I opened my briefcase and extracted another business card. This one did not have my name on it. “Ms. Moretti, there’s a lawyer here in Crystal Harbor who might be able to help you settle your mom’s estate. His name is Sten Jakobsen and he’s had a practice here in town forever. He knows his stuff and he’ll treat you fairly.”
Evie accepted Sten’s card. For the first time since I’d been in her presence, I saw her expression soften. “I appreciate this, Jane. I honestly didn’t know where to start.” She took a deep breath. “Now that you know what’s involved, is this something you’d be willing to take on? Tracking down Mom’s peach collection? It’s not something I can handle on my own, especially with... everything else I have to deal with right now. The funeral and all that.”
I wasn’t about to tell Evie that I’d already promised to look into her mother’s murder, at Cheyenne’s insistence. For one thing, it would only muddy the waters, and for another, I intended to do the least amount of “investigating” required to get Cheyenne off my back. The girl seemed to have no inkling that clients actually pay me for my services.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, “but I need you to understand that I might not be successful.”
“I’m prepared for that,” she said. “I’d still like to hire you.”
“For this type of work I charge an hourly fee plus expenses. We can agree to cap it at whatever upper limit you’re comfortable with.”
“You’ll need a retainer, I assume?” she said. “Some sort of deposit?”
I waved away the offer. “Not in this case.” It’s not that I thought the hours wouldn’t add up. They very well might, depending how much snooping I had to do. However, my gut told me this particular client had no intention of stiffing me.
I pulled a blank work order out of my briefcase, filled in the details of the job, and passed it across to her.
From what I’d already learned about Evie’s personality, I would have been shocked if she’d reflexively signed it and passed it back, as so many of my clients did. Sure enough, she spent several minutes reading every single word.
As I watched her pore over the document, I thought about the Big Thing we’d barely touched on: her brother’s arrest for the murder of their mother. I told myself that not only did I owe it to Cheyenne to find out what I could, but there was the possibility, however slim, that Sean’s guilt or innocence was somehow related to the missing peach collection.
Finally Evie affixed her neat signature to the document and returned it to me. “I’ll scan it and email you a copy,” I said, and lifted the folder full of photos. “It would help if I had these for reference.”
“Of course. Take them,” she said. “I have the digital files.”
I tucked them into my briefcase, along with the work order. “I need to ask you an uncomfortable question, Ms. Moretti.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You want to know if I think Sean did it.”
I nodded.
“Do I think he’s capable of murder?” she said. “I’ve asked myself that since he was arrested. Bottom line, I don’t know. A few years ago I would’ve said no, it’s impossible. But now, after everything we’ve been through with him...” She offered a sad shrug.
“Do you happen to know why they arrested him?” I asked. “I mean, what evidence they have?”
She looked uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame her. “I don’t know all of it,” she said. “There was an argument. Well, I’m sure there was more than one. Anyway, on at least one occasion a neighbor heard Sean threaten Mom.”
“Threaten her how?” I asked. “With violence?”
Evie took a deep breath. “That’s my understanding.”
“Did this blowup happen before or after Thanksgiving?” I said. “I assume both Sean and your mom were at your grandma’s that day, right?”
She nodded. “Apparently it happened a day or two after Thanksgiving.”
“How soon after that did she go missing?”
“I have no way of knowing,” Evie said. “I didn’t even realize she wasn’t around until about ten days later, like I said.”
“Thank you for your candor, Ms. Moretti. One more thing. I know your brother did time for burglary.”
“Only a year, thanks to this amazing criminal defense attorney Mom hired. Carlos Levine. His fees are astronomical, of course, but he came through. We thought for sure Sean was looking at five years, minimum. Levine will be handling the murder case, too, though I haven’t a clue where Dad will find the money to pay him.”
Her obdurate expression told me sisterly obligation went only so far. If Sean was counting on her portion of their inheritance to help pay for his defense, he was to be sorely disappointed. Considering his history, I couldn’t blame her.
“Is there anyone else you think the police should look at?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you what I told the detectives,” she said. “My mom was not an easy person to like. She turned offending people into an art form.”
“I know her advice column came across that way,” I said. “I assumed it was an act, a persona she adopted to sell magazines.”
Evie gave me a wry smile. “There was no acting involved, believe me. That was Mom. Well, except that I never knew her to be much of a writer, but she had her editor, Gordon, to whip her column into shape.”
“You mentioned she offended a lot of people,” I said. “Do you have anyone particular in mind? Who, you know, might have been angry enough to do your mother harm?”
“There’s this one guy I mentioned to the detectives,” she said. “His name is Burke Fletcher. He became incensed over one of Mom’s columns, really went off the rails. Blamed her for wrecking his marriage.”
“Did he threaten her?” I asked.
“Not in any way she could prove,” she said. “She tried to get an order of protection, but without a certifiable threat, the request was turned down.”
“When did this happen?”
“The harassment started in late summer or early fall,” she said. “Around the beginning of September, I think. Mom kept hoping he’d get bored and stop.”
I said, “What form did this harassment take?”
“Irate emails at first, before she changed her email address. That’s when he graduated to online trolling.”
“Did he ever show up at her house?”
“If he did, he never made his presence known,” Evie said, “but Mom suspected he came by a few times. She had no hard evidence, it was more of a feeling. You know, that she was being watched. Anyway, she finally reported him to the police in late November. Not long before she went missing.” Her expression said the timing was suspicious. I had to agree.
I stood. So did Evie. I held out my hand. “If anything else occurs to you that you think I should know, please give me a call, Ms. Moretti.”
“Thanks, Jane, I’ll do that.”
4
Here Comes Tinsel!
“GET A LOAD of this one.” Dom tapped his phone and began reading off the screen. “‘Dear Peaches, I like eating kibble. One might even say—’”
“Wait, wait.” I steered my red Mazda onto the street I’d been looking for, in one of the quaintest old neighborhoods of quaint old Crystal Harbor. “Kibble? As in dog food?”
Sexy Beast, who’d spent the short ride staring out the passenger window and excitedly car-whining in my ex-husband’s ear, perked up at the mention of “dog” and “food” in the same breath. When his turbocharged nose turned up nothing even remotely Vienna sausagelike, he emitted an eloquent snort. You have failed me yet again.
Dom took a moment to scan the “Peaches Preaches” advice column in the online edition of You Know It magazine. He shrugged. “Cat kibble, dog kibble, it doesn’t say. Could be monkey kibble. Iguana. Ferret. Shall I continue?”
I waved him on as I slowed the car and squinted at house numbers.
“‘One might even say I love the stuff,’” Dom read aloud. “‘Can’t get enough. I keep little bags of it on hand for a quick ene
rgy boost in the car and at my desk. Kibble offers complete nutrition and a satisfying crunch. It’s my only unorthodox habit if you don’t count drinking my morning coffee out of a straw, which in my opinion everyone should do, but haters gotta hate. My girlfriend thinks my preference for kibble is strange and has threatened to break up with me over it. I say she’s overreacting. We have a bet going. If I win, she has to buy me the big fifty-pound bag of premium kibble. If she wins, I have to buy her a year’s worth of the freeze-dried mealworms she likes to sprinkle on her salad. We agreed to let you decide the winner.’ Signed, ‘Snack Attack.’”
“Here we are,” I announced, “number 5013 Rayburn Street.”
Dom’s attention shifted to the property, a classic old Queen Anne Victorian painted—no surprise here—pale peach with frothy white trim. A turret, gobs of gingerbread, the whole nine yards. The house itself appeared to be in decent repair. The same could not be said for the ratty-looking lawn, barely visible beneath a carpet of decaying leaves, twigs, and wind-blown litter.
“The place looks deserted.” He indicated the dozens of plastic-wrapped newspapers scattered across the brick walkway and the steps leading to the curved wraparound porch, flung there every morning like clockwork from the delivery guy’s car. “It’s like no one’s been here since Peaches went missing, what, four months ago?”
“The son’s been living here most of that time. Sean Moretti, age twenty. His sister Evie says he’s been trashing the place.” I cut the engine. “You know, Dom, you didn’t have to come with me. I’m perfectly safe.”
“Oh yeah, this fellow here, he’ll protect you from a murderer.” He hefted seven-pound SB in one hand and examined him from all sides, earning a snort of irritation from both me and my dog.
“I didn’t bring SB for protection,” I said. “I brought him as a sort of icebreaker.”
“Oh. Well, that makes sense,” he said. “It’s a well-known fact that matricidal maniacs are totally charmed by high-strung little poodles.”
“Pay no attention to him, SB. There’s nothing wrong with being a little sensitive.” I reached into the backseat and grabbed the straw bucket tote that served as Sexy Beast’s home away from home. “So what did she say?”
“Who?”
“Peaches!” I said. “How did she respond to Kibble Boy?”
“Oh.” He peered at his phone’s screen. “She writes, ‘Dear Snack: A winner? You expect me to pick a winner of your disgusting bet?!?! There are no winners here, you deranged, kibble-chomping freak. And that goes double for your wormy lady friend. I’d suggest you see a shrink, but your revolting breath would knock the poor guy out cold. I’m gagging just writing this. My advice? Switch to pretzels and potato chips, and guzzle mouthwash until it’s coming out of your ears. And stay out of the damn pet department.’”
I got Sexy Beast settled in his plushly lined tote and stepped out of the car. The first day of April was cold and breezy, but thankfully, dry. SB and I both squinted against the brilliant late-morning sunshine. “That was kind of tame for Peaches,” I said.
Dom nodded as he joined me on the sidewalk. “Maybe she’s losing her edge.” He winced. “I mean, you know, maybe she was losing her edge before she...” He mimed slitting his own throat.
“It was more like...” I mimed strangling myself, eyes and tongue protruding.
Dom stepped closer and murmured, “Uh, you know, he could be watching us from the house. The son.”
“From what I’ve heard about his relationship with Mummy Dearest, he wouldn’t care. Plus, he’s probably the one who did the, um...” I did a quick strangle face.
“As if I needed reminding.” His venomous scowl proved the point.
I said, “You’d better lighten up before we ring the bell or we’ll never get past the front door.”
Dom took a deep, calming breath, which had no discernible effect on his frame of mind. “Do you have your spike?”
“My what? Oh.” I released a long-suffering sigh and extracted my key ring from the pocket of my suede jacket. Dangling from the ring was a five-inch purple aluminum spike, enhanced with finger grooves down its length. The purpose of the grooves was to provide a secure grip while attacking one’s attacker.
Dom had gifted me with the self-defense gizmo a couple of months earlier, no doubt envisioning the padre on the receiving end. Instead I’d used it to help extract myself from an altogether different threat. Since the thing had actually proven its worth in a most impressive way, I now kept it with me at all times.
“Okay?” I wagged the spike in front of his face. “Satisfied?”
“I’d be happier if you also carried a firearm, or at the very least a can of pepper spray, but I guess I should be happy you’ve at least got this thing.”
Sexy Beast responded with a yip of approval. Either that or he was urging us to move our conversation somewhere warm.
I said, “A firearm?” I immediately thought of Dom’s fiancée, Bonnie Hernandez. Presumably the chief of police carried a firearm, though I’d yet to see it, for which I supposed I should be grateful. I clutched my jacket collar closed, wishing I’d worn a scarf. “First of all, do you have any idea how byzantine the pistol-permitting process is in Suffolk County, New York?”
“You’re in a dangerous profession,” he said. “You should be able to get a concealed-carry permit.”
“A dangerous profession?” I said. “Most of the time I’m organizing funerals and tossing ashes hither and yon. I don’t think that qualifies. Plus, from what I hear, the whole permit process could take something like a year or more.” He started to speak, but I charged ahead. “Dom, I want you to stop for a moment and imagine me—me, Jane Angela Delaney, your ex-wife—walking around with a loaded gun in my purse. Tell me. What’s the first thing that just popped into your head?”
He bit his bottom lip. I ignored how adorable and sexy it made him look, because I’d known this man a long time, and that adorable and sexy gesture meant only one thing: He was hiding something or preparing to fib.
I gave him my best narrow-eyed scowl. “Be honest, Dom. I will know if you’re lying.”
His expression said he knew he was busted. “Okay, so maybe concealed carry isn’t the best option. I’m concerned about your safety, Janey. You can’t deny you’ve had some close calls. Can you blame me for being concerned?”
“Tell me.”
“Huh? Tell you what?” More lip nibbling. He didn’t even realize he was doing it, bless his exasperating little heart.
“You know darn well what,” I said. “Whatever popped into your head when you imagined me schlepping a loaded gun.”
“It’s cold, Janey.” Dom put on a show, rubbing his palms together and stamping his feet. Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t that cold. He nodded toward the house. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
I got in his face. “This is not over. I will find out.” Then I stomped up the walkway and onto the porch, kicking aside every newspaper in my path. SB barked happily at this new game, struggling to escape the tote bag and join in the fun.
I admit I glanced behind me to make sure Dom was bringing up the rear before I rang the doorbell. I’d put on a show of annoyance earlier when he’d insisted on accompanying me for my protection, but between you and me, I was glad he was there.
A minute passed. Nada. I murmured, “Maybe he’s not home.”
“Maybe he’s too high to get off the couch.” Dom reached past me and stabbed the bell a few more times.
The door was opened by a genial-looking older woman. “Are you selling something? If you’re selling something or looking for donations, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time here, although I wish you luck. Well, hello there.” She stripped off one of her yellow plastic cleaning gloves and reached out to pet Sexy Beast, chuckling at his enthusiastic response. “Oh, what a little darling! What’s her name?”
The look I gave my ex said, See? Sometimes I actually know what I’m doing.
“His name is Sexy Bea
st,” I said.
“Well, who could argue with that?” She laughed again as SB attempted to crawl out of the tote and climb onto her. “You’re just the sexiest little thing I’ve seen all day, yes you are. Are you a good boy? Are you? Oh, I know you are.”
I took a not-so-wild stab. “Mrs. Moretti?”
She looked pleasantly surprised. “Have we met, dear?”
I shook my head. “My name is Jane Delaney. I’m a, um, friend of your granddaughter’s. Evie.” I indicated Dom. “This is my... another friend. Dom Faso.”
Dom offered his nice-to-meet-yous, and Mrs. Moretti said, “Oh, Evie doesn’t live here. She has a nice apartment in that... Now, what’s that building called again?”
“The Americana,” I said. “No, I know she’s not here. I came to speak with your grandson. Sean.”
“Oh.” Her perplexed gaze flicked over us in a way that told me we didn’t look like the kind of people Sean generally hung with. She stepped aside. “Well, come on in, then. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have visitors.”
I myself was sure of no such thing. Before we’d taken one step, Mrs. Moretti waved at someone behind me, hollering, “Good morning, Zak! Isn’t it a gorgeous day?”
Reflexively I turned to see who she was addressing. Across the street, a man about my age was hopping out of a red Jeep Wrangler with a couple of plastic bags from The Home Depot. He wore close-fitting, ripped-knee jeans, a suede bomber jacket, and impenetrable sunglasses. The stylishly cut honey-brown hair—close-cropped on the sides, artfully shaggy on top—was the icing on the cool-guy cake, marking him as someone I could more easily picture living in the trendiest section of Brooklyn than the wilds of suburban Long Island.
Zak responded with a perfunctory wave before disappearing into his own home, another grand old Victorian, this one painted sage-green with cream trim. The house and tree-studded lawn appeared neat and well maintained.
Mrs. Moretti led us into the foyer and shut the door. “Such a nice boy, that Zak. A widower.” She whispered the word, as if dead wives were something shameful and catching. “Kind of quiet, but isn’t that the best sort of neighbor? I’m sure he’s not one of those who complained to the town about—” she flapped her hand toward the closed front door “—the lawn and all that. I can only do so much, and right now I have my hands full inside. I don’t live here myself, of course, I’m just tidying up a bit. Peaches kept the place so nice, but, well, I guess boys will be boys. The police were here yesterday, of course, poking through everything, and that didn’t help one bit. Poor Peaches, isn’t it just awful what happened to her. Not that we always saw eye to eye, she could be, well, rather opinionated. But isn’t it just awful.”
Preserving Peaches Page 6