Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery (2 page)

One

“I do apologize for
intrudin
’, but there didn’t seem to be anyone at the
reception desk, so I just came on in. I hope that’s all right.”

I did a one-eighty, followed by a
double-take, not a prudent combination for a woman of fifty-three perched atop
a wobbly chair on a September Monday morning, one arm straining to reach a box
of
Sweet’N
Low at the back of the top shelf. Alone in
the building, I thought, I’d been lost in speculation about my daughter Emma,
who seemed to be avoiding me of late.

The speaker, who stood in the doorway
of Mack Realty’s coffee-copier room, looked enough like my partner Margo to be
her mother. She sounded like her, too, with that unmistakable drawl. It
occurred to me that maybe she
was
Margo’s mother. I pulled myself together and clambered down from the chair,
Sweet’N
Low secured.

“Kate Lawrence,” I offered along
with a dusty hand, which I swiped hastily on my pants before it made contact.
“My partners and I run Mack Realty. Is there something I can help you with?”

I couldn’t help staring at the
elegant lady before me, a vision of Margo fifteen or so years hence from her
beautifully cut suede jacket to her gray-blonde hair, pulled into Margo’s sleek
signature chignon. She smiled at me kindly and produced a business card to
clear up my obvious confusion.

“
Maybelle
Farnsworth,” she explained, “Margo’s auntie, lately from Atlanta, now a fish
out of water in the land of the Yankees,
awaitin
’ the
completion of renovations to a cute little house y’all just sold me on Wheeler
Road.”

Of course, Margo’s Aunt May. “It’s
wonderful to meet you. You and Margo look so much alike, I should have known
you instantly, Ms. Farnsworth.”

“Just May, please, and you’re
right about the resemblance. Margo took after our side of the family in every
way. Her daddy is my brother, and the whole time she was
growin
’
up, everybody took me for her mama, not her auntie.”

“Big sister, surely,” I protested,
and she giggled at the compliment.

“Why, thank you so much. I know
you’re just
bein
’ nice, but the fact is, there are
only fourteen years between us, so I guess I could qualify at that.” She looked
at the fresh pot of coffee with unabashed longing. “Do you think you could
spare me a cup of that? My kitchen is simply a disaster, and I haven’t had my
brew this morning.’”

I checked my
watch. “And you made it all the way to ten forty-five? You’re made of sterner
stuff than I am, May.” I filled a mug for each of us and led the way down the
six stairs from the lobby level to our sunny little office at the rear of the
building. “Margo and
Strutter
are out at the moment,
so I need to stay close to the phone,” I explained as I settled May on our
small sofa, her coffee beside her. She looked around with interest at the large
desk holding my laptop computer, two visitors’ chairs, and a wall of
three-drawer file cabinets that constituted the rest of the room’s furnishings.
The autumn sunshine spilling through the rear windows enlivened the colors of
the Amish quilt hanging on the remaining wall. They were echoed in the late
blooms from
Strutter’s
garden, casually arranged in a
pewter vase on the corner of the desk.

“Cheerful but
not too girlie,” May approved.
“I can see why you like the coziness of
this space. The upstairs is very attractive, of course, but it’s just a bit
echo-y and
intimidatin
’. This is much nicer.” She
reached for her coffee and took a greedy swig.

I knew what she meant. The lobby
on the main floor of the building known as the Law Barn had once housed several
paralegals, as well as a receptionist and a comfortably furnished client
waiting area, during the real estate boom of the 1990s. The collapse of that
market in 2009 had forced the temporary closing of many local businesses,
including Mack Realty. We’d been fortunate to be able to reclaim a portion of
our old digs when the market improved a couple of years after that.

“We’re probably another year from
being able to hire a receptionist,” I told May now, “but things are getting
better month by month. We’re hopeful. By the way, how are things coming along
with the renovations on your new place?”

May put her empty mug on the side
table and passed one impeccably manicured hand over her forehead. “I’m sure
everything will be just lovely when it’s done, but my dear, the noise. I simply
had no idea. What with the hammers and saws and drills and what have you,
there’s not a moment’s peace. I don’t know what made me think I’d be able to
work in that racket, not to mention how distracting those good
lookin
’ construction workers are,” she finished with a
wink.

No question about it, I thought.
This woman is clearly Margo’s blood relative.

“The truth is
,
that’s why I’ve come to see you today, to cast myself upon your mercy.” She
leaned forward, and I could see traces of fatigue around her eyes. “I must have
a place to work for a week or two until things settle down at my house. Margo
and her adorable hubby offered me their guest room, of course, but I think that
might be
pushin
’ the limits of family affection to
the straining point. In any event, I don’t need a place to sleep. Those boys do
put down their noisemakers and go home by suppertime, thank heaven. It would
just be for a few hours during the day, and Margo mentioned you had an extra
room here somewhere.” She paused hopefully.

For a moment I couldn’t think what
she meant. Then I remembered the small office next to the coffee-copier room on
the main floor. During the first year of Mack Realty’s existence, it had been
occupied by a chatty mortgage broker who’d spent most of her time on the phone.
A California native, she couldn’t adjust to our variable New England climate
and soon departed, leaving the office vacant. It wasn’t long before our files
containing the staggering amount of paperwork required for real estate
transactions spilled into the space. Neatly labeled cabinets now lined two
interior walls, and office supplies occupied shelves on part of the third, but
a desk and chair remained in the room, and a large window overlooked the Law
Barn’s tiny back lawn, taken up mostly by a comfortable pen for Margo’s devoted
Labrador Retriever, Rhett Butler. Not wanting to commit myself before talking
it over with my partners, I stalled for time.

“What kind of work do you do?” I
inquired, wondering in what kind of cottage industry this genteel, mature woman
might be engaged. Rare book searches?
Geneology
research?
“I don’t recall Margo saying specifically, just
that it involves a lot of computer work—but what doesn’t these days?”

“I’m a writer, dear.
Cozy mystery novels.
I do the
Ariadne
Merriwether
series, have for years. There are eleven
titles in the series now about an elderly snoop in a Florida retirement
community. Frankly, she’s kind of an
annoyin
’
busybody, but for some reason, we old ladies seem to like
readin
’
about other old ladies.” She laughed merrily and shrugged.

I laughed along with her. “Well,
if they’re still reading after eleven titles, you must be doing something
right. Is it hard to think up new story lines?”

“Oh, goodness
no.
There’s always something new to say about human relationships, which
is a good thing, because when you’re a midlist author with a successful series,
you need to produce a new book every so often. I’d hate to disappoint my readers.
Ariadne
is almost a real person to them and to me
now. I love her to death, but to tell you the truth, she does get on my nerves
sometimes.” Here May lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Fortunately, I have
an alter ego, so I can take a break. She’s quite a bit younger than I am, and
her interests are, shall we say, accordingly age appropriate.”

I wasn’t following.
“An alter ego?
You mean like that little boy’s mom in the
comic strip,
Rose
something, the cheerful suburban
wife and mother who occasionally morphs into a biker babe?”

Again the
tinkling laugh.
“You’ve got it, but in my case, I turn into M.M.
Farnsworth, the publisher of a whole different kind of books.”

I tried to fathom what the
antithesis would be of cozy mysteries set in a retirement home. “What makes
them so different? Are they how-to manuals?
Cookbooks?
Sado
-masochistic
pornography?”
I joked.

“Goodness, no,” May protested. “I
could never advocate violence of any kind in my
writin
’
or my publishing. I feel very strongly about that.” A sly grin crept over her
face. “But you’re getting warmer.”

I blinked at her suspiciously. “What
kind of books do you publish exactly, May?”

She looked right and left,
assuring herself that we were alone in the office before gazing at me
appraisingly. “I’ll tell you, because you’re Margo’s best friend and business
partner, but you must never breathe a word outside this room. Fans of my
mystery series would be appalled, not to mention my new Yankee neighbors. Pinky
swear
?”

I nodded mutely, hoping I wasn’t
about to have my suspicions confirmed.

May
twinkled
at me gently.
 
“Romance novels, dear,
the
most delicious, sexy stuff you can imagine. I publish an
entire line of traditional and erotic romances under the imprint of Romantic
Nights Press,” she giggled. “People just love ‘
em
. I
swear it’s like printing money in my basement.”

“You’ve been holding out on me.” I
glared at Margo over the rim of my wineglass, and she had the grace to look
abashed. She and
Strutter
were already seated in our
regular booth when I arrived at Village Pizza, our have-dinner-and-catch-up
place on occasional weeknights when the demands of our various husbands and, in
Strutter’s
case, kids permitted.

“I had it on the agenda for
tonight’s get-together to let you know May might drop by
lookin
’
for me, but I had no idea it would be today, and I didn’t know until about ten
minutes ago she planned to ask you about
sharin
’ the
Law Barn.” Margo pouted her perfect lips into a sorry face and tucked a strand
of blonde hair back into her chignon.

“Your aunt wants office space at
the Law Barn?”
Strutter
asked, puzzled. “I thought
she wrote her mystery books on a home computer.” Her aquamarine eyes lifted
briefly from the menu she was studying, as if we all didn’t know it by heart,
and I enjoyed the impact of the Jamaican beauty’s milk chocolate skin framed by
soft curls falling to her shoulders, as everyone who looked at her did.

“Yes, yes, but never mind
that.
 
She’s welcome to the desk in that
old office next to the coffee room if she wants it for a while, but you’re not
going to believe what she plans to do there.”

“Oh, dear,” Margo murmured and
took a swig of her own wine.
 
“Did Auntie
May say a little more than she should have about her work this
mornin
’?”

“Uh huh,” I said drily, “you could
say that. I almost fell on the floor, and I was sitting down at the time.”

Strutter
frowned, erasing her dazzling dimples. “Damn, I guess that optometrist was
right about my needing reading glasses. I can hardly make out this menu. What
are you talking about, Kate? Doesn’t
Maybelle
Farnsworth write the
Ariadne
Merriwether
mysteries? My mom just loves them.”

I raised an eyebrow at Margo. “Are
you going to tell her, or do you want me to do it?”

Margo squirmed uncomfortably. “Oh,
my goodness, you’re
makin
’ a big deal out of
nothin
’ at all. Romance novels are very big business in the
publishin
’ world today. Some of them can be pretty
tacky, I admit, but it’s not as if erotica is illegal or anything.”

Strutter’s
expression changed from curious to
alarmed
.
“Erotica?
My mother is reading pornography?”

I couldn’t help giggling a little.
“No, silly.
Your mother’s virtue remains unsullied.
The
Ariadne
Merriwether
mysteries are perfectly tame, no sex, no violence, but Margo’s dear old Auntie
May has a secret second vocation as M. M. Farnsworth, the publisher of romance
novels and, uh, romantic erotica. At least that’s what she calls it. I haven’t
read any of her titles personally.”

Margo visibly relaxed. “Lots of
Auntie’s titles are the usual bodice rippers and light romantic fluff—you know,
what you expect when you think of a romance novel. But unlike you, I have read
some of the more
stimulatin
’ titles she publishes,
and
whooeeee
!
 
There’s one author named Naughty Nanette who could give E.L. James and
Sylvia Day a run for their money anytime, and her novels are a whole lot more
reasonably priced. You should try one. Better yet, you gals and your hubbies
should try
readin
’ one together.” She grinned at us
across the table. “I’ll suggest a couple.”

I chuckled, imagining my Armando’s
reaction if I ever attempted such a thing, while
Strutter
struggled to make sense of Margo’s revelation about her aunt. Her eyes darted
from one of us to the other, food forgotten for the moment.