“Gnome incident?” Laurie scratched his head. With his tall, skinny build, the gesture reminded me of Laurel from Laurel and Hardy. When I realized even his name was similar I almost laughed out loud, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate the comparison.
“Maybe if we came in?” I indicated past the door.
“Yeah, sure.” He stood back and let us through to a living room littered with pizza boxes, soda bottles, and cigarette packets. I was comforted by the knowledge that I wouldn’t be offered a cup of tea.
“Are you the only one home?”
“Nah, Pedro’s around somewhere. I’ll go find him.”
He walked into the kitchen and we heard him talking to someone else as he came back: “She’s hot, dude. Says she’s here about the gnome incident.” I had my fingers crossed for a short, chubby, dark-haired hood to complete the Laurel and Hardy set.
They appeared through the archway and the new arrival stuck out his hand. He was short, dark haired and reasonably cute, but alas, not chubby. I was a little disappointed but I took it well.
“I’m Pedro. What’s happened to the gnomes?”
I shook his hand. “You don’t know three were smashed?”
“Shit. Really?” Laurie dropped into a chair, his face a comic representation of shock, complete with gaping mouth and raised brows.
A cover act? I couldn’t eliminate them as suspects until I was sure. “So you don’t know anything about it?”
“Nup. Shit.” Laurie scratched his head again in his unwitting Stan Laurel impersonation. “Which ones?”
Simon spoke at my side. “The two carrying the apples were smashed outside number three and one of the flute players was smashed at my house.”
“Really? That’s bad, man.” Pedro stared absently into the distance, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of the tragedy.
“I heard you guys had been seen putting them in lewd positions and I wondered if you may have—accidentally, of course—damaged them?”
Laurie’s head jerked up. “No way! We love those little guys.”
“The sex stuff was just our contribution to the thing the street’s got going with moving them around—but we’d never hurt them,” Pedro said.
I tapped my toe on the floor. Unfortunately, its effect as a tool of interrogation was lost as the carpet muffled the sound. “What about the other guy who lives here?”
“Lukas?” Pedro shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s been talking about us getting some gnomes of our own. He thought it was cool.”
Dammit, I believed them. There went the Youth Crime angle. “Any ideas on who might have done it? Have you seen anyone strange hanging around?”
“No one more strange than usual,” Pedro said.
“You know what?” Laurie swiveled in his chair to face his housemate. “I bet it’s that black cat from up the road.”
That caught my attention. “Winston?”
“Yeah, that cat is psycho,” Laurie said. “He comes sprinting down here some days and stalks us like a freakin’ lion looking for a meal.”
Pedro punched him on the arm. “Hey, Laurie, remember that day I woke up and he was spread eagled on my window screen watching me?”
“Yeah, you screamed like a baby.” They both fell about laughing.
I sighed. Yep, this was my life now. Not only a distinct lack of Pulitzer prizes, but nights spent with giggling garage band musicians to push the message home.
I plastered on my professional smile. “Okay, thanks guys. If you think of anything I’ll be around in the morning.”
Pedro regained himself to escort us to the door. “Hey, Tobi, don’t be a stranger.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
Oh, yeah, that was going to happen. “Thanks, Pedro, I’ll try and remember that.”
As Simon and I returned to the sidewalk, he asked, “So what do you think?”
“Well, the Demented Cat angle is the most plausible so far. I’ve met Winston.” A shiver ran down my spine at the memory.
“You know,” he slowed his steps to look at me, “you don’t have to solve the crime. It could have been anyone this side of the city. The chances of you finding them are pretty slim.”
He was right, of course, but if I could just get an outcome—a result—from this absurd assignment, I might be able to salvage some pride. “I hate loose ends.”
“The loose ends don’t matter. We just wanted people to be vigilant and to consider the effects of vandalism on someone like Anna.” Love for his little girl shone from his eyes—something I found oddly attractive. What was that about?
I blew out a breath. “Yeah, but it’d be nice to solve it, too. I … I …” I could feel a sneeze coming on but managed to hold it off. I’d forgotten to take more antihistamines with dinner.
“You were saying?” We’d stopped at my car in his driveway.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” I was much more concerned with avoiding a sneeze before I could make a getaway. I could feel the pressure building behind my nose and my face starting to contort. Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. There was no stopping it; it was like a loaded freight train.
“Ah … fink.”
When I opened my eyes, Simon was regarding me like some creature at the zoo. “You know you could hurt yourself doing that—maybe burst a blood vessel or something.”
I rolled my eyes. “So I’ve been told.”
He rocked on his heels, hands in his jeans pockets. “Then why do you do it?”
“Thank you for your consideration, but I’m more than capable of handling my own sneezing affairs.” I tried for my steely gaze to put him off.
“You’re welcome,” he said, unfazed. “Why don’t you just let yourself sneeze properly?”
Why was everyone so hung up on my sneezes? Surely they had other things to occupy their minds? Although, I supposed, all evidence was to the contrary.
I folded my arms. “For your information, it’s not that simple. I’ve tried, but it’s a habit now and I couldn’t have a proper sneeze even if I wanted one.”
His eyes danced and the corners of his mouth were turned down, repressing a smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re uptight?”
“They have, actually, but I’ll add you to the list.” I turned to get in the car.
“You should let go a little.” His voice dropped a note. “Relax and have some fun.”
Oh, that was rich. I turned back to him. “And you’re basing this advice on knowing me in a purely professional capacity for less than thirty-six hours?”
He shrugged. “You journalists haven’t got a patent on observation.”
Of all the conceited, cocky men … “And you think … ah … ahh … you think … ahhh … fink.” Dammit. “Look, I have to go. Can you say goodnight to your mother for me?”
He grinned, damn him. “Sure. ’Night, Tobi.”
I scrambled into my car and made a quick getaway. What did he know about me? I stopped at the liquor store and bought some cheap red wine—I’d show him I could relax!
*
I woke the next morning feeling like my brain had been partially eaten by rats—dirty, smelly rats that’d crawled through my mouth on their way in. I’d remembered on the first glass why I didn’t drink cheap red wine—the hangover was horrendous—but I refused to wimp out of a challenge, even if no one else would know … and if I’d set it myself to spite Simon Hanson. It was the principle of the thing.
My open laptop glared up from the table, taunting me. I ran an eye over the drivel I’d written the night before while under the influence, then deleted the lot.
After a shower and coffee I had another go at writing up the feature but couldn’t seem to get a handle on it. Whenever I tried to put it together in my mind, my thoughts were too scattered, so I plodded into the kitchen, hoping more coffee would help.
It didn’t.
Running out of time, I dragged on another pet hair-friendly trouser suit and my favorite diamante watch—one of my good luck wat
ches.
Davo was already at the diner, waiting in a booth. I ordered coffee and a pastry and waited while he ordered a breakfast burrito, scrambled eggs, chunky fried potatoes, English muffin, and a chocolate milkshake. My stomach churned just thinking about it.
“So, did you unearth anything?” I took off my sunglasses but when the glare hit my retinas, I flinched and put them back on.
“It’s more than that, boss chick.” Davo executed a quick look around—I assumed checking if the coast was clear to report his findings. Pointless really when we were the only ones in the place. “There’s been another one.”
A gum-chewing waitress appeared with my coffee. I smiled my gratitude and stirred in the sugar. “Another one?”
“Another gnomicide.” Davo leaned back in his seat, savoring his moment of glory.
“Oh, another gnomicide. I see.” I sipped my coffee. Gritty and burnt, but I’d take what I could get this morning. “A new crime scene?”
The waitress returned with our breakfasts and Davo waited until she was out of earshot before replying. “Yep. This one was in front of old Valentina de la Vega’s house.”
“I’m surprised they got past Winston.”
“Winston sleeps inside at night.” Davo didn’t miss a beat as he covered his meal in every condiment on the table. “They woulda had free rein.”
Dammit. I could feel another theory about to implode. “Does Winston sleep inside every night?”
“Yep. Old Miss de la Vega won’t go to bed until he’s tucked up in his basket. You should hear her. ‘Win-STON!’” Davo cracked up at his own high-pitched impersonation.
I winced once as the painful call hit my hungover brain, and then again at the demise of the Demented Cat theory.
While Davo tucked into his indigestion inducer, I made a mental calculation. Since I’d eliminated the Youth Crime angle after meeting Laurie and Pedro, I was only left with the Hitchcock, which was entirely dependent on Gerald being able to walk, and Simon’s theory of it being Someone Else, someone not from Los Alamos Court.
“Davo, I don’t suppose you saw it happen?”
“Sorry, I was asleep. But I woke up when I heard it, ’cause I left my window open in case.” He paused to push more potatoes in his mouth. “But I didn’t see anyone or nothing.”
I took another sip of the worst coffee ever made, sure it was finishing the rats’ work on my brain but desperate for the caffeine. “So, you woke up straight away? Right then?”
“Yeah. Why?” He displayed a mouthful of partially chewed chunky potatoes as he spoke.
“And you didn’t see anyone? What about a car leaving?”
“Nup. Not even someone on the sidewalk.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t dream it? Or wake up later?”
“Nup. I heard the shatterin’ and I went straight to the window. An’ this morning, it was there shattered just where I heard it happen.”
Allowing myself a moment of elation, I pushed the untouched pastry away and wrapped my fingers around my mug. “Davo, that’s a great piece of investigation. Good work.”
“It is?” He looked as baffled as someone with a whole English muffin in his mouth can.
Feeling generous, I gave him a smile. “If you saw it straight away and there was no car, then chances are it was one of the residents of Los Alamos Court. At an absolute stretch, it’s someone else within walking distance, but I don’t think so.”
“How come?” He slurped his milkshake.
“Journalist’s instinct. You’ve earned that breakfast just with that piece of information.”
He grinned then rolled up a chile-coated tortilla and bit into it like a banana. “But I got more.”
“Excellent.” Who knew putting Davo on the job would be one of my better ideas? “What have you got?”
“Mrs. Brown was over—”
“Wait, who’s Mrs. Brown?”
“Lives next door to me at number four. Cosmo’s mom.”
I took out my pocket notebook and checked the map. “Between you and the boys on the corner.”
“Yep, her. She went over to Ethel and George’s last night after you went home and totally abused them. It was great!”
I was getting the distinct impression Davo didn’t have a lot of excitement in his life. But he had aroused my curiosity. “What was she mad about?”
“Turns out, her dog, Deefer, is knocked up by Gerald’s dog.”
“Really?” I made a note on the map. “Do you think this was the first time they’d talked about it?”
“Nah, she was pissed because Remington was in her yard again, even after she’d told them she’d caught him doin’ the business with Deefer last week.”
Before the first gnomicide. Hmm. “So, she was angry?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded, trying to look serious—an effect spoiled by the big grin he was unable to stifle. “She was goin’ off!”
Definite motive. Maybe the other residents with smashed gnomes had backed Remington. Or maybe she’d done their gnomes afterward to cover her tracks. This was probably the best angle I’d had so far—the Doggie Payback angle. “Thanks, Davo.”
“You want me to keep going?” he asked as he sucked his fingers clean.
“No, I think I’ll be finished today, but you’ve been a great help.” I knocked back the dregs of the brain-melting coffee.
“Hey, if you ever need help on an undercover operation again, you just call me.” He winked. “I’ve got experience now.”
I’m pretty sure I managed to keep a straight face. “Thanks, Davo, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Chapter 5
I dropped Davo home and decided to call in at Simon’s house to see Dot for some background on Mrs. Brown. Valentina was there as well, having tea, of course, while Anna played with her dolls on the lounge. They offered me a cup of White Earl Grey—organic, naturally—and I accepted, hoping to lull them into relinquishing more secrets.
“I was sorry to hear about your gnome, Valentina.”
“Thank you, dear.” Pinched sadness passed across her face before she picked up a platter. “A slice of cake?”
Food? I was only barely coping with having my sunglasses off. “No, thanks.” I perched on the edge of a chair. “Can I ask you two something sensitive?”
“Of course, dear.” Dot bustled back in with another cup and poured my tea from the pot.
“Mrs. Brown at number four, what do you know about her?” I took the proffered cup and saucer and sipped.
“Oh, Jazlyn,” sniffed Valentina. “Not even her real name if you ask me. Who has a name like Jazlyn? She’s changed it, I’m sure.”
“Jocelyn, perhaps?” Dot chimed in.
“Hmm.” Valentina touched a finger to her pursed lips. “Jane? Joan?”
“And that poor boy of hers!” Dot leaned forward to pick up a piece of cake. “Fancy going through life with a name like Cosmo.”
“Yes,” Valentina said, “I remember when the boy was born—his father tried in vain to get her to name him something else. The father had a good, normal name: Wayne. But no, she would only have Cosmo.”
“Hang on,” I interjected. “Isn’t this the woman with a dog named Deefer? As in D-for-dog?”
Both women tittered before Dot answered. “Wayne named her that and now she won’t come to anything else. Drives poor Jazlyn wild.”
“And I don’t like to say anything bad about my own neighbors,” Valentina whispered loudly.
“Of course you don’t, dear.” Dot patted her arm.
“But,” Valentina continued in the stage whisper, “Wayne’s been gone for two years now, and there’s no other man on the scene, and she won’t say anything about who the father of the baby is.”
“She has a baby?” I made an amendment to the map in my notebook.
“She soon will. She’s pregnant, didn’t you know?”
“No.” Could it be related? Missing father wreaks gnome havoc? Except Davo’s latest information, which elim
inated Simon’s Someone Else theory, would also discount a vengeful missing father who didn’t live on the same street. Hmm. Back to Doggie Payback.
“Tell me, does Jazlyn have a temper?”
“A little,” Valentina said, plopping her cup back into its saucer. “Why? You don’t think she’s the gnome smasher?”
I gave them my best TV cop face. “I’m looking at all possibilities.”
“Oh, no, not her.” Valentina shook her head with finality. “She’d never hurt a gnome on my property, we’re the best of friends.”
Best of friends? I hated to see what Valentina said about her enemies. Still, Doggie Payback had to be the theory of the moment.
I excused myself to scout out the photo options of the street gnomes for the staff photographer, promising to check back before I left.
I wandered down Los Alamos Court. There was a good setup of the Sinclairs’ gnomes off on a fishing trip (they were further down the concrete wall today and in a different order) and another of Valentina’s gnomes: three, clustered around the letterbox, where their comrade had fallen. Suddenly, I realized the gnome that had bitten the dust overnight was one I’d been looking at yesterday. There was a bizarre sadness to seeing his three remaining friends, forlorn and grieving. The sadness surprised me, so I moved on. Quickly.
I’d heard enough about Jazlyn Brown from other sources, it was probably time I met her for myself. I still had half an hour before the photographer was due. I knocked on her door and waited, listening to the screaming child inside and ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” blaring.
A dark-haired woman in her early thirties, and in the late stages of pregnancy, wore a flustered expression when she opened the door. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Tobi Fletcher from the Santa Fe Daily, I’m here—”
She smiled a wide, genuine welcome. “It’s all right, I know. Davo told me. Come on in.”
I followed her past an assortment of children’s toys, as she turned the stereo volume down. We walked into the kitchen, “Like something to drink?”
“Sure,” I said, tentatively. “Coffee?”
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