Without a Trace (3 page)

“That sounds like my Owen!” Mrs. Zucker exclaimed as the other women laughed.

“Now then, what brings you girls here today?” Ms. Thompson asked. She is a bright, birdlike woman in her forties who is on a couple of volunteer committees with me. She works as a nurse at the local hospital. “Are you on the trail of another exciting mystery, Nancy?”

I smiled sheepishly as my friends chuckled. Did I mention that I’m sort of famous around town for solving mysteries?

“Well, sort of,” I admitted. “It seems that someone has been causing trouble in Mr. Geffington’s vegetable patch.”

Mrs. Zucker gasped. “Really?” she exclaimed. “The same thing happened at my house! Someone stomped all over my zucchini a couple of nights ago.”

Very interesting. Mrs. Zucker lives across the street and a few houses down from Mr. Geffington.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked.

Mrs. Zucker shook her head. “I figured it was just some teenagers on a dare, or maybe animals,” she said. “It must have happened while I was out collecting for Anvil Day after dinner that night. I was out quite late, my husband was downtown at a business dinner, and Owen was probably playing a game with
a sitter I hired for the night, so none of us would have noticed a thing. I didn’t really think much about it beyond that, especially since neither my husband nor Owen likes zucchini much anyway.”

“I don’t blame them,” George said, reaching for another cookie. “I hate the stuff myself.”

“So you didn’t see the culprit,” I mused. I looked at the other two women. “What about you? Did either of you notice anything strange going on in the neighborhood three nights ago?”

“Not me,” Mrs. Mahoney said. “Have you asked any of the other neighbors? Harold Safer lives on that side of Bluff Street. Maybe he saw something.”

Her comment reminded me of something. “I heard that the old Peterson place just sold,” I said, referring to Mr. Geffington’s other next-door neighbor. “Do any of you know who bought it?”

“I do,” Ms. Thompson spoke up. “I heard it was a young, single French woman by the name of Simone Valinkofsky.”

“Valinkofsky?” George repeated. “That doesn’t sound very French.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Ms. Thompson replied. “But she moved in three days ago from what I hear. I haven’t met her yet myself, but I understand that she has a very important job at the museum downtown.”

“Interesting,” I murmured. I knew better than to assume that the newcomer’s recent arrival had anything to do with the zucchini situation. But I couldn’t help noting that as far as I could determine so far, the vandalism had started the same day she’d moved into the neighborhood. Was it a connection, or merely a coincidence? Only further investigation would tell.

My friends and I finished our tea and then excused ourselves. We walked out the door, and made our way down the sidewalk. Mr. Geffington and Mrs. Mahoney both live on Bluff Street. I glanced at Mr. Geffington’s house, a neat colonial with well-tended flower beds surrounding it. A set of concrete steps led down from the sidewalk to his curving front walk and the lush lawn that swept around the side of his house. In the backyard, I knew, lay Mr. Geffington’s vegetable garden—along with the spectacular view of the river that all the homes on this side of the street shared.

Next I looked at Mr. Geffington’s immediate neighbors. On the right side of his house was Mr. Safer’s cozy-looking Tudor-style home. To the left was a small cottage-style house with a large front porch and an overgrown tangle of shrubs and vines peeking out of the backyard.

That would be a perfect place for someone to hide
out, I thought, my gaze wandering from the overgrown weed patch back to Mr. Geffington’s yard. The two yards were separated only by a three-foot picket fence. Anyone who really wanted to could clear that easily.

Of course, opportunity wasn’t the mystery here. The real mystery was motivation. What would make someone want to destroy a garden full of innocent zucchini? So far, I had no convincing theories about that.

George followed my glance. “The scene of the crime, eh?” she said. “Aren’t you going to go over and dust for fingerprints on the eggplants or something?”

I gave her a playful shove. “Come on, let’s see if the new neighbor is home.”

All the yards on the river side of Bluff Street slope steeply down from the sidewalk. I stepped carefully down the stone steps in front of the former Peterson place. Leading the way across the narrow front yard onto the porch, I rang the bell.

The door opened a moment later, revealing a smiling young woman of about twenty-nine with shoulder-length dark hair and gorgeous black eyes. She was dressed simply but stylishly in a linen dress and chunky-heeled slides.

“Hello,” she said in a soft, accented voice. “Can I help you?”

I introduced myself and my friends. Before I could
explain why we were there, the young woman gestured for us to enter.

“Please, come in,” she urged. “My name is Simone Valinkofsky, and I have been hoping to meet some of my new neighbors.”

Soon my friends and I were standing in the little house’s surprisingly spacious living room. I had never been inside when the Petersons had lived there, but I suspected it hadn’t looked anything like it did now. While there were still boxes here and there waiting to be unpacked, the new homeowner had already done much of the decorating in the room. A large oil painting hung over the fireplace, and tasteful curtains lined the large windows overlooking the backyard. Embossed books were set on built-in shelves on either side of the room, and several exotic ivory-handled fans were displayed on one wall. Bess stared openly at several gorgeous pieces of jewelry that decorated an end table.

“Wow,” I commented, trying to take it all in. “You have a lot of cool stuff, Miss Valinkofsky.”

“Please—call me Simone.”

“Good,” George said. “Because I’m not sure I could pronounce Valin—Valik—whatever. That sure wasn’t in any of my high school French courses!”

Simone laughed, seeming surprised and delighted by George’s frank comments. “No, it is not a French
name,” she said. “My great-grandfather fled to Paris from Russia during the revolution.”

My gaze had just landed on an elaborate gold, jewel-encrusted orb in a glass display case with a lock on the mantel. “Did that come from Russia?” I asked, pointing it out.

Simone nodded. “Yes, you have a good eye,” she replied. “That is a genuine Fabergé egg—the most prized heirloom of my family. It is not one of the world-famous imperial eggs that Fabergé made for the czars, of course. Most of those are in museums or elsewhere on display. But it is still quite a treasure, and we are all very proud of it, and of our Russian heritage.”

She went on to describe several of the other unique and beautiful items in the room. It was so interesting that I almost forgot why we were there for a moment.

Finally Simone interrupted herself with a laugh. “But forgive me,” she said. “I’m talking only about myself. Please, tell me more about you. What brought you to my doorstep today?”

“Nancy is a detective,” Bess explained.

“Is that so?” Simone said in surprise. “But you are so young! I thought American detectives were old, gruff men like Humphrey Bogart, not pretty young girls.”

I blushed. “I’m not a
real
detective,” I explained quickly. “That is, I don’t have a license or anything. I just help out my dad with some of his legal cases, stuff like that. For instance, today we’re trying to figure out who has been going around and demolishing the zucchini in people’s vegetable gardens.”

“Zucchini?” Simone repeated.

“That’s the American name for the vegetable you probably know as a
courgette,
” George explained.

I shot her a surprised glance. Did George remember that random word from French class? But she’s always coming up with odd trivia like this that she finds on the Internet—so maybe that’s how she knew the word. Sometimes her quirky memory comes in very handy.

Simone laughed. “I see. Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of any help,” she said. “I’ve been so busy unpacking for the last three days that I’ve barely glanced out the window, let alone left the house. I can guarantee you it wasn’t me, though. I would never demolish zucchini—I’d deep-fry it! And of course, I don’t have a garden myself, so the culprit has had no reason to visit here.”

I stepped toward the back windows, still looking around. When my gaze wandered toward the view outside, I gasped.

“Hey,” I blurted out. “Isn’t that a whole bunch of zucchini right there in your backyard?”

What? Where?” Simone sounded
genuinely surprised as she hurried to join me at the window. Bess and George came over too, and all four of us stared out at the unkempt backyard. I pointed to several vigorous-looking vines twining their way over what appeared to be an overgrown rose hedge. Half a dozen oblong green fruits were growing from the vines.

“Hey! That does look like zucchini,” George said.

“I think you may be right,” Simone said. “As you can tell, we haven’t had the chance to work on the yard much. Come, let’s investigate.”

My friends and I followed her through the kitchen into the backyard. Like the front yard, it sloped steeply down toward the drop-off over the river, which was lined by a low stone wall. About
two-thirds of the way to the wall, the rose hedge blocked off at least half of the yard’s width.

By standing on tiptoes, we could just see over the hedge into a vegetable garden gone wild. Tomato plants sprouted here and there, and spindly onion tops were already going to seed. The zucchini vines wound in and out around it all.

“Some of the seeds from last year’s garden must have survived the winter and come back on their own,” Bess commented. “Looks like you may be able to have your fried zucchini after all, Simone!”

“Yes, but only if I can find a way into the garden past all the thorns!” Simone said. “I’ll have to ask Pierre to clear a path through them.”

“Pierre?” I repeated curiously.

“You called?” a male voice responded cheerfully from directly behind me.

I jumped, startled. When I turned around, I found myself face-to-face with a handsome young man, perhaps ten years younger than Simone. There was a strong family resemblance to Simone in his dark eyes and high cheekbones.

“There you are, Pierre,” Simone said. “Let me introduce you to my new friends—Nancy, Bess, and George. And this is Pierre, my nephew. He’s from Paris too. He’s staying with me for the summer until his university classes start up in Chicago.”

Pierre gave a little bow. “Charmed,” he said in a strong French accent, his gaze trained on Bess. “It’s an honor to meet such lovely ladies.”

George and I exchanged a quick glance and a knowing grin. We were used to seeing men go instantly gaga over our friend.

“I hope you’re enjoying River Heights so far,” Bess responded politely, returning Pierre’s smile. “It’s not the biggest town in the world, but there’s a lot going on.”

“
Oui,
like a zucchini bandit,” Simone added with a smile. She gestured to one of the nearby vegetables. “It seems we are lucky to have some
courgettes
growing wild in the yard, Pierre. Someone is out to destroy all the rest of the zucchini in town.”

“Yes.” I checked my watch, realizing that it was getting late. I was supposed to meet my boyfriend, Ned Nickerson, for a movie date in a few hours. As much as I was enjoying the visit with Simone, I would have to move on soon if I wanted to do any further investigating today. “That reminds me, we should get going. And I’m sure you guys have lots to do.”

Pierre looked slightly confused, but he continued to smile. “Ah, must you really fly off so soon?” He rested a hand on Bess’s arm. “But please,
mesdemoiselles,
will you agree to return before long? In fact, some
close friends of mine are coming from France to visit with me, and I know they would enjoy meeting you. Perhaps we could have a party once they are here?”

“A party?” George said, picking at one of the zucchini vines. “That sounds like fun. When are your friends arriving?”

Simone glanced at her watch. “Any moment now,” she answered for her nephew. “They are driving in this afternoon from a bit farther down the river, where they were visiting some other friends. Perhaps we could all have a get-together this weekend—perhaps tomorrow night?”

I nodded. “That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you!” I liked the idea of getting to know our new neighbors better. Even if Simone didn’t know anything about the zucchini vandal, she was an interesting and likable person. I was eager to hear more about the exotic objects in her house, not to mention more details about her intriguing family history.

“Wonderful!” Pierre clapped his hands. “It’s settled then. Shall we say seven o’clock tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said, and Bess and George nodded. “But now we really must be going. I need to meet my boyfriend soon.”

“Oh, of course,” Simone said. “And please feel free to bring him along tomorrow night. That goes for all of you.” She smiled at the three of us.