It's Murder, My Son (A Mac Faraday Mystery) (9 page)

In the mid-morning, his neighbors along the cove were in the process of waking up to begin their day living the life of leisure. While Gnarly dragged him down the Point, Mac waved good morning to bed-headed folks clutching coffee mugs in their fists while retrieving newspapers at the end of their driveways.

When Mac neared the end of the Point at a dead run with Gnarly barking all along the way, he ran into the neighbors who lived in the gray cedar house on the opposite side of what had once been Katrina Singleton’s home—the Hardwicks.

Gordon Hardwick was taking his newspaper from the box when the German shepherd charged.

“Gnarly! Stop!” Mac bellowed while digging his heels into the pavement and yanking back on the leash with both hands.

Beyond Gordon Hardwick, he saw a tan standard poodle sleeping on a chaise on the front porch. At the sound of Mac’s call, his neighbor whirled around to glare at the man and dog. They stopped halfway to the porch. In his anxiousness to get at the other dog, Gnarly reared up on his hind legs and howled.

When the poodle came down off her chaise to trot toward Gnarly, Gordon Hardwick screamed, “Helga, you stupid bitch! Stop! Stay, you idiot!”

By instinct, Mac stood at attention in response to his sharp tone.

“Sit, bitch!” The poodle sat.

Gnarly continued to rear up and bark at the female waiting for him to rescue her from the dictatorship under which she had fallen.

“I’m sorry,” Mac gasped out while he yanked again on the leash to drag his dog toward the road.

His face devoid of courtesy, Gordon said, “Your mutt is in my driveway.”

“I know,” Mac grunted while pulling Gnarly out into the road. He almost backed into the privacy fence dividing the Singleton and Hardwick properties. “He got away from me. I guess he likes your dog.” He shrugged. “Go figure. I never thought of poodles as real dogs.”

“And I always thought of German shepherds as Nazi canines.”

Mac bit his tongue to keep from responding, “And you should know.” Instead he ordered, “Quiet, Gnarly.” With a sigh of displeasure, the dog stopped barking.

When Helga uttered a mournful whine, Gordon Hardwick yelled over his shoulder, “Shut up, bitch!” The poodle hung her head.

Gordon stepped up to Mac. “That dog is vicious.”

Not as vicious as some people I know.

Gordon’s pitch-black hair contrasted with his gray face. He framed his scorn-filled eyes with black cat-eyed glasses. Underneath his white shirt, which he had failed to button up past his pot-belly, Mac saw a yellowed undershirt. He wore wrinkled black slacks with penny loafers on his bare feet.

While his neighbor launched his verbal assault on him, Mac wondered if Gordon Hardwick was aware that he stood at least six inches shorter than his intended victim. Though he could easily be the same weight.

Hardwick’s voice rose while he continued, “We thought we were finally rid of that damn fleabag. I’d heard they killed him.”

“I said I was sorry,” Mac said in a low voice. “It won’t happen again.”

“Helga can’t go outside without him chasing her. His barking is so bad that my wife has to close our office door.” His loud list of complaints went on. With each item on his list, he stepped in closer to Mac with his index finger threatening to jab him in the face. More than once the neighbor included Gnarly’s rape of their poodle.

During the tirade, an elderly man stepped out of the blue home on the other side of the Hardwick house. He leaned against his mailbox and crossed his arms. The smile on his face caused Mac to feel like the straight man in a comedy.

“I’m sorry,” he said one decibel louder in hopes of Gordon Hardwick hearing him over his rant. “I’d appreciate it if you got that finger out of my face.”

“Not only is that dog vicious, but he’s also a rapist!” With the word “rapist”, Hardwick jabbed him in the chest.

Dropping Gnarly’s leash, Mac grabbed the offending finger and pulled it back. Along with the finger, Gordon’s hand and arm followed until he dropped to his knees in anguish. Holding onto the finger and hand, Mac pinned his neighbor face down on the ground with his knee in the small of his back.

“Now that I have your attention, Mr. Hardwick,” Mac told him, “let me make a few things clear to you. I did apologize for Gnarly coming into your driveway, but in your fervor to grasp onto the incident to make grounds for a future lawsuit you ignored it. Therefore, I withdraw my apology. I also want to make something else clear. I hate lawyers. I hate nuisance lawsuits. I hate going to court. So, let me warn you, don’t even think of using Gnarly to get to any of my money, because if you do, I won’t be wasting so much as a second of my time going to court over something idiotic to support an ambulance chasing scumbag like you, nor will I settle out of court. I’ll simply kick your ass up one end of Deep Creek and down the other until you look like the scum they find at the bottom of the lake. Have I made myself clear?”

Gordon grunted.

Mac twisted his hand. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Bastard!” He groaned.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” He uttered a sob.

“Good.” Mac stood up.

Gasping, Gordon Hardwick rose slowly to his knees.

“Come on, Gnarly.” Mac saw that the two dogs had been watching the show from the chaise on the front porch.

At the end of the driveway, Mac discovered that up and down the Point, his neighbors, some in running togs and others in bathrobes, had stopped what they were doing to watch the scene. Now that the incident had ended, a few of them clapped to show their approval of Mac’s handling of it.

Hearing the applause, Gordon’s face reddened. “I was attacked,” he called out, “for no reason whatsoever!” Putting on the mask of a victim, he rose to his feet, limped inside his home, and slammed the door.

Mac picked up the end of Gnarly’s leash with the intention of going to his estate on the Point and not leaving in the near future. He wondered if Howard Hughes had become a recluse after too many interactions with a Gordon Hardwick.

“I’ll bet you fifty bucks that right now Hardwick’s calling the police to file an assault charge against you.”

Mac turned around.

The old man who lived in the home next to the Hardwicks stuck out his hand. “You must be Robin’s boy. You take after her.” Mac guessed him to be in his sixties, if not older. Thick wire-rimmed eyeglasses covered his smiling blue eyes. He wore a hearing aid in both ears.

Mac wiped his sweaty hand on his pants and grasped his neighbor’s palm. “You have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but—”

“Ira Taylor. We retired and moved here eleven years ago. We were friends with your mother. My wife Francine is her number one fan. She went running out an hour ago to treat Archie to brunch in exchange for the low down on you and that head Gnarly brought home the other day.” He cocked a thumb toward his house. “Want some coffee and the scoop on the ambulance chaser?”

“Figures. Archie is eating brunch and I’m being threatened.” While Mac led Gnarly across the Taylor’s driveway, he gestured in the direction of the Hardwick home. “Why the applause? Are the Hardwicks that unpopular?”

“The word shyster was made up for Gordy Hardwick.” Ira opened the screen door and scooped up a pint-sized terrier in one action. “Your dog is nothing more than an excuse to call the police to create a paper trail against you. Granted, Gordy hates the dog. They’ve had it out for every dog owner whose pooch sets foot on their property ever since they moved in.”

“But they have one.” Seeing the terrier, Mac took a tighter hold on Gnarly’s leash before stepping inside Ira’s home.

“They also hate rabbits, bears, and seagull poop. If Gordy could get a hold of Mother Nature’s lawyer, she’d be in court. They also hate jet skis.” He chuckled. “Robin bought a couple of jet skis to get the Hardwicks’ goat after they filed a complaint with the police against some neighbors who got jet skis for their kids. Then she spent a whole summer doing donuts behind their house for hours on end. Gordy had a cow and Robin had a blast.”

Ira led the way to a sunroom which provided a three-way view: the corner of the floral garden in front, the woods to the side, and the cove in the back. Along the way, Mac saw that fishing played a big role in Ira Taylor’s life. A cap filled with hooks and lures hung from a coat tree next to rods and reels in the front foyer. Fishing trophies hung on the wall in the sun room. A nine-foot-long swordfish filled the wall above the fireplace mantle. The plaque beneath the fish read that Ira Taylor had caught it seven years earlier off the shores of Nag’s Head, North Carolina. The rest of the décor in the home included prints and statues of deer, geese, bears, and other woodland creatures.

Ira poured their coffee into sturdy mugs. “While everyone else here on the Point hates the Hardwicks, they must have intrigued Robin because you wouldn’t believe what she did.” He chuckled when he handed the mug to Mac. “She killed them.”

“She what?”

“In one of her books.” Ira studied the titles on a small bookcase until he found a hard back. “It came out a couple of years ago.
Rub Down at Four, Rub Out by Eight
.” He handed the book to Mac before plopping down in a recliner. “She blew them sky high.” He asked, “Have you read that one?”

“I found out that she was my mother less than two months ago. So far, I’m up to her sixth book.” Mac studied the thick black volume in his hands. The cover was of a bare back on a gurney with a pair of strong hands on the shoulders. “Couldn’t they have sued her for that?”

“Only if they knew,” Ira said. “Robin changed their characters enough so that only those who knew them and their shenanigans would recognize them. Besides, I doubt if the Hardwicks would lower themselves to read a whodunit. They haven’t made any friends around here who would care to tell them.”

“How many of our neighbors have they actually taken to court?” Mac handed the book back to his host.

Ira squinted thoughtfully. “The only one they actually managed to get into court was Katrina Singleton. They slapped her with a paternity suit over Gnarly knocking up their poodle. The judge laughed it out of court.” He chuckled. “Meanwhile, the Hardwicks had to pay their lawyer and they didn’t get a dime from the Singletons. Then they ended up with a bunch of puppies that they refused to bring home from the vet. They would have died if it weren’t for your mother. Robin loved animals. She paid the vet’s bill and brought them home. She and Archie bottle fed them and got them all homes. Robin’s fans were more than glad to take home one of her puppies. When Hardwick found out, he tried to sue Robin for theft. The vet told the police that Hardwick had not only abandoned them, but didn’t pay his vet bill. The county prosecutor laughed Hardwick’s lawyer out of his office.”

“They sound like a real couple of characters.” Mac smiled.

“Which I guess is why Robin put them in one of her books.” Ira sat up in his recliner and leaned forward to make his point. “Gordy wasn’t here two weeks when he came over here and screamed at me, like he was just doing to you, about what a horrible neighbor I was because Eustace had peed in their yard.” He offered a plate of sugar cookies to his guest.

“Is Eustace your dog?” Mac gestured with the cookie he had accepted at the terrier engaged in a staring contest with Gnarly.

“No, my grandson. He was two at the time. Hardwick declared it a hate crime because he was Jewish. What the hell! My grandfather was Jewish. That’s who I was named after. Idiot!” Ira uttered a hearty laugh. “That was three years ago.” He glanced out the window at the house on the other side of his privacy fence. “He yelled at me again about it last week.”

“Did Eustace do it again?” Mac asked, mindful that the child would now be five years old.

“No, Gordy was still mad about it from three years ago.”

“I’m glad they aren’t living right next door to me.”