Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky

by Sharon Love Cook

  Good old Cal. “Would you like me to come over?”

  “Thanks, Rose, but I’m better now.” She yawned. “I’m going to pull the curtains and lie down awhile. Tell your dad I’ll get to his place probably on Thursday. I got some makeup work to do first.”

  “Don’t worry about that. If it’s okay, I’d like to stop by tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s fine. By the way, there’s one thing I forgot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Chief Alfano told me not to say anything ‘til they had a chance to notify the family. Keep this under your hat.”

  “You know me, Doris.”

  After hanging up I dialed the cell phone of Cal Devine, my favorite cop who also happens to be a former boyfriend. He answered, his voice hushed. “Rosie, why am I not surprised to hear from you?”

  “I’ve been talking to Doris Zack. What’s going on?”

  “Wait a minute. I’m sitting in the parking lot with twenty cops from Rockport to Boston. Let me get out and talk.” The sound of a car door slamming was followed by the crunch of gravel. Cal resumed talking, louder now. “Okay, McNichols, what do you want to know? By the way, I figured Doris Zack’s silence wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  “Just tell me what’s happening there. Doris mentioned Dr. Klinger.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, okay? In a nutshell, the victim is Vivian Klinger, a local shrink with an office at the Harbour Building. Apparently she was working late last night when someone paid a visit and clubbed her.”

  “My God, I can’t believe she’s dead.”

  “She’s dead all right. We’ll know more after the coroner’s report. They’re not using Doc Moss for this. They got someone from Boston.”

  “Was it robbery?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be. Nothing’s out of place and the surrounding offices weren’t touched. They’re thinking it’s a patient with a grudge.”

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  “Blunt instrument, a club, judging from the wound.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Make it quick, honey. The chief’s gonna make a statement.”

  “Was Dr. Klinger sexually assaulted? I understand she was wearing a slip.”

  “Somebody ought to duct tape Doris Zack’s mouth. Yes, she was wearing a slip, but we won’t know until the coroner’s report.”

  “Thanks, Cal. I’ll call you soon.”

  “How come you only call when you want information?”

  “I’ll try to do better. No suspects then?”

  Cal sighed. “Right now everyone’s a suspect, including Doris Zack. After all, she had a key to the office.”

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t tell her.”

  After hanging up I leaned against the refrigerator and stared off into space. How could Dr. Klinger, of all people, be dead? I had seen her on local TV two nights ago. The hospital’s mental health unit was promoting the fact that April is Depression Month and the clinic offered free screenings.

  Dr. Klinger looked professional and glamorous at the same time. Her dark hair gleamed under the studio lights. She exuded such competence I almost picked up the phone to make a screening appointment. Nonetheless, I have a pretty good idea what my depression score would reveal, that I’m somewhere between pessimism and despair. Blame it on April, the cruelest month.

  Dad interrupted my reverie. “What did Doris say? Is she coming over?”

  “Not today, Dad. Maybe Thursday.” I decided there was no point in telling him about the murder. He’d hear soon enough.

  “They better not charge me for today,” he muttered.

  I had to get back to the office pronto. Before leaving, I unwrapped Dad’s lunch and set it out. On my way out the door, I made sure his dead bolt lock was securely in place.

  Yvonne’s bug-eyed stare indicated she’d heard the news. “Rose! I’ve been trying to get you for an hour. Don’t you answer your phone?”

  “I left as soon as I heard,” I said, making a beeline for my desk. “What do you want me to do?”

  “You can start on Dr. Klinger’s bio. We’ve got file photos but nothing recent.”

  “I took some great shots at that award luncheon. Let me find them.” I tossed my pocketbook on the desk and booted up my old Mac.

  “I’ve been getting calls from all over New England. Beth’s coming in to help with the phones. The poor woman was done in by a deranged patient.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Insider knowledge. When they find out about her background, this town will be crawling with media.” She bit her lip. &ldquot;We’d better have a staff meeting and decide how we’re going to handle this situation.”

  Yvonne was talking to herself, a sign of nerves. Her editorial experience was in society news. For twenty-five years she covered ladies’ teas and fashion shows for a suburban daily that was bought by the same newspaper chain that bought ours. For some perverse reason they appointed her our editor-in-chief. The move was either a promotion or an attempt to force her into retiring.

  “A staff meeting sounds good,” I said. “Where are Coral and Stew?”

  “Coral’s taking photos of the Harbour Building. The area is roped off, but she can get some nice exterior shots.”

  Coral, our gardening and home columnist, has been with the paper since the days of lead type. When she started talking retirement, Yvonne gave me the housekeeping column to lighten her load. Basically, what I know about housekeeping could fill a gnat’s belly button, and I told her so. She said, “Have fun with it,” and I am. So far, the readers haven’t caught on.

  “So Coral’s out. Where’s Stew?” I asked, but Yvonne didn’t answer. She appeared to be in a trance, gazing out the window and scratching her forearms. When she gets nervous, her eczema flares up. I repeated my question.

  “Stewart? Oh, he’s interviewing the headmaster at Dana Hall, a prep school Dr. Klinger attended.”

  “That leaves just the two of us for a staff meeting,” I pointed out. “How about waiting until tomorrow? This story will be huge. Dr. Klinger came from a very wealthy family. Why don’t we put out an early edition?”

  Yvonne frowned. “We’ve never done anything like that before. It might appear crass, as if we’re taking advantage of a tragedy.”

  “Yvonne, the story is bigger than Granite Cove. Dr. Klinger was an icon in this town, and let’s not forget she was murdered.”

  “Don’t say that word.” She shut her eyes.

  “I admit it’s shocking, especially for Granite Cove. Nothing like that’s ever happened here. But we can’t relegate it to the police notes. Everyone else will play it up big.”

  Perhaps my matter-of-fact attitude got through to her. In any case she quit digging at her skin. After a moment’s silence she said, “I suppose we could approach it as a tribute to a well-respected citizen.” She glanced at me. “Yes, I’m comfortable with that. Now, what did you say you have for photos?”

  “Remember when I covered the Women’s Professional League awards luncheon? Dr. Klinger was Woman of the Year. I got some great shots.”

  “Fine. See what you’ve got and get started on the bio. In the meantime, I’m waiting for a call from Chief Alfano. He’s giving me an exclusive.”

  At the mention of his name, her cheeks flushed. I knew what kind of exclusive that would be. If Chief Alfano were forbidden to use the word “I” he’d be rendered speechless. “I’m afraid he’s in over his head,” I said.

  “Nonsense. This town doesn’t appreciate the man’s capabilities.”

  There was no point in arguing with Yvonne when it came to the chief, but at least she was focused and back on track. Things would hum along, at least until the next derailment.

  While Yvonne took phone calls, I looked through files in my desk. The day of the luncheon, I’d taken at least fifteen shots. My demeanor at the time had been professional, my mood sour. Being chosen Woman of the Year by the Professional League is an honor, and wh
ile I may snicker at the group’s pretensions, every year I hope to be named. This year, not only was I not chosen, I had to work the luncheon. Halfway through the Chicken Picatta, I got up to snap photos. When I returned to my seat, my plate was gone. Not even a lousy doggy bag.

  I finally found the CD and, after inserting it into the computer, studied the photos. Dr. Klinger looked so vibrant. One close-up captured her polished perfection: wide, confident smile and dark, shoulder-length hair with a premature silver streak on the left side.

  In order to get that picture I’d moved in close on my knees. Dr. Klinger was at the podium giving her acceptance speech. She’d removed her suit jacket, revealing a crisp, wrinkle-free blouse underneath. My blouse, on the other hand, was as creased as Granny Clampett’s butt, which is why I never take my jacket off in public.

  Late that afternoon Yvonne began pacing back and forth at the front window. Her espadrilles slip-slapped on the tiles, creating an annoying distraction. Not only that, she blocked my view. Outside on the town green, the citizens gathered, their heads bobbing and darting like chickens. No doubt they were clucking about the murder.

  “Relax, Yvonne. We’re not the only news source covering the story.”

  “I’m well aware of that. It’s how we handle the subject that worries me. We can’t be vulgar like the tabloids. The nice people in this town won’t forget.”

  There was no point in mentioning that by the time the paper hit the stands, the news would be as outdated as Yvonne’s espadrilles. No matter how brilliant our copy, readers will have learned every detail. In fact, they might not bother with our coverage at all. We could blame Dr. Klinger’s death on Janis Topp’s potato salad, and people might never notice.

  “Who did you say Stew was interviewing?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “The headmaster at Dana Hall in Wellesley. From what I understand Dr. Klinger was quite an athlete, setting records in swimming and tennis.” She paused. “Or was it swimming and fencing?”

  “Maybe it was swimming and wrestling,” I said.

  Yvonne stopped to stare at me. “If that’s a joke, it’s not amusing.”

  I ducked my head. “Just trying to ease the mood.”

  “I’ll never understand your sense of humor,” she said and resumed pacing while I returned to my photos. The day Yvonne understands my humor is the day I sign on for the Merchant Marines.

  It was early evening when I finally pulled into my driveway. I pressed the remote button for the garage door, and nothing happened. Either the batteries were low or the door was broken. Another item needing attention.

  Nonetheless, I can’t complain. I rent one-half of an old carriage house. Frank, the owner, occupies the other half during the summer. Two years ago he bought a bar in St. Croix, exchanging his Brooks Brothers wing tips for rubber flip-flops. From November to May, while Frank is in the Virgin Islands, I keep an eye on his half of the house.

  It’s easy work. I make sure the pipes don’t freeze and the squirrels don’t move in. For those caretaking duties I get a rental reduction. It’s a sweet deal, especially when you consider the cost of real estate north of Boston. On my salary I can’t afford a down payment on a Porta-John.

  Chester, my 12-year-old black Lab, greeted me at the door. He ran in circles around me, delirious with pleasure. I rubbed his graying muzzle and wondered what man would give me such a welcome.

  After tossing my tote bag on the sofa, I fixed a large vodka and cranberry juice and grabbed a box of Cheez-Its. Hands full, I collapsed on the antique recliner, although it’s not technically an antique unless La-Z-Boys were made a hundred years ago.

  My furniture is what I call early modern ghetto. It’s comfortable, like an old pair of slippers. One of these days I plan to cover everything in a pretty Laura Ashley print. Then I wonder, why spend money on thrift shop furniture? And who am I trying to impress, anyway? It’s unlikely the Granite Cove Beautification Society will include me on their annual house tour. Not only that, if Chester drooled on new custom slipcovers, or Kevin spilled beer, I’d have hysterics.

  Ambiance, though nice, is not worth the price.

  After another vodka and cranberry, I broiled a cheeseburger and tossed a small salad. Instead of watching the news at my tiny kitchen table, I read The Boston Phoenix. I’d had enough murder for one day. Tomorrow it would be topic number one. As sure as the bluefish appear in August, murder will be on our minds.

  It was close to nine p.m. when I grabbed Chester’s leash and headed out for a walk. I didn’t need more than a sweater; it was still warm. When we reached the main road, traffic was surprisingly steady. The season’s first indication of spring lures night riders from their beds. Convertibles zoomed past, the music cranked. These riders weren’t teenagers, they were older, Baby Boomers tearing up the back roads, The Rolling Stones blaring while they chased memories of their youth.

  After a bit I turned into Tally Ho Drive, a new cul de sac ringed with pastel-colored McMansions. Suddenly, Chester came to life, tugging at the leash. Most likely he’d gotten a whiff of outdoor grilling.

  I unhooked his collar so he could romp, but instead of pursuing the scent of sirloin, he headed for a big white Colonial. There in the center of a gently sloping lawn, he squatted and did his business.

  Ah, crap. I yanked a plastic bag from my pocket. Slipping my hand inside, I found a hole the size of a Big Mac. Why does this always happen to me? I glanced at the Colonial’s big picture window. Two kids lay sprawled in front of a massive TV. The screen was so big you could park cars on the lawn and call it a drive-in.

  After making sure we weren’t being observed, I attached Chester’s leash and dragged him to the sidewalk and down the street, all the while resisting the urge to look back. Normally, I’m a responsible pet owner, picking up after my dog with regularity, no pun intended. I likewise perform acts of good citizenship like rewinding rental videos, recycling plastic bottles and buying every flavor of Girls Scout cookies. Thus, my conscience is relatively untroubled.

  Back home, I listened to my messages while getting ready for bed. The first was from Betty Ann, wanting to talk about the murder. The next was from Kevin, calling from The Sacred Cod, a bar where he plays Tuesday nights. Would I join him for a drink, he shouted over the pub’s din. Murderer can’t keep Kevin Healey from his Guinness on tap.

  After deleting the messages, I dialed Doris Zack’s number. Harold answered, and when I convinced him I wasn’t from The National Enquirer, he called Doris to the phone.

  “I’m glad it’s you, Rose. The news people have been calling here. Harold says turn the phone off, but my sister Shirley had a gallbladder operation three days ago. I mean, what if she has complications?”

  I told Doris that, gallbladder or no gallbladder, she should unplug her phone. She was a senior citizen and shouldn’t be hounded. Not only that, I didn’t want anyone else getting an exclusive before me. The latter I didn’t mention.

  I ended by saying I’d drop by around nine the following morning. After hanging up I made one last call to the newspaper. When Beth, the intern, answered, I asked why she was working late.

  “Yvonne went home to get some sleep.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

  “Rose, guess what?” Beth squealed with excitement. “An editor from USA Today called. We talked about Granite Cove and before he hung up, I asked if I could send him my resume. He said by all means. Isn’t that awesome?”

  “Good for you,” I said. No flies on Beth. I told her to leave a note for Yvonne saying I’d be in by late morning.

  Once settled, I reached underneath my bed and dragged out my seven-year-old laptop I bought on Craig’s List. At the time, it never occurred to me that a 1993 laptop would weigh more than a pair of bowling balls. Yet despite its heft, it allows me to write in bed, where I do my best work.

  In the late night stillness, the only sound was Chester snoring on the couch. Balancing the laptop on my thighs and with pillows supporting m
y back, I typed my column. Murder and mayhem may reign in Granite Cove, but readers demand their housekeeping hints.

  Auntie Pearl’s Helpful Housekeeping Hints

  Dear Auntie Pearl:

  I recently threw a housewarming party to show off my new condo. I invited family, friends and co-workers. All were impressed with my decorating skills. It was a lovely evening until my cousin Edward arrived, tipsy.

  He proceeded to drink all the brandy punch and finish off the pesto dip and expensive seafood puffs. Following that, he threw up on the peach shag rug in the living room. Needless to say, it put a damper on the festivities.

  I’ve had the rug cleaned professionally, but the stain remains. Therefore, I sent a bill for the cost of the rug to Edward, who returned it with a nasty note. Now I’m seriously considering small claims court.

  My family says I am not being supportive of Edward, who’s going through a difficult divorce. What should I do, Auntie Pearl?

  Tormented in Topsfield

  Dear Tormented:

  Peach shag? In the living room? My dear, what were you thinking, choosing shag for such a high traffic area? It has a tendency to mat and is extremely difficult to clean. Not only that, the color shows every stain, as you’ve discovered.

  Try sponging the area with a mixture of equal parts water and white vinegar. Follow with soda water, blotting up the moisture with paper towels. Don’t scrub, as this can destroy the rug’s fibers.

  Let me know how this works. Hope I’ve helped!

  Auntie Pearl

  Two

  The next morning I was awakened by warm dog breath in my face. The clock read eight-thirty. Holy halibut!

  I stumbled into the kitchen to let Chester out. Then I searched the front yard for the newspaper, finding it under the Jetta’s rear wheels. With the paper tucked under my arm, I stopped and lifted my face to the sun. For a brief moment I enjoyed the sensation of sunshine on my face, and under my bare feet, warm asphalt.

  Inside the kitchen, while yesterday’s coffee reheated, I spread The Boston Compass across the kitchen table. The murder was on the front page, although below the fold, as they say in newsroom parlance.