Kitty pulled into Rich Evan’s driveway.
Consuelo’s car was up in front of the garage. Was the place really haunted? she wondered. Or was Fang only trying to scare her, playing a prank on her? If so, why?
Was he hoping she’d stay away from the house? Was the clue to Rich Evan’s death inside and was Fang Danson a part of it in some way? What had he been doing in Rich’s den the other day when she’d burst in on him? Was he looking for something?
Well, thought Kitty, I’m going to find out. Even if it kills me, she mused; then quickly took back her thoughts.
As she headed up the drive, she heard a sob and turned. A chubby woman in high-back khaki overalls was on her knees in the side garden next door. Uncombed locks of black hair fell from beneath an olive-green cartwheel hat perched on her head. Her hands held a pair of long-bladed gardening shears. Tan chukkas protected her feet.
The woman was pruning and weeding the flower beds. A small pile of shriveled weeds lay in a clump beside a small trowel.
“Hi,” said Kitty.
The woman gave a start. “Oh!”
“Is everything all right?”
The woman raised a gloved hand to her nose and sniffed. “Yes, fine.” She laid down her shears. “Are you the realtor or the new buyer, perhaps?” The woman rose and dusted off her knees.
“No.” Kitty held out her hand. “I’m Kitty Karlyle. I worked for Mr. Evan.”
The woman’s eyes teared up and the drops began to fall. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I am sorry. It’s just so hard to imagine poor Rich, I mean, Mr. Evan, being-being gone.” Her chest heaved.
Kitty wrapped her arms around the woman’s shoulders. “There now,” she said. “Everything’s all right now.”
The woman nodded. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m Florence Goodman. My husband, Stephen and I were Mr. Evan’s neighbors.”
“You and Mr. Evan must have been close.” Did she smell alcohol on the woman’s breath?
Mrs. Goodman stared at the lawn. “He was a very nice man.”
“Yes, he was,” agreed Kitty. “Did you see him the morning he died?”
“No!” Mrs. Goodman, said quickly. She glanced at her house. “I certainly did not!”
“I didn’t mean anything—I only wondered if you’d seen or heard anything. . .”
Mrs. Goodman’s back stiffened. “The police have already questioned me,” she sniffed, “and my husband,” she added. “I’ve nothing more to say.” She turned on her heels and waddled off across the lawn and disappeared behind her front door.
Kitty stared in stunned silence. “What was that all about?” she muttered finally.
“You better hope the doctor doesn’t get wind of you bothering his wife.”
Kitty spun. It was Consuelo standing at the side door. “The doctor? Whatever do you mean?”
“Mr. Goodman. He doesn’t like people talking to his wife.”
Kitty slowly walked to the house and followed Consuelo inside. “What do you mean he doesn’t like people talking to his wife? What’s wrong with that?”
Consuelo swirled a finger round and round her ear. “The doctor he is loco. You know?”
Kitty nodded. Consuelo was, in her opinion, weighted on the loco side herself.
“And after what happened with Mr. Evan and Mrs. Goodman. . .” Consuelo wiped her hands on her apron and pulled open the refrigerator.
“What?” demanded Kitty. “You can’t make a statement like that and simply stop.” She followed Consuelo to the refrigerator. “What happened between Mr. Evan and Florence Goodman?”
The housekeeper looked incredulous. “You do not know?”
“I already said I don’t know. How could I know?” She had laid her hand on Consuelo’s wrist and pulled it away when the housekeeper made a face. “What don’t I know?”
Consuelo smiled wickedly. In her hands she held an open bottle of champagne—a Roederer Cristal no less, worth several hundreds of dollars.
Consuelo pulled down a glass from the cabinet overhead and poured herself a generous glassful. She sat at the table—the same table where Rich Evan had eaten his last meal—sipped slowly and finally spoke. “The señor and Mrs. Goodman had some hanky-panky together.” She twisted the middle and index fingers of her left hand together.
“No!” said Kitty, incredulously.
She nodded and smiled broadly. “I caught them myself. In the señor’s bed. Not one week ago.”
Consuelo wriggled her eyebrows. “And it wasn’t the first time they had relations, if you ask me. No,” she shook her head, “not at all.”
Rich Evan and Florence Goodman? Mrs. Florence Goodman? The dowdy Mrs. Florence Goodman? Having an affair?
As if reading Kitty’s mind and doubts, Consuelo nodded. “It’s true.” She refilled her glass. “The doctor, he found out. I do not know how.”
Consuelo leaned forward. “He came to the house. The doctor was furious. Shouting louder than the waves. So furious he threatened to kill Mr. Evan!”
“Consuelo! Did you tell this to the police?”
The housekeeper shrugged. “No. For what? They do not ask and I do not tell.”
“But Mr. Goodman could be the killer.”
“They say you are the killer.” Consuelo was looking at her quite slyly now. The housekeeper’s words were slurred. “Maybe, perhaps I should not be in the same room as you? Maybe you want to kill me, too?”
Her eyes grew hard as stones. “I’m good with a knife, though.” Consuelo’s eyes darted to the counter and the wooden slab containing the kitchen knives. “Very, very good.”
Kitty found herself inching towards the door. Her only thoughts were of escape.
“Stay,” said Consuelo. “Have a glass.”
“No, thank you,” said Kitty, fighting to control her tremors. “I really should be going.”
“Sit!” ordered the housekeeper.
Without quite knowing why, Kitty obeyed.
Consuelo smiled. “That’s better.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Let me tell you a story.”