“Some of it, yes.” Paula got out her leather-bound notepad and a yellow stub of a number-two pencil. Waited.
“I think he leaves the kids alone.”
“That’s how we figure it,” Paula said, pretending to take notes. Mrs. Neidler was talking for the record now.
“But I’ve seen the bruises on Kim.”
Paula remembered Lincoln’s wife was named Kim. “Have you ever actually seen him strike his wife?”
“Are you from South Carolina?” Mrs. Neidler abruptly asked.
“No. Louisiana. Cajun country.”
Mrs. Neidler squinted and stared at her as if she’d mentioned one of the other planets. “The men there. . are they of a violent nature?”
“Some. Like anywhere else, I suppose. You were telling me you thought there might be some domestic violence in the Lincoln home.”
“I’ve seen movement behind their blinds. Silhouettes. I can read that kind of body language, even in shadow. Violence, I’m sure, Officer. .”
“‘Paula’ will be fine.” Paula smiled and worked the blunt point of the pencil.
“Paula, I’m no stranger to domestic abuse.”
“Too many women aren’t.”
“I’ve seen poor Kim at the grocery or drugstore without bruises. Then I’ve heard her and that husband of hers shouting at each other, even from across the street. I could never make out the words, but I recognize the sounds. There’s no mistaking them.” Mrs. Neidler dabbed at a blue eye that had teared up. “The next day I’d see Kim again. She thinks she covers the marks with makeup, but another woman, one with experience, can see behind the makeup.”
“Have you ever asked her about any of this?”
Mrs. Neidler shook her head violently. “Not my place.”
Paula thought of differing with her, then changed her mind. “But you’ve never seen him harm the children?” Two of them, Paula recalled. Girls ages seven and ten.
“Never. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Go and talk to their teachers. They might tell you. Teachers can tell, even though they’re afraid to speak up sometimes.” Mrs. Neidler shook her head again and clucked her tongue. “Everybody’s suing everybody these days. Have you noticed?”
“Hard not to,” Paula said.
“Some teachers’d talk, though.”
“School’s out for the summer,” Paula reminded her.
“Ah, I forgot. Old people do forget.”
“They remember, too,” Paula said.
“Those two girls, cute as buttons, are away at camp, come to think of it. They’re always at one camp or another during the summers. Some people see camps as full-time baby-sitters, have you noticed?”
“I have.”
“And that Will Lincoln keeps odd hours. Works late in that garage art studio of his. Lots of times banging away on metal: bangedy, bangedy, bang! Got no close neighbors on either side of his house. I’m the closest one, so I’ve gotta put up with the noise. Bangedy, bangedy!”
Paula leaned sideways and glanced out the living room’s picture window. Mrs. Neidler had a view up the driveway of the modest house across the street. Most of the detached garage, gray clapboard like the house, was visible, including a garage window.
“I see the light on in that garage till all hours. And sometimes I’m up at night-old people don’t sleep well, you know. I see him leave the garage, must be by some back way. He sneaks down the driveway past that old eyesore truck of his, to where he leaves his car parked on the street. Then drives away quiet like.”
“Early morning, really. I’d say about one or two o’clock. Sometimes even later.”
“And what time does he return?”
“Various times. Mostly he’s gone more’n an hour, though. Ask me, I’d say he’s seeing some other woman. Be good if he left Kim, beat up on the other one. She’d be the one that deserves it.”
Paula was getting some idea of what had happened to Mrs. Neidler long ago. “Does Lincoln work in his garage every night?”
“Most every one. Sometimes he’s in there during the day, but almost always at night.”
“Do you think he might go out there to get away from Kim? Feeling guilty, maybe?”
“Haw! Not feeling guilty. Not that one. That one’s not at all how everybody sees him.” She gingerly touched the pink scalp below her sparse gray hair, as if caressing an old injury. “They never are.”
“They?”
“The ones that mistreat women.”
“You’re right about that,” Paula said. “Do you have much contact with Will Lincoln? Do you two ever talk?”
“Not hardly anymore. He saw me looking out the window at him one night about two in the morning. Began treating me cool after that. Not that we were ever chummy. Kim, though, she’s not like him. She’s still nice as pie to me.”
Paula looked up from the notes she was taking. “Do you think you’re in any physical danger, Mrs. Neidler?”
“Not hardly. Not with my late second husband’s twelve-gauge shotgun in the house. I was Portland County ladies’ skeet shooting champion two years running. That was some time back, though.”
“And you keep the shotgun nearby?”
“Nearby and loaded.”
“Tell you what,” she said to Mrs. Neidler. “I’m going to give you one of my cards. Call me if you see anything else suspicious. Anything at all. Don’t mention our conversation. And if you happen to see me around in the neighborhood, don’t let on we’re friends.”
“Count on me, Paula. I know how the police work.”
Paula leaned forward and placed her business card and half-finished tumbler of lemonade on the glass-topped coffee table. She stood up and slid her notepad into her purse. “If you see a strange car parked near here with someone in it, that’ll probably be me or another detective.”
“Uh-huh. A stakeout. Watching Lincoln’s house.”
“And yours, too. For protection. Just in case, whether you need it or not.” She edged toward the door. Mrs. Neidler seemed reluctant to stand up and show her out. Obviously not enough people were good listeners and she wasn’t eager for Paula to leave.
“Please don’t get up,” Paula said.
But when Paula was almost at the door, Mrs. Neidler wrested herself up from her chair and plodded over to usher her out.
Paula stepped outside onto the porch. It was almost dusk and had cooled into the seventies. The darkening sky had the look of being hazed by smoke, but she could see or smell nothing suggesting a fire.
“You be careful, Paula,” Mrs. Neidler cautioned.
“I always am,” Paula assured her, glancing back at Mrs. Neidler through the screen door. “Skeet shooting,” she said to the aged form in the shadow of the dark screen. “That’s marvelous.”
“Ladies’ champion,” Mrs. Neidler said. “Two years running. Some time back, though.”
“Still. .” Paula said, stepping down off the porch.
“Still,” Mrs. Neidler said behind her.
Paula sat in the unmarked, which was half a block down from Will Lincoln’s gray house with its green metal awnings, and waited for him to leave. It had grown dark, and lights were on in the house. Paula drove to the end of the block once and did a turnaround, checking the garage. Its single, dark window seemed to peer back at her blankly. There was a rusty old Dodge pickup truck with a low front tire in the driveway: the eyesore Mrs. Neidler had mentioned. The truck seemed not to have moved since Paula had first seen it that afternoon. It looked as if it
