Bad Neighbors Page 5

  Chester and I had left the wall-mount sink intact so I could at least wash up here. For other bathroom activities, I had to trudge down to the second floor. I removed my contacts, washed and moisturized, flossed and brushed. I had every intention of changing into my coziest pajamas and hitting the hay, but instead … I just stood there, staring at the dog barf–green linoleum.

  Okay, maybe I was glaring at it.

  What had they been thinking, installing that stuff in a dignified nineteenth-century building?

  The next step in the project would be ripping out the linoleum, and I’d been looking forward to it like Christmas morning, but Chester and I had agreed to put the project on hold until the leaf-peepers were gone.

  But … suddenly that linoleum seemed like just one more expanse of grossness that was getting in the way of what I wanted.

  So I went over to the far corner where the linoleum was curled up like an invitation, and peeeeeeled. And man, it was satisfying. Before it broke off in the squishy-snappy way that old linoleum breaks, I had peeled up an irregular piece the size of a bath towel.

  Fist pump!

  A musty odor was released into the air, and there were the grayish wood floorboards beneath, blooming with generations of layered water stains and mold.

  My pulse got all kicky. Original wood floors! I hadn’t known what to expect, since Chester’s and my explorations in the linoleumed kitchen had revealed a definitely not original plywood subfloor. What if this bathroom floor could be refinished?

  Fueled by hope, I tossed the piece of linoleum into the bathtub in the hallway, then peeled up another piece, then another and another. I got grimy. I broke a sweat. Time stood still. I should’ve been wearing work gloves, because my fingertips went raw from gripping the torn edges and I snagged my thumbnail.

  But this was like eating potato chips. I. Couldn’t. Stop.

  By the time I’d torn up all but an assortment of bits that were mysteriously cemented to the floorboards, it was almost two o’clock in the morning.

  Did I feel slightly insane? Well, yeah, but that was overshadowed by smooth, smug satisfaction. No more dog barf floor.

  I tiptoed down to the second floor and took a shower in Aunt Effie’s bathroom, with its cornucopia of high-end shampoos, conditioners, scrubs, and body gels. Then, exhausted beyond belief, I went back up to my attic bedroom with its thrift-store bed tucked under the sloping eaves.

  An open suitcase on the floor held the few outfits I kept washing and rewearing. Boxes full of the rest of my life hulked on the other side of the room. I had been so busy, I hadn’t gotten around to unpacking them.

  Or maybe for some reason it just felt good to keep reality sealed up safely inside cardboard and duct tape.

  I plugged in my phone—no messages from anyone, not even Otis—set the alarm for five thirty, and was asleep seconds after my head hit the pillow.

  *

  The next morning, Aunt Effie and I were already setting out a breakfast buffet when the sun emerged over the lake. Napkins, cutlery, juice glasses, and coffee cups were arranged neatly on the dining room table. A vase of cream and green flowers and foliage burst from a pottery vase. We had texted Chester to have him pick up juice, eggs, and breakfast sausage at the Green Apple Supermarket and then stop at Flour Girl Bakery downtown for a large assortment of pastries and cinnamon rolls. Aunt Effie was footing the bill for everything. I didn’t ask questions; she was always flippantly evasive about finances.

  “Oh, Agnes, would you fetch some champagne flutes from the butler’s pantry?” Effie said. “And bring out that gorgeous silver wine bucket we found at that antique store in Skaneateles.”

  “Champagne bucket?”

  “For the champagne, darling.”

  “Still drawing a blank. This is breakfast?”

  “Mimosas.” Effie click-clicked away, dressed to the nines as usual in a slim black pantsuit, hot-pink blouse, high-heeled booties, and makeup I was pretty sure she’d airbrushed on.

  Right. I’d almost forgotten that the strategy was keeping our guests carefree and buzzing so they didn’t notice the spiders or the way the bathwater was tinged with rust.

  I was setting the wine bucket on the table when Dorothea walked in carrying a smartphone. “Good morning, Agnes. Bad news. I’ve heard from the mechanic at Hatch Automotive.”

  “Otis?” My fingers, still sore from Adventures in Linoleum Removal, clenched around the edge of the wine bucket. “What sort of bad news?”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, dearie. It’s only about the motor coach.”

  “Oh.” I put down the wine bucket. “Right. The motor coach.”

  “He said he can very easily replace the tire, but he must order a special one, which will take a day or two to get here. The alternative is to have the motor coach towed to another garage, but that would be frightfully expensive. Thus, my only other option is to send my clients home early. Which will unfortunately entail issuing complete refunds.”

  “Can’t Golden Vistas Motor Coach Tours just send another bus?”

  Dorothea’s neck blotched pink. “Well, no, you see … there’s only the one motor coach. It’s—this business is all I have. It’s just the driver and me. Surely you can sympathize with having your eggs all in one basket?”

  “I definitely can.”

  “I’ll be issuing refunds to most of the other passengers, but the Bermans and Dr. Li have indicated to me that they’d like to stay on—if you are able to have us. It will save me from utter financial disaster if I need not refund everyone.”

  “I completely understand,” I said. “Listen, I’ll need to run it by my, um, business partners, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to stay as long as you—”

  “Stay?” Aunt Effie said, sailing in with a bottle of champagne. “Who?”

  “Everyone,” I said. “If you’re game.”

  “Game? I’m ecstatic! And not only can we continue to put up Dr. Li and the Bermans—and you too, of course, Dorothea—we can also show them everything Naneda has to offer. You couldn’t have picked a better time to break down, Dorothea—”

  “I didn’t precisely pick—”

  “—because this is the week of the Harvest Festival, and there isn’t a drop of rain in the weather forecast. You needn’t pay a cent, of course—you can be our guinea pigs. Oh! You can go to the Lake Club Masquerade on Wednesday—I’m running the bachelorette auction, and there will be dancing. This will be fabulous.”

  It’s hard to believe, but I’m certain Aunt Effie totally meant that.

  Inwardly, I was groaning. Yes, I felt good about being hospitable. But my plan to do a little discreet detective work had just gone kaboom. Sure, I could sleuth … in the noisy company of four senior citizens plus Aunt Effie (whom I would never dare call a senior citizen for fear of repercussions).

  “Thank you,” Dorothea said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I brewed coffee and tea, and by the time that was finished, Chester had arrived with two big white bakery boxes and a bag of groceries.

  “What’s with the outfit?” I asked him, glancing up from pouring half-and-half into a cream pitcher. “You look like an off-brand Richard Simmons.”

  “Didn’t Aunt Effie tell you? Lakeside calisthenics.” Chester set the boxes and bag on the counter. He was wearing red sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, sneakers, and a terry cloth sweatband across his forehead. “For the guests.”

  “What?” I laughed. “That’s weird!”

  “It was her idea. She said every five-star hotel she’s ever been to offers exercise classes taught by really, really good-looking, astoundingly fit instructors, so—” Chester swept his hands down and up his squat frame. “—here you go.” He opened one of the bakery boxes and bit into a cinnamon roll.

  “So,” I said casually, “I ripped up all the linoleum in the attic bathroom last night.”

  “And I’m weird?”

  “There are original floorboards underneath!�
�

  “Cool. I’ll take a look.” Chester wiped icing off his mustache.

  *

  By around ten o’clock, I had vacuumed the dining room, guest rooms, and upstairs hallway, cleaned the bathroom, made the beds, and hauled the torn-up linoleum pieces, one bucket at a time, from the attic to the rent-a-dumpster in back of the inn. It was time to start sleuthing—I mean (cough, cough)—to show the gaggle a good time, Naneda style.

  Woo-hoo.

  The Harvest Festival Kick-Off wasn’t until three o’clock—during which Dad always made a little speech, and downtown businesses had sidewalk sales, games, food vendors, and live music—so we had hours to kill. Dorothea was going to stay at the inn to work. She had to help make travel arrangements and issue refunds to all the motor coach passengers who were going home early. She did not look happy. I told her to help herself to tea in the kitchen. Aunt Effie added that there was a full bottle of brandy in the library.

  First stop? Mikey Brown’s sister’s spa.

  Lilting Waves Day Spa occupied a sweet, three-story brick storefront on Main. Gauzy pink curtains in the windows obscured the interior. A pink sandwich board on the sidewalk read THIS WEEK’S SPECIALS: PUMPKIN PEEL FACIAL, APPLE PIE BODY SCRUB, VANILLA SPICE HOT STONE MASSAGE.

  “Too bad I already had that second cinnamon roll,” I said, angle-parking the Dustbuster out front. “That sign is making me hungry.”

  “A day spa?” Hank said in a shocked voice.

  Effie adjusted her enormous sunglasses, which made her look like an underweight lemur. “We’re just popping in to ask a quick question.”

  “Good,” Hank said, “because I’ve never been to a spa in my life.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, honey,” Lo said. “And your skin does look a little dehydrated.”

  “This is about what your boyfriend said at the diner last night, isn’t it?” Myron said to me.

  “What?” I asked, all innocence. I switched off the engine.

  “How he said Mikey’s sister-in-law owns the day spa. You want to talk to her, don’t you? Ask a few questions about who might’ve wanted him dead? Hey, I sound just like one of those guys on Law and Order, don’t I?”

  “Ooh!” Lo clapped her hands. “You’re going to take us sleuthing? Like a sort of murder tour of Naneda?”

  Effie said, “I don’t know if—”

  “No,” I said. “No murder tour.”

  “It’ll be to die for, honey.” Lo caught my eye in the rearview mirror and gave me the least subtle wink in the history of winks.

  Chapter 6

  I had envisioned Aunt Effie and myself going into Lilting Waves Day Spa to ask a few hard-boiled PI-worthy questions while the gaggle waited in the Dustbuster.

  No dice. Everyone scrambled out. Okay, not scrambled so much as gingerly winched themselves. Apparently Myron had pulled a muscle during Chester’s lakeside calisthenics class, but I had been assured by both Lo and Aunt Effie that I did not want to hear the details.

  Inside the spa, we were enfolded by delicious scents and soothing new age music. A college-aged guy sat behind the reception desk. No one sat in the waiting area.

  “Hi,” the receptionist said. His glossy skin had been rid of every single expired skin cell. His name tag said MASON. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” I said, “we’d like to make some appointments, but … is, um, Karen around?”

  “Karen?” Mason’s eyes widened. “No. She’s at home. She’s … there was a death in her family.” His eyes flicked left and right, and then he leaned closer. “That auto mechanic who was killed yesterday? That was her brother-in-law.”

  “Omigosh, that’s awful,” I breathed. “Karen’s really sweet—she must be devastated!”

  Mason looked a little confused. I figured Karen wasn’t often described as sweet.

  “You know what, I’d love to send her some flowers,” I said. “Could you jot down her address?”

  “Sure.”

  I don’t want to brag or anything, but … booyah.

  Mason jotted an address on the back of an appointment card and slid it over. I glanced at it—171 Adams Street … now why does that ring a bell?—and tucked it into my shoulder bag.

  Then we all made appointments for spa treatments the next day. That would kill two-plus hours of “showing the gaggle a good time.”

  “How fortunate you have all those openings,” Effie said to Mason. “I would have thought you’d be booked solid during Harvest Festival week.”

  “Yeah, it’s weird,” Mason said. “Karen’s a little worried about … never mind.” His eyes darted down and away. “I shouldn’t—”

  “Not to worry,” Effie said. “I think I understand. See you tomorrow.”

  We went back out to the Dustbuster.

  *

  “Wait.” My hand froze in the act of sliding the key into the ignition. “We need some kind of pretense for visiting Karen.”

  “Offering our condolences, of course.” Effie said.

  “Friends and family make visits after deaths,” Lo said in the back seat. “Not random acquaintances. You should at least bring some flowers and food.”

  “Good thinking.” I started backing out.

  A few minutes later we were wheeling into the parking lot of the Green Apple Supermarket. Inside, Effie grabbed a prewrapped bouquet of white roses and I found a boxed apple pie in the bakery section.

  Then we stalled for several minutes while Lo used the supermarket bathroom and Hank took his sweet time (a) selecting denture-cleaner tablets in aisle two and (b) haggling with the checker over an expired coupon.

  At last, we were on the road again.

  “This still feels really weird,” I whispered to Effie. “We have only met Karen once, at the Chamber of Commerce breakfast, and I have only the vaguest memory of—”

  “There you go, then,” Myron said. “Tell her you’re visiting her in the capacity of concerned comembers of the Chamber.”

  Not a half-bad idea, actually.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  One seventy-one Adams Street was a large white farmhouse with a wraparound porch and big trees. Fallen rust-colored leaves blanketed the front walk and uncarved pumpkins flanked the front door.

  It also happened to be right across the street from Otis’s Grandma Bee’s immaculate ranch house, where only last week I had gone to dinner for the first time and been roundly beaten at Clue. That’s why Karen’s address had rung a bell.

  A white Buick LeSabre sat pristine in Grandma Bee’s driveway, but that didn’t mean she was home. She didn’t like to drive. Otis took her to the grocery store and the beauty parlor, and her friends picked her up for church, bingo, funerals, and the movies.

  Grandma Bee is Otis’s maternal grandmother, a widow. Grandpa Harlan, the guy who runs the automotive shop with Otis, is his paternal grandfather. He is a widower, but before you start getting any matchmaking ideas, let me tell you that Grandma Bee and Grandpa Harlan hate each other. Long story.

  I pulled up to the curb and parked.

  “What a lovely home this Karen has,” Lo said.

  “Yeah,” I said, instantly alarmed by the wistful note in my own voice. There had been a time when I’d almost assumed that one of these charming old houses in Naneda’s historical district would be mine. Back when I had a professor fiancé, plans for grad school, a newish Prius, and a George Foreman grill.

  I wasn’t grieving my plans, mostly because those plans entailed being with Roger, and now I had Otis. Undeniable upgrade. But since Otis and I were evidently still in the top-of-head-kissing phase, we weren’t exactly talking about the future.

  “Wait here, darlings,” Effie said to the gaggle. “Back in a tick.”

  Effie and I went to the front door, carrying our roses and apple pie, while the Bermans and Hank waited in the Dustbuster. I felt their eyes boring into my back.

  Effie rang the doorbell, and after thirty seconds or so, the door swung open
.

  “Hi!” I said in a cheery voice. “Karen?”

  “Have we met?” Karen asked. She was stocky like a semi-pro softball player, with dark blonde hair pulled up into a sloppy bun. She wore a baggy Rochester Red Wings T-shirt, gray sweatpants with what looked like dried coffee on one thigh, and beaten-down Hello Kitty slippers. She looked pretty much the opposite of the proprietor of a not-cheap day spa, except that she had really glowy skin and movie star eyebrows.

  “Sure we’ve met,” I said. “I’m Agnes Blythe—”

  “Oh, right. The mayor’s daughter.”

  “—and this is my aunt, Mrs. Winters. We’re getting the old Stagecoach Inn ready for operation again, and we met at the Chamber of Commerce breakfast a few weeks back.”

  “That’s right, now I remember.” Karen regarded me. “You were in the table at the front and taking notes like there were going to be midterms”—she turned to Effie—“and you were flirting with old Mr. Solomon, the lawyer.”

  Effie laughed. “If that was flirting, darling—”

  “That’s us!” I said quickly. “Anyway, we’re here to extend our deepest sympathies about your brother-in-law. Mikey. And to ask if there is anything at all we can do to help.”

  “Wow,” Karen said in a flat voice. “For people who just joined the Chamber a couple weeks ago, you sure are enthusiastic.”

  “That’s just it,” Effie said, smiling. “We’re eager to learn, and eager to participate.”

  “And we’re terribly sorry for your loss, Karen,” I said. Good gravy, did I feel like a jerk. What the heck were we doing? This woman had just lost a relative.

  “May we come in?” Effie said, and, not waiting for an answer, stepped into the entry hall.

  Welp, we were going in.

  The interior of Karen’s house was just as perfect as the exterior, with a “fresh farmhouse” vibe straight out of a magazine: glossy pine floors, white walls and woodwork, wrought-iron knickknacks, and beige jute rugs.

  Effie led the way through a wide doorway into the living room. A laptop computer sat open and glowing on the coffee table.