“I don’t buy it,” Teeny said. “You’re corrupt! You’d do anything in the name of progress and power! This is just like those stoplights all over again.”
“Those stoplights were for safety,” the mayor said. “But I understand your doubts. Maybe this will change your mind.”
Delgado stood up from her desk, climbed onto her chair, and glided her hand along the top of the curtain valance. Seconds later, she climbed back down, holding two tiny electronic devices in her hand.
She put the devices down on the desk and Teeny, Miss May and I gathered to get a closer look. Teeny put on her glasses and squinted to see the little devices. Neither was bigger than a fingernail and each featured a tiny blinking red light.
“What are these?” Miss May asked.
“These are listening devices. The FBI installed them and used them to observe my meetings with Rosenberg.”
The mayor walked around the room and retrieved a dozen other listening devices from other hiding places. Under the table. Inside a lamp. Behind one of her eighteen million diplomas.
Teeny remained suspicious. “These devices prove nothing. Maybe you had them installed because you were bribing people or extorting them and you wanted collateral. Anybody can buy this stuff. My nephew bought spy equipment on eBay and used it to catch his mechanic taking a nap in his car.”
Mayor Delgado shook her head. “Fine. You want real proof? Indisputable evidence?”
Miss May, Teeny, and I exchanged looks. Yeah. We did.
Linda crossed to her desk and dialed a number on her speakerphone. The phone rang a few times. Then a robotic voice crackled over the line.
“Please enter verification code. Please enter verification code.”
Linda entered what had to be at least 50 numbers into her phone, by heart. She shot us a satisfied glanced as she entered the last number. Finally, the phone rang again and a gruff, male voice answered.
“This is Agent Gomez,” said the man over the phone.
“Agent Gomez,” the mayor said, “this is Linda Delgado. In Pine Grove.”
“Again? I told you. We’re working on it. I’m running it up the chain.”
“My constituents do not want to see that Massive Mart constructed. And neither do I,” the mayor said.
“Yeah. You mentioned,” said Agent Gomez. “I’m on it. But can we talk later? I’m undercover in the sewer and the more I talk the more the odor seeps into my mouth.”
“Keep me informed.” Linda hung up.
Miss May, Teeny and I sat there. Flabbergasted.
Then mayor crossed to her door and opened it. “Don’t forget to vote for me in next year’s election.”
31
Suddenly No Susan
TEENY, MISS MAY AND I climbed into the van in stunned silence. A massive scandal had hit our small-town mayor square in the chest. And although Delgado’s job description included little more than potholes and traffic lights, this bribery scandal had embroiled her in the most drama Pine Grove had seen since Prohibition.
I felt a shockwave of sympathy for Mayor Delgado. She hadn’t shown it, but the past few months must have stressed the mayor beyond belief.
FBI agents. Secret bribes. Toss in a couple dead bodies? It surprised me the mayor hadn’t ballooned to 900 pounds from stress- eating potato chips and swallowing gumballs whole.
That’s normal stress-eating, right?
I turned to Miss May. “What do we do now?”
Miss May shrugged. “First we decide if we believe what we’ve witnessed.”
“It seemed credible,” I said.
Teeny stuck her head up from the backseat. “I agree. That thing with the phone. And the hidden recording devices. She didn’t know we were planning to show up there. I don’t think she could have prepared all that proof just for our benefit.”
“I’m not suggesting the mayor prepared anything for us,” Miss May said. “But what if she didn’t tell us the whole truth? What if her deal with Rosenberg went bad and she took matters into her own hands?”
I shook my head. “That’s not the impression I got.”
“I know,” Miss May said. “Me neither.”
“You’re just being friends with the devil?” Teeny asked.
“I’m playing devil’s advocate, yes,” Miss May said. “But if we don’t think the mayor did it, we only have one suspect remaining.”
Teeny and I exchanged glances.
“Susan?” I asked.
Miss May nodded.
“I guess that’s true,” I said. “If the mayor didn’t commit these murders, Susan makes the most sense.”
“I don’t know,” Teeny said. “May. Remember the cookie party Susan had last year? Her Peanut Butter Thumbprints were so delicious.”
“So?”
“So do you really think the woman who baked those treats could have killed her husband in cold mud?”
“Cold blood,” I muttered.
“Whatever!” Teeny glared. “You get what I mean.”
“Cold mud doesn’t make any sense,” I protested.
“Susan’s cookies were delicious,” Miss May said. “But I don’t think that means she’s innocent.”
“So let’s go with the theory that Susan killed Rosenberg,” I said. “But then who killed Wallace?”
“Hold on a second,” Miss May said. “What if Wallace killed Rosenberg over the apartment thing? And then Susan killed Wallace to avenge her Rosenberg’s death?”
“I doubt she’d care enough,” Teeny said. “I mean, the woman wanted a divorce.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t love him,” I said.
Miss May looked over at me. “You speak from experience?”
“Kind of. I mean... Mike is a scum bucket who left me at the altar. But his death would devastate me. I guess human emotions are complicated like that.”
“That is complicated,” Teeny said. “But also you’re crazy.”
Miss May turned back to Teeny. “Crazier than the woman with separate rooms for everything? And aren’t those cookies maybe a little too perfect?”
“No cookie is too perfect for me,” Teeny said. “But I do think Susan might have done the deed. It’s like they always say, ‘You can take the pickle out of the juice, but you can’t take the juice out of the pickle if your dad already cleaned the jar.”
“No one says that,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a know-it-all. But no one says that about pickles.”
“Why are you always picking on me?” Teeny huffed.
“Will you two quit it?” Miss May said. “It’s seeming more and more likely that Susan is a killer. And if we keep chatting in this parking lot she could get away. Or strike again.”
“Way to kill the mood,” I said.
“Now is not the time for murder puns, Chelsea,” Miss May said.
I threw up my hands. “Then when is!?”
“Fine,” Miss May said. “That was a fine time for a pun. But if Susan’s the killer, we need to get over there. Fast.”
I buckled up and Miss May screeched out of the parking lot. Off to find another killer in Pine Grove.
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT the Rosenberg’s big creepy castle, no one was home. I hate to admit it, but the empty driveway relieved me. Sometimes when you’re about to confront a killer, it’s nice to take a raincheck. What can I say?
“No one’s home,” I said. “Oh well. Let’s go get lunch. Suddenly I’m in the mood for a pickle sandwich.”
“That’s disgusting,” Miss May said. “And a bad idea.”
“Nu-uh!” I said. “It’s a delicious combination, you just haven’t tried it.”
“I’m not talking about the pickles,” Miss May said. “I don’t think we should take off just because Susan isn’t home. I think we should look for clues.”
Teeny crossed her fingers and closed her eyes. “Please say we can sneak inside. Please say we can sneak inside. Please say we can sneak inside.”
Miss May grinned. “I think m
aybe we should sneak inside.”
Ugh.
Moments later, I stepped into the Rosenberg’s backyard and my eyes widened. The place felt like a cross between a retirement community and a luxury oasis. Lush rosebushes lined a stately stone wall around the back of the yard. A beautiful in-ground pool beckoned from an inset stone patio. And a pristine bocce ball court had been built beside the garden.
I loved everything about the place. Miss May did not. “This is a bizarre backyard,” she said. “Too pristine. Too tidy.”
“And who has a bocce ball court in suburban New York?” Teeny said. “So weird.”
“That’s not even the weirdest part of this place,” Miss May said. “Wait until you see inside.”
Teeny’s smiled. “Oh yeah! The creepy separate rooms. I can’t wait.”
I turned toward Teeny. “You didn’t see the inside of the house at the cookie parties?”
Teeny shook her head. “Susan hosted those at her country club, remember?”
“I hope she’s innocent,” I said. “I kind of want to go next year.”
Teeny’s eyes lit up. “Oh! We could try a copycat recipe. Head back to the bakeshop and whip up a batch.”
“No one is going back to the bakeshop.” Miss May looked up at the massive home. “We need to find a way inside.”
Teeny waved Miss May off. “That’ll be easy. Remember how nimble I am? I’ll hop into the window like a little kangaroo.” Teeny hopped around on one foot.
“I don’t think any hopping will be necessary.” I gestured toward the house. “That sliding door is open a crack.”
“Phooey!” Teeny said. “But convenient.”
Miss May and I laughed and headed toward the sliding door. But before we got there a teenage girl emerged from the house, holding a chubby little cat.
The cat looked just like the girl. Squinty eyes, grumpy face, and a layer of baby pudge. They were both cute but a little scary. Like I wasn’t sure if they were planning to hug me or bite me.
The girl narrowed her eyes when she saw us, but Miss May jumped in with a big smile before the girl spoke. “Hi there! How are you doing today?”
The girl looked confused. It didn’t seem possible, but she narrowed her eyes even further. And she spoke in a nasally voice that surprised me. “Why are you smiling at me? You have perfect teeth. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
“Thank you so much for noticing. I had braces in my thirties, believe it or not. It wasn’t easy, but the results have paid off.”
The girl held her cat close. “If you’re selling something I’m not buying.”
Miss May chuckled. “We’re not selling anything. We’re the interior designers. Your... mom? Susan. She hired us.”
“You mean my aunt. My aunt Susan.”
Miss May nodded. “That’s right. And what did you say your name was?”
“Gwyneth.”
“Gwyneth. Beautiful name. Anyway, Gwyneth. We’re here to help your aunt redecorate. But why am I talking? My associate Chelsea is the lead designer on our team.”
I croaked. “Yup. That’s me.”
A confused look passed over Gwyneth’s face. “I don’t get it. Are you from the same company as the designers who were here yesterday?”
“Yup!” Miss May didn’t miss a milli-step. “Those were our junior associates. Now Chelsea is here to make the final decisions. Do a few sketches. You know, interior design stuff. That is such a cute cat. What’s its name?”
“Oh,” Gwyneth said. “This is my noble little mister. His name is Alan Greenspan. I got him last year when we were learning about the Federal Reserve. He’s tremendous. Just like the real Alan Greenspan.”
“Alan Greenspan, eh?” Teeny stepped forward. “He’s not single by any chance, is he?”
Gwyneth wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. Do cats date?”
Teeny shrugged. “In this town they do. And I think I might know the perfect match.”
“But we’re not here to bring cats together as life mates and partners,” Miss May said, steering the conversation back toward our mission. “So we’ll just head inside.”
Miss May stepped past Gwyneth and entered the Rosenberg house. “You have a nice day now.”
Teeny and I followed Miss May inside.
I breathed a sigh of relief as soon as Gwyneth was in our rearview. “Wow. That was a close one. That girl—”
“OK. So do you want to tell me what you’re thinking for the design? My aunt wants me to pass on pertinent information.”
We turned around. There was Gwyneth. And there was Alan Greenspan. Both staring at us with their intense, judgmental eyes.
And thus began the most nerve-racking interior design consultation of my career.
32
Design to Die For
TEENAGE GIRLS BY REPUTATION are flighty and unfocused. Much to my dismay, Gwyneth was neither. She had refined taste, high expectations, and an attitude to match.
As soon as Gwyneth had closed the screen door, she gestured to the drawing room we had entered. “Let’s start here. My aunt expects something exquisite at every turn. I want to hear you pitch on what you would do to make this room, and I’m quoting Aunty here, ‘divine.’”
I looked around and it surprised me to see the room was drab. There was a floral couch along one wall. Dentist-office-art decorated another wall. A coffee table lingered off to the side like a weirdo at a cocktail party. OK. Like me at a cocktail party.
“OK,” I said. “I think there’s a lot of potential in this room.”
“Potential is meaningless without a visionary to bring it to fruition,” Gwyneth said. “I believe Alan Greenspan said that once.”
Alan the cat meowed. “Not you, kitty. Alan Greenspan the human man.”
Miss May nodded. “I agree, Gwyneth. You’re smart. You must be an advanced student at your school.”
“Please don’t butter me up.” Gwyneth scratched Alan Greenspan behind his ear. “This interior design job will make your company’s fiduciary quarter sing like a mockingbird in a Las Vegas casino. You want the job, you need to earn it. And let me tell you, those fools you sent yesterday did not impress me.”
“I understand.” Miss May turned to Teeny. “How about you and I look around the rest of the house while Chelsea and Gwyneth review the plan for this room?”
Teeny smiled. “Sounds like a great idea. We’ll see if we can find some clues.”
Gwyneth narrowed her eyes further yet. How could she see like that?
“Clues? What are you talking about?”
Teeny gulped and made a series of noises that weren’t quite words. “Flllllfff. Haaaaannn. Owwwphhh. Shhhhh.”
Miss May stepped in. “‘Clue’ is the word we use for inspiration. We try to find clues everywhere we go. Because each room is a mystery waiting to be solved.”
The girl nodded. “Interesting. You’ve impressed me. Go. Find your clues.”
Miss May and Teeny exited and Gwyneth turned to me. “OK. Let’s get down and dirty, flirty thirty. And don’t forget: the more specifics you provide, the better.”
“I’m not thirty yet,” I said.
“Figure of speech. Talk.”
I nodded. Wiped the sweat from my forehead and wished I could also wipe it off of the small of my back. But something told me I needed to maintain more decorum than that in Gwyneth’s company.
“Um... OK. Let’s start by discussing windows. Now this room has plenty of light and those sliding glass doors are incredible. And I think we can use the abundance of glass as a pivotal element in our design.”
The girl shook her head. “Basic. Boring. Do you want this job or do you want to go on unemployment?”
“Uh, that’s not how unemployment works,” I said. Gwyneth glared. “But yes. Sorry. I want the job.”
Weird. The job wasn’t real, but I really wanted it. Perhaps I missed the competitive spirit of pitching prospective clients, I thought. Since I had left the city, I had only decorated for e
vents at the orchard and in our event barn. But Gwyneth activated a dormant part of my personality and transformed me into a superhero, like an interior design version of Jason Bourne. Maybe I could seek more jobs on my own, I thought. After we solved the murders.
Gwyneth snapped three times fast. “Hey. Stop daydreaming. You’re on the clock, lady. I want to hear something good. Original.”
I took a deep breath and glanced around the room once more. It wouldn’t have been difficult to suggest switching out the furniture for a few mid-century modern pieces, painting the walls an elegant gray and adding a pop of color. Those ideas were tried and true. But somehow I couldn’t make myself suggest normal design. Instead, you guessed it, I got nervous and babbled.
“First thing you need to do is demolish that far wall,” I said. Wait, what?! Why did I say that?
The girl looked over at the wall. “I’m listening.”
“I’m assuming there’s a dining room on the other side?” I asked.
The girl nodded.
No turning back now.
“Dining rooms are over. Antiquated. No one eats in dining rooms anymore. Life is casual in the modern era, and so is eating. Light, hip, fun. Restaurants barely even have tables anymore.”
I knew what I was saying was ridiculous but Gwyneth seemed intrigued. I barreled ahead.
“So I think this room should be an anti-dining room. No tables, no chairs. Just... hammocks.”
“Hammocks?”
“Several hammocks,” I said. “Hanging from the ceiling. And potted plants, too. Hundreds. I want people to look up and see a labyrinth of plants and hammocks dangling from above. Think modern jungle with a romantic twist.”
I knew my ideas were absurd. And the phrase ‘modern jungle with a romantic twist’ would disgust my colleagues from design school.
Fortunately my audience was a 15-year-old girl with a cat named Alan Greenspan. She was eating it up with a knife and fork, typing notes into her smart phone. My radical suggestions were edgy, and that seemed to be what Gwyneth wanted.
“Now this is refreshing,” Gwyneth said. “Keep going. Keep going.”
Berried Alive Page 18
