by Nic Saint
“Honored to have you both here,” he said. “Honored indeed.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said the Mayor pleasantly. “So who’s organizing this? Is it you or Dan Goory?”
“The Seabreeze Center took the initiative, and got both the Maria Power Society and the Gnomeos on board, but I think it’s safe to say we did most of the work. We are, after all, Hampton Cove’s number one Maria Power fan club.”
“Is she here?” asked Charlene, glancing around.
“Who? Maria Power?” Jack laughed a deprecating laugh. “Oh, no. Maria never leaves the house these days. Lives like a regular recluse. Of course we invited her, but she didn’t even deign us with a response.”
“Pity,” said Charlene. “It would have been nice if she’d come.”
“Yeah, it would really have put this retrospective on the map,” Jack agreed.
“Too bad.”
“Say, I thought you arrested Dan for murder?” asked Jack, taking the Chief aside for a moment while the Mayor socialized. “Imagine my surprise when he popped up just now.”
“Had to let him go,” grunted the Chief. “Lack of evidence.”
“You know, I think I might be able to help you with that,” said the man.
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I can’t talk now, obviously. But why don’t you drop by my office tomorrow—you know where I work, right? So let’s talk and do lunch. I think I’ll be able to give your investigation into the dirty deeds of Dan Goory a nice big push in the right direction.” And with a wink, he left Alec staring after him.
A nice big push in the right direction was exactly what the investigation needed. And for the rest of the evening, even as Maria Power did her best to ensnare his attention from up there on the silver screen, acting not in one but no less than two of her most praised movies, all Alec could think about were Jack Warner’s words of promise.
17
Ted Trapper stared miserably out of the kitchen window into his backyard, which now contained not three dozen but two dozen gnomes, after Tex Poole’s raid.
“I don’t get it,” he said for the umpteenth time. “How did Tex’s gnomes end up in our yard? It’s a mystery. A regular mystery.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t take them?” asked Marcie. She knew her husband, and how passionate about his hobby he could be. She wouldn’t put it past him to head into their next-door-neighbors’ backyard and abscond with a few gnomes, figuring Tex would never know.
But her husband turned to her with big, mournful eyes. “Not you, too,” he said in a low voice. “You think I stole them, don’t you?”
“Well, they ended up here, didn’t they?”
“I didn’t take them!” he exclaimed. “I would never steal Tex’s gnomes. I’m not a thief.”
“Then how did they end up here?”
“I don’t know!” he said, throwing up his arms.
“Maybe we should talk to Marge.”
He gave her a hopeful look. “You think Marge is behind this? Maybe to spite her husband?”
Marcie gave her husband a curious look. “No, of course I don’t think Marge is behind this. But she can talk to her husband, and maybe we can put this whole thing behind us.”
She hated to have this gnome thing hanging over them like a pall. She and Marge had always enjoyed a good relationship. She helped Marge out at the library from time to time, and Tex and Ted had been friends for years. She’d hate for a dozen ridiculous gnomes to put an end to all of that. She’d already vowed to talk to Marge herself, and maybe find a way to resolve this thing—neighbor to neighbor.
“Maybe it’s those damn kids,” Ted said, resuming his stance in front of the kitchen window and looking out into the backyard.
“What kids?”
He turned. “Didn’t I tell you? I got into some kind of fracas with a couple of punks the other day. They were spray-painting old Mrs. Lather’s house with graffiti and so I told them to stop. Instead they started yelling at me and calling me names. So I told them I’d call the police and when they kicked the car and threw a can of paint at my face I did.”
“And you think they’re adding to your collection of gnomes to get back at you?” She didn’t hide the skepticism in her voice. It seemed like a strange thing to do.
Her husband shrugged. “It’s the only explanation I can come up with.”
“Tomorrow we’re sitting down with Marge and Tex and we’re going to talk this thing through like grown-ups,” she said with a finality that made Ted look up. “This is just too silly,” she said, and walked into the living room. Her favorite show was about to start and she wasn’t going to miss it over a couple of lousy gnomes.
Vesta and Scarlett were both ensconced in Vesta’s car—actually her daughter’s old red Peugeot that she liked to ‘borrow’ whenever it suited her. Vesta had parked the car in front of Kinnard Daym’s house, right around the corner from Harrington Street. Night had fallen, and the street was deserted, but they were both fully awake and vigilant—like true neighborhood watch members should be!
“How much longer?” asked Scarlett, yawning cavernously.
“Shouldn’t be much longer, I think,” said Vesta, who was feeling the strain. It was all well and good to start a neighborhood watch, but these all-night vigils were not really her cup of tea.
“Please tell me again why you picked this place to stake out?”
“Because Kinnard is the town’s most avid gnome collector, and if some gang is targeting gnomes this is the place where they’ll strike next.”
It was clear from Kinnard’s front yard that he was indeed a big gnome lover: no less than fifty gnomes littered the patch of green, the pointy-hatted creatures covering the lawn like a rash. There were even several gnomes dangling from the gutter, Santa style.
“I think they’re creepy,” said Scarlett. “I mean, how anyone can like those creepy things is frankly beyond me.”
“It takes all kinds of people, I guess,” said Vesta, who agreed with her friend’s assessment. She would go one step further and figure people who loved gnomes as garden ornaments probably should see a shrink. But that was just her, of course.
“Do you think this has got something to do with Maria Power?”
“Could be,” Vesta allowed.
“They seem to be into gnomes. All of them.”
Vesta had laughed when she’d watched her son and his girlfriend change into the gnome costumes for the Maria Power retrospective, but not as much as Scarlett had. The latter almost had a fit as she watched the two gnomes try to squeeze into Alec’s squad car. If it was tough to walk around dressed as a gnome it was even tougher to drive.
“I think they’re all nuts,” said Scarlett. “In fact I think you and I are the only two sane people in this whole town.”
“You’re not wrong,” Vesta said. Suddenly, she thought she saw movement across the street. She grabbed her friend’s arm. “Scarlett, look!”
“What?” asked Scarlett, who’d sagged in her seat and had placed her feet on the dash. She crawled into an upright position with some effort and watched eagerly where Vesta was pointing. “Damn, you’re right. It’s them!”
Two figures, dressed in black, staying in the shadows, had snuck into Kinnard’s yard and were busily picking up gnomes and tucking them into large plastic bags.
“Let’s go,” said Vesta, and quietly opened the car door and got out noiselessly. She was wearing her white sneakers and tip-toed across the street, eager to catch the dastardly doofuses in the act.
Behind her, though, a click-clacking sound made her look up. It was Scarlett, on her stilettos, negotiating the tarmac in her own typical manner: dressed to the nines, and making a great deal of noise.
The sound of the stiletto heels had alerted the thieves, too, for they both grabbed the two black plastic bags and before Vesta had crossed the street were already hauling ass.
“Hey! Come back here, you punks!” she yelled, shaking her fist.
“Some other time, grandma!” one of the thieves yelled, and both of them disappeared into the night, laughing all the while.
Scarlett, finally arriving, was panting. “Why didn’t you chase them?” she asked.
“Why couldn’t you be more quiet?” Vesta shot back.
They stared after the thieves, and Scarlett said, “Oh, well. At least you got a good look at them, right?” When Vesta didn’t respond, she repeated, “Right?”
“No, of course I didn’t get a good look at them. They heard us coming a mile away!”
Scarlett looked down at her Louboutins. “Yeah, maybe not the best outfit for a stakeout after all.”
“You think?!”
Inside the house, the lights had come on, and Kinnard Daym now appeared in the door, dressed in his night robe. “What’s going on here?” he asked, looking sleepy. He was a bespectacled little man, with a respectable mustache. He used to run the local liquor store, but had retired since. When his eye fell on his patch of front lawn, he actually yelped in horror and shock. “My gnomes! What happened to my gnomes?!”
“Two thieves took them,” said Scarlett. “But don’t worry, Kinnard. We’re going to do everything in our power to get them back.” And to show the retired shopkeeper that she meant business she handed him a card.
Kinnard read it. “Neighborhood watch. Your safety is our concern.” He looked up and stared for a moment at the two old ladies, one looking like an aged prostitute, the other an Estelle Getty lookalike, complete with fluorescent pink-and-purple tracksuit, large glasses and white curly hair. He closed his eyes. “You have got to be kidding me.”
18
The next morning I woke up with the strange sensation that someone was watching me. Opening my eyes, I discovered that someone actually was! Harriet was looking at me in a way I don’t think she’s ever looked at me before.
It was disconcerting, to be honest.
“What?” I muttered. Most cats are immediately awake when they open their eyes, and on most days so am I. But after the disastrous encounter with the mice I hadn’t slept well, and I was feeling that if only I could have slept another couple of hours I’d be right as rain again.
But clearly Harriet had other plans. She was looking uncharacteristically chipper and bright, and was smiling at me in an inane fashion.
We were at the foot of Odelia’s bed as usual, though oftentimes Harriet and Brutus like to sleep at the foot of Gran’s bed instead. More space, if you see what I mean.
“What’s going on, Max?” asked Dooley, who was right next to me and stretched himself out languorously.
“I don’t know. Harriet is staring at me,” I said, and I was frankly starting to get a little worried. It was that smile, you see. The same smile clowns like to use to scare children out of their wits.
“Max,” said Harriet. “I have a great idea.”
“Oh?” I said carefully.
“About the mice.”
I groaned. “Not again.”
“No, but listen to me. Hear me out. Bear with me for a second here. So the mice aren’t scared of Rufus and they’re not scared of you or me or Dooley or Brutus, right?”
“Why did she name me last?” muttered Brutus, who was lying on Harriet’s other side, right on top of where Chase’s feet would have been if the lanky cop hadn’t curled up into a ball to give us cats some space. The trouble our humans go to.
“So if the mice aren’t scared of cats or big dogs, maybe they’re scared of small dogs,” Harriet suggested. “I mean, it’s the same thing with people. Some of them are scared of big dogs and others are scared of the little ones.”
“So?” I said, wondering where she was going with this.
“So why don’t we ask Fifi?”
I thought for a moment. It was still early, and I needed to compute her message. “Oh, right, Fifi,” I said finally, remembering that our next-door-neighbor Kurt Mayfield’s Yorkshire Terrier’s name is Fifi.
“I don’t know, sweet puss,” said Brutus. “Fifi is probably more afraid of mice than the mice are of her.”
He was right, of course. Fifi is one of those timid dogs that are scared of their own shadow. She might run like the wind at the sight of two hundred mice.
“It’s worth a shot,” I said nevertheless. At this point I was willing to try anything to get rid of these mice, even the unorthodox method of enlisting a dog smaller than myself.
“Great,” said Harriet. “That’s settled then. I’ll talk to Fifi and tonight we’ll take another shot at the mice.”
She looked pleased as punch and I smiled in spite of my misgivings. “It’s very nice of you to do this, Harriet,” I said. “Very nice indeed.”
She frowned. “I’m not doing this for you, Max. I’m doing this for me. It’s my food, too, you know, and my house.”
“Of course,” I said. Still, I thought it was very thoughtful of Harriet to step up to the plate like this.
The humans in the bed stirred, and Odelia lifted her head sleepily. “What’s with all the yapping?” she muttered. “Is it time to get up yet?”
“Not yet,” I told her. It was only five o’clock, after all. Too early for man or beast, with the exception of four cats, apparently. “Go back to sleep, Odelia.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, and promptly dozed off again.
Moments later four cats could be seen tiptoeing down the stairs and into the kitchen. For the humans their day had yet to begin, but for us it already had. We’re not the kind of creatures who like to keep regular hours, you see. No eight hours of sleep for us. We like to take our eighteen hours intermittently, spread out throughout the day or night. We’re flexible that way. And since we’d already dozed enough for now, we headed into the kitchen for a nice breakfast. Until we discovered that our bowls were empty once more, the last mouse carrying the last piece of kibble and laughing maniacally as it did.
“I’m going to kill them!” Brutus yelled, slamming the floor with his fist.
“If only we were more like Clarice,” Harriet said wistfully. “Between the four of us we could gobble up two hundred mice in a heartbeat.”
The mere thought of eating fifty mice with hide and hair almost made me retch, though, so clearly this was not the solution.
“Maybe we should ask Clarice again?” I suggested.
“No dice, I’m afraid,” said Brutus. “I saw her yesterday, and she still insists we should deal with our own problems and keep her out of it.”
Clarice is one of those feral cats you see in every town. She usually stays close to the dumpsters behind the stores and restaurants of Main Street and she likes it that way.
For a moment we all thought about the kind of damage Clarice could do to Hector and Helga’s offspring but then dismissed the thought. We’re not animals. But it just goes to show how this war with the mice was taxing us. And taxing Odelia’s budget, of course.
“Let’s head into town,” I suggested. “See if we can’t find out what happened to Heather Gallop.”
“You do that,” said Harriet. “And Brutus and I will stay here and help Gran and Scarlett find out who’s stealing all these gnomes.”
Gran had arrived home very late last night. In fact we’d arrived together—we cats having just returned from cat choir, and she from a stakeout with Scarlett. She’d almost caught two gnome thieves, she’d told us, ‘almost’ being the keyword.
“We’ll ask Kingman if he knows anything about two gnome thieves,” I said.
“And we’ll tell Gran and Scarlett to ask around about that murder business,” said Harriet.
And matters thus arranged, we went our merry ways, to start another wonderful day of sleuthing and, hopefully, finding a bite to eat before the mice managed to abscond with it.
19
It felt a little strange for Odelia to go into the office that morning, in light of the previous day’s events. Not just the fact that a murder had been committed at the Gazette offices but that her boss had been accu
sed and arrested for murder, before being released again.
When she arrived, Dan was already in his office. When she entered, after a perfunctory knock on the doorjamb—his door was always open—she found him sitting behind his desk, staring into space. When he saw her, he seemed to wake up from his stupor and gave her a pained smile.
“Hey, honey. No dead bodies today, I’m happy to announce.”
“And a good thing, too,” she said, returning his smile. She took a seat in front of his desk. “How are you holding up?”
He looked pale and gaunt, and much older than his years. Dan wasn’t a young man but he seemed to have aged considerably these past twenty-four hours.
“Hanging in there,” he said. “Can you imagine that Wilbur Vickery gave me the stink eye this morning? And Blanche Captor and Ida Baumgartner even crossed the street when they saw me coming. Like a leper,” he said with more than a hint of bitterness.
“I’m sure it’ll all pass soon,” she said soothingly. “As soon as the real killer is caught they’ll be apologizing to you, I’m sure.”
“I’m not so sure. And what if the killer is never caught? You know what people are like. They’ll think I did it and they’ll give me a wide berth from now on.” He shook his head despondently. “What good is a reporter if no one will talk to him? You’ll have to take over the paper, Odelia. And I’ll have to retire in disgrace.”
“Don’t say things like that, Dan,” she said, her concern spiking. “I’m going to catch that killer if it’s the last thing I do, and your reputation will be just the way it was before: sterling.”
He gave her a half-smile. “I’m not sure it was ever sterling to begin with.”
“Oh, yes it is,” she said emphatically. “Now buck up and stop using the R word.”
He gave her a look of confusion.
“Retirement” she clarified with a smile.
“Oh, right.” He checked his watch. “I’m sorry but I have to go now. I have an important appointment I can’t miss.” And with these words he got up and walked out. He lingered by the door for a moment, and Odelia saw that he was staring at the spot where Heather Gallop’s body had lain. “When this is all over I think I’ll have this office completely remodeled,” he said. “I can’t work here without thinking about…” He swallowed. “Awful business. Absolutely awful,” he muttered, then tapped the doorjamb once and left.