by Sara Rosett
“Okay. Thanks.”
I finished feeding Livvy, then put her on her play mat with her noisiest, brightest toys. I shook a black and white ball dotted with red. She kicked her feet out and squeaked, delighted.
I grabbed the phone and the public records I’d brought back from the Vincents'. I figured Joe wanted me to hand these off to Isabelle Coombes so I might as well bring them home with me.
I dialed the number on the sticky note. “This-is-Debbie-how-may-I-help-you.” She ran the words together in a flat, no-nonsense tone.
This was a woman who didn’t have time for a rambling explanation. I tried to be succinct. “I’m following up on some paperwork for a friend, Cass Vincent. I’ve got a deed. Your note says you need another search fee to keep looking for the rest of the documents?”
“Give me the number on the top right-hand corner.” I read it to her. After a few moments of silence, her voice exploded, “Right. Norwood. Easements. I remember your friend.” A note of exasperation crept into her voice. “She was on her cell phone the whole time she was in here, carrying on a conversation with me and someone else at the same time.”
“Was there more research she wanted?”
“She said there was another easement from way back. I didn’t find it.” Her voice said she doubted it was there. “But I did run across a recent easement, filed, let me see, this year. I pulled it because I figured your friend would want to see it. Basically, it amounted to a company, Tecmarc, granting Forever Wild, that sounds like a nonprofit, the right to maintain and preserve open space. Restricted development of part of the property allowed.”
“Well, if there’s another easement, wouldn’t it be filed with that one or the deed?”
A sigh. “Not necessarily. Sometimes they’re filed separately. They’re a pain to find, let me tell you.”
“I’ll pay another search fee.” Debbie gave me directions for paying the fee, then I asked, “Where can I find out more about Tecmarc and Forever Wild?”
“Let’s see. They’d have to file a business license—that’d be with us. And you could check with the secretary of state. I know they’ve got business records there, too. Articles of incorporation and all that. They’ve got a good Web site.”
I added business licenses to Debbie’s search and then checked on Livvy. She was fascinated with the crinkly sound a toy elephant’s ears made as she crushed them. I turned on the computer, waited for the right screen, and typed in the address for the secretary of state.
They had an online database. Sometimes I loved technology, especially when it didn’t make me wait. I found Tecmarc with Friona listed as registered agent and the same address as Mrs. Norwood’s property listed as the business address. I typed in Forever Wild. I came up with the Norwood address again. Popular place. Automatically, I scrolled down and opened my eyes wide. I leaned closer to the screen, but the words didn’t change. “Registered agent: Jeff Dovonowski.”
Why hadn’t I asked whose signatures were on that easement Debbie had found?
I sat back, stunned. The other registered agent in this strange mix of companies and legal paperwork was dead. This wasn’t good.
I chewed my lip. Could I ask Abby about this? No, better not to. If she knew about Jeff being involved in a land easement, she would’ve told me. At least, I think she would have. No way was I going to bring this up until I knew more.
I glanced at the play mat and jumped up. It was empty. Where was Livvy?
I scurried around the end of the bed. She’d scooted around until her head was tucked under the dust ruffle. I picked her up. “You’re quite the tricky one, aren’t you.” She squealed and grinned her toothless grin. I kissed her cheek. “Come on, let’s go for a drive. Mommy’s got to get food for tonight. And I want to see that land.”
I turned onto the steep switchback road and reached out to brace the grocery bag of tortillas, cream cheese, green onions, and pimentos on the passenger seat, but I removed my hand after a few seconds. Despite the steepness, the smooth road between the pines was easy to navigate.
At the bottom of the hill the road swept through an ornate gate of black wrought iron set in red brick. A modest home was under construction inside the gate. Maybe Wilde Creek Estates wasn’t totally out of our price range. Then I saw the sign with a map of the lots plotted around the future golf course. I glanced back at the building under construction. It was the gatehouse, not a future residence. If that was the gatehouse, then the homes here would look like the country homes of British royalty.
Livvy made some tentative squawks, so I pulled a toy out of the diaper bag. Mitch and I called it “Thing One” because it looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Livvy grasped the contraption of circles, sliding balls, and clear rattles filled with tiny, noisy pellets that drained from one chamber to another. Livvy shook it. I couldn’t see her face, but from her contented mumblings I assumed she liked it.
I coasted down the empty street. The fresh blacktop branched off at intervals, then ended abruptly at patches of dirt and gravel. Along the road, thick tubes sprouted occasionally from the ground like some alien plant life. I could see four mansions under construction with men balancing on roofs or working inside the partly framed walls. The main street ended at a fringe of trees.
Livvy jabbered as the rattles swirled. She seemed happy enough, so I left her in the Cherokee. I locked the doors and walked a few steps to the edge of the trees. A crow called sharply and took flight in a flurry of wings.
Isabelle’s father had been right: it was a beautiful valley. Below me a meadow gently rippled down to a thin ribbon of silver that twisted lazily through the valley floor. I thought for a moment I could hear the river, but then I realized it was the wind sweeping through the pines. A movement in the valley on my right caught my eye. A yellow excavator gnawed at the earth and then dumped its claw into a dump truck.
A shiny red pickup rumbled down the road and stopped next to the Cherokee. “That’s the ninth tee box. Quite a view,” said the man who climbed out of the pickup and slammed the door. He had on a crisp long-sleeved white oxford, khaki pants, and a tie. The office casual look ended at his ankles. Muddy hiking boots provided a realistic counterpoint to the rest of his slick image. I moved back to the Cherokee, unlocked the door.
“Sorry to startle you there. You looking for a lot? This road’ll be residential.” He smoothed his shiny yellow tie and nodded down the hill where the machinery labored. His black hair was as dark as the feathers of the crow that just flew away. “All these lots will be directly on the course. Can’t get much better than that. Walk right off your porch onto the course. Close to the clubhouse, too.” He squinted his eyes in the sunlight as he circled around to study the view. “Wilde Creek will be the premier area in Vernon. You should get in now. Value here is only going to go up.”
“I’m just looking today.” I bet this guy could tell me a few things about Wilde Creek, but I’d probably get more out of him if he thought I was a potential customer. “It is nice out here right now, but with a whole development going in, I don’t know, I don’t want to be packed in next to my neighbors,” I said, trying to do my best snotty, rich girl impression. I thought of the junior high clique that I hadn’t been part of. Barri Carslow was the eye in the center of the popularity ring. Others moved in and out, but Barri, with her disdain and supreme self-confidence, remained firmly at the epicenter of the “in” group.
He crossed his arms, planted his feet, and shook his head. “No. Not here. This is an exclusive development. High end. Lots’ll be at least two acres. The golf course and tracks around Wilde Creek are preserved as open space with a conservation easement. It’ll be wide open out here with a country feel to it. But you’ll have the best golf course in the county in your backyard, and shopping and downtown only minutes away.”
Barri could look down her pert nose and dismiss you with a sharp comment. I tried to imitate her. “Easement. Whatever. Anything can be changed. There’s no guarantee about
what will go in all around. At least if we buy on Black Rock Hill I know what will be a few blocks away—the houses that are already there.”
“We’re lucky to be under a conservation easement here. It allows only restricted development.”
I raised my eyebrows skeptically, I hoped.
He swept his starched oxford cloth arm around. “All this land, the whole valley, is covered under the easement. It’s a legally binding document. Property’s got a bunch of rights, like water rights, logging rights. Well, the owners of Wilde Creek signed an easement with Forever Wild to conserve the open space and natural beauty of this valley. No way another development or strip mall is going in here.” Somehow I didn’t think nature and environmental groups had a golf course in mind when someone said, “open space.” He continued, “Good little tax break for the owners, too.” He winked.
“And you are?”
“Cody Jenkins. Jenkins Custom Homes.” So he was a builder. He whipped out a card from a silver case. I must be a better actress than I thought because the poor guy thought he was close to making a sale.
I took the card. “The lots are how much?”
“Eighty-five thousand and up. But most of the prime lots are sold. I own about a third of them, some on the course, some with a wildlife view.”
I pointed to a real estate sign posted across the street. “Diana McCarter. She own some, too?”
Jenkins laughed. “Nah. She’s the little real estate lady that handled most of the lot sales in here. There are still a few left, but you’d be better off looking at my lots because I can give you the whole deal, the lot and a house designed specifically to maximize the terrain and the value of the location.”
“I think I know her. She handled the whole development? Why?”
Jenkins shrugged. “Wilde Creek hired her. Did a great job. Of course, these lots sell themselves.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’d want to waste your time on someone else’s development. I bet you’ve got your own subdivision going somewhere in Vernon.”
“Three subdivisions, to be exact.” He named a few subdivisions that Mitch and I had visited, but left as quickly as we could because the houses looked cheap and boring. “But I’m not wasting a minute of my time,” he continued. “Wilde Creek is going to change the way folks here think about homes. It’s going to be the standard and I’ll be associated with that standard. Connections are what it’s all about.” So Jenkins was using Wilde Creek to move into the luxury home league.
“Who do you work with from Wilde Creek? Are they local?”
“They’re out of state, but you know how it is with fax and e-mail. I didn’t catch your name.”
I ignored him, just like Barri ignored two-thirds of the school population. “I’ll think about it.” I climbed in the Cherokee, slammed the door, and gave Jenkins a brief wave before I did a quick three-point turn that would’ve made my driver’s ed teacher proud. On the way out, I spotted a white clapboard house with outbuildings tucked at the foot of Black Rock Hill, probably either the old Norwood or Coombes homestead.
I inched my way down the buffet and added cheese and crackers to the fruit salad on my plate. I grabbed a tortilla roll-up, my contribution to the spread. I’d raced home, mixed the chives and pimentos with the cream cheese, and slathered it on the tortillas. Then, I’d rolled and sliced the stuffed tortillas. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was the best I could do after the day I’d had. I turned from the buffet with a weird sense of being in a replay. It had only been a month ago when I first met the other spouses at the coffee at Cass’s house. I felt tense and on edge as I scanned the faces. Did one of these people murder Cass?
“Ellie.” Abby touched my arm and I jumped, nearly dumping my plate.
“Sorry. You’re holding up the line.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Diana poised near the kitchen door. “Green tea or coffee?” she asked.
I hid a grimace. “Just water for me.”
“I’ll try the tea,” Abby said from behind me.
I felt awkward with Abby. I couldn’t just blurt out, “I think Jeff tried to kill me.” I didn’t want her to let Jeff know what I suspected. Abby and I had scurried through the cold to Diana’s red brick colonial. It was a small mansion with a lofty balcony over a portico that extended out to cover the circular driveway. The questions I’d asked as we walked over must have been casual enough because Abby told me what I wanted to know without asking why I wanted to know. She said yesterday Jeff worked in the squad, except for a trip to the gym around lunchtime, which would have been about the time my house was searched.
I picked up a napkin and moved into the kitchen. Diana was hosting the coffee this month. Of course, I should have expected it, but I was surprised to find her address one block north of ours. I wondered who else from the squadron lived close to us. I made a mental note to buy a pooper-scooper.
Diana’s home was decorated in the country home look: hardwood, chintz, florals, plaids, and leather furniture mixed in an eclectic blend that looked haphazard, but I’d bet there was a decorator involved somewhere in the casually elegant surroundings. Something felt odd about the house, too. But I couldn’t figure out what it was.
In the blue and white country kitchen, cows, pigs, and ducks ornamented everything from the towel rack to the curtains. Diana handed me a tall glass of ice water with a lemon slice. She straightened the turtle-neck on her sweater with fall foliage and returned to serving drinks. I propped myself up near the sink. Gwen was in the living room and I didn’t know if she’d be civil to me, so I figured avoidance was the best policy until the formal part of the coffee started. Surely she wouldn’t make a scene with Jill going over old business. And I needed to sort through the info I’d found out. Friona and Jeff were both connected with Wilde Creek.
Abby edged over to me and interrupted my thoughts. “Wow. Did you see the pool in the back?” she asked.
I peered out the French doors and saw leaves snagged on the edges of a large rectangular tarp.
“Who knew the military paid so well?” I asked.
“It’s a huge house. How do they afford it?” She lowered her voice. “And everything is so perfect. I feel like I’m in a furniture showroom.”
I nodded and realized that was it. There wasn’t anything personal in the rooms. No magazines, books, or family pictures.
Something moved at the edge of my vision. I hadn’t realized anyone else was beside me in the kitchen, but a petite, plain woman stood beside me and had, apparently, been absorbing our conversation. Her long reddish-brown hair, pulled back in an untidy French braid, revealed her bland face. Small brown eyes surrounded by stubby lashes darted from me to Abby. She looked vaguely familiar. I glanced at Abby for help.
“You’re Penny, aren’t you?” asked Abby. “You’re arranging the children’s Christmas party, right?” Then I remembered her from the last coffee. Thank goodness, I could always count on Abby to remember faces. Penny nodded and sipped her tea. She wore an oversized gray turtleneck with a black broomstick skirt that sagged down to the tips of her scuffed black boots. “Did you bring your daughter with you?” she asked me.
“No. She’s at home with my husband,” I said, surprised she even knew I had a daughter. I wondered how Livvy was doing. Would she cry as long as she did last night?
“Oh, I hoped you’d bring her. I saw her at the squadron barbeque and she was so precious. I wanted to hold her.” She finished her tea and set it in the sink. “Do you ever need a sitter? I like kids and would love to babysit her. We live just around the corner.”
“Don’t we all? Thanks for offering. I might give you a call sometime.” She studied the brick floor a moment and I wondered if she could tell that I wouldn’t call someone I didn’t know to watch Livvy. I regretted my casual reply, but she said, “Thanks. I’m looking for a new job, so I have a lot of time on my hands right now.”
Abby said, “I’ve just found a job myself. I hate the want ads. I hope I never have t
o do it again. But, of course, I’ll have to since we’ll move again in a few years.” She said the last with a grimace. “I teach. What do you do?”
“I’m an archivist. Archeological conservation. I’m hoping for an opening at one of the universities, but nothing so far.”
I was surprised. Her unassuming personality and sloppy appearance didn’t look like university material, at least not tenured material. I mentally scolded myself for my prejudices. I slid over to the phone and called Mitch to see if Livvy was asleep.
“Forty-five minutes. She’s out like a light.” There was a note of triumph in his voice.
“Really? That’s better,” I said.
“Ladies, let’s get started,” Jill commanded from the living room. I hung up the phone, put my glass in the sink, and looked around for the trash can. I noticed a built-in desk and stopped to look at it. My dad’s parttime hobby of making desks and other furniture always made me curious when I saw unusual furniture. Made of golden oak, this one had cubbyholes and small drawers across the back. A snapshot was propped up in one of the cubbies behind a small blue bottle. I stopped because it was the first picture I had seen in the house. We have so many pictures I don’t know where to put them. Diana’s house seemed barren without smiling portraits in the hall and candid snapshots on the fridge.
This snapshot captured two women. Diana wore a black cap and gown. She looked the same as she did now, except her hair was longer. The other woman was older, probably early forties. Frizzy bright red hair surrounded a tan face with heavy black eyeliner and mascara circling her eyes. The two women stood stiffly beside each other. No hugs or arms around each other. Something about their faces, the noses or something, seemed similar.
Diana entered the kitchen, carrying coffee cups. “Diana, is this your mom?” The cups clattered into the sink and she hurried across the kitchen.