by Joanne Fluke
Oh, well. I couldn’t let myself wallow in self pity. So I did what I always do when I’m feeling sorry for myself: I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and ordered dessert.
I woke up the next morning still in a funk about my trip to Florida.
As I lay in bed, I thought of Kandi enjoying an elegant candlelit dinner with her parents while I sat watching Uncle Ed pick Christmas turkey from his teeth with a matchstick.
But there was nothing I could do about it. Like it or not, I was stuck at Tampa Vistas for the holidays. Hauling myself out of bed, I shoved all thoughts of Florida to that dusty corner of my mind reserved for unpaid bills and tax estimates.
After a nutritious breakfast of Paco’s leftovers, I hunkered down on the living room sofa with the morning paper.
A headline in the Calendar section caught my eye.
GIRLFRIENDS CHANGE LIVES
I read the article with interest. It was about a volunteer organization called L.A. Girlfriends, founded by a nun named Sister Mary Agnes, where women volunteered to become mentors to motherless girls. It was a touching story, filled with heartwarming tales of women like me who’d managed to make a difference in the life of a young girl.
And suddenly I felt ashamed. Big time. I bet Sister Mary Agnes wasn’t sitting around feeling sorry for herself. No, Sister Mary Agnes was out there, doing good in the world. It was high time I forgot my petty discontents, and did something noble with my life.
“I’m so ashamed of myself,” I said to Prozac, who was curled up next to me on the sofa.
You should be. You haven’t scratched my back for a whole six minutes.
“But that’s all going to change. I’m going to forget about my trivial cares, and do something worthwhile.”
You mean like getting me my own TV?
“I’m going to make a difference in the world!”
I’d like flat screen, if possible.
Wasting no time, I called the offices of L.A. Girlfriends and made an appointment to see them that morning. I’d zip over there on my way to Hysteria Lane.
I hurried off to shower and dress, filled with a newfound sense of purpose. Not only would I get Seymour Fiedler off the hook for that pesky criminal charge, but I’d bring joy to the heart of a motherless child.
I wondered if Mother Teresa started like this.
I was hoping to meet Sister Mary Agnes when I showed up at the modest mid-Wilshire offices of L.A. Girlfriends, but the birdlike woman manning the reception desk explained that the good Sister was away on a fund-raising tour. I’d be meeting with one of her valued associates, she informed me, leading me down the hallway for my interview.
“Ms. Austen,” she said, opening the door into a small but sunny office, “meet Tyler Girard.”
I blinked in surprise. I hadn’t been expecting to see a guy, and certainly not one this cute. He had the kind of boyish good looks I’m particularly fond of. Big brown eyes, sandy hair that flopped onto his forehead, and a smile—as I was about to discover—sweeter than a Hershey’s Kiss.
“So nice to meet you, Ms. Austen,” he said, flashing me his sweet smile.
Usually I’m wary when it comes to members of the sloppier sex. You’d be wary, too, if you’d been married to The Blob. That’s what I call my ex-husband, a charming fellow who wore flip-flops to our wedding and clipped his toenails in the sink. But flying in the face of past experience, my heart was doing carefree little somersaults.
“Have a seat,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about L.A. Girlfriends.”
As he talked about how Sister Mary Agnes started L.A. Girlfriends fifteen years ago in a church basement, I found myself staring at the laugh lines around his mouth and wondering if he liked old movies and Chinese food as much as I did.
This totally inappropriate reverie went on for some time until I came to my senses. I hadn’t come here to meet a guy, I reminded myself. I was here to do good in the world. I quickly banished all romantic thoughts from my mind and forced myself to focus.
“So,” Tyler said, after he’d finished giving me a rundown on the organization, “tell me a little about yourself.”
I told him about my life as a jack-of-all-trades wordsmith—writing ads, brochures, resumes, and industrial films—and how lately I’d been wanting to do something more meaningful with my time, to contribute something to society, as it were, and that L.A. Girlfriends seemed like the perfect venue for my charitable impulses.
I chattered on in this noble vein for a while, carefully omitting any references to the Jaine Austen who has been known to watch Oprah in the middle of the afternoon with a cat and a pint of Chunky Monkey in her lap.
He nodded thoughtfully throughout my spiel.
“Have you ever worked with young people before?”
“I used to babysit when I was a teenager. But I don’t know if that counts. Most of the time,” I admitted, “the kids were asleep.”
For what seemed like an eternity but was probably only seconds, he looked into my eyes, saying nothing. I could see he was trying to get a reading on me. Oh, dear Lord, I prayed. Please don’t let him see my shallow, selfish side, the side that filches ketchup packets from McDonald’s and tears the Do Not Remove Under Penalty Of Law tags off pillows.
Finally he broke his silence with a smile.
“I have good vibes about you, Ms. Austen.”
He had good vibes about me! I was going to be an L.A. Girlfriend!
“Why don’t you fill out our application? We’ll do a background check on you, and get back to you in a few days.”
Phooey. It looked like I wasn’t a shoo-in, after all.
“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing the disappointment in my eyes. “I don’t anticipate any problems. I’m sure you’ll check out just fine.”
He flashed me another achingly sweet smile and I left his office on a high, ready to start my new altruistic life, thinking of how I’d soon be bringing joy to a motherless young girl.
Okay, so I was thinking about that smile of his, too. Heck, I’m only human.
Chapter Four
This time, the Coxes were home when I rang their bell. Willard’s wife, Ethel, came to the door, a short, rosy cheeked woman in an old-fashioned housedress and apron, her hair a cap of tightly permed gray curls.
“Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
I flashed her my trusty Century National card and told her I was an insurance investigator looking into Garth’s death. It had worked so well with Cathy Janken, I figured I’d try it again.
“Oh, my,” she said, shaking her curls in disbelief. “I still can’t believe that poor man is dead.”
“You didn’t happen to see anybody on the roof in the days before he died, did you?”
“Only those roofers,” she said. “The ones with the red baseball caps.”
“Do you mind if I talk to your husband? Maybe he saw something.”
She hesitated a beat, trying to decide whether I was a burglar posing as an insurance investigator.
I guess I passed inspection.
“Come in, won’t you, Ms.—what did you say your name was? I didn’t get a very good look at your card.”
“Austen. Jaine Austen.”
“Such an interesting name!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Are you any relation to the real Jane Austen?”
“Afraid not.” I smiled weakly, having answered that question about 8,976 times in my life.
“Willard’s out back,” she said, waving me inside. “Come with me.”
I followed her past a living room that clearly hadn’t been decorated since Nixon was president, and into her homey kitchen.
“I was just fixing lunch,” she said as my eyes zeroed in on a bowl of egg salad on her kitchen counter, thick with mayo and studded with chunks of hard boiled eggs.
Yikes, it looked good. I hadn’t had lunch, and I was starving.
“He’s in the yard.”
“Who?” I asked, lost in thoughts of eg
g salad.
“Willard. My husband.”
“Oh, right.”
“He’s putting CDs in the orange trees.”
“CDs in the orange trees?”
“It’s supposed to scare away the squirrels. Personally, I think it’s a lot of nonsense, but Willard insists it works.
“Willard, dear,” she called out the back door, “there’s an insurance investigator who wants to talk to you.”
I walked out into the yard, lush with bougainvillea and orange trees. Yes, I know it’s not fair that we Californians get to pick oranges off our trees in December, but on the downside, we get to crawl along on the freeways at ten miles an hour for most of our commuting lives.
Willard Cox was standing on a ladder at one of the orange trees, stringing CDs from the branches, an athletic man in his seventies. The guy was obviously capable of climbing onto the Jankens’s roof, I thought, as I watched him move with agile grace.
“Hello, Mr. Cox,” I called up to him. “Mind if I have a word with you?”
“Just a minute,” he barked, with clipped military diction. “I’ll be right down.”
Seconds later, he clambered down from the ladder, the CDs on his orange tree twinkling in the reflected light of the sun.
“Keeps the squirrels away,” he said, pinging one of the CDs. “They don’t like the glare. Bet my wife told you they don’t work, but they do.”
He snapped his ladder shut and propped it against the garage.
“So you’re an insurance investigator.” He looked me over with piercing gray eyes.
Uh-oh. It wasn’t going to be easy to fool this guy.
“Yes. I’m representing Seymour Fiedler, the roofer who was working on Mr. Janken’s house.”
“Is that so? What company you with?”
“Century National,” I said, praying he wouldn’t ask me for identification. He’d never fall for my phony laminated card.
I breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t.
“So how can I help you?” he asked.
“We at Century National don’t believe Mr. Janken’s death was an accident. We believe someone tampered with the shingles on the roof.”
“What are you saying? You think it was murder?”
“Yes, we do.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. I hate to speak ill of the dead,” he said, not hating it a bit, “but that man was a no good cheat and a liar.”
“I heard he beat you a few times in the Christmas decorating contest,” I prompted.
Blood rushed to his weathered face.
“He didn’t win fair and square. He bribed the judge, that’s why he won all the time. Not only that, he cheated. Last year he beheaded my Santa Claus! He claimed it fell off in the wind, but it didn’t just fall off. It was sawed off!
“Let me show you something.”
He grabbed the ladder and I followed him as he brought it into his garage, a spotless haven complete with workbench and fancy built-in storage cabinets. A handyman’s dream.
Propped up along one of the walls, in stark contrast to the white cabinets, were a chorus line of large red-and-white striped neon candy canes.
“Garth saw these being delivered to my house. And before I had a chance to put them up, he had candy canes up on his roof. He stole my idea!”
“Oh, Willard, honey. He didn’t steal your idea. It was a coincidence.”
We turned and saw Ethel standing in the doorway.
“Please, Ethel. He saw those candy canes being delivered, and beat me to the punch.”
“Whatever you say, dear,” she sighed. “I just came to tell you lunch is ready. You’re welcome to join us if you like, Ms. Austen. I’ve made an extra sandwich.”
“Oh, no,” I said, thinking of all the mayo in the egg salad. Not after those chimichangas I had last night. I really had to exercise some self-restraint if I expected to cram myself into a bathing suit in Florida. “Thanks, but no.”
Two minutes later I was sitting across from Willard and Ethel at their vinyl-topped kitchen table tucking into one of Ethel’s heavenly egg salad sandwiches.
What can I say? I’m impossible.
When I finally came up for air, I resumed questioning the Coxes.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted to see Garth dead?”
“Me, for starters,” said Willard.
Ethel put down her sandwich, horrified. “Willard, how can you say such a thing?”
“He killed Pumpkin, didn’t he?”
“It was an accident, Willard. A tragic accident. I simply can’t believe Garth would run over a helpless little poodle on purpose.”
“Well, I can.”
At that moment, there was so much hate in his eyes, I thought he really might be the one who sabotaged the roof.
“I can’t pretend I’m sorry he’s dead,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “but I didn’t do it.”
“Anybody else on the block dislike him enough to want to see him dead?” I asked.
“There’s Mrs. Garrison next door,” Willard said. “She hated his guts ever since he reported her to the city for illegally removing a tree from the front of her house. She had to pay a big fine, and she was furious.”
“You think she might’ve loosened those tiles on the roof?”
“I doubt it.” Ethel smiled wryly. “She’s eighty-six and uses a walker.”
“How about Libby Brecker?” Willard suggested, beginning to enjoy this game of finger pointing. “She looks like a potential killer to me.”
“What an awful thing to say, Willard!”
“I’m serious,” Willard insisted. “There’s something about that woman that’s downright creepy. She’s just a little too perfect, if you know what I mean. Like one of those Stepford Wives.”
“Just because she takes pride in her house doesn’t make her a Stepford Wife.”
Ethel rolled her eyes, exasperated.
“I haven’t felt right about Libby since the day she moved in,” Willard said, ignoring his wife’s objections. “They say she’s a widow. I’d like to know what happened to her husband.”
“I’m sure he died of perfectly natural causes,” Ethel said, taking a dainty bite of a gherkin pickle.
“That’s the trouble with you, Ethel. You’re too trusting. You believe any cock and bull story someone hands you.”
“What was Libby Brecker’s relationship like with Mr. Janken?” I asked, steering the conversation away from Ethel Cox’s personality flaws and back to the murder.
“Hated him,” said Willard.
“I’m afraid she did,” Ethel conceded. “She accused Garth of poisoning her roses. Those roses of hers were her pride and joy.”
“Why would Mr. Janken want to poison her roses?”
“Libby claims Garth was getting even with her for calling the police when one of his parties got too loud.”
“Which house is Libby’s?” I asked, eager to question this promising suspect.
“It’s the two-story Spanish across the street,” Willard said, “with the Swarovski Rudolph on the lawn out front.”
“The Swarovski Rudolph?”
“Rudolph the Reindeer’s nose is a Swarovski crystal,” Ethel said. “Lord only knows how much it cost!”
“I tell you,” Willard said, wagging his gherkin at me, “there’s something strange about that woman.”
I thanked the Coxes for their time and their egg salad and headed back outside, contemplating the nature of life on Hysteria Lane. Who would’ve thought there’d be so much hostility lurking beneath the surface of this picture-perfect block? It made the Middle East look like a picnic in the Amish country.
I was in the middle of a war zone, all right. Trouble was, I didn’t know the good guys from the bad.
The nose on Libby Brecker’s Rudolph was indeed a red crystal, in all probability a genuine Swarovski.
I found Libby on her lawn spritzing it with Windex. She was a plump woman with bright brown eyes and hair so glossy
, I could practically see my face in it.
Once again posing as an insurance investigator, I flashed her my Century National card and explained that I was looking into Garth’s death on Seymour’s behalf.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead,” she chirped. “Ask away.”
By now she was down on her knees, buffing the runners on an elaborate wooden sleigh that was probably once owned by Currier & Ives.
I asked her if she’d seen anyone on the roof in the days before Garth’s death and like everybody else I’d spoken with, she gave me the same disappointing answer.
“Just the roofers. Who, incidentally, seemed to be doing an excellent job. I was thinking of using them myself, but after what happened to Garth, that’s not going to happen.”
Poor Seymour. I was certain most people would react the way Libby had. If word of Garth’s death got around, his business would be ruined.
“Of course, Garth was foolish to go up on the roof in the first place,” she said. “You really need to hire a professional for that. I always do. But then I’m acrophobic. Dreadful fear of heights,” she added, in case my vocabulary didn’t extend beyond three-syllable words. “I get dizzy in high heels. Ha ha.”
(Translation: If you’re hinting at foul play, sweetie, don’t even think of trying to pin this on me.)
“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else up on the roof, other than the roofers?
“Omigosh!” she cried, hitting her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I just remembered!”
At last! A lead!
“My cookies!” she said. “I’ve got cookies in the oven!”
So much for leads.
“C’mon inside, and we’ll talk there.”
I followed her into her house, past a border of newly planted rosebushes, little stubs with the nursery tags still on them. Probably replacements for the ones that had been poisoned.
“Take your shoes off,” Libby instructed, kicking hers off. “I just waxed and buffed the floors, and I don’t want to track in any mud.”
