Cover Story Page 6

  Jazlyn—Janet? Jillian?—turned to the sink. “I’ll put a pot on.”

  “You have a percolator?” I almost fell on my knees to praise the coffee gods who’d led me to her house. “You’re a lifesaver—I haven’t drunk as much tea in my life as I have in the last two days on Los Alamos Court. I didn’t know half these teas existed.”

  Jazlyn—Jenny? Jody?—laughed and spooned coffee into the filter. A small dark-haired boy came in with wet cheeks and his thumb in his mouth. He looked dubiously at me as he edged his way to his mother and wrapped an arm around her leg.

  I tried for a friendly, non-threatening smile—not an easy thing to achieve when there was a real-live child in my field of vision. “You must be Cosmo.”

  He turned his head into his mother’s thigh.

  “Sorry, he’s a little shy with strangers.”

  Well, that was a relief. “That’s okay, I’m a little shy with children.”

  She put the coffee on the stove and we moved over to the dining table. Cosmo clambered up into a chair beside his mother. I flicked open my notebook and took a nice, newly sharpened pencil from the tube I kept in my bag.

  “So, Jazlyn, I assume you heard what happened?”

  “The gnomicides?” she asked, straight-faced.

  And I’d had hopes of her being relatively normal. “Yes. Any ideas on who’s doing it?”

  “Well, actually …” She picked up a cushion from another chair and settled it behind her back, wriggled to get comfy, then continued. “I was reading a novel a few months ago where a property developer was trying to scare people, so they’d sell their houses cheaply to him.”

  The old Evil Corporate Manipulation angle; I liked it: heaps of potential for a newspaper story. I scribbled some notes. “Has a developer made anyone an offer?”

  “Well, no.” She frowned.

  “Not to worry.” I made a memo to check with the journalist who covered business on the paper for background. “Has anyone received letters from a developer?”

  “No.” She wiggled into her cushions more.

  I looked up slowly as a sinking feeling dropped into my stomach. “Have you heard there’s a developer interested in Los Alamos Court?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “No.”

  Of course, this was my own fault. Where had the other residents’ theories gotten me? “Has there been any contact, in any form, between any developer and any resident of Los Alamos Court?”

  “No.”

  I pushed my pencil into the metal spiral at the top of my notebook and laid it on the table. “So, you’re basing this whole theory on something you read in a novel a few months back?”

  “Even though there’s not a lot of evidence—”

  “There’s no evidence.”

  “—there’s also nothing to say it’s not a developer. The property values are going up and there’s that new development a few blocks away.”

  I sighed. True. And it’d make a better story than the Doggie Payback. Which reminded me … “I heard about your little problem with Deefer.”

  The coffee maker gurgled and steamed, announcing the brew was ready. Jazlyn pushed herself out of the chair, tummy first, to pour the mugs. “The poor girl—accosted by that bully over the road.”

  I accepted my cup gratefully. “Bully? Remington? That teeny-tiny Australian Silky Terrier?”

  Jazlyn—Janice? Janine?—nodded. “Deefer’s a sweet, timid girl and he lords it over her. Here, I’ll show you. Deefer! Come here, girl!”

  All three of us turned expectantly to the back door and waited. And waited. I sipped my coffee.

  Then, very slowly, a wrinkle-faced, dopey-looking English bulldog ambled in. Easily three times Remington’s size, though admittedly, not that much taller—which would have made his job a little easier.

  “Come on, Deefer. Where’s Mommy’s girl? Come and give me a kiss.” Deefer obliged and plonked a disgustingly wet nose on Jazlyn’s cheek. Was that slobber hanging from the dog’s mouth? I bolted upright. I don’t respond well to saliva. Dogs, babies, people who leave saliva on the top of a water bottle then offer you a sip—do they think I’m crazy?

  “I think I’ve got enough to go on, thanks, Jazlyn.” I swallowed my last mouthfuls of coffee and moved to the front door.

  She ambled behind me and waved as I scooted outside. “Drop back any time.”

  “I will!”

  Outside I saw Matias, camera slung over one shoulder, looking up and down the street. Oh, yes, that’s just what my day needed.

  “Matias. What are you doing here?”

  “Ah, Fletcher.” He winked. “There’s no business like gnome business. I wanted a piece of the action.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I asked for a photographer. Which you’re not.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s a mis-gnome-er. I’m a photo-journalist and my contract says I get to take photos occasionally to stop my clicking finger from rusting up.” He took another look up and down the street. “So this is Gnome Central, hey? I gotta admit, it isn’t what I expected.”

  The last thing I wanted to hear about was Matias’ expectations of Los Alamos Court. “Drop the attitude or you’ll put the residents off. I’ve spent time building good relationships with these people and they happen to like their street.”

  “Yeah, there’s no place like gnome, is there?” He thumped a fist over his heart.

  “Matias, you’re an idiot.”

  That seemed to please him immensely. “As you’ve previously mentioned, Fletcher. Now what do you want photos of?”

  I took him over to the boys’ house, hoping one of them would be awake. After all, it was after ten o’clock. I knocked and waited, encouraged by the sound of music coming from inside—until I realized they probably hadn’t turned it off the night before.

  Pedro answered the door in a pair of boxers and a ripped T-shirt. “Hey Laurie, Lukas! It’s that hot writer chick!”

  Hmm. I did a quick check for Matias, who was inspecting a potted sagebrush about three feet away, feigning complete disinterest, so I turned back to Pedro. “I was wondering if you guys could help me out.”

  Two other tousled heads appeared beside Pedro’s. “Yeah, anything you want, baby.” That must have been Lukas, the drummer I hadn’t met.

  “I need some photos of the gnomes. Can you show me the ‘lewd’ positions you’ve been putting them in?”

  “Sure, baby,” Lukas drawled. “Do you want me to show you with the gnomes … or do you want a more personal demonstration of the positions?”

  Matias appeared at my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Uh huh. I can see the relationships you’ve been putting time into. You should be ashamed of yourself, you cradle snatcher.”

  I kicked him in the shins and smiled at the boys. “Let’s just start with the gnomes. This is our photographer, Matias. You’ll have to speak slowly to him, he’s one of our special employees.”

  The boys nodded and gave Matias reassuring smiles before they went to put more clothes on.

  Matias grinned. “Nice one, Fletcher. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Did nothing dent this man’s armor?

  The boys reappeared and we followed them out to the gnomes that’d come to visit their front yard. As they joked and moved the three gnomes around into a variety of sexual positions, Matias took photographs and I had to admit I was having fun. In a sort of childish, guilty-pleasure kind of way. Not something I’d ever admit to under questioning, but real enough.

  It was almost midday when we finished and I waved Matias off then walked back to my car. I’d met everyone on the street, except the people at number one, who were at work now. I popped in to see Dot to tell her I was leaving.

  “Okay, dear. Oh, Simon called and said you should call him if you want to have lunch again.”

  I really needed to get home and write up the story, but now that it was over, a little part of me was thinking I’d like to have one last lunch with Simon. After all, I’d neve
r see him—or any of the residents of Los Alamos Court for that matter—again. Shame, they were starting to grow on me. Not enough that I’d come back for anything less than a gun to the head, but there was a small amount of fond affection in my thoughts.

  I called Simon and arranged to meet him at the same place as yesterday, said goodbye to Dot, and drove to the Green Chile Deli.

  Simon walked into the deli a moment behind me and, after a smiled greeting, we each ordered the same bagels as the day before.

  “How’s the investigation going?” he asked when we’d found a table.

  I hung my bag on the back of my chair and sighed. “Not so good. I’ve now considered and rejected ten theories.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You came up with that many?”

  “Actually, your neighbors did. Although two aren’t ruled out completely … How sure are you that your father-in-law can’t walk?” I resisted crossing my fingers—superstition was for dopes—but I did hold my breath.

  “He can take a few steps, but I’m sure he can’t do any more, I’ve seen the medical evidence. Why?”

  I groaned and dropped my head on the table. “That was my Hitchcock Rear Window angle.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” He laughed as our bagels arrived. “Tell me about the others.”

  I ticked them off on my fingers. “There was also the Woman Scorned—your almost-girlfriend; the Youth Crime wave—the boys from number two; the Teenager Looking for Attention—Davo; your Someone Else did it—but not after last night; the Vengeful Missing Father of Jazlyn’s baby—also implausible; the Doggie Payback—Deefer versus Remington, the only one still in play; the Evil Corporate Manipulation—alas, no evidence; the Demented Cat—Winston the Attackcat, who’s kept in at night; and my personal favorite, Nears Did It. That was Anna’s.”

  He grinned. “You’ve been busy. Where does that leave your story? Are you still going to write it?”

  “My editor’s expecting it, but I don’t have an angle yet.” I saw him eye off my pickle and handed it over. “I’ve got all afternoon, though, I’ll think of something.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  He smiled at me in an open and confident way and I remembered him saying he respected me the night before. There weren’t many people in the world whom I honestly liked—in my experience most were too busy looking out for themselves—but watching Simon across the table, smiling at me, I had a feeling he was one of life’s good guys. Someone who could be trusted. I smiled back then bit into my bagel.

  As we ate, I did a mental review of the investigation. “By the way, who lives at number one? No one’s even mentioned them.”

  He finished chewing his last bite. “Rafaella and Liz share that house. They’re fairly new and we hardly ever see them. I think Rafaella’s got a job in the government, I’m not sure. But they both work long hours—probably haven’t even met all the neighbors yet.”

  “Okay.” I pulled out my notebook, jotted down the information then tossed it back in my bag. “Thanks for lunch, but I better get working on this article. I want to hand it in this afternoon.”

  *

  Back in my apartment, I went through three cups of coffee and a packet of M&M’s trying to think of an angle for the story. Fight it as I might, I really had no choice.

  I wrote the story I knew I must.

  Kevin printed the article, accompanied by several of Matias’ pictures, a few days later.

  *

  Gnomes Living in Fear

  By Tobi Fletcher

  The gnomicides of four bashful garden gnomes has shot fear through the tightly knit gnome community of Santa Fe’s Los Alamos Court. The crimes, which occurred over two nights last week, are the first such events to hit the street.

  Shocking scenes greeted the surviving gnomes as they awoke last Monday to find two of their kin murdered in the front yard of one residence and another in front of a residence two doors down.

  A fourth gnomicide was committed in the yard of a third house in the street.

  The gnomes and their humans, who are fearful of further attacks, were left shaking their heads at the senseless acts of violence.

  “We can’t understand why anyone would want to do this,” said resident Dot Hanson. The children of the street were particularly distressed, and the perpetrators are asked to consider this distress before taking any further action.

  Police investigations failed to provide a lead and residents have been left to postulate their own theories. Early reports of links between the crimes and the lewd behavior of several gnomes have since been discounted.

  All gnomes in suburban Santa Fe are warned to be vigilant.

  *

  The day after the gnome story appeared, Kevin called me into his office. Not usually a good sign. There could have been complaints from people involved in the article or negative reader feedback. Or maybe I used his coffee cup the day before.

  But he was beaming. “Tobi, this piece about the gnomes is gold, pure gold.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

  He walked around his desk and leaned back onto it, arms folded. “We’ve had great reader feedback and it’s been picked up by the L.A. and New York papers. Good work.”

  I smiled—this could work to my advantage. While he was happy with me, perhaps I should push for Sofia and me to work on the scandal in the senator’s office. I’d just submitted my latest story, so the timing was perfect. “Kevin, I’m glad you’re pleased with my work and—”

  “I am. In fact, I’m so pleased that I want you to get back out there and write a follow-up.” He scrubbed a hand through his gray-flecked hair then looked down at his computer, as if that was the end of the matter.

  I felt a touch dizzy. “A follow-up?” I squeaked out. “The story was barely big enough for one article.”

  “Baloney. What are the gnomes doing today? Have they had any more trouble?” He waved a hand around, as if conjuring up ideas. “Maybe get the kids’ perspective—you’re the journalist, you’ll think of something.”

  “I don’t think—”

  He pointed a stubby finger at me. “The people want more about the gnomes and you’re going to give it to them. On the strength of a follow-up coming, I could sell the story on to all the national papers.”

  I saw my career flash before my eyes—interviews with the tooth fairy; on the road with Mr. and Mrs. Claus; exposés on the treatment of elves in the North Pole. “Kevin, it’s not going to be that easy, I—”

  “You’ve got twenty-four hours. Don’t waste any of them standing here arguing with me.” He moved back to his chair and began typing.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I dragged myself back to Sofia and sat on her desk. “He wants a follow-up on the gnomes.”

  “Well, it was funny. And it can’t be worse than my story.” She turned her computer screen to face me. “I’m covering another boob enhancement technique involving vacuum cleaners.”

  The pictures were graphic and plain icky and I shuddered. “I suppose that’s worse.”

  Matias walked past and punched me on the arm. “Hey, gnome-girl, hear you landed a follow-up piece. Nice one.”

  I scowled. “Matias, you do realize I dislike you?”

  “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a gnome.” He winked and walked off.

  I groaned, went back to my desk and called Simon.

  Chapter 6

  Simon and I met at what was becoming “our” deli two hours later for lunch and ordered our usual bagels.

  “I liked the story, Tobi,” he said as we took our seats.

  A glimmer of warmth unfurled in my chest. “Thanks. What did the others think?”

  “Mom says they loved it, though Valentina and Ethel were scandalized by the pictures of the ‘lewd positions’.” He laughed and leaned back. “Anna thought she was famous and tells everyone she meets that she’s from the gnome street.”

  Our bagels arrived and I handed over my pickle garnish as I spoke. “Any
more incidents?”

  Pickle at his mouth, he waggled it like a Groucho Marx cigar. “Nope, we’re gnome-crime free. What are you going to write about this time?”

  “I have no idea.” The glimmer of warmth morphed into a sinking weight that fell to my stomach. I put my bagel down. “It was stretching it to make an entire article the first time—especially without discovering the culprit. I was hoping you’d have some ideas.” I attempted an impersonation of Anna’s face when she’d wanted a second piece of cherry pie—toothy smile, pleading eyes and a touch of hero-worship for good measure.

  I don’t think it was as successful for me because he laughed. “Nope, not unless you want some architectural advice on the houses.”

  “I can’t see how that’d fit in.” I went back to my bagel.

  He shrugged. “Then I’m empty, sorry.”

  “What about the women sharing at number one? It’s a long shot, but I haven’t met them yet—they might have something new to offer.”

  He swallowed his mouthful and nodded. “They’re really hard to catch, but it’s a start.”

  We ate in silence.

  Silence is an interesting thing. Growing up in a house with Grace and my mother, silence was rare. They were always talking to each other, or on the phone, or to themselves. Or to me. Then there were the background sounds of hairdryers, TV talk shows, wind chimes, and music. And that was a quiet day with Mom and mini-Mom.

  I’m a no-noise kind of girl.

  Grace thinks it’s because I’m an introvert and they’re both extroverts, but I think I developed the trait as a weapon. The only defense a child/teen could use against the non-stop noise pollution? Refuse to participate. Become aloof. It was useful in journalism as well. A well-timed silence can bring forth a range of confessions. So to me, silence was a tactic. Either in attack or defense.

  Yet, this silence with Simon as we ate our bagels at the Green Chile Deli didn’t fit into either category. It was actually … comfortable.

  Which made me uncomfortable. It was beyond my experience.

  I polished off my bagel and rushed to fill the void. “So, Simon, tell me about your neighbors. What don’t I know?”