Address to Die For (24 page)

When you consult a professional, be honest with them and with yourself. It does no good to have a doctor prescribe treatment you refuse to follow. The same goes for a professional organizer. If I suggest a plan that my client doesn't embrace, I hope he will let me know so I can make adjustments. If he doesn't, he's wasted his money and my time.

 

 

 

 

T
he fire chief confirmed that the fire was arson. Someone did not want us in Orchard View. That much was certain. Maybe someone was threatened by my meager investigations into Javier Hernandez's death, Miss Harrier's death, the vandalism, and the embezzlement. But scare tactics and a campaign to oust us from our home made it clear they didn't know me very well. I was more determined than ever not to give in. Maybe I didn't know the town, or the people, or what they were hiding. But my ignorance was not going to make me give up.

What did Max's Aunt Kay say? “Play to your strengths.”

I was best at bringing order from chaos. I'd done it for friends, strangers, hoarders, and hopelessly disorganized professors. I could do it with what I'd learned during my investigation. And if I couldn't, following familiar procedures would soothe me. While Adelia's team wiped down and repainted the staircase, Brian played video games and I ran our smoky-smelling clothing and bedding through the wash; I pulled out my colored index cards, my colored markers and highlighters, and got to work.

I made cards for the key players, along with wild cards for persons unknown. Flora, April, Pauline, Dennis, Tess, Elaine, Stephen, and Jason each had a card. I didn't want to think that anyone I knew could be hiding the kind of anger and desperation that would lead them to arson or murder, but I made cards for everyone and hoped I'd soon be able to rule them out.

I wrote the locations on cards too—the school buildings, our house, the barn, and the foundation that had taken a hit in the embezzlement scheme. I didn't have any details on the fraud and I wasn't even sure that any of these things were connected, but I wrote them down anyway. Elaine had suggested I follow the money. I added cards for the other sources of school funding: PTA, the DeSoto Foundation, the Orchard View Foundation, and regular state funding. If one pocket of school funding had proved lucrative for a crook, I wanted to try to make sure they weren't all vulnerable. I knew that school districts near New York and Chicago had been the victims of comprehensive frauds that took advantage of lax accounting and auditing practices. I didn't know enough about the Orchard View school-district administration to rule that out, here.

My organizing process required taking a good, hard look at everything my client was dealing with, so that we could make realistic improvements and changes, creating a system the client could maintain. I was literally putting my cards on the table, or in this case, laying them out in a riot of color on my living-room floor.

I made cards for the times when we thought each crime had occurred. That was the hardest part. Everything that had happened since we'd arrived seemed to have run together into one major nightmare. Separating them made me face each event individually, including those that might or might not be accidents.

As I'd hoped, when I reduced each horrifying episode to a few words that fit on a cheerful pink 3-by-5 card, they seemed much more manageable.

I moved the cards around based on who could have been in each location at the time the crimes had occurred. I made duplicate cards for the key players, making each one a different color: red for the Tess cards, green for Flora, blue for Dennis, etc.

If I was positive that someone had access to a crime scene and had no alibi, I put their card below the crime-scene card. If their presence was possible, I put their name above the scene.

I still didn't know much about the events of the past two weeks or the secrets that people were hiding. But patterns were emerging. Both Tess and Dennis had easy access to all the crime scenes. I clung to the concept of Tess's innocence, so I focused on Dennis.

Dennis had proximity to our house. Of all the suspects, he lived closest. He'd offered to sell our house, which seemed to indicate he'd be happy to see us go. His brother ran the DeSoto Family Foundation, and Dennis was the PTA treasurer. He'd told me himself that he was an active volunteer in a wide variety of school organizations. His son, Diego, had seemed uncomfortable when we gave him a lift home. Unlike the others, Dennis offered no help with our brainstorming sessions after the vandalism at the school and Miss Harrier's death. Miss Harrier had been asking for his PTA treasurer reports and Flora said he'd seemed reluctant to provide them.

I'd told Flora days ago that I'd pick up the reports from Dennis. Making good on my promise would be the perfect excuse to visit him and ask him a few more questions.

If two weeks in Orchard View had taught me one thing, though, it was that baked goods were currency. If you were saying thank you, asking for help, apologizing, or saying hello, unwritten Orchard View rules dictated that cookies be provided. My cupboards were nearly bare, but I still had the cookies Flora had given me earlier in the week. I'd frozen them when I'd been under the temporary delusion that we had more than enough cookies to last us into next spring.

I pulled them from the freezer and arranged them on a plate. While they thawed, I picked up the piles of index cards, set them aside, and went to tell Brian I was going to the DeSotos'.

But when I checked on Brian, I found him sprawled on his bed, fast asleep, with Belle curled up next to him. His breathing was still raspy, but it was more relaxed and even than it had been. I left a note for him on the bathroom mirror and left Belle to keep him company.

I walked down the driveway and checked the mailbox. I still wasn't sure when our mail was delivered. Like the vandal, the mail carrier came and went without me seeing him. The box was empty.

Overhanging live oak branches shaded Briones Hill Road and made the walk toward Dennis's house cool. I drew my sweatshirt around me and felt alone.

My calves burned from the steep climb by the time I reached the ostentatious lampposts that marked the end of the DeSotos' driveway. Dennis had made it clear that he thought of our house as a dump, so I felt free to entertain snarky comments about
his
house, as long as I kept them to myself. The drive itself was paved with sand-colored stones that probably had a special name, but I didn't know what it was.

I tried not to let the house intimidate me, but it wasn't easy. When I walked past the fountain, I wondered how I'd missed seeing the front door when we'd dropped off Diego. A two-story entryway with double doors and the largest brass doorknobs I'd ever seen dominated the courtyard. Through clear sidelights and windows above the door, I could see a staircase that curved upwards, encircling a giant chandelier. I wondered who dusted it.

I felt very small, as if I should be selling Girl Scout cookies. I reminded myself I was more than forty years old and a mother of two. I stood as tall as I could in my jeans and sneakers and rang the bell, which was so large I had to hit it with the heel of my hand instead of my finger.

Magazines work hard to sell the idea that women need to develop a personal style for their hair and clothing. The same principle works for organization. What works for one person might be ridiculously onerous for the next.

 

 

 

 

E
lisabeth/Demi answered the door. I introduced myself and stepped into the marble-tiled front hall, asking if Dennis was available. Elisabeth called up the stairs to him and we chatted in the circular room, which was notably barren of skates, balls, rackets, shoes, books, backpacks, and any other evidence that five children lived in the house. I assumed that there was another dumping ground for kid paraphernalia at the back of the home, probably closer to the kitchen.

“Of course, you're the new neighbor,” Elisabeth gushed. “For a second there I was sure that Laura Linney, the actress, was standing on my doorstep. Has anyone told you that you look just like her?”

I rubbed my hands over my face, unsure how to reply. I assumed Elisabeth was being sarcastic and trying to tell me I still had smears of soot on my face.

Elisabeth wore full makeup and was carefully coiffed, wearing a tailored butter-yellow shift and matching heels. She asked about the fire and expressed relief when I told her no one had been hurt. We waited for Dennis . . . and waited for Dennis . . . and waited some more for Dennis.

“I'm not sure where he is,” she said. “Come through to the kitchen and I'll give you coffee while we wait. He may be on the phone. I'll text him.”

Text him? In his own home? Elisabeth led me down a narrow hallway filled with school pictures, framed awards, and bookcases filled with sports trophies. I relaxed a little, more comfortable here than I'd been in the cold and showy front hall.

Elisabeth invited me to sit at a large square table in the corner. A right-angled cushioned banquette provided seating on two sides of the table. Diego sat at one end, supporting his head with his left hand and slurping Cheerios from the spoon in his right.

“Hi, Diego,” I said. “No soccer today?”

Diego looked up through his thick bangs and I gasped.

“Oh, honey,” I said. “I'm so sorry. What happened to your eye?” A dark purple bruise covered the left side of his face, and his eye was swollen closed.

I put down the plate of cookies I'd made up from the batch that Flora had given us, and hoped they'd had time to thaw.

“Have a cookie,” I said, looking up at Elisabeth to confirm that it was okay to offer her son a treat. She nodded, staring at her phone. She was waiting, I assumed, for an answering text from Dennis.

“Tried to catch a soccer ball with his face,” Dennis said from the hall. He came in to the kitchen holding a sparkly purple leash in his left hand.

Attached to the leash was Belle, looking embarrassed by the blingy leash.

In his right hand, Dennis held a gun pointed at Belle's head.

“Belle!”

Belle pulled toward me. Tugging back on the leash, Dennis slipped on the slickly waxed floor, waving the gun as he lost his balance.

I grabbed for Belle, trying to get her away from his gun. I fought to grasp her collar. In doing so, I banged my head hard on the metal edge of the kitchen table and hissed in pain.

Belle snarled and growled at Dennis. It was unusual behavior for Belle, but I was terrified of the gun and injured. Belle may have picked up on my fear. She was in a strange house, with strange people, and she was protective. Especially when she thought someone might be threatening me.

“What is going on here?” Dennis said. “Has the whole world gone nuts?”

“Honey, the gun,” Elisabeth said.

Dennis looked at the floor and knelt to pick up the gun.

“Diego, take this gun outside with the rest.”

Before Diego could take the gun from his dad, Dennis changed his mind. “Never mind. I'm keeping it until we can repaint the tip orange. It's not safe to have a toy that looks this real. Go on upstairs and get ready for the doctor.” Dennis turned, still holding the gun, and looked at me.

Diego grabbed a handful of cookies as he left the kitchen.

“Demi's taking him in to make sure there's no serious damage to his eye.”

He looked at the gun in his hand and at me.

“Oh, hell, Maggie. Did you think this was real?” Dennis sank onto the cushioned bench. Elisabeth handed me an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel.

“You ought to have that wound looked at,” she said. “You could use a few stitches.”

I reached up to feel the cut above my eyebrow. The skin was thin there over the bone and I'd hit the table hard. It was a classic injury I'd seen in both my boys. I could feel the swelling now and the pain, along with blood that left my fingers dripping and red.

“Head wounds always bleed a lot,” I said. “I'll slap some Steri-Strips on it when I get home.” I started to move toward the door, wishing I'd never decided to visit the DeSotos.

Elisabeth pushed me gently back onto the banquette. She placed a glass of ice water in front of me.

“Drink that, first,” she said. “And let me check you for a concussion before you go.”

“Demi was a nurse before I married her,” Dennis said. “I'd listen to her if I were you.”

“What was Belle doing with you, Dennis?” I asked, still shaky from the image of him holding the gun to Belle's head. I hadn't known it was a toy. Like Belle, I'd been quite sure he'd been threatening both of us.

“She was running on the road,” Dennis said. “It's rural here, but you really can't let her out without a leash.”

“But how did she get out?” I said. “I locked up before I left.”

“Might want to get those locks checked.”

“Thanks. I'll do that.” I had no intention of discussing our ongoing security problems with Dennis, who, if my index cards were right, might be the main cause of our problems.

Elisabeth checked me for a concussion. She said I was fine, but recommended I consult the doctor and get stitches. She offered to drop me off at home while she took Diego to the doctor, or to take me to the doctor so I could get stitches at urgent care.

I refused both offers, but asked if I could hang onto the ice pack.

“Keep the towel too,” she said.

“If you're insisting on walking home, sit a few more minutes and finish your water,” Dennis said. “And tell me why you're here. Elisabeth said you wanted to see me.”

Belle sighed and laid her head on my foot, her eyebrows raised as if to say, “What on earth are we doing here and why aren't we going home?”

“Are you ready to sell that white elephant house of yours?” he said. “Silicon Valley can be a bit much for some folks. I'd be happy to take it off your hands for you.”

I shook my head. “I'm here on an errand for Flora Meadow,” I said. “She asked me to pick up the PTA treasurer's reports.”

“Treasurer's reports?”

“Flora said Miss Harrier had been asking for them. She wanted to include them in the PTA binder. The audit is coming up soon, and Flora's afraid that if she doesn't provide a complete binder . . .” I was embellishing and had run out of inspiration. Luckily, Dennis didn't seem to notice.

“But Harrier's dead and the audit isn't for ages. Flora must be confused.”

“Flora wants to get everything in order for the next principal. She said Miss Harrier had been asking for them for months, but that you kept forgetting to give them to her because you're so busy. I thought I'd help by picking them up.”

“Oh, that's not necessary. I'll have Elisabeth drop them off at the school.”

“I'm afraid Flora insisted,” I said. Flora hadn't, of course, but the more Dennis sidestepped this simple request, the more I was certain the answer to everything lay in something as simple as a monthly PTA report. Hadn't Elaine suggested I follow the money? Had she known there was something to find?

I looked around the kitchen. Every appliance was fancier than any I'd seen outside of a showroom or a magazine, but the overall effect was cold and sterile—literally sterile—more like a laboratory than a family kitchen. French doors led to a slate terrace. It looked like most of the family's real living was done out there. Built-in benches formed a low wall, separating the patio from a lush lawn. The benches were covered with piles of hockey sticks, stray socks, baseball gloves, shin guards, small orange cones, tennis rackets, swim bags, and soccer cleats. All the detritus that said
kids live here
, and that I'd missed seeing in the front hall.

In the middle was a rifle with the telltale orange tip. Next to it was a slingshot.
An airsoft rifle and a slingshot.
I remembered the brick that went though the staircase window and realized how close a match it was to the sand-colored stones that paved the DeSotos' driveway.
Uh-oh.

Could the DeSoto kids be our vandals? Or Dennis himself? Could he have murdered Javier Hernandez? Or Miss Harrier? I shuddered and felt sweat drip down my sides. The police had moved away from thinking of the vandals as exuberant kids. We'd started thinking of them as unpredictable and dangerous criminals.

If the vandals did turn out to be Dennis or his offspring, I'd made a big mistake coming here. Whoever had been damaging our property wasn't concerned about who he or she injured and probably wouldn't stop at hurting one of us, if they had also been responsible for Mr. Hernandez's murder. My gut was telling me I didn't belong here. Belle woofed softly in agreement, as though she could read my mind.

I looked from Elisabeth and Dennis to the various exits—out the patio door and over a wrought-iron fence with a gate that was probably locked or back through the hallway and fumbling with the giant doorknob. I sighed. There was no easy escape, not if I wanted to take Belle with me. I was already here. I might as well ask my questions. I had lost patience with subtlety and decided to be as direct as possible.

“Airsoft guns?” I said. “And yellow pavers in the front drive? Have you been targeting us? Was the vandalism at our house your idea? What about the school? Was that to deflect attention from what you'd done at our house?”

Dennis sighed and took a sip of water. “I've been meaning to talk to you about the damage to your house.”

I could hear the clock ticking on the wall, Belle's heavy breathing, and my heart thumping. I pushed my back hard into the cushions of the banquette, eager to put as much room as possible between Dennis and me.

Elisabeth shifted her weight from one foot to the other and checked her watch. “I need to leave to make Diego's appointment. If you're sure you don't want a ride . . . ?”

I shook my head and she left.

“It's my oldest son . . .” Dennis began.