This Old Murder (3 page)

FOUR

JOSIE WOKE UP with the uncomfortable feeling that the night had been filled with bad dreams. But she didn’t have time to worry about vague phantoms; she had to talk to her son before she left for work.

Apparently their meeting was high on Tyler’s agenda also. She walked into the large room that, in addition to their two bedrooms and two baths, completed their apartment. Her son was standing at the stove. No, she corrected herself before opening her mouth, he was
cooking
at the stove.

“Tyler?” Maybe she was still dreaming?

“Hi, Mom! What do you want with your blueberry pancakes? Bacon or sausage?”

“You made blueberry pancakes?”

“Yup. The batter’s waiting to go on the griddle. So?”

Josie stared at her tall, good-looking son with disbelief. “So?” she repeated, confused.

“So which do you want? Bacon or sausage? There’s only room for one on the side of the griddle.”

“We have a griddle?” It didn’t seem likely. The most professional equipment in her kitchen was the KitchenAid mixer Sam’s mother had given her last Christmas. The half-inch of white stuff in the bottom of its bowl was dust, not flour.

“I borrowed it from Risa yesterday. Want some coffee? I filled your thermos and made extra.”

Josie sat down at the small counter that served as their daily eating place. “Before you start looking up recipes for Chateaubriand and pressing your own grapes, I should tell you that you can take the job at Family Video—with two conditions,” she added quickly, raising her hand to silence his enthusiasm.

Tyler stood quietly while she explained the ideas Sam had come up with and then a large grin spread across his face. “Thanks, Mom. I knew you’d be reasonable. You know what I’m going to do with my salary?”

“Put half of it in your college fund,” she reminded him.

“Sure, but after that I’m going to start saving for my car.”

“Your what? Tyler, you won’t be driving for another year. And cars are expensive.” Josie shut up. A year was a long way away and Tyler’s enthusiasms could be as brief as they were intense. Besides, the smell of hickory-smoked bacon filled the air and there were more immediate things to worry about. “Did you check to see if we had any syrup?”

“The real stuff,” he replied, pointing to the plastic jug she hadn’t noticed at the end of the counter.

“You really planned this well.”

“I figured we could celebrate my new job if you agreed to it. And if not, I’d try bribing you with a good home-cooked meal. You know what they say: The way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach. Right?”

“That’s not quite how I heard it,” Josie admitted, reaching for the plate Tyler passed her. The plate, bought at a garage sale, was extra large. And it was in danger of overflowing. She picked up her fork and reached for the syrup, suddenly famished.

Josie was a good and enlightened mother. She had read her share of articles about the importance of self-confidence, so she forced herself to stop eating after the first pancake and compliment her son’s cooking.

“So when do you start work?” Josie asked, putting down her fork and reaching for her coffee.

“Today. At nine o’clock. So I’d better get,” Tyler said, standing up. He seemed to notice the pile of dishes in the sink for the first time. “I’ll clean these up tonight, okay?”

Josie smiled. She doubted it. “Great. I’ll have a hard time matching this meal for dinner tonight.”

“Uh. Mom.”

Josie knew what was coming. “You’re not going to be home for dinner. I thought if you worked early, you’d be off by five.”

“Oh, it’s not work. It’s just that I promised some of the guys that I’d meet them for pizza and we could watch a video or two.” He grinned, for a moment resembling his mother. “I get free videos, you know. This could make me the most popular person on the island this summer.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you already are.” Josie glanced at the large grandfather clock Tyler had made for her in his shop class at school. “Damn. I’m going to be late if I don’t get a move on. When will you be home?” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to the bathroom.

“I’m not sure. I’ll call and tell you where I’m going to be and what time I’ll be home. I can leave a message on the machine if you’re out.”

“Okay, but be here by ten—”

“Thirty. I know, Mom. I know.”

Bobby Valentine hadn’t lied.
Courtney Castle’s Castles
had folded its equipment into its vans and vanished into the sunset (or wherever). Happily, everyone from Island Contracting seemed to be present, accounted for, and working busily. The windows of number 23 were open and dust was flying out of them. As well as noise. Lots of noise, as the heavyset man standing on the side deck of number 25 seemed anxious to point out.

“You Josie Pigeon?”

Josie forced a polite smile onto her face and admitted the truth.

“Howard, is that the contractor?” The question came from the dark interior of the house behind the man.

“I’ll take care of this, Cheryl. You just keep trying on everything in your wardrobe.”

Josie knew what was going on. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to deal with a neighbor who came to the shore for a nice quiet vacation only to discover the realities of early-morning remodeling going on nearby. “This isn’t going to last forever,” Josie said, waving toward the house. “And this is the noisy part. In a few days the demolition will be complete and things will get quieter.”

The man in the doorway seemed to consider her words. “There were a lot of television vans here yesterday.”

“Yes.” Was he the type of person who would be thrilled to have a bird’s-eye view so near a production, despite the noise level? She could only hope. She certainly wasn’t going to be able to hide it from him. “Courtney Castle is going to be taping some of the work next door.”

“Yeah, Cheryl and me, we saw her name on one of the vans. Was she here yesterday?”

Josie had watched the show the night before and knew the answer to this. “Well, uh . . .” She sure hoped these two weren’t going to be a problem, hanging around the work site, hoping to meet the celebrity.

“Cheryl’s been shopping her little heart out trying to find something to wear on television. Costs a fortune, but I say what the hell? She’s happy. I’m happy. You know what I mean?” He winked lewdly. “What a vacation this is turning out to be. First it rains for a week, then we both get goddamn sunburns. But things are looking up. Courtney Castle is coming to town.” A grin on his face, he vanished into the house; the metal screen door screeched shut behind him.

Josie shrugged and hurried back to work. Keeping the bystanders in order wasn’t her problem. The blueprints were in her truck. She needed to make sure the correct walls were coming down.

A loud crash caused her to speed up. She needed to see what was happening and she didn’t want to waste time trying to explain whatever it turned out to be to the man next door. She dashed up the steps, across the small deck, and through the sliding doors into the combination living room/dining room/kitchen area that fronted the house.

The noise had come from a mahogany room divider that had been torn from the rafters and now lay across a huge pile of debris in the middle of the floor. A handmade canoe, still attached to the ceiling, was swaying back and forth.

“Is that thing secure?” Josie asked, stepping back in case it wasn’t.

“Yeah. I sat in it to rip out the nails holding that thing together,” Dottie said, indicating the pile of mahogany.

“Good. The canoe’s going to stay up there. But why isn’t that stuff in the Dumpster?” Josie asked a second question before realizing that she knew the answer to that one. “Where the hell is the Dumpster?”

“Yeah, we were wondering that ourselves,” Dottie said, standing up and stretching out her back.

“Damn, I’ve been using those guys for years. They’re always reliable—”

The squeal of pneumatic brakes interrupted her statement. Jill, who was standing close to the window, glanced out. “They are reliable, if twenty-four hours late is how you define reliable.”

Josie frowned. “Keep working. I’ll be right back.” She ran out to the huge tractor-trailer being maneuvered to the curb.

“What’s going on?” she asked, grabbing on to the rearview mirror and swinging herself up on the cab’s runningboard.

“Whada ya mean?”

But Josie was distracted by the driver’s unusual attire. “Good heavens, you’re wearing a suit. Are you going to a funeral or getting married?”

“It ain’t a suit. It’s a sports jacket and slacks. A double-breasted sports jacket,” he pointed out, flicking his lapel with a filthy thumb.

“Someone change the dress code at Moffat Hauling?” Josie kidded.

“You know, Josie, sometimes a man just likes to look his best.”

“Fine with me as long as you’re going to unload that Dumpster in the driveway right now and as long as you’re going to pick it up a week from today.”

“Scheduled pickup is a week from yesterday.”

“But it was supposed to be dropped off yesterday and we paid for it to be on-site for one week.”

“Tried to drop it off yesterday. Couldn’t. Too many of those television vans around. Not my fault. And it’s the busy season. We’re booked solid. Sorry, Josie, even for a good customer like you we can’t make any changes. I know how you women like to take your time”—he saw the look in Josie’s eyes and changed the end of his sentence—“but you’ll just have to work a bit harder for the next six days.”

Josie realized she wasn’t going to win this fight. “So why don’t you drop this thing off and let us get down to it? I need it to open toward the house, so leave enough space between it and the garage for the doors to swing.”

“No problem. Think the TV people will be here when we come to pick it up? I’m only asking because you’ll have to make sure their vans aren’t in the way—or maybe they will want to tape a segment about hauling. You know. Size of Dumpsters. How to fill them efficiently. Where the garbage goes. That type of thing.”

Josie didn’t smile at his enthusiasm. After all, she had been equally enthusiastic about the prospect of a television appearance just a very short time ago. “I’ll sure suggest it” was all she said.

“Great.” He leaned forward, turned the key in the ignition; the truck roared to life, making further conversation impossible.

Josie knew she could depend on him to do the right thing. Time to get back to work.

Once there was a place to put the debris, the demolition went quickly. The house was getting three additions. One front, one back, and the biggest one up as high as the current building code would allow. All interior walls except for load-bearing beams were being removed. The appliances had already been taken to a resale shop, the furniture donated to a shelter off island. Built inexpensively in the sixties, there were no architectural details worth preserving—except for two. The canoe and a sculpture. Josie turned amid the dust and noise and stared at the sculpture. It sure looked ugly to her. But it was considered priceless by the home’s owners.

For decades, critics have been arguing over the merits of modern sculpture. One of the most controversial artists to ever tie a tree up in monofilament and charge many thousands of dollars for the result of his deed had rented this place one summer in the midseventies. It had been, apparently, a summer with dreadful weather. The combination of being forced to remain inside and the wind and rain, which had smashed almost incessantly against the house, had inspired the man. The result of this creative flow was something Josie had, at first sight, thought was a misshapen piling that had somehow ended up sitting on the hearth of the fireplace. Apparently she’d been wrong; it was ART, and at all costs it was to be protected during the renovation.

Josie was happy with the progress so far and got to work building a reinforced frame around the sculpture. It took her almost an hour and she was less impressed with the aesthetic virtues of the piece when she was done than she’d been when she started. In fact, her cover looked better than the sculpture, she decided, standing up and stretching her tendons. But it was finished.

“Anyone know where there’s a large piece of plywood we can write on?” she asked, looking around. “And a can of paint or something.”

Annette came running with both. Josie painted FRAGILE!! on the wood and hammered the sign across the front of the frame.

“What do you think the Courtney Castle people will think about that?” Jill, her arms full of debris, stopped on her way out the door to ask.

“God knows. But I do know that we won’t get anything accomplished if we worry about their opinion every step of the way. Let me help you all.” She grabbed a slab of Sheetrock that was falling from the wheelbarrow Dottie was pushing and joined her crew in the dirty, exhausting work of demolition.

Two hours later they were sitting on the front deck, exhausted, huge hoagies dripping greasy strings of lettuce and tomato onto their filthy laps when a silver Porsche roared up to the curb and an Armani-clad young woman jumped out of the driver’s seat. The polite smile slowly faded from her face as she surveyed the scene.

“That’s her! That’s Courtney!” Annette announced.

“How can you tell in that getup?” A lavish Hermès scarf swaddled Courtney’s head and massive black sunglasses covered much of her face. Josie stood, unaware that a slab of bologna was sticking to the front of her overalls. She smiled despite her aching back and mounting apprehension and started down the steps to the sidewalk.

“This isn’t going to stay here for long, is it?” Courtney asked, not bothering to introduce herself and staring at the overflowing Dumpster as though she’d never seen one before.

“It’s due to be taken away in six days,” Josie answered. “I’m Josie Pigeon.” She offered a dirty hand.

It was ignored. “Courtney Castle. This really won’t do. Our show teaches people how to do things right. We don’t accept sloppy work.”

“Ms. Castle, I’m so happy you’re finally here. I’m Cheryl. My husband and I live next door. We’re the neighbors to this project. Anyway, I couldn’t help but hear what you said and I couldn’t agree with you more! My husband and I have never seen anything like this. Disgraceful and very unprofessional.” A huge woman, showing off her dimpled thighs and arms in a bright pink playsuit, stomped across the lawn next door. “Certainly not up to the standards of
Courtney Castle’s
Castles
.”