Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Twelve

John's interview of Greenhouse revealed about what he'd expected. He kept the weapon loaded; he'd loaded it last the last time he'd used it some five months ago. John asked to see every box of ammo in the apartment.

He checked the head stamps on every single round in all four boxes. All were the same brand, and not the one he'd jotted down at the squad.

After leaving their apartment, John crossed the hall to Anne Rathbone, the cinnamon-haired woman in the lemon dress who had made the 911 call. He needed to know more about Donna Greenhouse, and Mrs. Rathbone, who had come across to him as a busybody, would be as good a place as any to start.

His knock sent a small dog on the other side of the door into a scolding frenzy. The door opened and Mrs. Rathbone appeared, shushing a black and white Shih-Tzu with long silky hair who squirmed and wriggled in her arms. Its long forelock was braided away from its big brown eyes; the braid bounced behind one ear.

John produced his badge. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Rathbone, I'm—"

Mrs. Rathbone stopped him with a smile. "Detective ... Robin, is it?"

"Yes, it is." He had expected Donna to remember his name, but not this lady. "I need to ask you a few more questions about the incident across the hall a few days ago."

"Of course, please come in." She opened the door wide. A cooling breeze blew in from her open patio door, ruffling her floral blouse and light green tie-front sweater combo. She looked as dressy as Easter Sunday even though she wore it over a pair of jeans. A diamond the size of a marble sparkled on her finger next to a wide gold wedding band.

He walked into an elegant apartment done in light green, purple, and tan. Outside, her terrace looked an acre wide.

She closed her door and set the dog down. "Please, sit. May I offer you some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I've had too much caffeine this morning already." John smiled, trying to establish some rapport.

She smiled back. "I know what you mean. I drink it all day long. Decaf just doesn't taste the same."

He took a seat on her couch and she sat on the opposite end. She turned to face him, her feet crossed at the ankles. "How can I help you?" "You" stretched out into "yew." She had a cultured, sweet, feminine voice with a slight Southern drawl.

"As I said, I had a few questions about the other day." John pulled out his notepad and prepared to take notes. "Are you friends with Tyler Greenhouse?"

"You could say that. We're friendly neighbors. He gets on well with my husband, and sometimes we have dinner with Tyler and whoever he's dating. We'll cook, or they'll cook, or we try out a new restaurant in Carytown or the Bottom. Tyler's a wonderful dinner companion. He's traveled all over the world, so he always has an interesting story. He's very pleasant and funny."

Pleasant? Funny? John jotted notes. "How long have you lived here?"

"Ever since this unit was finished. We're the original owners."

"How long have you known Tyler and Donna?"

"Well, Tyler's an original owner, too. We met while we were moving in. Donna I didn't meet until her father had his stroke. I saw this strange woman letting herself in one day and walked over and introduced myself."

"What do you remember from the day you called us?"

She pursed her lips in a way that told John she enjoyed being interviewed by the police—and would enjoy even more telling friends and family about it later. "I had dropped Duncan off at the vet for a bath and brush-out, and I had the door open. Somehow we had gotten infested with fleas, and the housekeeper and I were spraying. We were just trying to get some air in here. And I could hear voices getting louder and louder across the hall there, and then they were really loud, and I could hear Donna saying, 'Why don't you just do it, then, and quit threatening everybody? Why don't you just pick it up and do it?' And she kept saying that, 'Pick it up and do it,' and I thought, 'Pick what up and do what?'