Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “One guy, Gerry, makes pickles. Everything from relish to those big deli ones.”

  I nodded.

  “He and his wife were having problems.”

  I cocked my head and stared at Nick.

  “OK, OK, truth is, he was seeing someone,” he admitted. “Anyway, suddenly there’s a surprise inspection. A boatload of fees. Only this time Simmons is demanding cash. Says if the guy doesn’t pay up, he’s gonna come back every Thursday afternoon. Thursday afternoon is when Gerry would see the girlfriend.”

  “Simmons was blackmailing him?”

  Nick nodded. “Simmons liked to pop in unexpectedly. Listen in on phone calls. Rifle through papers. Basically, trample civil rights.”

  “How come nobody blew the whistle?”

  “How? He decides if their business lives or dies. People put all their time and money—their souls—into these things. Anybody complains to Simmons’s bosses, it’s just sour grapes because they didn’t pass inspection. And you can bet the next time he visited, he’d shut ’em down.”

  “So what did Gerry do?”

  “Came clean with his wife. Dumped the girlfriend.”

  “Smart.”

  “Honestly, he couldn’t afford the blackmail. If he could have, I think he’d have just paid it.”

  I shook my head. “Could Gerry have done it?”

  “Don’t think so. This was a couple of years ago. Their business is doing great now. They also moved to another county.”

  “So no motive.”

  “Yup.”

  “Lydia sics Simmons on you. Her friend, Ham Stephens, sets Paul on Ian. I wonder if Paul and Simmons know each other? Paul did just up and vanish one morning. I don’t think Georgie ever saw him leave.”

  “You think he killed Simmons and took off?” Nick said. “Weren’t they kind of on the same side?”

  “Not really. Simmons was out to get you. Paul was out to sabotage the inn. And for Ham Stephens, I think it was personal, too. I always had the impression that he carried a torch for Lydia.”

  “But Lydia’s definitely hot for Ian,” Nick said.

  “Man, you would not believe some of the stuff I’ve heard her say this week.”

  “Don’t know, don’t wanna know,” I said. “You mentioned that Simmons showed up at the inn. The time Ian ushered him out. Did he ever come back?”

  “Don’t know for sure.”

  I gave him my skeptical look again.

  Nick sighed. “There were a couple of times I thought I caught a glimpse of him. Just for a split second. But it was late, and I was really tired. So I wasn’t sure.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  “A couple of times last week. The last time was Friday, I know that. Because I remember thinking he wasn’t due back ’til that afternoon.”

  “Do you remember when the meat thermometer went missing?” I asked.

  Nick rubbed his forehead. “About the same time.”

  We sat in silence, both of us thinking. Two racing bikes whizzed down the street. All I saw were helmets, black spandex, and the blur of wheels.

  “So Simmons was skulking around, probably listening at doors . . . ,” I started.

  “Or going through papers,” Nick added.

  “Poking his nose where it didn’t belong,” I allowed. “Only this isn’t just any old B&B. This is the place where Harkins was forging and stashing art. It’s where Harkins then disappeared. It’s where Insurance Guy was killed. And it’s where Paul the wrecking ball was destroying everything in his path.”

  “And now Simmons and that meat thermometer are in the freezer,” Nick finished.

  I nodded. “So Simmons might have learned something. The question is what?”

  Chapter 37

  To describe our dinner as “strained” was putting it mildly.

  True to form, Baba didn’t say a word. Mom and Marty did most of the talking. Unfortunately, not to each other.

  Luckily, Nick and Marty had saved the day by picking up Chinese takeout from one of Marty’s favorite spots. “Little family-run place that makes great dim sum,” he promised.

  So at least we had something tasty to serve up along with a big helping of family tension.

  Nick and I had decided not to tell Mom about Ian’s freezer. Instead, we tried to gently steer her into going home. But the more we guided and nudged, the more she dug in her designer heels.

  “OK, she can take my room,” Nick said during one of our frequent kitchen confabs. “I can sleep on a camping cot in the living room. Or pitch a pup tent in the backyard.”

  Lucy, who seemed to recognize the word “pup,” looked up hopefully.

  I grabbed a dog treat from the mason jar on the counter. She took it delicately from my palm, dropped to the floor, and held it with her two front paws as she went to town.

  “Putting aside the fact that we don’t have a tent or a cot, just how do you propose to explain why she should give up a first-class room with a private bath to sleep in a bedroom that smells like a cross between a bakery and a locker room—not to mention share a bathroom with four other people?”

  “I was just gonna say we loved her and wanted her to stay here,” Nick said.

  “Worth a shot,” I said, grabbing a second “cookie” for Lucy.

  But Mom was resolute. The more we begged her to stay with us, the less appealing it seemed to be for her. “Besides, I’m probably going home tomorrow,” she teased.

  “Hey, why don’t I come over and spend the night?” I suggested. “It’ll be like a slumber party.”

  If I couldn’t get her out of the inn, I could at least stand guard to make sure she didn’t venture into the basement. Or wherever people went before they ended up in the basement.

  “I’ll spend the evening here,” she conceded. “But then I’m going back to the B&B to get my beauty sleep. Alone, thank you very much. Besides, you don’t want that cute innkeeper to see you in the morning without your makeup. Keeping a little mystery in a relationship is important.”

  “Uh, Mom, there is no relationship. And believe me, we’ve got all the mystery we can handle.”

  Chapter 38

  I popped up early the next morning, opened the back door for Lucy, and made a big pot of coffee. The way things were going, we were gonna need it.

  When I settled on the back stoop with my cup and my laptop, Lucy was romping in the moist grass. Every so often, she’d stretch her neck and study the birds flying to and fro.

  Seeing me, she trotted over and rolled onto her back.

  “Does someone want a belly rub?” I said, scratching her silky, white tummy.

  Her tail thumped happily. One of the birds screeched, and she sprang into action—racing to the fence and fixating on one of the neighbors’ trees.

  Lucy was fascinated by nature in all its forms. Clouds, flowers, little hopping bugs, it was all brand-new and wonderful to Lucy. She savored it. Like she was making up for lost time.

  I flipped open the laptop. I had a missing Harkins, two bodies, and no idea what was really going on at the inn.

  It was time to take a more professional approach.

  Twenty minutes later, as Lucy frolicked—and with time out for the occasional ear scratch or belly rub—I’d typed everything I knew into a file. Heading “The Case of the Cotswolds Inn.”

  Sherlock Holmes, I’m not.

  I reviewed my notes. Precious little. But somehow, setting it down in black and white made me feel better. More in control. And after yesterday’s little foray into the basement, I needed that.

  Reading and rereading my notes, I had a hunch that wherever Harkins had gone—if he’d gone voluntarily—it hadn’t been far. He had a fortune in art squirreled away in his room. He wasn’t just going to leave it there. And whatever he’d gotten himself into with Blair, I didn’t think he was the type to run off and leave his son holding the bag.

  Plus, the Harkins I’d seen was meticulous. He mu
st have had a plan. Even if Insurance Guy had thrown a big, fat monkey wrench into the works. The question was, where would Harkins go?

  According to Ian, his father didn’t know anyone on this side of the Atlantic. But talk about your unreliable narrators. I was attracted to Ian, no lie. But I didn’t trust him. Not anymore.

  I don’t think Nick did, either. He hadn’t shared his plans with me. But I wondered if he’d still be working out of the inn. I hoped not. I also prayed Mom was serious about leaving for home today. The sooner we got her out of harm’s way, the better.

  Time to take off the gloves. And the blinders. If I was going to keep my nearest and dearest safe, I needed to stop acting like a silly schoolgirl with a crush and start acting like the trained reporter I actually was. Even if I had a sneaking suspicion I wouldn’t like what I discovered.

  So far, databases, public records, and far-flung sources had gotten me precisely nowhere. It was time to go old school: local contacts and shoe leather.

  My partner in crime this morning: Lucy.

  Troll the neighborhood alone asking questions and you’re a nosy reporter, an unemployed weirdo, or a busybody with way too much free time.

  But take a dog—preferably a cute and curious puppy—and suddenly you’re that friendly neighbor down the street.

  I changed into something I thought marked me as comfortable and approachable. A white T-shirt, jeans, and a Nats cap over a sporty ponytail. Besides, Annie always said you can’t go wrong with the classics.

  Baba was awake and tending to Alistair. I brought her a tall glass of OJ and told her I was taking Lucy for her morning walk.

  “Da,” she said, brightly. “Spasiba!”

  “You’re welcome, anytime,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

  Before I left, I taped a note for Nick on the fridge. I hoped he’d stay away from the B&B, at least until I returned. But I also knew he was as stubborn as Mom.

  This morning’s agenda was definitely a new approach for me. While I’d never actively avoided my neighbors, my odd hours—and some of the even odder things that had been going on in my life—also meant I hadn’t interacted with them much. Especially lately.

  That would change today. My goal: Actually stop and chat with some of the folks who jogged or walked their dogs before work. I just hoped whatever gossip I could pick up would be more useful than what I’d be netting in Nick’s pooper-scooper.

  “OK, Lucy,” I said as we hit the porch and I clipped on her leash. “We’re gonna take a nice long walk.” She looked up at me with those trusting, liquid-brown eyes.

  “We might even run into some other doggies. New friends for you. But we have to be nice and friendly. This is a secret undercover mission.”

  I swear she looked puzzled. Either that or she was convinced I’d lost my mind. And I couldn’t really disagree.

  As we stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the house, four racing bikes flew by. Two of the helmet-and-Lycra guys—I think they were guys—put a forearm up in greeting. I waved back.

  OK, not much of a verbal rapport. But at least they were friendly.

  Lucy and I trotted down the sidewalk. Two moms running with jogging strollers barreled toward us. “Hi,” I said.

  “Left!” the first one yelled, ceding four inches of sidewalk.

  “’Scuse me,” I said, dodging right, as she charged through, followed by her friend.

  “Woof ! Wooff-wooff! Ruff! Rowr!” Lucy planted her front feet and called after them indignantly.

  “It’s OK, sweetie,” I said, patting her shoulder. “It’s all right. They’re obviously not dog people. Or people people.”

  Lucy looked into my eyes. And I swear she could see right through to my soul.

  “There are some nice folks out here, I promise. And we’ll find them. C’mon, baby dog, let’s go see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

  I spied a couple of guys chewing the fat at the end of the block. One had a golden retriever, the other a Jack Russell.

  “Beautiful morning!” I said.

  “Hey, I know her!” the one with the golden said, bending to scratch Lucy’s ear. “So where’s Nick this morning?”

  “He’s busy, so I’m pitching in to walk Lucy,” I explained. Not exactly a lie.

  “I never did ask Nick, what exactly is she?” the Jack Russell owner asked, eyeing my young canine.

  “She’s a Lucy,” I said, smiling. “Mixed breed.”

  Lucy sniffed the Jack Russell, while the golden sniffed her. Then they reversed positions. All three tails wagged double time.

  “I’m Jim,” said the golden’s owner. “This is Frank. Hey, tell Nick we finally got that agility course at the dog park. They just finished putting it in yesterday. We can’t wait.” He jiggled the leash, and the golden looked up at him lovingly.

  “Haven’t seen Nick in a couple of days,” Frank said.

  “He’s launching a business. A bakery. He’s been putting in some hellacious hours.”

  “Been there, done that,” said Frank. “Lawyer. Hung out my own shingle last year. Now I get to choose my own clients. But I swear I’m working twice as hard for half the money.”

  As a freelancer, I could empathize. The Sentinel still hadn’t come through with any cash, despite a string of phone calls. Everyone pointed the finger at someone else, all the while heartily reassuring me that “the situation has already been resolved” and “the money is on its way.”

  The electronic version of “the check is in the mail.”

  “Did you hear about the Andersons?” Jim said.

  “They finally pulled the trigger on the Hawaiian vacation. Two weeks. First-class airfare. Hotel overlooking the beach. The whole deal.”

  “Oh man, I could use some of that right now,” Frank said. “Ain’t gonna happen this year.”

  A potentially empty house in the neighborhood? Promising.

  “I wonder who they got to house-sit?” I asked, probing for more details. “We’re taking off to visit family for Thanksgiving. I’d love to know who they used.”

  As if.

  “I don’t think they have anybody,” Jim said.

  “If worse comes to worst, I guess I could get one of those DIY alarm systems where you can watch your home via the phone,” I said lightly, recalling Nick’s recommendation to Ian.

  “That’s definitely the way to go,” Jim said. “And you’ll love it. We got one this past Christmas. It’s great. A toy for the grown-ups. I’m really surprised more of the homes on the block don’t have them. We’re one of the few.”

  Frank checked his watch and remembered he had to call a client. We all said our good-byes. And I promised to take Lucy to the dog park to visit her buds. And give the agility course a try. With a few more sniffs and tail wags, we were on our way.

  And I had a whole new idea of how to find Harkins.

  If I was lucky, it would just take a couple of phone calls. And a dozen of Nick’s chocolate chip cookies.

  Chapter 39

  I plunked a mason jar full of cookies onto the cheap Formica counter. The woman behind it turned toward the sound.

  Just over five feet tall, and almost as wide, she was wearing a blue flower-print dress topped off with a heavy white sweater. It may have been eighty-five degrees outside, but it felt like a frosty fifty-five in the Washington Tribune’s circulation department.

  “Well, if it isn’t the bad penny herself.”

  “Hey, Annette! Hope your circulation’s better than this newspaper’s.”

  “If it wasn’t, I’d be in a coma. Whatcha doing slumming down here with us working folks? I thought you were independently wealthy now?”

  “An ugly lie. I’m still working. Just freelancing.”

  “Uh-huh, my first husband used to freelance,” she chortled, smoothing her brassy blond perm. “Meant he was free to drink at every bar in town. So what’s this?” she said, pointing at the mason jar sporting a big red bow.

  “My brother runs a bakery,” I
explained. “His specialty. Chocolate chip cookies.”

  I owed Nick big-time. He’d baked these in our kitchen this morning. After I’d told him why I needed them. And promised to take over Lucy’s morning walk for the foreseeable future.

  “You tryin’ to bribe an old lady?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “OK, good. ’Cause I wanna try some of these. What’s it gonna cost me?”

  I knew I couldn’t tell her about Harkins and the freezer of death. So I was ready.

  “I’m working on a story about porch pirates. And I wanted to find out which houses in my neighborhood have put their newspaper delivery on hold.”

  “I heard a nasty rumor you were working for the competition,” she said, eyeing me through Coke-bottle glasses with pink plastic frames. Nothing got by Annette.

  “Not on this one. I haven’t even pitched this story yet. I’m still doing research.”

  “You don’t think it’s someone in my department?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nope. But I want to know which families to talk with,” I said. “If they’re willing, we might even plant some empty shipping boxes and see if anyone takes the bait.”

  “Stealing right off somebody’s front porch? That’s just low. No excuse for acting like that. You gonna tell ’em where you got their names?”

  “Anybody asks, I heard it from neighborhood gossip.”

  “Good girl. OK, what streets do you need?”

  Fifteen minutes later, I had a list with a half dozen names and addresses. I also knew that one of the lifestyle reporters was secretly pregnant. And a business writer was cheating on her girlfriend with a photo editor. And the head of H.R. was in rehab. Again.

  They say that in jail, cigarettes are currency. At a newspaper, it’s gossip and food.

  I had to admit, Nick’s cookies were pure gold.

  Chapter 40

  Part three of my plan involved a lunchtime walk with Lucy.

  I could have been creeping around in a striped jumpsuit with a stocking cap over my head and a burlap sack on my shoulder. The minute most of the neighbors saw Lucy, they smiled. More often than not, they’d stop to chat. Even if it was just small talk about the Nats or the weather.