Betsy, still looking nervous, took a step back. “No, those are all Bob’s jobs.”
“Did you know my neighbor?”
“No,” Bob answered, a bit too quickly in my opinion. “We already told you. We just happened to bump into the former owner of your house. We don’t know any of your neighbors.”
Betsy cleared her throat. Her ditsy smile was looking all the more lame. “I’m sorry to hear about your neighbor.” She put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Bob, let’s get going. Molly is obviously not in the mood for visitors.”
“Have a nice evening,” Bob mumbled.
“Thanks. You, too.” They traipsed hurriedly through my backyard and reentered the woods without a glance back.
Hmm. Did I believe Betsy’s explanation? Given my prelude about a neighbor falling onto high-voltage wires, a majority of people might have assumed I was referring to a man. But why did they both seem so ill at ease?
A warm breeze rustled the leaves. I scanned the woods, wondering if the Fenders were watching me, cloaked in leafy shadows. I no longer felt comfortable on my own deck. The doorbell was ringing as I slid open the glass back door.
I took a quick look out the peephole, but didn’t recognize the man’s face, however, distorted by the wide-angle lens. Curiosity bested my common sense. I opened the door a crack, but left the chain in place.
The man wore a nondescript brown suit. With the perverse thought that, the way things were going in my life lately, I may need to identify this man in a lineup, I studied him. He was tall with wavy dark hair, ordinary looking except for the ridge along his eyebrows and receding chin. Maybe forty or so.
He smiled and gave me a polite nod. “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m from the Herald. Could I speak to you for just a minute or two, please?”
Uh-oh. The press. “‘The Herald? ” The name meant nothing to me, but there were a lot of “Heralds ” in the nation. “Just a moment.” I released the chain and opened the door cautiously, fully prepared to slam it shut if he did anything suspicious. I looked beyond his shoulder, expecting to see a television van, but saw only a blue car parked near the base of my driveway.
“Are you Molly Masters?”
Not wanting to give out any information, I decided to keep him on the defensive. “You’re here to discuss the shooting?”
“That’s right,” he said, his face lighting up as if trying to impart to me how brilliant he thought I must be to have figured that out. “May I come in?”
“No, I’m sorry. For one thing; I don’t let strangers into my house. For another thing, I have nothing to say to you or your paper.”
This morning’s newspaper account had been, thankfully, brief. Under a headline and lead paragraph about “Stolen Diamonds Recovered,” it had explained about the diamonds having been buried, recapped previous reports that Helen Raleigh, a former home owner in the Sherwood Forest subdivision, had been shot while on Raleigh’s former property, and that the shooter had used a high-power rifle and had been in the woods at the time. For the first time, this article went on to announce that Helen had been a man named Frank Worscheim, a one-time convict of a bank robbery in California and suspect’ in the series of jewelry heists.
“I understand your concerns, Mrs. Masters, but—”
“That reminds me. How did you know my name?”
He widened his eyes for the briefest of moments, then returned to his smug smile and replied, “I’m an investigative journalist, ma’am. That’s my job. As I was saying, we could sit out here on your porch if you’d prefer. This will only take a couple of minutes.”
Maybe it was paranoia on my part. Maybe it was the product of an overactive imagination. In any• case, he looked like the man shown digging up my yard in Simon’s video. Granted, most of the male population of the world looked like the person in that video. But still, why take chances?
“Can I see some ID, please?”
He straightened and gave me a Cheshire-cat grin. “You sound like a bartender. I can assure you, I’m over twenty-one.”
“No doubt, but I’d like to know for sure that you’re really a reporter before I talk to you,”
He shrugged and held out his hands. “All right. If you don’t trust me...” He let his voice trail off as if expecting me to back down, but I stared at him, unflinching. He set his jaw, unimpressive though it was, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet. He whipped out an ID card, which he held out to me between his index and middle fingers. I took it from him.
To my surprise, the card listed him as working for the Toledo Herald and not a local paper. His name, listed under the picture, which appeared to have been taken recently, identified him as Arnold Rhodes. “You’re from a newspaper in Ohio?”
“That’s right,” he replied, retrieving his ID card. “A bank robber with a stash of diamonds buried in someone’s yard in the heart of suburbia is pretty big news. Throw in the fact that the robber passed himself off as a woman for a couple of years, and you’ve got yourself a front-page, twenty-four-point blockbuster.”
“Really?” I muttered, though my mind was rapidly assessing type sizes. I’d gotten my bachelor’s in journalism. Unfortunately, that had been so long ago, I could no longer remember the headline sizes of major stories.
“You betcha.” He slipped his ID card back into his wallet and pocketed it. “So first, I’d like to ask how long you’ve lived here. Surely you don’t consider that an invasion of your privacy, do you?”
I stared at his face, memorizing its every detail. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made me untrusting and uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the intensity of his mannerisms. The way he stared at me. Unfounded paranoia or not, for all I knew, this supposed reporter could have been the unidentified partner of Frank Worscheim.
“You say your name is...”
“Arnold Rhodes.”
“And you’ve worked for the Toledo Herald for how many years?”
“Two.” He chuckled. “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you the questions here?”
“Listen, Arnold. This isn’t a good time.”
A police car was just pulling out of the cul-de-sac behind us, and Arnold glanced back. “I suppose you’ve had quite a bit of commotion here lately.”
“Yes, in fact, why aren’t you interested in what’s happened next door?”
“Already interviewed the investigating officer. And I find your story much more compelling. So could you at least tell me how long—”
“No, I’ve really got to be going now. Sorry. But if you come back here tomorrow at this time, I’ll answer your questions.”
He smiled, but his impatience was written all over his features. “Fine, Mrs. Masters. I’ll do that. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He pivoted and got back into his car.
I went back inside and grabbed a phone book. After locating the area code for Toledo, Ohio, I dialed information, parting the curtains to peer at the street. The car was gone. At the operator’s predictable prompt of “What city?” I answered, “Toledo. The Toledo Herald , please.”
After a pause, she said, “There’s no such listing.”
Chapter 15
My Happy Meal is in the Car
Three police vehicles were still parked in the cul-de-sac. I raced next door, where the sound of male voices told me Tommy and his men were still milling about. Though I knew my actions would perturb some uniformed officer, I leapt—or rather stepped with a modicum of gracefulness—over the yellow police ribbon strung between Simon’s mailbox and his wrought-iron lamppost. I donned a purposeful stride to appear as though I belonged and crossed the front yard. The hinge creaked as I opened the gate and peered around. A pair of male officers were using a tape measure and a third was taking notes. There were no dead bodies in the immediate vicinity, but a long aluminum extension ladder on the grass lay at a diagonal from the house. Automatically, I glanced up. The power lines that I’d barely noticed before now looked dark and
menacing. Before I’d taken two steps, the officer looked up from his notebook and pointed at me with his pen. “Hey! You’re not allowed in here.”
I spotted Tommy, whose red hair made him stand out even at a distance. He was at the far corner of the yard, talking with a man in a white shirt and tie. “Sergeant Newton,” I called, “could I speak to you for a moment, please?”
Tommy’s surprised look quickly changed to a glare. While the other officers went back to what they were doing, Tommy marched over to me and grumbled, “I swear, Moll. You got the persistence of a horsefly the way you keep buzzin’ around me.”
“Does that mean you think of yourself as a horse?”
Ignoring my comment, he brushed past me and, as he shut the gate behind us, muttered, “What’s up?” The furrows on his freckled brow implied this had better be important.
“Have you spoken to any reporters recently?”
“Depends. How recently?”
“Within the last hour.”
Tommy shook his head, and I quickly filled him in about the bogus reporter who’d claimed to have spoken to “the investigating officer.”
Tommy snatched his pad from his pocket. I grinned, knowing I’d been vindicated. Not only was this important enough to interrupt him, it warranted an entry into his official notes. “What type of car was he driving?”
My momentary sense of pride vanished. I’d paid no attention to the car and had only gotten one quick glance at it from the side. “It was a medium shade of blue.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Blue? You call that a type?”
“Well? I don’t know anything about cars. It had two doors. One on each side.” I
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Hatchback? Sedan?”
“It had four wheels, a regular trunk in the back, and a hood in the front.”
“A blue sedan. Now we’re getting somewhere. ‘Course, if it had something other than four wheels, we’d stand a better chance of makin’ a quick ID. Notice if it had New York plates?”
“No, but I’ll draw you a picture of the guy. The car, too, if that’d help.”
“Fine.” He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a gentle push toward Simon’s walkway. “But do it from inside your house. I’ll swing by and pick it up before I leave here.”
Feeling rebuked, I stepped back over the yellow tape. This time one of the hems of my baggy shorts caught on the cordon, and I had to reach back and free myself or risk twanging the tape. Tommy was grinning at me, but had the decency to quickly turn away.
Back in my deserted home, I sat in my living room so I’d be close to the front door and went right to work on sketches of the man and his car. My drawing of the car, was so generic Tommy would find it useless, but I remembered the man’s features clearly. He had a caveman ridge to his brow and a receding chin, which lent him an almost cartoonish inverted-triangle-shaped face. By the time my drawing was complete, Tommy still hadn’t arrived. I needed to pick up the kids from Lauren’s soon. I toyed with the thought of going next door again, but dismissed the notion. Tommy didn’t deserve the satisfaction he’d glean by reprimanding me for yet another interruption.
Impatient and frustrated, I doodled and eventually wound up drawing a cartoon. An exhausted-looking woman wearing a T-shirt and jeans sits in a posh restaurant. The waiter looks scornfully down at her as she says, “My children and my Happy Meal are in the car. I just want to sit here for a minute and fantasize.”
When the doorbell rang, I hopped up to answer, portrait in hand, expecting it to be Tommy. It was Bob and Betsy Fender. My face fell. I did, however, manage to refrain from uttering the phrase that had popped into my head: What the hell do you people want from me?
“Hello, Molly,” Bob said with a sheepish smile. Betsy, too, wore an embarrassed expression. She stood directly behind her husband, her plump cheek pressed against his upper arm. From my vantage point, it looked as though Bob had a second head stuck to his sleeve. “May we come in?”
“Well, actually—”
“This will only take a moment.” Betsy had cut me off before I could pull out the ever-popular, and, in this case, reasonably accurate excuse of my being on the way out. She continued, “We want to apologize.”
“Apologize? For what?” While I spoke, I visualized them as Tommy’s buzzing horseflies. In the Fenders’ case, they were more like fruit flies.
Bob opened the screen door and, uninvited, they both stepped inside. I deliberately took only a small step back, so the three of us stood on the small rectangle of Spanish tile alongside my living room. Betsy now merely clung to his arm, no longer using him as a human shield. They exchanged a glance, and Betsy gave Bob a slight nod.
“Betsy and I have been talking. We decided that—”
“We realize we’ve come on a bit strong,” Betsy interrupted. “We can’t expect you and Jim to adopt our lifestyle immediately. But, as friends, we need to compromise.”
Friends ? Was the Fond of Floras their version of a personals ad? Wanted: couple for long-term relationship. Meat and vegetable eaters need not apply.
Tugging on his bushy mustache, Bob began again, “So we decided—”
“We want to have you and your husband for dinner.”
That was either clumsy sentence structure, or the Fenders had converted from fruitatarians into cannibals. They may as well have, for all of the likelihood that I’d say yes. Let alone convince Jim to join me-in their stew. I waited, hoping one of the Fenders would specify a date so I could decline more graciously. They merely searched my eyes, hopeful expressions on their faces.
“Thank you for the lovely offer, but I’d have to check with my husband. And I’m pretty sure he’ll ...point out to me that we’re ...moving to Florida soon.” I’d muttered the first thing that popped into my mind, but was now slightly appalled with myself. I was somewhat used to my mouth working faster than my brain, but normally I didn’t tell an outright lie just to get out of an unpleasant social occasion. Maybe this was an aftereffect from having two acquaintances die in less than a week.
“Permanently?” Betsy asked, her bland features taking on a basset-hound look of disappointment.
I shrugged. “Everything’s up in the air at this point.”
“You’re lucky,” Bob replied wistfully, jiggling his dark-rimmed glasses. “Florida has some of the best citrus fruit in the world.”
“I’m so sorry. to hear you’re moving,” Betsy said. “At least we can still look forward to seeing you on Monday.”
“Monday?”
Betsy’s gray eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, of course. The Fond of Floras. Don’t tell me you aren’t even going to that?”
“I’ll be too busy packing,” I lied, spreading my hands to demonstrate that I was a mere victim of circumstance. Once again, in for a penny, in for a pound. Still, I mentally chastised myself for not being honest with these people: I’m sorry, but you’re kooks and my husband and I dislike you. No offense.
Tommy appeared at the screen door. The Fenders whirled in surprise, at his sudden deep voice as he met my eyes and said, “Didn’t realize you had visitors. I’ll come back.”
“No, no,” Betsy cried in something of a chirp. “We were just leaving.”
“Right,” Bob mumbled through his mustache. “Excuse us, Officer.”
They brushed past him and headed down the front walk at a near sprint. Was their nervous energy the product of guilt, or just of their unexpectedly encountering a policeman?
Tommy, too, was curious enough to ask, “Who were they?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you about them,” I began. I handed him the drawings, a bit soggy at the edge as a result of having been in my hands for so long. I still had not ruled out the duo as having something to do with the murder. “This could take a while. Maybe you’d better have a seat.”
Tommy sighed.
That evening, Jim, Mom, Karen, and I were playing a spirited game of Parcheesi in my parents’ family room, with Nathan rooting loudly f
or “anyone but Karen,” when the doorbell rang. My mother went to answer, and to my surprise, Joanne Abbott swept into the family room a step or two ahead of my mother. Joanne’s cheeks were flushed. Her forehead was damp and crossed with worry lines.
Without preamble and in front of my entire family, Joanne put her hands on her hips, glared down at me at my seat on the floor, and said, “How dare you accuse us of pushing Simon Smith into the power lines!”
“I did no such thing,” I said, scrambling to my feet. Beside me, Jim rose as well, and I knew he would protect me from bodily harm, if necessary.
“Those were my words exactly to the police!” Joanne spat back at me.
“Great, but since I didn’t accuse you of pushing the ladder, there’s no reason for—”
Joanne jumped as the doorbell rang.
“—you have no reason to be angry at me,” I continued and headed toward the foyer.
Joanne’s husband, Stan, was standing on the front porch. Through the screen, he asked, “Is my wife here?”
“Yes. She seems to be under the misconception that—” He held up his palm and brushed past me. He wore a tailored white shirt, knee-length shorts, and loafers with black socks that made his fat legs seem all the more pale. It looked as though he were dressed for work, but that someone had, unbeknownst to him, removed the bottom half of his slacks.
We joined the others. Joanne, red-faced and livid, was pacing in a tight circle. She was wearing it white silk blouse and black slacks, and she had some sort of a dark jacket or sweater slung over her shoulders Batman-style. “You didn’t have to come, Stan,” she growled. “I told you I’d handle this!”
My mother, who tended to clean whenever she was nervous, hence the meticulous house, swept up our half-finished Parcheesi game from the Oriental rug. “Let’s go have a seat in the dining room,” my mother said. “Can I get anyone some coffee?”
Great idea, Mom, I thought sourly. Arm these irate people with hot liquid to scald me with.
Jim asked, “What’s this all about, Stan?”
Stan shook his head and said in a monotone, “You’ve really gone overboard this time.”
Death of a Gardener (Book 3 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 18