4 The Killing Bee (11 page)

Then again, I'd thought she was home the last time I came, but she either avoided me or wasn't here after all. So I took a detour off her front path, stepping carefully around some drooping purple flowers, and peeped in the window at the lit room.

The room was Ms
. Helquist's study. She was sitting at her desk, with a pretty big-sized computer monitor to her left. It looked like she was cleaning her office. She had all kinds of papers piled up on her desk. As I watched, she ripped up a couple of papers into small pieces and dropped them in her trash can.

I was afraid she'd turn sideways and see me, so I withdrew from my reconnaissance position and rang the front doorbell.

She didn't answer.

I rang again, then knocked hard
, then went over to look in the study again, thinking I'd knock on her window. But she wasn't in the study anymore. She must be hiding from me, somewhere in the house.

I eyed that big stack of papers on her desk. And all those papers flowing out of the garbage can. What was Ms. Helquist so eager to rip up and throw away?

Something told me breaking into her house and confronting her wouldn't be such a brilliant stratagem, given my current precarious legal status and Little Napoleon's pronounced lack of affection for me.

But then I got an idea.

I went over to Ms. Helquist’s driveway and checked out her recycling bin. It said "Hudson Garbage and Recycling" on the label. Andrea and I used Hudson, too, so I knew they picked up early in the morning on Fridays . . . meaning Ms. Helquist, like myself, would be putting out her trash cans and recycling bins tonight.

I wasn't sure if stealing somebody's trash off their front curb was legal. There was a case involving Bob Dylan's trash a decade or two ago, but I couldn't remember which way the courts decided.

But as long as the cops didn't catch me, it didn't matter if it was legal or not.

Andrea wasn't overly thrilled about the garbage-grabbing scheme, but eventually she agreed it was a risk worth taking. So several hours later, at one a.m., I kissed her good-bye and left the house. I took her minivan so I wouldn't have to walk home carrying large bags of garbage. I avoided using my Camry, because she's way too loud for secret nocturnal missions. No matter how many times we get her muffler fixed, it never seems to do any good.

Hopefully the Camry wouldn't find out I was two
-timing her with our other car.

Our street was deserted. Nothing but parked cars. I turned off Elm onto Oak Street, then off Oak onto Ash, where Ms. Helquist lived . . .

But as I took that second turn, I spotted something: a car behind me, not real close, but close enough to make me wonder. I drove for a few blocks down Ash . . . and the other car stayed right behind. Who could be following me—the killer? The cops? Whoever it was, I decided to keep right on going past Ms. Helquist’s garbage cans, which were out front as I'd expected. The other car matched my pace. It was average size, and dark colored.

Should I pretend I was starring in my own private action-adventure
movie? Was it time to gun my engine and try to shake my tail? But I'd probably just end up driving into a tree or something. Besides, if it was a cop, why give him any excuses to bust me?

So I drove as calmly as I could down Ash to Beekman, then turned left. The car followed at a discreet distance. I turned right on Congress and right again on Broadway. My secret admirer followed maybe forty yards behind me. Squelching an impulse to lean out my window and shout, "Nyah, nyah, I see you," I drove at exactly the speed limit down the almost
-empty main drag of town. After about half a mile I turned right into the Spa City Diner, next to the Greyhound bus station. That's the one place in Saratoga where you can get a hamburger or a slice of pie twenty-four hours a day. Most nights they don't have any knife fights or big drunken brawls, so most nights you're perfectly safe there.

I pulled in at the diner and walked right in without looking behind me. I was trying to act like any old ordinary joe who gets a sudden one a.m. craving for blueberry pie, and goes straight to the nearest diner to satisfy it. Except that first I stopped in the foyer, where I was out of sight of the Spa City parking lot, pulled a quarter out of my pants and called home.

Andrea picked up in the middle of the first ring. "Hello?" she asked breathlessly.

"Hey, babe
—"

"Oh my God, where are you? Did they catch you?"

"Slow down, everything's cool. I'm at the Spa City Diner."

I heard a sigh of relief, then, "Did you get the trash?"

"Actually, no." I looked around, but there were no cops or murderers within hearing range, just a sour-faced Hungarian waitress who didn't speak English. I knew that from experience, because she doubled as a Greyhound clerk. Trying to buy a ticket from her was like getting trapped inside a bad Abbott and Costello routine.

Since I wasn't
afraid of the waitress's eavesdropping ability, I laid out for Andrea what had happened. I finished up with, "So how about
you
get the garbage?"

"Me? You think it
’s safe?"

"Sure. I can't imagine there were two different cars watching the house. I'll just stay here and have a doughnut and keep the cop or whoever it is occupied."

"I don't know."

"Come on, you're the big Sue Grafton fan. Pretend you're Kinsey Millhone."

"We'd have to leave the kids alone in the house."

"Just for five minutes. Nothing will happen to them. Come on, this is an emergency."

There was a pause, then: "Okay, I'll do it."

"That
’s the spirit."

"I just hope I can get your car to start."

"All you have to do is sweet-talk her a little."

"She's a one-man woman. She only starts for you."

"Just promise her you'll still respect her in the morning if she gives you a ride."

I hung up and took a booth by the window. When the waitress came over to take my order, I simply pointed to
the one lone doughnut that was underneath a Plexiglas cover on the counter. It was jelly filled, not my favorite, but this way I could avoid linguistic hassles.

I didn't see any medium-sized dark cars in the parking lot. Maybe the guy had parked down the street. Nobody came in the front door, but it could be he was eyeing me surreptitiously through one of the diner's many windows. It felt creepy to sit by a window when somebody might be spying on me, but I figured I was just doing my job
—acting as decoy.

Twelve minutes later I got up and called home. No answer. Oy. Not only that, the machine gulped down my quarter. I hoped the phone hadn't woken up my kids. If it did, I hoped they wouldn't freak out. They'd never been left alone in the house before.

The waitress came up to my booth. I said "coffee" and she nodded. Coffee is the universal language. What I really wanted was decaf, but that would probably be way too complex for this woman. After five minutes I got up and went to the phone again, then realized I was out of quarters. I contemplated asking the waitress for change for a dollar, then decided to use my calling card instead, even though that would cost me an extra buck or two. I dialed the thirty or so digits you're required to dial, then finally the phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times, and our answering machine came on. Damn, had the cops sent out a second car to our house, and had the car followed Andrea? Was she even now being processed at the police station for felony garbage theft in the first degree? Were our children at home by themselves, crying—

The answering machine cut off suddenly. "Jacob?" Andrea said.

Phew
. "So you're not in Chief Walsh's greedy clutches?"

"Nope, I got the trash bags. Just brought them in the house."

"Nice work, Kinsey. I'll be right there. What took you so long, anyway?"

"Your stupid car took ten minutes to start. I really think
it’s time to buy a new one."

"Did you caress the dashboard lovingly with one hand while you turned the key with the other? Try it next time," I said, and hung up. I paid for my doughnut with two dollar bills, giving the waitress the full fifty cents change for a tip. She hadn't acted quite surly enough for me to stiff her.

I didn't spot any Ted Bundys or Kaczinskis lurking in the parking lot. But as I got in my car and drove home, I noticed my faithful new friend driving along right behind me.

By now I had just about convinced myself it was a cop. Chief Walsh must have set this little trap for me, in case I got inspired to try any more late-night maneuvers
—like, for instance, stealing somebody's garbage.

Just in case I was mistaken, though, and my silent accompanist was some crazed marauder, I jumped out of the minivan as soon as I parked it and walked quickly into my house, locking the door behind me. I was still trying to act like I didn't know I was being followed, but at this point I doubt I was fooling anybody.

Andrea was in the kitchen. She had a thousand crumpled pieces of paper of various types and colors on the table in front of her. "What exactly are we looking for?" she asked.

I made sure all the window shades in the kitchen were pulled down all the way and nobod
y could look in. "Any paper that’s been torn," I suggested, remembering Ms. Helquist ripping up paper in her study before she threw it away.

Then we heard a noise in the livin
g room. We both froze. But then Latree ambled in. Looking a little disoriented, he sat down at the table and began reading one of Ms. Helquist's old credit card statements.

I would have been ticked off at Latree, except I knew he was still asleep. We'd been through this many times before. I sat down and pulled him onto my lap, took the paper out of his hands, and gave him a hug.

Gradually he woke up. I could see his eyes regain their focus. He yawned. "Hi, Daddy."

"Hi, Latree. I'll carry you up to bed."

Now he was fully awake. "Was I sleepwalking? What was I doing?" His somnambulism episodes always intrigued him.

"Nothing too exci
ting, honey," his mom said, rubbing his back. "Do you want to hit the bathroom before you go back to bed?"

"What time is it?"

"Late," Andrea said. "Come on, I'll take you upstairs." She was trying to sound loving and calm, but she had an edge of desperation in her tone, which any parent who has ever struggled to put a kid to bed would instantly recognize.

Latree wasn't buying her quasi calm for a second. He eyed the clock. "One-thirty? W
hat are you guys doing up? What’s all this paper?"

"It's nothing
," I said, but Latree, ever the alert reader, saw Ms. Helquist’s name on the credit card statement.

"Why's it say 'Hilda Helquist
’ here? Are you solving the murder?"

Andrea said, "We'll explain in the morning
—"

"Can I help?"

"No," Andrea said.

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."
When Andrea was pregnant, we both vowed we'd never use that sentence with our kids. But of course, like most of our parenting vows, we break this one repeatedly.

Latree was indignant, on the point of tears. "You never let me help.
It’s not fair!"

"Latree Burns,
I'll give you up to three—" Andrea began—

But I cut in. "Honey, maybe we should let him." Andrea shot me an irate look, like she always does when I contradict her in front of the children. "Look, he's wide awake, h
e's not going to sleep soon anyway," I said defensively. "And he can help us fit the torn pieces of paper together. He's good at puzzles. Better than we are."

Andrea protested, and I had a feeling she'd be g
iving me heck as soon as the two of us were alone together, but I stuck to my guns. It was a good thing, too. Because half an hour later, it was Latree who gave us a big break in the case.

The three of us had managed to fit together all twelve torn pieces of a yellow invoice from Staples Office Supply in Saratoga. The invoice looked pretty innocuous, though. It was for the purchase of four computers for the
High Rock Elementary School library. Each computer was priced at $999, which seemed about right.

"I don't see anything here," I said to Andrea, who was looking over my shoulder.

"Me, neither."

"What is it?" Latree asked.

"Just an invoice," I replied, in the tone grown-ups use when we're signaling kids that something is too complicated to explain to them right now. "Let’s see what else we can find."

"What
’s an invoice?" Latree persisted.

I wouldn't be surp
rised if Latree asks sixty questions a day, not thirty. By that estimate, in the last five years Latree has asked me one hundred ten thousand questions.

Piecing together tiny crumpled pieces of paper at two in
the morning had left me short on patience. "Latree—"

"
’Four Compaqs—High Rock School Library!’" Latree read aloud. "That means four computers, right?"