Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (3 page)

In order to get that picture I’d moved in close on my knees. Dr. Klinger was at the podium giving her acceptance speech. She’d removed her suit jacket, revealing a crisp, wrinkle-free blouse underneath. My blouse, on the other hand, was as creased as Granny Clampett’s butt, which is why I never take my jacket off in public.

Late that afternoon Yvonne began pacing back and forth at the front window. Her espadrilles slip-slapped on the tiles, creating an annoying distraction. Not only that, she blocked my view. Outside on the town green, the citizens gathered, their heads bobbing and darting like chickens. No doubt they were clucking about the murder.

“Relax, Yvonne. We’re not the only news source covering the story.”

“I’m well aware of that. It’s how we handle the subject that worries me. We can’t be vulgar like the tabloids. The nice people in this town won’t forget.”

There was no point in mentioning that by the time the paper hit the stands, the news would be as outdated as Yvonne’s espadrilles. No matter how brilliant our copy, readers will have learned every detail. In fact, they might not bother with our coverage at all. We could blame Dr. Klinger’s death on Janis Topp’s potato salad, and people might never notice.

“Who did you say Stew was interviewing?” I asked, changing the subject.

“The headmaster at Dana Hall in Wellesley. From what I understand Dr. Klinger was quite an athlete, setting records in swimming and tennis.” She paused. “Or was it swimming and fencing?”

“Maybe it was swimming and wrestling,” I said.

Yvonne stopped to stare at me. “If that’s a joke, it’s not amusing.”

I ducked my head. “Just trying to ease the mood.”

“I’ll never understand your sense of humor,” she said and resumed pacing while I returned to my photos. The day Yvonne understands my humor is the day I sign on for the Merchant Marines.

It was early evening when I finally pulled into my driveway. I pressed the remote button for the garage door, and nothing happened. Either the batteries were low or the door was broken. Another item needing attention.

Nonetheless, I can’t complain. I rent one-half of an old carriage house. Frank, the owner, occupies the other half during the summer. Two years ago he bought a bar in St. Croix, exchanging his Brooks Brothers wing tips for rubber flip-flops. From November to May, while Frank is in the Virgin Islands, I keep an eye on his half of the house.

It’s easy work. I make sure the pipes don’t freeze and the squirrels don’t move in. For those caretaking duties I get a rental reduction. It’s a sweet deal, especially when you consider the cost of real estate north of Boston. On my salary I can’t afford a down payment on a Porta-John.

Chester, my 12-year-old black Lab, greeted me at the door. He ran in circles around me, delirious with pleasure. I rubbed his graying muzzle and wondered what man would give me such a welcome.

After tossing my tote bag on the sofa, I fixed a large vodka and cranberry juice and grabbed a box of Cheez-Its. Hands full, I collapsed on the antique recliner, although it’s not technically an antique unless La-Z-Boys were made a hundred years ago.

My furniture is what I call early modern ghetto. It’s comfortable, like an old pair of slippers. One of these days I plan to cover everything in a pretty Laura Ashley print. Then I wonder, why spend money on thrift shop furniture? And who am I trying to impress, anyway? It’s unlikely the Granite Cove Beautification Society will include me on their annual house tour. Not only that, if Chester drooled on new custom slipcovers, or Kevin spilled beer, I’d have hysterics.

Ambiance, though nice, is not worth the price.

After another vodka and cranberry, I broiled a cheeseburger and tossed a small salad. Instead of watching the news at my tiny kitchen table, I read The Boston Phoenix. I’d had enough murder for one day. Tomorrow it would be topic number one. As sure as the bluefish appear in August, murder will be on our minds.

It was close to nine p.m. when I grabbed Chester’s leash and headed out for a walk. I didn’t need more than a sweater; it was still warm. When we reached the main road, traffic was surprisingly steady. The season’s first indication of spring lures night riders from their beds. Convertibles zoomed past, the music cranked. These riders weren’t teenagers, they were older, Baby Boomers tearing up the back roads, The Rolling Stones blaring while they chased memories of their youth.

After a bit I turned into Tally Ho Drive, a new cul de sac ringed with pastel-colored McMansions. Suddenly, Chester came to life, tugging at the leash. Most likely he’d gotten a whiff of outdoor grilling.

I unhooked his collar so he could romp, but instead of pursuing the scent of sirloin, he headed for a big white Colonial. There in the center of a gently sloping lawn, he squatted and did his business.

Ah, crap. I yanked a plastic bag from my pocket. Slipping my hand inside, I found a hole the size of a Big Mac. Why does this always happen to me? I glanced at the Colonial’s big picture window. Two kids lay sprawled in front of a massive TV. The screen was so big you could park cars on the lawn and call it a drive-in.

After making sure we weren’t being observed, I attached Chester’s leash and dragged him to the sidewalk and down the street, all the while resisting the urge to look back. Normally, I’m a responsible pet owner, picking up after my dog with regularity, no pun intended. I likewise perform acts of good citizenship like rewinding rental videos, recycling plastic bottles and buying every flavor of Girls Scout cookies. Thus, my conscience is relatively untroubled.

Back home, I listened to my messages while getting ready for bed. The first was from Betty Ann, wanting to talk about the murder. The next was from Kevin, calling from The Sacred Cod, a bar where he plays Tuesday nights. Would I join him for a drink, he shouted over the pub’s din. Murderer can’t keep Kevin Healey from his Guinness on tap.

After deleting the messages, I dialed Doris Zack’s number. Harold answered, and when I convinced him I wasn’t from The National Enquirer, he called Doris to the phone.

“I’m glad it’s you, Rose. The news people have been calling here. Harold says turn the phone off, but my sister Shirley had a gallbladder operation three days ago. I mean, what if she has complications?”

I told Doris that, gallbladder or no gallbladder, she should unplug her phone. She was a senior citizen and shouldn’t be hounded. Not only that, I didn’t want anyone else getting an exclusive before me. The latter I didn’t mention.

I ended by saying I’d drop by around nine the following morning. After hanging up I made one last call to the newspaper. When Beth, the intern, answered, I asked why she was working late.

“Yvonne went home to get some sleep.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

“Rose, guess what?” Beth squealed with excitement. “An editor from USA Today called. We talked about Granite Cove and before he hung up, I asked if I could send him my resume. He said by all means. Isn’t that awesome?”

“Good for you,” I said. No flies on Beth. I told her to leave a note for Yvonne saying I’d be in by late morning.

Once settled, I reached underneath my bed and dragged out my seven-year-old laptop I bought on Craig’s List. At the time, it never occurred to me that a 1993 laptop would weigh more than a pair of bowling balls. Yet despite its heft, it allows me to write in bed, where I do my best work.

In the late night stillness, the only sound was Chester snoring on the couch. Balancing the laptop on my thighs and with pillows supporting my back, I typed my column. Murder and mayhem may reign in Granite Cove, but readers demand their housekeeping hints.

Auntie Pearl’s Helpful Housekeeping Hints

Dear Auntie Pearl:

I recently threw a housewarming party to show off my new condo. I invited family, friends and co-workers. All were impressed with my decorating skills. It was a lovely evening until my cousin Edward arrived, tipsy.

He proceeded to drink all the brandy punch and finish off the pesto dip and expensive seafood puffs. Following that, he threw up on the peach shag rug in the living room. Needless to say, it put a damper on the festivities.

I’ve had the rug cleaned professionally, but the stain remains. Therefore, I sent a bill for the cost of the rug to Edward, who returned it with a nasty note. Now I’m seriously considering small claims court.

My family says I am not being supportive of Edward, who’s going through a difficult divorce. What should I do, Auntie Pearl?

Tormented in Topsfield

Dear Tormented:

Peach shag? In the living room? My dear, what were you thinking, choosing shag for such a high traffic area? It has a tendency to mat and is extremely difficult to clean. Not only that, the color shows every stain, as you’ve discovered.

Try sponging the area with a mixture of equal parts water and white vinegar. Follow with soda water, blotting up the moisture with paper towels. Don’t scrub, as this can destroy the rug’s fibers.

Let me know how this works. Hope I’ve helped!

Auntie Pearl

The next morning I was awakened by warm dog breath in my face. The clock read eight-thirty. Holy halibut!

I stumbled into the kitchen to let Chester out. Then I searched the front yard for the newspaper, finding it under the Jetta’s rear wheels. With the paper tucked under my arm, I stopped and lifted my face to the sun. For a brief moment I enjoyed the sensation of sunshine on my face, and under my bare feet, warm asphalt.

Inside the kitchen, while yesterday’s coffee reheated, I spread
The Boston Compass
across the kitchen table. The murder was on the front page, although below the fold, as they say in newsroom parlance.

Prominent Psychologist Slain in Granite Cove, ran the headline. Beneath that was the subheading, Daughter of Pharmaceutical Mogul Bludgeoned. A black-and-white photo of Dr. Klinger in glasses accompanied the story. She looked like a no-nonsense, albeit attractive, academic.

I drank my coffee, my eyes skimming the page. Dr. Klinger’s mother, Veronica Halloway Klinger, was labeled a poet and patron of the arts, while her father, Lawrence Klinger, was identified as President and CEO of Klinger Pharmaceuticals.

Background information included degrees from Wellesley in ‘83 and Harvard in ‘87, as well as professional affiliations and the prestigious journals where she’d been published. Even Granite Cove got star treatment, referred to as a summer playground of the rich. That description harkened back to another era when Boston’s aristocracy summered at Hemlock Point. According to the old timers, they arrived by train where they were met by chauffeurs who whisked them off to their palatial, so-called cottages on the Point.

Today, the new money lives at the Point. The former cottages are now Jacuzzied estates from which Mom carpools the kids to Seaside Country Day School. Then most likely she’ll head out to Olde Shores Country Club for a bit of tennis or golf.

The story continued on page five with two photos, the Harbour Building and Police Chief Victor Alfano. The latter resembled a Basset hound with his deep-set eyes and turned-down mouth. His quote ran under the photo: “Granite Cove is a quiet, close knit community of people who look out for each other.”

Except for newcomers like Dr. Klinger, eh, Chief?

Much as I wanted to finish the story, I’d promised Doris Zack an early visit. After a quick shower I pulled on a cotton jersey and cardigan to wear over a short, black denim skirt. Having no time to search for pantyhose
sans
holes, I went bare legged, all the better to feel the warm air. Spring in New England is much like happiness. Enjoy it now; it might not be there tomorrow.

A row of neat, two-family houses lined the Zacks’ street, ending in a strip mall. Five years ago, before the mall’s arrival, neighborhood kids played street hockey in the road. Today, it’s hard to imagine.

I banged on the Zacks’ front door, the noise of traffic deafening. Harold Zack’s impassive gray face peered at me through the screen. “She’ll be right down. Come in,” he said, swinging open the door.

According to Doris, her husband’s bum heart was the cause of his early retirement. I squeezed past his belly and entered a pleasant sun porch. “This is nice. I’ll wait here,” I said, settling into a white wicker chair. “How’s Doris doing?”

“She slept good last night,” he said and yawned so wide I could see beyond his tonsils. Before I could respond, his eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest.

When Doris appeared in the doorway, he was snoring.

She glared at her dozing husband. “Did you offer Rose any coffee?” she said, her voice loud.

He opened one eye. “You make some?”

“I told you I made some.” She shot me a disgusted look. “They never listen.”

I laughed in response and followed Doris into the kitchen. “Sit down, Rose. I’ll bring the cups over.”

I sat at the white Formica table. The Zacks’ kitchen looked like a laboratory. Everything was white and immaculate, including appliances, cabinets, and tile floor. While I can appreciate a tidy room as much as the next person, my motto has always been cleanliness is next to impossible.

Doris brought the pot to the table and sat across from me. As she poured coffee into white mugs, I asked how she was holding up.

“Truthfully? I never had such a fright. You hear about things like that happening in Lynn or Boston, never here.” She scooped sugar into her cup and pushed the bowl toward me. “After my dad’s hip surgery he moved in with Harold and me. One morning I was fixing his eggs as always. He goes into the bathroom and,” she snapped her fingers, “like that, he’s gone. So you see I’m no stranger to death. Still, it gave me a terrible shock seeing Dr. Klinger on the floor like that.” She poured a river of cream from a white pitcher. “Go ahead, Rose. I see you got your pad out. Ask me whatever you want.”

“Thanks. What’s your routine when you’re working at the Harbour Building?”