“Randall does have a bit of a bee in his bonnet about the Pruitts,” Clarence said.
“This time he might be onto something,” I said. “Apparently the mayor talked the county into backing a loan for the beautification project. And the payments on that loan are what’s behind the whole county budget crisis.”
“That’s … ridiculous,” he said.
“You think Randall’s got it wrong?” I asked.
“No,” Clarence said. The puppy finished with the bottle, and Clarence cradled it to him as if it needed protection from something. “Randall’s probably right. To think that they were about to kill this little guy and his brothers and sisters, just to pay for a bunch of stupid cobblestones and pretentious gas lamps.”
“So while I’m fetching a suit for Parker’s funeral, do you mind if I poke around a bit to see if I can find any evidence of this investigation Randall thinks Parker was conducting?”
“Mind? I think it’s a great idea. Poke all you like; we’ll hold down the fort here.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m taking off now.”
I didn’t set off for another hour. First, I made a pit stop, pumped some milk, called Michael to check on the boys, and gathered some snooping equipment. Just because my visit was okay with Clarence didn’t mean the chief would be happy about it. But I figured as long as I took him anything I found, he couldn’t be that mad. And what would be the harm if I took a few photos of anything that might turn out to be useful in fighting the proposed golf course? So, in addition to a tote large enough to hold file folders, I took along my little digital camera and a couple of spare batteries. By a little past noon, I was on my way.
Chapter 12
Parker had lived in Goose Neck, a neighborhood Michael and I had kept a close eye on back when we were house hunting. The houses dated from the twenties and thirties, all relatively small but charming and set far back on fairly large lots full of mature trees and shrubs. They were originally built by people coming off the farm to work at the Pruitt mills and the other businesses in the town, and most of them were still owned by descendents of their original owners. Try as we might over several years, Michael and I never saw a single “for sale” sign in the whole neighborhood, or found even one listing in our Realtor’s database. I finally realized that when people in Goose Neck wanted to sell their houses, they didn’t put up a sign or call a real-estate agent. They put out the word among their family and friends. Mother would approve.
The house was hidden behind towering hedges and shaded by several enormous cherry and oak trees. It was a squat red-brick bungalow, fronted by a small but substantial brick-framed porch. English ivy was making a good try at covering up the house entirely, and the unkempt boxwood and azalea bushes crowding the outside walls probably kept out what little natural light got past the oaks. It looked as if it would be cool and shady in summer and snug enough to be warm in the winter.
And it had an unsettling air of familiarity. I had spent many childhood hours visiting a great-aunt who’d lived in just such a quiet, tree-shaded little brick bungalow back in Yorktown.
Not what I’d expected of Parker at all.
If the similarity to Great Aunt Felicity’s house continued, I’d find that Parker’s house had a cellar reachable only by an outside entrance, and that the dormers I could see peeking through the ivy gave light to a roomy, old-fashioned attic.
The ancient wooden screen door squeaked as I opened it. The porch was as serene a retreat as it looked from the outside, and the old-fashioned metal chairs and glider looked curiously familiar and inviting.
The porch opened into a small living room. To the left, an archway led into a dining room. Straight ahead of me, a hallway led back, no doubt to the bedrooms. Common sense told me I should go straight to the closets to carry out my primary mission.
I decided to check out the rest of the house first.
The uncanny sense of déjà vu continued. The house was furnished entirely in a pre-war style of furniture that probably had a high-falutin’ name when antique shops sold it and decorators like Mother bought it. I just called it comfortable and old-fashioned.
And the more I looked around, the less I believed that Parker had bought any of it. I peeked behind the dining room sideboard to find, as I expected, that the old-fashioned flower-sprigged wallpaper was bright and unfaded behind it, in a shape that precisely matched the shape of the sideboard.
The books in the glass-fronted bookcases were new. One shelf held paperback thrillers, arranged by author, and the rest of the shelves housed a neatly alphabetized collection of books on zoology and ecology. And in spite of the vintage furniture, the general effect of the rooms wasn’t old-fashioned, mainly because there wasn’t a single knickknack or crochet-edged doily in sight.