The Hammett Hex (7 page)

He shrugged. “People in finance, banking, real estate, and around here, high tech.”

“Lots of money in this city.”

I knew that the headquarters for Google and Facebook weren't far. I'd heard that many of their young and hip employees lived in the city. It was hard to imagine how different this bustling trendy city was from sleepy little Harrison Falls and the equally dozy Town of Cabot.

The woman with the carriage had stopped to stretch and we gradually caught up with her.

As we strolled past, she gave us a big, unexpected smile. Smiley smiled back. He pointed at the covered-up infant and asked about the baby.

No wonder he was smiling. The yummy mummy had pale luminous skin and flawless teeth to match. She was a naturally beautiful woman who looked fabulous in her exercise gear and simple hairstyle. I imagined the child would be photogenic too. “Harry's sleeping,” she whispered. “The little beast kept us up all night.”

“Really?” I said, secretly pleased.

She shrugged. “Teething. Nothing to be done but wait until they're all in.”

Smiley, who probably knew even less than I did about babies—so nothing—nodded in agreement.

At least he hadn't insisted on peering under the blanket at the tiny sleeping being. I knew no one with a baby, had no baby cousins or even distant relatives and not a single friend who was longing for babies. I knew the little creatures were out there and could be very appealing. I even understood that they were important to the continuity of the human race, but that was about the extent of it. I understood nothing of teething or the other surprises of parenthood, but was happy to be standing still and not climbing the rest of the hill.

After a few minutes of pleasant chat, she excused herself to go into a small shop for “supplies.” “See you soon!”

We waved good-bye and continued our slog. I was doing my best to look energetic. Even Smiley's face was getting
flushed. More training was obviously required and we were definitely trudging as we neared the top of the hill.

As we approached the block where we expected to find Smiley's Gram's home, the young mother passed us again, waving with her free hand when she jogged by and crossed the street in a diagonal without breaking stride. She stopped and managed somehow to pull the stroller and its teething inhabitant up the wide stairs and through the door of a substantial house that looked to be from the early nineteenth century. As we watched, impressed, she waved cheerfully and vanished.

“Well,” I said, “I feel like a tree sloth after that performance.”

He shrugged. “Me too. Maybe I've been eating all wrong.”

“Right. Maybe you should try eating green smoothies and taking cleanses.”

“Be careful.”

I was still chuckling at my silly joke when we approached Gram's house.

Tyler's grandmother's house was on the high ground. It was a grand Victorian style, like the famous Painted Ladies but without the vibrant color. This one was a sedate mauve and gray with a charming set of turret windows in front as well as a set of bay windows. Tyler stopped talking as we approached. He was clutching a gift-wrapped puzzle featuring five thousand pieces of Antarctic ice relieved by a few lonesome penguins. I really hoped this visit went well for him. I'd had second thoughts about accompanying him. But he wanted it. So I was there, bruised knees, scraped palms and all. I'd have to remember to call her Mrs. Huddy after the new husband and not Dekker.

As I'd also been dipping my pedicure into the dark and shady land of Hammett, I knew that in that world, no one was to be trusted. That included sweet little old ladies. Just
ask the Continental Op how they can pull the rug out from under you. Smiley was such a bundle of suppressed excitement that I couldn't quite bring myself to mention this.

We walked up the well-maintained wooden front steps to the covered veranda with a solid purple door. I smoothed my navy romper with the cream lace detail (back in fashion yet again) as we stood at the door, and did not let myself peer through the turret window. Smiley pressed the doorbell and we listened to the pleasant chimes that announced our arrival. A small smile played around the corners of his very nice mouth. The door was opened by a tall, whippet-like, dark-haired woman who looked to be mid-thirties. Her wide silver eyes were full of wariness. Her hair was pulled into a stylish topknot with little strands artfully framing her face. With high, broad cheekbones like that, she didn't really need any artful assistance.

“Comb in. Mrs. Huddy iss expecting you,” she said, flatly. I tried to place her accent. Russian? Latvian?

She turned to me. “I am Zoya. And you are . . .” She could easily have been straight out of a noirish thriller.

Tyler said, “Jordan Bingham. My grandmother is expecting her as well.”

She shrugged, gave a contemptuous sneer at my taupe desert boots and turned on one of her shiny black heels. “Zis way.”

We kept up. The foyer was on the dark side with dated teal and pink wallpaper and dark mahogany tables every few feet, including a console table I would have killed for, even without the stunning sterling bowl. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling but it hadn't been turned on. I was trying not to think that silver-eyed young women in Hammett's world were inclined to betrayal. But this wasn't Hammett's world. It was Hammett's town, but this, in some strange and soon-to-be-discovered way, was Tyler Dekker's world.

We followed our guide past a long formal parlor, then a vestibule with a substantial dark mahogany staircase. Before we hit the library, I peeked into the dining room with rows of botanical prints (heavy on the pink), a massive sterling candelabra on the glossy table and a magnificent Chinese lacquered screen. This entire house was a delicious crowded dream. A half-opened door off to the right showed a second staircase, a narrower flight of steps to the second floor that must have been for the servants back in the day. We turned right opposite the kitchen to arrive at a sunroom of sorts. It had beautiful windows looking out over the fog shrouding the possibly spectacular view below.

Inside was a different story. For starters, there was enough furniture to fill three rooms. Most of it was well-worn white wicker: chairs with flowered cushions, tables crowded with African violets, several ottomans with woolly throws, and a sideboard with teapots and small china figurines, heavy on the shepherdesses and smiling dogs. Not to forget the plant stands with a community of Boston ferns. A small pug glowered at us from beneath a wicker love seat. Clearly, we'd ruined its day.

But the dominant aspect of the place was the noise and its source. The sounds of birds were almost overwhelming. I noted at least seven cages: Uncle Kev used to have a thing for birds so I knew who was who here. A yellow cockatiel with bright orange cheeks made the sound of a cell phone ring.

Trill trill trill.

A small green parrot that I thought was a Quaker said, “Hello.”

In the corner a pair of bright-eyed lovebirds snuggled on their swing together.

A second cockatiel showed off a doorbell imitation. Very nice.

“Who is it?” the parrot said with dangerous overtones.

I laughed out loud.

I loved this place.

In the far corner with at least two pastel throws on her lap, an elderly lady watched us with what looked like glee.

Tyler and his grandmother glowed at each other.

She had a little gap between her two front teeth, and yes, she was blushing from the neck of her baby-blue polyester top to the scalp that showed pinkly through her soft white waves. A serious cane rested by the chair, the only dark item in the room. The metal bird on the handle stood out next to the mahogany finish.

“Tyler!”

“Gram.”

He dashed across the room, dodging ottomans, small tables, standing lamps and a brass umbrella stand that held a collection of canes.

She gripped his hand and beamed. He beamed back. She said, “Oh, pet.” Her voice held an echo of English origins, the accent worn by many years in the USA, but still there and still appealing. She patted the chintz ottoman by her feet. “Zoya will get you some cookies and milk.”

Zoya's head jerked. She looked like she'd just as soon drop strychnine into the milk and add crushed glass to the cookies.

“No thanks,” Tyler said with a nervous glance in Zoya's direction. He did perch on the ottoman, though.

“Oh, Tyler, make an old lady happy, have some. And your little friend too.”

We glanced at each other.

Smiley said, “Gram, this is my fiancée, Jordan Bingham.”

Fiancée? I looked down at my hand in case the proposal had just slipped my mind.

“How lovely. Welcome to the family, my dear.” She beckoned me forward and squeezed my hand. Her grip was a lot
stronger than I'd expected. Maybe she lifted weights when she wasn't bird-watching or smiling at the figurine collection. I got a pleasant whiff of her delicate lavender scent. Tyler didn't talk about his family. As far as I knew, aside from his estranged parents, the entire Dekker clan was standing in this room. That made it emotionally significant, that and the fact I'd agreed to spend the rest of my life with one of them, apparently.

“Jordan loves La Perla,” Smiley said.

“It's a beautiful hotel. Was it your suggestion?”

“It came highly recommended from a relative. I'm so glad it worked out.”

“Thank you. I really love it there.”

“We all love a bride, my dear,” Gram trilled. “This is such good news about your engagement.”

Prior to that moment, I hadn't believed that people trilled outside of fiction, but this was a day of surprises. I blushed at her sweetness and at the awkwardness Tyler had dropped me into.

Zoya, returning with a tray containing cookies and milk, looked surprised too. The look didn't suit her any better than her other expressions: disdain, disinterest, dislike and so on.

Gram turned to Smiley. “When did you propose, pet?”

I was also interested to hear his answer.

Gotcha. He blanched. “Um, just on this trip actually.”

Exactly, and that would be on the part of this trip that hadn't actually occurred.

She clapped her hands, apparently in delight. Zoya's eyes bugged out. Mine might have too. The pug's definitely did. “We must have an engagement party! We'll have to invite your new cousins.”

I said. “What? No. We couldn't possibly—”

“Darling boy,” she said. Apparently, she could only hear him. “I'm thrilled.”

The Quaker parrot squawked, “Party party!”

Zoya pushed into the room. “No parties, missus. You are supposed to rest.”

The parrot said, “Time to go.”

I laughed at the little green tyrant, but I had no problem with the sentiment. We didn't stay long and promised to return as soon as possible. The minute we said good-bye, we found ourselves hustled toward the front door, while Gram called out, “Come back tomorrow! We'll plan the party.” The pug circled our ankles yipping and snapping. The birds shrieked a variety of shrieks. Zoya merely scowled.

“Do not come back here again,” she said, closing the door on us. “I know what you up to and you not velcome.”

A locked door is a piece of cake.

—The Kelly Rules

S
MILEY GAWKED AT
the closed purple door.

I said, “We'll come back tomorrow.”

He turned and stared at me. “You don't think that was strange?”

“What part? The bit where I'm your fiancée and the last one to know about it?”

“Oh, that. Well—”

“Oh, that?”

“It didn't come out right.”

I stood on the steps to his grandmother's house and sputtered.

He said, “What I meant to say is that I've been thinking a lot about us.”

I crossed my arms and stared across the steep street.

He said, “I think we should consider it.”

How romantic. “I think you shouldn't announce something momentous like that without discussing it with me, your so-called fiancée. It's the kind of decision where I would get a vote.”

“I do realize that. It just came out because it was such a nice moment and I wanted it to be true. I wanted to introduce you as my fiancée to my grandmother. Thank you for not saying it wasn't exactly true.”

“Wasn't
exactly
true?”

“You know.”

“I do know and it wasn't even a little bit true.” I'm not over the top about engagement rituals, but I did feel a little bit robbed of a moment.

He looked so downcast that I started to feel bad for him, but really, springing an engagement on a girl? Not cool.

We walked along toward the intersection where we could get the streetcar, without either of us saying a word. Just as we got close, I said, “You never told me about any cousins.”

“I never met them. They're on Gram's husband's side.” I was surprised to see him grin. “I never had anyone, no brothers and sisters, no cousins. This is really good news.”

We were both only children. My only cousins were in distant branches of the Kelly family, although you could say that Uncle Kev was like a perpetual child. I'd been the center of my uncles' lives. I wasn't sure I'd have liked having competition from cousins. As annoyed as I was, I decided to let Smiley enjoy his new-found semi-relatives.

“Tomorrow, we will go back and see your grandmother and you can find out more about them. As it's so important, I'll continue to be your fake fiancée.”

He stopped abruptly, just as the streetcar slowed. “I'm kind of worried about that Zoya. I don't trust her.”

I stopped too. “I hear you, but I then I don't usually trust people who tell me to go away and never come back.”

“Can't say I liked her much either.”

“She didn't seem to want us to like her, but maybe that's her way of protecting Gram. Who knows what kind of relationship they have behind closed doors.” I thought of the
infinitely complicated power dynamic between Vera and the signora back at Van Alst House.

“On the other hand, perhaps she didn't want us hanging around because things are not right with Gram.”

“You mean because Zoya's taking advantage?”

“Maybe. Are you worried?”

By this point the streetcar had come and thundered by. “We may as well find out,” he said. We trudged the long way back to the faded gray and mauve home.

The drapes were closed in the front windows this time. Smiley rang the bell. We waited. He rang again after a couple of minutes. Nothing. He hammered on the front door. I felt a bit of panic and expected a matching emotion from him, but I suppose his inner cop was taking over. He leaned down and opened the mail slot. He bellowed. “Open up! Police.”

It was true enough in its own way.

Zoya did not materialize. Neither did Gram. But the little pug raced along the hallway and continued to run in circles barking.

“She might be asleep,” I said. “She
is
quite elderly and—”

“And Zoya? Where is she?”

Of course, I'd thought of that. In other circumstances, I might have thought that the caregiver might have settled her patient into bed and then dashed out for an errand. There didn't seem to have been enough time for that. But what if Zoya had gone out and now Gram might hear the racket from the little dog and come downstairs (or out from wherever she was) and stumble, fall and then there'd be heartbreak. I touched Smiley's sleeve and said, “Either she can't hear us. Or she can't get to us.”

He scowled.

“You'd need a warrant to go in, I suppose,” I said, thinking I could read his mind. “And you're not here on a case.
It's personal. So I don't think you should try to kick the door in.”

This time it was a glower. “Of course I wouldn't do that. But what if something's happened to her?”

I sighed. “Maybe I can help. It would be better if you weren't in on it, though.”

“Go ahead. We'll just say that the door wasn't locked. Zoya can try to talk her way out of that one.”

“I can't believe you actually said that. You're the one who's the stickler for proper procedure and not breaking the—”

It goes without saying that I had not flown across the USA with my set of treasured lockpicks in my luggage. There are rules. However, this lock was almost laughably easy. A quick slide with a credit card was all it would take.

“Use my card,” he said.

“Maybe you should avert your eyes.”

“I'm a cop. I know how locks get opened with cards. I've just never done it. Not part of my training.”

“Give me a little cover so the neighbors can't see what I'm doing. I'll pretend to bang on the door. When it opens, we both act like we're being greeted. And let's hope there isn't a security system.”

A quick slide, a jiggle and we were in.

Of course there was no security system.

Smiley said, “I'll make sure to remind her to get one. It was way too easy to get in here.”

“Let's get going.” Despite my heritage, I really hate being in a house that I don't belong in. Smiley had the confidence that cops have when they trespass. Maybe it's an acquired skill.

I tried the main level and found no Gram anywhere. The little pug was yipping around my ankles throughout. Not a relaxing search.

I headed up the stairs after Smiley. He was methodically going from room to room, softly calling “Gram” before opening each door.

“I don't want to frighten her.”

“I think the master bedrooms in this style of house should be in the front, where the turret window is.”

“I checked it.”

“Fine. She'll have the best room, so maybe it looks down over the city in the back.” We moved toward the rear of the second floor and knocked on the last door. No response.

Slowly and still calling her name, Smiley opened the door. I was holding my breath.

A vast round bed filled one wall. The vivid fuchsia and pink peony pattern on the bedspread and the masses of matching throw cushions would take a little getting used to. This room had obviously been renovated and sat over the sunroom. In the floor-to-ceiling window a floral reclining chair commanded a spectacular view. No one was in the chair.

Smiley ran his hands through his hair. “Where is she? What has that woman done with her?”

Usually the simplest answer is the best.

“Maybe she hasn't done anything with her,” I said, moving toward the bed. Sure enough, a small figure lay there, camouflaged by pillows.

Gram was in the bed.

She wasn't moving.

Smiley bent over her, shouting, “Gram!”

He shook her. She moaned softly. He shook harder. I picked up the phone to dial 911 when her eyes popped open.

“What a nice surprise,” she said. “Twice in one day.”

Smiley slumped. “You gave me quite a scare. I thought you were—” He gave a little squeal. Her eyes had closed and she was lying back again, breathing shallowly.

“Drugs,” I said. “Pretty sure.”

The mirrored dressing table showed no signs of medication, just a glass of water. He checked her pulse and I picked up the glass using a tissue to keep my prints off it.

“Her pulse is . . . not bad.”

I know nothing of pulses, so I said, “Great.” I sniffed the glass. Then “Oh, that smells like—”

Smiley patted his grandmother's pale cheek. “I'm calling 911.”

I said, “Maybe you should—”

A noise at the door caused the two of us to whirl like characters in a melodrama. It sort of felt like that too.

“Vat are you doing here?” Zoya said. “I vill call police.”

Smiley managed to stay calm.

“Not if we call them first,” I sputtered.

She grabbed the phone and made an attempt at 911. Her hand was shaking. “You vill not kill us and get avay vith it.”

By my calculation, she was short of one “1.”

“Kill you?”

“You think I am fool?”

Fool? I thought she was a bit of a villain. I supposed she might have been a fool too.

“I am not trying to kill my gram. We've just been reunited. We are family.”

“Sure,
you
say that.”

The telltale Dekker flush had rushed from Smiley's collar to the roots of his hair. Perhaps it was a bit brighter than usual. It's not every day someone accuses you of attempting to kill your grandmother.

“I do say that,” he said. “And you will stop saying anything else. I am a police officer. But I'm wondering what you'll get out of it if Gram . . .” He mouthed the word
dies
.

Zoya gasped. We watched as she turned and loped from the room. I heard the clatter of heels on the hardwood stairs, then the slam of the door.

Gram's eyes popped open wide, and with the twinkle turned on.

“When's dinner?” she said.

Dekker folded her into a hug. “Are you all right?”

“Well, I'm starving and you almost broke my ribs, but aside from that, I'm right as rain.”

“Right as rain,” Smiley said. “You always said that.”

“And I'm still saying it. Where's Zoya?”

“She, um, ran away.”

“Why would she run away?”

“She seemed to think I had tried to kill you, and then when she learned I was a police officer, she took off. Are you sure she's—”

“Loyal as the day is long, although a bit high strung. But I'm happy with her. Don't meddle, darling boy.” Gram reached over and pulled the long embroidered bell, like something out of Downton Abbey.

Smiley sat on the chair and leaned over his grandmother. “What happened, Gram?”

“Well, your parents were funny about everything, jealous of our relationship—”

“I mean what happened to you just now?”

“Nothing happened to me. I was having a nap and then there was all this commotion.”

“A nap?”

“Yes. I have one every afternoon. I'm a little old lady, pet. We need our rest.”

He picked up the glass. “Do you think that Zoya would have put something in it?”

“Just Beefeater.”

“What?”

“Just a bit of Beefeater and tonic.”

I laughed. No wonder it had smelled familiar. “I tried to tell you. It's a G and T.” I'd made a million of those for my uncles.

She nodded. “Sure. It gives me a bit of a buzz and I'm out like a light.”

“You leave her alone! Step away!”

Zoya was back but not with dinner. She carried the metal-headed cane and I was betting she'd have a mean swing.

“You go now and don't come back.”

“Don't be a silly goose, Zoya. You know perfectly well that this is my grandson and his fiancée. They aren't trying to harm me. They were worried. They suspected you of ulterior motives, drugging my water glass.” She managed a wheezy chuckle. At the end of it, a scarlet blush had spread from her neck to the top of her head as I could clearly see through her white waves.

“Drugged? Never!” Zoya's pallid face was fishbelly white by now. She swayed, but hadn't dropped the cane yet. I wondered if the swaying was just part of a dramatic performance. If so, it was a good one. Zoya was clearly very distressed. Her elegant hairstyle had become a bit undone.

Smiley obviously hadn't attempted to harm Gram. Gram had confirmed this. If Zoya had indeed given Gram that snootful of gin, she must have realized that the elderly woman might be groggy and that anyone normal, say Smiley and myself, would be concerned. Was she trying to deflect attention from the fact that she hadn't opened the door? Had she left Gram alone?

“Where were you, Zoya, when we arrived?” Smiley turned to her, crossed his arms over his chest and used his cop voice. It's one of the few things I don't like about him—that cop voice. I'd had it turned on me not that long ago. Apparently, Zoya liked it even less.

“I do not answer! Is not of your business.” Again with the swaying.

We both glanced at Gram to see if she was about to chide her employee. But Gram was convulsed. I assumed she was having some kind of medical event and Smiley rushed to
her side, but then I heard the wheezy chortle and understood she was merely having a good laugh. She was lucky one of us didn't attempt CPR before we figured that out.