Night of the Living Deed (12 page)

I had asked Terry to come by on the pretense that she might be interested in helping me find full-time tenants for some of the rooms once the renovation was complete. Of course, I had no intention of taking in people on a full-time basis, nor was I even licensed for that, but inviting a real estate agent over to ask about two murders would probably be something of an off-putting experience, we’d decided. (Okay, Paul had decided.)

“This is all going to be the original hardwood flooring, sanded and re-stained,” I told Terry, doing my best to ignore Kerin. I indicated the den and living room floors, which were now semi-covered in a wall-to-wall carpet that had probably been sold to the original owners by Ali Baba himself. Terry nodded. You could practically see the thought balloon over her head: “Why is this woman showing me around the house I sold to her?”

“It’s going to be gorgeous,” she responded. Like she’d say if she thought it would be hideous. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Kerin simply stared, mostly at the enormous hole in the hallway wall. Leave it to her to find my soft underbelly and gape at it.

“Ask her about the owners before Maxie, the Prescotts,” Paul hissed from the dining room entrance. Maxie, sort of floating over the room, did her best to look bored.

“The Prestons,” Maxie said. “Get the name right, gumshoe.”

“All right, the Prestons,” Paul rasped back. “And keep your voice down!”

“Why?”

“The people who owned this place before, the Prestons,” I said to Terry, as if there were no conversation going on in the room but ours. “I was wondering about them—I remember when I was growing up they had a lot of children . . .”

Terry nodded. “Yeah, they had nine kids,” she said. “Why do you ask ?”

“Their names were on some old documents and letters I found in the kitchen,” I lied. “I thought maybe I should give them back.”

Terry’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “You found old papers in the kitchen?” she asked.

“Yeah, a few.” I had, in fact, found nothing in the kitchen, but what could I say—one of the ghosts in the house told me to ask?

“What are you going to do about this wall?” Kerin asked, pointing to the hole. She seemed fascinated by it. I fought the urge to push her in. I’m a professional. I did revel in the look I saw Terry give her and the way Kerin cringed just a little bit when she saw it.

“Ask Terry why the Prestons sold,” Paul suggested. No, demanded.

“What were they?” Terry asked before I could get Paul’s question out of my mouth.

“What were what?”

“The papers you found in the kitchen.” Terry’s eyebrows were doing the cha-cha on her forehead. I’d clearly struck a nerve.

“Just letters and some warranties for work on the porch and the roof,” I said. “Nothing really interesting. But I’m curious, why did they sell the house?”

“The Prestons? I don’t remember.”

“When was that, Terry?” Kerin asked.

“Before you started with us,” she answered. “I’m not really sure about the date.”

A real estate agent who didn’t remember a transaction she had brokered? “I guess they didn’t need all the space when the kids grew up, huh?” I said.

Paul scowled at me. “Don’t
ever
give them the answer to a question!” he barked. “Now all she has to say is . . .”

“Yeah, that was it,” Terry said. I lowered my head in shame. “Something wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “I just have this pain in the neck.” I glared at Paul. “All this work.”

Kerin strode over from the gaping hole in my pride to join us again. “Do you need the name of an acupuncturist?” she asked, rummaging in her purse. “I think I have a business card.”

“No. Thanks,” I managed.

“Find out where the Prestons are now,” Paul said.

“Where did they move to?” I asked.

“The Prestons?” How many times would she ask that?
No, the Leibowitzes. Who are we talking about?

“Yeah,” I echoed. “The Prestons.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to give them the stuff you found,” Maxie said. “Geez, this woman is slow!” I hadn’t even realized she’d been listening. And I wasn’t sure which one of us she was talking about.

I parroted her suggestion to Terry.

“I’ll have to look it up,” she said. “I could take them with me if you want, forward them along, if that’ll help.”

“Um . . .” There really were no documents.

Paul finally rescued me. “You’d like to ask them questions about the house,” he said.

I told Terry that, and while looking at Maxie, added, “Because I obviously can’t ask Maxie Malone for help.”

Maxie rolled over on her side, as if sleeping. I’d probably never get used to seeing people float in the air.

“I’ll have to look it up and call you,” Terry answered after an awkward pause. “But most questions you have about the house I can probably answer myself.”

“Of course you can,” I told her. “But they have a more . . . emotional connection to the place. I want to hear the stories.”

Maxie stuck her finger down her throat. She could be subtle that way.

“I think they’re in Eatontown,” Kerin volunteered, and Terry shot her a poisonous look. At least I knew I wasn’t the only one Kerin could infuriate.

“Okay, then,” Terry said, a touch of irritation in her voice. “I’ll give you a call with their contact information, and you call me if you have any questions
I
can answer.” She snapped her purse shut so hard it echoed through the empty room.

“I’ll do that,” I said, and before I could blink, Terry had turned on her heel and headed for the front door.

Paul didn’t wait until we heard it close behind her. “That,” he said, “is a woman who is hiding something.”

Maxie yawned. “Which one?” she asked.

“I can definitely recommend the veal parmigiana,” said Mayor Bridget Bostero. “I’ve had it here, and it’s excellent.”

I looked up at the waiter, who had told us his name was Rudolfo, but was probably Ralphie. After all, this was still New Jersey. I was pretty sure.

Despite having witnessed my crack interviewing skills with Terry Wright, Paul had still suggested I talk to the mayor. I’d called the municipal building to ask if a constituent might meet with the town’s chief administrator to discuss real estate futures, and had been turned down flat. But I’d left my name and address, and surprisingly, Mayor Bostero had gotten right back to me (maybe the house was still a political issue) and suggested we meet at Café Linguine, an Italian-French fusion restaurant with delusions of grandeur. Paul had been pleased by the suggestion, saying it would be good for me to see the place, since it was the same restaurant where he and Maxie had eaten their last meal. I hadn’t been keen on the idea, since it was also very likely the place where he and Maxie had been poisoned, but I’d been outvoted.

“I’ll have the ratatouille,” I told Rudolfo, and Bridget scowled a bit. She was clearly used to people doing as she suggested. I was happier to avoid eating anything chosen by someone other than myself, especially here.

The place was light, airy and foreboding all at the same time. In the back was a pizza oven that, according to the sign over the front door, was fired by wood. You could see people in paper chef’s hats near the back, making your food right out where they could be observed. (Were the hats a good idea near an open flame?)

“I get a discount,” the mayor boasted after Rudolfo had left. “I own a teeny-tiny part of the restaurant.” Ever the politician, she scanned the room while trying to maintain the illusion that she was paying attention to me. She was only a local politician, so her technique needed a little work. She’d already waved or nodded to a town council member, a local florist, and a man who I’m pretty sure had only been delivering rolls to the restaurant.

Still, she’d managed to work into the conversation her accomplishments as mayor, such as they were: an increase in revenue (mostly due, I’d heard from Phyllis, to the police ticketing more cars going twenty-eight miles per hour in a twenty-five zone) and the installation of video surveillance cameras in much of the town square, a development that was a little too Big Brother for my taste. But Bridget clearly saw herself as a doer, and I doubted being mayor of Harbor Haven was her ultimate ambition.

“How about a school bus route?” I asked, forgetting my role for a moment. Bridget’s eyes widened, and she looked me up and down. I was trying to be careful not to move around too much, so the digital recorder in my purse would be able to pick up our voices with as little background noise as possible.

“You’d be shocked to hear what the insurance would cost. Shall we have some wine?” the mayor asked. She gave the bartender a wink from across the room, and the poor kid’s expression of either embarrassment or total befuddlement spoke volumes.

“Not for me,” I said. “I have to use power tools after lunch. I’ll stick with water.” A drink that, I’d like to point out, doesn’t tolerate poison well. It’s meant to be clear, for one thing. Flavorless, for another.

“So,” the mayor began, “how can I help you?”

“Well, as you know, I’m the new owner of the house at 123 Seafront Avenue.”

“Such a lovely old house,” she said. “I hope you’re doing all you can to restore it to its original beauty.” She spotted someone across the room, and waved. But discreetly.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” I agreed. “But I’m coming late to a lot of the house’s recent history, and I was hoping that as mayor you might be able to fill in some of the gaps for me.”

“Oh,” the mayor said. She shifted her gaze to look at the chefs.

“I know about the two deaths, Ms. Bostero,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Bridget immediately looked back at me, and would have brightened, but she was too busy making a face that indicated her terrible grief at what had happened in my house. “Those poor people,” she intoned. “They must have been so horribly sad.”

“You really think they committed suicide together?” I asked.

“That’s what the police said,” the mayor replied. She was interrupted by the arrival of an appetizer of fried mozzarella and
gougères
(to drive the fusion theme home with a jackhammer), which Bridget had ordered without asking my opinion. My opinion would have been that it constituted a lot of cheese.

Once Ralphie had left the table, the mayor continued. “Have you ever thought of touching up your hair, just a bit?” she asked.

“What?”

“Just highlights, you know,” Bridget said. “I’m not saying you’re getting gray at all. Not at all. But a few touches here and there . . .” It was possible she’d been happier as a beautician than as a mayor.

“I’ve never thought of it,” I said.

“I could recommend a few things.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think about it. But getting back to our conversation . . .”

“You never know what’s going on in someone else’s head,” she said with a look that tried to say
sage
and ended up
stumped beauty pageant contestant
. “Some people feel things more intensely than others,” she offered. I was no longer sure whether we were discussing possible suicides or hair coloring.

And then the mayor scared the living hell out of me by taking a small bottle out of her purse and administering three drops of liquid into her water glass. Then she
drank
the water.

I must have looked stunned, because she laughed. “It’s just a multivitamin,” she said. “I can’t swallow pills, so my doctor prescribes everything for me in liquid form. Don’t worry.”

I tried to get back on topic, but after that display, it was difficult. I concentrated on what Paul had instructed me to do: push harder. “These people died right after the planning board meeting where Maxie Malone successfully stopped the plan to raze the house,” I said. “I understand you were there. You heard the argument. Don’t you think it’s possible that someone who was disappointed with the result could have gotten very, very angry?”

Bridget Bostero’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect
O
before she spoke. “You think they were murdered?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” I told her. Paul was going to love this part of the recording.

“Why wouldn’t the police agree with you, then?” the mayor asked.

“The police don’t have to be corrupt to get something wrong,” I said, leaning heavily on Paul’s pre-interview coaching. “I’m told that the original investigating officer, Detective Westmoreland, was counting the days to his retirement. He went with whatever the medical examiner told him, and, in this case, was told the bodies had lots of Ambien in them. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that’ll be suicide or an accidental overdose. There was no way these were
two
accidental overdoses, so they were ruled suicides, and the detective moved on. That’s not corruption; it’s not even negligence. It’s just a failure to question enough.”