Sally Berneathy - Death by Chocolate 01 - Death by Chocolate (6 page)

I approached the gate tentatively. Last spring the elderly couple who’d lived there for fifty years had both died within a two month period and left it to their son in Florida who had professed himself unwilling to sell his childhood home but also unwilling to sink a lot of money into repairs. For a long time the parents hadn’t been able to keep it up the way they should, and it hadn’t improved since their death. The hedge and the gate had made a lot of progress toward uniting inextricably. I finally managed to get it open, breaking off a few twigs and leaves in the process.

I walked toward the tree a little tentatively, unsure what might be lurking in the ankle-high grass. As I neared the corner, I spotted my hammer in an area where the grass was pressed down as if a large animal had been sleeping there. Could be the big, friendly black dog who roamed the neighborhood. I’d always assumed he belonged to somebody, but maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he just slept around.

As I bent down to retrieve my hammer, I caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke from the grass. I might be a little uncertain as to where that dog lived, but I was relatively certain he didn’t smoke.

Nevertheless, I knew I was right about the smell. I’ve never been a smoker. At the age of fourteen,
my cousin Carolyn and I bought a pack, each took a couple of puffs and immediately regretted that we’d wasted money on something that didn’t taste good when we could have bought chocolate. Consequently, I’m pretty sensitive to the smell, and there was no doubt in my mind that somebody had recently emptied an ashtray or two in that spot even though I didn’t see any butts.

So what?
I asked myself.

I picked up the hammer and straightened.

Probably teenagers.

But we didn’t have any teenagers in the immediate area.

Visiting teenagers, then.

Yeah, right, like any self-respecting, rebellious teenager would voluntarily hang out in Pleasant Grove.

I wasn’t sure why, but this whole thing gave me kind of a creepy feeling.

I told myself I was only being paranoid after the scene with the cops at Paula’s house, but I’ve been known to lie to myself before…like all those months I told myself I believed Rick.

I pushed the grass aside with the toe of one sneaker and looked for cigarette butts.

I didn’t see anything. Either I was imagining the smell or the ashes had sifted through the grass and somebody had very tidily cleaned up every butt.

Tidy teenagers? I was pretty sure that was an oxymoron.

Then I spotted a bit of white. I squatted for a closer look. It was a portion of a filter that had been crushed into pieces. The tidy smoker must have found the other parts but missed this one. It was still white. We’d had rain on Wednesday, so this was fresh.

So what?
I asked myself again, aware of how absurd this whole thing was. I definitely needed to get a life if a bit of cigarette butt could fascinate me that way.

I started to rise, then noticed a sort of tunnel through the hedge. The leaves had been clipped. This was not a natural phenomenon. Someone had deliberately created a tunnel that was bigger on this side and narrower as it went through a hole in the chain link fence then out to the other side. From that other side, it wouldn’t be noticeable at all, though it gave anyone sitting on the grass and smoking cigarettes a perfect view of Paula’s house.

Chapter Four

An hour and a half later I was sitting in Fred’s breakfast nook at his table with the glass top that never seemed to get dirty or smudged, overlooking his back yard where the trees didn’t drop leaves and the birds never pooped.

I took
a bite of his chicken salad on homemade bread, savoring the delicate flavors. If I could persuade Fred to come to work at Death by Chocolate, we’d all be rich, but he prefers to sit in front of that computer screen all day and do whatever it is he does.

“This bread
is wonderful,” I told him.

He studied the
uneaten portion of his own sandwich and scowled. “The crust’s not crisp enough.”

“It’s perfect.”

“My oven temperature must be inaccurate.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Maybe.”

He spoke the last word with as much dignity and solemnity as he’d voice
d his criticism of his bread.

I laughed and Fred smiled.

I knew that Fred knew Rick had spent the night even though my driveway was on the other side of my house with several trees in between and Fred hadn’t opened his blinds until after Rick left. The man knew everything that went on. I’ve accused him of having a periscope leading from his computer up his chimney as well as
bugs
in every house in the neighborhood that feed into his computer. He acts surprised every time I bring it up, claiming he lives in his own little world and sometimes doesn’t even know what the weather’s like outside.

Yeah, right, and Rick just happened to have that jar of instant coffee in his briefcase.

However, I really didn’t want to think about Rick at that moment, and Fred would never bring it up if I didn’t. So I chose another topic.

“Cops came to visit Paula this morning,” I said.

He nodded.

“Now how could you possibly know that if you don’t have a periscope?” I demanded.

“You just told me.”

“You nodded
, indicating you already knew.”

“I
nodded as a polite acknowledgement that I’m listening to what you’re saying.”

I lifted a skeptical eyebrow. Sometimes I’m not positive when he’s teasing, but I never let him know that. As I finished my
sandwich, savoring every crumb, I told him about the cops’ visit.

“I’ve always wondered why any woman would want to color her blond hair brown,” he said when I finished.

“You noticed that, too? She didn’t have any references when she moved in. Rick didn’t want to accept her application to rent the house, but I insisted. I think she had an abusive husband, and she’s hiding from him. What do you think?”

He nodded slowly.

“Is that a nod of agreement or just a polite nod to show you heard me?”

“It’s a contemplative nod. I’m considering the possibility. She is pretty obsessive about keeping to herself
, and she’s extremely protective of the kid. Would you like more tea?”

“Yes, please.”

While Fred poured tea, I peeled the plastic wrap off the plate of still-warm peanut butter chocolate chip cookies I’d brought over.

“Well,” he said, selecting the most evenly rounded cookie on the plate, “I guess it’s none of our business. If Paula wants us to know what her problem is, she’ll tell us.”

“Unless she’s too scared to make a rational decision. She may need our help.” I told him about the hole through the hedge and the cigarette butt. “Have you noticed any activity over there? Anybody skulking around?”

For several moments he gazed out the window, then finally shook his head. “I don’t think the police would be watching her through a hole in the hedge. That’s not really their style.”

“I know that, but it might be her ex-husband or somebody he’s hired to find her. Her unlisted phone number is listed somewhere or that Lester Mackey wouldn’t have it on a piece of paper in his apartment.”

“Have you told her about this suspected stake-out site?”

“Not yet. She’s already terrified. I don’t want to make it worse until I know for sure there’s something to worry about.”

“Okay, so we forget about it until we know for sure there’s something to worry about.”

“That’s just like a man! Don’t call the fire department until the house is burning.”

“I think that’s standard procedure, yes.”

“Okay, that analogy didn’t come out quite right, but you know what I meant. Why don’t you run a check on your computer, see what you can find out about Paula?”

“Because that would be invading her privacy.”

“It’s for her own good.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know it isn’t. She could be in danger. The fire could already be smoldering under the roof and any minute it’s going to burst into flames and then it’ll be too late.”

He didn’t answer. I hate it when he does that. If he’d keep arguing, I might have a chance of convincing him.

I took another cookie, more chocolate to inspire me to figure out what to do next.

“Okay, I’ll run a check on
her,” he suddenly agreed, much to my surprise, “if you’ll promise not to do anything else.”

“What else? What could I possibly do?”

“I’m not going to answer that. I don’t want to give you any ideas. Do you have Paula’s social security number and date of birth?”

“Sure, in my computer records at home.”

“Call me with it and I’ll see what I can find, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Thank you.” I pushed my chair back, stood and planted a kiss on his cheek, partly because I knew it would make him blush and partly because I really was grateful to him for being my friend.

When I walked in the front door of my house, King Henry rose regally from my recliner, stretched, rubbed against my legs, then ambled over to reach up and pat the door handle.

“You’re right. It’s time for you to go home. We had a nice visit, but you know what they say about cats and visitors.” I didn’t have a clue what “they” said about cats and visitors, but I
was pretty sure he’d know. He had a wise, all-knowing air about him.

I opened the door
, and he went out, moving gracefully and casually across the porch.

And suddenly I didn’t want him to leave.

That was silly. Maybe I should get a dog, I thought, something little and fuzzy that would greet me at the door and be so thrilled to see me, he’d pee all over the rug then run in circles tracking it all through the house…and then maybe that house wouldn’t feel so empty.

King Henry sauntered out into the yard, then dropped into a sudden crouch, his tail swishing slowly as he peered intently at something in the clover.

I turned away and went upstairs to the bedroom designated as my home office. Unlike Fred’s sophisticated equipment, however, my computer was so ancient, my word-processing program wrote everything with a quill. But it did everything I needed, everything I was capable of doing. I’ve never been very computer literate. I’ve always suspected a little green man lives in that computer and makes it run or not run, depending on his mood, and I’m good at pissing him off. For one thing, he really hates Coke in his keyboard.

Instead of a high tech modular work station, I had a huge wooden desk built in the early ’50s that weighed somewhere around five tons. At least, that’s what the movers said when they had to wrestle it up the stairs. Rick’s office threw it away when they converted to high tech modular work stations about five years ago. I saved it, much to his dismay. It was a toss-up whether he was happier to see me or that desk leave his house.

I located Paula’s records on my computer, called Fred on my equally antiquated cell phone that did nothing but make phone calls and gave him the information.

Then I went back downstairs and out on the porch, hoping to catch a last glimpse of King Henry, see what direction he was going. Maybe I could visit him occasionally. We could talk about our chance meeting and maybe even wax philosophical, chat of mice and men and the best way to torture them.

He was still lying in that same spot, staring intently at something in the clover. I went out in the yard and checked it out, but didn’t see anything. In fact, as I looked around me, I didn’t see anyone or any activity anywhere. Ever notice how extra quiet it is on Sundays, like the whole world’s a church?

I felt very much at loose ends. I could go back in and read or watch TV or wash my hair or arrange my toiletries in alphabetical order. Somehow none of that appealed to me.

I could go visit Paula, but I hated to do that while I was having Fred check her out. It just didn’t seem right.

I strolled across the street, half aimlessly and half drawn to the hedge with the hole in it.

Henry came with me.

“We’re trespassing, you know,” I advised him as I shoved through the gate. Henry darted in as if to say that cats couldn’t trespass because the entire world belonged to them.

I checked out the hole again, just to see if it was really as distinct as I remembered.

It was. Definitely man made. Definitely a hole. Definitely strange.

But this time I was looking through it from a different angle…and had a perfect view of
my
house!

Had Rick hired a private investigator to get the goods on me?

Yeah, right. And what goods might those be, Lindsay the Boring? Anyway, that made no sense. He was already getting everything he wanted in the divorce.

So maybe Ms. Huffy Muffy had hired a private investigator to see if Rick was cheating on her. I smiled at that thought and suddenly felt much better about letting Rick spend the night. Perhaps it had served a good purpose after all.