Secret By R. C. Capasso

Secret By R. C. Capasso

It wasn’t even a secret, really. Just a mistake. The neighbor Peg thought she’d seen Sandra leaving at 2:00, waving back toward the house and driving down the street. But Sandra had left the house at 1:15 at the very latest. 

At 1:15 Jack was still alive and well. Actually, not well. Maybe having a bit of indigestion. Nothing more. And Sandra had been eager to help him. She’d headed out to get some antacids and the prescription he’d somehow entirely used up.

Of course immediately she was dealing with the traffic hang-ups for construction and the wait at the dry cleaners and the library. Then a spur-of-the-moment side trip to the grocery store to get Jack’s favorite pork chops for supper. And running into her hairdresser, who had three weeks of gossip to share and comments on how she’d curled her hair. Given all that, it was no wonder she forgot about the pharmacy until she was nearly home. She had dutifully turned around, ground through the traffic congestion again, and fought for a parking spot in the strip mall.

It had been after 3:00 when she finally got home.

Jack’s doctor affirmed that he had died from a heart attack just minutes before. Probably between 2:00 and 2:30. She could have kicked herself. Where had she been then? The cleaners or already in the library? And poor Jack, alone.

He never even called 9-1-1. Three days after the funeral, when she vacuumed the couch, she pulled his phone out from where it had fallen and wedged behind a cushion.

At first Peg, the neighbor, had been a bit confused. A bit insistent. “Oh, Sandra! Was Jack already feeling sick when you left? Oh, think! If you’d just stayed a few minutes longer, you could have called for help.”

But no. She’d been gone, probably for as much as an hour. All she’d noticed was indigestion, which was hardly unusual, given how and what Jack ate. She’d had no reason at all to call anyone.

But then Peg was often confused about times and dates. Sandra hadn’t even needed to point this out. When a lone detective dropped by with a few questions, it only took one conversation for him to see how scattered the older woman was.

The cardiologist affirmed Jack’s condition. He could have died at any time. In a few days, a few weeks, a few months. Maybe years. Maybe five years at the outside. The detective had nodded and never came back.

So what Peg thought she knew had no relevance. Even she eventually shook her head and said, “I probably got it wrong. I was thinking about Kim. My daughter-in-law, you know. The baby’s due any day, and she’s still working. It keeps me up at nights. It’s a wonder I noticed you at all.”

Thus, no one cared what Peg saw, or thought she saw, or imagined.

& & &

“And what she saw, or thought she saw,” Sandra explained to Lucien, “wasn’t anything wrong, anyhow. She didn’t see me strangle Jack or hit him with a blunt instrument or dump a box of powder with a skull and crossbones into his chili and watch him writhe.”

“Sweetheart, you have a graphic imagination.” Lucien touched her arm lightly. Sometimes his eyes burned into hers with desire, but for now he was moving slowly, keeping the physical contact discreet. As if anyone could see them in his apartment, as if they were Victorians and had to observe a period of mourning. Yes, it might be best for appearances, but there were no observers.

“What I’m saying,” she continued, her voice calm and clear, “is that at most she saw me doing nothing. She saw me—claims to have seen me—leave the house and get in my car in the driveway. She even saw me look back and wave at Jack. That’s not a crime.”

“No one is talking about a crime. Jack died from a heart attack, and he had a heart condition.”

“Of course. Exactly. So she saw me do nothing, when nothing was done.”

Lucien frowned slightly. Sandra was typically more articulate. “So at the very worst she could blame you for a sin of omission. For not taking a good action.”

“Sin?” Her eyes widened. “What an archaic term.” She pulled away a bit and made him work much harder than usual to coax her into her eventual softness. 

& & &

She had to watch herself. She was making a bit too much of her relations with Peg. On the next occasion that her neighbor was in the small front garden as she left the house, Sandra made a joke about the time. “I’ll have to go around by Renninger Road. It’s 2:25 and the high school will be letting out. There will be busses everywhere and that tedious 20 mile-per-hour limit.”

She had barely reversed out of the drive and into the street, waving cheerily to Peg, before her teeth started clenching. Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Peg had probably forgotten the confusion over her departure at 2:00—no, 1:15—on Jack’s last bad day. But Peg wouldn’t fully forget, not if Sandra kept reminding her about cars and times.

& & &

“The thing I hate most is the constant surveillance. I mean, Peg should be all caught up in her new granddaughter, right? So why does she need to be watching my every move? It’s invasive. It’s like Rear Window and I’m Raymond Burr. I’m starting to feel sympathy for him.”

Lucien reached to tuck a curl behind her ear, then thought better of it. “Oh, come on, hon. She can’t be that bad. She’s not digging through your trash, is she?”

“No. She’s more the type to keep a written record of my comings and goings.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re a decent person and have nothing to hide.”

Her spine tightened. “But it’s a kind of control, isn’t it? An attitude of superiority and judgment. Like: ‘I’ve got my eye on you and you’d better not try anything.'”

Lucien moved slightly, as if the sofa had poked a spring against his handsome butt. “Sandra, are you feeling guilty about Jack? I mean, you and Jack were over long before we…”

Her jaw dropped. “I’m not feeling guilty about anything. Why should I? She—Peg—she’s the one who’s crossing the line. You know? I wonder how she’d feel if I knew one of her secrets.”

“Secrets? She’s an old lady.”

“The old are not necessarily innocent. They’ve just had more time to rack up their crimes and then hide them.”

Lucien spluttered into a laugh. “I can see it now. All those dusty skeletons crammed into closets.”

“Exactly.”

& & &

Lucien wouldn’t expect her call for at least two hours. She’d slipped away after dinner, telling him she had to get new shoes and was determined to try at least three stores. She’d be out until they closed the shop doors behind her.

While actually, with light traffic she’d be home before 7:10 p.m. It got dark early at that time of the year, but Peg, who hated to drive at night, would have risked the five-minute trip to the 7:00 Town Council meeting. Peg had feelings about sewer lines.

No one would see Sandra, dressed in black, slip to Peg’s house and open the door noiselessly. Like good neighbors, they each held a spare key for the other.

Hunh. Maybe that’s what she should have said. “Peg, I was so sadly not at home the day Jack died. But you were just next door. If only you had come over. You might have saved him. Yeah? Take that guilt, you old cow.”

But Peg would have some darker secret, some richer guilt. She owed Sandra that. Eye for eye. Secret for secret. Power for power.

& & &

Sandra had never actually stepped inside Peg’s house, but the floor plan turned out to be simple. The side door led into the garage, safely empty since Peg had driven to the Council meeting. An interior door led to the kitchen, with its faint odor of grilled cheese. The back yard was full of trees, so a neighbor probably wouldn’t notice a small flashlight moving quickly. Luckily, Peg hadn’t left a light on anywhere in the house. Surely that was suspicious. Old ladies like comfort and security, don’t they? Unless they have something to hide.

A rapid scan of the kitchen cupboards revealed nothing of interest. She didn’t bother to poke a long spoon down the canisters. Peg wouldn’t be hiding a stash of jewels or drugs. Her secret would probably be a document. Horrible photos. A will that never made it to probate. Notes for blackmail. Something petty and tawdry.

The living room, off the small dinette area, offered more potential hiding places. Vases with faintly dusty artificial flowers contained nothing. A wicker magazine holder, tucked up beside an easy chair, groaned with newspapers and women’s magazines. She shook them out, unleashing a flurry of subscription cards, but no documents. 

On the mantel over the artificial fireplace stood a number of framed photos. A young boy with a dog, a teen, and finally a man starting to bald slightly. In the midst stood a bowling trophy. Obviously won by the son, who at least had enough taste not to take the heavy, tacky thing with him to his own home.

She contemplated removing the backs of the photos. A classic hiding place, but she didn’t want to fiddle with glass and tacks. She hefted the trophy. You could cram a lot in its base. But it felt heavy, solid. Nothing rattled when she shook it with both hands.

An old woman, living alone, would probably hide things in her bedroom. No husband to pry or control her, lucky thing.

She found papers in a nightstand and an entire plastic box of photos on a closet shelf. Another box contained envelopes, one stack of them held together by a rubber band so old and dry it snapped as she pulled at it. A fat envelope from a legal firm caught her eye. A lawyer? Maybe Peg’s defense attorney? A quick laugh caught at her breath.

She barely noted the headlights swinging across the small window with its plastic blinds. A car coming into the drive.

Her fingers tightened on the envelope.

Only one person would come in a car.

Sandra stared at her wristwatch. 7:30. No. That was not possible. The Council always dragged on till 9:00 at least.

The garage door creaked up, a car rolled across the cement floor, and the door lowered.

No, Peg could not be coming home. Council had to hear everyone’s opinion on the sewer. So what was she doing here, the witch?

At the back of the house a door clicked.

She should put things back. Or take them away?

She should run out the front door. She was in black. No one would see. 

The front door was in the living room.

The living room light clicked on as she darted in.

“Oh, I’m so relieved. The power went off at Town Hall, and I wasn’t sure about our neighborhood.”

The flustered words poured out naturally, as if it were perfectly normal for Sandra to be there in her unoccupied house. And then the words halted as Peg’s eyes took in Sandra, dressed in black, coming from her bedroom hall, a flashlight gripped against a stack of envelopes in her hand.

“Well, why…?”

Later Sandra reflected that she should have claimed concern for the house during the power outage, but she moved by instinct. The trophy with its heavy square base was just within reach, and she dropped the letters and was beside Peg before any other reaction was possible. One hard blow. Then another, to be sure. And then a wait to confirm that breath and pulse had stopped.

Her thoughts tumbled quickly, neatly into place.

No one knew.

She was shopping for shoes. She didn’t have to find any. Didn’t need a sales slip. She was a discriminating customer, hard to satisfy. 

And this was clearly a home invasion. She grabbed a vase, scattering the plastic flowers. Ran to the bedroom and dumped a box full of dated costume jewelry. Rifled the medicine cabinet, spilled wastebaskets. Reminded herself to break a window from the outside, on her way out.

She was already wiping the trophy and everything else she had touched. 

She could dispose of the key. Say it was lost months before.

She had no reason to hurt the old lady.

But the police—because this time there would be an investigation—the police would need a motive. Maybe just simple robbery. Or maybe they’d find a compelling reason in the secrets Peg had hidden. Peg owed Sandra a secret. Really, she did.

No one would suspect anything. 

It was going to be fine.

There was only Lucien.

She broke the window, then slipped back around the house toward her own place.

It would all work out perfectly.

But, Lucien. She might have to think about him.

* * * * The End * * * *
Copyright R. C. Capasso 2025