Murder Takes to the Hills (6 page)

While I made some coffee, I put a load of laundry in the washer, praying as I did that it would not pick today to give its final gasp. Gasp it did, and clank, and grind. But it staggered through its mission, and at last the little arrow triumphantly pointed to
end cycle.
 
The dryer was a bit quieter, but I wondered if it were not just waiting sneakily for a moment when we weren’t looking to burst into flames.

I poured some coffee and went out on the deck, thinking of Cindy’s cryptic
Lifegard
note telling her not to worry. Maybe there really were two stalkers. I supposed it was not impossible that some friend had spotted the stalker and followed along to be of help if needed. But why not simply announce him/herself, give a description of the stalker to the cops—or even a name if he knew one—and bring the little adventure to a quick conclusion?

Then I wondered if our note writer were both stalker and lifeguard in one. He could then come forth with information that he had seen the stalker approaching Cindy and chased him away. And who could prove he was lying? Like you read of a fireman starting fires so he can rescue someone, or a nurse disconnecting a patient’s oxygen so she can be Johnny-on-the-spot with CPR when the patient goes unconscious.

I tossed various scenarios around—each one becoming more bizarre. When I got to the one where the stalker was really an alligator and Cindy was afraid she was going crazy imagining things…I quit. It wasn’t Cindy I was worried about.

Finishing my banking chore, I walked upstairs to Cindy’s aerie, where she was saying goodbye to a tall, gangly boy I put at fourteen or so. I hung back, not wishing to intrude, but curious as hell what business a boy whose voice was still at the unreliable stage had with a financial planning manager. Was the bank reduced to making loans against next week’s allowance?

Cindy saw me and waved me over. “Alex, meet our valued customer Larry
Wismer
. Larry, this is my good friend, Alex Peres.”

I said hello and extended my hand. He took it in a good solid handshake. Someone had taught him that neither the limp fish nor the bone crusher makes a good impression. He said it was nice to meet me and added that he’d better run along, his grandmother would be waiting in the car.

As he left, I went into my little act in case anyone was paying attention.

“I had some business downstairs,” I said, “and I thought if you were free, we might have lunch.”

She thought that was a fine idea, retrieved her purse from her office and we left. As we walked toward the center of town, I tried a few tricks of the trade to see if anyone was following us. I knelt suddenly and retied my sneaker. No one fell over me or suddenly stopped to view the year-old display in the Land-Ho hardware store. We walked slowly, and then fast, but no one seemed to keep pace with us.

Finally, we went out on the pier to one of the food stands and ordered, and nobody seemed to care. Cindy cared that I had ordered a hot dog and fries…a cholesterol mother lode if ever she had seen one. I told her the sauerkraut on the hot dog would negate the cholesterol. She said all it might accomplish was a good case of heartburn, which I richly deserved. She actually looked at her grilled veggie bun with pleasure.

I wanted to get off the food subject, but did not wish to get onto stalkers. Finally, I thought of the kid.

As we settled at a picnic table, I remarked, “I see your customers are getting younger.”

“Oh, you mean Larry? Don’t laugh, he takes his portfolio very seriously.”

“A kid his age has a
portfolio?”

“Well, kind of. His parents were killed several years back in some bizarre accident in Kenya, of all places. He lives with his grandmother—quite happily, I think. I’ve met her; she seems a very cool character and also an affectionate grandma. Larry will come into some money at eighteen for college, and some more at twenty-five. So he wants to be sure he handles investments knowledgeably, and he is learning.”

“I see.” I surreptitiously scooped some ketchup onto a golden fry. “You mean he has a ‘pretend’ portfolio to see what would happen if he really owned the stock. Good idea. Good way to learn.”

“No he has real stock. The bank charges no fees on investments for kids under eighteen, with, of course, a guardian’s approval. Larry now owns a big five shares each of three stocks which he bought from money he’s earned doing odd jobs. He is as diversified as three stocks can be, and he watches them carefully.” She laughed. “I’m glad there aren’t too many
Larrys
—I wouldn’t have time for adult customers.”

“Still sounds like a good idea. I may give it a try.”

“Despite some of your behavior and your eating habits,” Cindy informed me, “I believe you are over eighteen. If you are telling me you are not…I’m moving out tonight.”

“Gosh, you can be so particular about unimportant little things!”

“Well, I always remember that fine old adage from my grandfather: Fifteen will get you twenty.” She gave me a sad little smile. “What’s it to be, free stock trades or me?”

“Oh, you, by all means. What’s a million more or less?”

After lunch I walked Cindy back to within a block of the bank. There I leaned against a phone pole and went over an imaginary shopping list in the little notebook I always carried with me.
 
No one seemed interested in Cindy, and I went on to retrieve my car from the bank lot. As I backed out of my parking space, I caught a quick glance of Larry
Wismer
sitting on the concrete rim that surrounded the fountain and thought vaguely that his grandmother was running awfully late.

Driving back to the cottage, I resolutely blocked stalkers from my thoughts and considered the several suggestions we had received recommending a vacation.
 
Maybe we should get away for a short while, and now might be a good time to do so—come the summer season, we probably wouldn’t have the time.

I tried to think of someplace simple and inexpensive and couldn’t. Maybe we should just spend a day or so in Boston picking out the furniture and carpeting and draperies for our ever-expanding Master Suite.
 
Of course, that wouldn’t be simple or inexpensive either.
 

In the pre-Cindy days, when I had thought merely of adding a bedroom and bathroom, I had noticed several furniture store ads touting free decorator service.
 
I had planned to pick one of them and tell the decorator to show me something plain, comfortable and cheerful…all of it affordable. I figured on getting the whole thing settled in maybe an hour…a maximum of two hours. Now I imagined we would not use a decorator and would doubtless visit a dozen stores at least twice.

I braked the car in front of the cottage, making an abrupt stop that sent gravel flying and brought Aunt Mae flying out of her garage, where she was beginning to set up shop for her popular herb market.

“What on earth is going on? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I hit the brakes a little hard, that’s all. Aunt Mae, do you know a good furniture store in Boston?”

“Certainly. Several, in fact.”

“Ah, good, I thought you might. Would you be kind enough to give me the address of one?” I asked.

“No need, dear.” She smiled. “I already gave the entire list to Cindy. I’m sure she has it somewhere.”

“Thanks. I’m sure you’re right.” I managed not to slam the car door and gave my dear aunt a smile and a wave as I turned to the cottage.

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday morning I walked Cindy out to her car as she left for work and wished her well with her introduction to Edgar Fountain at noon.

She grimaced and shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, if Sonny recommends him. But I feel very strange knowing someone is
definitely
watching my every move, even though he’s on my side. It’s a weird feeling—being watched because you are being watched. I’m sure I won’t be able to do a thing naturally. I’ll probably overact like a nineteen thirties Grade B actress.”

“Yes,” I laughed. “I can see you at the
Diggity
Dog, waving a white gloved hand:
Oh,
yass
,
my good woman, I’ll have the soup
du jury
and salad
Niceswazz
 
and a glass of
peanut
blanc
.
And the waitress will answer: Right, honey, one dog with mustard, one fries and a diet Coke.”

“In your dreams.” She started the car and leaned out the window for a kiss. At least she was grinning.

I watched her turn at the corner and saw one of the police department’s unmarked cars pull out behind her. I wondered if the stalker were watching and if he knew the police car as well as I did.

That evening Cindy got home in a very up mood. Edgar was quite nice and rather fatherly. He was most reassuring and teased her that he turned into a pet dog who simply followed his mistress everywhere and nobody paid any attention to him and neither should she. Just forget he was there, but remember she was safe.

He sounded great and I had hopes of a speedy end to this whole thing.

We actually enjoyed a movie on TV after dinner. We went to bed and laughed and sighed and growled at the late news. I was feeling more relaxed than I had in days. Apparently my lady love was also, for she was giving forth those little signals which we each possess in some way, that say, “I’d like to make love, how about you?” Obviously I was replying in the positive, for she suddenly clicked off the TV and rolled into my arms, sighing, “It’s been too long.”

I was teasing Cindy over breakfast. “Well, at least there’s one thing you still seem to do quite naturally. All is not lost.”

“If you’re telling me the stalker was looking through the window and Edgar was behind him in the tree—you will find me as celibate as Mother Teresa from now till they hang the bastard and we return Edgar to his nagging wife.”

“Goodness!” I took a sip of coffee. “You’re in bloodthirsty form this morning.”

“You bet.” She pushed aside the remains of her half grapefruit and went to work on the twigs and hulls she calls cereal.
 
“He’s disrupted our lives long enough. And I don’t want him to get spooked and just quit…so he can surface again later, scaring the hell out of me again, or some other woman. Any woman should be able to walk down a street without some lunatic drooling behind her! I say hang him!”

She looked across the table at me, suddenly solemn. “Seriously, I think he should go to jail. He’s had us both on edge, reacting to every little noise, jumping when the phone rings, and I know you go through the mail. He’s taken up Sonny’s time and police department funds. He has worried my boss and involved bank security people. I don’t think he should get away with just saying he’s sorry, that he was simply carried away by my great beauty. ‘Go and sin no more,’ is not in it for this guy.”

I grinned.
 
“You tell em’, tiger, I’m with you!”

And I was. But I wondered if she had considered the stress of a public trial, with all its ramifications.
 
Probably not. On the other hand, she would likely go through it with admirable composure, at least on the surface. I recalled a phrase my grandmother sometimes used that made me snicker as a little kid. “So-and-So has great intestinal fortitude.”
 
Meaning, of course, great courage. Sonny used a phrase I liked better: “He has grace under fire.” Whatever you called it, Cindy had it.

While I accepted Sonny’s and Cindy’s faith in Edgar, I wanted to see for myself. So Thursday after Cindy left I set out to keep tabs on our retired cop. Sometimes I cruised the block in my car, sometimes I walked, other times I stood or sat, letting him pass me by on foot or in his unexciting, mature gray Hyundai.

I had to smile. Edgar and I were doing much of the same things, right down to changing our clothes sometime around midday. He had started the day dressed for business. Around eleven he surfaced in bright blue shorts, Hawaiian shirt and a sun hat. Not the same man at all.
 
And early afternoon I graduated from a denim skirt and yellow blouse to my most ratty jeans, baseball cap and a T-shirt boasting that “Hockey players do it with a big stick.”