Preserving Peaches

by Pamela Burford

  I must admit I barely registered every other word. The instant I stepped over the threshold, I slammed up against an invisible wall of Stink. Dom and I exchanged a look. The smell wasn’t simply rotting food, or unwashed laundry, or stale kitty litter, or the musty funk of a house closed up for too long, or a couple of other things which I refuse to name and you can’t make me. It was all of those, overlaid with the eye-stinging tang of ammonia and pine cleaner. Two cardboard cartons occupied one corner, overflowing with cleaning supplies Mrs. Moretti apparently had brought from her own home.

  I struggled to imagine the foyer as it must have looked when Peaches was in residence, with its intricately carved oak banister, cut-crystal chandelier, and tastefully patterned marble floor. A layer of grime coated every surface. The red staircase carpet was a patchwork of mystery stains and cigarette burns, dozens of them. It appeared that Peaches’s son and his pals had been using her elegant staircase as an ashtray.

  Sexy Beast’s sniffer worked overtime, cataloging the various components that comprised The Stink. Never was I happier to be the owner of a puny human schnoz.

  Mrs. Moretti indicated the twenty or so bulging black trash bags piled up against one wall of the foyer, alongside several pieces of broken furniture and a couple of rolled-up rugs tied with rope. I tried not to contemplate what might have caused her to conclude those rugs were unsalvageable.

  “Garbage pickup is Thursday,” she said, “but I know they won’t take all this. I’ll have to cart it to the dump myself.”

  Dom and I looked at each other again. She’ll have to cart it to the dump? What about her grandson? He was the one responsible for the mess. I recalled Evie mentioning that her grandmother was seventy-three—clearly a vigorous seventy-three, but still. Even if Sean was too much of a slacker to help, where was his dad, Carter? Why was he letting his mother take on this monumental job by herself?

  I opened my mouth to say something, only to receive an elbow jab from my mind-reading ex. He was right, of course. It was none of my business. I needed to focus on my reason for being there.

  Something live bumped my leg and I screamed, leaping back with an athletic agility I didn’t know I possessed. Naturally, SB began barking like crazy. Dom lifted him out of the tote to keep him from leaping to my rescue.

  “Oh, don’t worry, that’s just...” Mrs. Moretti squinted at the gray cat that had rubbed against me. “Well, for goodness’ sake, I don’t know who that is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one before.” She sighed. “Another mouth to feed.”

  Another cat, a marmalade, chose that moment to slink out from between a couple of garbage bags, while a black cat with white paws made its leisurely way down the stairs. Through the entrance into the living room I saw two more felines reclining in a patch of sunlight while another daintily picked its way across a debris-strewn console table.

  I said, “How many cats does Sean own?”

  “None, according to him,” Mrs. Moretti said. “And they didn’t belong to his mother, either. She couldn’t stand cats. They just started showing up somehow after he moved back in. I swear, every time I come here, there are a few new ones. Not to mention the litters that have been born here. I make sure the poor things don’t go hungry, but I really wish I knew how they were getting in. Oh, where are my manners? I have a pot of coffee on. Hazelnut, it’s yummy. Can I interest you?”

  Dom and I said a quick, “No, thanks,” in unison. I didn’t even want to think about the condition of the kitchen, or of the bathrooms, which I would need in short order if I had a cup of coffee. For that matter, I already had to pee, but I was determined to hold it in if it killed me.

  Right on cue, she said, “Well, those toilets aren’t going to unclog themselves,” and snapped her cleaning glove back on. “Sean’s in the solarium. Just head to the back of the house. You’ll find him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Moretti,” I said.

  “Oh, please, call me Audrey.” She hustled through a doorway into another part of the house while Dom and I began to wend our way through the hellscape of this once stately home.

  “How long did you say the son’s been here?” he asked as we moved into the large living room, or parlor, or whatever it was.

  “Almost four months.” I concentrated on shallow breathing. The smell was becoming progressively worse the farther we ventured into the house. I was glad to note that Audrey had opened the windows to admit the chilly breeze, though this place was going to need a lot more than a simple airing out.

  “How does one guy create this kind of disaster in four months?” Dom said.

  “I’m assuming he had help.” I nodded toward a mountain of beer cans, liquor bottles, and broken glassware in one corner of the room. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Sean and his buddies drunkenly hurling Peaches’s cut-crystal stemware at the walls. The delicate striped wallpaper in that section was now hopelessly stained and torn. “Sean probably turned this place into party central.”

  A trio of calico kittens scampered among the dozen or so empty pizza boxes piled up under the big bay window. It appeared that someone—as in someone of the human persuasion—had attempted to climb the floor-length peach silk drapes, now half torn from the rods.

  I couldn’t help but notice piles of cat turds here and there, most notably in the unused fireplace. At least I assumed they’d been deposited by the resident felines, but who knew? If a squadron of feral cats had somehow managed to find refuge in this house during the preceding frigid winter, perhaps other critters had done the same. A multi-hued layer of animal hair blanketed most surfaces.

  Dom perused the room as he returned Sexy Beast to the tote bag. “Check it out.”

  I followed his gaze to a curved antique china cabinet standing on graceful paw feet. The only item on display was the huge striped cat currently perched on top of it, giving itself a lick-bath. The shelves were bare, if one didn’t count a smattering of glass shards.

  I moved closer to the cabinet, gingerly skirting a sad little puddle that someone, or something, had recently yakked up. The curved glass sides of the cabinet were intact, but the front section of glass—the locked door—had been bashed in.

  Dom said, “Are you thinking what I’m—”

  “Yep.” This was where Peaches’s peaches had resided, her four dozen or so figurines of differing worth and aesthetic merit. On a hunch, I stepped closer to the mound of cans and broken glassware in the corner and peered closely at the debris. I saw nothing remotely peachlike, no trace of the figurines.

  “What do you reckon he did with them?” Dom asked.

  “That’s what I hope to find out. I checked eBay and all the other online sites where stuff like that is sold. None of them showed up.” I was hopeful that, wherever the figurines currently were, the collection had been kept together and not split up.

  I endeavored to ignore my surroundings as I led the way into the dining room, which—and I know you’ll find this hard to believe—had been thoroughly trashed. From several rooms away I heard the sound of a toilet struggling to flush, followed by Audrey hurling cuss words at it. The mildest cuss words in the dictionary, mind you, but the lady was not pleased.

  The ruckus reminded my bulging bladder that it was being woefully neglected. Hello? it griped. I hope you aren’t planning to sneeze.

  I realized we were nearing our destination when I heard a male voice holler, “Grandma! I need another Coke!” This was followed by irritated mumbling during which the young man called his long-suffering grandmother a foul name.

  I stiffened. Sexy Beast growled low in his throat. And okay, yeah, he might have been reacting to the pair of cats who chose that moment to commence a yowling battle over an abandoned hot dog. I prefer to believe SB was outraged at the young man’s rudeness and lack of respect for his elders.

  My ex, who knew me too well, laid a calming hand on my shoulder.

  I hissed, “That kid needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “Agreed, but it’s not in our job
description,” he whispered. “Focus, Janey.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and regretted it immediately. “Let’s get this over with.” We stepped into the solarium, a circular, sun-washed oasis that was like being inside a goldfish bowl, but in a good way. The walls, back door, and domed ceiling were constructed entirely of glass panels in a curving white framework, offering unimpeded views of the freeform lagoon pool and sprawling lawn, surrounded on all sides by a tall privacy hedge.

  The room was furnished in wicker, pale wood, and delicate fabrics, now embedded with grime and cat hair. The many houseplants were, alas, brown and wilted. Obviously they hadn’t been watered during the past four months since Peaches’s departure. The only exception was a towering yucca tree, its thick trunk crowned by a profusion of long, spiky fronds. I recalled that these evergreens are native to arid regions, and apparently hardy enough to withstand the neglect they’d endured.

  Sean Moretti lounged on a delicate wicker chaise, thumbs a blur as he texted on his phone. He had a pasty complexion, frizzy dark brown hair, and a scrawny physique that bespoke an aversion to exercise, aside from the occasional neighborhood break-in. Sean wore black-rimmed eyeglasses and a pretty silk robe adorned with a peach-tree motif.

  I looked at Dom. He looked at me. Sean was so intent on his texting, he hadn’t noticed our entrance.

  I jumped when he yelled, “Grandma!” at the top of his lungs. “How long you gonna make me wait for a damn Coke?”

  He glanced up and noticed us at last. A dismissive scowl. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Get the hell out of here. You wanna bust my chops, call my lawyer.”

  “You think we’re cops?” Dom asked.

  His expression said, Duh.

  “What about him?” I indicated Sexy Beast peeking over the top of his straw tote. “Is he a cop, too?”

  Sean spared barely a glance for my adorable pet, which told me everything I needed to know about his character. Not fair, you say? He’s allowed to not be a dog person? Maybe so, but something told me Sean Moretti wasn’t anything but a Sean Moretti person.

  He said, “Whoever you are, I got nothing to say. Get lost. Grandma! Sometime this year?”

  I tensed. Dom placed a soothing hand on my back—focus!—as Audrey hustled into the room with a frosty bottle of Coke. “Sorry, Sean, I was just trying to get that toilet un—”

  “What, we suddenly ran out of glasses?” He snatched the bottle out of her hand. “And ice?”

  “Well, I’m, I’m just, I’m kind of busy—”

  “Yeah, busy wishing you’d never bailed me out.” He brought the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swallow.

  “Oh, now, Sean, you know that’s not true.”

  “Then why—” a belch that registered 3.4 on the Richter scale “—why are you letting reporters in here? Huh?”

  She regarded Dom and me with wide-eyed alarm. “They told me they’re friends of Evie’s.”

  “And you just let them in? Of course you did, you dumb—”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Dom barked. “Who do you think you are, talking to your grandmother that way?”

  I tugged on his arm. “Um, Dom,” I murmured, “what happened to focusing?”

  He shook me off and got right in Sean’s face. “This woman is running herself ragged trying to clean up your ungodly mess—”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Audrey said. “Sean has enough worries, poor boy.”

  “—and all you can do is sit there and order her around like she’s some servant? And why, for the love of God, are you wearing—” he gestured at the silk robe “—that!”

  “Oh, blame me,” Audrey said. “All of Sean’s clothes are in the wash, you should have seen the state of them, so I figured he could wear his mother’s robe in the meantime. Didn’t know we’d be having visitors. Oh! Where’s my head? I’ve got to get his undies into the dryer and start another load.” She hurried out of the room.

  Just the thought of Sean’s undies and the “state of them” triggered my gag reflex. Focus, Jane! “Listen,” I told him, “we’re not reporters. I really am a friend of your sister’s.”

  “Like that’s better?” A mottled flush enlivened his vampiric pallor. “Get the hell out. I got no use for that stuck-up b—”

  “And Cheyenne,” I quickly added. “We’re friends of Cheyenne’s.”

  He gave us the once-over, with a dubious frown. “Now I know you’re lying.”

  “Ask her.” I nodded toward the phone lying in his lap. “My name is Jane Delaney. She wants me to look into your, um, predicament, see if I can help somehow.”

  “I got a lawyer,” he said.

  “I’m more of a... sort of an investigator,” I said.

  “Cheyenne doesn’t have any money.”

  “No, I’m doing it as a favor,” I said, while asking myself why, in the name of all that’s holy, I had agreed to it. “We’re friends, like I said.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Sean said. “I didn’t off my mom. End of story.”

  “Okay, well, let’s see if we can’t find out a little more.” It was clear Sean wasn’t going to invite us to sit. I scanned the room and settled on the least objectionable piece of furniture, a blond-wood bench whose filthy cushion was drooping onto the flagstone floor. By unspoken agreement, Dom and I finished the job and tugged it all the way off. The big white cat that had taken up residence on the cushion never budged, riding it to the floor uncomplainingly while yawning and delicately cleaning her face.

  After dragging the bench closer to Sean’s chaise and settling ourselves on it, I dug SB’s halter and leash out of the tote. He’d had enough of being carted around and was eager to explore. That said, the last thing I needed was to lose track of his whereabouts in that nightmarish house, hence the leash. I slid its looped handle around my wrist. Predictably, he went into full play stance in front of the cat—chest down, rump up, a jaunty yip thrown in for good measure. She responded by swishing her tail and growling low in her throat. I pulled him back and shortened the leash. SB isn’t good at taking hints, and I could foresee this particular play date ending badly.

  While Dom and I did all this, Sean occupied himself by guzzling soda, belching, and texting. “Yeah,” he announced, “Cheyenne says she sent you. Woulda been nice to get a heads-up. The stupid—”

  “Glad that checked out,” I chirped, and produced my little notebook. “So let me ask, since you mentioned your grandmother bailing you out. The judge set your bond at how much?”

  “A million bucks.” He looked proud of that, the idiot. “But my lawyer got her—it was a lady judge—he got her to lower it to half a mil.”

  Evie had described Carlos Levine, her brother’s defense attorney, as amazing. I now had to agree since, for starters, he’d kept Sean from being remanded to custody, no small feat considering his prior conviction for burglary and generally snotty attitude. And then to get the “lady judge” to cut his bond in half? I knew who I wanted in my corner if I ever found myself facing a murder rap.

  Hey, it could happen, and almost did after Irene was killed.

  I said, “And your grandma was able to put up the whole amount?”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I couldn’t see Audrey Moretti being able to write the court a check for five hundred grand. “Did she use a bail bondsman?”

  “Yeah.” He started playing with his phone again. I wanted to ask him to put the thing away, but it was a matter of choosing my battles. The guy seemed not to notice or care that I was doing him a favor.

  “And he charged her a nonrefundable fee,” I said.

  “I guess.” A shrug. What did that have to do with him?

  The fee would have been in the neighborhood of ten percent. So Audrey was out fifty thou, money she’d never see again whether or not Sean showed up for court. I recalled Evie mentioning that Audrey was considering taking a part-time job to help support her shiftless grandson.
It couldn’t have been easy for her to scrape together fifty thousand dollars.

  I struggled to keep my tone neutral as I asked, “What about collateral?”

  Sean’s only response was to snicker at something on his phone. In one swift move, Dom stood, grabbed the device, and shoved it into his jeans pocket. Sean objected, of course, in colorful language, and started to rise. Dom shoved him back down and said, “This lady is trying to keep you from spending the rest of your sorry life behind bars—assuming you’re as innocent as you claim. In return, you’re going to give her your undivided attention and provide complete and polite answers to all her questions. You’ll get your phone back when we’re through here. Is there anything about what I just said that you don’t understand?”

  Sean had a smart-ass response all ready to go, I could tell, but something in Dom’s expression made him swallow it back down. The men glared at each other as Dom returned to his seat next to me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Collateral. The bail bondsman would have required—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “She put up her house.”

  That’s what I’d assumed. It said something about the inflated real estate values in Crystal Harbor that even Audrey’s modest little home—two bedrooms, according to Evie—was sufficient to secure a bond of that size. “You know what that means, right, Sean?”

  “It means I get to hang out here instead of jail.”

  “It means,” I said, “the bail bondsman has a lien against your grandmother’s house. If you skip out on your court date, she loses her house and you have bounty hunters coming after you.”