Cover Story

by Rachel Bailey

  I liked Ethel as soon as she rolled her eyes at Dot’s choice of words. “Ethel, have you got any idea who could have done it?”

  “Well, if you really want to know,” she tucked her chin in and tilted her head forward, “it’s probably those thugs across the street.”

  Dot cut in to explain. “The house on the corner, number two, is a rental.” She enunciated the word “rental” carefully and both women nodded slowly as if that explained everything.

  It probably did, but as a renter myself, I was slightly affronted. “Are they a problem?”

  Ethel widened her eyes and pursed her lips. “Three boys, all with long hair.”

  Oh, long-haired thugs. Say no more. “Do they play loud music?” I asked, and received vigorous nodding from all. “And keep odd hours?” The nodding continued. “And laugh at your gnome tradition?”

  Anna spoke up. “They like the gnomes. They make the gnomes have sex.”

  All nodding stopped and was replaced by wide-eyed shock.

  Dot was the first to regain her composure. “Anna! Where did you hear that?”

  Oblivious to the consternation she caused—or was she?—the little blond center of attention smiled. “Cosmo Brown said they make the gnomes have sex with each other. His mommy puts them back before anyone sees.”

  Dot looked at me, embarrassed. “Cosmo’s the little boy next door to them. Now, Anna, I think it’s time we went home for a nap.”

  “Oh, Gran, do I have to?” Her face fell and her shoulders slumped. That kid could have a career in the movies if she wanted.

  Unmoved, Dot shepherded her toward Gerald. “Yes, you do. Tobi, will I see you later?”

  “I’ll drop in before I leave.”

  Dot waited for Anna to kiss her grandfather then escorted the reluctant girl out the front door. I settled in on the chair and took out my notebook.

  “Tell me about the guys over the road.” I could see a Youth Crime angle forming.

  “One says he’s a drummer in a band.” Ethel clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “He’s out all hours and sleeps right through the day. If you ask me, he’s on drugs and selling them to pay for his own dirty habit. The drummer act is a cover.”

  This was better—drugs infiltrating a quiet suburban street. “What about the others?”

  Clearly warming to her topic, Ethel darted a glance out the window and licked her lips. “One of them—they call him Pedro—is always there, he must be unemployed. If only he’d take some care with his appearance he might have a better chance at getting a job, but you know what young people are like.”

  I wrote down the names and let her talk.

  “The other one comes and goes a lot—he might have a job, or maybe he’s in cahoots with the one selling the drugs.”

  “Maybe.” I turned to the old man in the armchair. “Mr. Philips?” I paused, waiting for some response. When none was forthcoming, I tried again. “Gerald, sir, do you have any idea who smashed your gnomes?”

  Slowly, he turned his head from the window to face me. “Ideas are dangerous to the masses.” Then he turned back to the window and Remington readjusted himself.

  Ethel gave him a sad glance and shrugged. “He’s not playing with a full deck.”

  I looked him over. I wasn’t so sure. There had been something in his eyes when he’d spoken that had seemed … aware. Was this an act he put on? Maybe he could even walk. If he could, he’d get extremely bored sitting here all day—maybe even bored enough to want to liven things up. I remembered the Hitchcock film, Rear Window, about the man in a wheelchair, bored out of his brain and spying on his neighbors. That was it! Gerald was the culprit—the Hitchcock angle.

  Or was I going crazy myself from spending too much time on Los Alamos Court?

  Ethel stood up. “Would you like a cup of tea, dear?”

  Of course, it was no wonder I was going crazy with all the tea and everybody calling me dear.

  “No, th—” Although, that would give me a moment alone with Gerald. “Do you have coffee? If not, tea would be lovely.”

  “I can make you coffee. How do you have it?” She smiled and patted my shoulder as she passed.

  “Black, no sugar, thanks.”

  After she left, I sized up my adversary. “So, Gerald,” I paused for effect—those TV cop shows sure were coming in handy. “Anna tells me her dad’s taking her out on a motorbike this weekend.”

  He turned sharply, his face filled with tension as he eyed me. I didn’t falter. His eyes narrowed then he relaxed and looked back out the window.

  “Aha! You’ve been playing ’possum!”

  There was a long pause before he answered. “Opossums eat my apricots.”

  Ethel bustled back in with the drinks. “Don’t be silly, Gerald, you haven’t had apricots for years.” She handed me my cup. “I told you he wasn’t altogether there,” she said, sotto voce.

  Gerald turned and caught my eye for a second and I saw a twinkle before the glazed look took over again.

  I drank my coffee quickly and thanked Ethel for her help. Walking back to Simon and Dot’s house, I made sure I walked along the road to avoid Attackcat.

  Anna was still down for her nap and I quite fancied one myself—life on this street was wearing me out. Dot examined me with a frown-line between her pale blue eyes. “Dear, you look a little washed out. Why don’t you take the afternoon off and come back tonight? You could have dinner with us, then I’ll take you to meet the neighbors who are at work now.”

  I hated other people organizing me. I’d started dressing myself at three years old, just so my mother had less control over the clothes I wore, and my editor, Kevin, was constantly telling me to be more of a “team player”, meaning to do what he told me. Most of the time, if someone suggested a plan—even a small one like this—I did the exact opposite on principle.

  It wasn’t always the best thing for my career, but I have to live my life on my own terms.

  So why I simply nodded and agreed to Dot’s plan is anyone’s guess. A picture of Simon flashed briefly into my mind, but I dismissed it as I drove away from Los Alamos Court.

  *

  Instead of having the afternoon off, I went into the office to help Sofia with the political story. Kevin wasn’t a fan of investigative journalism—too time intensive—so he’d given Sofia another story to write and she was whining.

  “Would you rather write about the Gnomes on Crazy Lane?” I scanned my emails as Sofia sat on my desk, legs swinging.

  “No, but a sports star’s stupid new hairstyle would have to come a close second.” She picked up my purple highlighter and doodled on my previously pristine desk blotter.

  “Granted.” I grabbed the highlighter and dropped it back in my penholder. I was no advocate of sharing stationery supplies. “I’ve got an hour or so—do you want to do something else on the senator’s office?”

  She sighed. “I haven’t heard from our contact in two days, so there’s no point—”

  “Hey, Fletcher.”

  I looked at Matias. “What?”

  “What do you call three smashed gnomes?” I turned away, but he continued. “A good start!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

  A familiar annoyance flared. He was like a mosquito—persistent and infuriating. A great big, sexy one, perhaps, but a mosquito nonetheless. I scowled. “You’re an idiot, Matias.”

  “Ah, but to gnome me is to love me, Fletcher.”

  I sighed and said to Sofia, “I think I’ll just head home. I’m interviewing more people about the gnomes tonight. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure, Tobi.” Sofia winked at me. “You gnome me—always at the office.”

  Why did everyone think they were comedians all of a sudden?

  *

  I spent a good two hours on my laptop trying to write a feature story about Los Alamos Court. I couldn’t get an angle. I’d ruled out the Woman Scorned and was left with the two new options—the Youth Crime wave and the Hitchcock copyca
t. Problem was, I didn’t have anything to support either.

  I typed up my notes and jotted descriptions of the people and houses in case I needed them. Then I arranged for one of the paper’s staff photographers to meet me in the morning, after breakfast with Davo. I wondered if I could coerce the boys in number two to put their gnomes in the simulated sex poses for the picture. From Ethel’s description of them, I didn’t think it would take much convincing.

  With luck, I could finish interviewing everyone tonight and in the morning, spend the afternoon writing up the story, and hand it to Kevin with enough time to get a handle on a new story before the end of the day.

  I had a quick shower, got dressed, put on my rose-gold watch—the one with ruby flecks on the band—and drove over to Los Alamos Court for the promised dinner. I pulled up in Simon’s drive, and almost had a heart attack when someone leaped out at me from behind the wall next door.

  “Hey, boss chick.”

  “Davo! Why did you jump out at me?”

  “Bein’ discreet.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “Just lettin’ you know I’m on the job.”

  “Um … that’s good …” I said faintly. I began to wonder if this relationship with Davo was going to kill me. “Ah … keep up the good work.”

  “Will do.” He took a few steps, then looked back with raised eyebrows and hand cocked like a gun. “Later, babe.”

  I managed to get my breathing back under control by the time I knocked on the door. Simon and Anna answered together.

  “See, Daddy, I told you it was Tobi.” She grabbed my hand and dragged me into the house before I had time to greet her father. “Gran’s cooking burritos. Wanna see my dolls?”

  “Er, sure.” I followed her, wondering what the minimum amount of time I could spend with a kid and her doll was without being rude.

  I perched on the edge of her bed and smiled politely as she showed me an ugly pink-haired doll. Then, thankfully, it was put aside and she offered a horrid floppy doll, which I courteously declined to cuddle. I even found pleasant words to praise a nauseating baby doll that drank and filled its nappy.

  When the creepy doll that cried appeared, Simon popped his head around the corner and said he needed me in the other room. Anna seemed fine with this and kept playing. Obviously as kids go, this one was pretty low maintenance.

  I scurried back to the dining room and Simon resumed setting the table. He looked up at me and smiled. “I thought you might need rescuing from the land of the dolls.”

  “Thanks. Where were you when my mother called yesterday?” Damn, had I said that out loud?

  He arched an eyebrow in that maddening way he had. “You often need rescuing?”

  Hmph, I most certainly did not need rescuing—I was more than capable of looking after myself.

  Despite the rapid rise in my blood pressure, I laughed, trying to make light of it. “Just from the occasional call from my mother.”

  “Maybe you should keep my number for when you need a knight in shining armor.” He held my gaze longer than necessary and, as the moment stretched out, I became aware that his midnight-blue eyes seemed to darken until they were almost black. That, and the fact he needed a shave. He must be one of those men who normally ran the razor over twice a day. I’d always liked that.

  Yep, he was flirting and I was responding.

  A strange thing usually happens when men flirt with me—I have the almost irresistible urge to put them in their place. I suppose it might come from what Grace calls my “control issues”. Well, sure, I don’t like to feel out of control, but who does?

  I think it’s more to do with my intolerance for game-playing and silliness. My mother says that even when I was little, I didn’t want to play games with my sister and the other kids—I always had something important to do. Playing games is a waste of time, whether you’re seven or fifty-seven. Case in point—the editor on the first newspaper I worked on. He didn’t play games—he asked me out to dinner, then at dinner he asked me to sleep with him. He continued asking for weeks until I agreed. I respected that—to the point, no mucking around, no misunderstandings.

  Shame I got bored with him.

  But when I did, I offered him the same courtesy—no games, no lies. I told him he bored me and dumped him. I think he appreciated it.

  Of course, he had organized for me to be transferred soon after, but he swore it was more of a promotion than anything.

  Looking back at Simon, however, I resisted the urge to spurn him. There was something real about him that was different from men I’d known. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe that a snarky barb would actually hurt him? But also, that stepping into whatever he was offering with his flirting would be real. And good.

  I turned away and ignored his knight in shining armor offer—for purely professional reasons, of course.

  Chapter 4

  After we ate the black bean burritos and a cherry pie Dot and Anna had made in my honor, Dot suggested Simon take me next door while she put Anna to bed.

  We walked across to the Sinclairs’ at number six, hoping to catch Martin. Beverley answered the door with her squishy-faced fake smile and asked us in for a cup of Highlands Herbs Tasmanian tea. Apparently there are protocols with tea variety and time of day. Who knew? Simon accepted and we walked through to the table in the kitchen, while Beverley went to find Martin.

  Martin arrived almost immediately, thinly veiled disdain marring his reasonably handsome face. He looked quite the businessman with the obligatory short gray hair and business shirt, albeit with his collar undone. But it was the expression in his eyes that told me the most. It was hard. Lacking something.

  “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair, my name is Tobi Fletcher and—”

  “I know who you are,” he interrupted. “Beverley told me earlier.” He sat down and laced his fingers behind his head, eyelids half lowered in obvious boredom. He was trying to intimidate me into leaving, but I paid no heed.

  I flipped open my spiral notebook. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About the gnomes?” He practically sneered.

  I dislike arrogant men—they bring out a similar urge in me that flirting men do: I get this almost irresistible urge to separate them from their testicles. But, being the professional I am, or maybe just exhausted, I restrained myself.

  “Yes, about the gnomes. Have you any idea what happened to them?”

  He looked me up and down. “So you’re the caliber of person drawing a wage from my subscription?” He shook his head. “Perhaps I need to rethink where my money goes.”

  I took a deep breath, determined not to rise to his bait, despite my fist clenched around my pencil. “You don’t have an opinion on the gnomes then?”

  He snorted a breath. “Are you honestly asking me to speculate about the fate of five-dollar garden gnomes?” He threw his arms in the air. “No wonder this country’s a mess, when the media takes this sort of nonsense seriously and ignores crucial economic and trade issues.”

  My blood steamed. Whether he was baiting me or not, I’d had enough, and the fact that I agreed with him in no way soothed my annoyance. “The gnome issue may not chart on the national political Richter scale, but it’s of relevance to some members of our readership and that’s ultimately what matters. At the Santa Fe Daily, we pride ourselves on representing our entire readership, not just the self-important buffoons who think they know more than everybody else.”

  His face turned an interesting shade of red and seemed to swell. “I think it’s time you left.”

  “I think you’re right.” I stood and walked to the door, not checking if Simon followed.

  He caught up with me on the sidewalk. I felt a twinge of guilt that he’d probably had to apologize for my behavior. After a lifetime with my mother, I was embarrassed I’d dumped someone else in the position she’d always put me in. “Simon, I’m sorry if I’ve caused problems for you with your neighbors.”

  He eyed me then grinned. “It was worth
it to see Martin’s face. I don’t think anyone’s stood up to him like that in a long time.”

  I winced. “I wouldn’t call it standing up to him. It was more my temper getting away from me.”

  He grinned. “Whatever, it was entertaining.”

  Nodding absently, I glanced at the Sinclairs’ house. “I agree with most of what he said, though.”

  The streetlamp threw a subtle light across Simon’s features, turning his dark blue eyes almost black. “I know you do,” he said. “But you’re still doing your best to be objective about the gnomes and I respect that.”

  “Thanks.” Go figure. After my lifelong struggle to gain respect, Simon Hanson goes ahead and gives it to me when I least expected it. It felt strange, but rather nice. I smiled at him. “Hey, that didn’t take long. Could we visit someone else?”

  “Sure. Any preferences?”

  I cast a quick look up and down the quiet street. “The boys on the corner would be good. I’ll be back in the morning, but, from the sounds of them, they might not be up then.”

  He released a low rumble of laughter. “That’s a strong possibility. Come on.”

  They were on the same side of the street as the Sinclairs, so we only had to walk past one house, but we could hear their music long before we reached their door. The garden accent lights in the yard on the other corner flickered in order, as if someone had moved quickly past them.

  Simon stopped. “Did you see that?”

  I peered over and made out the shape of a teenager in a hooded jacket giving me a thumbs up before falling over the hedge. “It’s just Davo.”

  Simon frowned, obviously bewildered. “What’s he doing?”

  Good question. I was wondering that myself—and praying he didn’t do anything too stupid. “Long story.”

  We knocked on the door to number two and were greeted by one of the longhaired hoods. “Hi Simon and,” he paused to give me a once-over and a wink. “Hi, Simon’s friend.” This was obviously my day for arrogant and flirtatious men.

  Simon smiled easily. “Hi, Laurie.”

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Tobi Fletcher from the Santa Fe Daily. Have you got a minute for some questions about the gnome incident?”