Listen To Me (Rizzoli & Isles #13)(2)

But that’s not for me to judge.

Across the street, starting at the corner, is the blue house owned by Larry and Lorelei Leopold, who’ve lived here for the past twenty or so years. Larry teaches English at the local high school, and while I can’t say we’re close, we do play Scrabble together every Thursday night so I’m well acquainted with the breadth of Larry’s vocabulary. Next to the Leopolds is the house where Glen Druckmeyer died, which used to be for rent. And next door to that, in the house directly across the street from me, lives Jonas, a sixty-two-year-old bachelor and former Navy SEAL who moved here six years ago. Lorelei recently invited Jonas to the Scrabble nights at my house, which should’ve been a group decision, but Jonas turned out to be an excellent addition. He always brings a bottle of Ecco Domani cabernet, he has a good vocabulary, and he doesn’t try to sneak in foreign words, which shouldn’t be allowed. Scrabble is, after all, an American game. I have to admit, he’s also a fine-looking fellow. Unfortunately he knows it, and he likes to mow his front lawn while shirtless, his chest puffed out, his biceps bulging. Naturally, I can’t help but watch him and he knows it. When he sees me at my window, he makes a point of waving to me, which makes Agnes Kaminsky think something’s going on between us, which isn’t true. I’m just everyone’s friendly neighbor, and if someone moves onto our street, I’m always the first at their door with a smile and zucchini bread. People appreciate that. They invite me into their homes, introduce their children, tell me where they’re from and what they do for a living. They ask me to recommend a plumber or a dentist. We exchange phone numbers and promises to get together soon. That’s how it’s been with all my neighbors.

Until the Greens moved in.

They are renting number 2533, the yellow house where Glen Druckmeyer died. The house has been vacant for a year and I’m glad someone is finally occupying it. It’s never good to have a house sit empty too long; it reflects on the entire street, giving it a whiff of undesirability.

On the day I see the Greens’ U-Haul truck pull up, I automatically pull a loaf of my famous zucchini bread out of the freezer. As it thaws, I stand on my porch, trying to glimpse the new neighbors. I see the husband first, as he steps out of the driver’s side: tall, blond, muscular. Not smiling. That’s the first detail that strikes me. When you arrive at your new home, shouldn’t you be smiling? Instead, he coolly surveys the neighborhood, head swiveling, eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses.

I wave hello, but he doesn’t immediately return the greeting. He just stands looking at me for a moment. At last he raises his arm in a mechanical wave, as if the chip in his computer brain has analyzed the situation and decided the correct response is to wave back.

Well, okay, I think. Maybe the wife is friendlier.

She steps out of the passenger side of the U-Haul. Early thirties, silvery-blond hair, a slender figure in blue jeans. She too checks out the street, but with quick, darting looks, like a squirrel. I wave at her and she offers a tentative wave back.

That’s all the invitation I need. I walk across the street and say, “May I be the first to welcome you to the neighborhood!”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. She glances at her husband, as if seeking permission to say more. My antennae twitch because there’s something going on between this couple. They don’t seem comfortable together, and my mind goes straight to all the ways a marriage can go wrong. I should know.

“I’m Angela Rizzoli,” I tell them. “And you are?”

“I’m, um, Carrie. And this is Matt.” The answer comes out in stutters, as if she has to think about each word before she says it.

“I’ve lived on this street for forty years, so if you need to know anything at all about the area, you know who to ask.”

“Tell us about our neighbors,” Matt says. He glances at number 2535, the blue house next door. “What are they like?”

“Oh, that’s the Leopolds. Larry and Lorelei. Larry teaches English at the public high school and Lorelei’s a housewife. See how nicely they keep up their yard? Larry’s good that way, never lets a weed grow in his garden. They don’t have kids, so they’re nice, quiet neighbors. On the other side of you is Jonas. He’s retired from the Navy SEALs, and boy does he have tales to tell about it. And on my side of the street, right next door to my house, is Agnes Kaminsky. Her husband died ages ago and she never remarried. I guess she likes things just fine the way they are. We used to be best friends, until my husband—” I realize I’m rambling and pause. They don’t need to hear how Agnes and I fell out. I’m sure they’ll be hearing about it from her. “So do you have kids?” I ask.

It’s a simple question, but once again Carrie glances at her husband, as if needing permission to answer.

“No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“Then you won’t need babysitter referrals. It’s getting harder and harder to find them anyway.” I turn to Carrie. “Say, I’ve got a nice loaf of zucchini bread defrosting in my kitchen. I’m famous for my recipe, even if I do say so myself. I’ll bring it right over.”

He answers for them both. “That’s kind, but no thank you. We’re allergic.”

“To zucchini?”

“To gluten. No wheat products.” He places a hand on his wife’s shoulder and nudges her toward the house. “Well, we’ve got to get settled. See you around, ma’am.” They both walk into their house and shut the door.