Night of the Living Deed

by E. J. Copperman

  I parroted her suggestion to Terry.

  “I’ll have to look it up,” she said. “I could take them with me if you want, forward them along, if that’ll help.”

  “Um . . .” There really were no documents.

  Paul finally rescued me. “You’d like to ask them questions about the house,” he said.

  I told Terry that, and while looking at Maxie, added, “Because I obviously can’t ask Maxie Malone for help.”

  Maxie rolled over on her side, as if sleeping. I’d probably never get used to seeing people float in the air.

  “I’ll have to look it up and call you,” Terry answered after an awkward pause. “But most questions you have about the house I can probably answer myself.”

  “Of course you can,” I told her. “But they have a more . . . emotional connection to the place. I want to hear the stories.”

  Maxie stuck her finger down her throat. She could be subtle that way.

  “I think they’re in Eatontown,” Kerin volunteered, and Terry shot her a poisonous look. At least I knew I wasn’t the only one Kerin could infuriate.

  “Okay, then,” Terry said, a touch of irritation in her voice. “I’ll give you a call with their contact information, and you call me if you have any questions I can answer.” She snapped her purse shut so hard it echoed through the empty room.

  “I’ll do that,” I said, and before I could blink, Terry had turned on her heel and headed for the front door.

  Paul didn’t wait until we heard it close behind her. “That,” he said, “is a woman who is hiding something.”

  Maxie yawned. “Which one?” she asked.

  Fourteen

  “I can definitely recommend the veal parmigiana,” said Mayor Bridget Bostero. “I’ve had it here, and it’s excellent.”

  I looked up at the waiter, who had told us his name was Rudolfo, but was probably Ralphie. After all, this was still New Jersey. I was pretty sure.

  Despite having witnessed my crack interviewing skills with Terry Wright, Paul had still suggested I talk to the mayor. I’d called the municipal building to ask if a constituent might meet with the town’s chief administrator to discuss real estate futures, and had been turned down flat. But I’d left my name and address, and surprisingly, Mayor Bostero had gotten right back to me (maybe the house was still a political issue) and suggested we meet at Café Linguine, an Italian-French fusion restaurant with delusions of grandeur. Paul had been pleased by the suggestion, saying it would be good for me to see the place, since it was the same restaurant where he and Maxie had eaten their last meal. I hadn’t been keen on the idea, since it was also very likely the place where he and Maxie had been poisoned, but I’d been outvoted.

  “I’ll have the ratatouille,” I told Rudolfo, and Bridget scowled a bit. She was clearly used to people doing as she suggested. I was happier to avoid eating anything chosen by someone other than myself, especially here.

  The place was light, airy and foreboding all at the same time. In the back was a pizza oven that, according to the sign over the front door, was fired by wood. You could see people in paper chef’s hats near the back, making your food right out where they could be observed. (Were the hats a good idea near an open flame?)

  “I get a discount,” the mayor boasted after Rudolfo had left. “I own a teeny-tiny part of the restaurant.” Ever the politician, she scanned the room while trying to maintain the illusion that she was paying attention to me. She was only a local politician, so her technique needed a little work. She’d already waved or nodded to a town council member, a local florist, and a man who I’m pretty sure had only been delivering rolls to the restaurant.

  Still, she’d managed to work into the conversation her accomplishments as mayor, such as they were: an increase in revenue (mostly due, I’d heard from Phyllis, to the police ticketing more cars going twenty-eight miles per hour in a twenty-five zone) and the installation of video surveillance cameras in much of the town square, a development that was a little too Big Brother for my taste. But Bridget clearly saw herself as a doer, and I doubted being mayor of Harbor Haven was her ultimate ambition.

  “How about a school bus route?” I asked, forgetting my role for a moment. Bridget’s eyes widened, and she looked me up and down. I was trying to be careful not to move around too much, so the digital recorder in my purse would be able to pick up our voices with as little background noise as possible.

  “You’d be shocked to hear what the insurance would cost. Shall we have some wine?” the mayor asked. She gave the bartender a wink from across the room, and the poor kid’s expression of either embarrassment or total befuddlement spoke volumes.

  “Not for me,” I said. “I have to use power tools after lunch. I’ll stick with water.” A drink that, I’d like to point out, doesn’t tolerate poison well. It’s meant to be clear, for one thing. Flavorless, for another.

  “So,” the mayor began, “how can I help you?”

  “Well, as you know, I’m the new owner of the house at 123 Seafront Avenue.”

  “Such a lovely old house,” she said. “I hope you’re doing all you can to restore it to its original beauty.” She spotted someone across the room, and waved. But discreetly.

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” I agreed. “But I’m coming late to a lot of the house’s recent history, and I was hoping that as mayor you might be able to fill in some of the gaps for me.”

  “Oh,” the mayor said. She shifted her gaze to look at the chefs.

  “I know about the two deaths, Ms. Bostero,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  Bridget immediately looked back at me, and would have brightened, but she was too busy making a face that indicated her terrible grief at what had happened in my house. “Those poor people,” she intoned. “They must have been so horribly sad.”

  “You really think they committed suicide together?” I asked.

  “That’s what the police said,” the mayor replied. She was interrupted by the arrival of an appetizer of fried mozzarella and gougères (to drive the fusion theme home with a jackhammer), which Bridget had ordered without asking my opinion. My opinion would have been that it constituted a lot of cheese.

  Once Ralphie had left the table, the mayor continued. “Have you ever thought of touching up your hair, just a bit?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Just highlights, you know,” Bridget said. “I’m not saying you’re getting gray at all. Not at all. But a few touches here and there . . .” It was possible she’d been happier as a beautician than as a mayor.

  “I’ve never thought of it,” I said.

  “I could recommend a few things.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think about it. But getting back to our conversation . . .”

  “You never know what’s going on in someone else’s head,” she said with a look that tried to say sage and ended up stumped beauty pageant contestant. “Some people feel things more intensely than others,” she offered. I was no longer sure whether we were discussing possible suicides or hair coloring.

  And then the mayor scared the living hell out of me by taking a small bottle out of her purse and administering three drops of liquid into her water glass. Then she drank the water.

  I must have looked stunned, because she laughed. “It’s just a multivitamin,” she said. “I can’t swallow pills, so my doctor prescribes everything for me in liquid form. Don’t worry.”

  I tried to get back on topic, but after that display, it was difficult. I concentrated on what Paul had instructed me to do: push harder. “These people died right after the planning board meeting where Maxie Malone successfully stopped the plan to raze the house,” I said. “I understand you were there. You heard the argument. Don’t you think it’s possible that someone who was disappointed with the result could have gotten very, very angry?”

  Bridget Bostero’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect O before she spoke. “You think they were mur
dered?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” I told her. Paul was going to love this part of the recording.

  “Why wouldn’t the police agree with you, then?” the mayor asked.

  “The police don’t have to be corrupt to get something wrong,” I said, leaning heavily on Paul’s pre-interview coaching. “I’m told that the original investigating officer, Detective Westmoreland, was counting the days to his retirement. He went with whatever the medical examiner told him, and, in this case, was told the bodies had lots of Ambien in them. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’ll be suicide or an accidental overdose. There was no way these were two accidental overdoses, so they were ruled suicides, and the detective moved on. That’s not corruption; it’s not even negligence. It’s just a failure to question enough.”

  “You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” the mayor said.

  It was time to cut and run. “Yes, but I really wanted to ask you about the development plan,” I said. “I know you didn’t vote on the proposal.”

  “That’s right. If it doesn’t pass the planning board, we don’t get to consider the question at all.” Bridget seemed proud to show off her knowledge of governmental procedure.

  “But I’m told you spoke in favor of the development plan before the vote, but you accepted the decision afterward.”

  “Yes, I did.” The mayor beamed. “I always abide by decisions I don’t have to make. And after all, it was obvious the board was moved by the voice of a citizen who deserved her right to speak.” Vote for me: the hidden message behind everything any elected official ever says.

  “I appreciate that.” I looked down and saw that the appetizer, which I hadn’t touched, was almost gone. Mayor Bostero must have worked out ten hours a day to be able to eat like that—she had a terrific figure. I started to hate her. “But I’m wondering about the future of my guesthouse. It’s zoned properly for what I want to do, but will I have problems with parking, beach access or sewer systems? With fuel prices going up and an ancient heating system, will I be able to have guests during the winter?” That reminded me: I had to do something about my furnace. Really.

  “Madeline and David were always working to keep the house going,” Bridget said. “The outside, the inside . . . with a structure as old as that one, there’s always something.”

  “Madeline and David?” I asked.

  “The Prestons. The people who used to own the house. Lovely couple, you know. I still see them socially every once in a while. They contributed to the campaign.”

  “The house,” I reminded her.

  “You think you’re in over your head?” Bridget asked, picking up exactly as Paul and I had hoped she would.

  “It’s possible. I haven’t decided yet; I’m still making repairs. But if I were going to sell it, would the town be interested in reconsidering the development plan Mr. Morris had proposed?”

  Bridget Bostero took a long moment and looked off into the distance, obviously thinking deep thoughts. “Oh good,” she finally said. “Here’s our lunch.” Rudolfo/ Ralphie appeared out of nowhere with a large tray and a stand and started serving the entrees. “I’m starving,” Mayor Bostero went on.

  The woman must have had a tapeworm.

  Once Rudolfo withdrew, I had to ask my question again; Bridget either didn’t remember what I’d asked or was hoping I’d forget.

  “That development deal is dead,” she finally said. “The planning board won’t reconsider unless it’s drastically overhauled, and Adam Morris doesn’t want to do that. There’s no chance for it.”

  She considered very carefully, and then twirled some fettuccine onto her fork. “You should have ordered the veal,” the mayor said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Fifteen

  Talking to Bridget Bostero and Adam Morris had yielded little, which Paul informed me was “about par” for a new investigation. But he wasn’t the one getting threatening e-mails, and couldn’t lose his own life again, so I think I felt a slightly more acute sense of urgency.

  This was not helped by the fact that my mother still called me every day to ask if my head still hurt (which it hadn’t since the day after I’d gotten out of the hospital) and to try to invent more reasons to come over to the house. So far, she’d come only once, and found me engaged in heavy lifting, moving a toilet. She’d quickly remembered an errand she had to run. But I’m sure she thought I’d moved it brilliantly.

  I’d also had phone conversations (on speaker, so Paul could hear) with three of the four planning board members, all lovely old gentlemen who recalled that Mayor Bostero had spoken first for the development plan, and then against it, once it was obvious Maxie had persuaded the board. While they couldn’t recall exactly what it was Maxie had said that was so powerful, each mentioned unprompted that she’d looked good while saying it.

  The interrogations were taking up a lot of my days while Melissa was in school, but there was still a house to restore before Halloween, now just over a week away. The local houses done up with orange-and-yellow Halloween lights were becoming an unwelcome reminder. Lights are for Christmas, people. That’s all I’m saying.

  When I told Paul I’d be concentrating on renovations for a while, he got huffy (in a polite, Canadian way) and vanished to other parts of the house when I was working. It took me the better part of the next three days to get the bathroom tiled, but when I was finished, it was a sight to behold. Glistening off-white tile with coral-colored grout gave it just the right seaside touch without making it overly adorable.

  Tony and Jeannie stopped by that afternoon to check on my progress, and since Melissa was at Wendy’s house, I’d actually been very productive. Tony nodded at the tiling job.

  “It’s really getting there,” he said, admiring the work. “Are you going to tile the floor, as well?”

  “I think so, but something a little less plain. A recurring pattern, maybe. I haven’t decided.”

  Jeannie leaned on the bathroom doorjamb and smiled. “You do nice work, Alison,” she said. “Do you hire out?”

  “If I don’t get this house done in time to attract some guests for the summer, I might take you up on that,” I told her.

  “Come on,” Tony said. “Let’s take another look at that hole in your living room wall.”

  We went downstairs and stood, once again, in front of the Delaware Water Gap in my beautiful plaster wall. As ever, it made me want to cry. Tony took on his professional-contractor face and, for the umpteenth time, examined the edges of the gap as if trying to determine how to make the plaster grow back.

  “Why can’t you just patch it?” Jeannie asked, and again, I explained about the lack of available plaster craftsmen.

  “It looks like a regular hole,” she said. “I don’t see why it’s so hard.”

  Tony picked up a trowel I’d left lying on the floor and offered it to her. “If you’d like to take a shot . . .” he said.

  Jeannie just grinned. “Why did I marry you, again?”

  “As I recall, at the time you said it was for the sex,” I told her. Jeannie blushed. So did Tony.

  Maxie appeared through the living room ceiling and, as before, her gaze fixated on Tony. She licked her lips.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” I said.

  “Why? The hole’s here,” Tony answered, wrinkling his brow. I think that only made Maxie more ravenous. I didn’t know if she had plans for him, but if so, I certainly didn’t want to know what they were. “Can we get some more light in here, Alison?” he asked, looking into the cavern.

  Maxie swooped down and hit the light switch before I could reach it. Luckily, neither Tony nor Jeannie was looking, because I have no idea how I would have explained that. But Jeannie did shiver a little as Maxie passed by her, as if she’d felt a sudden, cold wind.

  Tony could stick his head all the way inside the hole; that was how big it was. With a flashlight in his hand, he looked around the damage. “I don’t get how this happened,” he s
aid. “There’s no sign of weakness around the gap. And look here.” He beckoned to me, so I stood close to the hole and looked in. “There’s plaster on the floor inside the wall. The only way that happens is if something hits it from outside.”

  “Or someone,” Maxie trilled from up near the ceiling again. If only I could have reached her . . . I still wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Damn!

  “Maybe something evil hit it,” I said, and Maxie stuck her tongue out at me.

  “Yeah,” Tony laughed. “Something evil.” He thought some more. “Maybe we could build a mold of some sort—take the dimensions of the gap, or better, square it off with a saw, maybe—and then make a mold of the thickness. Then we could just drop the finished plaster mold in, spackle in around the corners and consider ourselves lucky.” He looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s better than looking at a hole in the wall,” I said. “Let’s try it.”

  “Get me a level, a pencil and a drywall saw,” Tony said. He looked positively gleeful. “We’ll beat this sucker yet.”

  “I realize this is fascinating,” Jeannie said as I headed for the kitchen, where the tools were, “but I’m going to go out and get some pizza. We could be here awhile. Alison, do you need anything?”

  “Can you pick up Melissa from Wendy’s? I’ll call her mom so she’ll know it’s not me picking her up.”

  “Sure.” I gave Jeannie Wendy’s address, and she was off, ordering extra garlic on her cell phone as she left.

  I brought Tony the tools. When he’s working, I’m reduced to the role of assistant, and I’m happy to cede my authority. He’s the contractor; I’m someone who’s good with tools. It’s a whole other level. Like the Jonas Brothers should shut up and listen when Stevie Wonder sings. I’m just saying.

  Plus, as I hand him tools, I take note of how he does things. So then next time, when he’s not around, I might be able to do it myself. Not as well, but well enough.