Address to Die For (22 page)

Make sure you manage your time for the world you live in. On a perfect day it might take fifteen minutes to drive to work. But that doesn't mean you've got a fifteen-minute commute. In the real world, your commute is more realistically twenty to thirty minutes.

 

Allow for a thirty-minute commute and relish the rare day when the universe turns the lights green and gives you the gift of an extra fifteen minutes.

 

 

 

 

B
elle and I walked to the car. I hoped to catch Adelia at the house and talk to her about getting quotes from a landscape architect and a roofer.

I was unlocking the car when I heard my name.

“Yoo-hoo! Maggie!”

Flora waved from the front of her shop where she was watering flowers in the containers that flanked the doorway. She turned off the water and started toward me, then stopped, looking back at the door.

I guessed she was there alone and didn't want to leave her business unattended.

Belle looked at me and whined. I felt the same way. I wanted to get home. But Flora beckoned again.

“We'll just be a minute, Belle, I promise,” I said.

I walked back toward the buildings and approached her store.

“I baked some cookies last night,” Flora said. “I wanted to give some to you and the boys. Come inside.”

I held up Belle's leash. “I'll stay out here. I don't like to tie her unless I have to.”

I sat outside in front of the display window on a green bench painted with wild flowers. Flora disappeared into the shop and brought out a cellophane bag of chocolate cookies tied with a crisp blue ribbon. I wondered if they might be “special” cookies made by adding weed, but I didn't want to ask.

“No special ingredients,” Flora said.

“I didn't—” I began.

“You did,” Flora said. “I know that rumors abound about my business, but honestly, I don't approve of kids using weed.” She pointed to the cookies. “The only drugs in those are fair-trade chocolate, organic butter, and sugar.”

“My drugs of choice.” I eased a cookie from the crackling cellophane bag, took a bite, and smiled from my ears to my toenails.

Flora beamed, but shifted her focus away from her cookies. “Any news from Stephen or Jason about their investigations?” she asked. “Everyone who's come into the store has been talking about it, but no one seems to know anything.”

I shook my head and discreetly put the half-eaten cookie back in the package. It was delicious and would taste better with cold milk, later. “'Fraid not,” I said. “At least not that I've heard. Do you have any ideas? Anything come to mind since the last meeting?”

Flora looked thoughtful, checked the parking lot to make sure we were out of anyone's earshot, lowered her voice, and whispered, “I've had some thoughts about April.”

“April?”

“She's wanted to be principal for years,” Flora said. “She's followed a systematic campaign to make it happen, including taking time off to take some classes she needed. At least, that's what she said. But I heard that she may have been in rehab when she was supposedly in school.”

“That can't be right.” In my mind, April could do no wrong. She'd helped Brian, and that was good enough for me. But it couldn't hurt to listen, so I nodded.

Flora shrugged. “It's what I heard. She apparently had quite a problem with prescription drugs. Hard to break a habit like that. Really hard.”

“Hmm,” I said, not wanting to add anything that might seem disloyal to April. There was something distinctly ironic about Flora, the suspected pot distributor, pointing fingers at others for using drugs.

Flora continued. “So, think about it. What if she relapsed, needed to finance her habit, and turned to selling as well as using? And what if Harrier found out and threatened to tell? Killing Harrier would solve both problems for April. The principal's job would be posted and she could reapply. No one would know about her drug problem. On the other hand, if she
didn't
stop Harrier, she'd almost certainly have lost any chance of the principal's job, here or anywhere else. And she'd have risked arrest and prison time.”

Flora made a good case, but her evidence was flimsy.

“But your scenario only works
if
she had a drug problem,
if
she relapsed, and
if
Harrier found out. That's an awful lot of
if
s
,
Flora. Who is your source? And how reliable is the information?”

Flora shrugged in a gesture that was becoming annoying. If she cared so little, why was she telling me about it?

“I'm just repeating what I heard, is all. You asked if I had any theories. Stephen asked us to pass along anything we heard, no matter how off the wall it sounded. Will you pass the information along to Stephen, at least?”

I agreed, but I doubted that Stephen would give the information more than a passing thought. There wasn't any substance behind it. I stood up and disentangled Belle's leash from the legs of the bench. Picking up the bag of cookies and starting to say goodbye, I thought of one last question.

“Flora, did you ever meet a man named Javier Hernandez?”

“Of course,” she said. “He was the custodian at the middle school most of the time that Elaine Cumberfield was principal there. Such a nice man. The kids loved him and he always seemed to have a kitten in his workroom. Even after he retired, we'd hire him to help out at after school and evening events. He was supersmart. His daughters went to Caltech. I think one is doing cancer research.”

“Wow. Thanks, Flora. And thanks for the cookies.”

She waved and disappeared into her shop.

I wasn't sure why I'd thought to ask the question about Javier, nor why I hadn't asked about him earlier. I needed to ask Jason how the police investigation into his murder was progressing. I couldn't shake the feeling that his death was linked to the other problems—embezzlement, property damage, and Miss Harrier's death.

Even if it wasn't connected, I needed to learn more about the man who had cared for our house. He'd called the police when the windows were broken and when someone tried to start a fire on the second floor. He'd performed the ongoing maintenance that made us all refer to the house as perfect when we'd seen it back in February. Someone had deliberately ended his life on our basement floor and left his body there for us to find. I owed it to him, and to my family, to honor his work and his memory by uncovering more about who Javier Hernandez had been when he was alive, and who might have wanted to kill him and Miss Harrier.

Many people have the sense that professional organizers are miracle workers. They believe that if they hire one of us, or if they own enough books about reducing clutter, or if they own enough plastic storage bins, they'll finally be in control of their lives. The truth is that much of our lives are out of our control. Organization can help you pick up the pieces and roll with the punches, but it can't help you control the uncontrollable.

 

 

 

 

I
was starting to feel as if I had a manageable routine: Drop off David. Drop off Brian. Run errands and learn more about Orchard View secrets. Become more confused.

Thursday morning after I'd dropped off Brian, I saw April helping two students put up the flag in front of the school. September 11. I wondered if the flag would be set at half-mast in remembrance of those who'd died in 2001 or in remembrance of Miss Harrier.

I watched as April and the students pulled the rope to bring the flag to the top of the pole. I thought that was best. Most of us didn't need any help remembering.

The students joined other groups of kids, and I caught up to April before she returned to her office.

“How's it going?” I asked.

April smiled. “Okay, I guess. We're finding our way. Miss Harrier was very organized, so the logistics are easy. The hard part is the number of times a day that I think of something I want to double-check with her, and find myself halfway to her office before I remember she's dead.”

“You miss her.”

“More than you can imagine. I don't think most people had any sense of how much she did around here. She never gave herself credit, and the rest of us didn't, either. We tended to focus on her more abrasive attributes.” April pinched her lips together and shrugged.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked.

April shook her head. “Have they definitely decided she was murdered? I thought they were considering the possibility that she'd accidently overdosed or killed herself. Is there new evidence?”

Interesting. April was one of the few people I'd spoken to recently who was still talking about the possibility of suicide. Did she know something the rest of us didn't? Or had the rest of us watched too many television mysteries and used our dislike of Miss Harrier to jump to the wrong conclusion?

“You're right,” I said. “I don't think they have decided. Next time I see Jason, I'll ask.”

“He's stopping in at lunchtime in uniform. He thought it might help the kids feel more secure and give them an opportunity to talk to him about her death.”

I bit my lip. I wanted to ask April whether the reports of her drug addiction were true. I hesitated, because I didn't want to sound like a tattletale or a gossip.

April looked at me and laughed. “I've interrogated enough middle-school kids to know when someone is holding back. You've got something to ask me or tell me that's making you feel awkward. What's bothering you?”

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding in. “It
is
awkward. Here's the thing: I've heard that when you said you were on a leave of absence studying, you were
actually
in rehab battling drug addiction. That rumor has led to speculation that you relapsed and Miss Harrier found out and—”

April sat on a bench in front of the school, shaking her head. She held up one hand to shield her eyes from the sun. The other hand patted the bench beside her.

I sat and she looked me directly in the eye. “Do you want the truth or do you want to spread the story?”

“The truth. I don't believe the story.”

“But you don't know me well enough to be confident enough to deny the story.”

“Umm . . .”

“Never mind. That's admirable, I guess. The truth is, I wasn't in rehab, but I
was
hiding something about that leave. I should know by now that it's impossible to keep any secrets from middle-school kids.”

“You don't have to tell me, April. You deserve your privacy.”

“No, it's better if the truth is out there. I had surgery, chemo, and radiation treatment for a very aggressive form of breast cancer. When I came back, I was still very tired, which is why I took the assistant-principal job. I'm hoping to move into a full-time principal's position if the cancer stays away. Filling in for Miss Harrier is a temporary gig, but it's already wearing me out.”

“I'm so sorry . . .”

April put her hand on mine. “Don't be. They caught it early, the district took good care of me, and I had the best treatment possible. Miss Harrier covered for me if I needed to rest. My chances are good. Besides, I think the odds are better for beating cancer than they are for conquering a drug habit.”

I smiled, enjoying April's wry sense of irony and humor. “Is it okay if I spread the word? Or would you rather let the drug rumors die out on their own?”

“Spread the word, please. I only kept it a secret because middle-school kids get so squirmy around words like
breast
. I didn't want them staring at my chest all the time, wondering when I was going to kick the bucket. But I don't want them thinking I'm the poster child for functioning well under the influence, either. Can you imagine the sneering they'd do on Just Say No day? No, better they know I had my boobs removed.”

“Will do. With pleasure. I love shutting down rumors. Do you need any help picking up the slack until they find a replacement for Miss Harrier?”

April shook her head. “There's a retired administrator who will come on at the end of the month to fill in. I can manage until then, but thanks.”

I stood and squeezed her shoulder. “Let me know if you change your mind about help. Brian and I owe you.”

April stood and walked to the office doorway. She opened the door and turned back toward me, still holding the door.

“Thanks,” she said. “But you owe me nothing. I was doing my job.”

When you're researching a new product, decorating a room, or learning a new skill, take notes. Keep product flyers, measurements, and fabric samples. Carry them with you until the project's finished. You never know when you'll stumble upon something that might pull the project together if you can be sure it will fit.

 

 

 

 

I
was running out of suspects. Everyone's story seemed to hold together and explain why they couldn't have killed Miss Harrier.

And each person, except for April, had pointed me toward someone else. Were they giving me legitimate leads or were they feeding me red herrings, hoping I'd become distracted and stop weighing their own motives and opportunity?

In the past, I'd prided myself on my ability to read people, to figure out what they
meant
rather than what they
said
. I'd used that skill in my work, getting to know my clients and figuring out what organizational strategies would work best for them. But many of my clients were people I knew. If I didn't know them, they were people who worked in or around the university, and I understood their jobs.

Here in Orchard View, I knew only a handful of people.

When a job seemed too daunting, my strategy was to break it down into manageable chunks. I needed to find a way to do that with all the mysteries that were plaguing us. If we had any hope of leading the life we intended to lead when we moved to Orchard View, we couldn't continue to be afraid of vandals and murderers. I had to look at the problems in a whole new way.

Walking back to the car, I heard my name called. Across the street, Elaine Cumberfield waved from atop a ladder where she appeared to be cleaning her gutters in an outfit that included a purple floppy hat with electric-blue flowers. A lime-green T-shirt and purple overalls completed her ensemble.

I waved back, then looked at my watch. I'd done enough snooping for today, and I was ready to get back to work on the house, but Elaine was right here. And Flora had told me Javier worked at the school at the same time Elaine did. Elaine might even have hired him. She might know more about him than anyone else in Orchard View.

I opened the car door, attached Belle's leash, and we crossed the street together.

Elaine climbed down the ladder and brushed the hair off her face with a gloved hand.

“Ah, Maggie. How are you? It's warming up quickly this morning.”

“Morning, Elaine. Your garden is beautiful.”

“Gardening is my version of step aerobics, but I'm ready for a break. Do you and Belle have time for lemonade? Would Belle like to play with Mackie for a bit?”

Belle did a small hop, step, bounce toward Elaine at the sound of her name, and we laughed. “I think that's a yes,” I said.

Belle and I followed Elaine through the house to the kitchen. I let Belle and Mackie out into the fenced backyard, where Belle's first stop was to get a loud, slurping drink from a charming fountain/birdbath/sculpture of a heron.

The beauty and delicacy of the heron, caught in the act of spearing a fish, was lost on Belle. Finished with her drink, she barked and bowed to Mackie with her front legs splayed out and her rear and tail in the air: a clear invitation to play. And they were off, chasing each other around the garden, where Mackie had made a clear running path.

Elaine put two glasses on a tray, along with a small pitcher of pink lemonade and a plate of her gingerbread men.

“Let's take this outside,” she said. “It's warming up in the sun, but I think it will still be pleasant on the back patio in the shade.”

Elaine invited me to sit on one of three folding camp chairs surrounding a rustic pine table. The setting was much less elaborate than Tess's red-and-black deck, but equally soothing.

She poured two glasses and passed me one, along with the plate of cookies.

The formalities observed, we leaned back and sipped, watching the dogs.

“How are you and the boys settling in, Maggie?” Elaine asked. “Are the boys happy in school?”

“They seem to be adjusting quickly,” I said. “We're doing well, except for the murders and vandalism, of course.”

“What a terrible introduction to our village you've had.”

It was the first time I'd heard anyone refer to Orchard View as a village, but the term fit. It was a close-knit town with essential shops and businesses, but no big box stores or industry.

“In a sense, though, it's been nice,” I said. Elaine's cheerful outlook on life was contagious. “We've been thrust into the thick of things. We know the police and emergency personnel, and I've made friends with the important people.” I lifted my glass to her, honoring her role as one of the most influential people I'd met so far.

“Thank you, my dear. Now, is there anything I can help you with? Understanding the school system? Finding a dentist? Locating a store? Or can you find all that on your smart phone these days?”

I laughed. “I'd trust your opinion over the saccharine voice on my phone. But there is something I wanted to ask you about. . . .”

“Yes?”

“Did you know Javier Hernandez? Flora told me he used to work at the school.”

“You missed meeting a wonderful man, Maggie. Javier was one of my favorite people. A true scholar. He and his wife and I used to have lunch together every Sunday and talk about books we were reading or problems at the school. He was great with the kids, and a better listener than some of the trained counselors the school district employs. He was especially good with troubled kids.”

Elaine paused and sipped her lemonade. “I'll miss him terribly. We all will. But how distressing it must be to have all this happen just as you're moving in. What a dreadful way to spend your first day in a new town.”

“I'm sorry for his family and his friends. He sounds like a saint. In trying to come to grips with his death, I'm trying to learn more about him.” I shook my head and wiped tears from my eyes, a little surprised at how emotional I'd become.

“We were upset, naturally, but I'm afraid I thought more about the problems created by the situation than about the man he'd been. Max knew him as a child, of course. They renewed their friendship while we were planning our move. But I hardly knew him, aside from talking a few times on the phone. I'm trying to fix that now, even if in a very small way.” I was also desperate to identify the murderer and protect my family, but I didn't say that out loud. I wasn't sure why, other than that both Elaine and her backyard exuded peace and kindness. That atmosphere encouraged me to keep murder out of the conversation as much as possible. I also thought Elaine might be more forthcoming if I encouraged her to reminisce about Mr. Hernandez without feeling it was part of an investigation.

Belle bounded up and nudged my hand with her nose, planting her head in my lap. Elaine refilled my glass and handed me a clean, pressed handkerchief to dry my tears. The delicate white cloth of the hanky smelled of lavender and looked like it had sprung, fully formed, from the depths of a Victorian novel. Not for the first time, I had the impression that Elaine was a time traveler who might be more at home in a different century.

“I think I have pictures of him working at school and with his family at Christmas parties here at the house. Would you like me to see if I can dig them out?”

I nodded and sniffed.

“He was my ally in those years I was teaching and being principal,” she said. “Even after he retired, he would serve as a chaperone at dances, or stop by on Sundays for a chat and fix things the current custodian hadn't had time to tackle. The kids created this alter ego for him, claiming he had superpowers. He could smell pot a mile away and always knew who was experimenting with drugs. He'd tilt his head, look them in the eye, and they'd confess immediately. I think the story they told was that he used to be a Colombian drug lord and if you lied to him ... there would be retribution and it would be bad.” Elaine laughed. “I think I half-believed the story myself. But it's odd; I don't think the kids ever specified what might happen if you lied to him. Just something so bad that ... they couldn't imagine it.” She used her index finger to swirl the condensation on the outside of the glass. “Middle-school kids are funny old things. Betwixt and between. Some days they're small children and the next day young adults. They ride a roller coaster of hormones and emotions that are mostly out of their control.”

“Do you think one of the students could have hurt Miss Harrier?” I asked. I stumbled over the words, swallowed wrong, and coughed. I couldn't bring myself to use
students
and
murder
in the same sentence.

Elaine put down her glass. “Is it murder now?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. I suddenly felt I was in middle school again, being interrogated by the principal. “But if it's suicide, we already know who did it.”

“Well, to answer your question, absolutely not. I'm not saying none of those kids have problems, including tendencies toward violence. But Susan—Miss Harrier—was an astute judge of character and very good at identifying and helping the troubled kids. She wasn't universally liked, I'll give you that, but among the troubled kids and their parents, she was idolized.”

“A side of her most of the community never saw.”

“That's right.” Elaine wiped up crumbs and put the plate, pitcher, and glasses back on the tray. It was time for me to leave.

I stood.

“I'm sorry to shoo you out, Maggie, but I want to finish cleaning the gutters.”

“No problem. This was a wonderful visit and break. Thank you.” I held up the crumpled handkerchief. “I'll get this back to you shortly.”

“Toss it on the tray. I'm doing wash later, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“About something like a handkerchief? Absolutely. About what's going on in Orchard View that's resulting in murder, fraud, and vandalism? Not so much.”

I laughed, called to Belle, and attached her leash. We followed Elaine into the house and she walked us to the front door while Mackie whined and nipped at Belle's feet. Asking her to stay, I guessed. But both Elaine and I had things to do. Another doggy visit would have to wait.

I was outside the door and halfway down the walk when Elaine called to me. She closed the door behind her and scurried down the walk. “Javier Hernandez was one of those people who used to be called ‘salt of the earth.' He truly believed that money was at the root of evil—at least around here. It really bothered him when the parents of kids in trouble would drive their expensive cars to school-counseling sessions about their troubled kids and say, ‘We have to work,' as if that were an excuse for ignoring their kids.”

Elaine shook her head. “It made him sad and he made an effort to be around for those kids as much as possible. I'm glad you're trying to get to know him, even now.”

“Thanks, Elaine,” I said. “Are there any other historical tidbits you've got that might help? Maybe not about Javier, but someone else?”

Elaine thought for a moment, surprising me. Up until now, she'd seemed reluctant to pass along anything she'd learned in her role as principal. She bit her lip and nodded quickly, as if she'd made an important decision. She looked up at me, shading her eyes from the sun.

“There's been something odd going on with Dennis DeSoto over the past few months, and I haven't trusted his brother Umberto since he was a seventh-grader. He stole a master key, opened the girls' gym lockers, moved their street clothes to the shower block, and turned on the water. They had to go to class in their PE uniforms—mortifying. It took Javier to get Umberto to confess. I don't know if that means anything. I haven't seen Umberto in years. But he runs the foundation whose funds have been frozen. I wonder if everything dreadful that's been happening boils down to a problem with money.”

“Do you think Umberto could have embezzled funds from his own family's foundation? That would be pretty risky for him, wouldn't it? From everything I've heard about him, power and prestige are everything. Would he take a chance on tarnishing his family's reputation?”

“Everyone has their price,” Elaine said, shrugging.

“But what motive would he have for damaging our house or the school? The incidents have gone beyond juvenile pranks, but they don't seem the work of a mature adult, either. Why on earth would Umberto, the big and powerful, bother himself with something so small-time? And if he's embezzling, why involve his brother Dennis?”

Apparently, Elaine had said all she had to say on the subject, at least for this afternoon. She turned and walked back to her front door, opened it, waved, and then closed it firmly.

I shook my head. I was uncovering more questions than answers and it was time to go home. But I continued to muse over the hints Elaine had dropped. Could everything that was going wrong in Orchard View come down to something as simple as following the money?

Elaine had encouraged me to take a look at the person I'd suspected from the start, Dennis—Mr. Snooty, who I'd seen examining our mailbox minutes before it exploded. Could the solution be that simple? Could the most obvious person really be the culprit? Not on TV. And not in a book. But maybe in real life?