Staying Home Is A Killer. Sara Rosett
He’s an art dealer. What are you doing here?”
“Opening a gallery. West Coast is very big right now.”
Penny laughed. “This isn’t exactly the West Coast. You’re off by a few hundred miles.”
“Ah, but rent is so much more reasonable here. A few hundred miles doesn’t make a difference.” His wide smile revealed startling white teeth. “You must come see my new gallery. It’s on Washington, north of the river.”
His cell phone rang and he waved as he returned to his table, already deep into his phone conversation.
Penny tucked a strand of hair back into her ponytail thoughtfully. “London and New York I can see, but, Vernon? Not the usual lineup for gallery locations. I wonder what he’s up to. He’s always up to something.”
“Really? How do you know him?” I gave Livvy a few Cheerios and glanced across the room at Victor. His height, his toned physique, and teeth as white as a fresh snowfall made him easy to spot.
“I met him at a cocktail party in London. I was there with my dad on one of his sabbaticals. Victor was actually born in New York. His mother is British, but his father is American, an international banker. Victor went to the best British schools. Then his dad set him up with a gallery.”
“Sounds like a jet-set lifestyle.”
“It is. He’s the adventure-sport type of person—rock climbing and white-water rafting. He’s got all the English charm and wit, but none of their sometimes wimpy attributes. I guess his robust American genes kicked in.”
Victor’s answering machine message with its elegantly precise British accent made me stand up straighter and try to speak more clearly. “Hello. This is Ellie Avery, returning calls for Will Follette. Please call me and let me know what you needed from Penny.” I left my number and hung up.
An Everything In Its Place Tip for Organized Closets
The next step of a closet reorganization—or any organization project—involves the “holy trinity” of organization: keep, donate/give away, and throw away.
Keep only the items that fit, are in good condition, and that you like.
Donate/give away wearable clothing that doesn’t fit or is out of style by a few seasons.
Throw away anything that is broken, has stains that can’t be removed, or is extremely worn or dated.
As you sort, you might need a fourth category: things that belong somewhere else. Add things to this pile that have a place in another part of your home, but for some strange reason, the items have been put away (or left) where they don’t belong. For instance, the coat that really goes in the coat closet, but has hung in your closet for ages because you forgot to put it away. Add it to the “goes to another room” pile. Don’t put things away now; you’ll probably get sidetracked. Instead, wait until you’ve finished sorting one closet or one area of your closet before putting the “goes to another room” pile away.
After you finish your initial sorting, bag or box the donations and put them in your car. Drop them off the next time you run errands. Trash the throwaway pile and then take your “goes to another room pile” and distribute those items where they belong.
Chapter Six
“Ellie, I feel terrible.” Mabel took another sip of her Sprite. “I’d never have said a thing to that woman if I’d known she was a reporter. She showed up Tuesday around noon. She said she was from the squadron and was looking for you.” Mabel’s age-spotted hand quivered slightly as her grip tightened on the glass. “It makes me so angry. I called the paper and television stations to complain, but they only said they would look into it.”
The age spots stood out in sharp contrast to the pale, thin skin of her hand as she transferred the glass back to the tray beside her rocking chair. The tremble of her hands, usually hardly noticeable, caused the ice cubes to clink against the glass. As I’d walked next door, I’d thought about what Mabel had done and I got angrier with each step.
I’d had it with the Parsons’ snooping and spying. Taking note of the comings and goings in the neighborhood was one thing, but telling a reporter that a murder victim was on my doorstep right before she died was not good. Mabel could have put us in danger. I’d entered their house with my anger barely under control. But it died down from a rolling boil to a simmer when I saw her, wan and shaky, tucked under a quilt made entirely of squares from different types of plaids. Mabel loved plaid. Every time I’d seen her she had on something that was plaid.
“Mabel, it’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” Normally, Mabel could stare down a tank in Tiananmen Square, but today she looked much older and frailer than her seventy-plus years.
“I wanted to call you as soon as I realized what had happened, but I was sick and Ed wouldn’t let me do anything.” She threw a quick smile toward the kitchen where Ed was banging pots and dishes. She lowered her voice. “Doing the dishes. Such a racket that I can hardly rest, but I’m not saying a word. He hasn’t done dishes in thirty years.”
My simmering anger cooled down completely. I believed her apology. Now that I’d calmed down and thought about it, I realized Mabel was nosy, but Windermere was her turf and she valued the privacy of the neighborhood. Of course, she would pump me for information, but she’d never knowingly share information with a reporter.
“I was coming down with the flu when that reporter showed up. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Really, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will all work out. Don’t upset yourself.” I didn’t want to get her any more agitated than she was.
“But you need to know. In case she comes back,” Mabel insisted.
“Well, I guess that’s true. What did she look like?”
“She’s petite with short dark hair in that messy hairdo, if you can call it that. It looks like she doesn’t own a hairbrush. She was wearing red, an overcoat, and had on dark sunglasses.” Mabel plucked at a blue and green plaid square on the quilt. “That should have been a red flag for me right there. It was cold and overcast that day. Why would she need sunglasses? Anyway, she wanted to know if her friend had been by and described a woman with long dark hair, plain face, droopy clothes. Said she was supposed to meet both of you at your house.
“I assumed she was talking about Penny, so I told her that I hadn’t seen Penny that day. I didn’t know until Tuesday night that she died.”
Mabel must have been really sick with the flu to miss that bit of news. I took a sip of my own glass of watery Sprite and managed to return it, without knocking anything over, to the coaster wedged between framed pictures of Mabel’s grandkids pursuing various sports.
Mabel continued, “Then she said, ‘Well, maybe I got the day wrong? Did you see her yesterday?’”
Mabel’s shoulders surged up and then down as she sighed, “And I said, ‘Yes. I saw Penny on the porch on Monday about that same time.’ Then she wanted to know if Penny went inside and I said no, she just rang the bell.”
I sat on the spongy couch and chewed my lip. If Mabel saw Penny at my house Monday at noon, then she was there. “Why would she come to the front door? She always came to the back door, the kitchen door.”
“Maybe she already had,” Mabel said.
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken my thoughts aloud.
Mabel’s face was pale from the flu, but her eyes were clear and sharp as she continued, “Maybe she went around to the kitchen first. I can’t see that side of your house from here.” There was a tad of regret in Mabel’s voice that almost made me smile. She would love to know everything about us. “Then if you didn’t answer, maybe she went to the front door to ring the bell in case you were in the basement and hadn’t heard her knock on your kitchen door.”