Scratch the Surface

she’d dropped. The phone was no longer connected to the police. She thought of calling Ronald but decided that he’d be useless. Neighbors? As usual, the nearby houses looked peculiarly uninhabited. Unlike the streetlights on Norwood Hill, those in the Estates had fresh lightbulbs and globes free of birds’ nests, and no mature trees blocked the light. Furthermore, every residence in Newton Park had more than ample outdoor lighting, with an expensive fixture above or next to each front door, motion-detecting lights by each garage, and artistically arranged spotlights that directed attention to walkways, foundation plantings, and little weeping trees. All this brightness served mainly to reveal a complete absence of people. Lights shone in the windows of some houses, but the residents were wary of burglars and often left on lights to deter crime. Three of the houses were, as Uncle Bob and Aunt Thelma’s had been, gigantic and extravagant pieds-à-terre, presumably for wealthy people with really big feet. Those three places were almost never occupied, but lights on timers created the illusion that the owners were at home.
    Felicity had met all the other owners at two condo association meetings but had forgotten some of the names and faces. The meetings had been brief and businesslike. When she had moved in, there’d been no welcoming get-together, and even her neighbors on either side, the Trotskys and the Wangs, had failed to show up at her door with the offerings of brownies or cookies she’d half-expected. She first met the Trotskys one trash day when she’d placed her recycling bin at curbside, and Mr. Trotsky had angrily accused her of putting it on his property. The Wangs spoke almost no English but had introduced themselves in a friendly way, and always smiled and waved when they saw Felicity. It seemed unkind to reciprocate by summoning them to help with a murder, but they were far more approachable than the Trotskys. For once, Felicity, who valued privacy, simply hated being all alone. Consequently, instead of using her phone to call Ronald or to redial 911, and thus risk being asked to touch a dead person, she walked slowly and carefully down her walk, along the street, and up to the Wangs’ front door.
    With four stories and a three-car garage, the Wangs’ house was considerably larger than hers, and its front entrance had two light fixtures, a knocker, a mailbox, a mail slot, an intercom, and a doorbell, all brand new and shiny. As she pressed the bell, she realized that for all she knew, Mr. and Mrs. Wang, whose first names she had forgotten, were Dr. and Dr. Wang and would take charge of the crisis as they’d presumably been taught to do in medical school.
    When Mrs.—Dr.?—Wang opened the door, Felicity remembered the woman’s first name, which was Zora. And the husband’s? Tom? Bob?
    “Zora,” Felicity said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s an emergency!”
    Zora was a little woman of thirty or so, with short black hair and no observable body fat. She nodded politely and gave a smile of complete incomprehension. Then she gestured to Felicity to come in. The front hall was the size of an assembly room. It had a bare fireplace and was empty except for a big vase of lilies on a Chinese table. There was a powerful smell of exotic food.
    “An emergency!” Felicity repeated. She pointed toward the door through which she’d just entered.
    “Dinner?” Zora asked. “Join us?”
    “Thank you, but I need help!“ The urge to shout at foreigners was uncontrollable. “A dead person! A person who is dead). Or hurt! Emergency’.”
    “Get Tom,” Zora said. “Wait.”
    The tiny woman disappeared and reappeared with her husband, who was also very small and looked even younger than his wife. “Tom Wang,” he said, holding out his hand.
    “Felicity Pride.” She shook the proffered hand and said, “There’s a dead body in my vestibule. A man. Dead or injured.”
    “Police!” Tom Wang said.
    “I’ve called.”
    “Call police!”
    “I have called. They are coming. Can you come with me now?” She pointed frantically to the door.
    Tom Wang addressed Zora in Chinese, and in seconds, Zora opened a closet in the hall and produced short jackets for both of them. They continued to speak incomprehensibly to each other as they donned the jackets. Outside, Zora paused to check the lock on the front door. She again spoke to Tom in Chinese. Leading the way, Felicity took fast but