In Plain Sight (8 page)

The only room that actually looked lived in was what she called the den, obviously more accurately an office. It held an imposing array of computer equipment, a file cabinet, a couple of large folding tables, a fax machine, a scanner, and a large, professional-looking copier. (No more two-dollar charges from insubordinate bookkeepers?)

But it was the messy array of papers and scattered manila folders that really startled me, so unlike the pristine sterility of the other rooms in the house. I mean, this room looked as if a mischievous child had been playing paper Frisbee. A rumpled blanket and pillow on a sofa suggested Leslie even slept in this room occasionally. She did not offer to explain what she did here, of course, but I was mildly relieved by the clutter. It suggested Leslie Marcone had a human streak after all. Maybe she even forgot to shave her legs occasionally.

I could tell from the steady green light that the computer was on, but the screen was dark, not revealing what she’d been doing.

“You needn’t bother cleaning in here unless I specifically request it,” she said, dousing any hopes I might have of finding out what the clutter was all about.

Back in the kitchen, she repeated what she’d said when offering me the job, that her midday meal should be served at 11:30. “I’m up by 5:00 or earlier, so I prefer to eat early. This also allows sufficient time between the meal and my afternoon exercise.”

“You’re a very dedicated jogger. I’ve seen you on the trail almost every day.”

“Oh?” She looked down her nose at me, figuratively if not literally, and I suspected I wasn’t the first trail walker she’d ignored. “I don’t care to interrupt my exercise with irrelevant chitchat.”

Equal-opportunity snubbing. Very democratic.

Back in the kitchen, she reached for a handle on one of the cabinets, which turned out to be the hiding place of the refrigerator. I mentally marked its location, afraid I might not be able to find it again in the long expanse of cabinetry.

“I’ll handle the grocery shopping myself. You will not be involved with that. I prefer my meat rare and my vegetables crisp. A fruit-based dessert two or three times a week is acceptable.” She tilted her head, as if considering something, and finally added, “On rare occasions, perhaps something chocolate.”

Another I-am-human-after-all streak. I was pleased.

I’d pegged Leslie as a vegetarian. It seemed to go with her spartan exercise routine. Not so. From the looks of the immaculate refrigerator shelves Leslie was definitely a red meat eater. Steak, chops, a small roast, all very lean. Canadian-style bacon, again very lean. The vegetables were ordinary, non-exotic varieties: lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, cucumbers, broccoli, cabbage. Although there was some green stuff I didn’t recognize, and I figured those out-of-season peaches in the crisper must have cost a fortune.

Leslie Marcone, I decided with some bemusement, was a woman of unexpected contradictions in all areas of her life.

She went back to her computer, closing the door behind her. After figuring out the central vacuum system, I vacuumed, dusted, cleaned the bathroom, and changed the sheets on the bed. No, the sheets were not satin. But definitely a more expensive cotton than my Penney’s variety. None of the cleaning appeared to me to really
need
doing. I had no idea how long she’d been without a housekeeper, but dirt had not accumulated. But then, I suppose I’m a bit on the dirt-tolerant side; I had dust bunnies under the bed back on Madison Street that could have applied for old-age pensions.

For her meal, I broiled the sirloin steak, dressed up a baked potato with bacon bits and cheese, and made a salad. I tossed in some of the unknown green stuff after testing and finding it had a nice peppery taste. Apple tart for dessert.

She made no comments about the meal, but she left nothing uneaten on the plate, so I took that as approval. She didn’t say what I was supposed to do about my own lunch, so I skipped it. I asked if she’d like me to prepare something and leave it for her supper. She said no, but I did wrap what was left of the tart and put it in the refrigerator.

At 2:00, after I managed to locate and use the dishwasher, I knocked on the closed door of the den. “I’ll be leaving now, unless you need me to stay longer … ?”

“Not today. After this you needn’t inform me when you’re leaving.”

On my way out I peeked in the garage and saw a light blue Mercedes parked in a space that would easily hold four vehicles. It looked lonely in there all by itself.

The same could be said of Leslie in her big house.

I had to go through town to get around to the far side of the lake, which took me past the roofing manufacturer where Mike had been employed. I splurged on a Hawaiian pizza for a late lunch, chatted with some folks from church at the pizza parlor, and picked up a few items at the grocery store. Out of curiosity, I detoured through the city park on the way home. Leslie’s Mercedes was there, imperiously angled across two parking spaces to keep other vehicles from getting too close.

I looked at the clock when I got home. Three-thirty here. Which meant it was … what in Hawaii? Midmorning? I dialed DeeAnn’s number. She was in the middle of trying to figure out what to do with some poi she’d acquired, but she said it could wait. “Maybe it will improve with age,” she said philosophically. “Right now it tastes like that old flour-paste goop Sandy and I used to mix up when she was about four years old.”

We chatted for a few minutes about Sandy’s trip and other doings here, and then I got down to the real purpose of my call.

8

“You did some work for this rather mysterious woman who lives across the lake, didn’t you? Leslie Marcone?”

“Oh, yes.” I heard a roll of eyes in her tone.

“Would it be breaking any confidences to tell me about her?”

“Why would you want to know about her?”

“Because I’m her new housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper!” DeeAnn echoed. “Leslie Marcone’s housekeeper?”

She sounded as if she wouldn’t be any more astounded if I’d announced I was the new bartender at a local tavern.In a miniskirt. I explained how this hd come about and added what I thought were the magic words. “She’s paying me twelve-fifty an hour.”

“Well, that is generous for Woodston,” DeeAnn conceded. “Did she have you fill out any forms, such as a W-4 for the IRS?”

“No.”

“Figures. That was the sticking point between us. What I did was help her set up a system to keep track of her stock market purchases and sales—”

“Oh, that’s what she’s doing in there on the computer all day!”

“She isn’t actually one of those high-powered day traders, but she does a considerable amount of buying and selling.”

“Doesn’t the broker keep track of all that?”

“I should think so. Unless discount brokers on the Internet operate differently. In any case, she wanted her own record-keeping system as well.”

“I don’t think Leslie is a very … ummm … trusting person. I’m sure she’d want to have her own records so she could check everything down to the penny.”

“My sentiments exactly.” After a thoughtful pause she added, “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Is she untrusting because someone betrayed her trust? Or because she betrayed someone else’s trust and figures everyone is out to do the same thing to her?”

I hadn’t thought that deeply about Leslie’s peculiarities, but it did make me wonder. Though careful record keeping could have nothing to do with trust and mean only that she was a cautious person.

“Anyway, that part of our business relationship was more or less okay, although she was so secretive that it was difficult getting enough information out of her to set things up properly. Then I learned she was hiring a new housekeeper.”

“How often does she do this?” I asked, alarmed.

“My impression is that she flips them like hotcakes. But, as you know, my attitude toward Leslie is not exactly unprejudiced. Anyway, I asked if she’d like me to make sure her records were set up properly to take care of taxes and Social Security and everything for an employee. She said no, that wouldn’t be necessary. I pointed out that, legally, she had to keep records and pay her half of the employee’s Social Security. I photocopied some of the regulations and gave them to her.”

Which probably explained the two-dollar charge that had Leslie foaming at the mouth.

“She said that was ridiculous, and that if I weren’t such an incompetent bookkeeper I’d know how to get around such bureaucratic nonsense. At that point, I decided it would be best to terminate our relationship. I didn’t want to find myself implicated in any questionable maneuvers concerning employees or stock transactions. I suppose I also took exception to being called incompetent.”

“Can I keep track of my earnings and take care of the taxes and Social Security myself?”

“That should keep you out of hot water. Though I don’t know that it will help Leslie if they catch up with her.” DeeAnn hesitated a moment and then added, “Watch out for her. I wouldn’t put it past her to—”

She broke off, and after a moment of silence I prompted her with, “To what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” DeeAnn laughed as if embarrassed about her melodramatic warning. “Just be careful, okay? She’s sharp. And not above bending—or breaking—the rules.”

“Do you know how she acquired all her money?”

“No, and I have to admit I’ve certainly wondered. Not on the stock market, because she hadn’t been into trading for long when I set up the bookkeeping system for her. I thought maybe she received a big inheritance.”

Possible. That theory went along with what Leslie had said about inheriting her father’s library. Although she didn’t strike me as having come from old money. The thought then occurred to me that she may have won some huge award in a lawsuit. She’d apparently been quick enough to think “sue” in relation to the gate-ramming neighbor. And there was always Sandy’s theory about her grabbing some “rich old guy’s” money in a divorce. “You wouldn’t happen to know who her former housekeeper was, would you?”

“She’s had several, but the last I heard Cass Diedrich was working for her. Cass brings her kids to Sunday school sometimes, but she doesn’t usually stay for church.”

“Maybe I’ll look her up.”

“Everything going okay for you otherwise?” DeeAnn asked. “No problems with the Braxtons?”

“I’m not even thinking about Braxtons these days,” I assured her.

“Good. Tell Sandy to call when she gets time.”

Friday and Saturday also went fine at Leslie’s. By Saturday, when the remainder of the tart still hadn’t been eaten, I tossed it and made a mental note for future reference: Leslie did not eat leftovers.

I also made another discovery. While doing the once-a-week requisite cleaning of the unused rooms upstairs, I found, as Skye had once speculated, one room equipped with enough exercise machines to turn a whole herd of Dumplings from fat to fit. I could identify a treadmill, but how the other machines worked escaped me. They had weights and pulleys and springs and belts. Probably, I decided, for muscle groups I didn’t even possess.

Checking with Leslie first, I managed to spend a few minutes in the treasure trove of boxes in the library on Saturday. Oh, my. Everything from Dickens and Longfellow to Steinbeck and Ellery Queen!

She’d told me I didn’t have to notify her when I left, but I ventured a peek through the door at 2:00 to say I’d see her on Monday, in case she’d forgotten I didn’t come Sundays. The office door was open today, which I presumed was because the stock market was closed on Saturday and her privacy and/or concentration were not such a high priority.

“I appreciate that I have Sunday off,” I added.

She picked up an envelope on her desk and handed it to me. It rustled nicely. My partial week’s pay!

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and this—” She reached in a drawer, pulled out a dark oblong thing that looked a little bit like a TV remote control, and handed it to me. “It’s for the gate. I mentioned earlier that I’d give you one.”

Yes, if our arrangement proved satisfactory. No word about the status of my work, but, with Leslie, I suspected this gesture took the place of words. I felt quite elated.

“There’s a numerical keypad on it,” she added, “but it’s programmed and all you have to do is punch that button at the top.”

“Thank you. I was thinking … I go to Woodston Community Church. If you aren’t already attending somewhere else, it’s a lovely little church, everyone very welcoming and friendly—”

“I get up early six days of the week, so on Sundays I allow myself to sleep in. If the weather is good, I sometimes jog in the morning instead of the afternoon. The trail is less crowded.”

Obviously a no, although it came with an explanation, which was unusual for none-of-your-business Leslie.

“In the eternal scheme of things a relationship with the Lord is more important than rising early or extra sleep. Or even exercise,” I offered gently.

“I don’t believe in eternity.”

And the door closed in my face.

A discouraging reaction, but not necessarily final, I decided optimistically. Yet I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, as I do for anyone who doesn’t live with the wonderful expectation of eternity with the Lord.

On the way home I saw a pickup parked at the house where elderly Lois Watkins had lived before her death. A man was lugging a couple of bulky garbage bags from the house to the pickup. Her son, I assumed, with the sad task of sorting through her things.

On impulse, after I got home, I walked over to express my sympathies.

I introduced myself, identifying my connection with DeeAnn and Mike and motioning to their house down the road where I lived now. He identified himself as Hanson Watkins, the son. We shook hands, his a solid, big-handed grip that swallowed mine. He was fiftyish, a large man with an overhanging belly, balding head, and an open, good-natured face that showed lines of wear and tear at the moment.

“I’m so sorry about your mother. I didn’t know Lois well, but I usually stopped in to see her when I was visiting here. She was such a sweet woman, always so cheerful even though her arthritis must have been painful. She was very proud of you.”