by Clea Simon
“Oh?” That had taken him by surprise.
“It wasn’t what you think, I mean, what I think you’d think. And anyway, my car’s a Toyota.” This wasn’t helping my case any. “I was over by Lillian’s house and there was a cat who looked like he was starving and really wanted to be let in, so I opened the door….”
“You opened the door.”
“Yeah, Violet had told me there was a key under one of the stones in the path.” He started to say something, but I knew if I stopped now, I’d never get it all out. “Anyway, I found some cans and fed the cat but then on the way out, he bolted and hid in a corner. And when I picked him up, there it was.”
“Theda, you’re not making sense.”
“The medic-alert pendant, the little alarm necklace that Lillian wore? The cat had found it for me, and there it was in the corner of the porch. So I took it.”
“You took it?” He sounded like I do, when I have a bad headache coming on.
“Yeah, I took the pendant. I got the cat to come out, too, and I locked the house up tight. So I wanted to call and let you know that I had Lillian’s alarm pendant, just in case you needed to check it out for clues or fingerprints or anything.”
“After a cat had been playing with it and you picked it up, right?”
“Well, I guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly.” Why hadn’t I scooped it up with one of those old magazines? “But I do have it here. I mean, I could bring it by the station and leave it for you.”
“Why don’t you do that, Theda.” He sounded very tired. “And Theda?”
“Yes, Bill?”
“The key. Why don’t you bring me the key to Lillian’s house as well.”
mmm
Placing the receiver down as gently as I could didn’t help. The call from Bill left me with one of those cringing feelings that lets you know you’ve screwed up, and good. I looked to Musetta for help, but she was still sleeping, and just when I thought I’d wake her for a pet, she rolled over. “Nuff,” she muttered, deep in a dream, and sighed. I couldn’t compound my crime.
Instead I did penance on the keyboard, finally filling in the blanks on that damned bookshelf story and sending it off to the Home Section editor. If I were really good, I thought, I’d call Sally Hudson and give her a heads-up. I knew the story was slated to run the week after next, and I had a strange feeling she’d want to alert all her friends. But the idea of trying to make civil contact with another human being right now just didn’t seem worth the effort, so instead I typed out a bunch of invoices and tucked them into envelopes. If I had any other work to do, I’d have done it, but I really wasn’t up to pitching new stories. Instead, I grabbed an extra envelope, dropped the pendant in, and headed out to the street once more. I’d mail the invoices and pick up the hidden key at Lillian’s. With any luck, Bill wouldn’t be at the police station. I could stick the key in with the pendant in the envelope, leave them there for him, and never talk to the man again.
The fresh air revived me a bit, and the growing home-bound traffic reminded me that I wasn’t the only awkward soul in the world. I made a circle back through Central Square, telling myself I wanted to drop the invoices off at the post office, but really just to enjoy the crowd. Over by the bank, a violinist was busking for quarters, an urban sign of spring as welcome as the first robin. I gave him what silver was in my pockets and wondered briefly if economics obeyed karma. No matter, the invoices were in the mail, and I turned back into the residential streets of Cambridgeport, on my way to Lillian’s.
There was a car out front, but it was a late model Acura that showed a bit of wear and tear. I stopped to examine the dark blue sedan, a bit upscale for this area, and as I stood there, it beeped. Patti Wright was coming down Lillian’s overgrown front path. In her hands was a pile of circulars and restaurant menus that she’d probably just picked up from in front of the locked front door. Leafing through them, she didn’t see me until we were almost nose to nose.
“Oh, you startled me!” In her heels and a lime-colored suit she was almost as tall as I was, and considerably brighter colored.
“Hi,” I said, brilliantly. I doubted that she knew about the key that I’d come to collect, and I wasn’t sure what to tell her.
“Can I help you?” She still had on her perky realtor voice, although her lipstick had been largely bitten away. Then I remembered.
“Well, yes, actually. I wanted to ask you about your applying to control the estate.”
“What?” Her blue-rimmed eyes opened wide.
“Your application to be the administrator of Lillian’s property, Dougie’s inheritance. It’s a matter of public record, you know.”
“I know, I guess I know.” She had the grace to look flustered. “But that just came through today so I didn’t realize that word had, I don’t know….” She waved her hands, and Lillian’s junk mail, in the air. “That word had gotten out so fast.”
“It didn’t,” I explained. “I’d just gone to look up some probate records and saw your application. But I was wondering. From all I’ve heard, you weren’t close to Lillian, and you’re not close to Dougie. Why do you want control of the estate?”
“Well, I understand how to handle such an asset.” She half turned and gestured to the sagging structure behind her with both hands, using a Mary Chung’s menu as a pointer. “Property values are highly fluid, particularly in this kind of neighborhood, and it takes special knowledge and training to know what to do with such a grand property. It’s quite a structure, you know. We’re calling it a heritage property.” She talked as if she’d made up the term, or at least this use of it, and was awaiting applause.
“So that’s the phrase for a big, old house now?” I couldn’t resist needling her, not when she stood there in that game show pose: displaying the prize to the contestant. “A heritage property? It sounds like you already have brochures printed up.”
“Well, you have to move quickly in this market. And it’s not doing anyone any good just sitting here empty. In fact, the value depreciates….”
“Wait a minute.” Her sales pitch had gone too far. “Doing good? Is that what you’re doing, as the administrator?”
“Well, I am a registered notary public and a licensed realtor.”
“But are you a friend of the family? Do you give a damn about Dougie?” She stood silent, her mouth slightly open. “To hear you talk, you’ve already got the listing for this property and the luxury condos I have no doubt you’ll develop here. But you didn’t like Lillian any when she was alive, and I doubt you give a damn about her son. Credentials aside, isn’t the point of an administrator to make sure that the estate is used for the best interests of the heir?”
“Now, just a moment, young lady.” Her voice had dropped from its birdlike twitter, but even her stern new tone couldn’t stop me.
“I know you’re hard up, Patti, so give it up. I know you’re failing in the real estate biz”—she gasped at that—“and that you jumped too soon into this neighborhood. This ‘mixed’ neighborhood.” I stressed the word to show her my disdain. “But maybe you haven’t noticed what makes up a neighborhood. We’re people, Patti, and this is where we live. Yeah, maybe we don’t have much money, but we’re certainly not trying to make a buck by selling each other out, or by pricing each other off our own streets, and I’m not going to sit back and just watch you trample all over that.”
“Now look who’s talking.” Her little mouth pinched up and turned pale, the last of the lipstick gone. “Look who’s talking about diversity.”
I stared at her, not sure what she meant. “I know who you are, Theda Krakow. I can hear who you are every time you open your mouth. You’re a college-educated white girl, probably went to school right across town. And here you are slumming in Cambridgeport, pretending to be a punk rocker, and congratulating yourself on your low-rent neighbors and your low-budget clothes.” I was, I realized as her eyes raked over me, wearing a stained Slash tee shirt with my jeans and worn sneaker
s. “Well, that’s your little game and that’s fine, but don’t pretend any different to me, Miss Boho. You’re not like that punk girl I see you with. You’re not some rock and roller, living in an illegal squat.” She spit out the word as if it tasted sour. “No, you’re a little long in the tooth for that. But unlike you, I’ll give a person the benefit of the doubt. I’d guess you’re just trying to make a living, build a career, define yourself without a man to give you a name.” She stamped her little shoe for emphasis with each declaration. “Just. Like. Me.”
With that she veered around me and off the path, heels digging into the soft turf as she stormed back to her car and drove off, a little too fast for the street. I stood there, aghast and embarrassed for the second time in the afternoon. She was yuppie scum, I had no doubt of it. But also, at least a little, she was right.
I tried breathing deeply in through my mouth and out my nose as I waited for my heart to stop racing and my face to cool down. Despite the crowds up in the square, I didn’t see anyone around, but I imagined a snickering face behind every curtained window. No matter, I was here for a reason. I walked back to the edge of the property and peeked down the street. There was no sign of Patti returning. Acting as nonchalant as a scarlet-faced redhead can, I walked around back, very conscious with each step of looking as sneaky as I felt. One more glance around and I knelt, lifting the loose slate out of its bed of damp earth. I’d just grab the key and be gone. I’d never have to see Patti Wright again. But my fingers confirmed what my eyes didn’t want to believe. I lifted the slate entirely out of the damp depression it had created, and then the one behind it, and the one behind that. It didn’t matter if I pulled up the entire path. Once again, the hidden key to Lillian’s house was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
“What am I doing these days? Where am I going with my life?” These were the questions that rumbled through my head as I woke, tangled in the throw on my sofa. My life was in disarray. Patti Wright was right. I was a faker, a poseur, my rock-scene lifestyle as outdated a costume as her neon power suit. My writing career, which had seemed such a good idea only a few days ago, wasn’t really developing along the lines I wanted, unless I was aiming for a job at Home Depot. The only story I cared about had died with Lillian Helmhold. Even though I’d held my own with Patti, the barbs in her words had found some tender spots.
Add in that I was becoming a grump, so quick to judge others that I couldn’t be trusted in human company. Look at all the evidence: I’d dropped all my friends over the winter, and I wasn’t being that great now about keeping in touch. But that was because so much else had been going on then, my waking brain argued with itself. And besides, I was trying to make things up. Bad train of thought: I hadn’t done much better with new people either, I realized ruefully. Bill Sherman wasn’t likely to call again. Not in such a friendly way, anyway, seeing as how I’d dropped off the pendant with only a quick note—“key gone, sorry!”—the night before. And Connor? Would I ever hear from him again? The memory of my one date in months only served to prove the case that few humans, no men anyway, would want to spend much time with me.
I was in a funk, no doubt about it. To top it off, I could feel a throbbing headache coming on. Musetta, who had muttered and snored on her chair so adorably all afternoon, had become frenetically playful once I wanted to call it a night, pouncing on my feet as they moved under the covers each time I was ready to drop off. After one particularly successful attack—she actually bit me through the blanket—I finally gave up and kicked her off the bed, only to be awakened what seemed like minutes later as I heard her rolling some noisy toy—an earring? a button?—around on the floor.
“What are you doing, kitten?” I had yelled in frustration as I threw off the covers and got out of bed. The clock had read three-something. “Are you trying to ruin my life?” She’d taken my actions as an invitation to play and scampered down the hall. I’d followed, feeling guilty for my outburst, and found a cork for her to play with instead, tossing it for her to bat until sleep had returned and I crashed on the sofa sometime after four.
Sunlight streaming into the living room had woken me, and with the one sane part of me I let it flood me as well with the determination to get my life back on track. The physical portion of it, at least, I decided as I reached for my sneakers. Everything would look better after a run, and as I completed my stretches and started an easy lope toward the river, I began to see my way toward surviving the morning. Beyond that, I just didn’t know. Was I too old for the club scene? I hadn’t felt so, until Patti Wright suggested it, though I couldn’t stop thinking of the night when Violet’s band had played and all the fans had looked so young. But that was an anomaly, the exception that showed the scene was still vibrant and growing, wasn’t it? And hadn’t I still loved every minute of her set? Besides, for me, being hip to the latest thing or fitting in with the entire crowd wasn’t my reason for going out. I went for the camaraderie. No matter how many younger music lovers joined us, the Casbah and its like were still where I met my peers. Where we gathered. Such clubs and bars offered the perfect “third place,” neither home nor work, where I could go to unwind and socialize. I wasn’t ready to give that up.
Nor did I feel that old anymore. As my mind had wrestled with its issues, my feet had gotten into a rhythm. As I breathed the damp morning air, the band of pain around my forehead began to evaporate. Running was good for me, I realized. Maybe that would be what would keep me going as my thirties progressed. And for the rest? Not this morning, not yet. I hit the footpath and turned toward Weeks Bridge, speeding up until I could hear my heart pounding and the sun on the river glittered like a tray of gems.
mmm
Aspirin and a large mug of my own dark brew cleared the rest of the fog away, and I actually managed to make some pitch calls before it was time to pick up Violet. Not that I reached anyone or even really expected to; no editor I knew started work before ten, or if they did they weren’t answering their phones. I couldn’t blame them. My own time on the Mail copy desk had shown me how quickly paperwork could pile up, and how precious a few minutes of quiet could be. No matter, when they did check their voice mail, I’d be there with a brief, catchy pitch and my phone number repeated twice, along with the assurance that I’d touch base again later. I still had a few minutes to play with Musetta before heading out, and I amused us both with a balled-up rejection letter from one of the better women’s magazine and cries of “Kill, kitty, kill!”
mmm
“What is that?” Violet looked as fierce as the kitten, staring at my dashboard. I popped the tape, a compilation of traditional Cajun fiddle tunes, and let her examine it as I pulled into traffic.
“Oh, it’s in French, that’s cool.” She put the tape back in, but turned the volume down, and handed me a bag. “Muffin pieces. If I eat any more of the unsalable ones I’ll burst.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed a handful of lemon and poppyseed bits, before getting down to business. “So, you know how to get there, right? I’m assuming we take the turnpike out to Northurst.”
“Yeah, I called yesterday and got exact directions. But basically, yeah, stay on the pike until you see apple blossoms.”
It was probably too early for the Western Massachusetts orchards to be flowering, but I liked the image and sighed as I picked up my toll ticket and we blended into westbound traffic.
“You okay?” Violet looked over at me. My sigh must have been audible over the music. “I can spell you on the driving, if you want.”
“No, I’m good,” I told her, and I was. “I think I needed to get out of the city for a bit. Even just for a day. Things have been crazy.”
“Tell me about it.” She looked lost in her own thoughts, feet up on the dashboard, eyes hidden by her bangs. Then she looked up. “But what’s going on? What’s up with you?”
Where to start? “It’s just the usual life issues stuff. I had a date on Saturday that was, well, confusing. And then yesterday I got into a f
ight with that neighbor, Patti Wright.”
“Wright? I hope you tore her a new one. What was that about?”
“Actually, she got to me.” I knew I should say something to Violet about the missing key and the cops’ interest, but I wasn’t up to a confrontation at the very start of a two-hour drive. “It was, well, I did ask her about applying for control of Lillian’s estate, Dougie’s property. She accused me of being a snob and I think she had a point.”
“Wait, back up.” Violet was sitting up straight now. “Wright is getting control of Lillian’s house? How’s that possible?”
“It’s all legal. I did some poking around in probate court last week. Legally, Dougie isn’t competent. The lawyers on the board of his group home serve as his conservators. It’s not a big deal, really, it’s less control than if they were legal guardians. But they’re supposed to oversee complicated matters for him, and an inheritance counts. They’re out in Northurst, though, and it sounds like they do most of this pro bono. So they were looking for someone to actually administer the estate and Patti Wright applied.”
“Is that normal? That doesn’t sound right.”
“The woman I spoke with in the courthouse said it was all pretty standard. Most cases, with someone who has a mental illness, maybe a parent or guardian would have set this up already, arranged for her passing. But I guess Lillian didn’t expect to die.”
“Didn’t expect to be murdered, certainly.” Violet sunk back down in her seat, brooding over something. “You don’t think she did it, did you? I mean she’s got awful taste and I don’t trust her anywhere near a cat, but a murderer?”
I shrugged, no longer sure about my own suspicions, and she continued. “So, can that woman actually do anything to Dougie’s house? And what can we do to stop her?”
“Everything and nothing.” I didn’t know what else to say. “What’s likely is that she’ll sell the house and Dougie will inherit the proceeds. It’s been bothering me because it seemed like a conflict of interest, her being a realtor and all. Plus, well, you know what she’s like. I don’t trust how she’s going to sell it. I mean, Cambridgeport has lost enough affordable homes with everything on the market being converted to condos. But it’s all above board.”
