18 Deader Homes and Gardens (6 page)

“Not to explain your refusal?”

His expression was unfathomable, and I wasn’t at all surprised when he said, “I would prefer not to.”

I might have wrung his neck had it not been unseemly. “Well,” I said with a delicate harrumph, “I do hope that you would prefer not to end your sentences with a preposition!” I swept out the front door before he could respond and leaned against the hood of my car to regain my innate sense of decorum. Had Peter not been so thoughtless as to be incommunicado, he could have his buddies at the CIA find Winston in a nanosecond. I ran through my list of friends and acquaintances who were computer literate. Luanne, my best friend, was spending the summer in Greece, in search of Zorbaesque bimboys. The Haskells were on sabbatical in England, and Maggie Knott was visiting grandchildren in North Carolina. Babs Peabody was in rehab for the third or fourth time. I would have made some calls to others who might be in town, but I’d yet to recharge my cell phone—and I wasn’t about to go back inside the Book Depot after such a magnificent parting shot.

The library was six blocks away. I parked, went inside, and asked for help at the reference desk. The twenty-something woman did her best to hide her disdain as she settled me in front of a computer, clicked hither and thither, and then showed me how to search for pretty much everybody and everything in the universe. Naturally, I typed in my name first, then spent a satisfying hour reading newspaper articles that mentioned my minor contributions to solving murder cases in Farberville. The events in Egypt were not noted, courtesy of various covert agencies.

I typed Winston Hollow’s name in the box and waited. My eyebrows rose as I read the local newspaper’s brief article concerning the accidental death of Winston Hollow Martinson. It had taken place in early spring, behind his home in Hollow Valley. Police had been called to the scene, where an unnamed relative had found the body tangled in branches at the edge of a river. Fishing tackle was found on the bank upstream, along with marks in the mud that indicated that the victim had lost his footing and been knocked unconscious as he fell into the water. His housemate, Terry Kennedy, was in Europe at the time, which explained why Winston Martinson’s absence had not been noticed for a week. Case closed.

The obituary was not much longer. Winston, son of Victor Martinson and Sara Hollow Martinson, both deceased, had been thirty-six at the time of his death. He had a degree in fine arts from a liberal arts college on the East Coast and had designed sets for off-Broadway theater shows before returning to Farberville three years ago to focus on painting. He’d never married and had no offspring. There was no mention of a funeral or memorial service.

A psychic would be required to get in touch with someone currently resting in peace—or decomposing, according to one’s beliefs. My beliefs precluded séances as a way to negotiate a real estate deal.

My first impulse was to drive out to Hollow Valley, but Nattie had not sounded as though she knew much about the house. Angela claimed to be in communication with the owner. That ruled out Winston, who must have inherited the property from his mother. I reread the article about the death, copied down the name of the housemate, and entered it on the computer screen.

Terry Kennedy’s name generated almost nine hundred thousand results. The majority of them referred to a professional skateboarder, but others were lawyers, politicians, furniture dealers, and professors. I quit scanning pages and sat back. The highly overrated Internet was not going to print out a card that read: “Terry Kennedy, previous resident of Hollow Valley, close friend of deceased Winston Hollow Martinson, currently lives at such-and-so, with telephone and cell phones numbers as follows…” Nor would it tell me where Angela was or where she hid her house key.

I wondered if it might tell me the current owner of the house and the meadow that sloped gently down to the spot where Winston had died. I found the young librarian and requested more help. This time her expression implied that she questioned my ability to operate an electric can opener, but she sat down in front of the computer and located a Web site for the county assessor. I took the seat with great optimism. It faded into nothingness as I realized that I was required to enter bizarre information about sections, townships, blocks, lots, and subdivisions. About the only thing not required was my favorite color.

Confident that I was more effective with people than with machines, I drove to the courthouse and dutifully followed signs and arrows to the county assessor’s office. An older man, wearing a name tag that identified him as K. Scott, listened to my abbreviated explanation and led me to a room with the ambience of a neglected warehouse. Dauntingly large plat books were piled on tables or on shelves that towered above my head. I sneezed, blinked, and then sneezed again.

“The dust,” I said feebly, fighting back another sneeze without success. My eyes welled with tears as my lungs contracted.

“Allow me to assist you,” K. Scott said, either eager to serve the public or terrified I might die on the spot and require him to remain beyond five o’clock. He asked questions about the route to Hollow Valley, which I answered between sniffs and sneezes, while he peered at a faded county map. He disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves and then emerged with a plat book. After asking more questions, he finally jabbed the pertinent page. “Here it is!” He consulted his wristwatch. “Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds! I do believe I’ve set a new record. Come along, dear woman.”

I wiped my eyes with a tissue as I followed him back to the main office. He sat down in front of a computer, typed furiously, and then pointed at the screen. “Section seventeen, township nine, the northeast quarter of the southeast quarter and so forth. The owner of record is Terry M. Kennedy. It came to him through joint tenancy with right of survivorship.”

“You found that out from the legal description?”

“Good heavens, no. He’s a polite young man, and he told me when he brought in a modified deed to be filed. He had the necessary forms, all signed, dated, and notarized. I can’t begin to tell you how many people barge in here without any idea how to—” K. Scott caught himself with the agility of an acrobat. “Would you like his address?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention back to the keyboard, scribbled a couple of lines on a notepad, and then ripped off the page and handed it to me.

I felt as though I should kneel to accept the Holy Grail while a choir belted out the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I managed to croak, “Thank you so very, very much, Mr. Scott. I am eternally grateful for your help. If you come by the Book Depot on Thurber Street, I’ll give you an armful of books.”

“It was my duty as a public servant,” he said stiffly. “We are never allowed to receive private compensation.”

I was relieved he hadn’t said that he would prefer not to. I scampered down the hall, waited impatiently as the elevator creaked to the first floor, and barely kept myself from dancing across the parking lot to my car. Terry M. Kennedy lived in Key West, Florida. His house was a thousand miles from Farberville, but my telephone was only one mile from the courthouse.

Once at home, I went immediately to said telephone. I took a gulp of scotch before I picked up the receiver and prompted a cyber-operator to find Terry M. Kennedy’s telephone number. The robotic voice recited the number and offered to dial it for a nominal charge. I wrote down the three-zero-five area code and the number, then put down the receiver before I dropped it on my foot. I tried not to salivate as I envisioned the house, furnishings, French doors, walnut bookcases, swimming pool, orchard, meadow, bucolic setting, elderly trees, and vibrant flowers. The tears that filled my eyes were not caused by an allergy but by a yearning that gripped me so tightly that I struggled to take a breath.

I stopped myself before I fell into a pose for the cover of a romance novel. My bosom was not heaving. Peter was not standing in the doorway, managing to both sneer and leer at the same time. I had an obligation to him, as well as to myself, to find an adequately spacious house. Pathos has no place in the real estate business, nor does melodrama. I was my own agent, negotiator, and broker. I flipped open a notebook and turned to an unsullied page. I found an extra pen in case it was needed. I refilled my glass and took a ladylike sip. I crossed my legs as I picked up the receiver. I waited until a ripple of dizziness passed and dialed the number.

“Hello,” said a tenor voice.

“This is, uh, Claire Malloy and I want your house!” My words spewed out with the velocity of bullets, but I couldn’t constrain myself. “It’s everything I want and I’ve never had a meadow or a stream or a real library. I don’t care about the price. I mean, I do care if it’s millions of dollars, but I still want it and when can we move in?”

“My house doesn’t have a library,” he said cautiously. “The Gulf Stream originates in this region, but I don’t think I can sell it to you.”

“You have to! It’s perfect! I looked at all the houses on the market, and not one of them is anywhere near as spacious and secluded and wonderful. Just tell me how much, Mr. Kennedy. You can’t sell it to anyone else. You just can’t!”

“Oh, I get it. You’re not talking about my house in Key West. You’re talking about the one in Farberville.”

“Obviously,” I said, wondering if he had suffered a traumatic head injury that impaired his mind. “Angela told me that you’re willing to sell it. How much?”

“Let’s take this slowly. Your name is Claire Malloy?” He paused until I acknowledged as much. “I’ve heard of you. You helped the police in a lot of murder investigations. Winston patronized your bookstore.”

“All the more reason to sell me the house in Hollow Valley. Surely Winston would have approved.”

“Are you or your husband related to any descendants of Colonel Hollow?”

I uttered an oath under my breath. “No, but I bet a genealogist could find a link somewhere in the past. I’m sure I had a seventeenth cousin somewhere who married a Hollow. Do they have Irish blood?”

“They have no blood, Ms. Malloy. No, I take that back. Winston was a warm, generous man who donated time and energy to charitable organizations. He loved music, art, literature, fine wine, and gourmet dining. He was offered the opportunity to design a set for a major Broadway musical, but he chose to move back to his boyhood home.” Terry’s voice was quivering with such emotion that his words were slurred. Had he been within reach, I would have patted his hand and blotted his cheeks with the pillowcase hem.

I gave him a brief moment to pull himself together before I said, “You have my warmest condolences. The mere mention of the house must cause you pain. I can understand why you feel it’s time to sell it and get on with your life. As I mentioned, Angela showed me the house, but before I could sign an offer, she drove off. No one seems to know where she is.”

“Did any of the Hollows know she was showing the house?”

“I have no idea. After Angela left, I spoke to a woman named Nattie. She was surprised to hear the house was for sale.”

“It isn’t.”

My throat tightened. “Angela said that you’re willing to sell it. I love the house, and so does my husband. You can’t snatch it away like this.” Desperation overrode morals. “My daughter is so weak from her treatments that she can hardly walk. Her only hope is fresh air and sunshine. If she could lie on a blanket in the meadow while I read to her from the shade of an apple tree, she might improve. Please, Mr. Kennedy. Only you can save her.”

“Or Charles Dickens, presuming your daughter contracted consumption in the workhouse. I need to think about this, Ms. Malloy. I’ll call you back this evening.”

I retreated to the balcony to wait.

*   *   *

Caron and Peter were briefed on the situation. Peter, who was in Little Rock, offered all the usual platitudes, sprinkled with endearing remarks, and assured me that he was frantic to learn what Terry Kennedy said. Caron expressed her solicitude by heading out to a pizza place to meet her friends, one of whom was Joel.

I was perfecting my argument when Terry Kennedy called. “Claire,” he began, “if I may call you that, I am willing to discuss the house, but we need to talk in person. I should be in Farberville by late tomorrow afternoon. As soon as I’ve checked into a motel, I’ll call you.”

“You’re not going to stay at your house?”

There was a long silence. “Maybe I will,” he finally said. “It could be interesting. In any case, we’ll talk tomorrow. I was so startled by your earlier call that I didn’t ask about Angela. She, Winston, and I were friends. You said that she disappeared?”

I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much, then said, “Do you have any idea where she could be? She’s divorcing Danny and it seems that she forgot all about me.”

“Angela will come up with some crazy rationalization. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”

I tripped over a box of Christmas ornaments as I went to the kitchen to find something for dinner. Ah, the perils of tiptoeing along the fine line between optimism and pessimism.

*   *   *

Caron was still asleep when I left the duplex the following morning. I drove to Angela’s house and rang the doorbell, but there was no response. I’d already called Bartleby-King and Associates; Angela had yet to resume associating with them. She had been missing for almost forty-eight hours. It was premature to file a missing persons report. Since I had nothing worthwhile to do until Terry arrived from Key West, I decided to drive out to Hollow Valley on the off-chance she was there—and spend some time in my future home, counting bar stools and examining the bedroom decor.

Twenty minutes later, I turned at the Hollow Valley Nursery sign. Before I reached the driveway to my house, a willowy woman with hair so pale that it wafted around her face and shoulders like a cirrus cloud leaped out into the road and began to pirouette. Her oversized gauzy white shirt rippled like feathers. I hit the brakes before I mowed down the Swan Queen. In response, she wiggled her fingers at me before returning to her invisible lamentation of cygnets.