Without a Trace (4 page)

“Indeed,” Pierre added. “I’m sure such lovely girls as you must all have boyfriends, yes?”

Bess’s dimples deepened. “Not quite,” she said. “Nancy is the only one of us with a steady guy right now.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Pierre said, though the words didn’t sound terribly sincere. “Well, my friends and I will try to entertain you in any case.”

“I’m sure you will.” Bess returned the smile, batting her long eyelashes playfully as Pierre grinned in delight.

We all walked back toward the street. Instead of going through the house, we headed along the strip of lawn that separated the building from the low picket fence that marked Mr. Geffington’s property line. I glanced over the fence curiously, wondering if I would spot any clues at the scene of the crime. But Mr. Geffington had long since cleared up the evidence. His garden looked as neat as could be, as usual.

I looked over my shoulder at the overgrown garden. Had someone hidden back there in the tangle and crept out to smash Mr. Geffington’s zucchini at an opportune moment? Or had the culprit sneaked down the steep concrete steps from the street and scurried around the house under cover of darkness? Or had Mr. Safer merely had to step over from his own yard long enough to dispatch his neighbor’s prized crop?

The last possibility still seemed hopelessly farfetched. But a lifetime spent puzzling over mysteries has taught me never to discount any option, no matter how unlikely it seems. That’s one of the things I like best about sleuthing—there’s no way of guessing how any case is going to turn out until I’ve gathered all the evidence, followed all the leads, figured out all the clues.

When we reached the sidewalk, Bess and George and I bid our new friends farewell. As Simone and Pierre headed inside, the three of us walked toward Mr. Geffington’s house.

“That Pierre seems like a nice guy, doesn’t he?” Bess commented with a glance back at the house.

George snorted. “Sure, but I hope you send him your dry cleaning bill after the way he was drooling all over you.”

Bess blushed. “Oh, stop it,” she said. “He was just being friendly.”

“Uh-huh,” I said playfully. “And I’m sure you didn’t even notice how cute he was. Or his cool French accent. Or the way he stared at you the whole time we were there.”

“Whatever.” Bess pointed to Mr. Geffington’s house, which we were passing at the moment. “Hey, don’t you want to stop in and look around or something? I mean, maybe it’s all cleaned up now, but you
might find some witnesses. Potatoes have eyes and corn has ears, you know.”

I groaned loudly at the bad joke. Bess was obviously trying to change the subject, and I decided to let her. “No, I think we’d better go talk to Mr. Safer next,” I said. “He’s the prime suspect according to Mr. G. I’m sure he didn’t do it, but maybe he saw or heard something that night that will give us a lead on the real culprit.”

George shrugged. “Sounds like as good a plan as any,” she said. “Just don’t anyone ask if he’s seen any good musicals lately, or we’ll never get away.”

We walked on to the steps leading down to Harold Safer’s yard. Unlike the plain stone or concrete of most of the steps on the block, Mr. Safer’s are decorated with bits of colored glass that form a rainbow pattern.

I led the way to the front door. When I pressed the doorbell, we could all hear the faint tune of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” ringing through the house.

Soon we also heard the sound of footsteps hurrying toward us. A moment later the door swung open—and there was Harold Safer, with a huge mallet in his hands.

I gasped, startled by
the unexpected sight. “What are you doing with that?” I blurted out, visions of smashed zucchini dancing through my head.

Harold Safer blinked, seeming confused by my reaction. “What am I doing with what?” he asked. Then he glanced down at the mallet. “Oh, you mean this? I was trying to hang up a curtain rod in the kitchen, but I seem to be all thumbs today.” He sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically.

“You’re trying to hang curtains with that?” Bess asked. “No wonder you’re having trouble. Maybe I can help. Do you have a toolbox?”

Harold Safer looked surprised, but he gestured for us to come in. “It’s in the basement,” he told Bess.

She nodded. “Be right back.” With that, she disappeared down the hall.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Harold Safer asked George and me, still looking surprised.

“Definitely,” George assured him. “Bess is a wiz with tools—and I’m not just talking makeup brushes either.”

I nodded. Most people are surprised to find out how handy Bess is. She looks like the sort of girl who would have trouble changing a lightbulb, but in fact she has an almost freakish natural ability to fix things, from a sticky toaster to a stalled car. A simple curtain rod would be a piece of cake for her.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Safer,” I added. “She’ll have the job done in no time.”

Harold Safer sighed. “Well, I’m glad she’s here, then,” he said, leading the way toward the kitchen at the back of his house. “If I don’t get that curtain hung soon, I’m going to go crazy. I thought this would only take a minute; I have to get back to my shop. Plus, that nutjob neighbor of mine keeps glaring at me from next door every time I go in my kitchen. Can you believe that? Just because someone decides to mess with his garden, he thinks I’m responsible. You should have seen him last night—he was out there weeding, and he shot me so many dirty looks I wanted to go take a bath!”

We entered the kitchen. It was clean and spacious, the white walls decorated with framed posters from various Broadway shows. Large windows overlooked the back and side yards. Lying on the floor below the side window were a shiny brass curtain rod, a set of linen curtains, several bent nails, and a small pile of dust.

“Yes, we heard about the zucchini problem,” I said. “That’s why we’re here, actually. We want to find out who really did it.”

“Really? Good,” Harold Safer said, flopping down onto a barstool at the counter. “Because at this point I’m afraid to go outside!”

I could tell he was being dramatic, but his comments reminded me that I needed to take this mystery seriously, even if my friends wouldn’t. Neighborly relations were at stake. If Mr. Safer was hanging a curtain that would block even a part of his precious view just because of Mr. Geffington, things had to be pretty bad.

Just then Bess entered holding a small hammer and some other tools. “Here we go,” she said cheerfully. “This should work much better than that mallet. Come on, George, help me hold up the brackets.”

As the cousins got to work, I sat down next to Harold Safer at the counter. “Do you mind answering a few questions?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Ask away, Nancy,” he said. “I have
nothing to hide from you or anybody else, no matter what that close-minded, zucchini-obsessed neighbor of mine says to the contrary. I mean, his accusations were actually sort of amusing at first. Can you imagine
me
sneaking into his garden in the dead of night, wielding some sort of caveman club, and smashing away at his precious vegetables? Although it
does
bring to mind that old joke:What do you get when an elephant walks through your garden?”

“What?” I asked.

“Squash!” He grinned with delight.

“All right, then,” I said with a polite chuckle. I could see that, as usual, it was going to be difficult to get a word in edgewise once Mr. Safer started talking. “Did you see or hear anything unusual on Tuesday night?”

“Not a thing.” He shrugged. “As I recall, I went inside that night after the sunset and listened to the cast recording of
Fiddler on the Roof.
It’s one of my favorites, so I had it turned up quite loud. In fact, I almost didn’t hear the doorbell when Mrs. Zucker and little Owen stopped by after dinner, collecting for the Anvil Day festivities. So naturally I wouldn’t have heard anything going on next door short of a cannon blast.”

“I see,” I said. “And did you see the damage the next day? To the zucchini, I mean.”

“No,” he replied. “As you know, I don’t open the
shop until ten A.M., and I don’t get up much before nine most mornings. By the time I looked out the window, I suppose Bradley had already cleared up the mess. At least, I never noticed a thing—didn’t even know what had happened until he came ranting and raving into the shop later that day.”

“He came into the cheese shop and accused you?” I asked.

“Yes, can you imagine the nerve?” Mr. Safer looked insulted. “Luckily there were no customers in there at the time. Once I figured out what he was going on about, I told him I didn’t do it. But he just muttered something about taking legal action and stormed out. I can’t imagine why he thought I would do such a thing!”

“I guess he thought you were mad about his tomato cages blocking your view,” I said.

“What?” He looked honestly surprised. “Are you serious? But that’s so last month’s news! Once I realized he wasn’t going to move those cages—why
do
they have to be so tall, anyway? You’d think he wanted his tomatoes to try out for a revival of
Little Shop of Horrors
or something—I simply moved my chaise a few yards to the right, and
voila
! Uninterrupted sunset views once again.”

I blinked, trying to unwind his convoluted comments. “I see,” I said, when I finally figured out what
he had just said. “Well, that’s all I can think of right now, then. I guess I’ll have to keep asking around and see if anyone else witnessed anything that night.”

Harold Safer nodded. “Have you checked in with the people on the other side?” he asked. “I hear a young lady moved in earlier this week. I haven’t met her yet myself, but I’m dying to. I heard she’s the daughter of a fabulously wealthy European jet-setter. Possibly even some sort of minor royalty. Can you imagine? Right here in little old River Heights!”

“We just met her,” I said. “Her name is Simone, and she’s very nice. But she didn’t say anything about royalty or the rest of it. She also didn’t see anything happen at Mr. Geffington’s the other night.”

“Too bad,” Harold Safer said. “Ah well, I keep telling that insufferable Geffington that it was probably just raccoons after his zucchini anyway. Of course, he keeps insisting that it couldn’t have been, unless raccoons have learned to wield sledgehammers.” He rolled his eyes.

I smiled sympathetically and glanced over at Bess and George, who were sliding the curtain rod into its newly hung brackets. At that moment Mr. Safer looked over and noticed what they were doing too.

“Oh, wonderful!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands and jumping to his feet. “You girls are geniuses. I
can’t thank you enough. You’ve saved my sanity, such as it is.”

“It was no trouble at all, Mr. Safer,” Bess replied. “We’d better get going.”

“I won’t hear of it! At least let me thank you girls with nice, cold sodas.” He was already hurrying toward the refrigerator. “Now, I won’t take no for an answer! Besides, I simply must tell someone about the revival of
A Chorus Line
I caught down in River City last weekend. . . .”

I exchanged a glance with Bess and George. Obviously we weren’t going to be able to make a clean break of it this time. But I didn’t really mind. Sitting quietly while Harold Safer rambled on about his latest theater experience would give me a chance to think about the case.

And I was starting to realize that this case really would take some thought. It might seem trivial on the surface, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy to solve. So far I’d turned up no witnesses, no clues, no motive, and no real direction for the investigation. On top of that, the scene of the crime had long since been cleared of any evidence that might have been there. How was I supposed to track down what had happened with absolutely nothing to go on?

The clues are there, I reminded myself, as Mr. Safer served us sodas and chattered on happily. They always are. You just have to find them.

That made me feel a little better. I sipped at my soda, going over what I’d learned so far. It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

It was hard to stop Mr. Safer once he’d started talking. After describing the play he’d seen in astounding detail, he insisted on sharing the latest photos he’d taken of the sun setting over the river. Then he wanted us to listen to a new cast recording he’d downloaded off the Internet. George was actually sort of interested in that, though only the downloading part. She loves talking about computers with anyone who shares her passion for them, especially since Bess and I aren’t interested in them much beyond checking our e-mail or doing a little occasional research.

Finally we managed to make our escape. Mr. Safer walked us to the door. “Thanks so much for stopping by, girls,” he said cheerfully. “I truly appreciate the help with the curtains. Not to mention your interest in the whole messy zucchini situation. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s our own River Heights supersleuth, Nancy Drew.” He winked at me. “One of these days I’m going to write a musical about you, my dear!”

I smiled. Mr. Safer has been saying that same thing since the first time I appeared in the newspaper for cracking a tough case. “Thanks for all your help, Mr. Safer,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”