by Deany Ray
“A robbery!” Marge squeaked. “Although it didn’t seem to bother this Italian dude. He said things like that happen all the time.”
Celeste thought about it for a while. “Well, I say that we put that one in the file that I like to call Maybe Important, Maybe Not. My gut is telling me that as this thing progresses, that might be good to know. You two did good work.” Then suddenly she gasped. “Marge! Did you not see the stop sign? It’s been there ten years at least.”
“Sorry,” Marge said, stopping hard enough to jolt me in the back seat.
There were two things that I knew of that made Marge’s driving worse: good songs on the radio and the excitement that seemed to come with an investigation revving up. New clues were good for business; they were bad news for our health on the busy roads of Springston.
Luckily, it wasn’t long before we arrived on Low Street, where we studied the mailbox numbers to figure out which of the small houses was the Bickfords’ place.
“Here we go,” Marge said, slowing to a stop.
The house was painted green, although much of the ugly color was peeling off in strips.
“Well, will you take look at that?” Celeste said as we got closer. “What is it with this couple and atrocious shades of green?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Marge said. “It almost matches Stanley’s vest. Like there was a great big sale on puke-green paint and these two loaded up.”
“Oh, be nice,” I told them.
The flowers, at least, were lovely; the flowers were superb. They spilled onto the sidewalk in shades of purple, pink and red, as if they were way too healthy to be contained within their beds.
Which was funny since the Bickfords didn’t seem to take much care with anything else around the place. (Were they too busy? Or too broke?) Stones were missing from the walkway. The lawn was overgrown, and I could see that a shutter had come loose beside the cracked front door.
Marge pulled into the drive behind a hatchback that I guessed was Deborah’s car (Thankfully not green.) We set off down the walkway, stopping to admire the flowers, which filled the cool breeze with their scent.
“Now why would that doofus Stanley complain about a thing as magnificent as this?” Marge asked, her hands on her hips.
Celeste tilted her head to study the bright colors. “My neighbor’s always trying to grow dahlias or hydrangeas. The poor thing can’t grow a garden no matter what she does. She gets out there and prunes and waters all the time. But no flowers. Nothing. Nada.”
“My mother has some luck sometimes,” I said. “But hers have never looked as fabulous as this.”
My mother had her crazy reasons for coaxing flowers from the ground; she thought all her pretty blooms had some magic voodoo powers. She once told me that her daisies could whisper peace upon a family. Well, in that case, they should speak up a little louder. Peace seemed to have fled our household – if it was ever there at all. My mom would tell you with a wink that the roses ignite passion. Best not to ask for details when my mother says that word. Best to nod and leave.
One day, she told me something else about her garden: that it takes a special person to commune with the seeds of new life stirring in the ground. A person with a healthy, vibrant garden is filled with goodness and with wisdom and a kind of gentle spirit, according to my mother.
Just then the door flew open, and we were met with Deborah’s scowl. I double checked, but no. There was no gentleness or goodness hiding in her glare. Very strange. What was the story with the flowers and this angriest of women?
“Well, are you coming in or not?” she barked. “I don’t pay you to sniff posies while my jerk of a husband hightails it off to who knows where. With money that he knows good and well belongs to me as much as it does to him.”
She ushered us into a small den that smelled of dust mixed in with old cooking odors.
“What’s up?” she asked, all business.
Celeste answered with a bright smile. “Deborah, good to see you! Do you mind if we sit down?”
“Suit yourself,” Deborah said. She eased into an armchair, leaving us to squeeze together onto a frayed brown loveseat that was meant for two, not three.
“First of all,” Marge said eagerly, “have you heard anything from Stanley?”
Deborah’s look grew even harder. “Not a peep. The good-for-nothing asshole has disappeared into thin air.” She settled back into the chair and sighed, gazing out the window. “Not that it isn’t nice to have this place to myself, to be rid of his complaining. And the noises that man makes! I tell you, it’s disgusting. The burping and the snores. If he wants to stay away, I won’t spill any tears. I just want the money that is due to me. Is that too much to ask?”
“No!” Marge squeaked. “It’s not!”
I shifted on the couch a bit, but there was not much room to wiggle. “Now that you’ve had some time to think, have you come up with any ideas about where he might be hiding?”
Heck. He could be on his way to Mexico. Or maybe the Bahamas. Although the cops would have lookouts posted at the airports and the borders. After all, this case now involved a murder. And Stanley hardly seemed to be the kind of man who’d keep a fake passport stashed away. He didn’t seem the type to take off to distant lands at a moment’s notice.
I looked around the room. The torn brown furniture and curtains, the dust thick on every surface seemed to belong to people who were tired of life. The people who lived here hadn’t thought about adventure for a long, long time.
One thing was for certain: the fact that Stanley had taken the money meant he wasn’t coming back soon to ask what was for dinner.
“I wish I knew where he might be,” Deborah said. “I’d be over there right now, demanding that he hand the money over now.” She nodded, lost in thought, then she glanced at us.
“Well, I suppose you might like some coffee.” It was like she’d suddenly remembered that she was hostess to three guests squeezed on her tiny couch.
“Yes, please,” I said to her. “Thank you very much.”
“I remember from the stakeout that you like your coffee. I don’t have the fancy stuff. But I always keep some milk. And I might have some sugar.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
While she was away, I took the time to look around the room to see if something in there might be a kind of clue to Stanley’s whereabouts. Celeste was looking too. She’d had the same idea. Unfortunately, nothing seemed unusual. There were fishing magazines, seed catalogs, dusty photographs of nature scenes. No photographs of people.
Marge pulled out her compact and reapplied her lipstick. What exactly was the deal with that? Who was she expecting to run into? Deborah’s den was not exactly a thriving social scene.
Soon, our hostess was back with a tray of mugs and a small milk carton. “I thought more about your question,” she said as she set the tray down on a table in front of where we sat. “I can’t imagine where that man is at. It’s not like the fool has close friends who’d take him in to hide. And his parents, they died years ago.” She took a mug for herself.
“Brothers or sisters?” Marge poured some milk into her mug.
“A brother who’s in Oregon. The two of them were never close. Sometimes he likes to hang out with his cousin, Marty. Marty’s here in Springston. They’ll drink beer and watch the games sometimes on the weekends. But I doubt that Stanley’s hiding there. Marty’s wife is not a woman to stand for foolishness. And there are kids in the house.”
Even so, it was a place to start, I thought. Marty might know something.
Marge was onto it. She took out her notebook. “Could you give us his address?”
“Number seven, Green Lane. Marty drives a truck. He’s on the road a lot, so you might not find him there today. I believe he’s home most every Saturday. Tomorrow you might catch him. I don’t know what he can tell you, but I guess it’s worth a try.”
Celeste sipped her coffee. “The police don’t have an ID on the victim yet.
Do you have any clue who it might have been?”
“No. They made me look when I was at the station to see if I recognized him.” She frowned. “Now, there’s a pleasant task, but I know they need to find out who that poor soul could be. I didn’t recognize him. I’d never seen the guy.”
There had to be some link there, between Stanley and the guy that took it in the neck. I suspected Stanley didn’t have a mistress. More likely he was mixed up in some shady business dealings. And it wouldn’t be surprising that Deborah didn’t know. It wasn’t like they were exactly best friends and confidantes.
“Another thing,” Marge said. “We heard talk about a robbery at the Busy Bee a couple of months ago. Can you give us any information? What went on with that?”
Deborah nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember. That was a bad time for Stanley. Dude hit him in the face, then made off with the money. Still haven’t found the guy; the police have no idea who he might have been. That’s the cops in Springston – not exactly on the ball.”
“You got that right,” Celeste said.
“That’s okay. You have us,” Marge squeaked. “CMC on the case.”
Our client looked at us like she didn’t share Marge’s sense of confidence.
Marge glance down at her notebook. “We’ll follow up with Marty. Then we have some other lines of investigation that we plan to pursue.”
Did we? Did we really? And what exactly might those be?
Celeste put down her mug. “At this point, Deborah, we have no indication about what it is that we might find. You should be prepared for anything.” She paused.
“Like what?” Deborah leaned forward in her seat. There was a challenge in her voice, as if we somehow could control what it was that we might find.
“Well, it could be, for instance, that we locate your husband – but he no longer has the money,” Celeste said to her.
A look of anger flashed in Deborah’s eyes. “Well, in that case, the scoundrel would be better off not to be found at all.”
“Our goal at CMC is to get your money back,” I said to our hostess, thinking Hey, let’s all be positive and hope for the best.
Marge stood and turned to Deborah. “One more thing. It would be useful if the three of us could have a peek around the house. We might find something useful.”
Deborah answered with a rueful smile. “It won’t make the cover of Mansions of the Stars, but make yourself at home. If there’s anything to see that might help you solve this thing, then I want you to find it.”
Celeste and I stood as well.
“Did Stanley have an office?” Celeste asked. “Or a place where he kept most of his things?”
“He does have a little office. You’ll find it upstairs to the right.” Deborah nodded toward a staircase. “But he doesn’t use it much now, since the electronics store went bust.”
“Why don’t we start in there?” I asked.
“Works for me,” Marge said.
“Fine,” Deborah said. “And just as a heads-up: that Spencer guy might show up. You know, the detective. He wants to search the house as well.” She frowned. “As you’ve noticed, the cops are not exactly my favorites in this town. I’ve lived here for long and watch them screw things up all the time. I don’t like the idea of this guy poking in my stuff. I told him he had to get a warrant if he wanted to do that. He told me fine; he’d be back this afternoon, which is why I just worked a half day.”
“Lovely,” Celeste said. “Just the very person we wanted to avoid.”
“Or the one that Charlie was hoping to run into,” Marge cooed gleefully.
“Marge, give it a rest,” I said. “What this really means is that we have to work much faster while we have this place to ourselves.”
If there was something to be found, best to find it first, before the mighty Alex swept it from our reach. You know – for our safety, as he liked to say. Dangerous business and all that.
Deborah moved away and began gathering the mugs. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said as she left the room.
“Okay, let’s think this through,” Marge said in a low voice once we were alone. “Supposing we get out of here before Alex shows up with his warrant. Do we want to leave our fingerprints all over Stanley’s things?”
“Good point,” Celeste whispered. “You know he won’t be happy about us messing with his case. Not that I don’t intend to solve the heck out of this thing before he knows what’s what.”
“He won’t know that they’re our prints,” I said. “We’re not in the database. Unless you two have been arrested while I wasn’t looking.” I was anxious to hurry them along. We had no time to waste.
“Good point as well,” Celeste said, then she paused to think. “But let’s not take any chances,” she finally decided. “If Alex finds something in that office and they decide to run the prints, Deborah might get questioned about who’s touched the stuff. It’s good practice anyway not to muck up evidence with our fingerprints. We should handle this job like the professionals we are. That means we put on gloves.”
She was absolutely right. Which meant we had a problem. I was starting to feel sick. It stunk to be a rookie. What kind of investigators don’t even carry gloves?
“I’ll go check with Deborah.” Marge rushed into the kitchen.
Soon the two of them were back. Our client had some kitchen gloves and was not looking happy.
“I thought you were real detectives,” she said. “I just assumed that you would carry real detective stuff. What’s the story here? Can you do the job or not?”
Wonderful. Marge travels with a trunkful of equipment, like she’s some super spy from a James Bond flick. But just some simple gloves? We have to ask the client to rummage in her kitchen.
“We’re waiting on an order now,” I said.
I channeled my inner savvy sleuth, who was confidant and organized. Who would have ordered gloves (sheesh!) if she’d just come out more often to help with the decisions.
“We’ve just had a rush of business,” I continued, “and it seems that all our cases have been evidence-intensive.” Okay, that sounded good.
Celeste nodded in agreement. “With evidence so sensitive we sometimes double gloved.”
“We have them special ordered,” Marge chimed in. “We only work with gloves that have been tested and approved by the Professional Association of Detectives, Inc.”
Okay. We were good – so good I almost bought into the things that we were saying. I hoped Deborah was buying it, too. I stole a weary glance at her.
She nodded to herself. “Looks like you know your stuff.”
Score.
She handed me the gloves. I put some on my hands and handed a pair to Celeste. Then I turned to Deborah. “Would you, by any chance, have another pair for Marge?”
My question was met with the usual Deborah Bickford scowl. “You’re lucky I had two pairs. This is a family home, not a superstore for private eyes. I’ll get some oven mitts.” With that, she headed to the kitchen.
“How can I search with oven mitts?” Marge looked dejected at the thought.
“Oh, buck up,” Celeste said. “We’ll make do with what we’ve got. Be creative. You can do it.”
Soon Deborah was back with two mitts that looked like they’d both seen better days. One was a bright orange color and decorated with a teapot. The other had a picture of a carrot dancing with a string bean. Written across the front was Don’t Forget Your Veggies.
Marge looked crestfallen as we headed up the stairs. If I’d thought about it sooner, I would have handed over mine. It mattered less to me. I just wanted to find the husband, get my paycheck, and be done. I had no dreams of living the glamorous detective life they showed on CSI because as it turned out, that life was not real.
Celeste peeked into the first door as we got upstairs. “This must be it. Showtime, girls. Let’s do it.”
I looked around. I knew time was of the essence. Except, no way could it be a quick job
if we wanted to be thorough. There were old bills and papers everywhere, covering a wooden desk and piled onto a set of shelves. This guy would get no awards when it came to neatness.
We each took a corner and went through things one by one. Marge was having a hard time of it, putting her mitted hands together as if she were clapping, and lifting the items slowly, careful not to drop them.
Nothing seemed important. I found lists of inventory from the old store that Stanley used to run, a few old cocktail napkins from a bar in town, a couple of party invitations – one to celebrate someone turning ninety, another to watch the Super Bowl back in 2012. Who kept things like that?
“Does this guy own a trash can?” I whispered to my friends. “And does he know how to use it?”
“Here’s the trash can right here,” Marge replied and looked inside. “The thing is empty.”
Celeste smiled at the sight of Marge finally trapping a paper between her oversized colorful mitts. “Thank you, Suzy Homemaker. All you need is an apron.”
While we hurried to search the room, the doorbell rang. Drat. The three of us froze. We had every right to be here and I was getting tired of explaining that to Alex. I was hoping we’d be gone before he showed up at the door.
We headed to the landing to see Deborah peeking out the window. She nodded when she saw us. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s him,” she whispered.
I knew what was coming next: a mournful look from Alex, along with a little speech about interference with an important police investigation.
Could we get in trouble? What were exactly the rules when we were working in a private home and hired by the homeowner? I’d promised him I’d be careful. But surely we had every right to be here, working for our client. The gig was up in any case. Alex had surely seen Marge’s car out front.
“Let’s hurry to the couch,” I said, keeping my voice very low. “Then he might think that we’re only here to talk and to consult with Deborah.”
“Quick, let’s go,” Celeste said. “Deborah, could you hold off for just a second before you let him in?”
