9

sarah's paper never did run much more than a digest item on the death of Samuel Spender. As she'd predicted, her editors didn't much care about a death, even a murder, in the suburbs. To get attention out here, you had to be an actress or a former model. You could be eighty years old with a walker, die in a brutal purse snatching, and if, some six decades earlier, you'd posed before the cameras, the papers would run headlines along the lines of “Ex-Model Slain in Purse Grab!” And they would find a glamour shot from sixty years ago, and run it with a caption that said, “In happier times.”

The Suburban, to its credit, ran a respectable news-story-slash-obit on Spender in the edition that came out two days after his death. Under the headline “Outspoken Naturalist Found Slain in Creek,” the story read:

Samuel Spender, a naturalist and conservationist noted for his relentless defense of wilderness areas, as well as his spirited tangles with the Oakwood Town Council, died violently Wednesday in Willow Creek.

Police said Spender, 54, an Oakwood resident since 1965, was hiking through one of his favorite spots when he was confronted by his assailant.

His head was struck with a blunt object, and his body left in the shallow waters of the creek. A nearby resident who was out for a stroll found the body and phoned police from a cell phone.

Oakwood Police Detective Edward Flint said police are pursuing a variety of leads in the investigation, but would not say whether they were expecting to make an arrest shortly.

Ironically, Spender, president and founder of the Willow Creek Preservation Society, died in the very area he had fought for several years to protect. When Valley Forest Estates unveiled plans to build a subdivision in the former government lands near Willow Creek, Spender sought the help of environmental experts who found that houses encroaching on the creek could adversely affect the creek, a natural habitat for several species.

Experts working on behalf of the development were able to persuade the council, however, that a subdivision would have a negligible effect, and the subdivision's initial phases were approved. Spender, who worked for an Oakwood engineering firm, was still fighting, however, to halt the development's final stage, which would see houses erected right up to the edge of the creek.

Don Greenway, president of Valley Forest Estates, expressed shock and horror at Spender's death.

“While we did have our tangles and disagreements, I think we both believed in the same thing, and that's the preservation of the environment. I knew that could be done, and still allow for homes where people could raise their families, as they do here in Valley Forest Estates. Mr. Spender felt otherwise, but there's no denying his commitment to making this a better planet. This is a terrible tragedy, and the police have our complete support in bringing his killer to justice.”

Greenway's words were echoed by Ward 7 Councilman Roger Carpington, who told The Suburban: “Sam Spender was an inspiration to all of us who care about this community. His input on Willow Creek's preservation was invaluable in helping the council formulate its land use policies.”

Spender, who was predeceased by his wife Linda in 1993, leaves two sons: Mark, 28, of Seattle, and Matthew, 25, of Calgary. Funeral arrangements were not available at press time.

And that was it, except for a picture of Spender, a file photo taken by a Suburban photographer that had run with a feature on the man when he was still alive, and a headshot of Councilman Roger Carpington, a balding, round-cheeked individual with thick glasses. Spender was shown standing at the edge of the creek where I'd found him.

Clearly, the police hadn't disclosed to the local reporter the name of the person who'd found Samuel Spender's body. Surely I would have gotten a phone call if they had. I found it interesting that Don Greenway had been sought out for a comment. You'd never know, from the way he'd been quoted, that he and Spender were on such bad terms.

Did Greenway have something to do with it? And what about this other guy quoted in the story, Roger Carpington? He'd been one of two people Greenway had wanted to talk to after his fight with Spender. What was that about? Was Carpington supposed to do something about Spender? Did my local councilman moonlight as a hired killer? And what about—

“Okay,” I said, sitting at my desk. “Enough. Write your fucking science fiction book.”

When I wasn't thinking about Spender, I was thinking about Earl. I didn't want Paul getting any more gardening advice from across the street. The day the drug cops did finally swoop down on him, I didn't want Paul in his company. Not that Paul couldn't learn a lot from Earl. Judging by the fact that those basement plants of his were thriving, he did have the magic touch. And the thing was, it was hard to believe Earl was all bad. He had, after all, helped focus Paul's interest in gardening and landscaping.

I was hoping things would work themselves out without my doing anything, that if Earl was going to get caught, it would be someone else who turned him in, someone else who spotted something suspicious, like his fogged-up windows and the constant hum of ventilation fans.

Someone like Trixie, maybe. How would she feel, knowing something like this was going on across the street? I wondered if she already knew, had any inkling. Her house, after all, was directly across from Earl's. Every time she looked out her window, she saw his place. Maybe she'd seen something, noticed him backing into the garage late at night, loading up his truck, heading off for a delivery. This couldn't be good if you were in the accounting business, meeting with clients all the time, having an illegal pot operation going on a stone's throw away.

It wasn't just the nature of Earl's business that had me worried, or that he had a gun and might use it if necessary. I'd seen stories in The Metropolitan about basement marijuana operations and the massive amounts of electricity they consumed. Earl had mentioned he'd had to do some rewiring, so as not to arouse the suspicions of the utilities people. Which meant that his place was probably a fire waiting to happen.

It was a safety hazard.

It was one thing to wave the red flag of guns and illegal drugs before me, but safety hazards, well, that was very difficult for me to overlook.

All Earl needed was one overheated wire to set the entire house ablaze. And once his house was engulfed, would flames spread to the houses on either side of him, or jump across the street to ours, or Trixie's?

It was enough to keep one from finishing a chapter about busybody atheist missionaries trying to bring technological enlightenment to the rest of the galaxy. So I walked out the front door, noticed there was no car in Trixie's driveway other than her own, and decided this would be a good time to drop by. Get her take on what was going on in the neighborhood, see if she had any inkling of what was going on across the street without tipping my hand, even get some tax advice.

And I'd be very clear. I wasn't looking for free advice. I wasn't one of those people who walk up to a doctor at a dinner party and say, “I've got this thing in my shoulder when I move my arm like this, you got any idea what that could be?” She could treat me like anyone else, charge me her regular rates, that was fine. The good thing was, I didn't have to get out the yellow pages and start cold-calling accountants whose reputations I did not know.

I rang the bell. I always feel a bit stupid, standing outside a door waiting for someone to answer, so I slipped my hands into my pockets and tried my best to look nonchalant for anyone who might drive by, which no one did, since almost every other person in this neighborhood was earning a salary in the city through the day.

I rang again, then pressed my ear to the door to see whether I could hear any activity inside.

And then I heard Trixie's voice, tinny, coming from a small speaker box mounted on the wall to the right of the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Hey, it's Zack and—”

“Please press the button to talk.”

I placed my thumb over the small, square black button and pushed. “Trixie? Zack. I catch you at a bad time?”

“Oh, Zack, hi. What's up?”

“Sorry, I would have called, but I didn't have your number, and I couldn't find it in the book.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“No, listen, I can come back.”

“Look, I thought you were my next appointment. I can't really come to the door right this second. Why don't you put the coffee on, and I'll be by in about an hour?”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

As I was turning to walk down the driveway, a beige Impala pulled in. A casually dressed man got out and, as we passed each other, he gave me a wink.

 

i plugged in the kettle, measured some coffee into the coffeemaker, and while I waited for the water to boil, sat at the kitchen table and, pencil and paper in hand, started making a list of things to do.

1. Finish last chapter.

2. Fix barbecue.

3. Write letter to Valley Forest Estates demanding action.

4. Bomb offices of Valley Forest Estates.

5. Shove stick of dynamite up ass of Don Greenway.

6. Prepare materials for tax return, get advice from Trixie.

7. Finish caulking around bedroom window.

I glanced out the sliding glass doors and noticed the extension ladder still leaned up against the brick wall of the house, the caulking gun hooked over one of the lower rungs.

8. Buy new tube of caulking.

I put down the pencil and poured boiling hot water into the coffeemaker. If Trixie was true to her word, she'd be over in about twenty minutes. Since that didn't give me enough time to tackle any of the items on my list, I went into my study and started working on my model of the Seaview submarine from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. I was having trouble getting the rear fins to stay on properly, and was applying some liquid cement to the underside of the left one when the doorbell rang.

“Hang on!” I shouted. This was probably Trixie, but I was still in the habit of locking the door behind me every time I came in, so I couldn't invite her to walk in on her own. I tried to set the fin in place, but I was going to need to hold it for several seconds, so I abandoned the project and ran to the door.

I was surprised to see that my visitor was not Trixie, but a rugged-looking man in his late twenties, early thirties, wearing a jean jacket and pants flecked with paint and drywall compound and other building materials. In one hand he held an oversized toolbox, and the other was shoved into the front pocket of his pants, only the thumb sticking out. His face was long, lean, and unshaven, at least for a day or so, and his short brown hair was slightly spiked with gel. He was chewing on a toothpick.

“Yes?” I said.

“This is 1481 Greenway?” he said.

“Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“I'm here about the shower. Mr. Greenway sent me over. I'm Rick.”

Thank you, Detective Flint, for not ratting me out!

“Oh!” I said. “Yes! Come in!”

His boots, I noticed, were dappled with dried mud. He made no effort to remove them as he stepped inside and advanced across the broadloom.

“Up there?” he said, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up, his back to me.

“Yes,” I said. I followed him up and into the bathroom. It was a bit warm up there, and he slipped off his jean jacket and tossed it casually on the vanity, knocking down a little display of small round soaps carved to look like roses, which Sarah likes to put out for guests but which no one has ever dared use to wash their hands. I put them back in their dish and slid them into the corner, next to a single brass antique candlestick holding a single white candle. Rick set down his toolbox and opened it, revealing an assortment of tools and rolls of tape and tubes of caulking. He opened the glass door to the shower, looked down, sat on the bottom of the shower door opening, and ran his hand along the seams where the floor met the wall.

“You see where the grouting is cracked and coming apart?” I said, trying to be helpful. Rick said nothing.

“The water got in there,” I said, “and must have been dripping down to one place in the kitchen, and that's where the drywall fell away.”

Rick picked away at some of the loose grouting and threw it out onto the bathroom floor, some of it landing on my shoe. He reached not into his toolbox but his back pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a Swiss Army knife, but when he pressed a button I couldn't see and the blade swung out in a fraction of a second, I gathered this was an implement without a corkscrew, bottle opener, nail file, or screwdriver.

He picked away at more of the loose grout with the knife. I felt a responsibility to make conversation.

“So you work for Valley Forest?” I said.

Rick slowly turned so he could look at me over his shoulder. “You figured that out, huh?”

I went downstairs. I saw Trixie approaching the front door and opened it before she had a chance to knock.

“Hey,” she said.

“I've got one of Valley Forest's finest upstairs looking at the shower. I'm hoping he won't run off with Sarah's flowered soap collection.”

We went into the kitchen and I got out two cups.

“Sorry I dropped by unexpectedly,” I said. “I would have called, but I didn't have your number, and I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I don't even know your last name.”

Trixie smiled. “Snelling.”

I tried to recall all the names I'd scanned under accountants in the phone book. I couldn't recall seeing Snelling. So I mentioned it.

“I'm not in the book yet,” Trixie said. “Should be in the next one.”

I put Trixie's coffee in front of her, then some more of those Peek Freans. “I guess your next appointment showed up just as I was leaving.”

“Yeah, he was a bit early.”

“I was trying to think whether I knew him from anywhere,” I said. “Or whether he knew me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Because he looked at me and winked.”

Trixie blew on her coffee, grabbed a cookie. “Really.”

“It just struck me as odd.”

Trixie seemed not to care. She chewed on her cookie. “So what were you coming over for? Unless it was to invite me over for coffee, which is a good enough reason.”

“First of all, I was going to ask you, officially, if you'd do my tax stuff. Figure out my deductions, file my return, you know.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“But not for free. I don't want to take advantage. Just charge me whatever your going rate is.” I paused. “What is the going rate?”

And there was that twinkle in Trixie's eye again. “Don't worry about that,” she said. “I can probably do it in no time, I've got the program on my computer.”

“If you're not going to charge me, I'll find someone else.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Fine. I'll bill you. Will that make you happy?”

I sat down across from her and grabbed a cookie. “The neighborhood's been kind of funny lately, don't you think?” I said.

Trixie cocked her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Odd things going on. Like what happened down at the creek. That guy, who wanted to preserve Willow Creek, who got killed?”

“I heard about that. A real shame.”

I told her my role.

“God,” she said. “I never found a dead person.”

“I saw him a few days earlier, at the sales office. He got in this big argument with Greenway, you know, the hot shit who's in charge of the development.”

Trixie nodded knowingly, like maybe she knew this Greenway character. I didn't ask.

“I had been over there, asking about getting someone to fix that hole.” I pointed up by the pot lights. “And fix the shower, where the water was leaking from, and this Spender comes in and they start yelling at each other.” I gave Trixie a few more details, how Spender said he couldn't be bought, about Greenway ordering him out.

“And then there's Earl,” I said. I waited to see whether Trixie would pick up on my opening.

“What about Earl?” she asked.

“Have you noticed anything, I don't know, out of the ordinary at Earl's place?”

Trixie studied me, bit softly into her lower lip. She seemed to be sizing me up, deciding what I might or might not know, and what she might be willing to let on that she knew. Finally, she said, “You mean the fact that Earl has a huge pot business in his basement? Is that what you're referring to?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be it.”

“Look,” Trixie said. “You know me. I don't judge. Live and let live. Take what I do.” She paused. “People tell me their secrets, their financial secrets, and it takes a lot for people to open up enough, to trust you enough, to tell you what's going on with their lives. So you learn to be accepting. Earl's never caused me any trouble. Take you, for example. When you moved in here, and I found out you were a writer, I thought, I'm okay with that.”

I was taken aback. “Why wouldn't you be?”

“Well, writers can be kind of weird, but like I said, I try not to judge.”

Trixie finished her coffee. “You said you wanted my phone number.”

I handed her my list, said she could write it on there. But first she read what I had written.

“If you get around to sticking that dynamite up Greenway's ass, give me a call before you light the fuse. That would be something to see.”

I blushed. “I guess I better throw that out. Write your number at the bottom and I'll tear it off.”

When Trixie left, I slipped the sheet of paper with the phone number on it into the front cover of my address book. Then I heard Rick coming down the stairs.

“All fixed?” I said cheerily.

“I dug out the grouting,” he said, buttoning up his jacket.

“And regrouted?”

“Nope. I'll have to come back to do that.”

“You don't have that stuff with you?”

“Like I said, I'll be back.”

“Like, later today?”

“No. Sometime.”

“Tomorrow? Because, you know, we can't take a shower there the way it is now.”

“You got other bathrooms, right? Use a bathtub.”

And he left without saying anything else.

I went up to the bathroom to see what he'd accomplished. Crumbs of grouting were littered across the floor of the shower and the bathroom, mixed in with small chunks of mud that had come off Rick's boots. I shook my head, was about to go look for the vacuum, and something caught my eye.

Actually, it was the absence of something that caught my eye. The brass candlestick that should have been on the vanity was gone.

 

the theft left me rattled. At first I thought maybe I'd been mistaken, that I hadn't seen the candlestick only moments before in the bathroom. But I knew it had been there. It wasn't as though someone had broken in and made off with all our appliances. The candlestick was a small thing, something Sarah had picked up at a flea market for under twenty bucks, but that didn't make me feel any less angry. It was the gall, the nerve, that shook me. That Rick the Grout Flinger, that useless son of a bitch, would think he could just pick up something of ours and walk out of the house with it, it seemed unthinkable.

I wanted to get on the phone, get Don Greenway on the line, and tell him he better send Rick right back here, not just to fix our fucking shower, but to return our fucking candlestick. But I knew how that would go. The last part, anyway. Assuming Greenway even bothered to ask Rick about it, Rick would deny it. And then where would I be? Would Detective Flint put aside his murder investigation to find the notorious Walker residence candlestick thief?

So this was life in the middle of the boring burbs. Our developer was sending thieves to deal with our leaky shower, there was a basement marijuana farm across the street, and I'd found a murdered environmentalist in the creek.

Maybe that lovely house on Driftwood Drive with the fountain out front was the new headquarters for the Mob? Were the Hells Angels opening their latest chapter on Lilac Lane? Were Al Qaeda terrorists planning their next attack from that new house on Coventry Garden Circle where sod was being laid yesterday?

When Paul came home from school, and later Angie, I told them I wanted to talk to them, with their mother, that evening. When Sarah arrived, I told her there was something I'd been waiting to discuss with the entire family. I gathered everyone in the kitchen. Sarah took a seat, Paul leaned up against the fridge, Angie stood in the doorway so she could make a fast getaway. I took up a position by the dishwasher.

“Okay,” I said. “I've tried to ease up a bit lately on the safety stuff. Not hound people about keys and locking doors and all that kind of thing, but I'm just a bit worried that people are going to become complacent without some friendly reminders.”

No one said anything.

“There are bad things going on in this neighborhood. Just because this isn't the city doesn't mean people out here can't be up to no good. I mean, it was good, moving out here, and while there've been the odd rough spots, that you”—I spoke to Angie—“don't care much for your school, and I know there's a bit of a commute for your mom”—Sarah just stared at me—“and if anyone seems to be adjusting out here, it's Paul, but the point I'm trying to make is, we have to be on guard, we have to be watching over our shoulder, we have to keep our eyes peeled for anything unusual.”

Still no one said anything, although I noticed the three of them exchanging glances.

“So we're agreed? We remain on alert, we watch ourselves, we don't do anything foolish? No purses left on the front seat of the car, no keys in the front door, no leaving the door unlocked when we go to bed at night. Just general commonsense rules is all I'm asking for here.”

Angie cleared her throat. It appeared that she was going to be the first to weigh in with some useful suggestions as to how we could live our lives more safely.

“Is anyone else concerned about the fact that Dad has turned into this paranoid freakout crazy person?”