Deader Homes and Gardens Part 2

She stuck a piece of bread in the toaster. "That's a relief."

In the living room, I described the house in detail, emphasizing the glories of her private bathroom and walk-in closet. When I mentioned the meadow and stream, she interrupted. "There aren't any meadows or streams in Farberville. Just where is this house?"

"Not too far," I said glibly, "and the pool is enormous. You can have the best pool parties all summer. We'll get a grill so you can fix hot dogs and hamburgers."

Caron rarely bought my evasions. "How far?"

"Ten minutes or so." I was sure Dr. Spock would allow a parent to fib if it was in the child's best interest. "It's in a place called Hollow Valley."

"So it's hollow? It sounds more like a hole than a valley. Are there Hobbits?"

I gave her a brief rundown of the history of the place, omitting any references to the less-desirable resident members of the Hollow family. "We haven't signed an offer because Angela drove off, leaving me there. She won't answer her cell phone, and she's not at the office. At least I think she's not at the office," I said slowly, "but I do have her briefcase because she left it at the house."

Peter had propped it against a wall next to the small dining table, the table itself being piled so high with junk that it had alpine slopes. I fetched it, sidestepped a box of extraneous kitchen gadgets, and sat back on the sofa. I put the legal correspondence aside and began to examine the manila folders. The contents were mostly forms for offers, photocopies of signed paperwork and inspection reports, and bids from plumbing and tile businesses. Apparently someone was demanding a remodeled bathroom before the purchase date. There was a booklet of listings, with terse comments written in the margin. The house in Hollow Valley did not appear on any of the paperwork.

"Maybe she's hiding at home," Caron suggested.

Her business card had only her office's address. "I guess I can try the telephone directory," I said.

"Stay here and drink your coffee," my darling daughter ordered. She went to her bedroom and returned a half minute later. Handing me a sc.r.a.p of paper, she said, "Here are her home telephone number and address."

"How did you get these so quickly?"

Caron gave me a pained look. "On my computer, naturally. n.o.body uses a telephone directory anymore, Mother. In a year or two, there won't be any telephone directories. You have a computer at the Book Depot. All businesses, even bookstores, have online sales. Do you even know what an e-mail is?"

I dialed Angela's home number, which greeted me with a male voice announcing that Danny and Angela weren't home but would return my call. I thought of several colorful Anglo-Saxon expletives but kept them to myself. "All I can see to do is drive to her house and pound on the door. If she's not there, I'll go to her office and find someone with information about the listing."

"Sherlock couldn't have come up with a better plan," Caron said as she headed for the bathroom. "Let me know if you find out anything."

"You have twenty minutes to get ready," I said to her back.

"Inez and I are going to the mall to hang out. Joel said he'd be there unless his mother pulls some obnoxious scheme to ruin his life."

"Shall I e-mail her and offer some suggestions?"

The bathroom door closed with unnecessary vigor, but not quickly enough to m.u.f.fle the "Oh, Mother!"

We picked up Inez and drove to Angela's. I told Inez about the Hollow Valley house. She sounded excited, despite what I'm sure was a barrage of dirty looks across the backseat. Angela and the wretched Danny lived in a pricey neighborhood. Their house was a two-story brick mini mansion with imposing trees and ivied walls. I parked in the driveway and walked to the front door, keeping an eye out for twitching curtains or glimpses of an ashen face. Unlike in the black-and-white movies of yore, the windows remained blank. I rang the doorbell, waited for a moment, rang it again, and began to knock as loudly as I could. I kept this up for three minutes before acknowledging both the futility of it and the soreness of my knuckles.

Caron and Inez joined me. The former said, "We looked in all the ground-floor windows. I don't think anybody's home." Inez happily described the frilly decor and panoply of china vases and marble bowls, but I ignored her as I considered my next move.

"May I help you?" asked a Hispanic woman walking up the driveway. "I am the housekeeper. Do you want to leave a message for Mrs. Delmond? I can give it to her when she gets here."

"I'm a friend of Mrs. Delmond, and I'm worried about her. I've called and called, but I haven't heard back from her. We need to find her now. She could have tripped and broken her leg and be lying on the floor." Or worse, if Danny Delmond had lured her to their house with a mendacious claim concerning arson or vandalism.

The woman was not an easy mark. "You wait here and I'll see if she's home." She took a key out of her purse and unlocked the door, then went inside and closed it firmly. Caron and Inez took the opportunity to discuss Rhonda Maguire's new haircut and the way she'd been snorkeling for compliments even though it looked like a pile of straw. I sat down on a step and tried to convince myself that no one was buying my house from under me.

The door opened, and the woman said, "Mrs. Delmond is not here, and her car is not in the garage. I do not think she slept here last night. I got to clean the house so I can get to my next job." As she closed the door, she added, "Majors Americanas stupids!"

I deduced that it was not a flattering remark. I ordered Caron and Inez back into the car and drove to Bartleby-King and a.s.sociates. "At least we know one place Angela isn't," I said.

"If she's driving at sixty miles per hour," Inez chimed in, "she could be over twelve hundred miles away. She'd already be in New York City or Miami, and close to Los Angeles. If she went to Chicago, she'd be back here by now."

Caron does not care to relinquish center stage. "Oh, like she'd drive round-trip to Chicago to buy a pizza or something. Give Me a Break!"

I was no more pleased than Caron to have the information. I parked in front of the office building that Bartleby-King shared with an orthodontist and an insurance company. I left Caron and Inez both texting with astounding alacrity and went inside, where I was greeted by a young woman. "I'm here to see Angela Delmond," I said with maternal steeliness.

She was clearly fl.u.s.tered. "Oh, you called earlier, didn't you? Angela's not here, like I said." She glanced at a closed door. "Mr. Bartleby's not here, either. I don't know when to expect him. If you want to write a message, I'll make sure he sees it as soon as he gets back from, ah, his closing. He may have scheduled a lunch appointment, and he usually goes to the bank on Fridays."

"Today's Wednesday. I do not desire to stay here until Friday afternoon, but I will. I prefer coffee with a splash of cream, and iced cake doughnuts sprinkled with coconut." I sat down on the couch and reached for a magazine.

The receptionist scurried down a hallway. I wondered if she was planning to go out the back door. I should have had Caron and Inez guard the exits so that we could, if the situation necessitated it, smoke out the office occupants one at a time. Peter most likely would be upset when he heard about it, I told myself as I watched b.u.t.tons light up on the receptionist's phone. When it became evident that I wasn't getting any coffee, I opened the door in the corner.

A man looked up from his desk. "Mrs. Malloy," he said, no doubt having been warned via the intra-office phone line, "as Jennifer already told you, Angela Delmond is not here. Frankly, we don't know where she is. She failed to show up last evening to meet some clients, and again this morning. If you have any information concerning her whereabouts, I'd like to know." He glared at me as if I'd kidnapped Angela and was there to demand a ransom.

"So would I." I sat down in a leather chair and appraised him. His hairline was receding, and he was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and navy blue tie. He had the look of a staunch member of the chamber of commerce and the obligatory civic clubs. To his credit, he did seem worried about Angela. "Have you spoken to her husband?"

"No reason to. Danny's living in a condo near Thurber Street. He has plenty of friends in the building, since it's where all the middle-of-a-divorce boys camp out until the property is settled."

"He and his girlfriend?" I asked.

"I don't know anything about that," Bartleby said, pretending to be shocked at my insinuation. "You had an appointment yesterday afternoon with Angela?"

"She showed me a house, and my husband and I want to buy it." I told him about Angela's abrupt departure and my attempts to call her.

Bartleby beamed at me. "That's wonderful, Mrs. Malloy. Is Mr. Malloy here with you? Tell him to come on in and we'll get started on the offer. Don't you worry about Angela-I'll make sure she gets her share of the commission."

"My name is Ms. Malloy, and my husband's name is Peter Rosen. He's out of town, but I'm quite capable of signing the offer. The house is located in Hollow Valley. I don't have the address, but surely you do."

"Hollow Valley? That doesn't sound familiar." He took out a notebook and thumbed through it. "There's a lovely house on Holland Avenue, three bedrooms, two baths, and a fireplace. At the listed price it's a bargain, but we can try to get the sellers to come down a few thousand dollars-"

"Hollow Valley," I interrupted before he filled out an offer form and stabbed my hand with a pen. "It's at the northeast edge of Farberville, barely within the city limits. It has four bedrooms and four bathrooms, French doors, and is unoccupied but fully furnished."

"Nope, doesn't ring a bell. Maybe it just came on the market yesterday. You stay here while I check with the sales team. Somebody has to know something."

While he went in search of information, I gazed at the duck prints hanging on his office walls, along with all manner of framed awards and citations. The photo of the Bartleby-King Little League team members hinted at a less than victorious season, if their tiny trophies were indicative. Several years ago I'd been asked to sponsor a team, but the Book Depot didn't have enough cash to buy a baseball-even a used one.

"This is puzzling," Bartleby said as he entered the office. "This house you described isn't listed by anyone. Angela knows we have very strict guidelines about private sales. We have to keep a roof over our heads, don't we?" His chuckle was strained.

"Did you look in her desk?"

"Thoroughly searched." He leaned back in his chair to stare at me. "Did Angela mention a price?"

I shook my head. "Only that it was well below market value. What about her computer? It might have some information."

"It might, but we insist that our agents change their pa.s.swords weekly. There have been accusations of poaching clients and potential listings. I'm sure a hacker could get into her files, but our office policy forbids it. Trust is essential to team success."

He'd attended too many seminars on management techniques. I pictured him falling backward into his colleagues' protective arms-or cracking his head on the floor. "You're sure Danny isn't involved?" I asked.

"Danny's an outstanding member of our community. He served on the school board and organized the upcoming Babes, b.o.o.bs, and Bling biker rally. There's going to be a wet T-shirt contest and live music on Sat.u.r.day. Good, clean family fun. Now you just let me take care of this, Ms. Malloy. Angela will pop up before too long, and then we can make sure you get that house you're so fond of." He stood up, in case I'd missed the cue to leave. "I've got an appointment in five minutes. Afterward, I'll go ahead and call Danny. If he knows anything, I'll pa.s.s it along."

I exited graciously, but I was fuming as I got in the car. "I don't suppose either of you knows how to hack into a computer," I said as I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel. "Wait, I don't want to know the answer. It's likely to be a federal offense."

"It is," Inez said.

"So you might as well let us go to the mall," Caron added smugly. "Can I borrow twenty dollars?"

3.

"Let's go out to the Hollow Valley house," I suggested brightly. "Angela may be asleep in a bed, a la Goldilocks."

"I left my red hoodie at home," muttered Caron. "You go right ahead, Mother, but keep an eye out for a big, bad wolf. He might blow your house down. Please can I borrow the twenty dollars? I swear I'll pay you back tomorrow."

"With what?"

"With the twenty dollars you pay me for breaking into Angela's house. Fifty if the housekeeper's there. Please, Mother?"

Peter would not be happy if he got back to Farberville on the day of her arraignment. I dumped them at the duplex and went to the Book Depot to brood. The clerk whom Peter had hired for me was a grad student from the English Department. He'd told me that he'd been writing his dissertation for five and a half years on James Joyce's use of alliteration. As I came inside, he stuck a book under the counter and stared at me with disconcerting intensity.

I flinched. "Did we receive the shipment from that small press in Arizona?"

"Yes, Ms. Malloy. I went over the invoice and placed it on your desk." He consulted a notepad. "The sales rep for the college press dropped off the fall catalog. The fall reading lists from the area public schools and the college are on your desk. I wrote up the orders, and as soon as you review them, I'll submit them electronically. I've rearranged the window display for this month. In mid-July, I thought we might run a sale on beach books-if you approve, of course. I repaired the leak in the lavatory. The exterminator is coming on Friday."

"Thank you," I said weakly. The Book Depot, my musty, unruly baby, was in more capable hands. My desk was neater than it had been in a decade. The filing cabinets' drawers could be closed without straining, and the habitual clutter atop them had been vanquished. My wastebasket was empty. As I sat down behind my desk, I felt as though I were intruding. Sighing, I reached for the order forms. Which were thorough and flawless.

A few customers came in to browse and left with paperbacks, study guides, or nothing whatsoever. My science fiction hippie, replete with scruffy hair, tangled beard, and pink flip-flops, shuffled inside and ducked behind a rack. After a while, I cornered him and frisked him with the diligence of a TSA officer. Once I'd removed the paperbacks he'd stashed in the pockets of his odiferous army surplus jacket, we chatted amiably as I escorted him out the door. If the Book Depot ever closed, I'd miss him, fleas and all.

I was accomplishing nothing. My beloved house was beginning to blur in my mind. Were the drapes in the master bedroom pearl or ash gray? How many bar stools were available should I desire to entertain guests with a demonstration of my cooking prowess (after a semester at Le Cordon Bleu)? Did the foyer have an umbrella stand?

If I couldn't deal with the elusive Angela or the pompous broker, I needed to cut out the flotsam in the middle and speak to the owner. I would simply tell him that I wanted to buy the house. No quibbling or bargaining required. He would accept the check and hand over the key. Nattie had said something about the house belonging to Winston. I opened the telephone directory. Winston was his first name; Hollow was apt to be his surname. Although my deductive skill was admirable, Winston Hollow had not deigned to allow his name to be published in such a plebeian locale, nor had any of his fellow Hollows. All the surnamed Winstons lived on familiar streets. I closed the directory.

Caron, bless her parsimonious heart, could have used her computer to locate him in the bowels of Tasmania or wherever else he was hiding from me. She would not be pleased if I interrupted her rendezvous at the mall, however. A rather clever idea came to mind. I went out to the counter, where the clerk was wiping the wood surface with lemon-scented polish.

"I need to find somebody," I said to him, "but I don't know how to search on the Internet. Will you do it for me?"

"I would prefer not to."

"Why not? I am your employer, you know. Do you have scruples that preclude Internet snooping? I'm not stalking someone. Please give me one good reason why you won't try."

"I would prefer not to."

"Not to explain your refusal?"

His expression was unfathomable, and I wasn't at all surprised when he said, "I would prefer not to."

I might have wrung his neck had it not been unseemly. "Well," I said with a delicate harrumph, "I do hope that you would prefer not to end your sentences with a preposition!" I swept out the front door before he could respond and leaned against the hood of my car to regain my innate sense of decorum. Had Peter not been so thoughtless as to be incommunicado, he could have his buddies at the CIA find Winston in a nanosecond. I ran through my list of friends and acquaintances who were computer literate. Luanne, my best friend, was spending the summer in Greece, in search of Zorbaesque bimboys. The Haskells were on sabbatical in England, and Maggie Knott was visiting grandchildren in North Carolina. Babs Peabody was in rehab for the third or fourth time. I would have made some calls to others who might be in town, but I'd yet to recharge my cell phone-and I wasn't about to go back inside the Book Depot after such a magnificent parting shot.

The library was six blocks away. I parked, went inside, and asked for help at the reference desk. The twenty-something woman did her best to hide her disdain as she settled me in front of a computer, clicked hither and thither, and then showed me how to search for pretty much everybody and everything in the universe. Naturally, I typed in my name first, then spent a satisfying hour reading newspaper articles that mentioned my minor contributions to solving murder cases in Farberville. The events in Egypt were not noted, courtesy of various covert agencies.

I typed Winston Hollow's name in the box and waited. My eyebrows rose as I read the local newspaper's brief article concerning the accidental death of Winston Hollow Martinson. It had taken place in early spring, behind his home in Hollow Valley. Police had been called to the scene, where an unnamed relative had found the body tangled in branches at the edge of a river. Fishing tackle was found on the bank upstream, along with marks in the mud that indicated that the victim had lost his footing and been knocked unconscious as he fell into the water. His housemate, Terry Kennedy, was in Europe at the time, which explained why Winston Martinson's absence had not been noticed for a week. Case closed.

The obituary was not much longer. Winston, son of Victor Martinson and Sara Hollow Martinson, both deceased, had been thirty-six at the time of his death. He had a degree in fine arts from a liberal arts college on the East Coast and had designed sets for off-Broadway theater shows before returning to Farberville three years ago to focus on painting. He'd never married and had no offspring. There was no mention of a funeral or memorial service.

A psychic would be required to get in touch with someone currently resting in peace-or decomposing, according to one's beliefs. My beliefs precluded seances as a way to negotiate a real estate deal.

My first impulse was to drive out to Hollow Valley, but Nattie had not sounded as though she knew much about the house. Angela claimed to be in communication with the owner. That ruled out Winston, who must have inherited the property from his mother. I reread the article about the death, copied down the name of the housemate, and entered it on the computer screen.

Terry Kennedy's name generated almost nine hundred thousand results. The majority of them referred to a professional skateboarder, but others were lawyers, politicians, furniture dealers, and professors. I quit scanning pages and sat back. The highly overrated Internet was not going to print out a card that read: "Terry Kennedy, previous resident of Hollow Valley, close friend of deceased Winston Hollow Martinson, currently lives at such-and-so, with telephone and cell phones numbers as follows..." Nor would it tell me where Angela was or where she hid her house key.

I wondered if it might tell me the current owner of the house and the meadow that sloped gently down to the spot where Winston had died. I found the young librarian and requested more help. This time her expression implied that she questioned my ability to operate an electric can opener, but she sat down in front of the computer and located a Web site for the county a.s.sessor. I took the seat with great optimism. It faded into nothingness as I realized that I was required to enter bizarre information about sections, townships, blocks, lots, and subdivisions. About the only thing not required was my favorite color.

Confident that I was more effective with people than with machines, I drove to the courthouse and dutifully followed signs and arrows to the county a.s.sessor's office. An older man, wearing a name tag that identified him as K. Scott, listened to my abbreviated explanation and led me to a room with the ambience of a neglected warehouse. Dauntingly large plat books were piled on tables or on shelves that towered above my head. I sneezed, blinked, and then sneezed again.

"The dust," I said feebly, fighting back another sneeze without success. My eyes welled with tears as my lungs contracted.

"Allow me to a.s.sist you," K. Scott said, either eager to serve the public or terrified I might die on the spot and require him to remain beyond five o'clock. He asked questions about the route to Hollow Valley, which I answered between sniffs and sneezes, while he peered at a faded county map. He disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves and then emerged with a plat book. After asking more questions, he finally jabbed the pertinent page. "Here it is!" He consulted his wrist.w.a.tch. "Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds! I do believe I've set a new record. Come along, dear woman."

I wiped my eyes with a tissue as I followed him back to the main office. He sat down in front of a computer, typed furiously, and then pointed at the screen. "Section seventeen, township nine, the northeast quarter of the southeast quarter and so forth. The owner of record is Terry M. Kennedy. It came to him through joint tenancy with right of survivorship."

"You found that out from the legal description?"

"Good heavens, no. He's a polite young man, and he told me when he brought in a modified deed to be filed. He had the necessary forms, all signed, dated, and notarized. I can't begin to tell you how many people barge in here without any idea how to-" K. Scott caught himself with the agility of an acrobat. "Would you like his address?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention back to the keyboard, scribbled a couple of lines on a notepad, and then ripped off the page and handed it to me.

I felt as though I should kneel to accept the Holy Grail while a choir belted out the "Hallelujah Chorus." I managed to croak, "Thank you so very, very much, Mr. Scott. I am eternally grateful for your help. If you come by the Book Depot on Thurber Street, I'll give you an armful of books."

"It was my duty as a public servant," he said stiffly. "We are never allowed to receive private compensation."

I was relieved he hadn't said that he would prefer not to. I scampered down the hall, waited impatiently as the elevator creaked to the first floor, and barely kept myself from dancing across the parking lot to my car. Terry M. Kennedy lived in Key West, Florida. His house was a thousand miles from Farberville, but my telephone was only one mile from the courthouse.

Once at home, I went immediately to said telephone. I took a gulp of scotch before I picked up the receiver and prompted a cyber-operator to find Terry M. Kennedy's telephone number. The robotic voice recited the number and offered to dial it for a nominal charge. I wrote down the three-zero-five area code and the number, then put down the receiver before I dropped it on my foot. I tried not to salivate as I envisioned the house, furnishings, French doors, walnut bookcases, swimming pool, orchard, meadow, bucolic setting, elderly trees, and vibrant flowers. The tears that filled my eyes were not caused by an allergy but by a yearning that gripped me so tightly that I struggled to take a breath.

I stopped myself before I fell into a pose for the cover of a romance novel. My bosom was not heaving. Peter was not standing in the doorway, managing to both sneer and leer at the same time. I had an obligation to him, as well as to myself, to find an adequately s.p.a.cious house. Pathos has no place in the real estate business, nor does melodrama. I was my own agent, negotiator, and broker. I flipped open a notebook and turned to an unsullied page. I found an extra pen in case it was needed. I refilled my gla.s.s and took a ladylike sip. I crossed my legs as I picked up the receiver. I waited until a ripple of dizziness pa.s.sed and dialed the number.

"h.e.l.lo," said a tenor voice.

"This is, uh, Claire Malloy and I want your house!" My words spewed out with the velocity of bullets, but I couldn't constrain myself. "It's everything I want and I've never had a meadow or a stream or a real library. I don't care about the price. I mean, I do care if it's millions of dollars, but I still want it and when can we move in?"

"My house doesn't have a library," he said cautiously. "The Gulf Stream originates in this region, but I don't think I can sell it to you."