AllFreeNovel
Share Us
No sooner had she posed the question than the man, noticing their attention, turned and hurried into the house behind him, shutting the door.
"I think we'd better find out," Finn said.
CHAPTER SIX
What is he hiding? Sheila thought as she approached the door of the neighboring house. Why did he hurry inside the moment he saw we were watching him?
Taking a deep breath, she knocked firmly on the door. "Police," she said. "We just want to ask you some questions about last night."
While waiting for an answer, Sheila studied the front of the house—the perfectly trimmed hedges, the immaculate porch, and not a single speck of dirt or debris in sight. The owner was clearly someone who valued cleanliness and order.
"Tell you what," Finn said, his eyes scanning the area, "I'm gonna head around back, make sure our balding friend doesn't try to leave through another exit." With that, he hurried off, leaving Sheila alone at the front door.
She knocked again, this time with a little more force. As she did so, a nagging thought crept into her mind. What if the neighbor didn't want to talk because he was hiding something? Could he have been involved in Juliette's murder?
"Please, we just need your help," she called out, hoping to appeal to the man's sense of duty. Time was of the essence, and they couldn't afford any delays.
The door finally creaked open, revealing only a sliver of the man's face. Through the gap, Sheila could see his round glasses magnifying nervous, beady eyes. His wispy comb-over did little to conceal his shiny scalp. He spoke in a high, jittery voice, "I didn't see anything, and I don't know anything. Please, just leave me alone."
Sheila noticed how he avoided eye contact and seemed to be on edge. It was evident that this man valued his privacy above all else. She softened her tone, trying to reassure him. "I assure you, this conversation doesn't have to take long. It's possible you saw something important without even realizing it."
She paused for a moment, gauging his reaction, then added, "Your neighbor Juliette was murdered. Don't you want to help us find who did this to her?"
The man's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Look, bad things happen when the police show up, okay? I saw this drug deal happening just down the street, so I called the police. I don't know how those hoodlums figured out it was me, but they did, and they showed up one night and trashed my car—sprayed graffiti on the outside of the house, too. I was terrified they'd come in."
Sheila felt a stirring of compassion for him. Now, it made sense why he didn't want to be involved.
"That must have been terrifying," she said.
"No kidding."
"But your neighbor was just murdered, and we could really use your help figuring out who did it. Isn't that more dangerous than being seen talking to the police?"
The man studied her, considering her question. Then he sighed. "Alright," he said. "But make it quick, okay?" He opened the door wider and stepped back, allowing Sheila and Finn – who had just returned from checking the back of the house – to enter. As they crossed the threshold, Sheila was immediately struck by the dim interior of the house. Heavy curtains blocked out any trace of sunlight, casting the rooms in a somber, almost eerie atmosphere.
The house was filled with antique furniture, giving it an old-world charm that seemed frozen in time. A grandfather clock ticked methodically in the hallway, its pendulum swinging in perfect synchronization with the creaky floorboards beneath their feet. Intricate tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes from a bygone era, while ornate chandeliers hung overhead, their dusty crystals catching the faint light that managed to escape the darkness outside.
"Your home is absolutely beautiful," Sheila said, taking in the array of vintage pieces that filled the space. She couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the way the old house had been so meticulously preserved.
"Thank you, but please, take off your boots," the balding man said anxiously, his eyes darting down to the muddy footprints they'd left behind on his pristine wooden floor. "I can't have dirt all over my house."
Sheila and Finn exchanged glances before complying with his request, carefully untying their laces and placing their boots by the door. It was evident that the man took great pride in maintaining his home's immaculate condition, a trait that only added to his air of privacy and seclusion.
The balding man, still looking anxious, led Sheila and Finn into a sitting room that seemed to be frozen in time. The wallpaper was a faded floral pattern, yellowed with age, and the furniture was a mix of heavy wooden pieces and plush velvet chairs. A large, ornately framed mirror hung on one wall, reflecting the dim light from the antique chandelier above. The air was thick with the scent of old books and mothballs, making it feel as if they had stepped into another era.
As they sat down, Sheila took a closer look at the man who had piqued her curiosity since she first spotted him watching them. In his early sixties, the wispy comb-over did little to conceal his shiny scalp. His round glasses magnified his beady eyes, which darted nervously around the room as if searching for an escape route. He fidgeted in his seat, constantly adjusting his glasses and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his pants.
"Your home is quite lovely," Finn said, attempting to break the ice as he leaned back in the ancient chair and looked around. "From the outside, I wasn't expecting such a beautiful place."
"Ah, well," the man stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "This house belonged to my mother, Georgia Chapman—I'm her son, George. When she passed away, I inherited it and decided to keep it just as she left it." He glanced fondly at the room, his gaze lingering on a small portrait of a stern-looking woman that hung on the wall. "I have made almost no changes since she passed away. It's...it's comforting, having everything just as she liked it."
Sheila felt a pang of sympathy for George, who was clearly struggling with the intrusion of strangers into his carefully preserved sanctuary. No wonder he'd been scared those hoodlums would come inside. She sensed that for him, this home was more than just a house; it was a connection to a past that he couldn't let go of.
She took a deep breath and leaned forward in her chair. "Mr. Chapman, we understand how much this home means to you, and we appreciate your cooperation. We're here because we want to ask you if you saw anything strange last night. Anything that could be related to your neighbor Juliette Reed's murder."
"Strange?" George asked, his voice trembling as he fidgeted with the edge of his cardigan. "What do you mean by strange?"
"Anything out of the ordinary," Sheila continued, her eyes searching George's face for any hint of recognition. "Unusual noises, unfamiliar faces, anything that caught your attention."
