Remodeled to Death

by Valerie Wolzien

  “There is something else I wanted to mention.”

  “What?”

  “I got the impression that Frankie wasn’t alone when I spoke with him on the phone.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, right before he asked me if I could come over to his place I think he might have put his hand over the receiver and spoken to someone else.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No, and he didn’t say that anyone else was going to be there.”

  Susan frowned. “Well, I guess we should just wait and see. And we don’t have long to wait,” she added. “We’re almost there.”

  “I think that’s the car Frankie drives,” Josie said, pointing to the old green Morris Minor parked on one side of the street. “I’ll pull in behind it and we can find his address.”

  Susan stared at the street, unable to find building numbers in the midst of the graffiti. “I didn’t know there was anyplace like this in Hancock. It looks more like a street in the city. In SoHo.” In an area that had yet to be gentrified, she added to herself, stepping down from the truck and narrowly missing a mound of dog droppings. Apparently the pooper-scooper law wasn’t strictly enforced in this part of town.

  “Number 139.” Josie peered at the wall by their side. “I think this is it. I’ll ring the bell.”

  “There’s a bell?” Susan asked before realizing that the circle at the top of the nine contained a small brass button, which Josie was pressing.

  “Josie? Is that you? Just open the door and walk right up.”

  The voice seemed to come from the sky. Susan glanced around, startled.

  “In the window. Up there,” Josie said, waving to Frankie, who waved back, his dreadlocks bouncing around his head.

  “Come on up,” he repeated.

  Josie grabbed the metal half-moon that was apparently meant to be a doorknob and the wooden door swung open.

  They were faced with a large, open warehouse floor piled high with what Susan guessed were hundreds of cardboard boxes. Josie pointed out a circular stairway to their right that led to the floor above. “That way,” she said, starting off.

  Susan trotted behind, noticing as she went up the stairs that someone had decorated the banisters with tiny metal animals that got larger and happier as they climbed. Frankie was standing at the top of the stairs, wearing clean jeans and a T-shirt printed with a picture of Iggy Pop. He looked solemn.

  “Come on in,” he greeted hospitably, opening another door decorated with animals fashioned from shiny metals.

  Susan was about to comment on the unusual entrance when she glanced before her at the top floor of the warehouse. Her mouth snapped shut and she stared.

  The space had been divided into two areas: the living area next to the door and beyond that a huge sculptor’s studio.

  “Go ahead and look around,” Frankie suggested, seeing where Susan’s attention was directed.

  Susan walked around the couch and across the Scandinavian rug and headed toward the studio. That space also seemed to be divided in half. On one side there were more animals of copper, brass, cast iron, and tin. There were animal mobiles, animals leaping and climbing across the walls, animal sculptures for tables, animals so large they had to stand on the floor. And many of the animals themselves were exotic fantasies, real enough to be classified by genus but with details that indicated human traits and emotions.

  The other side of the studio was filled with large abstract works, reminding Susan of Brancusi and Jeff Koons. In the center of the floor a great shape, almost like a giant marlin, stripped of all detail, stood. A welding torch lay on the floor by its side. Susan realized Frankie was standing next to her.

  “Your work?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes, the welding stuff. The animals”—he waved at the other figures beside them—“they were done by someone else.”

  “We’re interrupting your dinner,” Josie announced. She had remained in the living section of the room and was staring down at a table with the remains of a meal.

  “We were almost done. My friend had to leave on an errand. But I was just going to make coffee when you called. Would anyone like some?” Frankie asked, moving over to Josie and beginning to clear the dirty dishes from the table.

  “Sure,” Josie agreed, helping to clean up.

  “You share your studio with someone else?” Susan asked, moving closer to the group.

  “Yes. We met in art school,” Frankie said, appearing from behind the divider that separated the kitchen appliances from the rest of the room.

  “How did you end up doing plumbing?” Susan asked.

  “Actually, I started out being a plumber. After I flunked my freshman year of high school, it was suggested that I switch to technical school. I messed around with a bunch of trades there. Even thought about being a carpenter until I took a course in plumbing. I know it sounds strange to people, but I loved it right away.”

  “Really?”

  “I love welding. Always have,” he added, reaching across a divider and putting a turquoise platter of dark plums and apricots on the table in front of them. “And I started playing with this type of stuff”—he pointed at a very large abstract hanging on the wall above the door—“right away.”

  “So how did you end up at art school?” Josie asked.

  The scent of coffee began to fill the room. “I was working on a job for a couple who were collectors. I was just knocked out by their collection and I tried to copy a sculpture they had on their patio. Some of the guys on the crew knew about it and the homeowner’s wife heard them kidding me. I think she just wanted to be nice because later she said she would like to see what I’d done. I put a small piece in my car and showed it to her and her husband the next day.” He got up and began to place mugs and spoons on a wooden tray.

  “Turned out her husband was a major contributor to an art college. The next thing I knew I was getting together a portfolio to show the admissions office. And that fall I discovered myself taking basic design and a sculpting class or two.”

  “But you still do plumbing work.”

  “The type of stuff I do isn’t terribly commercial. I have to earn a living some way. Milk or sugar?”

  Both women insisted on black and Frankie continued his story. “My friend … actually my roommate’s work is a little more commercial.”

  “Kiss of death. The man called me a commercial artist.” A good-looking newcomer stood in the doorway.

  NINETEEN

  “You see,” Frankie said, putting the full tray down on the table in front of them, “I’m gay.”

  Susan and Josie exchanged puzzled looks.

  “So?” Susan prompted.

  “So?” He repeated her question.

  “I think what Mrs. Henshaw is asking is, what does that have to do with anything,” Josie added.

  “Frankie knows that you overheard him calling me on the phone today,” the other man explained, coming into the room and getting another mug.

  “I still don’t get it,” Susan said slowly. “You were afraid that Josie would find out that you were gay?”

  “Not you, actually, but the men I work with,” Frankie answered.

  “And you think that would be a problem?” Susan asked.

  Frankie looked at Josie. “Can you imagine what they would say if they knew I was a homosexual?”

  Josie frowned. “I don’t know. There have been lesbians on some of the crews I’ve worked with. They haven’t had any more problems than I have—except for an asshole or two—but you run into that type of thing everywhere. Of course, I just got here. You know those guys better than I do.”

  “Wait a second.” Susan got back to what she considered the point. “You were calling your … your roommate on the phone and you thought Josie overheard the call?”

  “I know she overheard. I saw her reflection in the mirror over the dresser.”

  “Actually, I didn’t hear what you were saying. I just knew that you were on the phone.”
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  Frankie looked confused. “So why were you so serious this afternoon? If you didn’t hear what I was saying, what difference did it make—although I know we’re not supposed to use the homeowners’ phones.” He looked at Susan. “Ken makes a big deal about that. But Sean and I had a fight this morning and I just wanted to clear everything up. Normally, I wouldn’t have considered breaking the rules.”

  “It’s fine,” Susan said. “I mean, that’s between you and Ken.”

  “So now I don’t get it,” Sean broke in. “If you weren’t upset about Frankie using the phone, why are you here?”

  “I asked them.” Frankie answered the question that had been directed to the women. “Well, I asked Josie if I could speak with her and she was still at work when she called here, so I asked if she would bring Mrs. Henshaw over. I guess I thought I’d better get you on my side if Ken and the guys were going to be on my back—if that makes any sense.”

  “Sort of. And now that everything’s cleared up, I’d better get home to my husband,” Susan said, worried that Josie might mention the call to the police department. The less people who knew about that, the better. She put down her mug and stood up.

  “I’m the driver.” Josie hopped to her feet. “But you know,” she added to Frankie, “it’s possible Ken won’t care about your love life. You might be worrying for nothing.”

  “That’s what I tell him,” Sean said.

  “Sure. Easy for you to say. You’re making a good income from your artwork,” Frankie said.

  “Yes, your work is wonderful. I’d like to talk to you about that sometime. Maybe you could do a piece for the wall in one of my bathrooms. Not fish, though. Fish decorations in the bathrooms are a cliché,” Susan said, moving closer to the door. “We’d better get going,” she added to Josie. “Jed will have the grill fired up. And I’m starving.” She opened the door. “And we’ll keep your relationship a secret whether it’s necessary or not,” she assured Frankie, leaving the room.

  Josie apparently got the idea and with a brief nod at the two men hurried down the stairway after her employer.

  “What’s up? Are you afraid our dinner is going to burn up?” she said, hopping up into her truck and thrusting the key into the ignition.

  “No, it’s just that this is what I hate about looking into murders,” Susan said. “You get involved in so much that is other people’s private business.”

  “On the other hand …” Josie started, backing out of the parking space.

  “On the other hand?”

  “You probably get all your prurient interests satisfied,” Josie said with a grin.

  Susan hooted. “You have a point there. But seriously,” she asked, “do you think the men on the crew are homophobic?”

  Josie shrugged. “I have no idea. I have found that the people I work with are a pretty varied group. The man that I’ve worked for for years is a major supporter of liberal causes—and certainly no one would think that of a man who owns a contracting company—especially since his favorite form of transportation is a gigantic Harley hog.”

  “I guess the lesson is that it’s a mistake to make assumptions about people.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Susan was quiet the rest of the way home, wondering if she had missed something about Frankie or learned anything about Josie.

  Josie didn’t speak until she turned her truck in at the bottom of Susan’s driveway. “You know what? If you wouldn’t be offended, I think I’ll pass up your dinner invitation. It’s getting late and we’re going to start at seven tomorrow.”

  “Seven a.m.?”

  “Didn’t Ken tell you? The tub for the attic is going to be framed in first thing and the hardware will be here before lunch—Ken is hoping to get the third floor done in a week—believe me, we’re going to be working long days.”

  “I know you’re still new and things are kind of tenuous for you, but …” Susan paused. “If anyone says anything about Simon Fairweather or the murder or … or anything that might be significant, could you tell me? I’ll let Brett Fortesque know.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The chief of police in Hancock.”

  “Wow. You are well connected, aren’t you?”

  “I guess so,” Susan admitted, admiring her own modesty.

  “I don’t mind helping you out.” Josie frowned. “And you’re not offended if I turn down your invitation to dinner?”

  “No. I think I should hurry up and get to bed myself. Sounds like tomorrow is going to be a big day.”

  “The first of many,” Josie said as Susan closed the door behind her.

  Susan headed straight for the backyard, knowing Jed would be there.

  And he was, asleep on the lounge, a half-finished gin and tonic by his side and the grill smoking away. Clue was equally tired, merely opening one eye as the gate clicked shut behind Susan.

  “Some watchdog,” she muttered, once again content to let her sleeping dog lie. “And you know you’re a fire hazard, don’t you?” she asked, kissing her husband on the forehead.

  “I’m just resting my eyes,” he said, opening them. They did look well rested. “Have you started dinner?”

  “I was just on my way to the kitchen to get the food,” she said, deciding that the couple who lies together stays together.

  “Great.” Jed closed his eyes again. “Oh, wait,” he called. “Kyle Barnes phoned a few minutes ago.” He looked at his watch and corrected himself. “A while ago. He asked that you call as soon as you get home. The number is on a piece of paper next to the phone.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Something about a phone call.”

  Susan hurried into the house. Had Kyle also been a witness to Frankie’s attempt to make up with his lover? Or did he want to tell her something about an anonymous call to the police department? Perhaps this was going to be a confession. She was anxious to get those questions answered, but there were a half-dozen scraps of paper lying on the counter under the phone, as well as a pile of unopened mail that apparently had landed there yesterday after the hall table was swathed in plastic, and it took her a while to locate Kyle’s phone number. Then she was forced to wait impatiently for an answer. None came.

  Irritated with herself for doing it, she hung up and dialed again. There was no chance she would get an answer, but she felt impelled to try again. Maybe she had dialed wrong, maybe he had just come into the room and would answer this time, maybe—

  “Hello?”

  “Kyle?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Kyle, it’s Mrs. Henshaw. Susan Henshaw,” Susan said, feeling more than a little foolish. “My husband says that you called when I was out.”

  “Yes, I wanted to speak with you,” Kyle answered. “Remember when you asked whether or not I’d been on the phone this morning? I had gone outside to get a nail gun from the truck and you asked if I had answered the phone—”

  “If you had been on the phone,” Susan corrected him.

  “Yeah. Well, I told you that I hadn’t been.”

  “And?” Susan prompted.

  “And? Oh, you mean was I lying or anything like that,” Kyle said cheerfully. “No, I haven’t ever used your phone. Not even to make a call for Ken.”

  “Then …”

  “But you must have asked everyone on the crew if they were on the phone.”

  “Uh …” Susan didn’t know what to say.

  “I just assumed that you did because the guys were talking about it during their break this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Were they mad that I’d been questioning them?”

  “Nah. They already know that you’re going to be a push—you’re going to be easy to work for. Some of the homeowners make the crew crazy,” Kyle said cheerfully.

  “How do you know that I’m going to be easy to work for?”

  “Well, you don’t complain about every little thing like whether or not we covered the paneling in the hallway enough or if
the plastic runner is scooting around when we cart stuff in and out of the house.”

  “Other people mention that type of thing?” Susan wondered if she should be more particular.

  “They raise hell. You wouldn’t believe.”

  Susan decided to return to the subject. She would check the hallway after she had hung up. “Did anyone say that they had used the phone?” she asked.

  “No, but I think that maybe you should ask again. I think it’s possible that someone was lying.” Kyle’s natural ebullience seemed to have vanished.

  “Who?” Susan asked.

  “Well, Buns and Frankie were talking, but it wasn’t really what they said but how they said it,” Kyle replied.

  Susan thought he was reluctant to betray his co-workers. “I know this all sounds stupid. And you’re right that I’m not fussy about most things.” Probably not as much as she should be, she thought, remembering the cost of the hall carpeting. “But this phone call is really important to me. It’s a private matter and I don’t want to explain,” she was inspired to add, “but if you know that someone on the crew was talking on the phone today, I really need to know about it.”

  “I’m the youngest guy on the crew and I’m accepted and all that, but … well, you know. Sometimes I have to try hard to be one of the crew. I have a year of college behind me and these guys mostly learned their trade from their families, although I think someone said that Frankie went to a community college or something like that.”

  “You’re saying that your background is different from theirs.”

  “Yeah, I mean I’d never tell these guys that my parents belong to the field club or that I’m saving up to go to Europe in the winter. They’re struggling to pay their mortgages. You know?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s very sensitive of you,” Susan said, wishing he would stop explaining how sensitive he was and tell her about the phone call.

  “Yeah, well, then you understand why I don’t want anything I tell you to make the guys think less of me or anything.”

  “I won’t tell anyone what you tell me,” Susan assured him, wondering if he was actually going to tell her anything after all this.

  “Yeah, I appreciate that. Well. The guys were talking about the job and you and your house and all. And Buns and Frankie were sitting together sharing a six-pack of Coke and one of them said something about how strange it is that you asked about phone calls when you weren’t all that particular about other things.”