The Widow on Dwyer Court by Lisa Kusel

Author:Lisa Kusel [Kusel, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Two hours later the girls are sprawled out on the grass wrapped in damp towels. “I’m going to do a little cleanup,” I say, standing up.

“Do not think about going in that pool until I come back, do you understand?”

Finley gives me a thumbs-up and returns to giggling in Terra’s face.

Once inside, I change my mind about loading the dishwasher and instead wander around downstairs, peeking into the living room’s still-unpacked boxes, which are mostly filled with books. A few contain sheets of Terra’s artwork, the childish crayon and pastel images smeared with tiny fingerprints. I slap my hand a few times against the top of a cardboard box, its hinge flipping down, then up.

At the bottom of the stairs, I hesitate, then with my heart beating nervously, I climb to the top. I peer into the blur of blue that is the bathroom. Blue tiles. Blue shower curtain. Blue toilet. I can’t imagine Annie putting up with such ugliness.

As if trying not to wake a sleeping baby, I walk softly to the end of the hall and give Terra’s room a quick sweeping glance. As expected: bedlam. Across from Terra’s room is the master bedroom. I pause at the threshold. It’s wrong, rude really, to snoop around Annie’s private space. What kind of friend does that?

I step in.

A large platform bed is neatly covered with a thick white duvet. On the bedside table next to a pile of books and Vegetarian Times magazines is a framed photograph of Terra and Annie standing side by side on a ski slope. I stare at the large print hanging above the bed. A naked woman with muscular legs and buttocks is lying on her stomach, her long dark wavy hair tumbling over her back and chest, her chin resting on her hand. She looks deep in thought, almost sad.

A tickle of suspicion crawls like an inchworm across my skin.

It’s a Schiele.

I remind myself that lots of people own Schiele prints. He was an incredibly well-known artist. After Matt turned me on to his art, it seemed like I saw Schiele paintings everywhere. So what if Annie admires Schiele too.

Instead of heading back downstairs, I walk to the other end of the hall to the third and fourth bedrooms. I glance into a small, empty room on the right. If I lived here, I would also leave this room empty. Dark brown carpeting on the floor. Cowboy wallpaper. I give a dramatic shudder. “Who are these people?” I ask the room. I never met the owners of the house and know only that they are old and relocated to Florida. Annie was lucky to have found a rental in this neighborhood—they are scarcer than a giraffe in Maine—even one with a hideous blue bathroom.

I turn. The door to the last room is closed, but, hey, I’ve come this far, right? I twist the knob and enter Annie’s office. An enormous ornately carved wooden table with a glass top takes up most of the small space.

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