by J.J. Chow
“What exactly are you doing?” a man’s voice asked.
CHAPTER 8
WINSTON LOOKED UP AND found the owner of the voice (and house) glaring at him. Zack. Mr. Eco stood on his roof and brandished a sponge at Winston.
“I didn’t see you up there,” Winston said.
“Nobody ever does. Great vantage point.” Zack threatened Winston again with the soapy sponge. “What were you trying to do?”
Winston got a sense that Zack hadn’t liked Winston’s previous actions. “Um, I was just admiring your bamboo.”
Zack grunted.
“I always kill mine. The kind you find in those little ceramic pots.” Lucky bamboo, they were called. Unlucky when they got into Winston’s hands. “The leaves always yellow on me.”
Zack put the sponge away. “Well, you need to give them the right amount of water. But bamboo is hardy. And it makes an excellent wall.”
“Did you and Bill agree on the natural border together?”
Zack shielded his eyes from the sun and stared at the thicket for a moment. “Eventually. Bill’s old school and not very green minded. But I convinced him, especially when I gave him a discount for his solar panels.” Zack pointed to the reflective rectangles on Bill’s roof. “Installed those babies myself. Top of the line.”
“Great work,” Winston said, though he couldn’t really tell the difference between solar panel types. “Say, have you seen the old man lately?”
“Nope.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But I don’t really keep track of him. My hours are erratic depending on when I need to make an install.” Zack looked over at Winston. “You want solar power at your place?”
“Not right now, but thanks.” Winston started moving away, afraid of another business pitch. “You seem busy, so I’ll catch you later.”
Zack picked up his sponge again. “Aw, this is easy and offers a great view. Wipe the panels once in a while, and they’re as good as new again.” He lifted a bucket into view. “Plus, the gray water’s wonderful for plant life.”
Wow, Winston bet if he peered through the sustainable wall into Zack’s yard, he’d spy a huge compost bin. Winston waved goodbye, noticing a Prius parked nearby on the cul-de-sac. No doubt Mr. Eco’s car.
As Winston walked back down Magnolia Lane, he noticed a mail truck coming his way. It parked nearby, and the carrier got out.
Like his own street, Magnolia Lane also held one of those shiny metallic stands with boxes for its residents. All the mail was compiled in one location. Winston went over to the mailman, who had started opening locks and stuffing envelopes in slots. The carrier’s head was bopping to the beat blasting through his personal headphones as he handled the letters.
“Excuse me,” Winston said. “Have you seen Bill around? Did he put his mail on hold?”
The mailman turned down the volume on his machine but shrugged when Winston repeated his question. “Don’t know anyone by name.” He kept putting piles of papers into the individual compartments.
Winston noticed that one of the boxes was bulging with material. When the mailman tried to overstuff it, a few envelopes fell down. The mailman cursed while Winston swooped to pick up the letters. Junk mail, but all addressed to Bill. He handed the stack back to the mailman.
All done, the mailman locked everything up and sauntered off. Winston, though, knew something was off. Bill’s mailbox had been full. The old man must not have put his mail on hold, and he hadn’t taken in his letters for days by the look of things. Which meant that Bill had gone off the grid—involuntarily.
CHAPTER 9
WINSTON COULDN’T BELIEVE the old man was missing. He looked again at Bill’s shuttered house. Zack, the neighbor on the right, hadn’t noticed anything amiss. But what about Ryan, who lived on Bill’s left? No Mercedes, or whatever the slick bank manager drove, could be spotted on the paved driveway, and Winston had no doubt the smooth talker was finagling financial deals during these prime daylight hours.
It took Winston a moment to remember the introductions from the neighborhood watch meeting, but then he came up with a name: Elite Bank. A local institution that offered great rates on loans and mailed out promotions for its checking accounts. Winston himself had snagged a flyer before and ventured into the branch on a whim. He decided he could locate Ryan and get some more spending cash at the same time.
ELITE BANK WAS A NONDESCRIPT bland brick building surrounded by a pockmarked asphalt parking lot. Winston pushed open one of its double doors, and the smell of mothballs hit his nose. They needed better janitors to work on the bank’s interior.
He hurried over to the refreshments area (no coffee left, but one stale cookie remained—which he swiped). A clipboard was nearby, and he signed his name on the waiting list.
He munched on the rock-hard chocolate chip cookie while he waited. Maybe if he let the crumbs soak in his saliva, it would taste better. It didn’t—nor did the cookie get any softer. Before he could spit it out, a suited lady with pearls strode over.
She read his name on the clipboard and asked, “Mr. Wong, how may I help you?”
He swallowed the cookie, which scraped his throat. “I’m here to see one of your bank managers, Ryan.”
“Ryan?” She fingered the white orbs of her necklace. “We don’t have a manager by that name.”
“I thought he worked here,” Winston said, rubbing the front part of his neck in an attempt to ease his inner throat pain. “Or maybe a branch nearby?”
“We’re the only one in town, I’m afraid.” She pursed her lips. “Maybe you mean a teller? There’s a Ryan on our team.”
Winston glanced over at the helpers behind the distant counter and squinted. The third one from the left seemed tall and elegant. He moved closer. It was definitely Ryan.
Winston thanked the woman and stood in line. By letting people go ahead of him, he timed it so that he ended up with Ryan as his teller.
“Good to see you,” Winston said.
Ryan fidgeted with his name badge, which clearly did not mark him as a manager. Yep, IRL, he was a plain old bank teller. “Depositing or withdrawing today?” Ryan asked.
Winston whipped out his bank card. “I need some money . . . and info.” He slid over the piece of plastic. “Forty dollars from savings. And some 411 on Bill.”
“The captain of the block?”
“Also your next-door neighbor.”
“What do you want to know about the grumpy geezer?” Ryan asked. “And how would you like your cash?”
“Well, have you seen him lately?” Winston took back his card and slid it into his wallet. “And two twenties will be fine.”
“Nope,” Ryan said. “Good riddance, too. Glad he left before the party started. He would have ruined the fun with all his rules and restrictions. Or even banned it.”
“Wait—you mean you saw him leave?”
Ryan shrugged. “He got into an Uber a few days before the Halloween bash.”
“Remember anything about the vehicle?”
“A black sedan.” Ryan counted out the cash to Winston.
Winston heard a loud cough from behind him—probably an impatient customer waiting for a turn at the counter.
Ryan grabbed Winston’s wrist with his manicured hand. “You know I could access your account anytime, right?” Glossy nails sparkled under the recessed lighting. “Don’t breathe a word to anyone that I’m just a teller.”
“Sure, man.” Winston pulled his hand away from the tight grip. Thank goodness Ryan’s nails had been filed and buffed. Otherwise, Winston would have deep scratch marks on his wrist.
The Uber plus the overflowing mailbox along with Bill’s no-show with the science project . . . something in the story wasn’t computing. Why was Winston under the impression that Bill had been around, though? He thought back to the night of the party. Heather had said she’d seen Bill—but she must have been lying.
CHAPTER 10
ONCE AGAIN WINSTON found himself back on Magnolia Lane
. The light was fading from the sky and gave a golden glow to the houses. Cars lined the streets and swiveled into driveways as people returned home from work. The slant of the sun even made a tiny rainbow on the walkway up to Heather’s house.
Winston rang the bell, a happy chime that could be heard through the glass-paneled front door.
When Heather opened the door, she beamed at him. “What a pleasure, Winston. I wasn’t expecting company . . . but I might have a batch of homemade cookies on hand.”
“Are you always this prepared?”
“Have to, in my line of work.” She motioned him inside her immaculate home. Even without any advanced notice, the hardwood floors gleamed.
He followed her lead over to a polished dining table stationed beneath a huge chandelier. The immense number of crystal shards seemed to weigh down the fixture. He hoped the golden wires holding the monstrosity up would keep the gems from impaling him. Before sitting down, he pulled his chair a bit away from the table.
Heather excused herself, ran over to the kitchen, and returned with a batch of warm oatmeal raisin cookies.
Winston took one and chewed. Now this was how a cookie should taste: melting goodness with a sublime mixture of butter and intense flavor. After savoring it, he decided to ease into the questions about Bill by using a roundabout manner. “How do you think the party went?”
She grimaced. “An utter fiasco.”
He thought back to what his sister had told him. “I heard about the table dancing.”
“Yes, most of my business cards scattered to the ground after that hussy tossed everything off.” She motioned to a nearby polished walnut bowl, where he spotted a sad pile of mutilated cards. “Of course, I didn’t get any new business contacts.”
“Nobody restored order?” He scrutinized Heather’s face. “Not even Bill?”
“Bill? No, he wasn’t th—I mean, he must have gone to sleep by then.”
“Really? I don’t think I saw him at all that night.”
Heather massaged her temples. “Things got worse. Somebody set off Bill’s motion detector, and the floodlights lit up the place like search beams. People even started dancing in those ‘spotlights’—and your wife started the karaoke craze.”
“My wife?” Winston choked on a bit of cookie. He remembered his vision of Kristy in a bridal gown . . . but they’d left before that point. Had she circled back?
“You know, she was dressed like Mystique.” Heather tsk-tsked. “Tight blue spandex, revealing way too much.”
Winston groaned. “Marcy’s not my wife—”
“I bet that’s what you told your lady friend,” Heather said. She snatched away the plate of cookies. “The one dressed like Watson.”
Winston held his palms up. “This is all a misunderstanding. Marcy’s my sister—”
“She’s your sister, too? Aren’t there laws against that? I think you’d better leave.” Heather pointed to the exit.
“I’ll explain it to you later.” He grabbed one of her business cards before shuffling over to the door. Maybe he could email her after she calmed down.
It wasn’t until he got home that Winston realized his folly. Heather hadn’t actually answered any questions about Bill. By acting upset, she’d created a diversion.
CHAPTER 11
THAT NIGHT, OVER THEIR Cup Noodles, Winston told Marcy about his encounter with Heather. “Can you believe it? I said you’re my sister, and she still thought we were married.”
Marcy twirled her chopsticks in the broth. “At least she thinks I’m a catch.”
“Or maybe I’m the catch.” Winston slurped his noodles while Marcy frowned at him. “Or not.”
To lighten her somber mood, he decided to keep Marcy’s mind busy and get her opinion about the case. Besides, she didn’t seem too busy, between the prancing around like a superhero and the sleeping in. He wondered out loud who could have kidnapped—or man-napped—Bill.
“How do you know he was taken?” Marcy asked.
Winston drained the last drops of the salty soup. “Didn’t put his mail on hold.”
“Couldn’t he have just wanted to get away?”
Winston thought about Bill, with his brass alarm at the meeting, and shook his head. “I don’t think he’s that type. Seems to need everything planned in advance.”
She sighed and dumped her empty carton in the trash. “People surprise you,” she said, and then left for bed. How could she sleep so much? Surely any jet lag would be over by now.
Winston didn’t know what to make of Bill’s situation. Was Marcy right? Could it have been some sort of spontaneous vacation? His mind kept going over the neighbors’ comments, but he couldn’t make sense of anything. He tossed and turned throughout the night.
THE PHONE WOKE WINSTON up in the morning. He felt exhausted and wanted to pull the sheets over his head. Like sister, like brother.
Someone was calling his business line: 555-S-SLEUTH. He cleared his throat several times before answering—best to sound like he was an early riser. “Winston Wong, Seniors’ Sleuth, at your service.”
A female voice said, “It’s Diana.”
“Oh yes, about the case—”
“He’s here,” she said.
“Who?”
“Bill. Came back this morning and called me.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Apologized for being gone and everything.”
“He returned?” His mind was still waking up. Winston had been sure he’d had a solid case on his hands.
“Yes. Didn’t I say so? Anyway, the science project is back on track.”
“Great,” Winston said. “By the way, did Bill say where he went?”
“Who cares? Just wanted to tell you the good news.” She cleared her throat. “There’s no charge for the consultation, right?”
Winston thought about the questioning he’d done at the cul-de-sac. He’d used his time, but he’d enjoyed getting back into real detective mode. His usual senior cases involved finding lost pets, but they weren’t exactly exciting sleuthing material. And, though he made enough money with his YouTube gaming channel, he didn’t love it as much as solving mysteries. “Free for you,” he said.
Diana thanked him and hung up. He stared at his phone and wondered why Bill had gone off. Was it so simple as getting away, like his sister had said? He put his flip-flops on and walked out the door.
BILL’S HOUSE LOOKED as deserted as before. Winston stood on the threshold, ready to press the exclamation-mark shaped bell, when the door swung open.
“Winston,” Bill said. “Why are you lurking about?”
“Um, good to see you, too.” Was he going to get kicked out right on Bill’s doorstep? He craned his neck to look over Bill’s shoulder. Maybe he could get a quick peek at the interior.
“Stop gawking,” Bill said. “You can come in.”
Winston stepped inside and noticed boxes everywhere. Carton stacks formed cardboard towers around the space. Thank goodness there was a slight breeze flowing from one of the windows. It was an old shutter that didn’t completely close. The flow of air helped ward off his sudden sense of claustrophobia. “Bill, did you move here recently?”
“No. Been here twenty years—why?”
“You’re still unpacking?” Winston asked.
“Oh, these boxes? Parts for inventions,” Bill said. He pointed at a label on one carton. “Everything’s sorted.”
Nuts and bolts, the sticker read. It was one of those old ribbon tapes with raised lettering that shot out of a label gun.
“You sure have everything an inventor might need. Too bad the kids didn’t get your gadget kits for Halloween . . .”
“Well, there’s always next year.”
Was the old man being evasive on purpose? Couldn’t he tell Winston where he’d been? Winston looked around for a place to sit, but there was only a narrow pathway between the boxes. And he couldn’t perch on any of the cardboard towers. “Where did you go?” Winston asked. “Everyone was worried.” Well
, at least Diana had been frantic about the absence.
“Didn’t Heather tell you?”
“She didn’t say anything.”
Bill shrugged.
“And you didn’t put your mail on hold.”
Bill narrowed his eyes at Winston. “How would you know? Snooping on me?”
“I, er, happened to run into the mailman.”
“Probably complained to you,” Bill said. “Whippersnappers, no patience these days.”
“Speaking of patience, Diana was dying to talk with you.”
“Yeah, the robot project with Cam. Want to see it?” Bill’s eyes lit up, and he seemed to quiver with anticipation.
“I’d love to,” Winston said. “Hope the boy wins the scholarship.”
“With my help?” Bill puffed out his chest. “He can’t lose.”
Bill led Winston through the maze of boxes and into the kitchen. A thick layer of dust covered the countertop, and the stove seemed like it hadn’t been used in a long time. But Bill pulled open the oven door with a flourish.
Winston craned his neck to look into the dark recesses. “Is your invention in there?”
Bill reached in and pulled out a robot. Not quite a full-sized mechanical butler, it stood a mere foot high. It had a friendly square robot face with round eyes and a triangle nose. Two wire antennae stuck out of its head. The rest of the body was rectangular with attached hands that had flexible digits. It lacked legs and operated instead on a roller chain, like a mini tank.
“Did it shrink?” Winston asked.
“No, he’s compact.” Bill cradled the metallic guy in his arms. “Meant to fit in small spaces, like ovens. But he can extend in height.”
Anyway, who was Winston to judge? His own family had stored pots, pans, and even plates on the oven racks when they ran out of cabinet space.