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“Hello there.” There was a touch of confusion in her smile. “Can I help you?”
“Ma’am, my name is Detective David Klein. This is my associate, Cassie Quinn. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions about your late neighbor, Mr. Robert Shapiro?”
“Yes, of course. Come in.”
The woman led them into the kitchen and ushered them into a pair of chairs. She poured them each a glass of lemonade and set a plate of chocolate chip cookies down in the center of the table. The sweet smell of sugar and chocolate saturated the air.
“Straight from the oven. Please, help yourselves.” She walked over to the staircase and called upstairs. “Henry? Dear? Could you come down here, please?”
“Something the matter, Margery?”
“The police are here to ask us some questions about Robert.”
Shuffling sounded from overhead, and then the stairs creaked beneath the weight of an older gentleman who looked to be as healthy and fit as his wife. They were the idyllic image of an older married couple—white hair, lots of wrinkles, and gentle eyes that put Cassie at ease.
David stood to shake the gentleman’s hand. “Detective David Klein. And my associate, Cassie Quinn.”
“I saw Robert just last weekend. He looked healthy.”
“I don’t think the police would be here if he had a heart attack, Henry.” She turned back to David. “We saw something happened, of course. There were police cars all over the place. But they couldn’t tell us how he died.”
“You’re right, uh, Mrs.—”
“Call me Margery, dear.”
“You’re right, Margery. Robert Shapiro was murdered a few days ago, and we’re still trying to put the puzzle pieces together.”
“Murdered?” Margery put a hand to her mouth. “Who would do something like that?”
“We have a few working theories, but for now, we’re wondering how well you knew Mr. Shapiro?”
“My goodness, we’ve known him for forty years. We were never close—he was a private person—but you say hello enough times over the years, and you feel a certain kinship.”
“What can you tell us about the type of person he was?”
“Quiet. Private, like I said.” She looked at her husband with a sad smile on her face. “When his wife was alive, he was a little more jovial. A little friendlier.”
“He changed after that?”
“A bit,” Henry said. “I talked to him a few more times than Marge, here. Mostly superficial topics, you know. Best way to remodel the bathroom. How to grill a steak. Manly things.” He winked at Cassie, and she couldn’t help but giggle.
“You went fishing with him a few times,” Margery offered.
“I did. Us men don’t talk as much as the ladies. It was just a peaceful sort of getaway.”
“I understand.” David shifted in his seat, and Cassie could tell he was trying to ask the right questions without giving away who Shapiro was. “How did he change after his wife died?”
“He didn’t leave his house much at first.” Margery frowned. “Always looked more disheveled. Didn’t say hi when we’d see him. Don’t think he was being rude. I think he was in his head. Didn’t hear us, you know?”
“For a few years there, we thought he was getting better. Seemed more sociable. He left the house a bit more often, anyway. Then it petered off again. The last few years, he was especially quiet. He’d go to work. Come back. His car was always in the driveway.”
“Were you aware of any land Mr. Shapiro might’ve owned? Even the fishing spot—somewhere he’d go to get away from the world?”
“The fishing spot was mine,” Henry said. “Told him he could go up there any time, but I don’t think he did. Fishing was more my thing than his. Had to sell it back in ’99 when things were tight. They ended up leveling it out and building an apartment complex. Such a waste.”
“Anything else you could think of? Any amount of land might be what we’re looking for.”
Margery looked at David, and then at Cassie. “I have a feeling there’s more to this story than you’re letting on.”
