Delbert struggled to contain his disgust. Except, Chlorine Moody was a human racist, not a garden-variety bigot. She hated everyoneherself includedso much that he almost tasted the bitterness exuding from her every pore. Maybe he was wrong about a crime unpunished equaling twenty-three years of freedom.
"You're right about the ordinance," he said, "but it can be waived for extenuating circumstances. Cleanup from this week's storm damage, for one. The interest of public safety's another."
He nodded in the direction of the alley. "If a house caught fire along this block, trucks couldn't get in to fight it." Clucking his tongue, he surveyed Chlorine's immaculate siding, the porch's cobweb-free ceiling and vacuumed Astro Turf. "It'd be tragic for a home this fine to burn to the ground. A spark on the wind, though, and she'd be a goner."
Chlorine looked sicker than she did when he told her the lawsuit was thrown out. She'd sunk tens of thousands of dollars in the place from that game her husband invented. The prospect of watching it go up in smoke had her groping for a wall to support herself.
He laid the check atop the letter on the clipboard. From his suit's coat pocket, he removed a sheaf of brochures he'd collected en route to the bank. Whether they were the frosting on the bamboozle, or just mean-spirited, he didn't much care.
"Seeing how fond you are of roses," he said, "here's a couple of nurseries that specialize in 'em and literature from some fence companies. I'd say most of your chain link can be salvaged and reset after the trench is filled in."
The brochures were arranged on top of the counterfeit letter, with the check on top. Keeping your mark focused on the money was a con man's motto.
"Have a nice day, Mrs. Moody." Delbert tugged his hat brim, exactly like ol' Matlock fixing to spring a trap on a murderer. "Come morning, just ignore those earthmovers firin' up. The sooner your fence is ripped up and the dirt's dug down about six feet, the sooner this'll all be over with."
15
H
annah listened to the phone ring at the other end of the line. And ring. And ring. For the past ten minutes, she'd listened to phones ring and ring and ringeach of them enough times for a senior citizen to hitchhike from Iowa to answer the damned thing.
She put the receiver in its dock and her chin in her hand. Delbertly intuition warned that a misdemeanor, or several, were planned, if not already in progress.
He hadn't uttered a peep last night when Hannah quit the Moody case. Nor had he called or dropped by today to coax her back into the fold.
IdaClare Clancy was another one she hadn't heard from. To resist bragging about outsmarting Jack on his birthday was as uncharacteristic as Delbert surrendering without a single
Jehosophat.
Hannah turned her head and gazed out the window at the muggy, late-afternoon haze. None of the gumshoes had answered their phones. She couldn't remember calling each of them in rotation before, but a mass exodus seemed significant. They were, after all, the Mod Squad.
But she wasn't their nanny. They didn't need one. Armed guards, maybe, and a team of defense attorneys on retainer, but not a babysitter.
Everyone being out simultaneously was a coincidence, she thought. Just because I don't believe in coincidences, doesn't mean there's anything to worry about. Concentrate on tonight's dinner with David. How relieved and over-the-moon happy he'll be when I tell him I took months of bullshit by the horns. Stepped up to the plate and swung for the fence. Cleared the freakin' decks
She cursed, picked up the handset and punched in the number for the community center, also known as activity central, particularly when heat or rain drove tenants off the lake, golf course, tennis courts and walking trails.
Naturally, the line was busy. She clicked the disconnect button. Idly wondered what she'd wear to David's. Decided on the usual jeans and a top, since a cocktail dress might be a bit of a tip-off. Drummed her fingers on the desk. Sighed and redialed the community center.
Well, hell. Still busy.
Of all people, Delbert should own a cell phone. Why he didn't was another impulsive unpredictability. Much as he loved any type of spylike gadget that lit up, made noise and ran on batteries, he hated to talk on the phone.
Third call to the community center, same result.
Hannah dropped the handset on the desk. "C'mon, Malcolm. Like Great-uncle Mort always said, why walk around in a circle when you can go straight and get somewhere else?"
The giant Airedale-wildebeest was always up for a ride in the Blazer. In his mind, self-propulsion should be limited to meals, drinks, potty stops and nap positions. Anything else was animal abuse.
Hannah had taken a few steps down Valhalla Springs Boulevard before she noticed that Malcolm wasn't following alongside. The poor dog with the apparently painted-on legs was slumped against the Blazer's rear bumper. He gave her a longing gaze, much like Ingrid Bergman's departing look at Humphrey Bogart in
Casablanca.
Hannah whistled and patted her thigh. "It's a hundred degrees hotter in the truck than out here, doofus. No way will the air kick in that fast and cool it off."
The translation of his answering
burf
would probably get his mouth washed out with soap. Head and tail adroop, Malcolm slogged forward to join his tormentor.
Heat shimmers twitched above the boulevard and the lake's glassy green surface. Gnats whirled in the air like flickering orbs, but most of the birds, bunnies, squirrels and people must have been taking siestas.
Her tennis shoes
squitched
on gummy asphalt that smelled, oddly enough, like mothballs. Wrinkling her nose, she automatically squinted her eyes and surveyed the community center's parking lot.
A few cars and canopied golf carts ignored the dimensions and intent of the lot's yellow lines. Numerous residents who'd never played golf and had no desire to try owned electric buggies to zip around the development.
Malcolm had been forbidden entry to the building, since an incident involving the ladies' swim-therapy class, so he belly-crawled under a hydrangea bush to sulk while Hannah went inside.
"No, a
maybe
is
not
good enough," a woman in a polka-dot sundress said into the wall phone. "I'm not hanging up until you promise you'll be at the dance tonight."
Having solved the mystery of the center's persistent busy signal, Hannah wandered from the main room down the hall leading to the club rooms, smaller banquet rooms and the kitchen.
"Hey, Hannah," a male voice called from behind her. "Wait up."
Willard Johnson, the part-time physical fitness instructor, was dressed in workout clothes and toting a gym bag. "I've been trying to catch you at the office for days."
"You have?" She thought back. "I guess I have been in and out."
"I was going to stop by this morning on my way here." He winked. "Hoo-eee, that was one sweet ride parked in your driveway when I went by."
"Uh-huh. And you know darned well it belonged to your boss and mine, Jack Clancy."
Willard's grin wilted to an expression somewhere between dejection and resolve. "That's sort of what I need to talk to you about." He motioned toward a seating area in the main room. "How about we grab a coupla chairs."
Hannah frowned and shook her head. "Something tells me I'll wish I was sitting down when you tell me what the problem is, but I'll take it standing up."
Willard hemmed and hawed, then dabbed his glistening forehead with the towel draped around his neck. "Okay, it's like this. You knew when I took the job that myself and five others write science fiction novels under a pseudonym."
"Corey Percival Spoon." She snapped her fingers. "Ye gods. I am
so
sorry. I completely forgot all about that writers' workshop/retreat we talked about. Listen, it's a little late for national advertising, but not
too
late"
"This isn't about a workshop I never wanted any part of in the first place." Willard shrugged. "No offense, but that was your brainstorm, not mine."
"It's still a great idea"
"Except I'm not the guy to do it." His eyes rose to a spot an inch above her head. "I love this job and the people and you're the best boss anybody could ever have
but I've got to quit."
As predicted, a chair would be nice to have under her right now. Then again, if her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, she'd be in a better position to wrap her arms around his ankles and beg him to stay.
Still vertical but wobbly, she said, "Whatever it takes to keep you, just name it. A raise, more hours, new equipment for the gym"
"I appreciate it. I really do, Hannah, but it's not"
"You can't quit." She cocked a hip and rested a fist on it. "I won't let you. Hell, there'll be a riot if you leave, and I don't have the time or energy for a couple of hundred screaming senior citizens picketing my office."
The image must have flashed in Willard's head because he chuckled, then laughed out loud. "Thanks for making me feel guiltier about this than I already do."
"Here's an easy fix. Don't quit."
"I have a dream, Hannah." Rolling his eyes, he muttered, "Good Lord. Brother King's speech was our Sermon on the Mount, but it sure ruined starting sentences like that for the rest of us."
Blowing out a breath, he went on, "I want to write books with my own name on the cover. Make a living at it. I took this job because I won't freeload off my folks. They'd already evicted a paying tenant so I could move into the apartment over their garage. They didn't want me to pay rent, either, but twenty-six-year-old, divorced college graduates don't mooch off their retired parents."
That mature, responsible attitude is part of the reason I hired you, Hannah thought. And would have, even without his second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, Red Cross lifeguard certification, and experience working at Gold's Gym during college.
"Trouble is," he said, "the twenty-five to thirty hours a week I signed on for has upped to thirty-five or forty." He held up a hand. "Not your fault. All mine, because I can't say no to grandmas and grandpas wanting to swim extra laps, do a little more weight training, whatever. Add another ten hours drive time a week to that, and
"
He gestured in frustration. "My last Percy Spoon was two weeks late. I haven't worked on my own book in months. I thought I could do this and write, too. I can't. I just can't."
Hannah stared at him. She could scarcely breathe with her mind spinning a hundred rpms a minute.
Too good to be true
beat like a drum in the background. Never once had it occurred to her to offer Willard her job. He managed the community center like the proverbial well-oiled machine. As a result, she seldom had reason to think about it or him, and therefore, seldom did.
"Uh-oh, there's that look again." Willard angled his head. He backed up a step, then another. "Every time you get it, I end up in a world of hurt."
Hannah smiled. "There is a God. He doesn't do birthday parties, but ask for a payback miracle, and He's a heck of a horse trader."
Weight shifting to the balls of his feet, Willard appeared ready to bolt for the door. "Gee, wish I could stay and talk, but"
"I accept your resignation, effective immediately. Come by the office, Monday, and I'll have your final check ready."
That put his heels back in touch with the carpet. "You mean, I'm through? As of
now?
"
"Then we'll fill out the paperwork and I'll start training you to take over as the resident operations manager."
Willard's neck craned forward. His mouth opened and shut repeatedly, then he croaked, "Run that by me again?"
Laughing, Hannah closed the gap between them. "Imagine a gorgeous furnished cottage, utilities included, for free, versus rent and utilities for a dinky garage apartment in town. A full-fledged office with a computer, scanner, printer, Internet access and a fax machine, versus pecking away on an old laptop at a rickety card table. A salary and health insurance. No commuting. No time clock to punch. A very flexible schedule."
She grinned. "And I'll handle all the promotions, mailings, tenant inquiries and advertising. Plus, I'll be a phone call away if you need me."
At least ten seconds ticked by. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Never been more."
Another ten seconds, then, "Okay, I'm interested. I'd be an idiot not to be, but I need some time to think it over. How about I"
"That's exactly what I told Jack Clancy when he offered me the job," Hannah said. "Want to know what his response was?"
Willard's arched eyebrows telegraphed,
Not really, but you're going to tell me, anyway.
"He said, 'Now or never, Hannah Marie.' And it wasn't a bluff." She paused, smiling at the memory and how wise Jack truly was. "Gut instinct is a religion for him. He knew mine voted yes or no, the moment he said, 'Now or never.' Whichever it was, all time would give was a chance to talk myself out of the job, or talk myself into it. Either way, from Jack's perspective, the answer would have been the wrong one."
