Page 42 of Luck of the Devil
The two next-door neighbors both offered their condolences before they said they hadn’t heard or seen anything out of the ordinary other than some loud noises the week before. I thanked them and asked them to call me if they remembered anything.
I was about to head back, but my ten minutes weren’t up, so I decided to try one more house. The neighbor across the street and slightly to the left had always held a grudge against my mother, long before Andi’s murder. Becky Comstock was about my mother’s age and had lived in her house as long I could remember. She’d kept track of our family’s comings and goings back when we were kids and teenagers, complaining about a multitude of things, from Andi and I being too loud when we played basketball in the driveway to my father mowing the lawn before ten a.m. For all I knew, she’d stopped after Andi’s death, but then again, maybe she’d seen it as reason to stalk us even more. She stopped complaining to my mother, or at least, my mother didn’t mention her at our forced family dinners anymore.
When Becky opened the door, her eyes flew wide, and she cast a glance over my shoulder at the house. “Harper.” Her voice was strained. I’d interviewed enough people to know when someone didn’t want to talk to me. The question was why. Was it because of my notoriety or because of my mother?
“Hello, Mrs. Comstock,” I said politely. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early this morning.”
Her mouth puckered with disapproval. “I would hardly call nine in the morning early.”
“True,” I said, sweetly. “But some people do.”
Her scoff made it clear what she thought of those people. “What can I do for you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing at the house again. Then I realized her gaze was focused on the car in the driveway.
Still a snoop. I hoped that would work to my advantage.
“I’m trying to piece together my mother’s whereabouts last week,” I said, attempting to sound conversational and not like a cop canvassing the neighborhood. “I was wondering if you’d noticed anything unusual.”
She gave me a pointed look. “You mean unusual like the sounds of gunshots coming from your property last Thursday night?”
I played innocent. “I’m sorry? You heard what?”
“I know what gunshots sound like, Harper Adams,” she said in disdain, “and I know they came from your mother’s backyard.”
I gave her a serious look. “Did you call the police?”
Her brow rose with an accusatory look. “Should I have?”
“Seems to me that someone as concerned about the safety of the neighborhood as you were when we were kids would call the police.” Keeping the sarcasm out of my voice was a Herculean feat.
Her arms dropped and she looked momentarily chastised. “Well, I figured you were there, and you were a police officer and all.”
My car had been in the driveway, but it still didn’t explain why she hadn’t called 911. Maybe she’d thought I was target practicing? But who target practiced in their suburban backyard?
Her eyes narrowed again. “Why are you asking about your mother’s whereabouts? They said her car skidded off the bridge in the rain last week.”
“Well,” I said, hunching my shoulders slightly to appear as unintimidating as possible. “We’re not sure when exactly her car went into the river.” I gave her a sad smile. “I know it’s silly, but I’m trying to piece together her last days.” When she didn’t comment, I pressed on. “Do you remember the last time you saw her?”
She gave me a condescending look. “You’re presuming I gave a flip about what your mother was doing.”
“You’re right,” I said, taking a step back as though preparing to turn around and walk away. “I just remembered you were always so observant. I thought you might have picked up on something.” I took another step back. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Thank you for your time.”
I started to pivot when she called out, “Wait. I may remember something.”
“Really?” I asked with genuine enthusiasm, even if I was amping it up for her ego. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she snapped. “I’m not sure how helpful it will be.”
“Anything will help.”
She stepped onto the porch, leaning into the open door. “The last time I saw her was last Tuesday. She came out of the back of the house with a small black suitcase.”
Which meant she really did leave last Tuesday. It still killed me that I hadn’t noticed. “Do you remember what time?”
Her lips twisted as a faraway look filled her eyes and she bit her bottom lip. “I want to say it was between two and three?”
A couple of hours after her call to the burner phone? That surprised me.
“Yeah,” she continued, “it was after the black car stopped in front of her house and dropped off that woman.”
