Page 6 of The Nosy Neighbor

“There’s my husband,” I said. “But he’s no help in the state he’s in. And there’s my niece, but she’s all the way in Denmark.” I realized then the ugly truth—that I have no one, not a single person, except ...

“Doris,” I said. “She’s due back from Spain in a couple of hours. If you wait for her, you’ll see for yourself that Bob’s not with her because sheburied him in the yard!”

The officer snapped his notepad shut. “Okay, Marge,” he replied. “You wait here.”

And that’s what I’ve been doing, waiting in this room, hoping the sergeant will return full of apologies, then thankme for keeping a close neighborhood watch that led to the discovery of a heinous crime.

The sergeant does return. In fact, he’s standing in the doorway right now. He moves to one side so I can see who’s behind him. It’s her—Doris. She’s dressed in a red-and-black polka-dot top with puffed sleeves. She’s sun kissed, and I can smell her awful perfume from here.

“Bloody hell, Marge. What happened to you?” she asks. “You look like a drowned mole. And my house has been ransacked.”

“Where’s Bob?” I ask. “How do you explain that one, Doris? He didn’t come back with you, did he?”

“No, he did not,” Doris replies matter-of-factly. “He stayed in Spain.”

“He’s not in Spain!” I shout. “He’s under your goddamn hydrangeas! I dug up his bones!”

“You dug up Princess, our old cocker spaniel,” Doris says. “Bob buried her there years ago.” Doris turns to the officer, all doe eyed, her false eyelashes fluttering. “She’s not quite right in the mental department,” she says.

“She mentioned a husband,” the sergeant replies.

“Harold,” I say, insinuating myself back into the conversation. “My husband’s name is Harold.”

“Should we call him?” the sergeant asks.

“Marge,” says Doris before I can answer. “You know perfectly well that Harold is in an urn. He died two years ago, and you’re still not over it.” She turns to the sergeant. “Every time I bring up the idea of a proper burial for her husband instead of leaving his ashes on his easy chair in the living room, she has a hissy fit and changes the subject.”

It’s the only true thing she’s said so far, but I suddenly see how things look to the sergeant, who’s eyeing me with a mix of pity and disdain. What does he know about loneliness andloss? He has no idea what it feels like to lose almost everyone around you, including the person you love most in this world. Is it so wrong to want to keep them close for a while longer?

“Old age,” Doris whispers to him. “Soft in the head.”

“I can hear you,” I say, “and I’m perfectly sound of mind.”

“Let’s have a chat outside,” the sergeant suggests to Doris. “Marge, you wait right here. We’ll be back soon,” he adds loudly, as if I’m deaf.

When the two of them return a few minutes later, it’s the sergeant who speaks first. “Your neighbor, Doris, is a very forgiving lady. She’s decided not to press charges despite what you did to her house. In the absence of other living family members, I’m releasing you into her care. She’ll take you to a doctor to have you assessed. We both believe you may be experiencing dementia. Do you understand? You need to get looked after.”

“Dementia?” I say. “I don’t have dementia! What I have is a murderous neighbor who killed her husband because he lacked a passion for flamenco. And now she’ll want me dead too!”

“There, there,” says Doris. “I’m only trying to help.”

Before I can say anything else, the sergeant has me standing, holding me by the arm, escorting me through the precinct and out the front door, with Doris trailing behind, flirting with every male officer we pass.

The sergeant leads me all the way to Doris’s candy-apple-red sedan in the parking lot. Doris chirps the locks open, and the sergeant urges me to sit in Doris’s passenger seat. With no other choice, I do so, my legs nearly giving out from under me.

“Easy now,” the sergeant says as he reaches around to put on my seat belt.

“I can do that myself,” I say, grabbing the buckle and jamming it into the slot.

“Good!” says the sergeant, like he’s praising a toddler.

Doris lingers, leaning on the open car door, preening for the sergeant. “Thank you very much, Officer. You’ve been so kind and understanding to poor old Marge. You and your boys should do a calendar to raise funds for the precinct. I’d buy one. You’re all so darn handsome.”

The sergeant chuckles and eyes his boots. “Thank you, ma’am. You’re lucky your neighbor is such a Good Samaritan, Marge,” he says to me.

I refuse to dignify this with a response.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Doris says. Then she closes my door and click-clacks her way to the driver’s side, hops in, and revs her engine.

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