“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Betsy said, grinning broadly at Jim and me, “we don’t mind in the least.”
“Quite the contrary. Really,” Bob seconded.
“I must say,” Betsy said with a chuckle, “I’m utterly delighted to have met another couple with whom we have so much in common!”
Chapter 10
Take Turns Blowing on His Face
“So, what else did Helen Raleigh do to you poor folks?” I asked with as much sincerity as I could muster.
Jim gritted his teeth and groaned—though quietly enough that it was unlikely the Fenders heard. I ignored him as I kept my vision locked on Betsy. I hoped my expression looked suitably guileless and sympathetic.
The two Fenders exchanged unreadable glances.
Bob pulled on his wallpaper brush of a mustache. “Nothing else, really. But that’s simply because we never gave her the chance. She aimed that cantaloupe right at my face!” Bob’s whining voice sounded like that of a little child, tattling on an older sibling.
We started our trek homeward in earnest, with tour-guide Judy in the lead and the four of us at the tail end. “Look at the lichen,” Judy called out, gesturing at a rotting log. “Notice the size and color.”
I made the appropriate appreciative murmurs as I stepped over the lichen-laden log. “That’s terrible,” I said to Bob. “Did you file assault charges against her?”
“No, though we certainly could have.”
“We’re so lucky!” Judy cried. “Look, everyone! A bloodroot in June!” She pointed and veered off course to waddle up a hill toward some small, white flowers. The others ahead of us followed.
“We saw the bloodroot last week, didn’t we, Betsy?” She nodded.
“Let’s just go straight, then.” The four of us continued along the path. Bob turned to me. “That former homeowner of yours broke the frame of my glasses in two. I sent her a bill for my replacement frames, but she didn’t pay. We decided to turn the other cheek.”
“So you didn’t talk to her again? Or insist that she pay for your glasses or doctor bills?”
“No,” Betsy answered. “We try to lead by example. If someone can’t see the error of their ways, there’s nothing you can do but wait and hope the person comes around eventually.”
“That could be a motto for the way we live our lives, couldn’t it, Betsy?”
“It sure could,” she said proudly.
“A regular Joan of Arc,” Jim whispered.
“Toadflax!” came Judy’s distant voice.
Though we stayed with the Fenders for the rest of the tour, we learned nothing more about their relationship with Helen: Apparently, some foul language and the one melon chucked at Bob was the extent of their face-to-fruit dealings.
Once we had finally shut the doors of our Jeep behind us, Jim immediately said, “That was fun. We should do lunch more often.” He started the engine. “Along with our good friends, Bob and Betsy Fender-bender.”
I thought for a moment. “Can you imagine them in the vigilante role, willing to murder a human being for the sake of saving the life of a vegetable?”
“Not Betsy,” Jim answered, looking behind his shoulder to back the car out of its space. “I can’t picture her handling a rifle, let alone pulling the trigger. That Bob’s another matter. The guy’s certifiable.” Jim furrowed his brow as he shifted into gear. “You didn’t have to be so nice to them. How are we going to discourage them from thinking we’ve become friends for life? These people know where we live!”
“We’ll just have to move into my parents’ house permanently.”
Jim shot me such a horrified look, I had to laugh, “Just kidding.”
At my request, he dropped me off in front of our house, then left to return to work. I planned to stay at home just long enough to make sure everything was all right, then walk to Mom’s.
As I started up the walkway, I spotted Simon Smith on an aluminum extension ladder. He appeared to be removing the dome that housed one of his cameras. Curious, I walked toward his cedar fence and watched him. He was wearing the same baggy brown pants and faded plaid short-sleeve shirt as yesterday. He spotted me and sent me an evil glare.
“I hope you’re happy,” he shouted down in his raspy voice. “Your lawyer served papers on me. So I’m complying. Even though this is my own damned house.”
My lawyer? According to Roger Lillydale, Sheila’s license had been suspended. Maybe she had a partner working for her. “You mean Sheila Lillydale?”
“Yeah. You got more than one lawyer on my back?” Without waiting for my response, he continued, “She came over this morning with a batch of legal writs and rats. She told me I could either remove the cameras or get ‘em confiscated.” He turned his back on me and resumed his task.
“And she told you I’d hired her?” Simon gave no response.
“What did the papers she gave you say?”
He rotated a little to shoot me a quick glance in profile from his high perch. “Don’t play Miss Innocent with me! She’s acting on your behalf.”
Not necessarily, I thought. “Have you got a copy of those papers I could take a look at?”
He stopped his work and looked down at me. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy right now. Get your own damned copy. And tell that Joanne Abbott friend of yours to back off, too. Woman’s a lunatic. I already got the cameras on her side down, but is she grateful? Ha! Threatened to wring my neck.”
Simon turned back to his task, but continued to grumble to himself about how the women in this neighborhood had all conspired against him. I pivoted and headed across the street to the Lillydales’. No one was home.
Though Simon never looked at me, I got the feeling he was paying close attention to my movements as I crossed the street again, unlocked, my front door, and went in. First, I went upstairs to Karen’s room to check whether or not the cardboard we’d taped over the hole in her window was holding. It was, and I went back downstairs. The house was quiet and in the same state I’d left it in yesterday. I decided to ignore the possible phone tap and to call Sheila at the business number she’d given me. I located Sheila’s business card, sat down at the built-in desk in my kitchen, and dialed.
She answered on the first ring. As soon as I identified myself, she said, “Oh, Molly. I was about to call you. I had my secretary type up some documents that stated you were bringing a complaint against Mr. Smith unless he removed his cameras and—”
“Yeah, that’s precisely what he told me happened. He’s removing them even as we speak.”
“Wonderful. I’m glad I could get such expedient results for you.”
“I am, too.” Except...was our part in this actually legal? How I could tactfully inquire about whether or not she had been disbarred? “I ran into your husband at the mall yesterday.”
After a pause, Sheila said, “He was supposed to still be in Boston. What time was this?”
“Early afternoon. About one-thirty, I guess.”
“I see.” Her pitch had dropped a couple of notches. “He came back to town early and didn’t let me know. No wonder he didn’t call me last night. Was he with another woman?”
“No, but he...kind of implied he was waiting for someone who never showed up. I hope this isn’t upsetting news.”
“It is,” she said in a voice choked with emotion. “That’s not your fault, though. I’m glad you told me. At least now I know where he is.”
“I may as well just tell you this straight out. He told me you’d had your law license revoked. Is that true?”
“No! How dare Roger tell you that!” Her anger was so intense the phone seemed to grow hot in my hand. After a pause, Sheila spoke in calmer tones. “It’s true that I butted heads with an obstinate judge last month who threatened to yank my license, but we got everything worked out. Roger’s selective memory must have omitted that part. You can check my story against the records of the New York State Bar Association if you’d like.”
“I’m
sorry about the problems you and Roger are having. I don’t know what else to say, Sheila. Thank you for handling Simon Smith for me so quickly.”
For a couple of minutes after hanging up, I stayed seated and mulled which of the Lillydales’ stories was more plausible. My answer was both and neither, in equal measure. Maybe they both were telling the truth as they knew it. All I could tell was that, lately, I didn’t care much for either of them. I might actually have to take Sheila up on her suggestion to check her story.
There are few things less enjoyable in this world than having to deal with government bureaucrats, all the while not knowing whom to speak with or what questions to ask. I could just imagine trying to do that in person while dragging the children around with me.
The thought of running errands with the children gave me an idea for a silly cartoon. On a blank sheet of typing paper, I sketched a drawing of a frantic-looking woman with one hand on the steering wheel, the other gripping the back of a child’s shirt. The child is hanging out the passenger window to hold onto a dog’s legs, and a second child watches in horror from the backseat. The woman says, “This is the last time Fido falls out the window! From now on, when he wants more air, we take turns blowing on his face!”
While I locked up, intending to head to Mom’s house, I decided to first check on Simon’s progress removing his cameras. Both were down, but as I trudged across my yard, something else caught my eye.
Were those new holes in my yard? I went over for a closer look. There were three newly turned areas of soil and a slight mound of dirt by the back corner of the house on the side yard. I stared at it. Tire treads from the Bobcat had now been partially covered in two distinct places by loose soil. These dirt piles couldn’t possibly have come from the one little pumpkin plant my mother had planted yesterday. I didn’t notice the new holes and dirt piles then. Someone had dug up my yard again in the last twenty-four hours.
Simon! Those cameras of his were still up last night, so he probably had the trespasser on tape!
I rounded his fence and cut through his front yard to ring his doorbell. No answer. But I was quite certain I’d heard some noise from inside. I rang again. Though his,’ image was distorted, I could see him through the narrow etched-glass window that ran parallel to the edge of the door. He was standing in the entranceway looking through the glass at me, as if waiting to see if I’d go away. I leaned on the buzzer. Simon finally yanked it open.
“What do you want, Mrs. Masters? I took the cameras down. You want me to move my damn house now ?”
“No, I need your help.” Simon merely sneered, so I added in somber tones, “I need to take advantage of your professional expertise.”
That got the desired reaction from him. He lifted his chin and said, “I’m listening.”
“Someone’s been digging in my yard since yesterday afternoon.”
Simon grinned slowly, revealing crooked teeth. Then he made a hissing noise that gradually grew into a full chortle. He slapped his thigh in delight. His pants, I noticed, had permanent-looking bumps from his knobby knees. “I was hoping you’d notice that, Mrs. Masters. And I bet you’d like to know who that person was, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would.” Simon continued to laugh, wiping his eyes at the humor of it all—which was totally lost on me. “Happened late last night. Got the whole thing on tape.”
“Could you show it to me? Please?”
He shook his head, still smiling broadly. “Nope. Not unless you send me a written apology, cancel all legal proceedings against me, and climb up there yourself to reinstall my camera equipment.”
“I’m not going to do that!”
“Then I’m not going to give you my tape.” He started to close the door in my face.
I reached out quickly and pushed the door back against him. “Fine. Be that way. I’ll call the police and tell them you’re withholding key evidence in the murder of Helen Raleigh.”
“You do that,” he said, letting go of the door to wag a gnarled finger at me, “and I’ll erase the recording before they get here!”
“Then you’ll be destroying evidence. That’s a federal offense. You’ll go to prison.”
Simon growled, then pounded his fist into his palm and cursed about the “damned dames in this neighborhood.” In that moment, he looked like Rumpelstiltskin, set to tear himself in two. He threw up his palms and gruffly said, “All right, then, damn it! I’ll give you the damned DVD! It’s the neighborly thing to do, after all.”
He pointed to my feet on his cement front porch. “You stay right here and don’t take one step into my house. Man’s got to have his private space.”
After a minute or two, Simon returned and handed me two DVDs. “These are from both cameras. They show the person digging from different angles.” Again, he wagged a bony finger in my face. “Don’t forget to buy me new tapes. And don’t go getting me cheap ones. I only use top of the line.”
He started to close the door again, but I asked gently, “You said this happened last night?”
“Yep. The time’s recorded in the lower-right corner. Motion detectors automatically activate the camera, so you don’t have to scan through hours of your empty yard.”
“Yesterday, you said you got the Newton boys on camera. Are the recordings activated by anyone walking around, clear back in the woods, too?”
“Er, no, it’s got to be motion in your yard, near your house. It was your mom out there planting that set it off yesterday. In the corner of the screen you can see the barrel of the gun poking out and the shot being fired.”
“How about last night’s recording? Wasn’t it too dark to make out anything?”
“There’s enough light from the street lamp and the beam from my floodlights. It’s dark, but you can make out some things. Tell you this much, it was a man. A tall man. Frankly, till you came over here ranting and raving about it, I just figured it was your husband.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” I indicated the tapes and said, “Thanks. I’ll turn these in to the police, but I’ll be sure to replace them.”
“Damn well better,” Simon said and slammed the door behind me.
In my assigned role as a responsible citizen aiding the police, I knew my first step should have been to turn the discs over to Tommy immediately. I was too curious. Instead I raced home, popped them into my DVR, and scanned backward as I watched a tall man whose back was turned rapidly undig three holes in my yard. Then I watched it from start to finish in slow motion.
I could see why Simon had assumed it was Jim. The man, wearing a dark jacket, jeans, dark shoes, and a fedora, had my husband’s tall, thin build. I twice replayed the entire section of tape from the moment the man walked onto my yard until he left, having taken nothing with him. He never picked anything up out of his holes, so whatever he was looking for went unfound. Which was what? Surely not the poodle’s body. Money? Gold? Jewelry?
I popped the disc in, and this one showed the man’s face in a partial profile. Though that at least revealed he was a Caucasian, it was just too dark a recording to make out any identifying details. It could have been Roger Lillydale. Could also have been Jim. Or the President, for that matter. Maybe the police would have one of those devices that zoom in on sections of film.
But what could he have been digging for? The police had plowed up the whole area and found nothing.
Perhaps Helen had fed the poodle a map of where the “treasure” was buried, then deliberately killed the dog before its digestive tract could dissolve the directions. That theory might have been a tad far-fetched. But maybe Helen fed the dog a key to a locker that held great riches.
The phone rang. By the sneeze on the other end, I knew it was Lauren before she’d had a chance to say hello. “You’re not going to believe this,” Lauren went on. “I had lunch with Tommy today and met him in his office. Some paperwork was on his desk and I happened to glance down and see it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Remember whom you’re talking to here.
/>
You don’t have to make excuses for snooping to me .”
“I know, but I feel guilty for doing this to Tommy.”
Too anxious to hear what she had to say to come up with a solid argument for her, I merely said, “Ah, guilty, shmilty. What did you find out?”
“Tommy ran a check a few days ago on the social security number the guy claiming to be Helen Raleigh used on documents during the sale of your house.”
“Aha! The dragster’s identity revealed at last!” I grabbed a pen. “So what was his real name?”
“If the police have that information already, I wasn’t able to learn it from the paper on Tommy’s desk. There really was a Helen Raleigh with that social security number, though. She was an innocent bystander who got killed during a robbery of a jewelry store in Los Angeles three years ago.”
“No kidding?”
Lauren blew her nose, then echoed, “No kidding.”
“Three years ago. That was just a couple of months before the man disguised as Helen first purchased this house.”
“You got it. But don’t let on to Tommy that you know any of this. Or he’ll figure out I was the leak and be furious with me.”
“The Mr. Helen Raleigh who bought this house must have been the robber and took her wallet after shooting her,” I said, thinking out loud. “Otherwise, how could he have known her social security number? Still, you’d think the original loan officer on this house. would have run checks and found out Helen Raleigh was deceased.”
“Sure, but my guess is it takes a while for those things to clear. Then when it does, your Mr. Helen says, ‘Obviously, since I’m alive, there’s been a mistake.’ And if the house payments keep coming in on time, the whole question about social security numbers falls through the cracks.”
“Did they ever recover the goods from the robbery?”
“I have no idea. You’ll have to find that out for yourself. Using, I might add, some method that doesn’t involve asking Tommy directly about the robbery, since you’re not supposed to know about that.”
Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 12