Cover Story (5 page)

“I’m surprised they got past Winston.”

“Winston sleeps inside at night.” Davo didn’t miss a beat as he covered his meal in every condiment on the table. “They woulda had free rein.”

Dammit. I could feel another theory about to implode. “Does Winston sleep inside every night?”

“Yep. Old Miss de la Vega won’t go to bed until he’s tucked up in his basket. You should hear her. ‘Win-STON!’” Davo cracked up at his own high-pitched impersonation.

I winced once as the painful call hit my hungover brain, and then again at the demise of the Demented Cat theory.

While Davo tucked into his indigestion inducer, I made a mental calculation. Since I’d eliminated the Youth Crime angle after meeting Laurie and Pedro, I was only left with the Hitchcock, which was entirely dependent on Gerald being able to walk, and Simon’s theory of it being Someone Else, someone not from Los Alamos Court.

“Davo, I don’t suppose you saw it happen?”

“Sorry, I was asleep. But I woke up when I heard it, ’cause I left my window open in case.” He paused to push more potatoes in his mouth. “But I didn’t see anyone or nothing.”

I took another sip of the worst coffee ever made, sure it was finishing the rats’ work on my brain but desperate for the caffeine. “So, you woke up straight away? Right then?”

“Yeah. Why?” He displayed a mouthful of partially chewed chunky potatoes as he spoke.

“And you didn’t see anyone? What about a car leaving?”

“Nup. Not even someone on the sidewalk.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t dream it? Or wake up later?”

“Nup. I heard the shatterin’ and I went straight to the window. An’ this morning, it was there shattered just where I heard it happen.”

Allowing myself a moment of elation, I pushed the untouched pastry away and wrapped my fingers around my mug. “Davo, that’s a great piece of investigation. Good work.”

“It is?” He looked as baffled as someone with a whole English muffin in his mouth can.

Feeling generous, I gave him a smile. “If you saw it straight away and there was no car, then chances are it was one of the residents of Los Alamos Court. At an absolute stretch, it’s someone else within walking distance, but I don’t think so.”

“How come?” He slurped his milkshake.

“Journalist’s instinct. You’ve earned that breakfast just with that piece of information.”

He grinned then rolled up a chile-coated tortilla and bit into it like a banana. “But I got more.”

“Excellent.” Who knew putting Davo on the job would be one of my better ideas? “What have you got?”

“Mrs. Brown was over—”

“Wait, who’s Mrs. Brown?”

“Lives next door to me at number four. Cosmo’s mom.”

I took out my pocket notebook and checked the map. “Between you and the boys on the corner.”

“Yep, her. She went over to Ethel and George’s last night after you went home and
totally
abused them. It was great!”

I was getting the distinct impression Davo didn’t have a lot of excitement in his life. But he had aroused my curiosity. “What was she mad about?”

“Turns out, her dog, Deefer, is knocked up by Gerald’s dog.”

“Really?” I made a note on the map. “Do you think this was the first time they’d talked about it?”

“Nah, she was pissed because Remington was in her yard again, even after she’d told them she’d caught him doin’ the business with Deefer last week.”

Before
the first gnomicide. Hmm. “So, she was angry?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded, trying to look serious—an effect spoiled by the big grin he was unable to stifle. “She was goin’ off!”

Definite motive. Maybe the other residents with smashed gnomes had backed Remington. Or maybe she’d done their gnomes afterward to cover her tracks. This was probably the best angle I’d had so far—the Doggie Payback angle. “Thanks, Davo.”

“You want me to keep going?” he asked as he sucked his fingers clean.

“No, I think I’ll be finished today, but you’ve been a great help.” I knocked back the dregs of the brain-melting coffee.

“Hey, if you ever need help on an undercover operation again, you just call me.” He winked. “I’ve got experience now.”

I’m pretty sure I managed to keep a straight face. “Thanks, Davo, I’ll keep that in mind.”

I dropped Davo home and decided to call in at Simon’s house to see Dot for some background on Mrs. Brown. Valentina was there as well, having tea, of course, while Anna played with her dolls on the lounge. They offered me a cup of White Earl Grey—organic, naturally—and I accepted, hoping to lull them into relinquishing more secrets.

“I was sorry to hear about your gnome, Valentina.”

“Thank you, dear.” Pinched sadness passed across her face before she picked up a platter. “A slice of cake?”

Food? I was only barely coping with having my sunglasses off. “No, thanks.” I perched on the edge of a chair. “Can I ask you two something sensitive?”

“Of course, dear.” Dot bustled back in with another cup and poured my tea from the pot.

“Mrs. Brown at number four, what do you know about her?” I took the proffered cup and saucer and sipped.

“Oh, Jazlyn,” sniffed Valentina. “Not even her real name if you ask me. Who has a name like Jazlyn? She’s changed it, I’m sure.”

“Jocelyn, perhaps?” Dot chimed in.

“Hmm.” Valentina touched a finger to her pursed lips. “Jane? Joan?”

“And that poor boy of hers!” Dot leaned forward to pick up a piece of cake. “Fancy going through life with a name like Cosmo.”

“Yes,” Valentina said, “I remember when the boy was born—his father tried in vain to get her to name him something else. The father had a good, normal name: Wayne. But no, she would only have Cosmo.”

“Hang on,” I interjected. “Isn’t this the woman with a dog named Deefer? As in D-for-dog?”

Both women tittered before Dot answered. “Wayne named her that and now she won’t come to anything else. Drives poor Jazlyn wild.”

“And I don’t like to say anything bad about my own neighbors,” Valentina whispered loudly.

“Of course you don’t, dear.” Dot patted her arm.

“But,” Valentina continued in the stage whisper, “Wayne’s been gone for two years now, and there’s no other man on the scene, and she won’t say anything about who the father of the baby is.”

“She has a baby?” I made an amendment to the map in my notebook.

“She soon will. She’s pregnant, didn’t you know?”

“No.” Could it be related? Missing father wreaks gnome havoc? Except Davo’s latest information, which eliminated Simon’s Someone Else theory, would also discount a vengeful missing father who didn’t live on the same street. Hmm. Back to Doggie Payback.

“Tell me, does Jazlyn have a temper?”

“A little,” Valentina said, plopping her cup back into its saucer. “Why? You don’t think
she’s
the gnome smasher?”

I gave them my best TV cop face. “I’m looking at all possibilities.”

“Oh, no, not her.” Valentina shook her head with finality. “She’d never hurt a gnome on
my
property, we’re the best of friends.”

Best of friends?
I hated to see what Valentina said about her enemies. Still, Doggie Payback had to be the theory of the moment.

I excused myself to scout out the photo options of the street gnomes for the staff photographer, promising to check back before I left.

I wandered down Los Alamos Court. There was a good setup of the Sinclairs’ gnomes off on a fishing trip (they were further down the concrete wall today and in a different order) and another of Valentina’s gnomes: three, clustered around the letterbox, where their comrade had fallen. Suddenly, I realized the gnome that had bitten the dust overnight was one I’d been looking at yesterday. There was a bizarre sadness to seeing his three remaining friends, forlorn and grieving. The sadness surprised me, so I moved on. Quickly.

I’d heard enough about Jazlyn Brown from other sources, it was probably time I met her for myself. I still had half an hour before the photographer was due. I knocked on her door and waited, listening to the screaming child inside and ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” blaring.

A dark-haired woman in her early thirties, and in the late stages of pregnancy, wore a flustered expression when she opened the door. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Tobi Fletcher from the
Santa Fe Daily
, I’m here—”

She smiled a wide, genuine welcome. “It’s all right, I know. Davo told me. Come on in.”

I followed her past an assortment of children’s toys, as she turned the stereo volume down. We walked into the kitchen, “Like something to drink?”

“Sure,” I said, tentatively. “Coffee?”

Jazlyn—
Janet? Jillian?
—turned to the sink. “I’ll put a pot on.”

“You have a percolator?” I almost fell on my knees to praise the coffee gods who’d led me to her house. “You’re a lifesaver—I haven’t drunk as much tea in my life as I have in the last two days on Los Alamos Court. I didn’t know half these teas existed.”

Jazlyn—
Jenny? Jody?
—laughed and spooned coffee into the filter. A small dark-haired boy came in with wet cheeks and his thumb in his mouth. He looked dubiously at me as he edged his way to his mother and wrapped an arm around her leg.

I tried for a friendly, non-threatening smile—not an easy thing to achieve when there was a real-live child in my field of vision. “You must be Cosmo.”

He turned his head into his mother’s thigh.

“Sorry, he’s a little shy with strangers.”

Well, that was a relief. “That’s okay, I’m a little shy with children.”

She put the coffee on the stove and we moved over to the dining table. Cosmo clambered up into a chair beside his mother. I flicked open my notebook and took a nice, newly sharpened pencil from the tube I kept in my bag.

“So, Jazlyn, I assume you heard what happened?”

“The gnomicides?” she asked, straight-faced.

And I’d had hopes of her being relatively normal. “Yes. Any ideas on who’s doing it?”

“Well, actually …” She picked up a cushion from another chair and settled it behind her back, wriggled to get comfy, then continued. “I was reading a novel a few months ago where a property developer was trying to scare people, so they’d sell their houses cheaply to him.”

The old Evil Corporate Manipulation angle; I liked it: heaps of potential for a newspaper story. I scribbled some notes. “Has a developer made anyone an offer?”

“Well, no.” She frowned.

“Not to worry.” I made a memo to check with the journalist who covered business on the paper for background. “Has anyone received letters from a developer?”

“No.” She wiggled into her cushions more.

I looked up slowly as a sinking feeling dropped into my stomach. “Have you heard there’s a developer interested in Los Alamos Court?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “No.”

Of course, this was my own fault. Where had the other residents’ theories gotten me? “Has there been
any
contact, in
any
form, between
any
developer and
any
resident of Los Alamos Court?”

“No.”

I pushed my pencil into the metal spiral at the top of my notebook and laid it on the table. “So, you’re basing this whole theory on something you read in a novel a few months back?”

“Even though there’s not a lot of evidence—”

“There’s no evidence.”

“—there’s also nothing to say it’s
not
a developer. The property values are going up and there’s that new development a few blocks away.”

I sighed. True. And it’d make a better story than the Doggie Payback. Which reminded me … “I heard about your little problem with Deefer.”

The coffee maker gurgled and steamed, announcing the brew was ready. Jazlyn pushed herself out of the chair, tummy first, to pour the mugs. “The poor girl—accosted by that bully over the road.”

I accepted my cup gratefully. “Bully? Remington? That teeny-tiny Australian Silky Terrier?”

Jazlyn—
Janice? Janine?—
nodded. “Deefer’s a sweet, timid girl and he lords it over her. Here, I’ll show you. Deefer! Come here, girl!”

All three of us turned expectantly to the back door and waited. And waited. I sipped my coffee.

Then, very slowly, a wrinkle-faced, dopey-looking English bulldog ambled in. Easily three times Remington’s size, though admittedly, not that much taller—which would have made his job a little easier.

“Come on, Deefer. Where’s Mommy’s girl? Come and give me a kiss.” Deefer obliged and plonked a disgustingly wet nose on Jazlyn’s cheek. Was that slobber hanging from the dog’s mouth? I bolted upright. I don’t respond well to saliva. Dogs, babies, people who leave saliva on the top of a water bottle then offer you a sip—do they think I’m crazy?

“I think I’ve got enough to go on, thanks, Jazlyn.” I swallowed my last mouthfuls of coffee and moved to the front door.

She ambled behind me and waved as I scooted outside. “Drop back any time.”

“I will!”

Outside I saw Matias, camera slung over one shoulder, looking up and down the street. Oh, yes, that’s
just
what my day needed.

“Matias. What are you doing here?”

“Ah, Fletcher.” He winked. “There’s no business like gnome business. I wanted a piece of the action.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I asked for a photographer. Which you’re not.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s a mis-
gnome
-er. I’m a photo-journalist and my contract says I get to take photos occasionally to stop my clicking finger from rusting up.” He took another look up and down the street. “So this is Gnome Central, hey? I gotta admit, it isn’t what I expected.”

The last thing I wanted to hear about was Matias’ expectations of Los Alamos Court. “Drop the attitude or you’ll put the residents off. I’ve spent time building good relationships with these people and they happen to like their street.”

“Yeah, there’s no place like gnome, is there?” He thumped a fist over his heart.

“Matias, you’re an idiot.”

That seemed to please him immensely. “As you’ve previously mentioned, Fletcher. Now what do you want photos of?”

I took him over to the boys’ house, hoping one of them would be awake. After all, it was after ten o’clock. I knocked and waited, encouraged by the sound of music coming from inside—until I realized they probably hadn’t turned it off the night before.

Pedro answered the door in a pair of boxers and a ripped T-shirt. “Hey Laurie, Lukas! It’s that hot writer chick!”

Hmm. I did a quick check for Matias, who was inspecting a potted sagebrush about three feet away, feigning complete disinterest, so I turned back to Pedro. “I was wondering if you guys could help me out.”

Two other tousled heads appeared beside Pedro’s. “Yeah, anything you want, baby.” That must have been Lukas, the drummer I hadn’t met.

“I need some photos of the gnomes. Can you show me the ‘lewd’ positions you’ve been putting them in?”

“Sure, baby,” Lukas drawled. “Do you want me to show you with the gnomes … or do you want a more personal demonstration of the positions?”

Matias appeared at my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Uh huh. I can see the relationships you’ve been putting time into. You should be ashamed of yourself, you cradle snatcher.”

I kicked him in the shins and smiled at the boys. “Let’s just start with the gnomes. This is our photographer, Matias. You’ll have to speak slowly to him, he’s one of our special employees.”

The boys nodded and gave Matias reassuring smiles before they went to put more clothes on.

Matias grinned. “Nice one, Fletcher. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Did nothing dent this man’s armor?

The boys reappeared and we followed them out to the gnomes that’d come to visit their front yard. As they joked and moved the three gnomes around into a variety of sexual positions, Matias took photographs and I had to admit I was having fun. In a sort of childish, guilty-pleasure kind of way. Not something I’d ever admit to under questioning, but real enough.

It was almost midday when we finished and I waved Matias off then walked back to my car. I’d met everyone on the street, except the people at number one, who were at work now. I popped in to see Dot to tell her I was leaving.

“Okay, dear. Oh, Simon called and said you should call him if you want to have lunch again.”

I really needed to get home and write up the story, but now that it was over, a little part of me was thinking I’d like to have one last lunch with Simon. After all, I’d never see him—or any of the residents of Los Alamos Court for that matter—again. Shame, they were starting to grow on me. Not enough that I’d come back for anything less than a gun to the head, but there was a
small
amount of fond affection in my thoughts.

I called Simon and arranged to meet him at the same place as yesterday, said goodbye to Dot, and drove to the Green Chile Deli.

Simon walked into the deli a moment behind me and, after a smiled greeting, we each ordered the same bagels as the day before.

“How’s the investigation going?” he asked when we’d found a table.

I hung my bag on the back of my chair and sighed. “Not so good. I’ve now considered and rejected ten theories.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You came up with that many?”

“Actually, your neighbors did. Although two aren’t ruled out completely … How sure are you that your father-in-law can’t walk?” I resisted crossing my fingers—superstition was for dopes—but I did hold my breath.

“He can take a few steps, but I’m sure he can’t do any more, I’ve seen the medical evidence. Why?”

I groaned and dropped my head on the table. “That was my Hitchcock
Rear Window
angle.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He laughed as our bagels arrived. “Tell me about the others.”

I ticked them off on my fingers. “There was also the Woman Scorned—your almost-girlfriend; the Youth Crime wave—the boys from number two; the Teenager Looking for Attention—Davo; your Someone Else did it—but not after last night; the Vengeful Missing Father of Jazlyn’s baby—also implausible; the Doggie Payback—Deefer versus Remington, the only one still in play; the Evil Corporate Manipulation—alas, no evidence; the Demented Cat—Winston the Attackcat, who’s kept in at night; and my personal favorite, Nears Did It. That was Anna’s.”

He grinned. “You’ve been busy. Where does that leave your story? Are you still going to write it?”

“My editor’s expecting it, but I don’t have an angle yet.” I saw him eye off my pickle and handed it over. “I’ve got all afternoon, though, I’ll think of something.”