Page 55 of Little Last Words

Knowing Rita’s personality, it made sense.

“Did Rita know Penelope at all?” I asked.

I knew the answer to the question.

I just wanted to know what he’d say.

“There was an incident with a bike,” he said. “The little one fell right in front of our house. Rita saw it all from our kitchen window, and she ran out to help. She met Penelope at that time. Well, I suppose she knew the family a little from before, but she hadn’t realized a DuPont had moved back into the house.”

“You must have known her family too, right?”

“Me? No. I’m Rita’s second husband. When I moved in, the house Penelope lived in was empty, though there have been a couple of renters here and there over the years. Always wondered why they just didn’t sell the place.”

“You spend a fair amount of time out on your front porch,” I said. “Did you ever see anyone hanging around here before Penelope died?”

“People stopped in from time to time. Seemed like friends, or family, people she knew well.”

“Anyone stand out?”

“I don’t know. Suppose I didn’t pay them much mind other than noticing they were there.”

“Did you ever see any men at the house?”

He rubbed his hands together and went quiet, his attention shifting from me to the garage door.

“Youhaveseen men at the house, haven’t you?” I asked.

“Well now, I’m not so sure I should be talking about what she did in her private life. Doesn’t feel right to speak ill of the dead, you know? Her business was her business.”

“Aaron, if you witnessed anything that might help me figure out why Penelope was murdered, don’t you think she’d want you to speak up about it so her family can have the closure they deserve?”

He crossed his arms, his eyes still fixated on the garage door.

What was it about that door?

Was he recalling something—a memory, perhaps?

I thought about coaxing him further but kept quiet. Maybe a bit of silence was what he needed right now to come around to the idea of spilling whatever beans needed to be spilled.

“She was such a nice woman,” he said. “It’s not often that the younger generation wants to be friends with an old-timer like me. Penelope treated me like we were equals, like she was interested in what I had to say. It’s a shame she’s gone.”

“Have you seen men at the house, or haven’t you?”

He kicked at some pebbles on the ground, stalling a moment before he said, “I suppose I may have witnessed something I wasn’t meant to one night, something intimate.”

“What did you see?”

“I was watching television one night, and I had a craving for rocky road ice cream. I decided to ride my bike to the corner store. On the way back, it was dark out, and as I rode up the street, the headlamps on my bike shone onto Penelope’s garage door. She was standing there, talking to a man.”

“What man?” I asked. “Had you ever seen him before?”

“His back was to me, so I didn’t get a good look at the fellow. I got to my house and hopped off my bike, and I was about to go inside. But I couldn’t stop wondering whether she was all right. The way she was standing. She seemed a bit tense. I’m embarrassed to admit I crept back over to her place to make sure all was well.”

I felt like I’d just hit the jackpot.

“Go on,” I said.

“Turns out, she was just fine. The man kissed her and said he loved her and always had. I felt like I was intruding on a situation I wasn’t meant to be involved in, so I scooted right on out of there.”