Fry Me a Liver (18 page)

According to the online white pages, my quarry lived in a very small house on Lucile Street. The ride took twenty minutes. As I made the turn off N. First Street, I saw a quaint little shoebox house with what seemed to be a lush lawn and ample garden, all of it behind a very high chain-link fence. I worried that the fence meant there might be a dog, in which case this would be a very short drive-by. But I didn't see any areas of the lawn or garden that were dug up. Judging from the weedy, burnt lawns of the houses that surrounded his, I guessed that Gar simply didn't want dogs or kids or ATVs or guilty husbands looking for a rose ripping up what he had so carefully planted.

I pulled to the curb across the street, and sat there idling. Gar's truck was in the driveway, which was behind the fence. If I were going to get to it and have a snoop, I was going to have to climb. I hadn't done
that
since I was a kid. I had smaller feet then, which fit easily in the openings. Now, I wasn't so sure.

Worth it?
I asked myself as I sat burning gas at four bucks a gallon.

I wasn't sure what I was going to do at the truck, other than look inside and hope he wouldn't see me from the house. I didn't think it would be smart to open the truck door and, besides, he probably took the laptop inside. Still, my gut told me to do it; I figured I'd know whatever I was looking for when I found it—maybe a wrapper from deli takeout, a cryptic note from Josephine, another ingredient used to make a bomb. Something.

Or nothing
, I told myself. Maybe I just wanted to cross him and Josephine off the list.

Or maybe I just wanted to be proactive.

“That's it, isn't it?” I asked myself quietly. I couldn't do anything about Dickson or poor Thom or A.J. I couldn't go to work. I didn't want to talk to Captain Health. I felt like I had nothing and no one and was trying to throw a little confetti in the air, cheer myself up. Back in New York, I used to do that by going to the movies or a concert or meeting a friend for brunch. Now, I was out prowling. I was the Catwoman.

Or Katzwoman.

Oy,
I thought. A superhero reference.
Stop it; that's Iger's shtick.

My brain really was going a little stir crazy.

I sat there because I really didn't have a plan of action and I also didn't have anywhere else to go, no one to see. Why did Iger have to turn out to be such a putz? Maybe it was time for a dating site.

I was about to drive away when I saw something move from the corner of my eye. I turned as Gar came out the front door, wearing his overalls and a fawn-colored windbreaker. I snapped off the engine, watched as the landscaper went to the gate, opened it, then pulled the truck out. He got out and closed the gate. I fired up my lazy six-cylinder and followed as he drove off.

He headed south, back the way I had come. It was actually a little scary as I realized he could be heading directly for my house. It was late to be paying a professional call, and he hadn't been dressed for a date. He bypassed the city center, which is where he might find a hoedown kind of bar. This was the route to Bonerwood Drive and I was starting to get really concerned. Not that I was in any danger, since I was stealthily traveling behind him. I was worried that my paranoia was dead-on. If he was heading to my house, he might have it in mind to blow that up too. With me in it.

My heart was punching my rib cage on three sides. Dammit, he
was
going to my place. I let myself fall back a few more car lengths. The road was going to get pretty deserted up ahead on Edmondson and I didn't want him to see me. I needed to know what the lawn mower man was up to.

Now my palms were
shvitzing
all over the steering wheel. Sweat was dribbling down my shirt collar. Without taking my eyes from the road, I fished around my bag and retrieved my cell phone. I dropped it on the seat where it would be handy. I had Detective Bean's number saved and would call her at once if he stopped at Casa Katz.

We drove down Edmondson. There was no doubt now. He slowed, made the turn onto Bonerwood. I stopped down the street as though I lived somewhere else. I picked up the phone and watched while he checked the numbers, stopped in front of my place. He did not get out of the truck. He looked the place over, just like I'd done with his. And it was pretty clear with no car in the driveway and dusk setting in with no lights on inside that no one was home.

I picked up the phone and punched it on—

As he looked over at my car, I slumped low in the seat. He turned the truck around and drove toward me. Maybe he'd just drive by and go—

But he pulled up next to me, driver's side to driver's side. He was higher than me and looked down with the face of a judge about to pass sentence.

“I figured it was you,” he said.

“Oh? Why?”

“I saw your car as you drove past Josephine's house,” he said. “I thought I saw it on the way down.”

“Well, you did,” I said stupidly.

“You got my message?” he asked.

“Uh . . . no. I did not.”

I looked at my phone. There was a voice-mail message from Gar McQueen.

“Josephine gave me your number,” he said. “I figured you were maybe too busy to call so I decided I'd come around and have a look at the place. You did say this is where you wanted work done?”

“Yes. I did. That's right.” I felt like the world's number one shmuck.

Gar looked back at the house as if measuring the distance with his eyes. “So—why did you park about an eighth of a mile away?”

“I . . . I didn't know it was you up there,” I said, stumbling. “I just saw someone pull up in front of my place, got concerned. I'm a little cautious since the bombing.”

He nodded. “Understandable. So you didn't see the big lawn mower in the back and the name on the side?”

“Couldn't make out either of them,” I told him lamely. “Not the best eyes in the world.”

He looked down at me wearing the same flat expression he'd had on back at Josephine's. “So you want to talk about your place?”

I sighed a big, trembling sigh. “I'm sort of bushed. No pun intended. But, I mean, you're here already if you want to look around.”

He was still looking back. “Sure.”

That was all he said. He swung the truck around and went back to the house. I felt a little better having spoken to him, pretty sure now that he hadn't come to put a bomb in the trash can or something. But then, I couldn't be sure that he wouldn't either.

He drove back, I followed, and, while I pulled into the driveway, he walked around, though it was really starting to get dark.

“You got a patio light?” he asked.

“Blown out,” I said. Which is why it wasn't on. I was always in a rush in the morning and usually got home when it was dark, not the easiest way to change a light bulb that required a step stool.

“Get a bulb,” he said. “I'll do it for you.”

“You really don't—”

“It'll help me see,” was all he said.

I said okay, went inside, and got the stool and bulb. The joke of this all, of course, was that I really didn't want anything done on the lawn. Not unless I was going to sell the place, a thought that was starting to
noodge
me in the back of my brain. It took all of a minute and there was light.

He hopped down and looked around. “Boy,” was all he said.

“I know. I never had a lawn in New York.”

“You city people,” he said. “Did you have a car?”

“No—”

“But you got one of those. Lawns, your home, should be just as important. It makes a statement about our pride as a homeowner, improves our mood with its beauty and aroma. This is depressing.”

I was beginning to think the guy was sincere. I was guessing—call it a crazy Gwen Katz hunch—that mad bombers didn't talk so passionately about foliage.

He walked around, felt the soil, pulled up some clumps, brushed off his hands, shook his head, and paced the grounds like a prisoner on his exercise break, part shuffle, part introspection. After about five minutes he came back.

“It'll cost a lot to do what I have in mind, what I think needs to be done,” he said.

“Blow everything up?” I asked.

He looked at me strangely. “Boy, you have an odd sense of vocabulary.”

That was an odd statement, but I understood it. “Yes, my outlook is a little weird.”

“To finish what I was saying, every square inch of this yard needs to be turned over by hand,” he said. “You may need a lot of new soil since this stuff is dry and depleted. Not surprising since there hasn't been a lot of rotting foliage out here to nourish it. Plus I'd have to build some areas up to control the runoff when you water and when it rains. There's also going to be good quality seed and that's just the basics. I'd recommend a garden, some hedges, maybe even a little fountain to add a touch of elegance, a centerpiece. Anyway, I can work something up if you're serious. Take some photos when the light is better so I can show you what things will look like.”

“And give me a price,” I added.

“Of course.”

That would be my out. I'd feel a little guilty making him do all that work, but I really couldn't afford it with the deli down . . . though it wasn't the worst idea in the world. Even if I decided to put Nashville in my rearview mirror, I'd still need to “doll things up,” as my aunt Rose used to say.

Feeling silly for my concerns, I walked Gar to his truck. He hadn't loosened up much but, as he'd said, he was an artist. He took this stuff seriously.

“Thanks for taking the initiative on this,” I said. “Sorry I didn't call.”

“I'm sure you've been preoccupied,” he said.

“Not with anything I've really wanted to do.”

“Except to come and talk with me about landscaping.”

“Yeah,” I said.

He regarded me before he got into the truck. “How did you happen to know where I was this morning?”

The question caught me flat-footed. “Oh. I just figured you'd be at Josephine's place.”

“Why? She's not my only client.”

“Someone mentioned you were doing work for her,” I said. “As a matter of fact it may have been Josephine—I was at her restaurant.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed.

“Hmmm what?”

“That's not very likely. She doesn't enjoy sharing.”

“Well, then it must have been someone else,” I said.

“It must have been,” he said.

“You sound suspicious.”

“No. Just a little bit puzzled.” He smirked and got into the truck. I don't think he knew it was Moss—how could he?—but he knew I was lying. If he cared, he didn't let on. “By the way,” he said as he fired up his engine, “while I was looking back at your car, I could've sworn I saw somebody tailing
you
.”

The base of my spine felt little electric eels writhing around. “Seriously?”

“Why would I lie to you?” he asked.

He pointed. I looked back just as a car, its lights off, was turning and leaving Bonerwood Drive.

“You don't suppose it could have been Josephine?” I asked.

He actually honked out a little laugh at that.

“Why is that funny?” I asked. “You said she's possessive.”

“Yeah, but I didn't say she's crazy like that lady from the cartoon, the one who wanted to turn dogs into coats!”

It took me a moment. “You mean Cruella De Vil? From
101 Dalmatians
?”

“I don't know. I saw it with my daughter when she was little.”

“You have a daughter?” I asked ridiculously—because he had just said so.

“I do,” he told me. “She's fourteen now and lives with her mother in Birmingham, Alabama.”

Ordinarily I would have asked a follow-up question because it was the first really personal, human thing the man had said to me. But my eyes were still on Edmondson and my mind and lower back were still preoccupied with the idea that some unknown third party may have been out there watching me for reasons unknown.

“I'll let you know about the lawn in a few days,” Gar said.

I shot him a look that bordered on startled. In just a second or two, I'd forgotten he was there.

“Yes—I'd appreciate that. And thanks for coming out. Sorry I was so—I don't know. Whatever I was.”

He gave me another of his slightly critical looks and drove away. I watched him go with a trace of regret. The brake lights threw a blood red color on the street and then it was dark. And quiet. And lonely. I briefly considered driving out again and seeing if I could find whoever may have been watching me—but that didn't seem to make any sense. I had no idea who to look for or which way to go. The joke about this all was that I had set out to trap someone who was probably innocent—and, in so doing, found out that someone else was probably watching me.

I got my stuff from the car, the tools that I was going to employ to become an ace detective, not one of which I had actually used. Feeling stupid on top of everything else, I went back inside. I turned off the outside light—it was nice to have it back—but I didn't bother turning on any inside lights. Instead, I pulled a kitchen chair to the dark window near the front door and sat looking at the street. I couldn't see very far, but I would certainly be able to see if anyone came back.

Now that Gar was gone, they might. If they did, I wanted to see them.

I kept the cell phone on my lap, plugged in so the battery wouldn't
plotz
, Detective Bean's number under my thumb. My heart had slowed, but not by that much. I ignored the cats, who were twining round and round at my feet precisely because they felt ignored. My eyes adjusted to the dark, my ears filtered out the familiar noises of the neighborhood: the occasional dog and airplane, the elderly Camerons next door who sat outside on warmish nights like this, the cars whose music and motors were familiar to me. I wanted whoever had been here to come back. I wanted someone to blame, a focus for the turmoil I felt.