Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  And at least three people told me about the new agility course at the dog park. Each time, Lucy looked up at me expectantly.

  “OK, we’ll go,” I said to her the last time. “Tomorrow morning, I promise.”

  She looked hopeful.

  Armed with Annette’s list, I was touring the empty houses in the neighborhood. And I now had ten addresses to check. I’d prevailed on Marty (using my porch pirates story) to call his friend in circulation at the Sentinel. I’m pretty sure Marty didn’t believe me. But I think he kinda felt he owed me. Karmically speaking.

  Nice homes where the owners were gone for a week or two? That might be just the spot for a crafty thief looking to stay close but off the grid.

  At this point, I wasn’t planning on ambushing Harkins. Or even laying eyes on him. I just wanted to rule out a few of the houses on my list. In an hour I was able to eliminate three of them.

  I called Trip when we got home.

  “Ashamed to show your face in the newsroom?” he said.

  “I know it’s stupid, but I am currently working for the Sentinel. The word is out, and I figured it could be problematic for you.”

  “Wouldn’t even buy me a cheap cup of vending machine coffee? Tsk, tsk.”

  “I’d invite you for dinner, but you-know-who is cooking,” I said, dropping my voice.

  “How do your mom and Marty feel about that?” Trip asked.

  “Mom’s off on another one of Ian’s ‘excursions.’ Georgetown history tour, followed by drinks riverside. Marty’s back on his antibiotics, which apparently wipe out his sense of taste.”

  “Maybe you could get the bottle and pass ’em out to the rest of the table.”

  “How would you feel about a nice evening walk, followed by coffee and fresh cherry galettes?” I asked.

  “At my favorite Fordham bistro?”

  “If you mean my front porch, yes.”

  “And when you say ‘walk,’ you mean . . .”

  “Scoping out empty houses looking for Harkins. Or evidence of Harkins. I figure a couple with a dog looks respectable. And I’ve been out alone twice today already.”

  “And you explain peeping in the windows how?”

  “Lucy’s Frisbee. I just happened to toss it too close to the house.”

  “So you’re inviting me for an evening of casing the neighborhood, trespassing, and a little light stalking, followed by dessert and coffee?”

  “Yup.”

  “What the heck. Count me in.”

  Chapter 41

  That evening, Trip showed up with flowers “for the lady of the house.” And a green rubber bone “for the little beast.”

  Baba’s face lit up. “So pretty,” she said, giving him a “pat, pat, pat” on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “For you, anytime,” Trip said, giving her a peck on the cheek. To me he said, “You didn’t buy me coffee, so you get nothing.”

  “Hey, if you’re helping me, uh, walk Lucy,” I said, sliding my eyes over to the sink, where Baba was putting the flowers in water, “I’m already grateful.”

  “Nice move,” Marty pronounced, giving Trip a beefy thumbs-up from his perch at the kitchen table, where he was rocking a very drowsy Alistair. “Very classy.”

  For her part, Lucy remained glued to Trip’s side, her new toy clutched in her mouth. Every once in a while, she’d look up at him adoringly, and he’d stroke the top of her velvety head.

  “So where’s Nick? I was promised galettes,” Trip said, as he hung his gray glen-plaid suit jacket on the back of a kitchen chair. Followed by his baby-blue silk tie.

  “The galettes are here. Nick is at Ian’s. But he’s making it an early night. Trying to do fewer late nights, more regular hours,” I said, meaningfully. “He’ll probably be home before we are.”

  “Excellent,” Trip said, rolling up the sleeves of his perfectly pressed white shirt. “Shall we walk?”

  At that last word, Lucy dropped her toy and bolted for the door. I handed her leash to Trip, who clipped it onto her collar. I grabbed the Frisbee and the pooper-scooper. The list was already folded discreetly in my pocket.

  “So what’s the first step in your infernal scheme?”

  “Two houses on Waterleaf Lane. And another on Magnolia Circle.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s roll.”

  The neighborhood was quiet this evening, the air heavy and humid. Already it felt like summer. Down the block, a couple of kids chased each other on skateboards, while a lanky guy jogged on the other side of the street.

  Lydia’s brick Georgian mansion, the oldest home in the neighborhood (because her family originally owned the land on which the rest of ours were built) was gorgeous. I had to give her that. Lush hydrangea bushes, loaded with snowball-sized, dawn-pink flowers, flanked it on two sides.

  Oddly, I hadn’t seen Lydia in the past few days. The way she was going, I’d half expected her to have moved into the B&B by now. Maybe she’d heard about Alistair.

  Lydia might covet Ian, but somehow I didn’t see her as the motherly type.

  Although look who’s talking.

  “Why do I feel like whistling the theme from Bridge Over the River Kwai?” Trip quipped, as we marched along.

  “At least you’re not carrying a spear and a shield,” I said, wielding the pooper-scooper.

  “Too bad you can’t twirl it like a baton.”

  “Where this thing has been, you don’t want me twirling it,” I countered.

  Lucy stopped and sniffed a fire hydrant. Her tail began to wag furiously.

  “Looks like one of her friends has been by recently,” Trip said.

  “Yeah, apparently she and Nick have a whole other life I know nothing about. They’re the toast of the neighborhood. And tomorrow morning, I promised to take her to the d-o-g p-a-r-k.”

  “We’re spelling now?”

  “She seems to recognize that phrase, and she gets all excited. I don’t want her to be disappointed when we don’t end up there tonight.”

  “I’m glad to hear one of you is expanding her vocabulary. What are you going to do when she learns how to spell?”

  “Get her a job as an editor.”

  “She couldn’t do worse than that new guy we hired. So what exactly are we looking for here?” he asked as we turned onto Treeleaf Lane.

  “Well, I’m thinking if there’s an alarm system or cameras, that rules the place out. You know the difference between fake security stickers and the real thing, right?”

  “When this is over, we’ve got to get you an honest job.”

  “Hey, my job is honest. It’s my neighbors who are suspect.”

  “Suspects, more like. OK, this one’s got stickers from Brinks. I’m familiar with the name, so I’m assuming they’re genuine?”

  “Oh yeah. We’re either looking for no stickers or fakey names you’ve never heard of.”

  A fleet of old cars, along with a couple of new ones, lined the driveway of the second house. The lights were on, rap music blared from the backyard, and I could smell burgers grilling.

  “Not them, either,” I said. “They may have canceled the newspaper, but they left the teenager at home.”

  “Rookie mistake. I wonder how much of this manse the firefighters will be able to save?”

  Lucy was pulling Trip toward the curb—and the burger smell.

  “Just out of curiosity, do you ever feed this little dog?” he asked. “Because it would appear that the wolf cub is starving.”

  “She had her own dinner and two helpings of Baba’s stew. Whatever that was. Nick says no more food ’til morning.”

  Lucy threw her weight into the leash and pulled him as far as the curb.

  “Well, apparently the little beast does not agree. She seems to think your neighbors have a burger with her name on it.”

  “She thinks all food has her name on it.” I handed Trip the scooper and Frisbee, reached down, and picked up Lucy, cradling her in my arms. “Don’t you, you crazy dog?”
r />   She licked my face.

  “C’mon, Magnolia Circle’s only two streets over. Then we can call it a night.”

  “Good,” Trip said. “I was beginning to think those galettes were just a ruse to get me over here.”

  I gently deposited Lucy onto the street when we rounded the corner to Magnolia Circle. It was a short cul-de-sac on the edge of the neighborhood. The houses were larger, and the lots were enormous.

  “We’re looking for 4112,” I said, checking my list. “Normally, they get the Tribune and the Sentinel.”

  “So we know they’re nice, well-rounded folks,” Trip said. “How long are they away?”

  “Three weeks,” I said as we hiked down the street. “And they left the day before Ian’s party.”

  It was at the very end of the cul-de-sac, with a large yard on one side and a house sporting a FOR SALE sign on the other.

  “Nice and private,” I said. “No cameras that I can see. And the lawn’s overgrown, too. That’s a good sign.”

  “A-1 SECURITY?” Trip asked.

  “Fake. You can get those stickers at the hardware store. Or print them out online.”

  “So how come you don’t have any?” he asked.

  “I was under the impression that a double dead bolt was real security.”

  “Silly you,” he said. “So how do we get a closer look?”

  I took the Frisbee from his hand. “Hey, Lucy! You want your toy? You want your toy?”

  “Woof ! Woof-woof!”

  “Lucy says ‘yes,’” Trip said. “Let ’er rip.”

  I released my arm, and the Frisbee sailed, bouncing off the front of the house and dropping into an overgrown bush right in front of a window.

  “Nice shot!” Trip said.

  “Oh my, it’s gone onto my neighbor’s lawn,” I said, with exaggerated hand gestures. “You hold the leash, and I’ll run and get it.”

  “OK, Cate Blanchett you’re not,” Trip murmured. “Just collect the Frisbee and tell me if you see anything.”

  I pretended to search the bush, moving the branches to one side and the other. I stepped closer, flattened myself against the brickwork, reached out, and shoved the branches aside.

  Inside the house, behind the gauzy curtains, a face stared back at me—mouth in a perfect O.

  Chapter 42

  I didn’t even bother to look back at Trip. I ran to the front door and started banging like a madwoman.

  “Red! Are you nuts?” Trip said, hustling up the lawn with Lucy. “What are you doing?”

  I kept hammering on the glossy oak door. It flew open. But whoever opened it was standing behind it. Invisible.

  “Get in here quick!” a familiar voice said. “Before someone sees you!”

  I dashed inside. Trip followed with Lucy.

  Nick’s ex-fiancée slammed it shut behind us. True to form, Gabby was wearing a teased blond wig with an orange headband, a long-sleeved, white stretchy T-shirt that could have been sprayed on, figure-hugging black pedal pushers, and kitten heels.

  “Sister girl!” she said, throwing her arms around me. Lucy raced around our legs.

  “How are you?” I asked. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine, sugar. Oh, look at the little girl!” she said, dropping to her knees and greeting Lucy. “You look so good! Yes, you do!”

  To me she said, “She’s all healed up!”

  “She’s done great,” I told my former, not-quite sister-in-law. “She’s got a little scar. But the fur’s grown back on her tummy, so you can’t see it.”

  Gabby had rescued Lucy from the streets of Las Vegas. The pup had been foraging for dinner out of a back-alley Dumpster when Gabby found her and carried her home. Lucy, in turn, adopted Nick.

  And Gabby stood by us, literally, after Lucy ate a sock, nearly died, and had to have emergency surgery. Hence the little scar. She also helped me nab a killer who’d been trying to frame me for murder.

  She’d returned to Vegas—and her former boyfriend, now fiancé—right after the little pup was out of the woods. She even sent me a couple of postcards through Trip. Just to let me know she’d gotten back safe and sound.

  “She’s so much bigger!” Gabby teared up as Lucy bounced on her, licking her face. “It’s only been a few weeks, but she’s growing up!”

  “Gabby, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Oh, honey, it’s a long story,” she said, giggling at Lucy the happy jumping bean.

  I looked at Trip. He looked at me and shrugged.

  “Does Nick know you’re here?” I blurted.

  “No, sugar. And he can’t find out, either.”

  We agreed on that one.

  When Gabby had taken off nearly a month ago, my funny, outgoing brother turned into a zombie. He ate. He slept. He showered. Occasionally.

  But it was like there was no one home behind the eyes.

  It took a long time for the real Nick, the extravert with the easy grin, to return completely. I didn’t want to lose him again.

  “We were looking for Harkins,” I said.

  “Hmm, really,” she said, looking away. “No one here by that name.”

  I grabbed her hand. “Gabby, I understand he’s in danger. We’re here because Ian is worried sick. He needs to know that his dad’s OK. Even if he doesn’t know where he’s holed up.”

  “Plus, there is something seriously wrong at that inn,” Trip added.

  “That, too,” I said.

  “Come on,” Gabby said. “We’re set up in the den.”

  I unclipped Lucy’s leash, and she dashed ahead with Gabby. Trip and I followed.

  The “den” was a huge paneled room with what looked like a two-story window or glass door at one end. I couldn’t tell because it was covered with heavy drapes. Which were closed. A couple of mini fridges hummed on one wall. Next to them were stacked a half dozen or so six-packs of Gatorade beside an open cardboard carton of snack food. Potato chips. Cheese puffs. Peanut butter crackers. Five folding chairs were clustered around a card table in one corner. I spotted fold-up cots and deflated air mattresses in another.

  “Gabby, what is this place?” I said in a hushed voice. “How many people are living here?”

  “A few of us,” she admitted. “We’ve got another one a couple of blocks from here. That’s where Harkins is now.”

  “He’s OK?”

  She nodded.

  “Gabby, what’s going on?”

  “I want to tell you, sugar. You know I do. But it’s not my story to tell. You weren’t supposed to find us.”

  “I’m not gonna tell anyone. You know that. Ian is beside himself. I think he’s afraid his father is dead.”

  “Ooh, the English stud muffin! How are you two doing?”

  “There is no us two. I don’t trust him anymore. But I do trust you.”

  Gabby looked away. I could tell she was struggling to make a decision.

  “OK,” I said gently. “How about I tell you what I know, and you tell me if I’m right? And you have my word: It doesn’t go any farther than this room. I won’t even tell Ian.”

  But I wasn’t making any promises about keeping secrets from Nick. Not until I knew more.

  Gabby looked at me, then at Trip. He nodded.

  “Oh sugar, it’s been so hard. I wanted to come by and see you guys so many times. But with all this, and the way things ended with Nicky . . .”

  “I get it,” I said, patting her arm. I kind of did, too. Even though they didn’t end up together, she did care for him. But the fiancé—a pro wrestler named “Rodeo Rick Steed”—was, in Gabby’s words, her “soul mate.”

  “I know this is about Jameson Blair and his art collection,” I said.

  Her mouth made that O shape again. “You know? Ohmygosh, does anybody else know? Does Nicky know?”

  “Just the basics,” Trip said, pulling out one of the folding chairs and settling in. “And we’re the only three who do. Not counting whatever Lord Sir Bed and Breakfast has suss
ed out himself.”

  Lucy circled the room, stopping to sniff various points of interest.

  “Blair hired Harkins to copy his art collection, then swap it for the real stuff,” I said. “The divorce court will let his wife keep half of the paintings. But, thanks to Harkins, Blair will have the real collection—all of it—stashed somewhere. And his wife will end up with half a collection’s worth of copies.”

  “That was Blair’s plan,” she said, shivering. “He’s not a nice man, sugar.”

  “Then Blair sent a cleanup man,” I said. “A little insurance. To make sure Harkins stuck with the plan.”

  Gabby nodded. “Raymond Bell.”

  “But Bell’s dead. And Harkins is in hiding. Did Harkins kill him?”

  “No!” she wailed. “He just found the body.”

  I looked at Trip, who shook his head infinitesimally.

  “Bell was threatening Harkins,” I continued. “And Bell just happened to get himself killed? And Harkins just happened to find him? That’s a heck of a lot of coincidences, Gabby. Harkins could be lying.”

  “He’s not! Really! But that’s why he left. Some-one killed Bell. And Harkins knew that everyone would think he did it. Especially Blair. And he knew the next guy Blair sent would be even more dangerous. So he hid Bell. Where no one would find him.”

  “In the freezer?”

  She nodded.

  “Where did he put Bell after that?”

  Gabby startled. “What do you mean, sugar?”

  “Bell isn’t in the freezer anymore.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her who was.

  “So where’s Bell now?” I asked.

  “Harkins left him in the freezer! Honest. He should still be there. Could Bell be alive?”

  “Trust me,” I told her. “I saw him. He’s very, very dead.”

  Gabby winced. Whatever she did in Vegas—besides picking pockets, lifting identities, and running an illegal online store fueled with stolen credit cards—I knew it didn’t involve violence. She was too tender-hearted.

  “Bell’s body is really gone?” she asked.