by Nic Saint
Sam frowned, then looked from the picture to the kitchen counter. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Maybe the coroner took it?” Ernestine suggested.
“Or one of your colleagues?” Estrella added.
Sam shook his head. “No way. No professional would remove something from a crime scene.”
“Unless he was very, very thirsty,” I said.
Sam’s face had taken on a grim expression. “Great catch.” And once again he was scribbling furiously in his notebook. “What else?” he asked when he was done.
I checked around. My sisters had spread out in the small space, and Estrella was using her thumb and index finger like a clothespin, trying to keep the stench from invading her nose.
“How anyone can live like this is beyond me,” said Ernestine, shaking her head in dismay. “And this guy was a Hollywood star?”
“One of the lesser stars,” Sam said. “He starred in a lot of popular action movies.”
“Have you seen his movies?” I asked, knowing that Sam liked action movies.
“Sure. A couple of them. Though they’re pretty dated by now. Johnson did his best work in the nineties. A lot of stuff about Russian spies and nuclear weapons and plots to restore communism in the former Soviet Union. Like I said, pretty dated by now. He was a great actor, though, in his field.”
I stared down at the chalk outline. “Renée said he got into a fight with one of his neighbors.”
“He did?” asked Sam.
“Something about a parrot?”
“Oh, yeah. That would be the McCaugheys. They live right next door. They claimed Johnson killed their parrot. Pretty weird case.”
“Is that… a bullet hole?” I asked, pointing at the TV set. It was one of those tube TVs, now sporting a big hole in the front.
“Yeah. Looks like one of the shots went wide. Or maybe the killer didn’t like what was on TV.”
When we finally left the house, I was happy to be breathing fresh air again. Ernestine was right. How people could live like that was beyond me. And how a cleaning lady could leave a house so dirty was even more of a mystery. One I was determined to solve.
“Thanks, you guys,” said Sam. “You’ve helped me a great deal.”
“Oh, we’re always happy to help, Sam,” said Estrella. “In fact I’m willing to bet we’re going to solve this murder a long time before you do.”
He laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“No, I mean it. Our special sleuthing powers are unparalleled.”
“Special sleuthing powers, huh?”
“Wanna bet we find the killer first?” asked Estrella.
Sam shrugged. “Sure. If it makes you happy. If you solve the murder first, I will buy you—”
“No, you don’t get to determine the reward, Sam,” said Strel. “We do. If we solve this crime first, you…” She hesitated.
“You hook me up with a date with Glenn Kerb!” Ernestine quickly put in.
Sam laughed. “A date with Glenn Kerb! How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re a cop, Sam,” said Ernestine. “You just tell him to.”
“Yeah, right. He’ll laugh me right out of the room.” When Ernestine’s face fell, he quickly added, “I mean, he’s not going to take orders from me, Stien.”
“Yeah, if you want to go out on a date with Glenn, you’ll have to ask him yourself,” I said.
“But he’ll never take me,” said Stien. “He’s used to dating hot Hollywood stars. He’s not going to take the granddaughter of his Airbnb lady out on a date.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” said Sam with a shrug.
“If we solve this murder,” Strel tried again, “you’re…”
“Going to take me out on a date again,” I interjected.
“That, I can promise you,” said Sam.
“That’s not fair!” Strel cried. “He’d take you out on a date anyway. It’s gotta be something that benefits all three of us.”
We thought hard. What could Sam possibly do that would benefit the three of us? Then I got it. “If we solve Johnson’s murder, you get the mayor of New York to give us a commendation. That way the neighborhood watch will get a lot of press, which will finally put us on the map.”
“Good one, Edie,” said Strel approvingly.
“Are you nuts? I can’t do that,” said Sam.
“Take it or leave it, Sam. If you want us to dedicate ourselves to solving this crime, there has to be some kind of reward.”
“Solving crime is a reward in itself,” he said. “There shouldn’t have to be an extra reward.” I cocked an eyebrow at him and he dragged his fingers through his hair. “All right. If you solve this crime before I do, I’ll talk to the commissioner. He knows the mayor. But I can’t make any promises.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and held out my hand. Instead of shaking it, he pulled me close and placed a kiss on my lips.
“Ugh. Gross,” Ernestine muttered, as if she was a three-year-old.
Chapter 8
We decided to pay a visit to the neighbor with the parrot trouble first, since they were right next door. The house looked a great deal better than Johnson’s dilapidated bungalow. I wondered what it must have felt like, living next door to a known druggie, a man who’d allowed his house to turn into a dump. Something like that automatically diminishes the value of all neighborhood homes.
The door opened a crack, the woman leaving the security chain in place. “What do you want?”
“Hi, Mrs. McCaughey,” I said. “My name is Edelie Flummox and these are my sisters, Estrella and Ernestine. We’re with the neighborhood watch. We’re helping the police solve the crime.”
“What crime?” she asked suspiciously.
“Um, the neighbor that was shot dead last night?”
“Oh, that,” she said gruffly, as if it was no biggie. “We already talked to the cops.”
“We’re conducting a parallel investigation,” I said. “Can we ask you a few questions?”
She hesitated, clearly not too keen on our visit. “I’ll have to ask my husband,” she finally said, and slammed the door shut. I heard her footsteps retreating and then silence.
“I should have asked the question,” said Estrella. “I have a likable face.”
“What’s wrong with my face?!” I asked.
“It’s a nice face,” she admitted, “but it just doesn’t project trustworthiness like mine does.”
“Or mine,” said Ernestine, adjusting her glasses.
“That’s true,” Strel admitted. “Of the three of us, your face inspires the most trust. Then mine, then Edelie’s, though Edelie’s is like a distant—a very distant—third.”
“My face is just fine!!” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with my face.”
“But it doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“It does, too!”
“You look like a serial killer!”
“I do not!”
“You do look a little like a serial killer, Edie,” said Ernestine. “I think it’s because you’re so pale. You look like you’ve spent half your life in prison, the other half murdering babies and drowning puppies.”
“So what you’re telling me is if I were more tan I’d be fine?”
“Totally,” said Estrella, giving Ernestine a wink.
“I saw that wink!”
“What wink?”
“You winked!”
“I did not!”
“You did, too!”
“Also, the clothes,” said Ernestine. “Why do you always insist on wearing black all the time?”
I glanced down at my black leather jacket, my black sweater, my black jeans and my black combat boots. “What’s wrong with black? A lot of people wear black. It never goes out of style.”
“Serial killers wear black,” said Estrella. “You look like a serial killer.”
“I do not!”
“Admit it, Edie. You don’t look like the girl next door. You look like—oh, there
she is.”
I was just about to give my sister a punch on the shoulder when the chain was removed inside the door and it swung open. “Come on in,” said the woman, shuffling away along the hallway. She was wearing a pink housecoat, pink bunny slippers and was smoking a cigar. Huh.
“She looks like a serial killer,” I whispered as we stepped inside.
“She looks like a retired Playboy bunny,” Estrella whispered back.
“Or she could be a Playboy bunny serial killer,” Ernestine suggested.
“Don’t mind the mess,” the woman said. “Cleaning lady called in sick this morning.”
Cleaning lady? “Her name doesn’t happen to be Moriah Mockford?” I asked.
The woman fixed me with a suspicious look. “How do you know?”
“She was also Rico Torrent’s maid. She found Rico’s body this morning, which might explain why she called in sick.”
“That’s possible,” she said vaguely, then took a long drag from her cigar and blew a plume of smoke in the direction of the ceiling. I glanced up, and saw that the ceiling was almost black. Like my outfit. Our hostess gestured at a floral chintz couch. “Take a seat. I’ll get my husband.” She shuffled off. “Myron! Where the hell are you—Myron!”
In the corner of the room, a big cage dominated the space. Inside, a large parrot was studying us intently, his beady eyes keen. “Old hag!” he suddenly screeched. “Ugly old hag! Ugly old hag!”
The woman, who’d returned, gave a wave with her cigar. “Don’t mind him.” She turned to the parrot. “Bad Stevie! Bad Stevie!”
“Ugly old hag! Ugly old hag! Ugly old hag!”
“He’s nothing like his predecessor,” she said. “He was one fine bird. His name was Johnny, and he could talk real nice. My husband liked to say he was eloquent like that guy Shakespete.”
“Shakespeare,” Ernestine corrected her.
“Huh?”
“The name is Shakespeare. The Bard?”
“No, I just told you his name was Johnny,” she said, a nasty gleam in her eyes. “Johnny.”
“Yes, but…”
“Let it go,” I whispered.
Tears had sprung to the woman’s eyes. “My Johnny. My baby.”
“Is he the parrot that…” I began.
She nodded. “He died. Well, he was murdered. By that horrible neighbor. Terrible man. Absolutely terrible.” She gave me a dirty look. “You call yourselves the neighborhood watch? Well, you should have done something about that psycho before he’d gone and murdered my Johnny!”
“I’m afraid this was before our time, Mrs. McCaughey,” I said.
“Yeah, we just started out last month,” Estrella added.
“If only we’d known,” Ernestine added, “we would have put a stop to this pet murderer a long time ago.” I patted her shoulder. Ernestine loves pets. And hates pet murderers. Well, we all do.
“How did Johnny die, exactly?” I asked.
The woman shook her head, sniffling loudly now. “You’ll have to excuse me. I still can’t talk about Johnny without…” And then she burst into tears, fleeing from the room.
“Ugly old hag!” cried Stevie.
“Bad Stevie!” I said. Yes, Shakespete had nothing on him.
Moments later, a big and burly man appeared, dressed in blue overalls, sporting a wild and bushy beard, bald pate, and… two bloody paws. I drew in a shocked gasp and so did my two sisters.
He followed our horrified gazes and grinned. “Oh, I’m sorry about that. I’m painting the den. Deirdre wants it painted red for some reason. Blood red. So what’s all this about Johnny?”
“We’re with the neighborhood watch,” I said, “and we’re helping the police investigate the murder of your neighbor. Rico Torrent?”
Myron McCaughey’s face took on a grim expression. “That son of a— That man murdered my parrot. That parrot was a like a son to me.”
“And to me!” his wife cried from the back of the house.
“And to her. We loved that parrot. And he killed him.”
“How did Johnny die exactly?” I asked, keeping an eye on the man’s meaty paws, which he was now clenching and unclenching. Could he be the killer? He most certainly could.
“Rico Torrent was a drug addict. He was always shooting stuff up his veins, snorting stuff up his nose, or chucking stuff down his gullet. We would always find needles in our backyard, and whatever other paraphernalia he used for his filthy drug habit. So one day we’d put Johnny in the yard so he could get some fresh air, when we heard a loud screech. We ran outside, and found Johnny covered in blood! Turned out that knucklehead Rico had dumped one of his needles into Johnny’s cage, and the dumb bird had gobbled it up! Next thing we knew, he keeled over, dead as a dodo! We called in the vet, and the verdict was clear: drug overdose.” He gritted his teeth. “We called the cops, of course, but there wasn’t much they could do. The guy had been in and out of jail so many times it was a joke. They arrested him—again—and three days later he was out—again! It’s a disgrace.”
“So I take it you’re not too sad about what happened to him last night?” asked Estrella.
“Not too sad,” Myron said with a curt nod, “is exactly right. The guy got exactly what he deserved. And whoever killed him deserves a medal.”
“Any idea who might have done it?” asked Ernestine.
“Nope. Probably one of his drug dealers. The guy was broke, and he still managed to buy all those drugs. He probably owed someone a lot of money, and when he couldn’t pay up, they decided enough was enough and ended his miserable excuse for a life.”
“Did you know he used to be a famous movie star?” asked Estrella.
“That’s what that cop that was in here this morning told us. We had no idea. He didn’t look like no movie star, let me tell you that.”
“His real name was Johnson Junqueras,” I said. “Ever seen any of his movies?”
“’Nope. I’m not much of a movie buff myself, and Deirdre is more into Days of Our Lives and General Hospital. They told me he was an action hero.” He uttered a humorless laugh. “Not much of a hero to me. The guy was a parrot killer, and I’m glad someone finally had the guts to take him out.”
“Were you—where were you when it happened, Mr. McCaughey?” I asked.
“Right here at home, young lady, working in my den. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Deirdre.” And before we could, he yelled, “Deirdre, where was I last night when that numbnuts next door was shot dead?”
“Right here with me!” Deirdre yelled back. “Where you’re supposed to be!”
He displayed a wide grin. “Any more questions?”
Chapter 9
Our next stop was the house where the cleaning lady lived. I was really curious to listen to her statement about what happened. The Mockford family lived on Bleecker Street, just two blocks down from Nightingale Street, where Safflower House is located. They lived in a nice little red-brick home that housed no less than seven adults and a bunch of kids. When we arrived, it was almost as if she’d been expecting us, with Moriah opening the door the moment I placed my finger on the bell.
She was a slight and delicate young woman with long dark hair, not exactly the type I’d expected to be a cleaner. Her eyes were large and sunken, and she didn’t look very healthy to me. Her feeble smile when we introduced ourselves said it all: here stood a woman with a story to tell, and she was eager to tell it, even to three women who called themselves the neighborhood watch.
“Come in,” she said, and I noticed she spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t place. The house was cozy, with small rooms and lots of baubles and knickknacks strewn about. It was obvious that Moriah didn’t live here by herself. “Oh, no,” she said when I asked her. “I live here with my parents, my grandparents, my brother-in-law and a very dear friend. We’re quite the Brave Bunch.”
“Brady Bunch,” I corrected her.
She looked at me uncertainly. “Yes.”
While
we took a seat in the kitchen, which was easily as large as our own, three kids came running through, screeching up a storm. Yep, the Mockfords were quite the Brady Bunch.
“So you were Rico Torrent’s cleaning lady?” I asked by way of introduction.
“That’s correct. I helped him keep his house neat and tidy,” she said, then gestured to a bin of cookies. “Want a cookie? Take a cookie. My grandmother just baked them. They’re very fresh.”
I glanced at the cookies, and was surprised to find they were pumpkin spice, just like the ones I’d made. Only these were absolutely perfect. In fact they looked just like the pictures I’d seen.
“Wow, these look nothing like yours, Edie,” said Estrella. “These actually look like pumpkins, not dumplings.”
“Thanks,” I said acerbically, picking out a cookie and having a bite. “Mh. These are delicious.”
Moriah smiled. “Grandmother is a wonderful cook. She can make most anything.”
“Yes, she most certainly can,” I confirmed. “These cookies are amazing.” I probably should have felt jealous but oddly enough I didn’t. By now I was well aware of my limitations as a baker.
“So… we saw Rico Torrent’s house just now,” said Ernestine with a frown.
“The place is a dump,” Estrella said. “I mean, probably about the filthiest place I’ve ever seen.”
I nodded. “What we wanted to ask you is… um… how many times a week did you go in to clean?”
“Well, Mr. Torrent hired me last week. Today was supposed to be my first day, but when I arrived no one answered the door, which I found strange, as Mr. Torrent told me to arrive on time.”
“So you spoke to Rico before? Over the phone?”
“Yes, he hired me over the phone. He said I came highly recommended by a friend.”
“What friend?”
“He didn’t say. Perhaps one of my other customers? Mr. Torrent invited me over to discuss things and to explain to me what he wanted me to do, and that’s when I saw that—yes, the house was very, very dirty. I could see that I was going to have a lot of work getting it clean.”
“That’s an understatement,” I said with a smile. “That place was a pigsty.”