It was a short, dead-end street—I counted seven houses, earth-toned, Pueblo-style with flat roofs and thick, round-edged walls with small windows set deeply into them. The yards were neat, filled with pebbles and native plants to withstand the local desert conditions, and the houses seemed well kept—it was all so normal for Santa Fe it could have been the set for a sitcom. Number one, on the corner, was dark, but the rest had yellowish light glowing in their windows. I could hear music—actually, I could hear two types of music—there were definite strains of ABBA competing with heavier rock.
Unfortunately, Los Alamos Court lived up to its Spanish namesake, “the cottonwoods”, with cottonwood trees on either side, playing havoc with my allergies, and dammit, I didn’t have any antihistamines on me, and didn’t have enough time to go back for some. I sighed. I would be all right for an hour or so.
I pulled up at number seven, Simon’s house, the one at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was two stories high with the second story stepped back, and thick wooden porch posts along the front of the ground level. The stone paving on the porch and the row of hearty geraniums in huge pots along the edge of the paving made the house stand out from its neighbors as having something a little more.
I knocked on the door and waited, checking my new diamante watch. Two minutes early—good timing, I hated to be late.
The door was answered by a woman, probably early sixties, with pale orange hair and glittery earrings. Jeepers. Besides my mother, who wears glittery earrings at home? Of course, this was Ridonkulous Street.
I gave myself a mental slap. That was unfair—not liking jewelry makes me a bit harsh on those who wear an excess of it. I’ve just never seen the point of it—spending money on something that gets in the way and has no useful purpose. Unlike, say, a watch—now there’s something practical. That’s why I have thirty-eight of them.
“You must be Tobi Fletcher.” She gave me a grandmotherly smile. “I’m Dot, come on in.”
The house had a lived-in feeling—fine for some, but a lack of order has a tendency to make me feel uneasy. Dot sat me down at the dining table with a cup of tea and cookies. “Simon will be along in a moment, he’s putting Anna to bed.”
“You’re the one who found the gnomes?” I took out my notebook and a nice, newly sharpened pencil. I don’t know why pencils have gone out of favor; one of the closest things to heaven is a brand new box of lead pencils.
“Anna and I did.” She shook her head, looking down at her tea. “Dreadful business.”
Damn. Carried away by the sight of my pencils again. Focus, Fletcher. “Do you have any theories?”
“No. What sad person would want to smash an innocent gnome?”
That’s right, Simon said she was the one to coin the word gnomicide. “What about the neighbors? Maybe it was the result of a dispute?”
Her jaw dropped. “Good Lord, no. No one around here would stoop to that level.”
I rested the end of my pencil on my bottom lip as I thought. “Funny, that’s what Simon said.”
“You think we’re wrong?” A bejeweled hand fluttered up to cover her gaping mouth.
Frankly, I couldn’t blame her for the reaction—who’d want to live next door to a vandal? Especially one who picked such appallingly trivial targets. “One thing I’ve learned in this job is there’s always more to every story. Maybe someone has a resentment they’ve been repressing or a … or ah … ahh …”
Dammit, I was going to sneeze. There’s nothing I hate more than sneezing. So I don’t. I do this funny little “fink” sound and stop it. At least I’m told it’s a funny little sound—I’m not usually paying attention at the time. I’m also told I can burst a blood vessel in my brain by doing it, but, hey—I like to live on the edge.
I made my “fink” sound.
“Bless you!” Dot raced to get me a tissue then hovered, looking like she wanted to tuck me into bed with chicken soup. “You poor thing, that was the strangest sounding sneeze I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m fine. Allergies.” I blew my nose and tried to recapture my professional air. “Did anyone on the street see anything?”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask them all, but Valentina, next door, said she and the Sinclairs, on the other side, didn’t see anything.” She paused and checked in the direction of the hall. “I asked Gerald, Anna’s grandfather, but,” she gave an apologetic shrug, “he’s … not quite all there … so he’s not much help.”
I turned as I heard a noise behind me.
“Sorry to keep you, Ms. Fletcher, but I thought it’d be better for me to put Anna to bed and let you speak to my mother first.”
As Simon pulled out the chair beside me, I noticed he looked tired and I felt that tug at my heart again. “You can call me Tobi.”
He smiled and suddenly didn’t look so tired anymore. “Are you getting anywhere, Tobi?”
There you go. Tugging at heartstrings leads to familiarity, which leads to flirty smiles. Not a constructive progression of events. I cleared my throat and tried to put on my professional face again. “Not much to go on at the moment, but I’d like to speak to the neighbors, if possible.” “Like” was probably an exaggeration, but I was going to write this story if it killed me.
Dot reached out to pat my arm, smiling with what was probably maternal pride. Not that I had much experience of being the subject of maternal pride myself, but I’d seen it before in other people’s mothers. “I knew when Simon told me about you that you were the one.” She threw Simon a satisfied smile then looked back at me. “If you come back tomorrow, Anna and I’ll take you around some of the neighbors. We’ll miss a few who work, but it’ll be a start for you.”
“Thanks, Dot, I appreciate it. Nine o’clock suit you?” She nodded as I put the pencil back in my bag and moved to get up. I could feel another sneeze coming on and I didn’t want to do it again in front of Dot—she might not be able to resist the chicken soup thing this time.
“I’ll be leaving then.” I tried to rush, but couldn’t stop the “fink” sneeze.
Simon cocked an eyebrow in amusement but I didn’t give him a chance to say anything. I lifted my chin and strode out the door, oblivious to any grinning that may or may not have occurred.
Chapter 2
What does one wear to interrogate a street full of lunatics? I suspected animals may be involved in my day, so that ruled out my new fawn corduroy trouser suit—not at all appropriate for pet hair. I ended up driving over in my faithful old beige jacket and trousers and a silver chain watch. I called Sofia on the way.
“Hey, Sof. Just a reminder, I’m going to be out of the office most of the day.”
“Got a hot lead on the gnomicides? Make sure you leave no gnome unturned in your search for the truth.”
My hands clenched the steering wheel in a death grip. “Very funny, ha, ha.”
“Come on, Tobi, loosen up—it is funny.”
With deliberate self-control, I relaxed my strangulation of the wheel and changed the topic. “Can you take notes for me in the meeting this morning?”
“Will do. And you watch out for yourself—there’s a gnomicidal maniac on the loose.”
I hung up on her.
After a quick stop at the chemist for some antihistamines, I arrived at number seven to find Dot waiting at the door with a young girl I recognized from the photograph as Anna. Same blond bob ending above her chin. Same huge blue eyes.
“Are you the reporter?” Anna asked, her neck arched back to look up at me.
What was the etiquette at introductions with children? I never knew. In the past I’d tried a nice little pat on the head, and once I even tapped a finger on a child’s cheek in a pretty good imitation of affection. The ratty little kid bit it.
So, looking down at Anna, I used a no-bodily-contact approach. “Yes, but we use the term journalist nowadays.”
“Dournalist,” Anna dutifully repeated, then beamed up at me, obviously proud of her pronunciation skills. I couldn’
t help smiling back—she was cute, for a kid. “Are you going to save our gnomes?”
“Well, that depends on whether I can find out who did it.”
“But I know who did it.” Her forehead wrinkled up in earnest solemnity.
“You do? Who?”
“The bears.”
Bears. Well, I guess that’s what you get for thinking a four-year-old was going to help.
Dot clucked in a grandmotherly way. “Anna, darling, there are no bears around here.”
“There was in my book.” Certainty shone from her eyes. She was going to stick with her hypothesis and I admired her for it.
“Perhaps I can help, I am a journalist.” It was hardly a job with a badge, but hey, Clark Kent had been one of us. “Anna, if there were any bears on your street my newspaper would know about them. Los Alamos Court is officially bear free.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously thinking it through. “Then who hurt my gnomes?”
“Good question—you think like a journalist.”
Anna beamed at me again.
Dot closed the front door and led us down the drive. “I thought we’d start with Valentina next door at number five. She’s been here the longest and has a large supply of … news … on everyone. I’ve called to let her know we’re coming.”
“Miss Fletter?” A little voice came from near my waist.
I flashed her an indulgent smile. “You can call me Tobi.”
“Tobi?” Her neck arched again to look me in the eye, her blond bob falling back from her face.
“Yes?”
“Can I hold your hand?”
I tried hard to hide my reflexive wince. Children’s hands were usually coated in any number of sticky substances. A child’s clean hand—well … that was still not an entirely attractive proposition, but at least touchable. How could I, gingerly and politely, check her hands for the gooiness factor?
Dammit, anything for the story. “Sure.” I held out a hand and was pleasantly surprised at the non-stick surface.
Anna chatted away as we walked up Valentina’s drive, only pausing when a small wizened woman with bright-white hair opened the door and leaned down to give Anna a noisy kiss on the cheek.
“Valentina, this is Tobi Fletcher, the journalist who’s come about the gnomes,” Dot explained.
Valentina looked at me over her bifocals then held out her hand. “Valentina de la Vega. Come on in and I’ll make a pot of Mint Melange tea. It’s organic.”
Anna made a little jump and clapped her hands. “Can we have the teapot that looks like a little house today, Valentina?”
The old woman chuckled. “Of course we can, darling.”
Valentina and Anna walked ahead down the hall and Dot whispered to me, “She’s a bit eccentric, but she’s a sweetie.”
Oh, she thought Valentina was eccentric? As opposed to the rest of the street? Still, I managed to whisper back, “Okay.”
“Mind her guardcat, Winston, though. He can be a bit of a handful.”
I looked around and over my shoulder, suddenly imagining feline eyes everywhere. Not that I minded cats. On the floor. Where I could see them. With their claws sheathed.
Oh, who was I kidding? Cats and I have always had a mutual dislike that transcends barriers of species and verbalizing ability. To be fair, it could have been partly my fault; I didn’t seem to get on with many animals. Or was that any animals? That didn’t seem right—surely there’d been an animal at some stage I’d liked?
I mentally went through the list of pets I’d known, but I couldn’t think of one. Maybe I’d only met a biased sample of pets? Maybe all the good pets lived with people I didn’t know?
Valentina’s hallway wall was covered in cat paintings and I was sure in my peripheral vision I saw the eyes on two of them move. I shuddered and moved on quickly.
Valentina laid on a spread of cakes and cookies and entertained us with stories of previous residents. I was itching to get to the current residents, but knew from experience that people open up more if you let them relax into talking first. Not that Valentina needed to relax into it—I was beginning to wonder if she ever stopped talking. Time to start the inquisition … er … interview.
“Valentina, can I ask you some questions about the residents?”
“Of course you can, dear. Do you want another cup of Mint Melange first?” She smiled crookedly, reminding me of Granny Clampett from The Beverly Hillbillies.
“No, thanks, I’m okay.”
Dot stood and held out her hand to Anna. “We might leave you to it. Anna and I have some chores to do at home, but come and see us when you’ve finished with Valentina, Tobi.”
After they left, Valentina moved her chair closer and said in a stage whisper, “Can I tell you something off the record?”
“Um, sure.” I leaned back to reclaim my personal space.
“I think this gnome business is all over Dot’s son.”
“Simon?” Those midnight-blue eyes flashed in my mind.
“Mmm hmm. I’d bet a pretty penny that it’s that ex-girlfriend of his. I thought she was a bit cuckoo when I saw her and there’s nothing like a woman scorned, you know.”
A cuckoo ex? That could spice the story up nicely. I tapped my pencil against my teeth. “But what about the gnomes at number three? They were smashed on the same night.”
“Well, that’s his father-in-law, you see. It was an attack on the entire clan, perhaps for not accepting her into the bosom of their family.”
I started scribbling it down—it was plausible.
“It’s the Feng Shui of his house.”
I paused mid-scribble. “Pardon?”
“It’s all about Feng Shui, since the poison arrows travel down the street, bypassing us, going straight to his house. It brings him bad luck with women—first, that sad business with Isabel, his wife, and now this.” She splayed her hands in front of her as if that was the end of the matter.
“Thanks, I’ll look into it.” Yep, my instincts were spot on—the whole street had a tenuous relationship with reality. “Have you got any other theories?”
“Why would you need them, my dear? It’s her, I tell you.” Her expression suddenly changed and she gave me a once-over. “You know, you’re far too thin. Why, you’re practically skin and bone. You have pretty eyes, dear, and your complexion has a lovely peaches and cream tone, mmm,” she nodded, “you’d be a good-looking girl if we could fatten you up a bit. Here, have another cookie.”
“Er, okay.” I took one, as much for something to do with my hands as the delightful offer, then changed the subject before I could tell her what she could do with her unsolicited opinions. “Tell me a bit about some of the other residents. Who lives across the street from here? On the other side of Simon and Dot.”
“Number six. That’s the Sinclairs—Martin and Beverley and their son, David.”
I made a note on the map I’d drawn. “Any of them home?”
“Beverley and David are there. Do you want me to take you over?”
It all depended on the definition of “want”, I supposed. What I wanted was to finish this story, because I wanted to get back to the scandal-making senator. And I wanted to file the best story I could to minimize the damage it’d cause my credibility. So yeah—I sighed—I guessed I wanted her to take me over.
“If you don’t mind …”
“No trouble at all. I’ll just put these cups away and get a cardigan. You have a look at the gnomes in the front yard, if you like—I’ll come out to you there.”
Fresh air sounded good—especially now the antihistamines were patrolling my blood stream. I wandered back past the spooky cat pictures in the hall. Even though I knew in my mind the eyes weren’t following me, there was still something very Scooby Doo about that hallway.
Out in the front yard, there were four gnomes standing in a circle beside the letterbox, as if in discussion. On closer inspection—I am a journalist—they were standing around a pinecone. Why would four gn
omes want to talk about an overgrown seedpod? Seriously, it wasn’t as if the pinecone had any special features. Oh, for mercy’s sake—was I really looking at this from a gnome’s point of view? If I wasn’t careful, I’d become as bad as the residents.
I’d turned to walk back to the front door to wait for Valentina when I saw the guardcat sitting in my way. He was quite large, with fluffy black fur and a white streak starting between his eyes and running down his nose. His eyes were fixed firmly on me and they held a warning.
I might not like cats much, but I knew their warning looks. My ex, Cameron, had five cats that were definitely on the list of animals with whom I didn’t get along—it was their rude attitude I took issue with. They would ignore my entry, even when I lived with them, and I know every species has some sort of greeting ritual. Not that I wanted them to act dog-like and slobber and jump on me—no, that would be beyond endurance. Maybe a polite nod of the head or an occasional rubbing on my leg on their way past … when I wore something that fur wouldn’t attach to. But nothing. Cameron, they thought, was the sun and the moon—purring when he stroked their chins, sitting on his lap watching TV, rubbing against his legs when he came home.
There were only two instances when they would deign to acknowledge my existence. The first was if they were hungry and Cameron wasn’t home. Then it was a shameless about-face, trying to convince me that I was their favorite human in the world—did they think I was stupid? The second was when it was cold, Cameron had left the bed, and they needed my body heat. Then, they’d lie around me on top of the quilt—two either side and one on top. I’d be cat-locked. I rarely like that much body contact with another human, let alone five cats I actively disliked. I’d have to lie there, hoping they’d move. Their collective bodyweight on top of the quilt was enough to pull it taut over my body and pin me to the spot. Any attempts on my behalf to wriggle out would be met with a swift claw to the offending body part—and those claws could somehow break skin through the quilt. I eventually devised strategies to address the situation—gentle prodding with my pillow or throwing my bedside book to the floor to startle them into leaving—but still, I was annoyed that I’d have to resort to such tactics in my own bed.
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