I stood under the porch light, sniffing, my fingers around the doorknob. I didn’t want to believe my nose. Did not. That waft did not belong anywhere near Chloe’s enchanted palace—it was an abominable juxtaposition. But there was no mistaking its trademark foulness. Only one thing in the world could have made it.
My face crinkling in protest, I entered the parlor. As I’d suspected, Chloe had company. She stood in the kitchen near the dishwasher, her beefy guest seated with his back to me at the breakfast table.
“Sky, dear, you’re home from dinner early!” she said, mailing a quick, covert frown over his bald head. “Look who’s stopped by to see us just as I was doing the dishes.”
Bill Drecksel heaved around to face the doorway.
“Hey-ooh, here’s my favorite gal pal!” he said, his walrus mustache flapping over his upper lip like a hairy curtain. “Think spring! I brought ya a special treat to celebrate the season.”
I gaped at him numbly. I’d been staying at the Fog Bell going on eighteen months. In all that time, Drecksel had never set foot in the place. And I would have bet his god-awful offering concealed an ulterior motive for the visit.
I heard the dishwasher go into its drying cycle. Meanwhile, Chloe kept stealing pained glances in my direction. Don’t ask me how, but even making faces, she managed to project a simple grace in her white straight-leg jeans, a green and white-striped long-sleeve pullover blouse, and a necklace of huge black, green, and brown wooden beads. Though we’d never discussed her age, she looked a well-maintained fifty to my thirty-five. She’d looked a well-maintained fifty when we met a decade before. And I had a hunch she would look a well-maintained fifty when I was a doddering octogenarian resident of a retirement home.
Although if anything could put years on Chloe, it was the reeking present that had been plunked in the middle of the kitchen table. Stuffy nose or not, it had instantly clawed its way to the back of my throat.
“C’mon while it’s hot, Sky.” Bill waved me over. “You can’t beat my ring bologna quiche, an’ I walked this one straight over from my diner after bakin’ a fresh batch for the library sale.” He grinned proudly and held up a pie cutter. “Even brought along my own servin’ utensil.”
I looked at him, aghast. Too bad I hadn’t known that before, or I might have recommended Chief Alex hand him a cease-and-desist order. But Drecksel’s Diner was out on the Wing and we’d driven in from the opposite end of town, which explained why we weren’t overcome by the god-awful oven exhaust. The only smell I could imagine being in the same offensive league belonged to Drecksel’s house-blend coffee . . . and even that noxious brew would be a distant second stinkwise.
“I appreciate the offer, Bill,” I said. “Truth is, I’m not too hungry—”
“Hungry, schmungry!” He pulled out a chair to his immediate right. “Just have a slice. You know I use top-quality Amish bologna, right?”
“I do, Bill . . .”
“Made my once-a-year trip out to Pennsylvania Dutch country for it last week, bought almost forty pounds.” He smacked his lips. “Wish I could describe how my car smelled driving back here.”
“I can only imagine,” I said, trying not to retch. “Anyway, Bill, thanks again. But it’d be a shame to waste good food—I’ve got a head cold and my taste buds are shot.”
He sighed with resignation. “Don’t feel you gotta make excuses. I know you gals worry about stupid calories. Trust me, though, some delicacies are worth an exception.”
I stood there at a loss for a reply, but leave it to Chloe to come jumping in to my rescue.
“Bill, you’re a hundred percent right.” She turned the dishwasher off moments into the dry cycle, using one of my efficiency tips. At any other time it would’ve made me smile. “We do have to watch our waistlines, and I ate less than an hour ago. So instead of picking away at the quiche, I think we’ll have two nice, big slices with tomorrow’s morning coffee.”
Drecksel was visibly disappointed.
“Awright, awright,” he said. “You wanna do that, make sure ya warm it up to get the full flavor. And give yourselves plenty of chunks of bologna.”
“I won’t forget.” Chloe shot another quick look over his head. “Now, if I might ask you something unrelated, Sky . . .”
“Go right ahead,” I said thankfully.
“Just as Bill arrived, we heard police sirens at the north end of town—or so it seemed. I know you were up there at Shoko’s Minka in the old mill, and I wonder if you noticed anything wrong.”
My tongue suddenly became a frozen lump in my mouth. Making it twice and counting that it happened since I walked through the door. Chloe and Gail had been friends. But in my eagerness to change the subject, it hadn’t even entered my thick skull that Chloe wouldn’t have heard about the murder yet. No way did I intend to announce it while Hey-ooh Drecksel was around to potentially say something stupid and insensitive.
Chloe looked at me, waiting. I stood rooted near the door in my overcoat, anxiously trying to come up with a decent stall.
This time, amazingly, Bill was the one to dangle a bailout.
“You dolls can talk about that siren later,” he said, patting the empty chair beside him. “Look, Sky, I gotta hurry back to the diner and get my other quiches packed for the spring bake sale. But I wanna mention a business proposition to you before I leave.”
I sat down without taking off my coat. Whatever Bill was thinking, I had a hunch it was the real reason he’d come bearing his putrid gift. And though I didn’t see how any offer he cooked up could possibly interest me, the alternative was to break the terrible news to Chloe in front of him. That was not an option.
Bill had swiveled around in his chair to face me. “Awright, ready?” he said with a huge grin.
I forced myself to nod.
“Tell me if I’m wrong, but you might ’a seen that I finally got some model units for my condo development built.”
I was glad my nose was so plugged up, since it kept me from having to hold it. Bill’s nicey-nice act stank almost as much as the warm quiche on the table. The Getaway Groves condo park was his dream investment, and after a string of set-backs involving some dirty deeds by our former city council president, its first model units had gone up about a month back.
“Bill, the condos are right behind my office trailer,” I said. “How could I miss them? All I have to do is look out the window.”
“Good point. It kinda leads us around backwards to my proposal.”
I waited. Bill grinned but didn’t say anything else. Besides being annoying, it made me impatient.
“Okay,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well, Sky, it’s like this.” He took a deep breath. “If you can see the condos from your window, people in the condos can see the trailer from theirs.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thing is, they ain’t the same and equal. Catch my drift?”
“No,” I said. “Can’t say I do.”
“Then let me put it to you this way,” Bill said. “You, Sky Taylor, lookin’ out at a beautiful new half-million-dollar condo ain’t the same as somebody inside the condo lookin’ out at an old Airstream trailer from when Ike was runnin’ for president. In the first case we’re talkin’ a real pleasure. Somethin’ to soothe the eyes, so to speak. In the second case—no offense—we’re talking an eyesore. And I’m kinda afraid that view might put off would-be condo buyers.”
I looked at Bill. Tactlessness I’d expected. And I wasn’t exactly shocked by his ignorance about my restored ’62 Tradewind, a classic beauty of a travel trailer if there ever was one—and something I’d been able to afford only after realizing I needed an office for my expanding business, and deciding that taking out a loan to buy it would be my most economical option. But his sheer gall surprised me, considering that the trailer sat on a plot of land I owned outright, having inherited it from our late mutual friend Abe Monahan. And moreover because, as a pure no-strings favor, I’d given Bill a written dispens
ation to build closer to my property line than town law ordinarily permitted.
I tried not to get too mad at him. It had been a long and difficult night, and I was afraid I might poke him in his big round belly, or maybe dump his disgusting bologna quiche over his stupid, shiny bald head, if I lost my temper.
“Bill, I have no idea what you’re hinting at,” I said.
“Just that the image I see don’t make sense,” he said, forming a picture frame in front of my face with his thumbs and forefingers. “A high-class city girl like you sitting in some dumpy trailer . . . uh-uh. It’ll never make you happy.”
“And I suppose you know what would?”
“Not what. Where.” Drecksel grinned at me through his finger frame. “Maybe I never told you, but I own the building my diner’s in. Top to bottom. And there’s this room right over the diner on the second floor that I been usin’ for my office.” He pulled his fingertips apart, lowered his hands. “Here’s the deal, sis. You tow that fossil of a trailer to the junkyard, get it outta sight, I’ll let you share the office with me.”
“Let me share it.”
“Rent free. You just cover all the utility bills.”
“It so happens I like my trailer—”
“You’ll like havin’ an office over the diner even better,” Bill said. “Listen, I’ll sweeten the pot. I know you’re into cleaning big-time. Well, you can feel free to clean the joint ta your heart’s content. Plus I’ll bring you a cup of coffee every mornin’. A bite for lunch too. Speakin’ of which . . . you know Stu Redman? The Scottish guy who owns that bookstore?”
“I believe Stu comes from New York,” Chloe said. “Isn’t that right, Sky?”
“Definitely,” I said. Stu affected his Sean Connery accent for reasons unknown. “Brooklyn, in fact.”
Bill flapped a dismissive hand.
“Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck,” he said. “Anyway, Stu gave me these bona fide Scottish recipes I’m workin’ into my spring menu. Herrings in oatmeal, fer instance. You can have ’em for breakfast instead ’a muffins.”
I wanted to gag. “Sounds delectable.”
“You bet.” Drecksel was grinning again. “And then for lunch there’s pigeon casserole.”
“Stop.”
“You’ll love it, Sky. I call my version Pigeon Cove Pigeon Casserole. Get it? You pluck ’n’ gut two old pigeons like the ones you can catch on the docks—or like those Beauford sisters from Plum Street, haw! Then you cook ’em in butter with maybe half a pound ’a bacon—”
“Stop.”
I was struggling not to blow my cool. Or the contents of my stomach. Though I’m a pretty controlled person, it wasn’t easy in either case. Not that Bill noticed, which further annoyed me.
I sat there speechless.
“Awright,” he said after a few seconds. “I figured my offer would leave ya overwhelmed, but when it comes to generosity, I don’t play beat the buzzer. Why don’tcha sleep on it? Have a slice ’a my quiche for breakfast an’ get back to me later on tomorrow?”
I stared at him. There were five or ten responses that would have made a jailbird blush trying to escape my gritted teeth. I reminded myself that the Cove wasn’t the Big Apple, and that Chloe would have preferred I keep it clean.
Fortunately she jumped in before any choice vocabulary could slip out.
“You’re right to give Sky overnight,” she said. “I’m sure a single bite of your delightful baking will make her decision a cinch.”
Bill hawed. “If you didn’t know me better, you’d probably figure I brought the quiche as a bribe, huh?”
“Why, Bill, you’re reading my mind.”
He stretched and pushed himself up from his chair, pie cutter in hand. “Well, gotta hotfoot it outta here—those quiches are waitin’ for me.”
“Best be on your way, then,” Chloe said with a bright smile. “Thank you again for dropping by.”
Bill gave an exaggerated wink. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “I still owe Sky a cup ’a Drecksel’s Special Blend from maybe a year ago. You two va-vooms come into the diner together, I got ya both covered, no charge.”
And with that, Chloe came around the table and walked him to the door. Still smiling, she furtively wiggled her fingers behind her back so I’d stay put. When Bill had left, she returned to the kitchen and sat back down opposite me. Her eyes were serious and the smile had fled her face.
“Now that we’re alone, you can tell me what’s wrong,” she said.
I frowned soberly. “Am I that much of an open book?”
“No,” she said. “At least not to Bill, you weren’t. Nor to most other people.”
“But you aren’t most people.”
“We’ve shared too much for you to fool me. I saw your face when I asked about the police sirens. And I knew something serious was on your mind.”
I sat looking at Chloe a moment and finally nodded. “It’s about as serious as anything gets,” I began, and then told her.
Chapter 6
At around ten o’clock I said good night to Chloe and went upstairs to my apartment. Though she’d been stunned to hear about Dr. Pilsner, she took it better than I could have hoped, staying pretty composed as I gave her the distressful news. Maybe, I thought with a weird little twinge, because it was the third murder in town since I’d moved up from New York. The idea Hibbard and Hornby planted in my mind had firmly lodged there—irrational as it was. Could it somehow be my fault the murder rate was rising in the Cove? Was I a Sky full of dark, big-city rain clouds?
I frowned. Okay, lousy pun.
It was too early in the tourist season for Chloe to have guests, and the hall was quiet as I strode to my apartment. Well, not totally quiet. But the kind of quiet that seemed to amplify the everyday sort of old-house noises that normally might have slipped my notice. The creak of wooden floorboards underfoot, the groan of rusty plumbing in the walls, the lisp of a breeze through a window sash.
About halfway up the hall, I realized that one familiar sound I didn’t hear was Skiball pawing at the inner part of my door. Skiball paws at lots of different things when she’s excited, going at the door once my footsteps come close . . . especially when I’ve been away for any length of time.
Ski also saves a large repertoire of greetings for after I’m actually through the door. There’s a narrow oak bench to the right of it just inside my apartment—a guy named Moser Valentine made it for me, carving it from a small oak tree in his yard that was downed in a nor’easter—and Ski generally moves her pawing routine over to it when I sit down to take off my shoes. Or if she’s in a subdued mood, she’ll do a welcome walk with one forepaw stiffly out in front of her and a hind leg stuck straight out in back. The only way to describe that goofy walk is to say it kind of looks like she’s swimming without water. She’ll take a few steps, rub up against me, and then tip over flat on her side and start purring.
This is all when Skiball’s in a mellower groove. In her more typically hyper state, she’ll launch into a happy dance that consists of several minutes of skidding around the apartment to the accompaniment of her own shrill screams and warbling yells. It can be funny unless I happen to have a headache or it’s that time of month. In which case it makes me want to scream my lungs out like a maniac too.
I guess you could say my little tuxedo’s a study in feline extremes.
Since I couldn’t hear her through the door as I approached, I suspected she might be tucked into one of my sweaters on her favorite closet shelf. Not even a major explosion would make Ski lift her head when she’s having a deep REM catnap in her own version of a Getaway Groves condo.
The point being that it didn’t occur to me that anything might be wrong with her as I entered the apartment. In fact, I was thinking about Mose. I’d met him at City Hall while doing my office cleaning and found him an interesting local character. Besides being a member of the town forestry committee, he was an excellent woodworker and amateur meteorologist.
&nb
sp; Mose didn’t seem to think I was some kind of (ouch again) stormy Sky, I told myself. Mose, who liked speaking in weather metaphors, had in fact once called me a fresh breeze in town. So why let those crabby emergency techs get under my skin? They couldn’t even recognize a monkey when they saw one—let alone a male monkey sans trousers.
With this in mind, I shrugged out of my coat, hung it on the rack, then sat down on the bench and leaned over to unzip my boots . . . which was when I saw Skiball crouched under the bench.
“Ski,” I said, surprised. “What’re you doing down there?”
She ignored me, staring straight ahead, all hunched up and silent.
Ski, silent? That caught my attention.
I reached a hand down to rub her nose. She didn’t respond. That struck me as odd. Ski loved when I rubbed her nose. When I rubbed her nose, she always purred and turned to mush.
Except she wasn’t purring and mushy now. She huddled under the bench, acting as if I were invisible.
“Hey,” I said, scratching the back of her neck. “You okay?”
Still no reaction.
A little concerned, I started to pick her up onto my lap. But it seemed to make her even tighter and tenser, and I decided to let her be.
I got up off the bench and went into my kitchen. I kept Ski’s food and water bowls in the pantry and wanted to see if she’d eaten.
The bowl of kibbles I’d poured for her before leaving the apartment looked untouched. I didn’t see any getting around it now—Ski’s behavior was more than a little strange. She always had a hearty appetite.
My brow crinkled. No sense getting worried yet, I thought. I would keep a close eye on her, see whether she seemed back to normal by morning. If she didn’t, I could start seriously considering a trip to the vet.
And then it hit me. A trip to the vet. Only Skiball didn’t have a veterinarian in town. Not anymore. I would have to find a new one. It was a sad thought for many reasons. Gail Pilsner had been gone just a few hours and life was already moving on without her.
I frowned. I didn’t want to dwell on that before going to bed, not unless I felt like tossing and turning all night. The best thing would be to take a nice, hot shower and then add some cleaning tips to my new Grime Solvers blog. I always found cleaning therapeutic, and thinking about cleaning worked nearly as well. I’d sit down to work on the blog entry till I tuckered out.
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