He ripped a sheet out of his notebook and gave it to me.
Carter's phone began to ring as I walked to the door. He waved good-bye then took the call. I managed to hear him say into the phone, “Are we still on for tonight?”
Curious about whom Carter was talking to, I slowly closed the door behind me, hoping to catch more of the conversation. Was it a woman he was planning to meet?
As I walked to my car, I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt that Carter hadn't mentioned anything about a date.
I thought it was a big deal because he didn't seem to have much of a social life. At least, that was my impression. He never mentioned going out for a beer with a buddy. Nor did he talk about women or dating at all. In fact, I had no idea what Carter did in his spare time except read spy novels, or watch the occasional football game on TV. Somehow, I had the misguided notion that I was his only friend, if you could even call us that. In the year or so that we'd worked together, we spoke on the phone almost every day, even if there were no jobs to discuss. Even though our conversations usually revolved around work in some way, I got the feeling he just liked having someone to talk to.
I tried to put it out of my mind. After all, his personal life was none of my business.
Chapter 3
Bob Owens had a two-story Gambrel home in the artsy downtown area of Bridgeport. I parked out front, then made my way up the stone steps leading to the front door, thankful that the rain had subsided. I wondered if the Robert Redford lookalike would be home.
I rang the doorbell and waited almost a minute. Nothing. It was after 2:30, and I assumed his teenage daughter would be on her way home from school, unless she had after school activities.
I knocked again and waited. Finally, I just folded one of the flyers in thirds and wedged it between the door jam.
As I walked back to my car, I noticed the bakery across the street, which brought back some memories. I had been to this bakery once before, during the very first case I'd ever worked with Carter. We'd been hired by a woman to investigate the accidental death of her husband, which turned out to be ... not so accidental. But at one point, I had to convince a male escort named Armand to divulge some information about a possible suspect. This was the same bakery we had met at over a year ago.
A whole year. What a thrilling time in my life it had been. My ex-husband and son had no idea I'd been working for a private eye. How was I able to keep the secret for over a month before I finally decided to tell them the truth? Turns out, I'm a pretty good liar when I need to be.
I decided to go inside the bakery and grab a coffee to go.
Thankfully, the place was practically empty. The one person in line in front of me ordered a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie to go. When the girl behind the counter – the name Ashley embroidered on her shirt – asked what I'd like, I concocted a story off the top of my head.
“I have an unusual request,” I said with a giggle in my voice. “I'm an old friend of Bob Owens. He lives across the street. Would you, by any chance, know if he comes in here?”
The girl – who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty – gave me a friendly yet curious look. “Sure, I know Mr. Owens.”
“Great. I'm planning to stop by his house and surprise him later. Could you tell me what his favorites are?”
“Well...” The girl pointed to a glass case that contained an assortment of delectable-looking items. “He usually gets the coconut clusters or the chocolate peanut butter bars.”
“Great. I'll take two of each, please.”
After getting my change and glancing around to make sure no one was waiting, I asked, “Hey, Ashley, how long have you worked here?”
She smiled in a friendly manner while wiping her hands on a towel. “About six months, I guess.”
“Would you happen to know Bob's daughter? I think she's around your age, maybe younger.”
“Yeah, Kelly and I have been friends since kindergarten. But she's a year younger than me.”
“So, she's still in high school?”
She nodded. “Graduates this year.”
“You must know her dad pretty well, then?”
She shrugged timidly. “Sure.”
“So, tell me,” I said playfully. “Is Bob a cool dad?”
“Yeah, he's cool. He used to coach the girls’ soccer team.”
I noticed a few people had entered the bakery. Time to go.
“Ashley, thanks for your help.” I stuffed a five-dollar bill into her tip jar.
When I got back in my car, I nibbled on a peanut butter bar and watched Bob's house for about twenty minutes. The daughter never came home, and I figured Bob was working. There seemed no point in hanging around.
I plugged Richard Mackenzie's address into my GPS and drove off toward the 95 South turnpike. Hampton was just a fifteen-minute drive, more than enough time to devour the rest of the desserts I'd just purchased.
Chapter 4
Richard Mackenzie – the realtor who apparently adored Opera and walks on the beach – had a nice Colonial home on an acre of pristine land with a sprawling green, freshly cut lawn. The neighborhood was comprised of similar-looking homes and identical green lawns.
A silver BMW was parked in his driveway.
I pulled over on the opposite side of the street and cut the engine. I thought about leaving the flyer in his mailbox, but maybe this was an opportunity to hand him the flyer in person and introduce myself.
Looking into the rearview mirror, I decided my pale complexion needed some color. A quick swipe of lipstick would do the trick. My hair was a bit flat from all the moisture in the air, so I simply tied it back in a ponytail. I tucked my white blouse into my jeans and made my way up to the front door.
Before I had a chance to knock, the door opened. Richard Mackenzie stood there, peering at me through his black-rimmed glasses. He wore a crisp, white shirt rolled up to his elbows, with dark blue slacks and loafers. There was a sophisticated air about him and, coupled with the glasses, he looked as if he'd just come from a poetry reading.
“Good afternoon,” I said with a bright smile. “I hope I'm not disturbing anything. I was just in the neighborhood to pass out some flyers. I'm trying to promote my cleaning business by offering my services free of charge for a limited time.”
He accepted the flyer but didn't bother to look at it. “How nice,” he said with a weak, monotone voice.
“I'm Sarah, by the way.” I held out my hand. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Dick,” he said, shaking my hand tentatively.
“You look very familiar,” I said. “Have we met before?”
He inspected my face for a few seconds then said, “I don't think so.”
Taking a few steps back, I said, “Well, I hope you'll take me up on the cleaning. Like I said, it's a free service for this week only. My schedule is wide open right now.”
He bit his lip and smiled apologetically. “I appreciate the offer, but I actually like to clean my own house. I'm a bit of a neat freak when it comes to that, I suppose.”
“I can understand that,” I said, hoping the disappointment didn't show on my face.
He pointed to the neighbor’s house on the left. “But you should go see Henry and Martha. I'm sure they'll take you up on the offer.”
“Well, thanks.” I backed up a step and tried to think of another way to prolong the conversation. “I remember where I saw you before,” I said. “I saw your picture. You're a realtor, right?”
He raised his eyebrows and seemed rather impressed. “Yes, I am.”
“I've been looking online at houses and saw your picture somewhere. What company do you work for?”
“I left Remax about a month ago to start my own realty business,” he said, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I've been working from home until I can find a new office space. Are you looking to buy a house?”
“Yes,” I lied. “But it's been a challenge finding something in my price range.
”
“What is your range?” he asked, suddenly very interested.
“Oh, about two hundred and fifty thousand. Probably no more than three hundred.”
“I have several great houses in that price range right now.”
“Do you have a business card?”
He reached into his back pocket, produced a wallet, then handed me his gold laminated card. “My personal cell phone number is on the bottom. You can call any time.”
“Great. Thanks.” I slipped the card into my purse.
“No problem.” He bowed slightly as a way of good-bye, then promptly closed the door as if he needed to get back to something.
I decided to go to the neighbors’ house, just like Dick suggested. I figured it wouldn't hurt to see what they might have to say about their neighbor.
An elderly lady of about eighty years old peeked through the crack in the door. “Who is it?”
I gave her a warm smile and handed her the flyer. “Hi ma'am, my name is Sarah. Your neighbor Dick said I should stop by. Are you Martha?”
“Yes. What are you selling, miss?” Her tone was more curious than rude.
“Well, I wanted to offer you a free house cleaning.”
The woman peered at the flyer through thick bifocal reading glasses. “House cleaning you say? How much?”
“No cost, ma'am. The first time is free, just so you can try me out.”
Martha opened the door another inch to get a better look at me. “I should probably wait for Henry to wake up before I let a stranger into the house,” she said.
“Is Henry your husband?”
She nodded. “He should be getting up soon. Maybe you could come back later?”
“I understand. My phone number is on the flyer. Just give me a call whenever it's convenient, okay?”
She nodded and was about to close the door when a little dog the size of a rat squirmed through the crack in the door. He scampered down the front steps, heading to the road.
Martha gasped in horror. “Mr. Whipsy! Oh no, please, do something!”
Without thinking, I dumped my purse on the ground and ran after the dog at full speed. As I ran through the grass, I could hear the woman crying out from the house for her dog, but Whipsy – or whatever his name was – just ignored the poor woman's pleading as he continued to flee.
Thankfully, the dog must have been half blind because he veered off toward a fence and I was able to corner him. He dashed from side to side in a frenzy with me trying to block him. His little body started to shake as he whipped his head around, looking for a way out.
I crouched down and spoke to him in a low, soothing voice. “Come on,” I said to him. “What a nice little doggy you are. Come on … let's go see your mama.”
Then he sprinted right between my legs. I reached out to grab him, but the little rascal was too quick. I tried to turn, but my ankle twisted and I lost my balance, causing me to fall over and land hard on my side. The thick grass cushioned my fall, and I was able to spring back to my feet again.
Martha was still yelling. “Mr. Whipsy, come back. Mama has a treat for you!”
Mr. Whipsy could not be bribed with treats. Apparently, freedom was a much sweeter victory. As he crossed the road heading for the woods, I gave it one last-ditch effort when I noticed he stopped by a tree to take a leak.
I sprinted toward the dog, panting like a deranged hyena, and grabbed him by the scruff, which, of course, resulted in dog piss all over the front of my white shirt.
“Mr. Whipsy, you bad dog!” I scolded him.
He yelped, probably more from shock than anything, but he didn't try to bite me. I held him close to my chest like a baby as I limped back to Martha, whose cries of joy were filling the neighborhood.
Martha ushered me inside and took the dog in her hands. “Whipsy, don't you ever do that again, hear me? You gave your mama an awful fright.” She lowered him to the floor, and he scuttled off to some other room, tail between his legs.
The woman invited me to have a seat at the kitchen table, all flustered as she handed me a wet towel. “I am so sorry he went tinkle all over your beautiful blouse.”
I dabbed at the urine stain, knowing full well it wouldn't do a bit of good. “No worries,” I said. “I'm sure it will all come out in the wash.”
A plate of cookies appeared in front of me. “Least I can do is make you some coffee, dear. Or do you drink tea instead?”
“Thank you,” I said. “But you don't need to go out of your way.”
“You saved Mr. Whipsy,” she said. “He would have gotten himself run over if you hadn't caught him.”
“What breed is he?” I asked.
“He's a cockapoo. He belonged to our daughter. We adopted him after our daughter died last year.”
“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”
Suddenly, I heard a noise and looked over to see a short man with white hair standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“What's with all the ruckus, Martha?” he said irritably. “Can't a person get any peace and quiet around here?”
“Henry,” Martha said, gesturing to me. “This is Sarah. She saved Whipsy when he ran out into the road. I invited her in for coffee; won't you come and join us?”
Martha shuffled over to her husband and grasped his elbow. He didn't seem to want her help, but he let her guide him to the chair beside me. “That damn dog is a pain in the ass,” he said to no one in particular. “Should've put him down years ago. He's blind as a bat and shits all over the place.”
Martha pointed a finger at him and whispered. “Please don't curse, dear. We have a guest.”
Henry ignored his wife and turned to me, finally noticing I was there. His white, bushy eyebrows rose in amusement. “Melissa, when did you get back from London?”
I didn't know what to say, so Martha patted her husband's shoulder and said in a soft tone, “Honey, this is Sarah. She cleans houses.”
Henry batted her hand away like a petulant child and reached for a cookie. He chewed it slowly as his eyes wandered to the ceiling.
“I'm sorry, Sarah.” Martha whispered to me. “My husband gets confused sometimes. You look a bit like our daughter Melissa did. Same hair color and blue eyes.”
I nibbled on a cookie and observed this old couple. They reminded me of my grandparents who died when I was only ten. “These are wonderful cookies, Martha. Did you bake them yourself?”
She smiled with pride. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I love to bake. It's one of the only pleasures I have left, especially since my arthritis has been acting up. In fact, just last month, I made five dozen cookies for the bake sale at our church. Neighbors are always stopping by because they know I'll send them home with a plate.”
“Speaking of neighbors,” I said nonchalantly. “Dick Mackenzie seems like a nice guy. Do you know him very well?”
“Dick has always been a good neighbor,” she said to me. “Very helpful. He snow blows our driveway every winter. And he cuts our grass once a week with one of those riding lawnmowers. He even helps me in the garden with the weeds.”
Henry snapped out of his dream world and focused his attention on me. “Dick likes whores,” he said.
Martha gasped in horror at her husband’s outburst. “Henry, hush. It's not polite to spread rumors like that.”
Henry furrowed his bushy, white eyebrows. “But it's true. I've seen the broad myself.”
“A broad?” I asked, trying to keep from laughing. “Maybe you mean he has a girlfriend?”
He shook his head, annoyed. “Hardly a girlfriend. A whore, like I said.”
Martha interjected. “Where are your manners, Henry?”
I covered my mouth with a hand, trying to conceal my grin, and wondered if there was any truth to his claim. “It's okay,” I said. “I won't repeat anything you tell me. But how do you know that Dick has a … broad?”
Martha flashed me an admonishing glance, as if to warn me not to encourage her husband any further. “Maybe we sho
uld talk about something else,” she suggested.
Henry continued in his raspy voice, pointing in the direction of Dick's house. “I see that broad almost every night in the window. She dances and prances around in her slinky dresses, putting on a show for the whole neighborhood. The tramp doesn't seem to care who might be watching. Not that I like to watch that sort of thing.”
Martha filled a coffee maker with water, then returned to the table with a look of defeat in her eyes as she eased herself into a chair. Her features began to sag, like a wave of exhaustion had swept over. “You must forgive Henry. Sometimes he sees things that aren't there. Tomorrow, he'll probably have some other cockamamie tale,” she said as if her husband wasn't sitting right next to her.
Henry crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his wife like she was the devil.
Martha said to me, “So, Sarah, I have a proposition for you. Instead of cleaning our home, which I am still perfectly capable of doing myself, would you be interested in a different kind of job? I would insist on paying you, though, because you shouldn't have to work for free.”
“Sure,” I said, going along with it. “What do you have in mind?”
“Henry and I are not so great with stairs anymore, and Henry isn't supposed to lift more than twenty pounds because of his back. We need someone to clean out some old books from the basement and take them to the thrift store. It should only take a few hours. Is that something you could do?”
I thought about it and figured if I came back to help them, there was a chance I could squeeze more information out of Henry about his neighbor. “Sure, why not,” I said. “I'm free tomorrow afternoon if that works for you.”
“Splendid,” she said.
When I finished my coffee, I thanked Martha and Henry for their hospitality and grabbed my purse. Mr. Whipsy was nowhere in sight. I hoped they'd keep him locked in a room when I returned the next day. I was done chasing dogs.
I called Carter when I got back to my car.
“Where are you?” he asked.
Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 3) Page 13