The Hammett Hex (21 page)

Wait a minute! My eyes snapped open. The seat of that chair had been warm when I sat on it. Warm! And yet the sun from the window didn't reach there. Was there someone still in the house? My mouth went dry and goose bumps rose on my arms. As I heaved myself out of the chair, I noticed something else: a few brightly covered candy wrappers. Not that I wanted to be noticing things when I was in danger of being discovered by whomever it was that had been sitting there.

I was bending over to check the wrappers when I heard voices from the first floor and what sounded like a door closing. It was way past time to get moving. I picked up the wrappers, grabbed my taco bag and the bag with the other
debris and tried to figure out where to hide. If it was Sierra and whoever her accomplice was—or even if she was the accomplice—this room would probably be where they'd head, if those coffee cups were anything to go by. I hesitated. Should I put them back? But too late for that. They were already in the bag. The voices were coming closer.

On the other hand, if it was a real estate person or a member of the family, they could go anywhere. In case it was the spies, I hightailed it out of the master bedroom and into the next room. There wasn't much choice as I could hear footsteps on the stairs. What now? This room had a large four-poster bed, a bit more feminine with a blue bedspread, blue and white curtains and a lot of lace. This must have been Alice's room. Perhaps in later years, they'd each had their own. There would be room for me under the bed, but my experience with hiding under beds had not been good in recent months.

That left the closet and behind the drapes. The blue and white drapes didn't quite reach the floor and my desert boots would have been hard to miss if anyone checked out the room. I prayed that the closet hinges wouldn't squeak.

The closet didn't have the original heavy doors, but more modern louvered ones. I was glad because that allowed me to hear. I sank to the floor and wormed my way behind what I took to be a collection of long dressing gowns with a fading scent of lily of the valley. I supposed they were also to give a lived in look, or maybe the relatives hadn't been able to clear things out. They took my mind off my hammering heart for a second, although you would think I'd have gotten used to scary situations by this time. The voices were coming closer. A man and a woman. I recognized Sierra, sounding a lot more in charge than when she'd been talking to me.

Was that who'd been sitting in the club chair? But if it was Sierra, why was she just arriving? How could that be? And more to the point, what did she have to do with what
I'd noticed just before fleeing to the closet? I'd spotted a cluster of dog hair on the carpet in Alice's room. Where there's dog hair, there's a dog. But why would there be a dog in an empty house? Especially a dog the same familiar color as our missing pug. It was a shade I knew well. There was no mistaking the signs of that little Asta. The answers would be on the other side of the closet door, so I wouldn't be getting them instantly.

I listened intently to footsteps reaching the top of the stairs and the slight sounds of squabbling about who should do what about something that I didn't quite catch. The squabbling got louder. The man's voice was not what I'd expected. I'd imagined Sierra's husband—Michael?—as a business type, stylish in that hip San Francisco way, sophisticated and yet indulgent of his young wife and child. Instead he sounded like a peevish teenager.

I shook my head. The thing that was most surprising was that my “friend” was not at all who she said she was, or at least she didn't live where she said she lived. You understand, I had nothing to do but speculate and listen. I could hear them bickering in the bedroom. What was going on?

It was possible that they were here for reasons that had nothing to do with us and with Gram's house, but that was highly unlikely. Looking back, I realized that she had struck up a conversation with me and instigated the relationship. Why else would she do that unless she wanted to find out more about us or about the inhabitants of Gram's house? I just hope that didn't include finding me in the closet.

“What's that smell?” Sierra snapped.

“What smell?”

“I'm asking you. It smells like Tex-Mex or something.”

“Oh yeah. Now I'm kind of hungry.”

“Don't be an idiot.”

“Come on, Jessica, why do you always talk to me like that? A guy can be hungry.”

So Sierra's real name was Jessica. Good to know.

She said, “A guy can do the job he's supposed to and not be such a big baby all the time.”

Whoever they were, they didn't sound like criminal masterminds.

“Tacos, for sure.”

“Did you bring tacos in here?”

“No. I didn't bring in any food. You said that was a rule, but then you brought coffee in—”

“That was part of my cover, you dimwit. You know that and you shouldn't have left the empty cups there. I don't ask that much of you. We are so close to getting rid of them. They're starting to panic. So let's not screw up.”

Their voices dimmed as they entered the front bedroom. I strained to hear.

He said, “Well, they're gone now anyways.”

“What do you mean, they're gone?”

“They're gone. Someone must have cleaned them up.”

“Oh, the cups. I thought you meant the so-called grandson and his nasty little girlfriend. That's dumb even for you, Josh. Who the hell do you think breaks into a house and cleans it up? I don't know what to do with you sometimes.”

I sat up straight. So-called grandson? Nasty little girlfriend? What a pair of jerks these two were.

“Blah blah. All I know is that the stupid cups are gone and I didn't throw them out. Maybe the real estate people?”

“Let's hope not. We don't want them knowing we're here. Especially when we're getting close to success with the old lady.”

“Well, duh.”

Jessica and Josh. Who were these peevish creeps and how were they connected to the people who had attacked me so far? I couldn't figure out any link at all, except me, Gram and Tyler—or possibly Zoya—and while they
sounded like squabbling adolescents, I was under no illusion that they were innocent or harmless.

The closet was dusty, not surprising as Alice Himmelfarb had been dead for five years. My nose twitched and I pinched it to keep myself from sneezing.

What? Had I missed something? Voices were raised in the next room. “Oh my God!”

“What now? Do you have to be so hysterical about every little thing?”

“I am not hysterical about every little thing, but here's a little thing to be hysterical over: Where's the stupid dog?”

“What?”

“Not ‘what,' Josh, you moron. Where! Where is it?”

“Well, it must be hiding.”

“Why would it be hiding?”

“Duh, because it hates you?”

“It doesn't really hate me, Josh.”

“It does. And we have to find it. Right now.”

Nobody looks dangerous drinking fancy coffee.

—The Kelly Rules

“F
INE. GO FIND
the stupid dog, Josh. Like anybody cares.”

I cared. I didn't want to come nose to nose with Josh as I crouched in a closet I had no business being in. My heart was thundering as I considered what weapons were at my disposal among the clothing of a dead octogenarian. Dressing gowns to drop over someone's head enough to get a head start? Hangers? Hatboxes? Nothing seemed promising. Shoes could make good emergency hammers, but they weren't that good in a fight, especially if it was two to one. Where was Asta? Had they mistreated the little pooch? Or was Asta just so stressed that under a bed seemed like the best solution? We already knew she liked to keep a low profile, convenient or not.

But why would Josh open the closet door to search for the dog? That was just dopey. However, they both did appear to be perfectly dopey. I picked up a pair of shoes, one in each hand.

Josh said, “Maybe the real estate people took the dog.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because a dog left alone in a house would not make it easier to sell. You know that little sucker had some accidents.”

“It's bad news if they found the dog. For one thing, they'll watch the house to see how it got here, and for another, we need that stupid thing. What's that?”

“What?”

“There's someone coming!”

“Chill out.”

“I am chill.”

He said, “You're not chill. You're never chill. Stop screaming. No one knows we're here unless they heard you.”

“The person who picked up those cups knows we were here. The person who stole the dog knows we're here.”

“No. We stole the dog, remember? That person might know that someone was here, but most likely they won't think anything of it.”

“Right, sure.”

“They'll figure it's one of the stagers, or whatever you call them.”

“That is so dumb. First of all, real estate people don't leave messes or steal dogs and neither do stagers.”

“And second of all, Jessica?”

“What?”

“You said first of all, what's second of all?”

“Josh, stop being an idiot. Oh my God. They're coming up to the front door.”

“Okay, move it, down the back stairs.”

“Don't leave anything, stupid.”

“If you run into them, just say that we're former neighbors and we had a key. They can't prove that's—”

“Get moving!”

There was a scramble and I took a chance to open the louvered door an inch and peek. I had to see if I could get
a look at the so-called husband. I opened the closet door a crack and watched as Sierra raced in a panic along the upstairs hall and “Michael” actually passed her running. I couldn't see his hair, but aside from that missing bit of data, he looked and sounded just like a male version of Sierra, now Jessica. They must have crept down the stairs, because the racket stopped, just as the doorbell started to ring.

That perhaps was good news for me. I rushed to the back of the house in time to see Sierra and “Michael” race into the backyard and vanish through the neighbor's hedge. Of course, with those high hedges, no one was likely to see them.

The doorbell rang again. And now someone was banging on the door. Was that person yelling? Who would they be yelling at? I took my chances and hightailed it down the back stairs too. I nearly tripped over the stroller, abandoned in the kitchen by the door. Was that the baby? I had stopped thinking about that baby. I stopped just long enough to check the sleeping figure in the blankets. A large and lifelike doll. Figured. I flicked the lock and pulled the door closed after me. I hoped that no one spotted me leaving the empty house.

Now what?

I zipped through the narrow side yard in time to spot Sierra and Michael heading up the hill. What to do? Follow them? Or wait and see if anyone else approached Gram's house? On the sidewalk, I turned back. No one was standing at the entrance to the late Mr. Himmelfarb's house. No one was ringing the doorbell or banging. Perhaps they had gone around to the back? I could have taken my chances, but I had no desire to be caught in back without any witnesses.

Uncle Mick would have said, “Better a bird in the hand,” by which he would have meant a pair of Georgian candlesticks. I would have to settle for two new suspects.

Fine. That meant forgetting about the off chance that someone tried to get into Gram's house. After all, Tyler and Zoya along with Gus and the boys could take care of things. I darted back into the side yard, ducked down behind the garbage cans and took a few seconds to stuff the maid's dress in one of my collection of plastic bags, slipped into the baggy navy cotton shorts, the T-shirt with the badly drawn Golden Gate Bridge and the A's cap with the yellow brim. I tucked my hair under and slipped on my oversized sunglasses. My purchases were paying off. Back on the sidewalk, I looked both ways and spotted Michael and Sierra quite far up the hill. I hoofed it up the steep slope after the two of them. I thought my lungs would explode after running to get within clear sight of them. I was glad I'd changed. It made more sense to be running in shorts than in my maid's uniform. When I got within hearing distance, I slowed and caught my breath. They had no interest in anyone else but themselves. They were stomping along, sulking and shouting at each other.

I realized that I was in prime Hammett mode, doing a variant of the Pinkerton's specialty of shadowing a suspect. Of course. I wasn't sure what Sierra and Michael were up to, but they were up to something. Sierra hadn't even been on my list although it was obvious now that she should have been.

For sure, as an unfashionable pedestrian, I wouldn't even register on their self-absorbed brains. I was counting on it. As the hill flattened out—thank heavens—I found it easier to keep up. How could anyone live in this city with all these hills? I was ready to crash, but then I did seem to be the only person actually running up that slope in desert boots. If Smiley had been there, he probably would have been unable to resist saying that if Dashiell Hammett could work in the damp, foggy city while coping with lung disease, then I
could climb this hill. In the middle of a real case, Hammett sometimes didn't know what was going on, and now there I was with no clue either.

Still I pulled myself together and did my best to keep up without giving myself away. I didn't have much to worry about. The two of them didn't turn around. They were pretty lousy criminals actually. No sense of self-preservation. Uncle Seamus would have set them straight with one of his rules, say, for instance, only a jackass draws attention to himself. I added “or herself” to reflect Sierra's contribution.

As if they were thinking with a single brain, the squabbling pair turned abruptly into Down by the Bean, one of many local coffee shops that promised their own roasted beans.

I soon followed them in without seeming to notice them at all. They took their organic Fair Trade pour-overs to a small table in the window and continued to snarl at each other.

I got myself an Americano to go from the good-looking guy behind the counter and slumped at a nearby table, pulling out the new smart phone and pretending to be immersed in the world of social media. I was glad I remembered my Facebook password: PUGLIFE. I was really annoyed that Tyler refused to have a Facebook account or I could have contacted him. I scrolled randomly through my timeline, “liking” and “sharing” mindlessly. I knew this would come back to haunt me as The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster wasn't exactly my kind of group, nor was the article on Optimizing Your Fit-Bit Workout.

A Facebook message bubble from Lance popped up.

Are you having some sort of psychotic break?

LOL

I lied nonchalantly.

Just bored waiting for Tyler to get ready.

I didn't need Lance freaking and calling out the cavalry.

Lance replied with an engagement ring emoji and eighteen question marks.

I replied:

Oops, used all my data. Gotta run.

I went up to the barista, handed him my phone and lowered my voice. “I'm just visiting the city and I'd love to get a picture of your coffee house. It's so unique. I love everything about it. Would you mind taking the shot?” It wasn't such an unusual request apparently. I pulled my baseball cap low on my forehead and hammed it up a bit with a duck face and peace signs making sure my two new suspects were in the background on most of the shots.

When he handed the phone back to me, I checked the shots. I looked like a first-class dweeb but my targets were nice and clear. Unfortunately, they were also getting up to leave. Didn't anybody linger over coffee anymore?

I thanked my barista and said I had to rush to meet a friend. He said, “Come again. Anytime.”

I headed out, sloshing my Americano and hustled after them, now back on the sidewalk and heading somewhere even farther up. Unlike them, I turned around regularly to make sure no one was following me. The third time I turned around, I thought I saw a flash of red hair and something else. Something fawn? Was that possible? Was I hallucinating out of stress?

Someone was following me and I was following someone
else. Whatever I turned my attention to, I didn't want to lose track of the other thing that needed watching—in this case, it was the redheaded man or Sierra and Michael. Tricky situation. I decided to keep on their trail while keeping my own back and checking for the flash of ginger again. It was not the first creepy thing that had happened, and part of the creepiness was that I'd read that Hammett had also had red hair, back in the early days. I shivered and kept going, doing my best to look casual and inconspicuous while running up a hill with a cup of coffee.

I had to do a bit of fancy footwork when my targets turned and entered a multiunit dwelling. It was a snazzy-looking place with an Art Deco vibe. I kept going without appearing to notice them. I circled round when they didn't come right out. The foyer was empty. They were gone.

I stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the windows, hoping I'd figure out where they had gone. Nothing happened. But there was that little flash of red hair, near an alley I'd just passed.

It was a good bet they wouldn't be emerging within a minute or two. I whirled and ran to the alley. Sure enough, there was my trembling quarry, startlingly blue eyes wide and terrified, mouth open in protest, hands held up in defense mode. I grabbed him by the collar and screamed in his face.

“Uncle Kev, don't make me kill you!”

A small emotional pug told me what she thought of my outburst.
Yap yap yap!

As for Uncle Kev, I swear he had tears in his eyes. Of course, all the Kelly men can turn the waterworks on anytime they need to.

“Aw, Jordie, don't be mad.”

“Don't be mad? Don't be
mad
? Are you insane? What are you doing with Asta?”

“Who?”

Nothing ever changes with Uncle Kev. “Asta. The little pug.”

“Well, I saved him, didn't I? You should be happy, Jordie.”

“Her, you saved her.”

“Right, whatever.”

“And by ‘saved,' you mean you stole her from Tyler's grandmother's house?”

“No. I stole him from the people who must have stolen him from the grandmother's house. They are not nice. They left him alone in that empty house. It was no way to treat a dog.”

Asta agreed, completely. She spun around and looked adoringly at Uncle Kev.

I needed information on the spot. I could deal with Uncle Kev's other issues, such as Asta's gender, later. “And who are they?”

He blinked, his startlingly blue eyes even more vacant than usual.

“I don't know. You're the one who talks to her all the time but she's not your friend. They spied on you. And I overheard them say something about ‘needing to get rid of you.' That's why I was watching them. I was careful. How'd you find me, Jordie?”

Just blind luck actually and, of course, the clue of the Jolly Rancher wrappers. “Never mind. Did they see you?”

“No way, Jordie.”

Maybe accurate, maybe not. I decided to go with it.

“Come on, we'll be a team. I see you have a backpack. Is there anything in it to disguise yourself with?”

“I got a hoodie I could put on. I got two actually. A blue and green. What color do you want, Jordie? And this bandanna for the pooch.” I knew better than to ask Uncle Kev why he'd bought any of it. Or more likely lifted as the tags were still on. I could always make a donation to a charity later on to soothe my conscience.

When we stepped out of the narrow space between two buildings, we looked different enough that I thought we just might fool the two self-absorbed crooks we were looking for. If we could track them down, they wouldn't recognize me as the woman from the coffee shop.