Red Hot

by Dana Dratch

  “Now we look out for Ethel and Mrs. Pickles, and the police investigate to find out who killed Leslie,” Trip said. “Do they even know for certain that it wasn’t just a horrible accident?”

  Annie nodded. “That’s what I was talking about with Logan. I mean, Detective Alvarez. Once they were able to really dig into it with the elevator engineers and take another look at Leslie, they realized that it probably wasn’t an accident. But they still don’t know for sure. The elevator company could be trying to cover up for faulty wiring. Or some kind of mechanical failure. So they’re investigating that, too.”

  “Uh, is it safe to ride those things?” I asked, suddenly seeing a lot more stairs in my future.

  “The police techs have been all over them,” my sister said, waving her hand. “They even brought in their own engineers this morning. As it is now, they’re safe.”

  “As it is now?” I asked. My calves were going to be like granite by the time I left town.

  “If no one else monkeys with them,” Trip translated. “What about this dog-bite theory?”

  “Leslie had a strange mark, an impression, on her right forearm,” Annie said. “The police think it could be a bite.”

  “Could it be human?” I asked. I recalled what Marilyn said about Leslie the tornado. If she’d gotten into a scuffle with someone, they might have bitten her in self-defense.

  “The forensic people think it’s canine,” Annie said. “And they don’t think it happened when she died. They believe it happened earlier. Apparently, it had time to heal a bit.”

  “So sometime before Leslie fell down that elevator shaft, somebody’s dog bit her,” I summarized. “In a community where gossip runs rampant, I can’t believe that story hasn’t been making the rounds.”

  “Well, it gives somebody a motive,” Nick said. “They wouldn’t want anyone to know about the bite.”

  “Yes, but this happened before Leslie died,” I said. “Before she was even missing. So at the time, it wouldn’t have been seen as a motive. And a lot of people in this building detested Leslie. Especially the dog owners. Heck, she banned them from the elevators. And according to Stan, she tried to break them with fines. If one of their dogs took a chunk out of Leslie McQueen, that would be bragging rights. I can’t believe we haven’t heard this story.”

  Lucy looked up at Nick as he settled in on the sofa. He scratched her affectionately under the chin. “All the puppies aren’t as good as you, are they?” he asked.

  She laid her head on his knee and sighed.

  “The police theory is that Ethel was afraid Leslie would have her dog put down,” he continued, stroking the top of Lucy’s velvety head. “That could apply to other dog owners, too. Especially if the dog had bitten someone before. They might want to keep it quiet.”

  “Especially if they were planning to kill Leslie,” Trip said.

  “So Leslie’s blackmailing people left and right but she gets killed because someone’s dog bites her?” I floated. “That doesn’t feel right, somehow. OK, Nick has a solid explanation for why the dog owner never said anything about the bite. But what about Leslie?”

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked.

  Lucy had inched her way onto the sofa and was sitting next to him, her head still across his leg. As he stroked her flank, her eyelids fluttered. I could tell that after a morning beach romp and a big lunch, she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

  “Leslie hated dogs,” I said. “And if one of the ones in Oceanside actually bit her? She’d be screaming about it from the rooftops. She’d have the dog thrown out. Heck, she’d use it as an excuse to ban them all from the building.”

  “You’re right about that,” Annie said.

  “So how come she never made a peep about it?” I asked.

  “What are you thinking?” Trip asked.

  “I’m thinking that in the process of planting bugs and running her side business in skullduggery, Leslie was in and out of a lot of places she shouldn’t have been. If someone just got a dog—or maybe didn’t tell her about their dog—she might have been surprised. And she couldn’t very well say anything. How would she explain what she was doing inside someone’s apartment?”

  “Gas leak?” Nick said.

  “All electric,” Annie said. “The whole building.”

  “That’s a good theory,” Trip said. “And it totally clears Mrs. Pickles. Because Leslie already knew about her.”

  “So how’d she get the bug in Ethel’s condo in the first place?” Nick asked.

  “Leslie kept a schedule of everyone’s regular comings and goings in her diary-slash-slam-book,” I said. “And Ethel walks that dog three times a day like clockwork, apparently. I’m guessing Leslie went in while they were both out.”

  “Sheesh,” Nick said, shaking his head. “And I thought Lydia Stewart was bad.”

  “Lydia? What’s she up to?”

  “Nothing new,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Let’s just say she’s spending more time at the inn than she is at her own home.”

  My least favorite neighbor lived in the most historic stately home in our neighborhood. Which made sense because nearly all of the land that was Fordham, Virginia had once belonged to her family. A fact which she never let anyone forget.

  A local fixture, Lydia Stewart either led or influenced almost every civic organization, club, and board in Fordham. She also had a serious crush on one Mr. Ian Sterling. And, despite zero encouragement, had been pursuing the guy non-stop since he moved in four months ago.

  “None of my business,” I said flatly.

  “She wants to run Ian’s murder mystery weekends. And she’s hinting that he needs someone with local contacts to organize his teas. You know, really beef up that part of the business.”

  “So how did the Lord of the Manor respond to that?” I sort of felt for Ian on that score. Lydia was completely enmeshed in the community, as well as being heavily involved with the local visitors bureau. Her favor could bring a lot of business. And her disapproval could put a real chill on Ian’s burgeoning B&B.

  And that wasn’t counting what her friends could do if she unleashed them online. A few nasty comments could cripple his bookings.

  “He just laughed it off,” Nick said. “Told her he’s not nearly that successful yet. But hopefully one day.”

  “Hopefully one day she’ll be hit by a truck?” I finished.

  “You sound awfully invested for someone who hasn’t even opened the man’s present,” my sister said, carrying the coffee service into the living room.

  “Hey, harassment is harassment, no matter who’s doing it,” I said, grabbing a cup and saucer after she set down the tray. “I don’t like to see her taking advantage of him.”

  “So throw the guy a bone and open the gift,” Nick said.

  Annie nodded.

  I looked at Trip.

  “I only give advice when asked,” my best friend responded. “But I have to say, it’s a very nice presentation. And he did have it hand delivered.”

  “I had it stashed in my sleeper compartment for the whole trip,” Nick said. “I was afraid to let it out of my sight. I half expected the conductor to make me buy it a ticket. Now I wanna know what’s in it.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said, strolling across the living room.

  Trip was right. It was beautifully wrapped. I plucked off the sealed card and opened it.

  Alex,

  Saw this in a little shop in Georgetown, and it reminded me of you—and that first lovely tea we shared. And the many since.

  I hope you can someday forgive my inexcusable breach, knowing that I sought only to protect my family. A reason, but not an excuse, to be sure.

  Regardless, I hope this little sampler will remind you, as it did me, of happier times. Please enjoy it with all of my warmest good wishes for you and your family.

  My fondest regards,

  Ian

  “Out loud, please,” my brother heckled.

 
; “Knock it off,” Annie said, hitting his arm with a throw pillow.

  “Children, behave,” Trip said.

  As they both tossed pillows at him, I ripped into the glossy red paper, revealing a beautiful inlaid wooden chest. Lucy, now fully awake, jumped up and raced to my side.

  “It must be b-a-c-o-n,” Nick said.

  “Yes, because nothing says love like smoked pork,” Annie said. “Men, honestly.”

  “It’s a selection of teas,” I called over the din. “A sampler. With little candies and packages of cookies.”

  “Tea?” Annie rose gracefully from the sofa and joined Lucy and me near the door.

  “Ooh, this is the good stuff,” she said. “They served it at our London hotel. And it’s pricey.”

  “Hand it to the man—he has good taste,” Trip said.

  “Definitely,” Annie said, looking at me.

  “I guess this calls for a thank-you note,” I admitted.

  So what do you write to the guy you like but don’t trust?

  “Actually, this is more of a phone call situation,” Annie said.

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded.

  “Trip?” I asked.

  “Definitely calls for a call,” he agreed.

  “That’s not a present, that’s a trap,” I protested. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have accepted it.”

  “Wanna know what I think?” Nick asked.

  “No!”

  “Sleep on it,” my brother said.

  “Actually, that’s a good idea,” Trip said. “Ian knows he sent it. But he doesn’t know that you’ve opened it.”

  “Unless there’s another bug in it,” I said.

  “Possible, but unlikely.”

  I looked at Annie. She nodded.

  “I can help, if you want to practice first,” she said softly. “And if you want company for the call, I’ll sit right next to you.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, patting her hand.

  “OK, so we table this for now,” I announced, lugging the wooden box into the kitchen. “Now can we please talk about getting Ethel and Mrs. Pickles out of lockup?”

  CHAPTER 61

  Later that afternoon, Nick took off for a neighborhood walk with Lucy. I made him promise to take lots of pictures if they stopped anywhere. Annie had locked herself in the guest room to make a couple of business-related phone calls.

  We still hadn’t heard anything on Ethel. But Annie had left a message for her attorney to see if—failing Ethel’s immediate release—we might be able to get temporary custody of Mrs. Pickles.

  “So if we’re not looking for people with undeclared dogs, what are we looking for?” Trip asked, as we strategized in Annie’s expansive living room.

  “Well, I for one would like to know who at this place besides Ethel can hot-wire an elevator.”

  A few hours later, we’d been through dozens of résumés, courtesy of several online databases.

  “This reminds me of checking up on old boyfriends online,” I told him. “You know, just to see how they’re doing.”

  “That never made any sense to me,” Trip said. “If a woman looks up an ex online, what exactly is she hoping to find?”

  “Poverty, sterility, and an unfortunate haircut. Or maybe that’s just me.”

  “I’ve honestly never seen so many people so well-versed in the workings of electric current,” Trip said. “Does Oceanside have some kind of a reciprocal deal with the local brotherhood of power workers?”

  “Hey, it’s a solid career path. And it pays well. The problem is, résumés won’t tell us a thing about the retirees. And that’s got to be at least a third of the building.”

  “I know what you mean. For that we’re going to have to rely on good old-fashioned gossip. I’m thinking another trip to the bleach bowl and a few rounds of drinks for your new friends might do the trick.”

  “Speaking of which, what did you learn from Quinn Whitmore?”

  “Nothing helpful. The guy was looking for a few new faces to join him for a poker game. My guess is the old faces are tired of losing all their money. Methinks he’s something of a cardshark.”

  “Shark is right. He’s the slime-ball who helped Leslie stage a fake election.”

  “You think he did her in?” Trip asked.

  “He’s definitely worth keeping an eye on. And I wouldn’t sit across a poker table from him anytime soon. I’m betting he cheats at cards, too.”

  “I’ll take that bet, and raise you yet one more electrical expert,” he said, reading from the screen. “Majored in business and communications. Minored in electrical engineering.”

  He turned the laptop so that I could see the page.

  “Oh no,” I breathed, as the face smiled innocently from a corporate website.

  It was Dennis Chu.

  CHAPTER 62

  Annie was still locked in the guest room when we left for the pool. I’d have to break the news about Dennis. And soon.

  But I didn’t have to do it right now.

  It was early evening, and the pool deck resembled a cocktail party from a ’60s movie. Or an ’80s TV show. Residents gathered, wearing everything from swimsuits and flowing cover-ups to cruise wear and casual Friday chic.

  Ernie and Stan were camped out by the pool. Marilyn was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hi, guys,” I said, as we strolled by their table. “Have you met my friend Trip? He’s visiting from D.C.”

  “You can pull up a chair, if you like. The tables are in short supply. I’m Ernie Doyle, by the way. This is Stan Cohen. Didn’t we see you earlier in the lobby?”

  Trip nodded, pulling out a chair for me and then one for himself. “I was sorry to hear about your friend’s troubles. Alex and Annie have been telling me what a kind person she is.”

  “Ethel is the best,” Stan said. “A real lady. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  “Any news on when she’s coming home?” I asked.

  Ernie shook his head. “Hopefully tonight. We’re just waiting for the call; then we’re gonna swing by and pick her up. Marilyn’s upstairs freshening up.”

  I nodded.

  “There’s no way Ethel would do something like that,” Stan said, clutching a highball glass that appeared to be filled with orange juice and ice. “No way, no how.”

  “I agree,” I said. “So who around here would know how to rewire an elevator?”

  “You trying to figure out who did it?” Ernie asked. “We been chewing on that since the cops showed up this morning.”

  “Leslie cheesed off a lot of folks,” Stan said. “Especially the dog lovers.”

  “But it looked like she was going to win the election anyway,” I said.

  I knew Leslie had rigged the whole thing. And how she’d done it. But I was curious what they knew.

  “That’s politics,” Ernie said. “Give the devil her due, she did keep things ticking along like a Swiss watch. ’Course, they say Mussolini made the trains run on time. Wouldn’t a’ wanted to share an elevator with him, either.”

  “Ethel can’t be the only one around here with electrical skills,” Trip prompted.

  “Heck no,” Stan said. “Frank used to be in construction.”

  “Frank was a plastic surgeon,” Ernie said. “The only thing he constructed were noses, breasts, and bottoms.”

  “That’s Frank on eight. I’m talking about Frank on four.”

  “Oh, right. And there’s that other guy. You know, what’s his name.”

  “Oh him,” Stan said. “He left for Vermont last month. They got a house up there. Cute little place. He showed me the pictures.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t mind seeing Vermont this time a’ year. Nothin’ to shovel. And it’s got a nice roll to the land. Not like this place. Flat. Like living on a sand bar.”

  Trip and I exchanged glances.

  “The Frank on four,” I said. “The one in construction. Any idea what his last name is?”

  “I
think it begins with a P,” Stan said helpfully.

  “Anybody else you can think of?” I asked. This was beginning to remind me why I didn’t like doing two-on-one interviews. It was like herding cats.

  “Hey, how about that nice kid who helped you with your whatchamacallit?” Ernie asked, snapping his fingers.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about him,” Stan said. “Came in to help me install my new flat-screen and got the remote working. Forty-eight inches. Picture in a picture. A real beauty.”

  “A name?” I asked. “Do you remember a name?”

  “Samsung,” Stan said.

  “She meant the guy,” Trip said patiently. “The expert who helped you.”

  “Well, he’s not really what you’d call an expert,” Stan said. “I mean, his father is some kind of electrician. Or maybe it was an electrical engineer. What’s the difference between them, anyway?”

  Ernie shrugged. “Couldn’t tell ya. But the kid picked up a couple of tricks from the old man. Sharp.”

  “Yup, smart as a whip, that one,” Stan said. “Nice kid. But he keeps to himself.”

  “Do you remember his name?” Trip pressed. “Or maybe what he looked like?”

  “Oh, you know him,” Stan said. “He’s the one who lives upstairs from Ethel. Georgie? Gregory?”

  “Geoffrey,” Ernie said, snapping his fingers.

  “That’s it,” Stan agreed, smiling. “We called him ‘Double Gee.’ Geoffrey Gallagher.”

  CHAPTER 63

  An hour later, Trip and I were sitting poolside. Ernie, Stan, and Marilyn had already left to pick up Ethel and Mrs. Pickles.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “I destroyed evidence for a murderer. I helped cover up murder.”

  “Look at the bright side,” Trip said. “It still might be Frank-whose-last-name-probably-begins-with-P.”

  “I’m going to prison. And I should. When will I learn to mind my own business?”

  “From my experience, never,” Trip said. “Look, we found umpteen people with the skills and know-how to have fiddled with that elevator. And yes, Dennis and Geoffrey are on that list. But so are a lot of other people. What would you do if this were a story?”