Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery

by Judith Ivie

  “Go right on in, if you think he won’t tear your head off. I’m not so sure about me.”

  Carla managed a tight smile. “Oh, Duke’s just a big fraud, all bark and no bite. That’s what makes him a good watchdog, I guess.” She turned the knob and opened the door, sticking her head inside to a chorus of growls and barks. “Duke, stop it now! You know perfectly well who I am.”

  The dog settled immediately, and Carla let herself through the door without hesitation. Soon her soothing words mingled with a few poor-me doggie whimpers, and she emerged with Duke on a leash. The dog lunged down the stairs, dragging her after him, and ran onto May’s front lawn, where he raised a leg and relieved himself mightily.

  That done, Carla dropped the leash and ordered, “Home, Duke! Go home.” Without waiting for a second invitation, the dog tore across the intervening properties and down Carla’s driveway to his pen, tail between his legs and dragging his leash. We watched him go. “The poor thing has been tied to your dining room table leg all day long, but he was a perfect gentleman. No matter how badly he had to go, he didn’t make a mess. At least that’s something I don’t have to apologize for. There seems to be plenty of other things, though.”

  She squared her shoulders and looked each of us in the eye in turn. “Ms. Farnsworth, I’m Carla Peterson, and the first thing I’d like to apologize for is not coming over here and introducing my children and me properly weeks ago.” She extended a hand to May, who gave it a perfunctory clasp. Clearly, she was not mollified. “It’s been an especially hectic time for us. It’s end-of-year closing where I work. I’m an accountant,” she added in an aside to the rest of us, “and September is always hell. Then to add to the fun, Rudy’s soccer team qualified for the regional play-offs and then the state championship, so I’ve been arranging rides and doing a lot of driving myself. Team sports are great for the kids but not for the parents, I’ve discovered.”

  She tried out a small smile on May but got no response. Strutter and I took pity on her and jumped in to fill the void.

  “My son Charlie plays a ton of sports, so I know just what you mean,” she sympathized.

  “My kids are grown and gone, but my daughter played a lot of soccer until her knees couldn’t take the strain any more, thank heaven, so I was spared all of that championship driving,” I joked mildly.

  “Anyway, that’s just an explanation, not an excuse, but I do hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “Of course,” May said civilly enough. “I realize my many years livin’ in the South have been coloring my expectations, and things are done differently here in the North.”

  “Not that differently,” Carla hastened to say. She gestured at the circle of houses. “This is really a very nice neighborhood. I’m sure you’ll like it once you get to know us. Most of the people who live here have been on Wheeler Road for years and years. There aren’t a lot of other children on this street, but Beth and Rudy have friends all over the neighborhood.” She gestured at the network of residential streets fanning out from Wheeler. “We all get along fine.”

  A gray SUV pulled around the circle and stopped in front of Carla’s house long enough to allow a boy of perhaps ten to leap out and dash for the front door after waving a quick goodbye to the other riders. As soon as he was safely inside, the SUV moved on, presumably to deliver another occupant.

  “There’s Rudy’s soccer car pool,” Carla explained. “I’d best get on home, or he’ll wonder why I’m not there, or more likely, why dinner isn’t ready. He’s always starving after a game.”

  May’s smile was a bit thin. “Yes, I can imagine. You will ask him about the dog situation?”

  “First thing,” Carla promised, “and again, I’m very sorry. I can’t imagine how Duke wound up in your house, but we’ll get to the bottom of it if I have to question every one of our neighbors myself.”

  Thus reassured, we bid Carla a quick farewell and plodded back up the garage stairs and into May’s dining room. Once inside, we were properly stunned by the transformation her contractor had wrought on the Cape’s interior and oooh-ed and ahhh-ed our way through the downstairs rooms.

  “It’s mostly paint and wallpaper and new appliances,” May demurred modestly, “but it does make a difference, doesn’t it?”

  “Openin’ up the living room by knockin’ out that wall makes a huge difference,” Margo confirmed.

  “It lets in so much more light to have windows on three walls of that space, but it doesn’t spoil the basic coziness of the house,” Strutter agreed, “and I love your color scheme.”

  I returned to the dining room for another peek and let my hand trail along the chair rail May had added to the walls. “This royal blue under the rail and the tiny floral print above it pick up the pattern in your sofas perfectly without being too match-y,” I approved and stepped into the kitchen to admire the new countertops and modernized appliances. “Can I move in with you?”

  May laughed, her good humor restored as she pointed out all the conveniences she had added to the tiny kitchen. That done, she returned to the dining room and straightened one of the chairs around the table. “Whoever put that dog in here tied the poor animal to this chair. Can you imagine anything so mean? I wonder how long he was stuck in here.”

  “Not to mention how he wound up in your house.” Margo and Strutter had rejoined us, and Margo was still visibly concerned. “Auntie May, who else has keys to your house?”

  She thought about that for a minute. “Nobody except Tommy at the moment, which reminds me, I must get it back from him. Anyway, I absolutely cannot imagine that nice boy pulling a stunt like this.”

  “That’s what you said about the bat incident,” I reminded her.

  “And he’s brawny enough to have stacked those pumpkins in your driveway,” Strutter added.

  May’s stubborn refusal to consider Tommy as the culprit momentarily wavered, but she shook off the possibility of his guilt in seconds. “No, not Tommy. Not any of my workers. For one thing, none of them would have any kind of a motive to harass me. I think I remind Tommy and one or two of the others of their mamas. Besides, I bake them cookies.”

  Margo snorted, and Strutter and I exchanged doubtful looks.

  “Oh, stop your nonsense. I bake really good cookies. Nobody would want to cause me any trouble after a few of my chocolate chip peanut butter brownies.” May’s grin was sly. “At least, that’s what my Douglas used to say.”

  Margo apparently came to a decision. “Okay, then, where’s your phone book?” she demanded, looking around the kitchen.

  “Right there in the drawer next to the dishwasher. Who are you planning to call at this hour?” May glanced at the clock on the wall, which indicated that it was nearly seven o’clock.

  Margo plopped the Yellow Pages on the counter and riffled the pages expertly. “An emergency locksmith,” she announced. “Ahh, here we go. Twenty-four-hour on-call service to handle your every emergency. Residential work our specialty. Bonded, local references on request.” She plucked her cell phone from purse and punched in the number.

  “What on earth?” May looked as confused as Strutter and I felt.

  “We’re gettin’ the locks changed, that’s what. After the week you’ve had, you won’t feel safe in this house for one minute until you know for a fact that nobody can get into it but you.”

  Eight

  By the time we left May’s house that evening, we all had peace of mind knowing that the sturdy deadbolts installed by an accommodating emergency locksmith would keep out unwanted intruders. Although this necessitated May’s carrying an extra key to her exterior doors, she had taken the locksmith’s advice and left the original locks in place. Deadbolts should have been installed long ago, but doing so now would create the added assurance that no one lacking both keys could enter her home, even if May lost or misplaced one, “not to mention it will be about half the price of replacing the existing locks,” he added as the final inducement.

  “All things c
onsidered, I think you need a break from the routine tomorrow,” I told May as we shrugged into our sweaters and collected purses at the end of the evening. “How about coming with me to Vista View to meet some of our cronies there and check the place out? If you come home and find another large, drooling dog leashed to your dining room table, you might want to consider a nice third-floor unit in one of our secure buildings,” I teased.

  “Don’t even think it,” she groaned, “but yes, that sounds like fun. Maybe we could even get a real, cooked lunch in the dining facility there instead of slurping microwaved soup in the middle of the day.” She brightened visibly at the thought.

  “You’ll love the dining room at Vista View. Dominick’s food is the best part of our days there,” Strutter concurred.

  “And you can give those old hens some competition for the few remainin’ roosters,” Margo twitted her, “not that you’d want any of ‘em.”

  “Never mind, May. I’ll introduce you to Bert Rosenthal myself. He’s wonderful company and can give you the inside scoop on all the latest goings-on,” I promised.

  “Goings-on at a retirement village? What’s the current hot scandal, somebody cheating at bridge?” May laughed.

  My partners and I exchanged glances. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” I told her, “and anyway, don’t you write mysteries about naughty activities in a retirement community?” On that note, we said our goodnights.

  When I got back to The Birches, I was disappointed to find that Armando wasn’t at home yet, but he’d warned me that morning he might be very late. There was a big strategy pow-wow after normal work hours at TeleCom, and he didn’t know how long it might last. It seemed to me that there was always some long, unnecessary meeting going on at TeleCom, which was part of the reason I’d left the company years ago. Corporate life with its incumbent empire-building and power plays had been of no interest to me, so I’d left a marketing management role to return to my administrative roots at a huge Hartford law firm, which was where I’d met Margo and Strutter. That environment turned out to be a whole other can of worms, but at least the three of us had made our escape and created Mack Realty. Our strong friendship made everything that had gone before worthwhile.

  By ten o’clock I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I left Armando’s dinner plate in the microwave and put a note on the kitchen table, saying I hoped all had gone well at the meeting, and we’d talk in the morning. I barely had enough energy left to brush my teeth and wash my face before crawling into bed, where sleep claimed me almost instantly.

  Friday morning, the alarm woke me at seven-thirty, as usual. I was surprised to find Gracie snoring at my feet, Armando being her preferred nighttime companion, and I jumped out of bed to bring him coffee in atonement for my abandonment of the previous evening. The house was quiet, and I debated waking him with coffee or allowing him to sleep in after his late night. A page from the grocery pad lay on the kitchen table, and I went to crumple up what I assumed was my note from the previous evening for the recycling bin as I waited for the coffee brewer to do its thing; but to my surprise a note from Armando had replaced mine. Cara, I did not wish to wake you, as you and Gracie were sleeping so peacefully, but I needed to return to TeleCom very early this morning to prepare some documentation for the ongoing negotiations. We will talk later today. XO.

  It was a message that reassured and disconcerted me simultaneously. Well, at least Armando was alive and kicking, I comforted myself. No doubt I would learn more this evening. In the meantime, Vista View beckoned, so I made my way to the shower.

  I picked up May and pointed the Jetta toward the retirement complex on the Wethersfield-Rocky Hill border, and it took us there. After years of weekly round-trips, the car needed only an occasional reminder from me to stop at red traffic signals, it seemed.

  I was a bit concerned that May might be aghast at the idea of mature homeowners, many younger than she, abandoning their houses in favor of communal living. As feisty and independent as she was, I felt certain she would consider it a comedown in life. Worse, she might decide I was giving her a hint in light of recent events at her present abode.

  To my relief, she was enchanted with her first glimpse of Vista View. I had to admit that the grounds and gardens my friend Ginny had worked so diligently to plan and maintain had never looked better. From the blazing reds and yellows of the foliage to the late blooming asters, knock-out roses and ornamental grasses, everything was in full autumnal glory.

  Since we had a few minutes to spare before I needed to staff the sales desk, I made a leisurely circuit of the meandering roads of the complex, pointing out the various facilities designed to meet every need of Vista View’s residents. They, too, were in contented evidence as they jogged, walked well-mannered dogs or tidied up the community vegetable garden at the rear of the property. Many lifted a hand in greeting, and I waved back, happy in the knowledge that Mack Realty had helped more than a few of them make the transition here over the past few years.

  May listened to my sales patter with a big smile on her face and made the occasional appreciative comment. “What a good idea,” she said about the vegetable garden, and “You’d never guess which units are for assisted livin’ residents, would you?” regarding the Phase II buildings.

  At length I parked in the visitors’ lot by the administration building, and May helped me lug my laptop and briefcase full of sales literature inside. As I’d hoped he would, Bert Rosenthal appeared as we were setting up the sales desk.

  “Hi, Gorgeous,” he greeted me with his customary enthusiasm. “How’s my favorite nonresident this beautiful morning? Please tell me this lovely lady with you will be joining us for coffee.” He gave me a big wink and ogled May. Coming from the dapper elf in his thick spectacles, his open admiration came across as merely friendly, not lecherous.

  “Maybelle Farnsworth,” May introduced herself, holding out her hand, “and you must be Bert. Kate’s told me all about you.” She twinkled almost girlishly as Bert bent low over her hand in a courtly bow.

  “Has she now? That ought to save us a lot of time then.” He straightened his bow tie and crooked an arm in her direction. “May I introduce you to our dining facilities? I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  May threw me an amused look and took his arm. “I can smell cinnamon pastry and fresh coffee from here, so I’m sure I won’t be. Coming, Kate?” This last floated over her shoulder as the two strolled toward the dining room.

  “Be with you in a minute, not that you’ll miss me,” I called back, but they were already deep in conversation. Bert had that effect on women, I’d noticed, which made him a very popular rooster in the Vista View hen house.

  By the time I got to the dining room, Bert and May had formed the nucleus of a sizable group of residents who were enjoying Dominick’s sticky buns and hot drinks while catching up on the latest gossip. I found myself in the cafeteria line behind Ada and Lavinia Henstock, longtime friends and clients who had moved into one of Vista View’s assisted living units the year before. After collecting my coffee and visiting with them for a few minutes, I caught May’s eye and tapped my watch, indicating I really had to return to the lobby and would see her there.

  As I left the dining room I narrowly avoided colliding with Isabelle Marchand, who was hesitating in the entryway.

  “Hi, Isabelle, anything wrong?” She was obviously reluctant to enter the busy room, and I wondered why. Her smile was a little on the forlorn side, I thought.

  “No, nothing. It’s just that I hate to spoil the party.” She gestured toward Bert’s table from which yet another peal of laughter emanated.

  “It would be hard for anyone to spoil that party,” I assured her. “Why do you think you would?”

  She looked genuinely perplexed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems as if every time I walk into a public room here, things get very quiet all of a sudden.”

  As if on cue, two women at the table caught sight of us at the entrance, fl
apped their hands and made none-too-discreet shushing noises. May glanced across the room at me, confused. I knew how she felt, but then I remembered Bert’s less than flattering characterization of Isabelle at our earlier meeting. I waved at May to come and join us.

  “I brought a friend with me today, and I’d like you to meet her. Why not grab a cup of whatever and come drink it with us at the sales desk?” I improvised. Despite Bert’s apparent protestations, May was extricating herself from the coffee klatch and apologizing her way across the room to where we stood. Isabelle smiled with something like relief.

  “I’d love to, thank you. Be with you in a minute.”

  In the few minutes before Isabelle joined us in the lobby, I filled May in on Isabelle’s suspicions.

  “I got that impression, too, when those ladies caught sight of Isabelle coming into the dining room. They all seemed so fun-loving and friendly up to that point. What on earth do you think could be causing their reaction? Even Bert, who strikes me as the soul of kindness, got a sour look on his puss.”

  We tabled our discussion as Isabelle reached us. I made the introductions, and May made a special effort to exude welcoming warmth, I noticed. After a few minutes of chitchat, I remembered Isabelle’s comment during our earlier conversation about this job giving her more time for reading.

  “What kinds of things do you enjoy reading, Isabelle? I’m an avid reader myself, and May here is even more involved in the novel business. She wouldn’t tell you herself, but she’s quite a well-known mystery author.”