Murder Takes to the Hills (2 page)

“It’s very interesting,” I said neutrally, and then the laugh got away from me.

“It’s not funny!” she snapped. “Now I’ll have to go by the house with those thugs peering through the window while I change. I’ll be late to work. How could you do this to me?”

“Me? How do you figure it’s my fault?”

“You picked up the cleaning yesterday.”

“I nearly always pick up the cleaning,” I answered reasonably. “I do not pick out what you wear to work.”

“You could have called me and told me everything you picked up clashed.”

“Darling, I never even look at what I redeem from that bunch of thieves. I just pay their ransom and bring the stuff home. If I phoned you in the middle of a workday to tell you what portions of your wardrobe I had in the car, you’d think I had lost my mind.”

“Well,” she answered weakly, “now is different, with all this shit going on!”

My eyebrows went up. Cindy rarely swore, and almost never
scatologically
.
 
I still tried to be reasonable…I thought. “Look, I’ve got a clean white shirt in the bureau, and your light blue jeans are here—that should do it. It’s dress-down Friday.”

“It’s not
that
dress-down, and anyway, I’m not going in there wearing a too-big shirt, probably with a frayed collar. Alex, you’re just impossible!”

“No.” At this point I was a little snappy myself. “
I
am not impossible, I’m just trying to be helpful. Anyway, where are all your clothes that were here the other day? Isn’t there something you could wear?”
 
I didn’t mention that this mindless discussion was making her ever later for work: that would dawn on her soon enough.

“I took them home. The closets were getting so crowded.”

“Couldn’t you have left just one or two outfits and some shoes? That way I wouldn’t need to be your personal dresser and try to figure out what you’d like to wear every time I get
your
cleaning.”

“You don’t have to get snotty and…”

“Girls, girls! For heaven’s sake, I heard you all the way in my house.” My Aunt Mae came up the stairs onto the deck, looking like a troubled pouter pigeon wearing glasses slightly awry. Her still-pretty round face belied her late fifties age…even if she
had
put on a pound or ten. Always soft-spoken, this morning her voice had a bit of a low-pitched edge to it. Had she really heard us all the way up the hill?
  

“Now,” she said quietly, “I know workmen around a house are noisy and inconvenient, but you are both behaving like children. Here, Cindy, this light tan blouse of mine should fit you pretty well, and go with your blazer and skirt, and these tan shoes should get you through the day.
 
Run inside and change before you’re good and late. You two would still be at it at lunchtime.” She shoved the clothing into Cindy’s arms and pushed her gently toward the door. Cindy went.

“Goodness, I hate to hear you two quarrel.” Raised voices were not in Aunt Mae’s repertoire. “You’re both strung out with all this repair and remodeling, but you shouldn’t take it out on each other. I hope you don’t do this often.”

“You’re right Aunt Mae.” I was embarrassed that she had heard us all the way up the hill. “We rarely quarrel, honestly. I guess we are just feeling put upon or put out or some damn thing. Even Wells and Fargo are grumpy.”

“Well, they have some excuse…they don’t understand what’s going on. You two…”

“…have no excuse whatsoever,” Cindy completed for her. She came out looking reasonably well put together if not quite her perfect self.
 
“I should probably move under the bed with Wells and we could hiss and scratch together. I am sorry for my operatic performance.” She kissed us both on the cheek and started off the deck to her car.

“You know what?” Aunt Mae called after her. “You both need a vacation. Leave the carpentry to the carpenters and go away somewhere. I’m serious.”

“And probably right,” I agreed.

“Ah, Paris in the spring!” Cindy sighed.

“Chestnuts in blossom,” Aunt Mae added.

“Do you think the Louvre would like some of my photos?” I asked.

Neither of them answered.

CHAPTER TWO

I had returned to the house and was just wrapping up the spring cleaning activities in my office when the phone rang. Fortunately, the Orrick boys were working on the other side of the house, and I could actually hear my caller.
 

“Alex? Ralph Ryder here.” Ralph and Becky Ryder ran a B&B down in the East end, and their insurance company was one that kept me on retainer to check out personal injury claims. They ran a tight ship, one might say, and I didn’t recall ever dealing with a claim against them. In fact I hardly knew them.

“Ah, yes, Ralph, what can I do for you?”

“Well, we’ve got a spot of trouble here, and I thought I should ring you up.”

Then I remembered: Ralph had moved here from England when he was about three, but held doggedly to his accent, tweedy clothes, pipe and, probably outmoded, British slang.

“Could you take a run over for a
recce
?” he asked.

“Could you tell me what the problem is? I hate to walk in blind.”

“One of our guests came barefoot out of his bathroom and whacked his middle toe against a leg of the chest of drawers. You know those things hurt like the deuce. And he’s limping badly. Since hiking ’round the pine woods and the beech woods are his main reasons for coming, he’s not got much reason to stay, what?”

“Probably not,” I answered, “but you didn’t push him into the furniture, either, did you?”

“No. Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of doing that!” He sounded shocked, and I remembered that a sense of humor was not his main characteristic. “But that furniture leg was sticking out a bit,” he added. “Probably pulled away from the wall by one of the maids in cleaning, and not pushed back where it belonged.”

“That changes the picture, Ralph. I guess I’d better stop by…how’s now?”

“Perfect. Couldn’t be better! Ta-
ta
.”

“You bet.”

I went to my safe and took two brand-new hundred-dollar bills from a small stack of ten, which I kept for situations like this. Over time I had discovered that sometimes a crisp bill or two would eliminate lawyers and a plethora of forms—or
vice versa—
so I usually took some with me, just in case
.
Next I traded the sweatshirt for a blouse and blazer, considered myself properly dressed—with no histrionics, I might add—and left, with Fargo hard at my heels.

As we drove down Bradford Street, I saw that
Ptown
was aware spring was coming. Many of the B&Bs showed new or cleaned awnings and glistening windows and neatly trimmed shrubs. Even Evans’ Market had a man out painting the yellow lines in the parking area.

We found the
Ryders
in the living room…along with the injured guest, whom they introduced as Mr. Williams. He looked like a grandfather direct from Central Casting: wispy white hair, pale blue eyes, a slight paunch and a sweet smile. The only sour note was his left foot: wrapped in a large towel, which I assumed contained some crushed ice.

He seemed embarrassed by all the attention, and insisted he was not badly injured. I agreed that he probably wasn’t seriously damaged, but that it probably hurt like hell. I had experienced that type of injury a couple of times, I mentioned, and had felt as if amputation were quite possible.

Williams gave me a smile and admitted to some pain, although he figured all anyone could do was to tape the damaged toe to the next unhurt one and try to stay off it as much as possible.

It was the “staying off it” that bothered him most. “You see,” he explained. “I come up every spring to watch the returning birds pairing off and starting their nests, and that requires considerable walking.” He sounded so sad, Fargo had walked over to comfort him, earning himself a friendly scratch behind the ears.

I now had my answer to the problem. “I understand, sir, and I have a suggestion.

“There will, of course, be no charge for your stay so far, and the
Ryders
will happily treat you to a stay in June. And if you don’t mind, my dog Fargo and I will join you on one of your hikes—we’re bird lovers, too. And by June we should get a good laugh at the fledglings making fools of themselves learning to fly.”

The
Ryders
didn’t look terribly happy, probably because by June they could be renting his room at full summer rates. But Mr. Williams, I was sure from his pleased and relieved expression, would not be filing any lawsuits, and a long free weekend seemed the least he deserved. The Ryder B&B was clean and comfortable, and served an adequate breakfast, but it was a no-frills operation. Williams probably would be staying elsewhere if his wallet were heavy.

He gave the
Ryders
that sweet smile, and they both broke down and smiled back, although Mrs. Ryder’s was doubly strained. She kept looking at Fargo as if he were likely to bite her, urinate and dig a hole in the carpet at any moment.

“Now,” I concluded, “Mr. Ryder will run you over to the clinic to get that toe taped, courtesy Pilgrim Insurance. Pilgrim is also aware of the current gasoline price of about a dollar per teaspoon, and we wouldn’t want you to be out anything for making the extra trip from home and back, so-
oo
...” I handed him one of the two crisp hundred dollar bills.

“Oh, no, I can’t accept that!”
 
He handed the bill back to me.

“Sure you can. Otherwise, you and I could not sign this terribly official insurance form in triplicate—you know how insurance companies are.”

He signed it. I gave him his copy and firmly handed him the money, gave the
Ryders
their copy and stood up. “My work is finished here. Here’s my card. Call me in June, sir, and we have a date.”

He blushed as if I’d asked him to the prom and shook my hand about six times.
 
I gave the
Ryders
a brisk nod and left, feeling righteous.

I was also feeling thirsty and hungry, and since it was noon-
ish
, my thoughts turned naturally to the Wharf Rat Bar. Fargo and I would treat ourselves to lunch as reward for a job well and neatly done.

I lucked into a parking space right up the alley from the Rat. Even in early April there was considerable traffic on Commercial Street. It was a good thing the sand dunes were part of the National Seashore, with very limited access, or I guessed people would be skiing down them in January.

Fargo hunkered down beside the big old anchor half-buried in front of the Rat, and I arranged his leash to give him a choice of shade or sun. “Luncheon will be served shortly,” I reassured him, and went in.

The Wharf Rat Bar never changed regardless of season. Tables and chairs were unmatched, walls were hung with lobster pots and old wooden buoys, fishnets and oars. In one dim corner stood a ship’s telegraph taken from a ferry long gone to some phantom crossing in the sky, the indicator frozen on dead slow astern…I thought it a fitting motto for the Rat. Taking a seat at the bar, I greeted Joe, the owner/bartender and added, “Thanks, Joe,” for the cold Bud he placed in front of me. “His Nibs is out front and would like a super-rare hamburger, plain, and some water. What would I like? What is Billie’s triumph du jour?
”

“A lobster salad that’s going fast. I better put your order in.” He turned for the kitchen. I didn’t argue. Anything Billie made was always good. It was talking with her that was sometimes a problem.
 
Her conversation could be a little hard to follow.

After serving the carefully cut-up hamburger on a plastic saucer and a bowl of water with an ice cube afloat in it, I returned inside to find my own luncheon sitting on the bar and Joe’s wife, Billie standing behind it.
 
“This seems to be selling good and I think the tourists like it, too. I wanted your opinion on it, whether or not I put in on the regular menu. Not that they would know it. You and your Mama know good food…though she ain’t here today. How is she? It’s what they call labor intensive.”