Bad Housekeeping

by Maia Chance

  “Oh, well I had Mr. Tucker. Bruce. Kind of a jerk, actually. Bullied the dorky kids. Dorrie was his wife.”

  “Was? Are they divorced?”

  “No, he died last year. Heart attack. Too much good home cooking.”

  I inched the celery over my midriff. A memory flickered in my mind’s eye: a Sharpied sign taped to a metal locker reading, Do the Math! Agnes Blythe = Hagness Blimp. I kicked the memory away. “Do you know where Dorrie Tucker lives?” I asked.

  “On Third Street, I’m pretty sure. Well, good running into you again, Agnes, and nice meeting you, Mrs. Winters.” Otis hefted the metal thing in his arms. Muscles jumped under his tawny skin; I looked away. “I’m headed to the hardware store to try to find some bolts for this baby.”

  “Oh, we were just going to the hardware store!” Effie cooed.

  “No, we weren’t,” I snapped.

  “Okay, well, see you around, ladies. The cops will catch the murderer soon, I’m sure—this is Naneda—but in the meantime, be careful, okay?” Otis flashed us one last big-man-on-campus grin and strode out into the street.

  Chapter 6

  “Young Otis Hatch is certainly a hunk,” Effie said, watching him (well, watching his buns) retreat across the street. “Yum. Why so rude, Agnes, darling?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know. It would disillusion you about hunks forever.”

  “I was disillusioned ages ago. Even if they’re asses, they’re still hunks. Better than your ex Roger, who’s an ass and not, well—I’m sorry to say this, Agnes—but he’s really not very attractive.”

  “He’s brilliant,” I said through gritted teeth. The deep-down truth that I couldn’t quite admit even to myself was that Roger had never, not even once, inspired the swoopy, melty feelings I got when I saw Otis Hatch. What was wrong with me?

  Effie said, “Let’s fetch the car and drive to see Dorrie Tucker.”

  “She lives on Third Street, which is two blocks this way.” I pointed to the left. “And you parked the car three blocks the other way. If we drive, we’ll be doing extra walking.”

  Effie was already going in the direction of the car. “I’m not walking to someone’s house. And what if we need to make a quick getaway?”

  I pictured plump, damp-eyed Dorrie hugging her box of broken Pyrex at the library. There was no way we’d need to make a quick getaway. But I followed Effie.

  Once we’d buckled ourselves into the boiling-hot Caddy, I chucked the celery onto the back seat and looked up Dorrie Tucker’s address on Effie’s phone. “Four-oh-one Third Street,” I said.

  Effie angled the car out into the street. “Don’t you have a phone? I thought youngsters like you were glued to your phones nowadays.”

  “My phone’s in my backpack but—”

  “I’ve been meaning to discuss that backpack, Agnes—”

  “Let’s not and say we did. My phone’s out of juice, and I left the charger at my—at Roger’s.” The only things in my backpack were lip balm, my dead phone, and a cardigan. I hadn’t even brought my wallet. I was going to have to stop by the apartment and get my stuff at some point. Maybe tomorrow.

  “What were all those years with Roger like anyway, Agnes?”

  “They were fine.” Actually, they weren’t that great. In the past six years, I had exhausted myself at my jobs, Roger had exhausted himself in grad school, and instead of making out or cuddling when we’d had the chance, we had binged on carbs and TV shows. I think the word burnout sums it all up nicely.

  Effie slammed on the brakes at a stop sign. “You aren’t in love with Roger.”

  “What?”

  “I can tell. You’re unsettled because your life is changing”—Effie gassed it across the intersection as someone screamed obscenities—“but you’re secretly relieved, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. I want him back.”

  “No, you don’t! Not when there are scrumptious Otis Hatches strutting around in their faded blue jeans. And those were virtuously faded blue jeans too. Not factory faded. He faded them in his auto body shop for God’s sake! You’re young, Agnes. And now you’re free! Enjoy it.”

  “You promised not to talk about Roger, so could we not?” Shouldn’t Aunt Effie be crocheting toilet paper cozies instead of ogling men half her age? She had to be taking some kind of hormone replacements.

  * * *

  Dorrie Tucker’s house was a perfect little jewel box of a Victorian cottage on a quiet, tree-lined street. It exuded vintage charm, unlike the house to its right, which was the same style as Dorrie’s but painted purple and had rusty tractor parts and round saw blades in its garden as, I guessed, decor. Dorrie’s house, on the other hand, was soft pink with cream-colored gingerbread and a sparkling leaded window over the front door. Behind the picket fence, roses bloomed sumptuously.

  And there was Dorrie on her front walk, pruning a rose bush. She straightened when Effie and I pulled up at the curb.

  “Is that her?” Effie whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  We got out. Dorrie shrank back against her rosebushes as Effie and I turned down her front walk. “Yes?” she said with a wobble in her voice.

  “Dorrie Tucker?” I said, brisk and no-nonsense.

  “Yes?” Dorrie wore a floral shirt and stubby capris under her gardener’s smock. On her feet were blue Keds sneakers, and she wore pink-flowered gardening gloves. The very picture of meek and mild . . . although the clippers she was holding looked pretty wicked.

  “Mrs. Tucker, I’m Agnes Blythe. Remember me from the library yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I hear you’ve been spreading a malicious rumor about my great-aunt and me?”

  “Who, me?”

  “We have it on good authority.”

  “It was that awful man from the nightclub who told you that, wasn’t it?” Dorrie burst into tears.

  Effie and I waited for Dorrie to get herself together. It didn’t take long.

  She sniffled. “I simply repeated the rumor to that Bud fellow as an explanation, you see, for the way I fell down on the sidewalk! It was so humiliating, and I felt like he was laughing at me a little even when he helped me up. I felt my”—Dorrie leaned close—“my support garment slip. You know, Agnes—”

  Why would I know?

  “—and I started bawling like a baby, because of—of Kathleen. I’d just overheard that rumor while waiting for the coffee shop to open, completely by accident, and I knew it wasn’t true—look at you two!—but hearing the rumor had upset me terribly, which is why I fell and why I repeated the rumor to Mr. Budzinski.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And this was the first you heard of the rumor?”

  “Of course!”

  “Who did you overhear saying it?”

  “That horrible, smelly Frenchman, Roland Pascal.” Dorrie said Frenchman as though she’d gotten Ivory soap in her mouth. She was the old-school type of Naneda resident who didn’t cotton to “outsiders”—never mind that Naneda was settled by waves of “outsiders” who, oh yeah, ousted the native people from the land. So even though Dorrie was a weakling and I wanted to feel magnanimous toward her, I was starting to dislike her.

  “Roland Pascal is the carpenter working on the McGrundell Mansion, right?” I said, recalling what I’d written on my list of suspects earlier.

  “Yes. He was hired by the historical society to restore the mansion. He’s living in a trailer parked in front of the mansion, you know. He’s a transient worker, really, although I never could convince Kathleen of that. I wanted to hire Mr. Roberts from Lucerne. But Kathleen was, well, she was dazzled by the filthy little man.”

  “You knew Kathleen well,” I said. “Who do you think killed her?”

  “I can’t imagine! We all adored Kathleen.”

  We did?

  “She was a dear, dear friend, and I don’t know what I’ll do without her. Helping her with the historical society has been my guiding light ever since my husband, Bruce, passe
d away—I am the secretary, you see. The society gave me structure—Kathleen said I needed structure since Bruce and I never had children. Kathleen said I might as well stop being a pathetic lump and make myself useful. Now, with her gone, well, I’m just a mess. The doctor gave me something, of course, for the shock—nice little pills—and I was thinking of going on a Caribbean cruise. Bruce never wanted to go on a cruise, said he didn’t care to be seen with me in my swimsuit, although he had—”

  My brain was glazing over like a Bundt cake. “Okay, got it. Thanks, Mrs. Tucker.” I ripped a piece of paper from the notebook in my backpack, jotted down my phone number, and passed it to Dorrie. “Here’s my number. Call me if you remember any more details about the rumor.” I really needed to get a new phone charger. Maybe Effie would drive me to Mobile Phone Mart on the edge of town. Just as soon as I grilled this gossipy Frenchman. “We’ll go see what Roland Pascal has to say for himself.”

  “Be careful on your way out—of those things.” Dorrie pointed with her clippers to the rusty stuff in the garden next door. “Gracelyn Roy lives there. She calls those heaps of trash art, but don’t you think they just look dirty?”

  The sculptures did look like you might need a tetanus shot if you got too close. But by golly, I’d taken a college-level art appreciation course, so I wasn’t going to condemn them.

  Dorrie babbled on, “Kathleen was forever trying to get Gracelyn Roy to hire Susie’s Speedy Maids to clean her house up—or, ever since Gracelyn moved to town, which was only last spring anyway, but you wouldn’t know it because of the way she acts like she owns the town—but Gracelyn outright refused and claims she only uses baking soda and vinegar to clean her house, thank you very much—”

  “Kathleen recommended Susie’s Speedy Maids to Gracelyn?” I asked.

  “Of course. They’re the best. Susie hires foreign women, of course, but I’ve never had anything stolen. Bye-bye!” Dorrie bent to snip at her rose bushes.

  Effie and I retreated down the front walk. “Let’s see if Gracelyn is at home,” I whispered, “since she’s on the list too.”

  “Fine.”

  Effie and I edged past the rusty tractor parts and saw blades to Gracelyn’s front porch. I hit the door knocker.

  No answer.

  Effie and I went back to the Cadillac.

  “I didn’t like Dorrie Tucker,” Effie said, turning the key in the ignition. “Simpering.” We zoomed down the street. “Overdone.”

  “If she’s hiding anything, it’s that she’s a little bit grateful that Kathleen is gone,” I said. “Kathleen treated her like a doormat. I saw it for myself at the library yesterday.”

  “Aren’t you glad I insisted we take the car?” Effie asked.

  I was glad, but I wasn’t going to admit it. “I’m really hungry,” I said. “Let’s stop for lunch. We could go to the Cup n’ Clatter.”

  “That greasy pit of gossip? No. I don’t mind being stared at, but not in that pitchforks-and-torches way. This town is a rumor mill stuck in overdrive. It’s a wonder anyone has any secrets at all.”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “In small towns like this, word travels at the speed of light once it gets out, but that just makes people extra secretive. In big cities, people walk around their apartments in their skivvies with the curtains wide open. They don’t care who sees them through the window as long as they don’t see them on the street. But in Naneda, people guard their secrets with their lives.”

  “Quite literally, it turns out.” Effie shuddered. “Anyway, look, we’re only a few blocks from the McGrundell Mansion. We can lunch later.”

  We parked across the street from the McGrundell Mansion. The mansion, once home to Naneda’s wealthiest turn-of-the-century businessman, Frederick McGrundell, was now the home of the Naneda Historical Society Museum. It stood above the sidewalk on a small grassy rise, sheltered by thick-branched trees. For as long as I could remember, its geometric gingerbread trim had been in slack disrepair and painted a few shades of blue. Now it wasn’t slack, and white primer splotched places where gingerbread and siding had been replaced.

  A long Airstream trailer—the kind that looks like a big silver sausage—stretched along the curb. A pickup was parked in front of the trailer, but the trailer hitch rested on cinderblocks.

  “Classy,” I said, unbuckling.

  The Airstream’s door faced the sidewalk. When we reached that side, the pill-shaped door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a fifty-something, dark, handsome man with bandy legs and a burly chest. He wore a red plaid shirt, tight gray jeans, work boots, and a ruffled pink apron, and he held a wine bottle.

  “Ah, it is ladies,” he said. “It is as though Lord Bacchus read your minds and compelled me to take up this bottle of Pinot Noir.”

  Bizarre. “Are you Roland Pascal?” I asked.

  “But of course.”

  “Good. I’m Agnes Blythe—yeah, rings a bell, doesn’t it?—and this is my great-aunt Mrs. Winters.”

  Roland’s face lit up. “Ah! Mrs. Winters! But how wonderful, for I meant to go and speak with you at the Stagecoach Inn. I understand you are the new owner.” He dug into the breast pocket of his shirt—a pocket bulging with a pencil and a screwdriver—and pulled out a grubby business card. He passed it to Effie.

  She took the card. “Master carpenter? Oh. No, thank you. My nephew Chester will be doing the carpentry once we get to that stage.”

  “But that is madness! Has the nephew any training?”

  “He’ll learn as he goes along.”

  “But how can you treat her in so callous a fashion?”

  “Her?” Effie and I both said.

  “She is an exquisite beauty, abandoned by the caprices of heartless men, left to languish. But I could bring her back to life, to beauty. Everyone would see and celebrate once more the beauty that is her birthright.”

  Okaaaaaay.

  “Beautiful women don’t need men to fix their looks,” Effie said.

  “And anyway,” I said, “why does she have to be beautiful in the first place? Why can’t she just be healthy?”

  Roland frowned and scratched his forehead. “The inn,” he said. “We speak of the inn. Please, Mrs. Winters, I beg you to reconsider—such a stunning woman must also have a stunning intellect, yes?”

  “Your smooth-talking won’t work on me, darling,” Effie said.

  “Perhaps mine won’t, Euphemia—may I call you Euphemia?—but the Pinot Noir’s might. It’s a bottle from just across the lake.”

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked. “The successful spread of a malicious rumor?”

  “Better. The arrival of two beautiful women on my doorstep, precisely when I broke work for lunch. Come in, ladies. There is plenty of wine and cheese and bread.”

  My stomach growled. Everyone heard it.

  Roland grinned.

  “I do enjoy Pinot Noir if it’s not too fruity,” Effie said and looked at me.

  I shrugged. I mean, why not get into a possible murderer’s trailer and booze it up?

  Chapter 7

  Effie and I climbed after Roland into the Airstream, and it was naaaaaaasty inside. As in, it reeked of garlic, cat pee, mold, and, very faintly, that blue stuff they put in Porta Potties to pretend they’re sanitary. The built-in benches and tables and counters were all cluttered up with woodworking magazines, dirty dishes, ashtrays—Effie was probably loving that—and sawdust.

  “Sit, please.” Roland swept a hand across the dining booth table. Stuff crashed on the floor. Food crumbs remained on the speckled Formica tabletop.

  Effie and I squeezed into the booth. Roland set out plates of bread and cheese, uncorked the bottle, and poured three generous glasses.

  “Cheers,” he said. “To murder.”

  “Mmm,” Effie said. “And to rumors.”

  I held up my own glass even though I had no intention of drinking. “To cheese.”

  We clinked. Effie and Roland swirled, sniffed, and took deep, religiou
s swallows. I reached for a piece of bread. The cheese was moldy, but cheese is supposed to be moldy, right? I smeared some on bread and got down to it.

  “I hope you will reconsider my offer to restore your beautiful inn,” Roland said. “To cease being modest for a moment, I am the best restorer of historic buildings in the northeastern United States.”

  I looked around his squalid trailer. Suuurrre. I took another bite of bread and cheese. The cheese was either amazingly delicious, or I was amazingly hungry.

  “Modest, aren’t you?” Effie said.

  “I only speak the truth. I am an honest man.”

  “Claiming to be honest would only occur to a dishonest man,” Effie said.

  “Ah, Mrs. Winters, you have been burned by a lover,” Roland said.

  “No, only the tax man.”

  “How long have you been living in this trailer, Mr. Pascal?” I asked.

  “Two years, more or less. I travel from town to town fixing old, neglected buildings. The Naneda Historical Society hired me—”

  “You mean Kathleen Todd hired you,” I said.

  “Yes. I was working on a farmhouse in Caraway, Vermont, that belonged to an acquaintance of Mrs. Todd’s. Mrs. Todd saw my splendid portfolio and knew at once that no one but I could save the McGrundell Mansion.” Roland leaned over to a shelf and pulled out a photo album. He placed it on the table and flipped through photographs of woodwork and house facades displayed behind plastic film. The last page, I noticed, had a typed list of references with addresses and phone numbers. Smoothly, Roland slid this page out, crumpled it, and tossed it into a corner of the trailer. “My portfolio, yes? The McGrundell Mansion had succumbed to carpenter ants years ago, and then dry rot set in. I have been working on her for more than three months, night and day, to save her. My work on the exterior is almost complete. Then I move to the interior. The historical society has moved all the museum’s artifacts to boxes stored in the town library’s basement.”

  Huh. That must have been why Kathleen and Dorrie had been moving those boxes of Pyrex at the library.

  “Who killed Kathleen Todd?” I asked.