Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery

by Judith Ivie

  A few minutes later I negotiated the half-flight of stairs, holding two steaming mugs of coffee, and found Margo drumming her polished fingernails on the Mack Realty desk, lost in thought. I put one mug down in front of her and retreated to the sofa.

  “Did you reach May?”

  She focused on me and frowned. “No, I didn’t, and I tried twice. Now I’m really concerned. I think I need to take a drive to her house. Do you mind? She is over seventy years old and lives alone.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I wish you would. I’m worried, too.”

  Just then we heard the Law Barn’s front door creak open. Our heads snapped toward the sound, and we scrambled to our feet in unison.

  “Auntie May?” Margo couldn’t help calling as we jostled for position on the stairs. She won, big surprise.

  “It’s me,” May called across the lobby as we clattered up the steps to join her. “Well! I wasn’t expectin’ a welcoming committee, but I’m glad to see you both. Is that coffee I smell?” She trudged wearily toward the copy room in search of caffeine while Margo and I exchanged glances.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, careful to phrase my query in general terms. I’ve noticed that older people often don’t appreciate specific questions about their health. As I’d already begun to realize about myself, the number of minor aches and pains one experiences on a daily basis tends to escalate with the passing of the years, and who wants to be reminded about that, much less make it a topic of conversation? I kept my voice light and my expression neutral.

  “No major disaster has befallen me, if that’s what you mean, but everything is definitely not okay,” she answered in what for her was a downright testy tone. “I’ve been the victim of a practical joke for the second time in a week, and I’m not at all happy about it.”

  “Oh, dear, now what?” Margo asked as May filled her mug and added an envelope of sweetener. We all trailed back downstairs, where Margo and I could reclaim our cooling coffee, and took our usual seats on desk chair and sofa.

  “At least this time I was able to get a good night’s sleep before dealin’ with it,” May began after a restorative slug of caffeine.

  “Dealing with what?” I prompted, almost afraid to ask. What could be more bizarre than having live bats stuffed into your house through an open window in the middle of the night?

  “Pumpkins. A great big ol’ pile of pumpkins in my driveway, right in front of my garage door. They were very artfully arranged, I must say, to cover a large area but not be visible to a driver backing out.”

  “How could a pile of pumpkins not be visible?” Margo wanted to know.

  May snorted in that familial Farnsworth style. “You know my garage is attached to the house, so I go through a connecting door from the kitchen to get to my car. After I get in, I press the remote control clipped to my driver’s side visor to open the garage door, start the car and back out, all of which I did this morning. I checked the rearview mirror, of course, put the car into reverse, pressed the accelerator and wham! Smashed into a mess of pumpkins stacked just below bumper height. My god, I thought I’d run over somebody’s dog or a small child for a minute. My heart was just thumpin’.”

  I could imagine her distress. “That’s awful. Do you know how the pumpkins got there, May?”

  “You mean, who put them there, don’t you? Pumpkins are heavy, and they don’t move themselves. When I got my legs to stop shaking and climbed out of the car, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There must have been fifty of them in all sizes, enough to clean out the neighborhood farm stand, and half of them are mashed into the asphalt. Somebody went to a lot of trouble, not to mention expense, to give me a fright, and after the bat episode, I’ve got to wonder who’s got it in for me.”

  Margo and I looked from May to each other, perplexed. “But it sounds so very childish, Auntie May. Pumpkins piled in the driveway? It’s a mess, and I’m sure you were scared to death for a second, but it doesn’t seem to have any weight as an act of revenge. What do you think, Kate?”

  I was busy imagining the awful mess in May’s driveway. “You’re right. It sounds like a Halloween prank to me, but who did it? Transporting and piling up that many pumpkins takes a lot of effort. It doesn’t sound like the work of one youngster to me, more like a team effort, but I’m as clueless about a motive as you are. Is your painter—Tommy, is it?—going to clean up the wreckage for you?”

  May huffed and thumped her mug down on a side table. “He will, good fellow that he is, but if my writer friend Judy wasn’t showin’ up this weekend, I’d let them just sit there and rot, let everybody in the neighborhood see the mess one or more of their little darlings is responsible for. You know as well as I do that word would spread like wildfire, and somebody in the know about who’s responsible couldn’t help but leak it to a few people. Sooner or later, the guilty kid would show up at my door with his mama or daddy insisting he apologize, and that would be that. I might even get to know a few of the people I’m supposed to be neighbors with. That would be very nice, I must say.”

  My eyes bugged out. “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t met any of the people who live on your street, not even the people on either side of you? I mean, this is New England, and we can be a bit reserved, but not so much as a hi-we’re-the-neighbors-and-feel-free-to-borrow-a-hammer-anytime?”

  May shook her head. “It surprised me, too. I cannot imagine that happening back in Atlanta. If anything, I’d be pullin’ my blinds down and hiding from visitors by now.” Her face looked as if it were about to crumple in tears, and my heart sank. “Why don’t they like me? I’ve been as polite and cordial as I know how to be, always wave hello if I see someone on the sidewalk or say good morning or whatever. I know the renovations have made a lot of noise over the past week or so. Do you suppose that’s why they’re all mad at me?”

  Margo quickly enveloped her in a hug, then backed off and shook her by the shoulders. “Don’t you even think it. Nobody’s mad at you; how could they be? They don’t even know you, and when they do, they’ll love you just as much as everybody else who’s ever met you does. Isn’t that right, Kate?”

  “Hear, hear,” I affirmed. “Strutter and I took a shine to you about thirty seconds after meeting you, so I vote for throwing that theory right out the window, May. Something is going on, that seems clear, and we need to get to the bottom of it so you can enjoy your new home and your houseguest in peace. Right after that, we’re going to make getting you acquainted with your new neighbors a priority, like maybe throwing you a housewarming party they’ll never forget. How does that sound?”

  May managed a quavery smile and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “That sounds wonderful, frankly, and the best part is knowing somebody is in my corner on this. I can’t tell you how pitiful I was beginning to feel, but victim is not a role I’m willing to play. Thank you so much, both of you. Now I’m getting out of your hair and going to work.”

  Seven

  On Thursday morning we all got to the Law Barn early. I’d called Strutter the previous evening to fill her in, and she and Margo and I pulled our cars into the lot within a minute of each other, exchanging sheepish grins as we registered the presence of May’s sedan near the door.

  “Guess we all had the same thought, checkin’ up on Auntie May,” Margo acknowledged, obviously relieved. “Thanks, partners.”

  “Your aunt has become our friend, too,” Strutter pointed out, inserting her key into the lock on the front door and pushing with her shoulder. The door creaked open. “We need to get some oil on these hinges. It sounds like the Inner Sanctum.”

  “Besides, I need some good coffee for a change. May has spoiled me for my own brew,” I chimed in.

  “How do you know about Inner Sanctum, Strutter?” Margo asked. You’re too young to remember that old radio show. The only reason I do was a local station in Atlanta carried reruns one summer. They were so scary my parents wouldn’t allow me to listen to them, so of course, I hid in my closet with my litt
le radio and a flashlight and gave myself the willies every chance I got.”

  We trooped into the lobby and were reassured by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sight of May at her desk, computer glasses firmly on her nose. As we clattered in, she looked up and beamed at us. “Getting an early start,” she quipped, “or are you just eager for the latest installment in my adventures?”

  Margo’s smile wavered for just a second before she clamped it back into place. “Is there a latest installment, Auntie May?”

  May regarded her niece fondly and got up from her desk to give her a quick hug. “As a matter of fact, there is not. Isn’t that a nice way to start the day? And I have an idea on how to end it, with cocktails and canapés in my freshly painted, newly renovated, totally adorable house. What do you say, ladies?”

  We agreed enthusiastically before grabbing coffee, hoisting our bulging briefcases and plunging into what turned out to be a hectic day.

  The hours flew by in a whirlwind of phone calls, showings, document processing, client meetings and other normal Thursday activities. The pace broke only twice, once for a quick lunch of microwaved soup and later for the ten minutes it took Strutter to show a couple of prospects the upstairs space at the Law Barn.

  “Not interested, huh?” I sympathized when she trudged back down to our office far too soon.

  “Oh, they liked it all right, said it was charming and roomy and nicely located, but they quickly decided it was far too big for their needs. We’re going to have to get Benny to think about subdividing up there.”

  Benny was our landlord, and I had a feeling Strutter was right. I’d gotten the same reaction from other lookers.

  At a few minutes after five, I switched the office phone over to our answering service, and we followed May through the creaking front door to the parking lot. “Add oiling the hinges to Benny’s to-do list,” I told Strutter as we headed to our respective cars.

  As our little caravan made its way up Old Main Street and across the Silas Deane Highway, I admired the foliage and well-tended gardens in the fading autumn sunshine. In a few short weeks Daylight Savings Time would end, and we would be plunged into the early darkness most of us dreaded. No matter how many years we’d already experienced it, the transition always affected everything from how well we slept to when we accomplished our errands, most of us opting to scurry to the warmth and light of our homes at day’s end rather than negotiate commuter traffic in the dark. Doing so was inescapable for a few months and was made more odious by freezing cold and assorted precipitation, but we did what we could to mitigate the awfulness during the first weeks of the time change.

  At Wolcott Hill Road, the first of two long streets that ran along the highest ridges of our hilly town, we turned left and performed a short series of turns that led us to Wheeler Road. After a couple of short blocks, the pre- and post-World War II houses on small lots curved appealingly around a circular cul-de-sac that boasted a small green and a carefully tended maple tree. It was a neighborhood that had seen more than a couple of generations come and go. In the standard real estate cycle of the past, couples moved in, raised their families and often ended their days in the snug bungalows and Cape Cod-style cottages, at which point the houses changed hands, and the cycle began again. That wasn’t the case with the big four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom houses constructed in the last couple of decades. Those changed hands as soon as the kids were grown and gone, and Mom and Pop downsized.

  May’s house was a charming Cape Cod with an attached garage. When she’d first seen it, Margo told me, she’d been stunned by the fact that the garage and house didn’t have a connecting door. “What’s the point of havin’ an attached garage if you have to lug your groceries through the rain and snow?” she had spluttered, and that alteration had been among the first on her to-do list for the contractors once her purchase was completed. Now, after pulling into the garage and waiting for Margo, Strutter and me to line our cars up in the driveway, she waved us up three stairs to the door that opened directly into her pretty little dining room.

  “I know it’s a little odd to have an exterior door in the dining room,” she admitted, “but short of moving the garage, what else could I do? And now, ladies, feast your eyes on my beautiful new home.”

  She turned the doorknob and opened it for about half a second. A loud, canine snarl stopped her cold. She quickly pulled the door shut and took half a step backward.

  “You have a dog?” Margo asked in disbelief. She was on the small landing behind May and turned to share this astounding news with Strutter and me on the stairs. “You’re not even comfortable around my wonderful Rhett and Sassy.”

  “I do not have a dog. At least I didn’t have one when I left the house this morning,” May huffed. She appeared lost in thought. “The thing is, how did they get the dog in here?” she said almost to herself.

  “How did who get the dog in there? Who are you talkin’ about, Auntie May?”

  May flapped her hands at us in a shooing motion, and we obediently retreated down the stairs to allow her to pass us.

  “Whatever you do, don’t open that door. I have a bone to pick, no pun intended, with one of my lovely new neighbors. I’ll be right back.”

  “Ohhh, no you don’t,” we all chorused, and Strutter spoke for the rest of us. “We’re coming with you, and don’t even bother protesting. If someone in this neighborhood is deliberately harassing you, we want to know about it. More to the point, we want them to know we know about it and are not pleased, to put it mildly.” She put her arm around May’s shoulders and looked at Margo and me, who were nodding in agreement.

  “Just think of us as your goons for hire. Lead on, May,” I confirmed.

  Our odd little procession followed May down her driveway, where she stopped for a moment to reconnoiter. Then she abruptly turned right and marched across one edge of the little circle to a house three removed from her own. It was set farther back than the others on the circle and was somewhat screened by a couple of tall oaks to one side of its driveway. May proceeded directly to the front door and pressed the bell firmly as we waited on the street, trying to look as if we meant business. Not receiving an answer right away, she rang the doorbell again, this time leaning on the button for an extra second. No answer.

  May came back to where we were standing. “The dog in my dining room lives in this house, I’m sure of it. He’s a barker, which annoys me mightily, so I’ve had occasion to scout out the source of the ruckus.” She glared out at the street, trying to figure out her next move. “I suppose I could call the police,” she said finally.

  “If it comes to that, I’ll call John,” Margo assured her. “The animal control officer will be gone for the day, but John is wonderful with dogs. I’m sure he could wrangle this one for you.”

  As we continued to debate, a well-worn Honda sedan drove around the circle, slowed and pulled past us into the driveway. Its driver, a harassed-looking blonde on the far side of forty, peered at us in confusion before getting out of the car. She opened the rear door to unbuckle a small girl and collect a sack of groceries.

  “Can I help you with something?” she called, nudging the door shut and beeping the car locked. I noticed the house did not have a garage. The little girl ran past us to the front porch, waiting for her mother to unlock the door. As soon as she had done so, the child yanked it open and disappeared inside. “I’ll be in shortly, Beth,” the woman called after her. She deposited her groceries inside the door and walked toward us with obvious reluctance, probably fearing religious proselytizers or local political campaigners at what must be the end of a long workday.

  May stepped away from the rest of us to meet her halfway. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, since we haven’t met, but I’m your new neighbor, Maybelle Farnsworth.” I noticed she did not offer to shake hands. “I’m here because your dog seems to be tied up in my dining room, and he isn’t happy about it. Neither am I, since he seems unwilling to allow me to enter
my own house. I need you to come and get him. After that, I’d like to know how he got into my house and why.”

  The blonde gaped at May for a moment before looking to the rest of us for confirmation.

  “It’s true,” Margo assured her. “Big fella, brown, likes to bark. Sound familiar?”

  “It does sound like Duke, but it can’t be him. He’s in his pen in the back yard. My son put him there this morning before school.” She headed down the driveway to the rear of the house with us trailing after her. A large, chain link pen under yet another oak tree took up about half the back yard, but no dog was in evidence, and the gate, complete with dangling padlock, hung open.

  “Oh, dear, Rudy must have forgotten to lock it. But how on earth did Duke wind up in your house?”

  “That’s the jackpot question, all right. Perhaps you could ask Rudy about it.” May turned on her heel and stalked back to the front yard. “After you collect your dog, that is,” she threw over her shoulder as she continued back to her house.

  Still confused, the woman joined Strutter, Margo and me, and the four of us followed in May’s footsteps.

  “Sorry about Auntie May’s temper,” Margo offered as we trudged along. “She’s usually the most gracious woman I know. I’m her niece Margo, and these are my business partners, Kate Lawrence and Strut … uh, Charlene Putnam. We own Mack Realty down on Old Main Street. In fact, we handled the purchase of May’s house, although I think all of us are beginnin’ to regret it.”

  “Carla Peterson,” the blonde offered distractedly. “My children and I have lived here for two years since my divorce from their father. With Duke, of course. I inherited him as part of the divorce settlement,” she added with bitterness. “My ex-husband knew Rudy would be miserable without him, so if I wanted full custody of the kids, he said, it had to be a package deal.” She sighed as we followed May up her driveway and back into the garage, where May gestured for Carla to go up the short flight of stairs to the connecting door into the house.