She shrugged. “There are the old city directories.”
“Didn’t they stop printing those a long time ago?”
Ramona rolled her eyes. “But she had to live somewhere even a long time ago. Just check out the family name and see where the Pringles lived around town.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m a bit panicky and seeking instant solutions.”
“Information worth having is not necessarily instant,” Ramona said with a big, blue booming laugh. This time the poisonous glances were directed at her.
I checked out the printed City Directory for Woodbridge from the last date they were available. There was one Pringle in the index. On Spruce Street. Not all that far from the library and not all that far from me, for that matter. I couldn’t help but observe that it also wasn’t all that far from Long March Road and Amsterdam, where the first hit-and-run had happened.
“This is a great start, Ramona,” I said as I headed out.
“Let me know if you don’t find her. I’ll be glad to try to help.”
“I hope you won’t have to.”
Most streets in Woodbridge are either on their way down or on their way up, depending on how the economic troubles hit the residents and how attractive the new entrepreneurs and artistic types found the area. Spruce Street had been on a steep slide, but seemed to have hit bottom and started climbing up again. Once, substantial homes had been carved into multiple rental units, but the buildings were in good repair, and today I noticed snow shoveled neatly up most walkways.
The Pringle family was listed at 18 Spruce, a white clapboard house, now subdivided. The walkway to what looked like the main floor unit, number 18, was shoveled with clean lines. I figured you got to 18A via the long exterior staircase leading upstairs. There was a crisp path cleared to the staircase. I approved.
But 18B, on the other hand, seemed to be a basement unit with an entrance on the opposite side of the house. A sign with an arrow read PRINGLE. Although there were dim remnants of footprints in the snow that was continuing to fall lightly, no one had shoveled the short path leading to it.
I was hoping that Mona hadn’t taken off already. It didn’t seem like her not to clear her walkway. Had she departed in a panic? Where would she go if she did?
A cheerful light shone out of the front window of number 18. The walls appeared to be a warm shade of toast. I knocked firmly and heard someone call out, “Coming,” a minute before the door was thrust open. A very pregnant woman smiled at me.
I smiled back. “I’m looking for my friend Mona Pringle. She used to live here when we were growing up and I’m hoping she still does. I’ve been trying to reach her by phone.”
A wonderful aroma of something spicy wafted out the door and tickled my nose, which twitched in response. The pregnant woman wrinkled her own nose.
She said, “Mona?”
“That’s right.”
“She does and she doesn’t, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t—”
She waved her hand apologetically. “Don’t mind me. I seem to have the fuzziest brain lately. This used to be the Pringle home, but now it’s three units. I’m Caroline Menti. My husband and I bought it and converted it. It’s a way to make the mortgage doable.”
“Oh. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with Mona?”
“Sure. We bought it from the Pringles so of course we’re in touch.” She uttered a merry little trill, as if the notion of not keeping in touch with the previous owners was quite laughable. “Mona lives in the basement unit. She rents if from us now and she has access to the backyard. That seemed to mean a lot to her because you see she grew up here and . . . I’m babbling, aren’t I? Well, you could just go and knock on her door. Oh my, she hasn’t shoveled. That’s not like Mona. She’s an up-and-at-’em kind of woman. Maybe she’s away.” Her forehead wrinkled. “But usually she tells us if she’s going away. We take care of Mooch and Pooch. I wonder . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you want to come in? It’s so cold out here.”
I stepped through the door feeling grateful. The entrance was warm and hospitable and done in a deeper color, burnt toast perhaps.
“Wait here,” Caroline said. “I’ll check with my husband. Tony! Tony! Tony!”
An answering boom came from upstairs and a large bald man in jeans, a sweater, and bedroom slippers thundered down, also smiling. This was the smiliest house.
“This lady—”
“Charlotte,” I interjected, smiling. Why not? It was catching.
“—is looking for Mona and I just realized that Mona hasn’t shoveled. Did she go somewhere?”
Tony shrugged. “Mona only ever goes to work.” He stuck his head out the door and stared at the snow-covered walk to 18B. He stepped back in and scratched his head. “Can’t figure that out.”
“When did you see her last?” Caroline said.
“When did it start snowing?” he said. “Friday? Saturday?”
“Thursday,” I said.
“You could still see the lawn when I saw her last. We commented on that. Course that was before we knew what was in store.”
“Did she mention plans to go anywhere?” I tried to sound casual and conversational. I certainly didn’t want them to know why I might be worried.
He shook his head.
“Perhaps I should just go check?” I said. “She might be under the weather and not able to get to the phone.”
Caroline gasped. “Poor Mona. I hope she hasn’t been down there feeling sick and alone when I could have brought her some soup.”
Soup, that was what I’d been smelling. Wonderful homemade soup, like Jack’s mother used to make.
“I’ll do that, then,” I said.
Tony said, “Wait a minute. I’ll shovel out a path for you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have terrific boots. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble,” Tony and Caroline said in unison. Tony grabbed his jacket and started to slip his feet into his boots. “I should do it for Mona anyway, especially if she’s feeling sick. Although she usually likes to do it herself.”
But usually she’s not fantasizing about murder, I thought. “That’s a great idea.” With luck I could get in and either find Mona hiding out at home or locate some clue to where she might have gone.
There were indeed several boot prints in the snow. Small prints, a woman’s boot and not a large foot although a bit bigger than mine, in a neat series of trails. They seemed to go both ways, although I thought there were more leading into the apartment than leading out.
I knocked firmly on the door. I kept on knocking and pressed my ear to the door to see if I could hear anything. I called out, “Mona! It’s me, Charlotte.”
Nada.
Behind me, I could hear Tony shoveling the walkway. He obviously had a technique—scoop, toss, scoop, toss. He wasn’t even short of breath as he approached.
“No answer?” he said. “I guess that’s a dumb question. You wouldn’t be standing here in front of a closed door if there was.”
Was Mona inside ignoring my loud knocking the same way she’d blown off my calls? I didn’t plan to give up on this opportunity. “Do you think she’s all right? What if she’s hurt herself. Or she’s sick. I’m worried about her.”
Tony looked startled, then said, “Hang on, I’m going to open it.”
As the door swung inward, Tony told me to wait, then called out, “Mona, honey, are you okay? Mona? Mona? I’m coming down to check.”
He lumbered down the stairs and I scurried behind him. He was a massive man. I had no doubt that if Mona was lying unconscious he could race up the stairs with her. If she’d decided to take that approach to escape whatever demons she was wrestling with. I felt a bit light-headed and realized that I’d been holding my breath. Tony stopped suddenly and I crashed into him. He turned and glanced down. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe you should go first in case she’s not dressed or something. I wouldn’t want to embarrass her.�
�
He reached forward and flicked on a wall switch. Light flooded the dark room. It was a pleasant space, but it was never going to make a magazine. Still I got the feeling that Mona was comfortable and happy in this little hideaway. A big blue recliner and an overstuffed yellow sofa faced each other across a square coffee table with a stack of books with Woodbridge Public Library stickers on the spines, a stack of magazines mostly to do with animals, and a bookcase jammed with paperbacks. A large fluffy gray cat approached and rubbed against my legs. “Coast is clear in here, Tony,” I said. “Just the cat.”
Tony ducked to enter the room. The cat flicked its tail and headed straight for him. Tony bent and scratched its ears. A loud rumble of purrs filled the room.
“Hey, Mooch. Where’s Pooch?” Tony said.
“There are no dogs here.”
“How do you know?”
“We’re not being barked at.”
“Pooch will be hiding, not barking. Mooch here’s the guard cat.”
“Oh.”
Tony checked behind the sofa and extracted a small quivering dog. He scratched its ears too, and it seemed to consider not dying of fright.
I said, “So both the pets are here. Just the one dog and cat, right?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, I see the food in the dishes seems fresh. If my dogs were here there wouldn’t even be a shadow left in the bowls. I guess I’d better check the bedroom.”
There were two doors off the large living room. I took the left into Mona’s bedroom. I exhaled when I saw a rumpled, unmade bed, and a pile of clothing on a chair, but no Mona. Part of me had been afraid that Mona might have harmed herself. But this spoke of what? A hasty departure ? A distracted mind? Or just the way that Mona lived? I pulled back the sheets, just in case. No Mona in that room. I glanced behind me at the door. Tony hadn’t stuck his head in. Probably holding his breath too. I lifted up the phone receiver, using the sheet to keep from getting my prints on it (funny what getting arrested will do to change a person). Turned out there was an answering machine after all, but it had been turned off. I turned it on, but there were no saved messages.
I pressed “callers” and checked out the list. Most were from me and they hadn’t been answered. Mona had received a number of calls from BLOCKED NUMBER.
“Is she there?” Tony called.
“No. Sorry. I was just checking the phone to see if there might be a clue to where she’d gone.”
I wasn’t sure what to do about the answering machine. I turned it off again, reluctantly. I was nervous and uncomfortable searching Mona’s apartment. It just felt wrong.
“Good thinking. Anything?” Tony said from the door.
“Not too much by way of results. I’d better check the bathroom.” Holding my breath again, I reentered the living room, nodded at the ashen Tony, and entered the bathroom. I was able to exhale easily as the room was empty, the shower curtain open. No Mona.
I said, “Coast is clear.”
Tony looked around. “I guess that’s good.”
“I don’t know if it is or not. Does she have an address book?”
Tony frowned. “I don’t know. We’re not close or anything. Just good neighbors. I don’t know much about her life.”
I wandered back to the bedroom, searching for an address book, without success. “Friends?” I said.
“I don’t think she has many. Or any. She works a lot. I mean a lot of overtime.”
I glanced around. The furniture was very good quality, sturdy, but several years old. The plasma wall-mounted television would have cost a bomb, but that was about it. “What about her car?”
“It’s a two-car garage. She has half. The other tenant has the other half. We have an old clunker and we both work at home, so we park on the side.”
“Let’s have a peek.”
As we emerged from 18B I noticed Caroline’s worried face at the window. Tony pointed to the garage. He opened the door using a button on the side. Empty.
“Well, she took her car. She drives a red Aveo, fairly old. But I guess you know that.”
I said, “I was worried for a bit. Now I guess she just went out on an errand.
He said, “Nothing to worry about at all. We didn’t disturb anything in her place, did we?”
“No. But if you see her, you should tell her I came by and I urgently need to hear from her. Please.”
Tony’s pleasant worried face changed slightly, a wary expression creeping in. “Urgently? Is there something I should know?”
“We just need to talk.”
“Do you want to leave your number?”
“She has both of them actually. But I’ll leave them for you, in case. Well, just in case you ever need them.”
Tony said, “If you talk to her, tell her we’ll take care of Mooch and Pooch.”
As I left, Tony stood staring at my card. Caroline waved from the window.
Where was Mona?
A well-organized kitchen can be a major time-saver and stress eliminator in your busy life. Invest in simplicity and order in the kitchen. It will repay you every day.
7
My consultation was at ten in a trendy brick condo town house near the waterfront. I did my best to put Mona’s bizarre situation to the back of my mind and concentrate on getting through the appointment. It wasn’t like I had a plan for the great Mona hunt. As I pulled up and parked, a woman radiating equal parts anxiety and eagerness stuck her head out of the glossy black front door and waved. If she kept holding her shoulders so stiffly, she’d need a muscle relaxant before the day was done.
I’d always wanted to get a peek into one of these homes. My would-be client had salt-and-pepper hair cut in a geometric bob. It suited her. She wore a loose black cashmere tunic and black leggings, with a pair of ankle boots in a soft, scrunchy, cream-colored leather. Whatever she did with her time, she was normally an in-charge gal; I could tell by the confidence in the outfit and the haircut. But today, like most clients she had that sheepish expression. Mainly because their disorderly secrets are about to be displayed to me.
I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Charlotte. I’ve always wanted to see what these beautiful town houses are like inside.”
She hesitated, then shook my hand. “Thank you for coming, Charlotte. I’m Hannah Yaldon. I love my new house except for the hidden bits in the kitchen.”
I grinned to put her at ease. My job is a pleasure for me, but my arrival is often horribly stressful for clients. Imagine showing off your most embarrassing secrets to a near stranger. “Kitchens are often a calamity. They make people’s daily lives wretched,” I said, using words my mother might have come up with. “I love helping to fix them. It’s often quite a lot of fun, once we get over that initial hump.”
I noticed her shoulders relax slightly. A good sign.
She said, “Come in. Would you like a glass of water? I would have made coffee, but I can’t find some of the key ingredients.”
“We know you have water, so . . .”
“Exactly. And I have a pound of Kicking Horse and I have no idea where it is, or the grinder, for that matter.”
“Water’s fine. And finding the coffee and grinder will be a great motivator.” I wasn’t kidding. On a day like today, hot liquids could be a lifesaver.
“Well,” she said, as I slipped into my shoes. “Let’s get on the hunt.”
We strolled through the sparsely furnished living space. The twelve-foot ceilings, exposed brick wall, freestanding gas fireplace, fabulous L-shaped chocolate-brown leather sofa, and clear acrylic coffee table were all I had time to notice. It was free of knickknacks, reading material, and anything extraneous, except for a sculptural orchid on a plinth. Our heels clicked on the wide-plank flooring as we headed to the open-concept kitchen. I noticed she slowed down as we got closer. I kept walking. The sooner we confront the disaster, the faster the client starts to feel hope again. I’m all about hope.
I glanced around the gorgeous room. No upper
cabinets at all. Nothing rested on or above the pricey quartz countertop except a stainless steel range hood that reminded me of a work of art. The undermount sink was also stainless, and the cooktop blended into the counter. Nothing cluttered those sparkling surfaces.
I spotted the stainless oven and had to assume that she had refrigerator drawers and a freezer drawer. This proved to be true as my water was produced from a filtered container.
“Is the dishwasher also a drawer model?”
She nodded.
“Lots of lovely appliances. No top cupboards at all?”
“Just below.”
“It makes my mouth water,” I said, speaking the absolute truth. “People would kill for this kitchen.”
“Until they tried to make a meal in it,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Then they’d kill the designer.”
“Ah. Not so easy to work in?”
“Fine until you need to find something.”
“Mind if I check out your storage?”
She winced and I said, “It will have to happen sooner or later.”
“It’s so embarrassing, that’s all. My husband loves order and simplicity. I like to cook and, well—”
I waited her out.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s get it over with. I feel like I’m at the principal’s office.”
“Don’t let yourself think that way. I’ll be working for you if you want to proceed. Not the other way around.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
I reached over and opened the nearest cupboard door before she changed her mind. A tumble of plastic containers landed at my feet.
She put her hands over her eyes. “I wish you hadn’t started with that one.”
I picked up an armload of empty yogurt containers and put them on the counter. “No point in replacing them.”
I reached for the next cupboard door and heard her groan.
I said, “If it’s any consolation, your storage seems to be set up for appearances rather than efficiency.”
“I know.”
“And it is gorgeous.”
“It is. Until I start cooking.”
The second cupboard was jammed with cookware: pots, pans, lids, baking dishes. Lots of everything, including an untidy pile of recipe books and clippings.
The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder Page 9
