by Joan Hess
Peter had propped it against a wall next to the small dining table, the table itself being piled so high with junk that it had alpine slopes. I fetched it, sidestepped a box of extraneous kitchen gadgets, and sat back on the sofa. I put the legal correspondence aside and began to examine the manila folders. The contents were mostly forms for offers, photocopies of signed paperwork and inspection reports, and bids from plumbing and tile businesses. Apparently someone was demanding a remodeled bathroom before the purchase date. There was a booklet of listings, with terse comments written in the margin. The house in Hollow Valley did not appear on any of the paperwork.
“Maybe she’s hiding at home,” Caron suggested.
Her business card had only her office’s address. “I guess I can try the telephone directory,” I said.
“Stay here and drink your coffee,” my darling daughter ordered. She went to her bedroom and returned a half minute later. Handing me a scrap of paper, she said, “Here are her home telephone number and address.”
“How did you get these so quickly?”
Caron gave me a pained look. “On my computer, naturally. Nobody uses a telephone directory anymore, Mother. In a year or two, there won’t be any telephone directories. You have a computer at the Book Depot. All businesses, even bookstores, have online sales. Do you even know what an e-mail is?”
I dialed Angela’s home number, which greeted me with a male voice announcing that Danny and Angela weren’t home but would return my call. I thought of several colorful Anglo-Saxon expletives but kept them to myself. “All I can see to do is drive to her house and pound on the door. If she’s not there, I’ll go to her office and find someone with information about the listing.”
“Sherlock couldn’t have come up with a better plan,” Caron said as she headed for the bathroom. “Let me know if you find out anything.”
“You have twenty minutes to get ready,” I said to her back.
“Inez and I are going to the mall to hang out. Joel said he’d be there unless his mother pulls some obnoxious scheme to ruin his life.”
“Shall I e-mail her and offer some suggestions?”
The bathroom door closed with unnecessary vigor, but not quickly enough to muffle the “Oh, Mother!”
* * *
We picked up Inez and drove to Angela’s. I told Inez about the Hollow Valley house. She sounded excited, despite what I’m sure was a barrage of dirty looks across the backseat. Angela and the wretched Danny lived in a pricey neighborhood. Their house was a two-story brick mini mansion with imposing trees and ivied walls. I parked in the driveway and walked to the front door, keeping an eye out for twitching curtains or glimpses of an ashen face. Unlike in the black-and-white movies of yore, the windows remained blank. I rang the doorbell, waited for a moment, rang it again, and began to knock as loudly as I could. I kept this up for three minutes before acknowledging both the futility of it and the soreness of my knuckles.
Caron and Inez joined me. The former said, “We looked in all the ground-floor windows. I don’t think anybody’s home.” Inez happily described the frilly decor and panoply of china vases and marble bowls, but I ignored her as I considered my next move.
“May I help you?” asked a Hispanic woman walking up the driveway. “I am the housekeeper. Do you want to leave a message for Mrs. Delmond? I can give it to her when she gets here.”
“I’m a friend of Mrs. Delmond, and I’m worried about her. I’ve called and called, but I haven’t heard back from her. We need to find her now. She could have tripped and broken her leg and be lying on the floor.” Or worse, if Danny Delmond had lured her to their house with a mendacious claim concerning arson or vandalism.
The woman was not an easy mark. “You wait here and I’ll see if she’s home.” She took a key out of her purse and unlocked the door, then went inside and closed it firmly. Caron and Inez took the opportunity to discuss Rhonda Maguire’s new haircut and the way she’d been snorkeling for compliments even though it looked like a pile of straw. I sat down on a step and tried to convince myself that no one was buying my house from under me.
The door opened, and the woman said, “Mrs. Delmond is not here, and her car is not in the garage. I do not think she slept here last night. I got to clean the house so I can get to my next job.” As she closed the door, she added, “Majors Americanas stupids!”
I deduced that it was not a flattering remark. I ordered Caron and Inez back into the car and drove to Bartleby-King and Associates. “At least we know one place Angela isn’t,” I said.
“If she’s driving at sixty miles per hour,” Inez chimed in, “she could be over twelve hundred miles away. She’d already be in New York City or Miami, and close to Los Angeles. If she went to Chicago, she’d be back here by now.”
Caron does not care to relinquish center stage. “Oh, like she’d drive round-trip to Chicago to buy a pizza or something. Give Me a Break!”
I was no more pleased than Caron to have the information. I parked in front of the office building that Bartleby-King shared with an orthodontist and an insurance company. I left Caron and Inez both texting with astounding alacrity and went inside, where I was greeted by a young woman. “I’m here to see Angela Delmond,” I said with maternal steeliness.
She was clearly flustered. “Oh, you called earlier, didn’t you? Angela’s not here, like I said.” She glanced at a closed door. “Mr. Bartleby’s not here, either. I don’t know when to expect him. If you want to write a message, I’ll make sure he sees it as soon as he gets back from, ah, his closing. He may have scheduled a lunch appointment, and he usually goes to the bank on Fridays.”
“Today’s Wednesday. I do not desire to stay here until Friday afternoon, but I will. I prefer coffee with a splash of cream, and iced cake doughnuts sprinkled with coconut.” I sat down on the couch and reached for a magazine.
The receptionist scurried down a hallway. I wondered if she was planning to go out the back door. I should have had Caron and Inez guard the exits so that we could, if the situation necessitated it, smoke out the office occupants one at a time. Peter most likely would be upset when he heard about it, I told myself as I watched buttons light up on the receptionist’s phone. When it became evident that I wasn’t getting any coffee, I opened the door in the corner.
A man looked up from his desk. “Mrs. Malloy,” he said, no doubt having been warned via the intra-office phone line, “as Jennifer already told you, Angela Delmond is not here. Frankly, we don’t know where she is. She failed to show up last evening to meet some clients, and again this morning. If you have any information concerning her whereabouts, I’d like to know.” He glared at me as if I’d kidnapped Angela and was there to demand a ransom.
“So would I.” I sat down in a leather chair and appraised him. His hairline was receding, and he was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and navy blue tie. He had the look of a staunch member of the chamber of commerce and the obligatory civic clubs. To his credit, he did seem worried about Angela. “Have you spoken to her husband?”
“No reason to. Danny’s living in a condo near Thurber Street. He has plenty of friends in the building, since it’s where all the middle-of-a-divorce boys camp out until the property is settled.”
“He and his girlfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Bartleby said, pretending to be shocked at my insinuation. “You had an appointment yesterday afternoon with Angela?”
“She showed me a house, and my husband and I want to buy it.” I told him about Angela’s abrupt departure and my attempts to call her.
Bartleby beamed at me. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Malloy. Is Mr. Malloy here with you? Tell him to come on in and we’ll get started on the offer. Don’t you worry about Angela—I’ll make sure she gets her share of the commission.”
“My name is Ms. Malloy, and my husband’s name is Peter Rosen. He’s out of town, but I’m quite capable of signing the offer. The house is located in Hollow Valley. I don’t have t
he address, but surely you do.”
“Hollow Valley? That doesn’t sound familiar.” He took out a notebook and thumbed through it. “There’s a lovely house on Holland Avenue, three bedrooms, two baths, and a fireplace. At the listed price it’s a bargain, but we can try to get the sellers to come down a few thousand dollars—”
“Hollow Valley,” I interrupted before he filled out an offer form and stabbed my hand with a pen. “It’s at the northeast edge of Farberville, barely within the city limits. It has four bedrooms and four bathrooms, French doors, and is unoccupied but fully furnished.”
“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe it just came on the market yesterday. You stay here while I check with the sales team. Somebody has to know something.”
While he went in search of information, I gazed at the duck prints hanging on his office walls, along with all manner of framed awards and citations. The photo of the Bartleby-King Little League team members hinted at a less than victorious season, if their tiny trophies were indicative. Several years ago I’d been asked to sponsor a team, but the Book Depot didn’t have enough cash to buy a baseball—even a used one.
“This is puzzling,” Bartleby said as he entered the office. “This house you described isn’t listed by anyone. Angela knows we have very strict guidelines about private sales. We have to keep a roof over our heads, don’t we?” His chuckle was strained.
“Did you look in her desk?”
“Thoroughly searched.” He leaned back in his chair to stare at me. “Did Angela mention a price?”
I shook my head. “Only that it was well below market value. What about her computer? It might have some information.”
“It might, but we insist that our agents change their passwords weekly. There have been accusations of poaching clients and potential listings. I’m sure a hacker could get into her files, but our office policy forbids it. Trust is essential to team success.”
He’d attended too many seminars on management techniques. I pictured him falling backward into his colleagues’ protective arms—or cracking his head on the floor. “You’re sure Danny isn’t involved?” I asked.
“Danny’s an outstanding member of our community. He served on the school board and organized the upcoming Babes, Boobs, and Bling biker rally. There’s going to be a wet T-shirt contest and live music on Saturday. Good, clean family fun. Now you just let me take care of this, Ms. Malloy. Angela will pop up before too long, and then we can make sure you get that house you’re so fond of.” He stood up, in case I’d missed the cue to leave. “I’ve got an appointment in five minutes. Afterward, I’ll go ahead and call Danny. If he knows anything, I’ll pass it along.”
I exited graciously, but I was fuming as I got in the car. “I don’t suppose either of you knows how to hack into a computer,” I said as I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel. “Wait, I don’t want to know the answer. It’s likely to be a federal offense.”
“It is,” Inez said.
“So you might as well let us go to the mall,” Caron added smugly. “Can I borrow twenty dollars?”
3
“Let’s go out to the Hollow Valley house,” I suggested brightly. “Angela may be asleep in a bed, à la Goldilocks.”
“I left my red hoodie at home,” muttered Caron. “You go right ahead, Mother, but keep an eye out for a big, bad wolf. He might blow your house down. Please can I borrow the twenty dollars? I swear I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”
“With what?”
“With the twenty dollars you pay me for breaking into Angela’s house. Fifty if the housekeeper’s there. Please, Mother?”
Peter would not be happy if he got back to Farberville on the day of her arraignment. I dumped them at the duplex and went to the Book Depot to brood. The clerk whom Peter had hired for me was a grad student from the English Department. He’d told me that he’d been writing his dissertation for five and a half years on James Joyce’s use of alliteration. As I came inside, he stuck a book under the counter and stared at me with disconcerting intensity.
I flinched. “Did we receive the shipment from that small press in Arizona?”
“Yes, Ms. Malloy. I went over the invoice and placed it on your desk.” He consulted a notepad. “The sales rep for the college press dropped off the fall catalog. The fall reading lists from the area public schools and the college are on your desk. I wrote up the orders, and as soon as you review them, I’ll submit them electronically. I’ve rearranged the window display for this month. In mid-July, I thought we might run a sale on beach books—if you approve, of course. I repaired the leak in the lavatory. The exterminator is coming on Friday.”
“Thank you,” I said weakly. The Book Depot, my musty, unruly baby, was in more capable hands. My desk was neater than it had been in a decade. The filing cabinets’ drawers could be closed without straining, and the habitual clutter atop them had been vanquished. My wastebasket was empty. As I sat down behind my desk, I felt as though I were intruding. Sighing, I reached for the order forms. Which were thorough and flawless.
A few customers came in to browse and left with paperbacks, study guides, or nothing whatsoever. My science fiction hippie, replete with scruffy hair, tangled beard, and pink flip-flops, shuffled inside and ducked behind a rack. After a while, I cornered him and frisked him with the diligence of a TSA officer. Once I’d removed the paperbacks he’d stashed in the pockets of his odiferous army surplus jacket, we chatted amiably as I escorted him out the door. If the Book Depot ever closed, I’d miss him, fleas and all.
I was accomplishing nothing. My beloved house was beginning to blur in my mind. Were the drapes in the master bedroom pearl or ash gray? How many bar stools were available should I desire to entertain guests with a demonstration of my cooking prowess (after a semester at Le Cordon Bleu)? Did the foyer have an umbrella stand?
If I couldn’t deal with the elusive Angela or the pompous broker, I needed to cut out the flotsam in the middle and speak to the owner. I would simply tell him that I wanted to buy the house. No quibbling or bargaining required. He would accept the check and hand over the key. Nattie had said something about the house belonging to Winston. I opened the telephone directory. Winston was his first name; Hollow was apt to be his surname. Although my deductive skill was admirable, Winston Hollow had not deigned to allow his name to be published in such a plebeian locale, nor had any of his fellow Hollows. All the surnamed Winstons lived on familiar streets. I closed the directory.
Caron, bless her parsimonious heart, could have used her computer to locate him in the bowels of Tasmania or wherever else he was hiding from me. She would not be pleased if I interrupted her rendezvous at the mall, however. A rather clever idea came to mind. I went out to the counter, where the clerk was wiping the wood surface with lemon-scented polish.
“I need to find somebody,” I said to him, “but I don’t know how to search on the Internet. Will you do it for me?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Why not? I am your employer, you know. Do you have scruples that preclude Internet snooping? I’m not stalking someone. Please give me one good reason why you won’t try.”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Not to explain your refusal?”
His expression was unfathomable, and I wasn’t at all surprised when he said, “I would prefer not to.”
I might have wrung his neck had it not been unseemly. “Well,” I said with a delicate harrumph, “I do hope that you would prefer not to end your sentences with a preposition!” I swept out the front door before he could respond and leaned against the hood of my car to regain my innate sense of decorum. Had Peter not been so thoughtless as to be incommunicado, he could have his buddies at the CIA find Winston in a nanosecond. I ran through my list of friends and acquaintances who were computer literate. Luanne, my best friend, was spending the summer in Greece, in search of Zorbaesque bimboys. The Haskells were on sabbatical in England, and Maggie Knott was visiting grandchildren in North Carol
ina. Babs Peabody was in rehab for the third or fourth time. I would have made some calls to others who might be in town, but I’d yet to recharge my cell phone—and I wasn’t about to go back inside the Book Depot after such a magnificent parting shot.
The library was six blocks away. I parked, went inside, and asked for help at the reference desk. The twenty-something woman did her best to hide her disdain as she settled me in front of a computer, clicked hither and thither, and then showed me how to search for pretty much everybody and everything in the universe. Naturally, I typed in my name first, then spent a satisfying hour reading newspaper articles that mentioned my minor contributions to solving murder cases in Farberville. The events in Egypt were not noted, courtesy of various covert agencies.
I typed Winston Hollow’s name in the box and waited. My eyebrows rose as I read the local newspaper’s brief article concerning the accidental death of Winston Hollow Martinson. It had taken place in early spring, behind his home in Hollow Valley. Police had been called to the scene, where an unnamed relative had found the body tangled in branches at the edge of a river. Fishing tackle was found on the bank upstream, along with marks in the mud that indicated that the victim had lost his footing and been knocked unconscious as he fell into the water. His housemate, Terry Kennedy, was in Europe at the time, which explained why Winston Martinson’s absence had not been noticed for a week. Case closed.
The obituary was not much longer. Winston, son of Victor Martinson and Sara Hollow Martinson, both deceased, had been thirty-six at the time of his death. He had a degree in fine arts from a liberal arts college on the East Coast and had designed sets for off-Broadway theater shows before returning to Farberville three years ago to focus on painting. He’d never married and had no offspring. There was no mention of a funeral or memorial service.