Parks never
would’ve noticed even though she lived two doors down, sharing his
townhouse building.
The
place had four two-story units. Danny and his girlfriend Tammy lived
on one end, Lavina and her whatever-he-was on the other.
Lavina’s
live-in was too young to be her husband, said Tammy, picking at her
cranberry salad, twirling the lettuce around on her fork.
“I
‘m still not sure who you’re talking about,” said Danny,
pouring another glass of Vignoles.
“The
woman in the end apartment. The one looks like Rhea Perlman.”
“Who?”
“Rhea
Perlman on Taxi.” Tammy giggled. “She sorta looks like
Ronnie James Dio. You know, the heavy metal guy?”
“Oh
yeah,” Danny got the Dio reference. “I saw her at the mailboxes
the other day.” He emptied half his glass. “Are you eating that
salad or making and origami duck?”
“So
do you think the big guy is her son, or boyfriend, or what?
Danny
threw back the rest of the wine and didn’t bother to wipe his lips.
“Who cares?”
“I
think she’s a spook,” said Tammy.
Two
days later Danny came home to one less neighbor. Before he’d even
put his Ford Escort into park, he saw the open door on the unit next
to Lavina’s.
Bob,
the apartment manager, greeted him on the sidewalk. “Looks like
you’re losing a neighbor,” he said.
“Elderly
couple wasn’t it? What’s going on?”
“Mr.
and Mrs. Peterson. Apparently she up and walked away a couple nights
back.”
“I
didn’t know she was having trouble. Dementia?”
“Not
that I knew about.”
Danny’s
stomach tightened with the look on Bob’s face.
Oh,
no.
Bob
nodded as if he could read Danny’s mind. “They found her this
morning up in the woods. Been dead a while too. Looks like some stray
dogs got to her.”
“I
guess I could’ve gone without hearing that.”
“Just
saying.” Bob snuffed hard and spit into the parking lot. “The old
man’s gone to stay with his kids. Wanted me to water the plants,
keep an eye on things until they could make arrangements to move.”
By
the time supper rolled around, Danny was starved, but Tammy wouldn’t
eat.
“I
just keep thinking about that poor old woman. Laying up there. Dogs.”
“It
happens. Pass the ketchup, please?”
“You
know what? I wonder if that Lavina had anything to do with it.”
“How
could she?”
“Bob
told me that the Peterson’s had complained about her. About her
arguing with her boyfriend. Or whoever he is.”
“I
saw the guy you mean. Big, bearded skinhead guy out polishing the
wheels on his car.” Danny described the big man and his tattoo
sleeve arms.
“That’s
him,” said Tammy.
“If
you’re worried about anybody,” said Danny, “worry about him.
He’s a hell of a lot more scary than Lavina.”
“I
think they’re both scary.”
“Have
a glass of wine.”
Two
weeks later, another neighbor was gone. Dan and Tammy had been on a
weekend outing to the mountains. When they returned, Bob was sweeping
the sidewalk outside of a yellow tape barrier. The tape read CRIME
SCENE in big black letters.
“Damnedest
thing,” said Bob when Danny asked him about it. “Nobody heard a
thing. I didn’t even know Jerry was home.”
Jerry
drove a truck on long hauls up the coast. He was often gone for weeks
at a time. Sharing the apartment wall with quiet, absent Jerry was
one of the things Danny appreciated about his apartment.
Now
Jerry was absent for good.
Bob
jerked his thumb toward the sealed apartment. “Lot of blood in
there.”
That
night neither Danny nor Tammy ate supper.
A
month later, after they’d answered a few routine questions for the
cops and most of the excitement was over, Tammy mentioned seeing
Lavina at the mailbox. “She was really shook up about something.
Real jittery.” She could’ve been talking about herself. “Danny,
I think her arms were bruised.”
An
image of the skinhead in all his inked glory popped into Danny’s
mind. “You think that bastard’s hitting her?”
“Remember
the Peterson’s complained about their arguing?”
“That
sonuvabitch,” said Danny. Compared to an unsolved murder next door,
old-fashioned domestic violence seemed fairly routine. It seemed like
something a neighbor could do something about.
“Next
time you see Lavina,” said Danny. “Invite her in for coffee.”
It
happened sooner than Danny would’ve predicted.
Two
nights later, when the knock came at the door, they both jumped.
Danny
cracked open the door, keeping the security chain firmly in place. In
the darkness outside, by the glow of the parking lot lights, Lavina
stood, shrunken, sullen, blood on her sweatshirt. Blood on her face.
“Can
I use your phone?” Meek. Crying.
If
the sight of blood trickling out of Lavin’s nose didn’t
immediately jerk Danny’s insides into a knot, the shadow of the
skinhead did. He stood back a ways, behind Lavina, close to Dan’s
car. His legs shoulder-width apart, his arms loose by his sides.
Then
Tammy was there at the door, unhooking the chain, swinging the door
wide to let Lavina in.
The
woman’s eyes were wide, begging for help. “Come in,” said
Tammy. “I’ll get my phone.”
As
Danny turned to close the door, the skinhead spoke to him.
“What
was that?” said Danny. He had to strain his ears to hear.
“Send
the bitch back out.”
Oh,
yeah. Right.
“So
she can take another beating? Is that it? You haven’t had enough
fun?”
Seeing
Lavina the way she was had fired up something inside Danny. Two
deaths in the same building. Now this creep working over a helpless
woman.
Danny
threw caution to the wind and stepped outside, closing the apartment
door behind him.
By
now, Tammy would be getting Lavina some help. Cleaning her up. Making
some calls.
“This
has to stop, man,” said Danny, walking forward. “You can’t
just—“
The
skinhead staggered forward. There was blood on him too.
“Send
her out,” he said. “Or she’ll…she’ll hurt you too.”
The
big guy fell over in a pile on the sidewalk.
Tammy?
Danny
spun, rushed back to the door.
It
was locked from inside.