Jim finally found a space. As he pulled on the parking brake, I asked, “So, do you think I’m right about Simon Smith and Frank Worscheim?”
“I think you should leave this up to the police to investigate.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll do that.”
Recognizing my sarcasm, he chuckled and escorted me through the asphalt lot to the church where our fellow Sherwood Forest home owners were holding their annual meeting. The outside of the church was a rather ugly white stucco. I’d never been inside before and was surprised to find it quite nice. The ceiling was slatted wood that resembled the inside of a ship’s hull. The pews and hardwood floor were in a complementary light grain. A long, white-skirted table was located in front of the room, where Joanne Abbott and three men I didn’t recognize sat conversing with one another.
I scanned the room for faces I recognized, but, other than Joanne, I recognized only her husband in the corner. Stan’s thick neck and pudgy form were recognizable even at a distance. This lack of friendly faces out of the hundred plus that were here was an unpleasant surprise. There was a general din of hostile voices. Part of that was no doubt caused by the heat. The crush of bodies made the quarters stuffy, despite the spinning overhead fans and open windows.
Ignoring our off-putting surroundings, Jim greeted everyone we angled past with his customary charm and friendliness. He received nods or solemn hellos, nothing more. The pews were filled; but we found two folding chairs in the back.
In front of us, Joanne’s group discussion had grown quite animated. The scene could easily lend itself to a cartoon gag, where a group of people at a table marked “Executive Committee” are involved in a brawl. In the audience, a woman wearing a startled expression listens to the woman beside her, who says, “Oh, they’re simply choosing their seats. Things won’t heat up till the meeting actually starts.”
I turned to the middle-aged couple beside me and said, “This is my first meeting. Do you normally get a turnout like this?”
“Are you kidding? Not hardly,” the female half of the couple answered. Her husband merely smirked.
“You must take your mailboxes seriously around here.”
“Mailboxes?” she repeated.
‘That was the main topic to discuss, according to the newsletter. The architectural committee has recommended that home owners replace their metal mailboxes with wooden ones, and they’re putting the matter up for a vote tonight.”
The woman furrowed her brow. “I don’t know anything about that. I just heard that some transvestite was shot dead in someone’s yard. And I want to know what they’re going to do about it.”
“Do about it?” I repeated, feeling the blood drain from my face.
She nodded, setting her jaw. “We hear it’s a young, seedy-looking couple who just recently bought the house.”
“Whoever lives there must be running some kind of a crack house!” her husband exclaimed.
Seedy-looking? Crack house? This was not going to be your typical, friendly get-together of a few neighbors. I glanced at Jim. His forehead was dotted with perspiration and his dark brown eyes had flown wide.
“Maybe it’s not too late to escape,” Jim whispered to me. We both looked back at the heavy oak double doors. People who’d come in behind us were standing two deep, right in front of the doors. There would be no leaving inconspicuously. We turned around again. I had butterflies the size of eagles in my stomach. Oh, well. At least the rumor had pegged us as “young.”
“Are you two new in the neighborhood?” the man asked, looking right at Jim.
“Yes. Though my wife actually grew up in this neighborhood. Didn’t you, dear?”
“Uh, sure.” I forced a smile. “I like to think I’ve grown up. All told, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for twenty years now. In total law-abiding peace and tranquility.”
The man looked puzzled at my response, but Joanne Abbott pounded a gavel before he could ask what I meant. I had forgotten that she was acting association president, filling in for the president—our mutual neighbor who was still on vacation in Europe.
“Let’s bring the meeting to order. First on our agenda is—”
“To hell with the agenda,” some male voice cried. “We need to know what’s going on with that homosexual who got stabbed on somebody’s doorstep.”
“Let’s keep our facts straight,” Joanne said, raising a placating palm to the audience. “That was no homosexual, as far as anyone knows. That was my neighbor, Helen Raleigh, who rumor has it, though it’s just a rumor, was actually a man. And Helen was shot, not stabbed, on Jim and Molly Masters’s yard; Isn’t that right, Molly?”
All eyes scanned the audience. My mouth felt dry. I cleared my throat and mustered a smile. “Yes, that sounds about right.”
The couple in the seats nearest to mine squirmed and inched their chairs farther away.
“So what was this person doing getting shot in your yard, I’d like to know!” I didn’t recognize the speaker, but he had a Stalinish mustache and was nobody I felt like messing with.
“Doing? He was just lying there, bleeding. It’s not as though he asked my permission to get killed on my property. Had he done so, I certainly would have told him no.”
“Why are you yelling at my wife?” Jim asked pointedly. “She didn’t kill anybody!”
“How do we know that?” some red-faced man said from three rows up. “I heard you’re running a crack house out of your basement.”
“Puh-lease!” I cried. “I create greeting cards, not drugs.”
“Our property values are going to drop if people keep getting shot here,” an elderly voice cried.
“Greeting cards?” one of the male board members next to Joanne repeated.
Maybe I could divert everyone’s attention by launching into a sales pitch for Molly’s eCards. “Yes. They’re completely harmless. Some of them aren’t quite as humorous as I’d like, but they’re not even offensive to anyone.”
“Plus, has everyone seen their yard?” the man with the big mustache exclaimed. “I’ve seen better-looking dumps!”
“Do you evaluate dumps for your profession, or is that your hobby?” I couldn’t help but ask.
He clenched his jaw.
“You do have to admit, though, Molly, you’re somewhat of a Typhoid Mary,” Joanne said into the microphone. She raised one corner of her pink-painted lips. “Or, a Typhoid Molly, as it were.”
I stared at her in surprise.
“In the entire forty-year history of this subdivision,” Joanne went on, “no one was ever killed here until you moved back here two years ago. Since then, we’ve had two murders.”
“Our property values are going to go down!” the same elderly voice cried out from the crowd.
Calm. I needed to stay calm. “Surely, Joanne, you’re not saying you blame me for the former owner of my house’s murder. Or for a neighbor’s tragic death two years ago. It’s just a coincidence. Other people have moved into Sherwood Forest in the last two years. Are you going to accuse them of jinxing the place, too?”
“Of course not,” Joanne puffed. “But my point is, we used to have such a wonderful, peaceful neighborhood. And this murder took place in your yard.”
Desperately, I scanned the seats ahead of me for Sheila Lillydale. For once I fully felt the need of her legal skills to defend my rights.
“Two doors down from your house,” Jim said, rising and pointing at Joanne. “My wife was inside our house, heard the gunshot, and rushed out to try to save the victim. It was a terrifying experience. None of you has the right to vilify her!”
“Actually, you might have the right,” I told Jim as he sat back down. “Wasn’t it in our marriage vows ‘to love, honor, and vilify, when appropriate’?”
Jim ignored my attempt to lighten the tension. In the meantime, Joanne pounded the gavel unnecessarily, for Jim’s words had silenced the room. “Mr. Masters is absolutely correct,” Joanne said, now using appeasing tones. “None of us is a
ccusing you or your wife of any role in this, other than that of an unfortunate witness. Isn’t that right?”
The male board members immediately agreed with this. The woman beside me said, “That must have been dreadful for you. I don’t even know what I’d do in that situation. I think I’d faint.” She turned to her husband. “Don’t you, dear?”
“She’d faint, all right,” the husband said. “Probably puke, as well.”
The board member closest to Joanne grabbed the microphone and launched into a speech about how it was “good people like Mr. and Mrs. Masters we all need to encourage and support in our little neighborhood.” That it was “neighbor helping neighbor” and “backyard barbecues” that kept this town the “good, safe place to live.”
I murmured into Jim’s ear, “Next they’ll launch into a chorus of ‘My Country ‘tis of Thee.’” I was thoroughly perturbed at Joanne Abbott. First she insinuated that I was responsible, then had the nerve to act as though everyone were being just as reasonable as could be.
“I’m sure we all appreciate the trauma you’ve been through, Molly, and we admire your bravery in trying to save Helen Raleigh’s life. Don’t we, everyone?” Our feckless leader looked down her Roman nose to scan the audience. “Let’s give Molly Masters a big hand.”
Everyone dutifully began to clap. This time I rose. Cutting off the applause, I said to Joanne, “First you call me a Typhoid Mary, then you lead everyone in clapping for me? Which is it, Joanne? Are you running for political office or something?”
For an instant, Joanne was nonplussed. Then she said in gratingly calm tones, “I merely gave a voice to the many grumblings I’ve been hearing, so that I could allow you the opportunity to defend yourself publicly.”
“Thank you so much, Joanne.” I put my hands on my hips and eyed the sea of faces that surrounded me. They dropped their eyes as I met each gaze. “If any of you think that I am a bad or dangerous element in this neighborhood, all I ask is that you have the guts to discuss it with me face-to-face. And not”—I glared at Joanne—”from behind a microphone.”
Jim rose and said quietly, “Let’s get out of here.”
The room was completely silent. I started to follow Jim, then paused. “By the way. You know that nondescript aluminum mailbox I’ve got now? I’m getting an eight-foot-tall clown statue from a fast-food restaurant and installing a mail slot in it. The statue’s made of wood, so I know you’ll all approve.”
Jim put his arm around me and escorted me to the car. Neither of us spoke as we got in. Jim started the engine and said, “I guess we might as well start looking now.”
“Start looking?” I repeated, thinking he meant we should start searching for a new house and leave this neighborhood.
“It could take us quite a while to find an eight-foot-tall wooden clown.”
The next morning was Thursday. I was biding my time at our house, waiting for the repair person for Karen’s window. I came out onto my porch at the sound of a truck pulling into my driveway. To my surprise, it was a lawn-service vehicle. The driver was staring at my side yard as he got out of the vehicle.
“Holy moley,” he said, starting to wander toward the side yard as he spoke.
“No, the name’s Molly, not Moley.” By now, I was so sick of hearing about my chewed-up yard that I had no patience for this, especially not if this was some sales ploy to encourage me to fork over the bucks to save my lawn. “What can I do for you?”
I followed as he wandered onto my yard, staring at the dirt as if I hadn’t spoken. “And here I thought Helen Raleigh was exaggerating about how messed up her lawns were.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly remembering. “You must be from the lawn service that Helen had scheduled. Helen doesn’t live here anymore. I do. I meant to—”
“You’re going to need all new sod. This is gonna cost extra, you know.”
“I meant to call and cancel. I don’t need your services.” He snorted and pushed his green cap back on his forehead with a thumb. “Beg to differ, lady. But, hey, it’s your house.”
“Did you use to help Helen Raleigh maintain this property?”
“Sure did: I just took care of spraying for weeds and fertilizing, though. She always took meticulous care of the gardens and stuff.” He scanned the chewed-up area as if in awe of how badly the place had deteriorated in three months.
“Do you ever recall coming out and finding piles of dirt or recently dug up areas, or anything?” I strode in front of the hole where we’d uncovered the diamonds. Indicating it with a sweeping gesture, I asked, “Especially right in this general area?”
He chuckled. “She used to stand right about where you are now and keep an eye on me. She explained she had herbs in this garden and didn’t want me getting near it with my spray can. She was a real gardening fanatic, let me tell you.”
“So you never saw it dug up, as it is now?”
“Like it is now? Not by a long shot.” He started to return to his truck.
“But you ‘have seen it partially dug up?”
He shrugged. “Helen must’ve really been into turning the soil in her herb garden. That often had exposed topsoil. But the lawn was always meticulous.” He ran his eyes over me. “Till you moved in. Good luck restoring it. You might want to consider—”
“Could you please just give me a written estimate? Maybe I can make some phone calls and find out if the party responsible for these damages will pay to have you fix this mess.”
An hour later, I was in the midst of a thorough vacuuming of my daughter’s room to ensure Karen wouldn’t step on a glass shard. The glass repairman had come and gone, having replaced the window in Karen’s room. I had gotten a bid from the lawn service and passed it along to Tommy, who agreed that his department should pay for it. I asked again if he could take it out of the reward money, and he merely laughed and said he had money budgeted for situations such as mine.
I dusted and then moved the desk and shelves. As I did so, the section of the room’s wall-to-wall carpeting nearest the baseboard came loose at a seam. This particular carpet problem had inspired us to place the desk where we did—slightly off-center from the window and on top of the bad seam. I knelt and pulled up the loose carpet, figuring I should clean under this section of the carpet as well, since I was so near the window.
The padding looked as though it had been sliced un-evenly. Upon close inspection, I realized that this wasn’t a seam in the carpeting after all. Someone had taken a sharp knife and deliberately sliced through both the carpeting and its pad. Curious, I knelt and grabbed a handful of pad and carpet and pulled them both back, revealing a triangle of the plywood flooring underneath. A foot-long square had been cut out of the plywood and patched back in, with a hole drilled close to the edge of the square. For all the world, it looked like the proverbial “loose-floorboard” hiding place. I stuck my index finger in the hole and removed the small section of flooring.
There was a four-inch gap between the plywood of the second floor where I now knelt and the top of the first-floor ceiling bellow. It was empty. Frank must have hidden something here at one point, though. Apparently he hadn’t cared whether or not his hiding place was a cliche. Perhaps this had been the original hiding place for the diamonds, though what could have motivated him to move his hiding place outdoors was beyond me.
A diamond could have accidentally rolled away from its stash. I grabbed a flashlight and angled the beam as far into the hole as I could see. No glitters or sparkles greeted me. Though not optimistic about my chances of finding anything, I lay flat on the floor and reached as deeply into the area underneath the plywood as possible. It was more likely that I’d touch a mouse than a diamond. Half an arm length in, I felt a piece of paper and managed to pinch it between my second and third fingers. I pulled it out.
It was a letter, dated the middle of June last year. I read:
Dearest Helen,
My love for you will never die. For your heart I must always try.
In this case, that would never do. And so my love must remain secret. Yet my heart is yours, you can bet.
Your Secret Admirer
“This is the worst love poem I’ve ever read in my life,” I murmured to myself. Then the handwriting rang a bell. I reread it. The line: “I only wish I could reveal myself to you” was nearly identical to something I’d had anonymously faxed to me earlier this week.
It was time to pay my crotchety, stoop-shouldered neighbor another visit.
Chapter 13
I Forgot to Have Our Mail Held
Simon Smith answered his door immediately. A section of his white hair in the back stood on end like a flag on a mailbox. For the third day in a row, he wore the same clothes. The outline of his sleeveless, scoop-necked undershirt could easily be seen through the thin fabric of his faded blue, tan, and white plaid shirt. He said nothing by way of greeting, merely stood there blinking at me, reminiscent of a tortoise poking his head out of his shell.
Wanting to ease into what would be an embarrassing subject for him, I forced a smile and said, “Good morning. I didn’t see you at the home-owners’ meeting last night.”
He scoffed and muttered, “Batch of women sniping at one another. I got better things to do with my time.” He placed his bony hands on his equally bony hips. “And I got things to do now. What do you want?”
So much for subtlety. Yet, if my theory was correct that Simon had blackmailed Mr. Helen after having discovered his true identity, Simon was nobody to take lightly. In fact, I could picture him killing Helen just because she turned out to be a he, which threatened the precarious self-image Simon had concocted for himself. Under the circumstances, I wondered if confronting him head-on about his relationship with Mr. Helen the wise thing to do. It certainly wasn’t the nice thing to do, at any rate.
Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 15