In Plain Sight (6 page)

“Did you search her place?”

“No. We hadn’t sufficient evidence of possible illegal activity to ask a judge for a search warrant.”

“Could this neighbor simply have been trying to make trouble for her?”

“Certainly a possibility. As it turned out, he wound up in more trouble than she did.”

“Really?”

“After we didn’t rush out to tell the woman she had to let him use the boat landing, he took matters into his own hands and rammed her gate with his pickup. He denied it, but paint from the pickup was all over the gate, and dents in the pickup matched the spokes in the gate. He didn’t have a record either, however, and with this being a first offense, he didn’t get any jail time, just a fine for malicious mischief. He replaced the gate with a new one, and I haven’t heard of his having problems with any other neighbors, but the man has a mean streak, that’s for sure.”

“Could the man I saw on the dock have been him?”

“The description doesn’t match.”

“It sounds as if it could be a rather scary situation for Ms. Marcone.” This gave me a different perspective on her unfriendly attitude. Perhaps her wariness with strangers was justified. “I understand she lives there alone?”

“I believe so.”

“She’s apparently rather wealthy.”

“Given what those Vintage Estates places cost, I’d say that’s probably true.”

“Did you use fingerprints when you checked on her criminal record?”

“No. We didn’t have any reason to ask for them.” The scarred eyebrow lifted. “You suspect her of something?”

“Well … a pretentious taste in housing, if nothing else.”

He laughed. “Agreed.”

“Does she have a job somewhere, or maybe an office at home?”

Sgt. Yates tilted his head and crossed his arms. “Mrs.

Malone, are you pumping me for information?”

“Now why would I do that?” I put a hand to my chest in righteous indignation.

“Good question. But since you’re the woman who sent a killer to jail, after first putting him in the hospital with a concussion …” He gave me a speculative appraisal, as if wondering how a harmless-looking LOL had managed to do that.

“But there’s no dead body involved here,” I said. A non sequitur, I suppose, but I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate.

“True. So let’s keep it that way, shall we? No dead bodies.”

“I’m all in favor of that.”

“And if any of this Braxton clan show up, you remember that it’s our job to take care of them, not yours, okay? You call me if you see or hear anything.”

I waved his card and smiled brightly to show I was prepared to do exactly that.

“I’ll stop by again in a few days,” he said.

I watched the pickup disappear down the driveway. A nice man. Concerned. Caring. Helpful. But with a hard core of no-nonsense lawman.

Good. Exactly the type of person I wanted keeping an eye on me.

It was church on Sunday, of course, and afterward some ladies invited me to dinner with them at an all-you-can-eat chuck wagon place. Since I feel financially obligated to eat as much as possible in such eating establishments, I spent the rest of the day in an overstuffed state of lethargy. On Monday I tackled a job I’d brought along, identifying and organizing jumbles of old photos into an album.

But by Tuesday afternoon I was feeling rather at loose ends. Little cooking to do for just me. House all vacuumed. Laundry all washed and folded. A steady drizzle had started. It might be a jogging day if you were a Leslie Marcone, but I didn’t want to get out in it. Then I remembered something my mother did every spring, and on impulse I decided it would be a good job for today.

I strung a clothesline across the covered patio between the house and garage, then dragged down the braided rag rugs from my bedroom and draped them over the line.

I didn’t have a regular old rug beater like my mother always used, but I got out a broom and started whomping. Oh my, did the dust fly! Whomp, whomp, whomp. Even though the rugs had been vacuumed, whomping gets way down deep where vacuuming never penetrates. And there’s a satisfaction in whomping that mechanical vacuuming can never provide.

I’d done the first rug and was starting on the second when I got that peculiar feeling you get, that prickle between your shoulder blades that tells you someone is watching.

The prickle spread to a tightening of my scalp. I paused, broom held upright. When you have Braxtons after you, a feeling of being watched is not good. In a best-case scenario, it means they have your whereabouts targeted. In a worst-case scenario, it means one of them is standing behind you ready to bash you with a 2x4 or put a bullet in your back.

I sprinted through my limited options. Run for the door and lock it? Make a dash for the T-bird and floor the throttle? Drop to the ground and scuttle like a crab to the woodpile?

No time for any of that. Not if my watcher was as close as my between-the-shoulder-blades radar warned.

I took a firm grip on the broom handle and whirled.

6

“I saw you from down on the trail. It’s a pleasure to see someone taking such a conscientious attitude toward her work. I haven’t seen anyone actually beating rugs since I was a little girl at my grandmother’s. Did Mrs. Harrington tell you to do this?”

“No, I just thought it needed doing.”

“That’s very commendable. I admire initiative and hard work.”

I lowered the broom and stared in astonishment. The Mystery Woman, who had looked through me before, was now studying me with a faint hint of warmth in her ice-blue eyes. She wasn’t actually smiling, but she was speaking to me. In cordial tones.

“Well, uh, thanks,” I said.

“You’re Mrs. Harrington’s housekeeper?” At my blank look, she added with a certain impatience, “This is the Harrington house, isn’t it? DeeAnn Harrington, the bookkeeper.”

“Yes, but—”

“How much is she paying you?”

I blinked at the blunt question. I could see now that she was somewhat older than I’d thought earlier. At least midthirties.

“Well, uh—”

She waved a dismissive hand, apparently impatient with my stumbling. “My former housekeeper is no longer with me, and I’m looking for a replacement. I believe you would be suitable. Not many housekeepers are industrious and dedicated enough to do what you’re doing here. I can offer you more than the Harringtons are paying,” she stated, although I’d still given no indication of what my position as the “Harrington’s housekeeper” paid.

“You’re offering me a job?” I was astonished on several counts, not the least of which was the nerve I felt it took to snatch a housekeeper out from under a current employer’s nose. Not that I was an employee, but she thought I was.

“Five hours a day, 9:00 to 2:00, perhaps a little longer if I need you. Six days a week, Sundays off. The usual housekeeping duties, plus you’ll prepare my midday meal at 11:30, which I take as the main meal of the day. Eleven dollars an hour. Cash. No health insurance or other benefits.”

Having never been a hired housekeeper, nor been in the position to employ one, I had no idea if this amount was paltry or exorbitant. “Don’t you want references?”

“My last housekeeper had excellent references. References can be deceiving. I’ve decided to trust my instincts. I have confidence that a person who beats rugs will do a thorough job in other areas of housekeeping.”

“I see.”

“You’re rather older than I had in mind …”

She looked me up and down, as if I were a used refrigerator with a bad dent in the door. But if she thought I was going to supply my age, she was mistaken. Once I arrived at Social Security eligibility, I’d decided further details were unnecessary.

“But it isn’t heavy work,” she went on. “A cleaning company does the windows.”

I stood there holding my broom like a grounded witch, rather astonished that I found myself actually considering accepting Leslie Marcone’s unlikely offer. The thought of looking for a job hadn’t even occurred to me. A retired librarian is not a hot item in the employment market. Also, given Sandy’s view of her and what I’d seen already, I wasn’t convinced Leslie Marcone would be an ideal employer.

But there were several good reasons to seriously consider the job. The top one, of course, was the extra money. I am not on easy street with Social Security and a limited amount of CD interest. I did a quick calculation and came up with the fact that I could earn over three hundred per week for what I did all the time anyway. I had extra time on my hands, and if I didn’t do
something
I might find myself trapped into quilting.

But I may as well admit the number one reason I was really considering the job. Plain old curiosity. Rampant curiosity, to be honest.

This was, however, the woman who had argued with DeeAnn over a two-dollar charge on her bill. Did I want to put up with that nitpicking? I tossed out a challenge. “Fourteen dollars an hour.”

She split the difference as if she were cutting a diamond. “Twelve-fifty.”

At the moment I was making $00.00, and I saw visions of healthy donations to several missionary groups I try to help out occasionally, and maybe a trip to visit DeeAnn and Mike in Hawaii. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“I’ll be out of town tomorrow. Be at my place at 9:00 on Thursday. Wear quiet shoes. It’s that one.” She pointed to the white-columned mansion across the lake. “The address is 2742 Vintage Road. I’m Leslie Marcone.” She didn’t offer to shake hands.

I noted that she also didn’t inquire about my transportation or how I planned to handle the matter of leaving my “employer” on such short notice. Not her problem.

But I was, it seemed, now gainfully employed.

With Sandy gone, I didn’t have anyone with whom to share my news. On impulse I dug out Dix and Haley’s email address and sent them a message through the computer. I doubted the Braxtons could hack into email, but I wasn’t sure, which was why I hadn’t emailed Dix and Haley before this. I also didn’t tell them where I was, just that I was fine and had taken a job. I asked them to pass the message along to my Madison Street neighbors, Magnolia and Geoff, who were computer-less.

That night I had a scare. I woke from a sound sleep to hear a strange moaning, a rustle and whisper. If I believed in ghosts, I might think one had just moved in. I didn’t believe in ghosts, of course, but I did believe in Braxtons.

A rasping or scraping. Perhaps even a grating. And there, wasn’t that a thud? Grating, scraping, thudding Braxtons? It occurred to me that I’d again forgotten to set the security system for the night.

Sgt. Yates came to mind, but there was no phone on the second floor. I eased out of bed and grabbed the first item I came to on top of the chest of drawers to use for protection until I could reach the phone. I crept out the door and down the hallway toward the sounds, weapon in hand.
Rasp. Whisper. Scrape.
Then I bumped into one of the mattresses Sandy puts down in the hallway for gymnastics practice, and it fell with a gigantic
whoosh
.

I held my breath, waiting for a reaction.

Another scrape. A softer sound. Breathing? I could feel air coming under the closed door to an unused bedroom. An open window? It would take a long extension ladder, but the Braxtons were nothing if not inventive, so access to a second-story window wasn’t impossible. Cautiously I opened the door. Faint light filtered through the window from the yard light, revealing a tangle of discarded furniture. An old chimney from before the house was remodeled went through the wall here. The wind was blowing, I realized now. Waving branches flickered shadows outside the window.

I stopped and sorted out the sounds. Vines growing on the back side of the house rustling and scraping against the wall. Wind moaning through the old chimney and slipping around the loose window. A branch whapping against the roof.

No intruders, just the old house making windy-night noises. And me, wandering on the outskirts of Paranoidville again.

I went back to my bedroom, stopping along the way to wrestle the mattress upright. I turned on the light, embarrassed to see that I’d grabbed a curling iron as my weapon of defense. What would I have done if I’d actually met an intruder? Curled him into submission? Probably not. But perhaps I could have scared him into flight with threat of a beehive hairdo.