Wall-To-Wall Dead (18 page)

Unlike the burlesque theaters of New York, there were no photographs of scantily clad women hanging next to the only door. When Derek got out of the truck, slamming his door behind him, and came to crouch at my window, I greeted him with a pout. “There’s nothing here.”

“I told you so,” he said.

The big parking lot was empty. I guess the customers drew the line at watching women take their clothes off before noon on a Sunday. Or maybe the owners had a conscience and drew the line there.

Derek straightened. “Let’s go home.”

I nodded, and watched him jog to the truck and get in before I put the Beetle back in gear and pulled away from the curb.

I trailed him all the way out of Portland, only to lose him once we hit I-295 North. By the time I exited the interstate and got on the Portland Highway, which would take me through Brunswick and past Barnham College into Waterfield, the truck was nowhere to be seen.

Instead of scrambling to try to catch up, I took my time. It was a lovely fall day, with bright blue skies and blushing trees on both sides of the car. I turned the radio up and was singing along with Taylor Swift when I passed the old red brick buildings of Barnham College. A few minutes later, I saw the wall surrounding Wellhaven in the distance, and the roofs of the McMansions peeking above.

I slowed down as I neared the entrance. There was a car there, waiting to exit, and just in case the driver decided to make a break for it, I thought I’d better proceed with caution. Accidents happen, and I didn’t want this one to happen to me.

As I got closer, I saw that the gate into the development gaped open. That’s when I flicked on my turn signal, and earned myself a dirty look from the guy in the convertible as he roared past me and onto the highway in a cloud of exhaust. A grating sound split the air as the heavy iron gates began to close. I pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the Beetle shot through the narrowing opening two seconds before the gate shut behind me with a shuddering clang. Drawing a deep breath, I settled my nerves, and maneuvered the Beetle onto the well-manicured streets of Wellhaven.

I don’t know what I was hoping to find. I’m not sure I thought I’d find anything. But I’d been kept from going in here after Candy’s boyfriend two nights ago, and when I’d seen my chance to snoop, I’d taken it. And besides, I’d never been inside Wellhaven before, so I was really just taking the opportunity to look around.

It was a pretty place, in that planned-development, everything-in-its-place, nonorganic Stepford sort of way. The houses were big and distinctive, on postage-stamp-sized lots; no cookie-cutter subdivision, this. Every McMansion looked a little different from the others: Some had the appearance of English manor houses, some were Tudor mansions, and some would have looked at home in Normandy or Tuscany, with their French château or Italian villa styles. And while I had sometimes thought that the houses my cousins, the Stenhams, built looked a little chintzy, like a good strong storm could knock them down, these looked solid.

In spite of all being different, they had the same look to them, though. A little pretentious and self-satisfied. And
everything was manicured to within an inch of its life. There wasn’t a blade of grass or a dry leaf out of place. The edges of the lawns must have been laid out with a ruler, and there was lovely landscaping with evergreen bushes in front of every home. The colorful big-wheel tricycle sitting in the middle of a lawn on the second street I drove down looked like an obscenity.

Upon consideration, my bright green Beetle probably looked out of place, too. Judging from the cars I could see parked in the wide concrete driveways, the residents of Wellhaven drove luxury cars in tasteful colors like black, white, and silver. Here and there, there was a stab at a little more individuality with a fire engine red convertible or bright yellow Hummer.

I’d driven a couple of blocks when I saw a navy blue BMW convertible parked in a driveway. It wasn’t the first of its kind I’d seen, not by a long shot. There’d been plenty of navy blue BMWs in Wellhaven. This one had the standard Maine license plate, the one with the chickadee and pinecone, and the word “Vacationland” across the bottom in italics with the word “MAINE” in chunky capital letters across the top. Between the two was the letter-number combo BFL-496.

I’d spent ten minutes trailing that license plate the other night, from Guido’s all the way here. I remembered it. BFL—big fat liar.

I slowed my own car and crawled past the house, peering intently out the window.

It was a pseudo-Italian villa: pinkish-tan stucco with terra-cotta roof tiles and curved, wrought-iron balconies on the second floor. The BMW wasn’t alone in the driveway; next to it sat a sleek Lexus SUV, jet-black. A woman with long dark hair was herding two little girls and a small excited dog into it.

I slowed my car almost to a standstill as I looked intently at her.

She looked like she might be a few years older than me. Thirty-three, maybe thirty-four. A good ten years older
than Candy, and a little heavier in the hips and thighs. She looked as Italian as her husband, assuming that’s who he was. Dark hair, olive skin, strong nose. She was dressed in slacks and blouse, clearly designer originals and expensive. Something Melissa would wear. Classic, elegant, and costly.

The girls were both brunettes as well. Long-haired, long-legged little girls, one in a green dress and one in blue. The dog wore pink: some sort of little sweater that picked up flashes of sunlight. Sequins maybe. Or silver thread.

There was a movement on the periphery of my vision, and when I turned in that direction, I saw that Mr. Guido had come out of the house. He was standing on the front steps staring straight at me, and his expression wasn’t what I’d call welcoming. I had no idea whether he could see me or not—the Beetle has tinted windows, so probably not—but the Beetle itself is distinctive. If he’d noticed me behind him the other day, he might put two and two together. I put my foot on the gas pedal and rolled off down the street. Not too fast—I didn’t want to make it look like I was running away—but at a good clip nonetheless.

I kept an eye on him in the rearview mirror. If he made a move toward his car, I’d step on the gas and hopefully be out of Wellhaven by the time he got himself together to follow me.

He didn’t. He just stood on the steps and watched me drive away. When I got to the end of the street and turned, he did, too. The last thing I saw was him walking toward his family.

“What happened to you?” Derek said fifteen minutes later when I pulled up in front of Aunt Inga’s house. “You were right behind me when we left Portland.”

“I lost you on the highway. You drive faster than me. And then I took a detour.” I opened the backseat, preparatory to hauling my suitcase out. Derek leaned in instead.

“Where did you go?”

“I just drove around Wellhaven for a few minutes,” I said innocently.

Derek straightened, suitcase in hand, and looked at me. “Wellhaven?”

“The gate was open when I drove by.”

“And you thought you’d just have a look around.” His voice was resigned.

I shrugged.

“Did you see him?”

“Who?”

He just looked at me until I grimaced. And nodded.

“Did something happen?”

“Of course not. What could happen?”

Derek didn’t answer, and I added, “He has a wife and a couple of kids. Girls. Eight and ten maybe. And a small, fluffy dog. At least I assume they’re his.”

“So he probably isn’t Candy’s boyfriend at all, then,” Derek said. “Not if he has a family at home.”

Maybe not. Not that having a family stops some people from cheating. Mr. Guido could just be one of those people. For all I knew, he and his wife might have an “open” relationship.

“Do you think I should tell Wayne about that conversation I overheard? And how it sounded like Candy and this guy knew something about something?”

“Yes,” Derek said, opening the gate to Aunt Inga’s yard and holding it for me, “I think you should. Later. Whenever you have a chance to talk to him without going out of your way.” He closed the gate behind me. “Right now I think you should go inside and greet your guard cat, before he busts through the window to get to you.”

I looked up, and saw Mischa’s triangular face peering out at me from the parlor window.

Aunt Inga’s house is a Second Empire Victorian from the 1870s. It has a square tower in the front, and a porch on one side. When I first saw it a year ago, the yard was overgrown, the mansard roof was missing tiles, and the wood
was rotted. Now that Derek (and, to a lesser degree, I) have been over it, it’s a gorgeous confectionary item in periwinkle, mustard yellow, and brick red. I love Aunt Inga’s house. One of these days I might even get used to calling it mine.

Anyway, to the left of the hall inside, there’s a small front parlor. I use it for an office. It has sliding pocket doors and a big window overlooking the porch, so when Derek’s working on something out there and I’m working on the laptop inside, I can talk to him. Mischa was now draped along the windowsill watching us come up the stairs, eyes unblinking. The tip of his tail twitched.

“You go first,” Derek said when I’d unlocked the massive, carved wood door. “He’ll attack me if I’m in front of you.”

“I thought he’d stopped doing that.”

After Derek saved my life back in July, Mischa had become nicer to him. Before that, Mischa’s worldview had been of me as the queen, himself as rightful consort, and Derek as an interloper who must be chased off every time he showed his face. But after I almost died and Derek saved me, Mischa seemed to realize that Derek wasn’t so bad. It had helped that Derek took care of Mischa, too, while I was recuperating, with both my hands bandaged. These days, I thought the two of them got along pretty well.

“Mostly,” Derek said. “But if I’m blocking his path to you, I wouldn’t give much for my chances of survival.”

“He’s nine pounds!”

“It’s what’s inside that counts,” Derek said, “and inside, he’s a mighty warrior.”

“One you could dispatch with a swift kick.”

He looked insulted. “I’d never kick your cat.”

“Of course not.” Although I have been known to nudge him out of the way with my foot myself, if he becomes too much. I pushed the door open and stepped inside the dusky hallway. Immediately, Mischa launched himself at me and started twining around my ankles, purring like a rusty saw.

“I’ll take everything inside,” Derek said and pushed
past me, carrying my suitcase, garment bag, and purse. “You won’t be able to move for a while.”

Not while Mischa was twining around my legs, no. I was stuck here until he finished, unless I wanted to run the risk of stepping on him.

“You want me to make some lunch?” Derek said when he came back after disposing of the bags in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. Mischa was still twining, but less hysterically. I leaned down and scooped him up. He hung from my hand like a feather boa, still purring.

“I’ll do it. Tuna OK?”

I swear Mischa’s ears pricked up and he began purring louder.

“Fine,” Derek said.

Mischa sat on the floor next to me the whole time I prepared the food, eyes fixed and unblinking.