San Diego Noir

“I just don’t remember her introducing herself as Vida. I think you might have made that name up.” I didn’t dignify the comment with a response. She sighed. “Anyway, what about the dogs?”

“They bark all the time. It doesn’t bother you?”

Sheila shrugged. “Not really.”

“Well, I haven’t been able to sleep at night.”

“I don’t think your insomnia is caused by the dogs,” Sheila said.

“Well, I’m going to talk to her.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

Sheila hated making waves of any kind, which was admirable on one level, but also, frankly, sometimes a little annoying. I understood that she didn’t want any kind of ugly scene with our neighbor, but I had to say something. The dogs were driving me mad. And I would have—I had even planned which words to use—if not for the fact that on the very afternoon I had chosen to go next door, Vida brought home a human guest and, well, I just couldn’t.

I was at my kitchen window when I saw them pull up in front of our condos. Residents are not allowed to park here. Because of space constraints and the desire to maintain property values, we are all assigned single parking spaces in a covered lot around the back of our buildings. So right away I knew she was up to something. Then I saw the blue “handicapped” tag hanging off her rearview mirror and was even more intrigued.

Vida got out first. She was smiling and looked almost deranged with happiness. The flowery muumuu she was wearing only added to that slightly nutty look. I don’t know which sadistic designer first came up with the idea of the muumuu but he (for it really has to be a “he,” no self-respecting woman would ever design such a garment) deserves a special place in fashion hell. Vida is not a heavy woman, but the muumuu, festooned with bright, badly painted hibiscus flowers, made her look like she weighed three hundred pounds.

She walked around to the passenger side of her car and, after a bit of effort which I couldn’t see because it was obscured by Vida’s sail of a dress, helped another woman out. The “new girl,” as I immediately began thinking of her, was small, blond, and very pretty. She was also an amputee—and a recent one by the look of it. Her left leg ended at the knee and was bandaged in what appeared to be a haphazard manner. The dressing didn’t look all that clean, either, and there were bloodstains at the bottom.

New Girl put her arm around Vida’s shoulder and with much awkwardness they hopped and dragged their way up the drive-way to Vida’s condo. They had no crutches and no wheelchair. It was altogether most peculiar—as if they had both come directly from the scene of an accident. Needless to say, I couldn’t go over there at that moment and complain about the dogs. It would have been rude.

We didn’t see either one of them for a few days after that, though they were clearly at home. The lights were on and there was plenty of noise. There were the dogs, of course, yapping and squealing as if their miserable doggy lives depended on it, but there were other sounds as well. I’d never heard music coming from Vida’s place before, but soon after New Girl’s arrival, we were treated to the sound of thrashing guitars on a daily basis. Apparently, New Girl was very fond of death metal and loved to listen to it near an open window. We also heard construction—hammering, drilling, and several suspicious crashes. It wasn’t until I saw Vida hauling canvases and easels up her driveway that I realized she—they—must have been building some kind of art studio in there.

“What do you think they’re up to next door?” I asked Sheila one evening.

“I suppose they’re just living like the rest of us,” Sheila answered. She was sitting under a thin blanket on the couch watching Law & Order, a show she’d recently become addicted to, and she didn’t even raise her eyes from the screen to talk to me.

“There’s something going on over there,” I said.

“Are you back on the dogs again?” she asked.

“Well, I was never off the dogs. They haven’t stopped barking yet, have they? But no, that’s not what I meant, Sheila.”

“I wish you’d lighten up.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“There are other things that you could better focus your attention on.” She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Things even closer to home than our neighbors.”

I wasn’t following her line of reasoning so I walked over to her to ask her to explain. But before I could do that I thought of something else. “You know the guest star did it, right?” I said, and pointed to the TV. “The more famous the guest star, the likelier it is that person committed the crime.”

Sheila looked up at me for the first time. The TV light on her face made it appear as if she was angry. “Way to ruin it,” she said. “Thanks.”