The woman shook her head no, but then frowned in thought.
Detective Greiner held her breath.
"You know, I wouldn't call it out of the ordinary, but I think it was around the time you mentioned. I came out here to have a cigarette. Trying to quit. My niece is staying with me, the smoke bothers her."
Detective Greiner nodded her head sympathetically.
"That house," the woman pointed across the street in a southerly direction. Greiner felt her heart speed up.
"The Colonial style with the American flag?"
"Yes. That one. I saw a girl walk up to the front door. She was kind of swaying. I thought she was drunk. I saw her knock on the door, and a guy answered. He let her in and then she left and crossed over to my side of the street."
Detective Greiner opened her small pad of paper to write down the details. "What did the girl look like?"
"Well, she was too far away to tell. I think she had blond hair, maybe."
"And the guy who answered the door?"
"Only that he was a guy. I really didn't pay that much attention. My only thought was, I hope she's not planning on driving. Was that the girl who was murdered?" The woman's mouth turned down, and she stared sadly at the detective.
Greiner ignored the question and asked, "How long do you think she was in the house?"
"Not long. Seconds."
"How many seconds?"
"Um. I don't know, really not that long. Under a minute."
"After the girl left the house and crossed the street, did you see where she went?"
"No." The woman shook her head. "With the bushes here, I really can't see down the street on my side unless I step out to the sidewalk."
"Other than what you saw, did you hear anything suspicious?"
The woman shook her head again, crossing her arms. "How awful," she said.
Greiner handed the woman her card. "If you remember anything else, Ms…?"
"Smith. Olivia Smith. That ought to be easy to remember," she added with a sad smile.
"Thank you, Ms. Smith."
Greiner continued knocking on the doors of the houses whose residents hadn't been home in the morning. But Olivia Smith was the only one who saw anything last night and what she saw was very interesting. The colonial house with the American flag was Steve Bates' house. He never mentioned getting a knock on his door during the half hour pocket of time that Taylor was unaccounted for. Taylor had blond hair.
32
Carrie - July 1996
The principal's interruption of Mr. Reid's lecture on the three branches of government garnered the attention of the smattering of students sitting in the summer class.
"Carrie," Principal Morgan said. "Follow me, please."
Carrie slid back her chair, unsure. "You can grab your stuff," the principal added.
She placed her textbook and notebook in her backpack and glanced at her best friend Bentley, who gave her a quizzical smile.
"See you after class," Bently said.
Carrie squeezed her bag to her chest, too worried to respond.
It had only been two days since Taylor was found dead at Enzo's, and the aftermath of Taylor's death lingered oppressively in their home. Last night Steve went straight to his room after work, shut the door and didn't come back out until morning. Her mom made dinner, but no one ate it. Her dad, cocooned in his easy chair, had stared dully at the TV, drinking through half a bottle of whiskey, letting baseball wash over him.
Carrie didn't have a good feeling as she followed Principal Morgan's brisk stride, the woman's pumps clicking rhythmically on the tile floor. In her office, a policeman was waiting.
"Come on in, Carrie," Principal Morgan said, gesturing toward two chairs by the desk. Carrie took in a woman in business clothes similar to what her mom wore to the office, sitting in one of the chairs. She had frizzy dark hair, a sharp little beak of a nose and eyes that were too close together. The frumpy comedienne from old Saturday Night Live reruns came to mind. Gilda something, Carrie thought.
"Have a seat," the Gilda lady said, patting the chair next to her, and smiled, cocking her head to the side. "I hope we're not interrupting anything too important."
The casualness of her manner made Carrie relax a little, and she set her bag down, taking a seat. The policeman said nothing; he leaned against the desk in the manner of someone waiting for something.
"I'm Detective Greiner," the woman said, "and this is officer Hernandez."
"Am I in trouble?" Carrie gripped both the armrests of the chair, staring up at the officer.
"We just want to ask you a few questions," Detective Greiner said.
Carrie's mind scrambled at what to do. Their dad warned them not to talk to the police about Monday night without an attorney present. But the police had come to her school, pulled her out of class.
"Is this about the other night?" She asked lamely.
"It's just a few quick questions," Detective Greiner said, eyes bright, another reassuring smile. Carrie glanced at the principal. She'd taken a seat, hands folded on her desk. Her long acrylic nails painted red.
"When Taylor knocked on your door Monday night, I can imagine your brother was especially angry, given the incident with your dad. And your family not wanting Taylor to come by." Detective Greiner said.
Carrie's blood ran cold. How did the detective know this? Did Steve tell her? And then she remembered the conversation with Bets, their shared hatred of Taylor, confiding in Bets about the incident with her dad, telling her to swear to keep it to herself. “I told you my humiliating Taylor story,” Bets had said. An implied, you keep my secret, I'll keep yours. Bets was chubby not that long ago, when she was Carrie's age, in fact. Taylor had taken a picture of Bets’ back and dimpled butt while she was showering after gym class and taped the photo to the outside of her locker. Dozens of kids had seen the picture before Bets had
