A Noise Downstairs Read online

  Under his breath, he said, “What the hell are you talking about?” He scrolled up to look at the previous message.

  Charlotte had the refrigerator open and was saying, “Did you get the vodka?”

  Hillary’s text had clearly been a reply to a message from him that read: Can we talk sometime about my return in September?

  Paul stared at the message. He had no memory of sending it.

  “Earth to Paul,” Charlotte said. “I asked you to pick up a couple of bottles of vodka? The mandarin flavor? I mentioned it last night?”

  Paul looked up from his phone. “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Charlotte said. “Beer’s fine. You want a beer?”

  The drive home. The man in the car. Vodka. A text message to the dean.

  Paul wondered what else might have slipped his mind he didn’t even know about yet.

  Seven

  Gavin was breathing so shallowly he was hardly breathing at all.

  He didn’t want to wake her.

  She was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Her name was Eleanor Snyder and, according to Dr. White’s notes, she was sixty-six, widowed, and retired from her job as an X-ray technician.

  Gavin had very little trouble getting into her Westfield Road home. It was a small, story-and-a-half place shaped something like a barn. He’d waited in the bushes across the street for the upstairs lights to be killed, then gave Eleanor another half hour to nod off.

  He crossed the darkened street and peered through the window next to the front door, looking for the telltale red glow of a security system panel. He saw none. He then tried the front door, but Eleanor had at least been cautious enough to lock it before she retired for the night. Gavin walked around the house until he found an accessible basement window.

  Gavin crawled through and dropped down to the floor. He’d brought along a half-filled garbage bag, knotted at the top with a red, plastic drawstring. He worked his way quietly to the first floor, then found the stairs to the second. He took each step carefully. There was always one that creaked.

  And sure enough, one did.

  That was when he froze, held his breath, and listened. If Eleanor Snyder heard that creaky step, she’d get up and check it out. But Gavin heard no rustling of covers, no footsteps. What he could make out was soft, rhythmic snoring.

  He followed the snores.

  And now here he was, standing next to Eleanor Snyder’s bed, looking down at her. There was enough light filtering in through the blinds to make out her flowered nightie, a copy of the latest Grisham on the bedside table. If only all the people whose homes he snuck into wore eye masks and stuffed those little plugs into their ears.

  Could she be dreaming? And if so, was she dreaming about Bixby?

  Bixby was not her late husband. Aaron had been her husband’s name. Bixby had been her little schnauzer.

  According to Dr. White’s notes, after Aaron died, Eleanor funneled all her love—and grief—into that pooch. Bixby got her through those difficult times. It was Bixby who got her back out into the world.

  Eleanor walked him around the neighborhood three or four times a day. Bixby didn’t just keep her sane. He kept her in shape. She’d bought one of those extra long leashes that extended and retracted with the push of a button. That gave Bixby freedom to run in short bursts, which Eleanor was no longer up to.

  She blamed herself for what happened. It wasn’t really the driver’s fault.

  There was no way the driver of the Honda Accord could see that slender leash running horizontally out into the street, or that tiny dog that didn’t even come up to her front bumper.

  That had been six months ago.

  Eleanor, so said the notes, could not forgive herself.

  Gavin watched Eleanor breathe in and out. He’d tied the drawstring on the garbage bag too tight to loosen it, so he made an opening by ripping apart the plastic. Once he’d made a large enough hole, he reached in and took something out. He wadded up the empty bag and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  Gavin looked about the room for what he needed. It occurred to him to check the back of the bedroom door.

  With a gloved hand, he moved the door three-quarters of the way closed. A bathrobe hung from a simple coat hook.

  Perfect.

  Gavin removed the robe from the hook, let it fall noiselessly to the floor, then replaced it with the item he had brought.

  He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him, thereby ensuring that the first thing Eleanor Snyder would see when she woke up was the surprise he’d left for her.

  A small, dead dog. Hanging by its collar.

  Eight

  Anna White woke to a repetitive mechanical sound, something metallic sliding back and forth, as well as a television at very low volume. She threw back the covers, slipped on a robe, and went out into the second-floor hallway. She pushed open the door two down from hers, not worried about disturbing anyone.

  “Morning, Dad,” Anna said.

  Her father, wearing blue pajamas and slippers, glanced her way and nodded. He was on a rowing machine, his hands firmly gripping the handles, sliding back, pulling his arms, gliding forward, then repeating the motion. Before him, atop the dresser, was a flat-screen television on which Wile E. Coyote was trying, once again, to catch the Road Runner.

  Frank White’s eyes were glued to the screen. He grinned. “It’s coming. Where the truck comes out of the tunnel that the coyote painted. It’s simply surreal. Ha! There it is!”

  The coyote was flattened.

  He cackled, looked Anna’s way again. “Wish to hell I’d worked on that one.” He saw something in her eyes and said, “Did I wake you?”

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “Chuck Jones was a genius, Joanie,” he said, looking back at the TV. “I ever tell you what I told Walt when I met him?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Anna said. She could not be bothered to correct him about calling her by her mother’s name. “Shall I put on the coffee?”

  “Sure,” he said, continuing to row. “I said to him, I said, ‘Walt, even Pepé Le Pew could have kicked Mickey’s ass.’”

  “I know, Dad,” she said, and headed down to the kitchen to start the day.

  Frank White, Anna had to admit, was something else. Well into his eighties, he was in better shape than she was, at least physically. His arms were roped with muscle and, at 120 pounds, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man.

  If only he were half as fit mentally.

  His short-term memory was slipping away, but his recollections of years past, particularly those youthful ones he spent in California working as an animator at Warner Bros., were rich with detail. He’d retired from that world nearly thirty years ago, at which point Frank and Anna’s mother, Joan, returned to Connecticut.

  They filled their first fifteen years back with gardening and travel and socializing, but then Joan’s health began to fail. It was a slow decline, ending in an extended period in a nursing home and finally a chronic care ward. She’d been dead three years now, and Frank had taken it hard.

  Anna insisted her father move in with her.

  It was not pure altruism on her part. She’d been on her own after she and her husband, Jack, split up two years before her mother’s death. She’d taken back her name and thrown herself into her work, but she’d soon found herself spread thin. Having her father around could actually make her life a lot easier.

  During the last few years of Joan’s life, Frank had taken over the running of the household. Did the grocery shopping, made the meals, did the laundry, cleaned the house, kept track of the bills and the finances.

  Anna made it clear to her father that taking him in was not some act of charity. He could look after her. She was so busy with her clients, local charitable causes, plus being on the Milford Arts Council, it would be a relief not to have to worry about domestic duties.

  It was rocky at first. Even if Frank had not been grieving, it would have taken th
em a while to work into a groove. That took about six months. After that, things went great. Frank even had time to go back to golf, bought a rowing machine, renewed a long forgotten interest in gourmet cooking, all while Anna made a living for the two of them by counseling the confused, depressed, and troubled of the world. Well, of Milford and environs, anyway. Frank encouraged Anna to get back out into circulation, find herself a new husband, maybe even have kids—“It’s not too late! Almost, but not quite!”—and when she did, he promised her, he’d find a place of his own.

  She wouldn’t hear of it. Anna liked her life. Maybe she didn’t care about a husband and kids. She had her career, she had her dad, she had her house.

  It was a stable, safe life.

  But then, sixteen months ago, things slowly started to unravel.

  Frank had a minor fender bender that could have been much worse—he backed into a Ford Explorer at the Walmart in Stratford, narrowly missing a woman pushing a four-month-old in a stroller. He became confused behind the wheel. One day, at the Stamford Town Center, he spent four hours trying to find his car in the parking garage. He’d walked past it, Anna figured later, at least a dozen times. He confessed to her later that he’d been looking for the Dodge Charger he’d owned in the late 1960s.

  He lost credit cards. One day, he headed out of the house without a shirt on.

  More recently, he’d been calling her Joanie, and other times, when he realized who she really was, he asked to be taken to the nursing home to visit his wife. He’d get in the back of Anna’s car, expecting to be taken there. So now, Anna was not only back where she was before her father moved in—running a household as well as doing her job—but taking care of her dad as well.

  “Such is life,” she’d say to herself.

  And yet, in the midst of this, there could be moments of great clarity. Frank was often his best first thing in the morning. When he showed up in the kitchen, Anna put a mug of coffee in front of him as he sat down.

  “That cartoon channel runs some of the best Warner Bros. stuff in the morning. They had so much more of an edge than that wholesome stuff Disney was doing back then. Wit and sophistication. Cartoons for adults.”

  Frank reached over to the counter for a pen and notepad that sat by the phone. He did some doodling with one hand, drank from the mug with the other.

  “Lots of customers today?” he asked her. He never called them clients or patients.

  “It’s the weekend, Dad. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s not a good idea for you to be chatting with the people who come to see me.”

  Frank looked puzzled. “When do I do that?”

  “Not often, it’s true. But the other day, you were talking to this one patient. Gavin?”

  Frank struggled to remember. “Uh, maybe.”

  “You were about to tie up your shoes?”

  “If you say so, Joanie.”

  “It’s just . . . he’s not the kind of person you want to become familiar with.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She had been giving a lot of thought to Gavin ever since she’d found her laptop closed. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe she had closed it before he’d arrived for his appointment, but she hadn’t been wrong about seeing him behind her desk. Had he been looking in her computer and, when he’d heard her coming, closed it, out of reflex? And only remembered it had been open when it was too late to do anything about it?

  She shook her head, ignoring her father’s question. “It’s just best if you do not engage with my clients.”

  Still doodling, he said, “Speaking of engaged.”

  “Dad.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, we need to talk about this. I’m dragging you down. We can’t go on like this. I moved in to help you, and now you’re the one helping me.”

  “Everything’s fine here.”

  “Remember that cartoon where Bugs Bunny’s up against Blacque Jacque Shellacque?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Anyway, Jacque wants Bugs’s bag of gold, but Bugs gives him a bag of gunpowder with a hole cut out of the bottom. The gunpowder leaves a trail, which Bugs lights, and blows up Jacque.”

  “I don’t remember that one.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. The thing is, my mind is that bag of gunpowder. A little leaking out every day. Pretty soon that bag’ll be empty. You need to find a place for me. You need to start looking.”

  “Stop it, Dad.”

  He tore off the sheet of paper he’d been doodling on and handed it to his daughter. “There you go.”

  It was a poodle, done cartoon-style, with a face that looked remarkably like Anna’s. Frank smiled, waiting for her approval.

  “That’s quite something,” she said. “But my tail doesn’t look like that.”

  Frank stared out the window for several seconds, then turned back to look at her. “I think I might hit some balls around in the backyard.”

  And we’re out, Anna thought.

  But wait.

  He patted her hand and smiled. “What point is there in keeping me around now?”

  She felt a constriction in her throat. “Because I love you, Dad.”

  “You need to get over that,” he said, pushing back his chair. He grabbed his mug and left the kitchen.

  Anna sat there, picked up the drawing of her as a poodle, looked at it, then got up and went to the counter. She opened a drawer and tucked the sketch in with several hundred others.

  Nine

  Paul stopped doing some online research when he heard the front door open and his son, Josh, shout: “Dad!”

  Paul exited his office and headed for the top of the stairs in time to meet his son. He knew better than to expect a huge hug. Josh, backpack slung over his shoulder, gave his father the briefest of embraces and ran to the fridge.

  “How was the train?” Paul asked.

  Josh found a can of Pepsi, popped it, and said, “It was good. Mom went right down to the platform with me to watch me get on.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a kid. I’m almost ten. I’ve taken the train before.”

  “She can’t help it. She’s a mom.”

  Josh shrugged, then said, “Charlotte got you something. She wouldn’t let me put my bag in the trunk when she picked me up in case I saw it.”

  Charlotte had reached the top of the stairs. “No blabbing!”

  “I don’t even know what it is,” Josh said, taking a drink.

  “Just one of those a day,” Paul said, pointing to the can. “You don’t need all that sugar.”

  Josh displayed the can. “It’s diet.”

  “Oh,” Paul said, then to Charlotte, “What did you get me? Is this the thing you mentioned the other day?”

  She smiled devilishly. “I want you and Josh to take a walk. Go down to the beach. Give me five.”

  Paul exchanged glances with Josh. “I guess we’re getting kicked out.”

  Paul and Josh descended the steps, went out the front door, and rounded the house to reach the beach. The wind coming in off the sound was crisp and cool, but the midday sun cut the need for a jacket. It was early June, and the temperatures had been below average for this time of year. The water would have to warm up a lot before Josh would want to go in.

  “How’s your mom?” Paul asked.

  “Fine.”

  “And Walter?”

  Josh’s stepfather.

  Josh looked for a stone to throw into the water. “He’s okay.” He paused. “I like it in the city. There’s tons to do.”

  “Okay,” Paul said. It wasn’t that he wanted his son to be miserable in Manhattan with his mother and stepdad. He wanted nothing but happiness for the boy. But it pained him some to think Josh had to endure the boring Connecticut suburbs to spend time with him.

  “Walter’s always getting free tickets to stuff, like baseball games and shows and stuff. In fact . . .”

  “In fact what?”

  Josh glanced up
warily at his father. “Walter got tickets to tomorrow afternoon’s Knicks game.”

  “Great. I hope he and your mom have fun.”

  “But so, like, they’re going to pick me up tomorrow morning. I’d have taken the train but Walter’s got some client in Darien he wants to see in person before heading back. So I’m just here for one night. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Mom talked it over with Charlotte. She’s probably going to tell you after she gives you your surprise.”

  “Maybe that’s the surprise,” Paul said grimly. He shook his head slowly, feeling the irritation build. This definitely should have been discussed with him. He was expecting to spend the entire weekend with his son. But he didn’t want to take his anger out on Josh. He patted him on the back and said, “We’ll sort it out.”

  “But I can go, right?” Josh asked. “I’ve only been to one other NBA game and I really liked it.”

  Paul suddenly felt very tired. He glanced at his watch. “I think it’s been five minutes,” he said.

  _________________

  WHEN THEY GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN, PAUL IMMEDIATELY NOTICED his office door was closed. Charlotte stood before it, a smug look on her face, but it broke when she saw Paul’s expression.

  “What?” she asked. “You don’t look happy.”

  “Did you know Josh was going back tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Hailey mentioned it when she emailed me about when Josh’s train would arrive.”

  “You couldn’t have told me?”

  She crossed her arms and waited a beat. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”

  Josh’s face fell. “We’re not doing the surprise?”

  Charlotte stared at Paul. “It’s your dad’s call.”

  Paul looked at Josh, quickly sized up the disappointment in his face, and tamped down the anger he’d been feeling. “Sorry,” he said. “Surprise me.”

  “Is it in there?” Josh asked. He looked ready to charge into the small study.

  “Stay right there, buster,” Charlotte said. Her look softened as she said to her husband, “I wanted to get something to inspire you as you . . .” She looked at Josh and decided against getting into all the details. “I wanted to celebrate your moving forward.”