Murder Came Second (10 page)

She had seemed very pleased and said she loved looking at paint chips. But I knew I had simply applied a Band-Aid to the wound. I
had
to get my act together. I poured more coffee and sat back down to rehearse my little speech. I was going to give it tonight, for sure!

A tap on the back screen door interrupted my rehearsal. It was Carla Brownlee, our next-door neighbor, a pleasant woman in her early fifties.

“Carla! Come in. How about a coffee?”

“That sounds good and, here, your favorite cookies—oatmeal Scotties.” She placed a covered paper plate on the table.

“Are they ever my favorite! Thanks, I needed that.” I put the mug in front of her, remembered she took milk and actually poured some into a little pitcher, placing it neatly near her, along with the sugar bowl, napkin and spoon. Mom and Cindy would be proud. “So, Carla, what’s new in the ’hood?”

“Well.” She hesitated slightly. “Good news for Bob and me. You and Cindy may not agree.”

“My God, you haven’t gone and sold your place, have you?” My stomach gave a lurch. The Brownlees had been good, friendly— but not too friendly—neighbors for years. Who knew what their replacements might be like? Like reaching for a life preserver, I grabbed a cookie.

“No, no, not even a thought of that,” she quickly assured me. “But we
have
rented it—the whole house—from next Thursday through Labor Day.”

“How did you ever manage that?” The Brownlees rented six rooms to tourists and provided a lush Continental breakfast to start their days. The house was luxuriously furnished and boasted elegant table settings and accoutrements. Bob Brownlee had a museum-quality collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century snuffboxes which he kept displayed in a locked glass cabinet. All in all, the place was lovely.

Carla set down her mug. “Well, you know the realtor, Ellen Hall?” I nodded. She and her partner were friends of ours. “Ellen called me last week. It seems some big Broadway producer is going to do a Shakespearean play out at the amphitheater over Labor Day weekend. They’ve been rehearsing in New York, but will start rehearsing up here soon, of course, and they need rooms for the actors and the rest of their people. Ellen mentioned lighting technicians, and sound people, wardrobe folks . . . all sorts of people I never really thought of whenever I saw a play. They’re renting out several houses in town.”

She sipped her coffee and continued. “It can’t be easy. I know we had a tough time canceling our regulars and finding other places they could stay.”

I lit cigarette number two for the day, hard on the heels of number one. I’d have to watch it to stay within my quota of five . . . well, I would try.

“I hope to God we get the actors and not the band.” I lifted my head skyward.

“Good grief, is there really a band? Well, yes, I suppose there would be, since it’s a musical.” Carla laughed. “Fear not, my dear, you are getting the leading actors, the
stars
! Shakespearean actors! Surely, Shakespearean actors will be well behaved. And the director himself will be in our own ground floor bed-sitter.” She said “director” as if she were saying “emperor,” and then sobered. “Alex, I really do hope they don’t bother you and Cindy.”

“I’m sure it will be perfectly fine. But seriously, Carla, things like Bob’s snuffboxes . . .”

“ . . . are in the bank. The rest of the silver and china and crystal are safely locked in a closet in the basement. Our tenants will be left with everything expendable. I think it’s a win-win, Alex.”

I wondered if she considered the grand piano, the carpets and the appliances expendable? Perhaps I was remembering the tale a friend from Connecticut told us about the amount of damage Liz Taylor and some husband or other once wreaked on a lovely summer rental by the beach on Blue Hill in Westport. He said the owner’s wife went into a nervous collapse on viewing it when they returned home. And there were only two of them!

Carla finished her coffee and continued. “We’re making about as much as we would if we rented daily, at full capacity, with none of the stress. Ellie and Betts, our regular maids, will continue taking care of things, only
we
don’t have to pay them! And Thursday bright and early, Bob and I are off to spend the rest of the summer at my sister’s place out on the Michigan peninsula. Now, Alex, if you have any problems at all about the tenants, call Ellen. She’s handling everything about the rental. Tell Cindy bye for us.” She stood, smiling, arms outstretched.

I got up and gave her a hug. I wished them well and hoped they’d gotten a sizeable damage deposit. Little did I guess that no damage deposit existed that would cover the events the players would bring to town.

63

Cindy and I did not have
that
conversation that night. We were too busy wondering what our new neighbors would be like. Neither Cindy nor I were sure that “Shakespearean actor” automatically translated into “desirable neighbor.” And even if it did, we weren’t too sure that people one thought of as
Shakespearean actors
would be doing a modern
Hamlet
musical set in rural Georgia.

Thursday morning, Cindy left for work with great regret. I had strict instructions to call her the minute the players arrived, with full descriptions of what they looked and sounded like and what they were wearing. Did she think they would be in Elizabethan attire? She had hinted strongly that I should spend the day weeding the flower bed along our driveway, so that I would just happen to be out front and could casually make them welcome when they drove up. Would they say things like, “Fie, my good fellow, park-est not in front of yon fireplug?”

I finally got her out of the house—late—and had just decided on another coffee, when the phone rang. It was my mother. She knew both Cindy and I had busy schedules, so if we were inviting the travel-weary actors over for drinks and nibbles this evening, she would be happy to make up some canapés and bring them by. I told her I thought it might be just a little premature to strike up friendships so early in their stay, and we parted rather stiffly.

Moments later Aunt Mae took her shot at it. She believed that little pots of herbs always made such thoughtful welcome gifts. If I would like her to select some especially unusual ones and later bring them by, she would be more than willing to do so. Just let her know how many were needed. I told her I didn’t know which, if any, of the actors might be into cooking, but if I heard of any interest in herbs, I’d let her know. Her good-bye seemed just a little cool, also.

I gave a drooping Fargo his breakfast. He ignored it and sat by the back door, head down, a picture of despair. He had somehow deduced he would not be running errands with me. “Angel Dog,” I explained, “It’s too hot to leave you in the car when I’m going into stores. Parking lots are like ovens. You would melt.”

Ready to go out the door, I offered him a farewell biscuit. He sniffed it and looked away, so I put it beside his dish. As I went out the door, he staggered weakly toward his bed, overcome with terminal depression. I knew damn well he would scarf down the biscuit the minute I was out of the driveway. I knew he also had food, fresh water, a rawhide, a cool kitchen, and I’d be back in two or three hours, so I really felt no guilt. Much.

Still alive upon my return, Fargo circled the yard in apparent restored health, checking for two- or four-legged intruders, rolling in the grass, taking a playful nip of a tomato plant, just to tease me.

I made several trips carrying the groceries, the cleaning and the wine into the house and nobly stowed them away. I put the grass trimmer line in the garage, and noted I’d forgotten to buy mulch. Then, back inside the house, I sat down beside the answering machine, to calm its nervous twitters.

Cassie just thought I might want to advise the actors she was always ready, should they need a fast trip anywhere. Cindy wondered if anything was going on yet. Billy Whitmire reminded me he had tuned Carla Brownlee’s piano back in June, but if any of the actors felt it needed some small adjustments, he’d be happy to run over. Free of charge, naturally. Mildred Morris wasn’t sure the cast would have brought any office personnel along, so if they needed help in keeping track of local expenses, filing invoices or anything like that, she could come by almost any time and would be happy to help out. Cindy wondered crossly where on earth I was.

I ignored the other calls and called Cindy to report all quiet at the front lines.

I popped a Bud and went out to join Fargo. He had forgotten his earlier pout and trotted over, ready for an ear-fondle.

I complied, and now it was I who sighed. “Fargo, my love, our thespian troupe ain’t even in town yet, and already they’re driving me crazy. What the hell will it be like once they get here?”

He rolled onto his back, my signal to provide a tummy scritch. Projection is never a problem with dogs.

Chapter 9

My plans for Friday morning had been to mount a bunch of photos and put them in their frames, ready to go to the various shops and galleries that carried them and needed replacements for those they had sold. Actually, I spent most of the morning on the phone.

Vance called. He and Dan just wondered if we were all right. We had been with them—and in perfectly good health—last weekend at the Poly/Cotton Club, but I thanked him for his concern, and no, no actors had yet arrived.

Lainey called, just wanting to make sure the blister on Cindy’s heel had healed properly. It had, nearly two weeks ago. No, no actors in sight.

Even Mary Sloan called. She and Ann hadn’t run into us in ages and were just wondering how we were. And had we met anyone famous yet?

Peter and the Wolf called, just to say “Hi.” “Hi” included a subtle question about “Anything new going on?” No, nothing new. Except our newfound popularity.

I looked at Fargo, who took that moment to walk to the door and give me a quizzical glance. “You are right, Dog of Dogs. It’s lunchtime, and I have accomplished nada. I think I’ll repair to my ‘other office’ and let the answering machine do what those clever people at G.E. built it for.” I eased around him and was out the door before he realized he was left behind. “I’m sorry, Fargo,” I called. “We go through this every summer. It’s just too hot!”

Ever efficient, I took the car and stopped by Gammon’s Nursery to pick up the forgotten mulch. Then, with incredible luck, I got a parking space right at the head of the alley leading down to the Rat.

The day was having trouble making up its mind what it wanted to do. I’d awakened to clouds, which gave way to sun. Now the clouds were moving in again.

Even at the Wharf Rat there was no escape from the world of drama. Joe’s opening words were, “Are they here yet?”

“Not as of half an hour ago, and I’m already sick of hearing about them. Just give me a Bud, Joe. My phone has rung off the hook for two days. How does word get around so fast?”

He beat his hands on the edge of the bar and intoned, “Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Okay, one Bud. Want a pastrami? It’s nice and lean.”

“Why not?”

“Hi, Alex.” The aroma of garlic and beer was a sure ID.

“Hello, Harmon, how are you?”

“I understand you got a bunch of actors movin’ in next door at Bob Brownlee’s place.”

“Yes, but they aren’t here yet.” Maybe I could just tape this sentence and play it when asked.

“Well, Bob, he ast me to look after the yard while they’s away. I’m glad to do it, of course, they’re nice and they always pay good. But it’s a perfect excuse to be there a lot and keep an eye on things.”

Unthinking, I replied, “Oh, I think all the valuables are safely locked away, Harmon. You don’t have to worry about theft . . . not that I have any reason to think they’d steal anything. They’re probably perfectly honest.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He raised his chin and straightened his stance. “I’ll be on the lookout, never you fear. You tell Sonny there ain’t no drugs gonna go in nor out of that place but what I know it. You tell him I’m on the job.”

“I will do that, Harmon.” And I knew Sonny would be thrilled. I had no idea if our unseen actors enjoyed an occasional recreational drug, or shot up heroin four times a day, or were clean as arctic snow. But I did know one thing: Bob Brownlee was going to have the best kept lawn in Massachusetts.