Death at a Fixer-Upper

by Sarah T. Hobart

  “I knew it,” I said.

  “That your clients were ex-cons?”

  “That it was all too good to be true.” I was about as far from being a superagent as it was possible to be.

  “You still have one client standing.”

  “I can’t get ahold of her.” I thought about Loretta, wondering if the spirits had instructed her to eliminate the competition. She’d practically hinted as much. I brightened. In that case, maybe she was finally ready to write that offer.

  Another thought occurred to me. “What about the money?”

  “It was never recovered. But the serial numbers of the bills were on record. They were traced to a string of financial institutions across the country, where a customer came in and requested change. Always in modest amounts, not enough to draw attention. More bills cropped up at different department stores, where someone made a large purchase for cash, then returned the item a few hours later, having supposedly changed their mind.”

  “So it was laundered.”

  “That’s not the exact term, but close enough.”

  I considered the buzz of activity around the estate. “Let’s say whatever was left was stashed away all this time. Whose is it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s every citizen’s duty to turn finds like that over to the authorities.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He steered the car down a long driveway lined with skinny poplars and parked in front of a big house, pale blue with maroon trim, that looked out over the hillside. A sign hung over the front porch read, ANCIENT TREES BED AND BREAKFAST.

  “We’re just going to chat with the owner,” he said.

  Something clicked in my brain. “You want to see if she recognizes me.”

  “That might be one reason.” He gave my arm a friendly nudge. “Let’s go.”

  We walked up a path of concrete pavers shaped like clamshells and resting in a bed of pea stone. The urge to bolt into the trees was overwhelming, but Bernie kept a light hand on my elbow. He rang the bell.

  After a brief spell, a woman as soft and doughy as a dumpling opened the door. She wore a chef’s apron covered in little teapots and was wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her gray hair was flattened down under a net and she peered at us over half-moon reading glasses. When she saw Bernie’s uniform, her lips thinned.

  “Come on back to the kitchen,” she said.

  We followed her down a wide hall into a homey living room. The floors were honey-colored pine planks dotted with braided rugs. Big squishy-looking chairs in floral chintz were positioned to capture a vista of town, dunes, and sea.

  “Wow!” I said.

  The woman shot me a startled glance. Her eyes narrowed. I got a good look at her and exclaimed, “Mrs. Morehouse!”

  She gave me a tight smile. “Call me Shirley, dear.”

  I tried and failed. Turning to Bernie, I said, “Shir—Mrs. Morehouse was my home economics teacher at Arlinda High. She taught me everything I know about the culinary arts.”

  “Really, don’t say that,” she said.

  “It’s true. I owe all my skills in the kitchen to Mrs. M.”

  She blanched. “Please tell me you haven’t taken up a career in the restaurant business.”

  “No, no, I work in real estate.”

  “Thank God,” she said, one hand clasped to her breast.

  She led us into a bright, almost sterile room. My eyes widened. Mrs. Morehouse had managed to re-create our high school home-ec kitchen right there in her own home. Fluorescent light fixtures hung from the ceiling, emitting the same persnickety hum I remembered from tenth grade. The countertops were stainless steel and polished to a high gleam, with a seamless two-compartment sink built in. I spotted a little hand-lettered sign that read, “This sink is NOT for handwashing!” illustrated with a little frowny face. She might have taken it straight from Room 113 at Arlinda High. A spray bottle of bleach completed her counter decor.

  Judging by the collection of bowls and measuring cups on the counter, something delicious was in process: I could smell cinnamon and yeast, and something else—melted butter, perhaps.

  “I’m rolling out a loaf of cinnamon bread for tomorrow’s breakfast,” Mrs. Morehouse said. Saliva pooled in my mouth.

  Bernie cleared his throat and took out a notepad. “I’d appreciate your help clearing up a few details in reference to the gift basket delivered Friday afternoon. The coffee, for instance. Who made it?”

  “Mr. Ravello did, in his room. I provide fresh coffee as an amenity throughout the day. However, many of my guests prefer to brew their own. Some even bring their own beans and a portable grinder when they travel. So every room also has a small electric coffeemaker.”

  “Did he drink a lot of coffee?”

  “I never saw him without his travel mug in his hand.”

  Did that ring a bell? He’d had a mug with him during the tour of Aster Lane.

  “And he had it when he came down to breakfast yesterday morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Anything unusual happen at breakfast?”

  She thought for a minute. “He asked for extra cream and sugar.”

  Bernie made a note on his pad. “This woman, now.”

  Mrs. Morehouse clucked with impatience. “Honest to goodness, Chief Aguilar, I gave you my statement this morning. You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get my work done.”

  “We appreciate your cooperation. About five nine, you said?”

  “In heels. I’ve never understood how women can treat their arches that way. Our bodies are our temples.” She’d rolled up her sleeves, tucking the towel over the string of her apron. She scooped some flour out of a canister and sprinkled it on the marble countertop.

  “As tall as Sam here?” Bernie persisted.

  She looked me up and down. “Minus the heels? Close, but I’d say the woman was a shade taller.”

  “I’m five six,” I put in helpfully.

  “And dark hair? What length, would you say?”

  “I already told you,” she snapped. “It was tucked under a baseball cap. ‘Grovedale Auto Body.’ ” She snatched up a wire whisk and used it to blend a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon in a ceramic bowl. My nose twitched.

  “So it could have been long or short? What was your impression?”

  “I didn’t give it a thought, to be honest.” She frowned over the mixture, then added another teaspoon of cinnamon—a good call in my opinion.

  “You recognize her, by chance?”

  “I’d have said so straight off if that were the case. But no. The cap was pulled down low, hiding her face.”

  “But she might have been someone you know.”

  “Anything’s possible.” She worked the brown sugar mixture until it was blended.

  In the brief silence that followed, she suddenly seemed to catch the gist of Bernie’s questions. “Let me save you some time,” she said, glancing at me. “It wasn’t Sam. I know her—only too well—and besides, this woman wasn’t anything like Sam.”

  “In what way?”

  “In any way. She had quite a sumptuous, er, bosom, for one thing. No offense, dear.”

  “None taken.” I smiled at her suddenly. “Yours was my favorite class. Remember the day we made crème brûlée?”

  “The principal made me double our facilities coverage after that,” she said.

  “And now you run this place. Don’t you miss teaching?”

  She peered into a big stainless steel mixing bowl at a smooth round of golden dough, giving it a test poke with her finger. “I had a chance to take early retirement, and I took it,” she said. “Eight months to the day after the crème brûlée incident, as a matter of fact.”

  “Just coincidence, I hope,” I said with a little laugh.

  She didn’t say anything, but punched down the dough with what seemed to be unnecessary vigor. She upended the bowl and deposited the mound of dough on the floured surface. Using her hands, she flattened it and sha
ped in into a rectangle.

  “Now where did I put that butter?” she said to herself.

  “Here,” I said, reaching over to point out a ramekin of melted butter with a pastry brush resting in it. Somehow my hand misjudged the distance and the cup tipped over. Liquid butter spread in a golden pool over the counter, much of it disappearing down the gap between the counter and the gas range. The brush slithered across the buttery stainless steel and landed on the floor.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry,” I said. “What a mess. Let me help you clean up.” I bent down to pick up the brush at the same time as Mrs. Morehouse, and our heads clunked together with a hollow sound I’d heard only on Saturday morning cartoons. I staggered back a pace, clutching at the range for support. I didn’t realize I was gripping the control knob for the front burner until flames shot up. Whoosh.

  Bernie stepped forward and turned off the burner. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “You do that.” Mrs. M’s face was the color of tomato bisque, something we’d made in her class, only mine hadn’t turned out for some reason. She was wearing a tight little smile; it was the same smile she’d worn the day we made crème brûlée, pasted to her face long after the firefighters left. I gave her a little wave, and we hit the streets.

  —

  “Well, that was informative,” Bernie said as we drove back to Arlinda Corners.

  “Oh? You learn something about the case?”

  “Nope. But a lot about you. That poor woman’s probably been in therapy since she retired.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She loved me. She always smiled when she saw me.” An image of Mrs. M’s parting expression, her lips twisted into an arc as tense as one of those rubber band–powered propellers, sent a pang of uncertainty through me, but I shrugged it off. “Next stop?”

  He glanced over at me. “What would you say to dinner?”

  Yes! is what I would have said, to dinner and whatever might have followed dinner, before the call from Stacy. Before I became a suspect in a murder investigation. Before I woke up to the fact I’d seen this play before and already knew how it ended. With a clang, I felt the wrought-iron gates closing around my heart.

  “Maybe another time,” I said. “I should get some moving done.”

  “Want some help?”

  I shook my head. We’d pulled up behind the hardware store, and I grabbed my bag, ready to run. Bernie put a hand on my arm.

  “Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just—things are complicated.” I took a deep breath. “I saw Wayne again.” Easiest to start there. My ex was barely flesh and blood, just a collection of features that flashed across my periphery when I least expected it. Not like Stacy, my soon-to-be tenant, moving herself and her emotional baggage into my backyard.

  Bernie removed his hand. “You talk to him?”

  “No. But I saw him more than once. From a bench on the Plaza and again at the start of the race. Both times I lost him.” I noticed I’d glossed over the first time, when he’d appeared at my front door.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t mention this earlier.”

  “I’ve been…distracted.”

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you concerned about your safety?”

  “No, no. I’d just like to talk to him.”

  “I’ll put out a bulletin if you like.”

  “I can handle it. I’ve pretty much moved on anyway.”

  “Have you?”

  “Pretty much.” I fell silent a moment, then forced myself to speak. “Listen, there’s something else. I needed to rent out the spare unit at my new house in order to close the loan. I rented it to Stacy.”

  His eyebrows climbed.

  “I was in a bind. She needed a place.”

  “She’s moving back to Arlinda?”

  The note of surprise—and something else—confirmed my darkest fears. I had no intention of standing by, a pathetic runner-up, while the two of them sorted out their Gordian knot of feelings for each other. Time to extricate myself from this triangle-to-be.

  I squared my shoulders and looked him in the eye. “She’s making a fresh start, she says. And she wanted me to let you know she’s, um, available. That she has some regrets.” There. It was done.

  “I see.”

  “So I guess that makes a difference.”

  “You think?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “If you say so.” He looked into my face, his eyes dark pools. I broke the eye contact, feeling my determination waver a little. Dammit, wasn’t this hard enough?

  “But it’s not like we can’t be friends,” I ventured. “I—I really enjoy your company.” Get a grip, Sam, I thought. The man all but put you in a police lineup.

  “Friends,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  The radio squawked and Bernie picked up the receiver, listening to the dispatcher. Time to make a graceful exit. I had my hand on the door when Bernie stopped me with a look.

  “Keep in touch,” he said.

  So that was that. Over and out.

  I swung out the passenger door and slammed it behind me. By the time I’d reached the back door and fumbled for my keys, Bernie was pulling away. As I mounted the stairs to my apartment, I heard the wail of the siren, heart-stopping at first, then fading away.

  Chapter 22

  I threw myself into moving, loading all the boxes we’d packed up into the VW until my muscles ached. Harley watched, his tail twitching. When all the stacks were gone, I made myself a peanut-butter-and-mayonnaise sandwich, adding a slice of American cheese only slightly curled at the edges for a gourmet touch. I slipped it into a sandwich bag, grabbed my keys, and headed out.

  Dusk was dropping deep shadows over Fickle Court, but the homely silhouette of our new place brightened my spirits. I retrieved the keys from the lockbox, then methodically emptied the bus, stacking everything in the living room. Probably I should have gotten permission from Derrick Webb, the listing agent, before moving stuff in. Probably I shouldn’t be here at all. But I was driven by a reckless disregard for the rules.

  I perched on a seat of cardboard boxes and ate my sandwich, feeling a little flicker of food-induced optimism. Who needed men anyway? Max and I were just fine, thank you.

  Streetlights flickered on as I locked up and climbed into the VW. I backed into the street, then rolled out. On a whim, I turned right instead of left. No need to go home just yet. I was my own woman, out on the town.

  I drove into Arlinda proper, doing a slow circuit of the Plaza, where the mating dance of Homo sapiens was on full display. Even on a Sunday evening, patrons spilled out of the bars, filled to the brim with high spirits and harboring exalted views of their own animal magnetism. Little scuffles broke out among the groups as the males established their pack position, sniffing and posturing around the females in a ritual as old as time. Was this what I wanted? I sighed and pressed down on the gas pedal.

  A light rain began to fall as I reached Salmon Bay Boulevard and turned west toward Martin’s Crossing, following the same route Max and the other racers had taken yesterday in their human-powered machines. God, that seemed a lifetime ago. Max was probably eating dinner—baked beans from a tin can—at his campsite on the Eider River. Was he warm enough? He probably hadn’t taken any rain gear due to the rig’s weight and stowage limitations. I had a spare poncho in a compartment above the rear wheel. I tried the windshield wipers. The blade on the passenger side swiped merrily at the rain, but the one on my side didn’t budge. Great. Just great.

  I was out in the open farmland now, with no habitation on either side of the road. The bay lay to my left. The tide was out, revealing long stretches of gleaming mudflats. Something dark and feathery flew past my windshield, not making a sound. Owl, probably. There was no traffic in sight.

  Suddenly a blinding wash of light reflected off my rearview mirror. A car had materialized behind me. Unease jolted me to
alertness. Driving a “classic” as I did, I was often at the front of a long line of impatient drivers. But this had a different feel.

  I eased over toward the right shoulder to allow the car to pass. It stayed back about fifty feet, brights on, which was disconcerting. Where had it sprung from? My mind tried to dismiss the possibility it had been on my tail, running without headlights, for the last few minutes. But my gut said otherwise. And where there’d been occasional eastbound traffic, now there was none.

  As if I’d flicked a switch, the bus was filled with light as the car behind it cut the distance between us in half. Then it was right on my bumper, nothing but blinding glare in my mirror. My heart pounded in my chest as I gauged my choices. Pull over and confront the driver? Hit the gas and thunder into Martin’s Landing, where there wasn’t so much as a gas station?

  Before I could make up my mind, the vehicle surged forward, plowing into my bumper. My head whipped back and I yelped in fear. The steering wheel slipped between my fingers and the van bounced on the verge for a moment before I managed to pull back onto the roadway. I stomped on the gas pedal and the VW leaped ahead, tires almost leaving the pavement.

  A yellow traffic sign flashed by, announcing an upcoming turn. I waited until the last possible moment, then dropped my speed and spun the wheel to the right, screeching around the corner onto Johnson Ranch Road. I sent up a shaky prayer I wouldn’t be followed.

  The headlights swung around and followed me, illuminating the barren landscape ahead. I made a low noise in my throat and punched the gas. Not so much as a farmhouse lay in my viewscape. The road was a single lane wide, fenced on either side to keep cattle off the road. Drainage ditches paralleled the road. If I got my wheels down in there, I was done for.

  My pursuer seemed to be hanging back, allowing me some latitude. I didn’t stop to ponder why, just gripped the wheel and tried to widen the gap between us. Rain slicked the pavement and blurred my view. I tried the wipers again, and this time the driver’s side broke loose and humped across the windshield, leaving a smear of yellow pollen and pine needles behind.