A Whisker of Trouble

by Sofie Ryan

  “We’d like to talk to the neighbors on either side of Edison,” Rose said. “As well as the people across the street.”

  “The police already talked to them and didn’t come up with anything,” Mr. P. said, “but I think it’s worth a second conversation.”

  “As usual, I’m not going to ask how you know that,” I said.

  He gave me an enigmatic smile. “Sometimes talking to somebody other than the police is a lower-pressure situation and people remember things they didn’t know they knew.” He raised an eyebrow. “I know that from my psychology class.”

  “Remind me never to do anything illegal when you’re around,” I said.

  Mr. P. gave the slightest of shrugs. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, my dear. You forget that I’ve driven with you more than once.”

  Rose started to laugh. I had a bit of a lead foot when I drove, although I tried very hard not to speed when I had anyone other than Elvis in the car.

  It was a beautiful spring morning and I cracked the driver’s window of the SUV just a little as we drove over to Edison Hall’s neighborhood. I parked at the curb in front of the house. Maybe it was just knowing what had happened in the little bungalow, but the place seemed to have an air of sadness about it. I hoped that once the investigation was over and we’d cleared out the place, a family would move in and fill the little house with happy memories.

  Rose was on the front passenger side and she turned to look at Mr. P. “Where do you think we should start?” she asked.

  I shifted in my seat to survey the area. The houses were a mix of small bungalows and equally tiny Cape Cod–style houses and there were large trees along both sides of the narrow street. It was a beautiful neighborhood.

  Diagonally across the street from us, a gray Cape Cod with sea blue shutters caught my eye. “May I make a suggestion?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Mr. P. said.

  “I think you should start with the gray house across the street.”

  They both turned for a look and then Rose looked at me again. “Why there?” she asked.

  “Because I just saw a man with a little kid head into the backyard and I’m pretty sure I know him.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. P. said from the backseat.

  “I’m almost certain it’s Paul Duvall,” I said. “He was friends with Josh when we were kids. He’d be a couple of years younger than I am. He’s a townie.”

  Josh was Josh Evans, a local lawyer who had helped us out a couple of times. He’d grown up in North Harbor just a few houses from my grandmother’s, which was how we’d gotten to know each other, even though I was just a summer kid.

  Rose frowned. “Tall and skinny? Delivered the newspaper?”

  I nodded. “That’s Paul.”

  “He had lovely manners as I remember,” she said approvingly. She looked from me to Alfred. “Everyone ready?”

  We climbed out of the SUV. Rose patted her white hair and smoothed the front of her skirt. She reached over to adjust Mr. P.’s collar, giving me a quick appraising look as she did so. I had changed out of my jeans into a pair of gray pants and my favorite black boots. Rose didn’t say anything, so I assumed she’d decided I looked presentable.

  We crossed the street and followed the interlocking brick path around the side of the house to the backyard. It was deeper than I expected, rimmed with evergreen trees that provided lots of privacy.

  Paul was pushing a blond, curly-haired little girl on a swing. He frowned, squinting as he first caught sight of us, and then the frown turned to a smile. “Sarah?” he said.

  I nodded, returning the smile.

  He said something to the little girl, then came around the swing set and met me in the middle of the lawn.

  “Josh told me you were living here now,” he said. “The repurpose store about halfway up the hill—it’s yours?”

  “It is,” I said. I had to look up to meet his gaze. He was easily a good six inches taller than my five foot six, towering over me even with the extra couple of inches my boots gave me. He was wearing glasses with thin wire frames, and his egg-shaped head was shaved smooth. He still had the same intelligent blue eyes behind those glasses.

  I looked around. “How long have you been here? I thought you were in Oregon.”

  “We were,” Paul said. “We’ve been back about three months and we moved into this house about six weeks ago.” He half turned and smiled at the tiny blonde slipping off the swing. “That’s Alyssa.”

  The preschooler ran over to us, stopping beside her father. She looked up at me, curiosity in her blue eyes that mirrored her father’s. “My name is Alyssa,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  I leaned forward and smiled at her. “My name is Sarah.”

  “Sarah and I were friends when I was a little boy,” Paul told her.

  “That’s a long ago time,” she said, the expression on her tiny face grave.

  Paul laughed, smoothing a hand over his scalp. “That it was.”

  Alyssa turned her attention to Rose and Mr. P. “Are they your mommy and daddy?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “They’re my friends, Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Peterson.” I looked at Paul. “Actually we were hoping you could answer a couple of questions for us about the house across the street.”

  Alyssa had let go of her father’s leg. She walked over and looked up at Mr. P., tipping her blond head to one side. “Are you a papa?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am,” he said.

  “Can you push me on my swing?”

  “Alyssa,” Paul said, a slight edge of warning in his voice.

  She glanced back at her father for a brief moment. “Please?” she said. She reached for Mr. P.’s hand and gave him a smile that I knew I wouldn’t have been able to resist.

  “I’d love to,” he said, clearly enchanted by her. He looked at Paul. “As long as your daddy says it’s okay.”

  “It’s okay,” Paul said.

  “I like to go high,” I heard Alyssa say as she pulled Mr. P. across the grass.

  Paul shook his head. “Sometimes I think she’ll run the world someday.”

  “Then it will be in good hands,” Rose said. She smiled at Paul. “You probably don’t remember, but you were my paperboy a good many years ago.”

  “I do remember, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “You made the best oatmeal cookies with raisins and walnuts. You used to leave a couple in a little bag on the doorknob for me every Saturday.”

  Rose beamed back at him. “And you never just threw the paper on the lawn. You always put it between the doors.”

  Paul laughed. “Well, I have to admit those cookies were a pretty good incentive.” He looked over at the swings where Alyssa and Mr. P. were talking as he pushed her.

  His gaze came back to me. “You said you had some questions, Sarah, about the Hall place across the street?” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “The police have already been here asking questions. You know someone found a body over there?”

  I nodded. “I’m the one who found it.”

  His eyes widened. “You did? Wait a minute, you’re the people who are going to clear out the house?”

  “Yes. The family hired us.”

  He looked past us toward the street. “I didn’t make the connection. I’m sorry.”

  “Paul, Rose and Mr. Peterson are private investigators. They’re looking in to what happened.”

  If Paul was surprised, it didn’t show.

  “Did you see anything?” Rose asked. “Or anyone hanging around that you hadn’t seen in the neighborhood before?”

  Paul shook his head. “I’m sorry. We weren’t even here most of that day. We drove down to Portland to see my sister and we stayed the night. My wife had a meeting.”

  “What about the week before? Did you see anyone then?”


  “No, I mean except for Ethan Hall and the man who died—Quinn, I think his name was.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I saw them several times in the past couple of weeks.” He ran his hand over his smooth scalp again. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything that will help.”

  “It’s all right,” Rose said.

  He looked over at his daughter and Mr. P. again. “It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood. That’s one of the reasons we bought this house. You could talk to Sharon Marshall, the blue house across the street. She’s been around a lot more in the last six weeks. She had hip replacement surgery. I’m not sure if she’s home right now. She has physio a couple of mornings a week.” He bent down to pick up a lime green pail and shovel on the grass at his feet. “Although I think if she’d seen anyone around other than Ethan, Mr. Quinn or the recyclers, she would have mentioned it.” He straightened up and smiled at us.

  “Recyclers?” I said.

  “That’s what we call the trash pickers. It’s just a nicer word. I don’t want Alyssa to think reusing things is a bad idea.”

  Rose and I exchanged a look. “Who exactly are these recyclers?” I asked.

  “It’s just one, really,” Paul said, brushing a clump of mud off the side of the little pail. “I saw her a couple of times the week before last, you know, when it was the spring-cleaning pickup.”

  Once a year North Harbor did a recycling and garbage pickup. There were rules about what could be put out at the curb, but in theory if two people could move it, the town would pick it up to be either recycled or taken to the landfill. In practice, most things didn’t spend very long curbside and didn’t usually end up at the recycling center or the landfill, either. People came from other towns to cruise around looking for freebies.

  Mac and I had come across some great finds that week and had bought a few more from the pickers we regularly did business with.

  “Can you describe her?” I asked.

  Paul frowned and looked at me. “I’d say she’s a bit shorter than you, swimmer’s build—you know, wide shoulders and strong legs.”

  “Long curly hair?” I finished.

  “You know her?”

  “We do,” Rose said.

  “Her name is Teresa,” I said. “I’ve bought some things from her for the store. Do you remember when you last saw her over at the Hall house?”

  I shifted a bit uneasily from one foot to the other. I hated to think that Teresa Reynard might be involved in Ronan Quinn’s death. I didn’t know her well, but she’d always brought me good-quality items—no junk—and she’d always been fair in the prices she asked.

  Paul blew out a breath. “Let me see. Four or five days before . . .” He paused. “Before, you know, what happened, I saw her with Ethan. She was putting a couple of concrete planters and a small concrete statue—I think it was a lion—in the back of her van. It’s an old Volkswagen van. Blue.”

  It was definitely Teresa whom Paul had seen. She called her old van Mitch. It always made me think of the little clown cars at the circus when she started unloading it. She somehow managed to put far more inside than the laws of physics decreed should fit.

  “Was that the last time you saw Teresa around here?” Rose asked.

  “Actually no,” Paul said. “That morning we drove down to Portland, I saw her van go by. Sometime before six.” He glanced over in the direction of the swing. “Alyssa is an early bird. She was in the living room watching a video. I’d just slipped into the kitchen to make a cup of instant coffee.” He rolled his eyes. “My wife thinks I drink too much coffee.” His expression grew serious. “You don’t think this Teresa person killed that man, do you?”

  “Heavens, no!” Rose gave her head a slight shake. “But she might have seen something when she was in the neighborhood.” Her eyes darted to me for a brief second. “We’ve taken enough of your time, Paul. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  Rose looked in Mr. P.’s direction and raised a hand. He nodded, then said something to Alyssa before giving her one last push. He walked over to us.

  “You have an enchanting daughter,” he said to Paul.

  “Thank you for entertaining her,” Paul said.

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  Alyssa was still swinging, pumping now with her legs to go higher. She waved at Mr. P., who waved back.

  There was no one home at the blue bungalow that belonged to Sharon Marshall or at the white Cape Cod on the other side of Edison Hall’s house.

  We walked back to the SUV.

  “Sarah, do you have an address for Teresa Reynard?” Mr. P. asked once he was settled in the backseat.

  I was buckling my seat belt and I half turned to look at him. “Don’t tell me you can lip-read at that distance?” I said.

  He frowned and looked a little confused. “I can’t lip-read at all, my dear,” he said. “Although I can read upside down, which has proved very useful a time or two. Why do you think I was lip-reading?”

  Rose was smiling. “The little one told you, didn’t she?”

  Mr. P. smiled back at her, the puzzled look gone from his face now. “And her father told you,” he said.

  “Yes, he did,” Rose said. “He’s a pleasant young man, but I’d forgotten how literal-minded he could be.” She gave Alfred an inquiring look.

  He held up a hand before she could speak. “And before either of you worry that I interrogated that lovely child, I didn’t. I just happened to notice that she had one of those little old wooden toy jeeps that you”—he tipped his head in my direction—“bought from Teresa about two weeks ago. All I did was ask her where she got it.”

  “Teresa gave it to her,” I said.

  He nodded. “She said the nice lady with the rolly hair gave it to her.”

  “Rolly” was a good description of Teresa’s mass of dark curls. I checked for traffic and pulled away from the curb.

  “Then she asked me if I liked to play hide-and-seek,” Mr. P. continued.

  “Children that age have a very short attention span,” Rose said. Rose had been a teacher for a lot of years. Not only did she know a lot about kids, but she also knew pretty much every scheme or scam a kid between the age of five and eighteen could come up with.

  “Alyssa is very bright for her age,” Mr. P. said. “And very observant.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and he gave me a Cheshire cat smile. “For example, she noticed Teresa, over at the Hall house the morning of the murder, playing hide-and-seek. Or to be more exact, hiding by the side of the garage.”

  Chapter 5

  “We have to talk to her,” Rose said at once. I could feel her eyes on me. “Sarah, where does Teresa live?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Somewhere just outside town, I think.”

  “It doesn’t matter, dear,” she said. From the corner of my eye, I saw her pull out her phone. “I’ll Google her address.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I need to get back to the shop and . . .” I hesitated, not wanting to get any more involved than I already was and, even more important, not wanting to insult either one of them by pointing out the obvious.

  “And what?” Rose asked.

  I stopped at the corner, checked the traffic in both directions and took the opportunity, while we were stopped, to look at both of them. “And have you considered the fact that your information came from a four-year-old?”

  “She’s very bright,” Mr. P. said immediately, leaning forward and placing one hand on the back of my seat. “She has the vocabulary of a much older child.”

  Rose turned partway round to look at him. “Sarah was the same way,” she said. “She could read before she started school. Isabel used to get her to read everyone’s horoscope out of the newspaper.”

  I flashed to sitti
ng at my grandmother’s table in a red plastic booster chair with a cookie in one hand and the newspaper spread out on the round wooden table.

  “I remember that,” I said, smiling at the memory as I turned left.

  “I don’t doubt that you do,” Rose responded a tad tartly. “You were a very bright child, too.”

  “And I’m smart enough now to see you’re trying to play me like a piano.”

  “I’m disappointed that you would think that,” she said. I didn’t have to look over at her to know she was sitting at attention in her seat, her shoulders squared, chin jutting out just a little. The tinge of self-righteousness in her voice told me that.

  “Because I’m right,” I said lightly. I did shift my gaze right for a moment then.

  Rose blushed and ducked her head.

  “We need to go back and talk to those other neighbors,” Mr. P. said from the backseat. “Which doesn’t mean I think Alyssa made up what she told me. No offense, Sarah.”

  “None taken,” I said. “And for the record, I don’t think it’s a bad idea to talk to Teresa. I just don’t want to see her ambushed.”

  “She won’t be,” Mr. P. promised.

  When we got back to Second Chance, Rose and Alfred went into their sunporch office and I walked through the workroom to the store. While we were gone Mac had brought in two blue rattan egg chairs that we’d picked up at the curb of a house two streets over from the store the night before the spring-cleaning pickup Paul had spoken about. Jess had made cushions for them with heavy, dark blue canvas removable covers. Elvis was sitting on one of them, methodically washing his face with one black paw. My brother, Liam, was sitting on the other.

  He grinned when he saw me, got to his feet and wrapped me in a hug.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, leaning back to look up at him. Liam was Nick’s height—six-foot-plus, with blond hair he kept fairly short these days, blue-gray eyes and a little boy grin that most women couldn’t resist.

  “Business,” he said. “I’m consulting on the new proposal for the harbor front.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “How long are you here?”