I raked furiously, grumbling as I whacked at the lawn. Out of the corner of my eye, I viewed Fernando exit his house, get into his pickup, and drive away.

  Had Fernando seen Don talking to me?

  I collected the piles of dry turf, deposited them into a garbage bag, and left the waste at the curb. I retreated to the garage, propped the rake, and hit the remote. Inside, I marched upstairs to the bathroom to clean up.

  “Oh, dang it all to heck!” After a few more curses, I stared at the mess. The shiny, new mirror Eddy and I had hung, lay on the floor, shattered into a million pieces. The frame was busted at the corners. Sighing, I called Don on my cell and waited outside for his return.

  “It’s vandalism,” he said. “Someone ripped it off the wall. If the mirror wasn’t secure and fell, it would crack, but not shatter.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I surveyed the mess. He scribbled on a notepad. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know. I left when I saw the broken glass.”

  “Good. Let’s see if there’s any more damage.”

  “Okay.” We started with the upper level and circled through the empty bedrooms and back. I shook my head. “Doesn’t look like any other breakage.”

  “Let’s check out the lower level.” The floors were bare, awaiting carpet from Fast Floors. Wide windows let in light. I noted the dust, another cleaning project I’d tackle after they installed the new carpet. At the far side of the family room, there was an access panel to the crawl space. Don spotted the entry, removed the door, leaned in, and said. “Looks clear.”

  I walked the hallway, opened a small coat closet, viewed the two small bedrooms, and the small bath. I stopped at the bathroom entry and stared at the toilet. The lid was up. My habit was to keep the lid down. I stepped two feet into the room. My heart sped up, and I hyperventilated, staring at the toilet. The long tail of a rodent hung over the edge of the bowl. I screamed and let out a quick gasp. Don came running and stopped behind me.

  “Should get the exterminator and call a plumber,” he said. Backing up, I fumbled my way around his body and stared from the entry.

  I peeked around his bulk, “Oh, double dang!” I shuddered.

  “The animal’s dead, Katelyn.” He chuckled. “Can’t hurt anything now. Rats can enter through the toilet. Call the plumber.”

  “But I always shut the lid!” It was routine; a quirk of mine.

  “Then someone wanted you to find it, sooner than later.” He shot me a quick glance and stepped back.

  “That does it!” I shouted, and headed upstairs.

  “If you get a bag, I’ll take it out,” he called. “Bring gloves, if you have them?”

  I rummaged through drawers and found two empty bags saved from my home store shopping. I snatched up a pair of yellow rubber gloves, detoured to the garage, grabbed a garden hoe, and headed to the bath.

  “Here.” I offered the items.

  He slipped on the gloves, took the tool and lifted the rodent into the bag. He stood up, and double bagged the vermin. “I hope you know; this goes above and beyond the call of duty.” He tied the package.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but the exterminator said there wasn’t any sign of infestation.”

  “I’ll add it to my report. Wouldn’t hurt to have him do another check. A plumber can fix the toilet so it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” My stomach sunk; more bills. “You think the rat swam through the sewer pipes? If the exterminator thinks not, then whoever left the rodent meant it as another warning.”

  Don didn’t answer. That was the only confirmation I needed.

  He dusted for prints around the toilet and on the mirror. We each took pictures of the damage. The glass wasn’t a big enough item to submit to insurance. Its destruction felt like another threat, like the rodents.

  After he left, I locked up, wondering who was trying to scare me, and why. What had I gotten myself into? I reviewed when I’d left the doors open, and couldn’t recall any time, except for when I did the outdoor work. Today? It was unlikely. I’d been outside, and it was broad daylight. If not then, someone must have a key, or knew how to get past locked doors. Then I remembered how fast Wayne had jimmied the lock to Ariel’s old townhouse the night she was found dead.

  If he could get past a secured door, someone else could do the same.

  Chapter 20

  I called Randy of Randy’s Plumbing. Once again, he picked up, and I marveled that a plumber would answer his calls and not let them go to voice mail. I explained about the rodent and he responded in a calm tone with a charge, and added, “I can be there in an hour.”

  “Great.” It bothered me he didn’t seem put off by the job, and asked, “Does this kind of thing happen a lot?”

  “No. It’s not that common.”

  “Okay.”

  I locked the door behind me while I raked the front lawn and waited for Randy. I wasn’t ready to tackle cleaning up another mirror and wanted some space between me and the damage. While I groomed the lawn, I surreptitiously watched Fernando’s place. I hoped he hadn’t put it together––that my visit had prompted a call from the sheriff. His truck was gone, and I presumed the coast was clear. I felt sheepish that Don had found nothing more sinister than marinara sauce, and kept my focus on the fact that I’d need another mirror and the charges I’d rack up from a plumber, and an exterminator.

  Randy pulled into the drive exactly an hour later. He stepped out of his truck and I stopped my lawn work.

  “Hey, Randy.” I laid the rake down and brushed my jeans.

  “Which toilet had the varmint?” His mouth puckered, fighting a smirk.

  “The basement. What can you do to prevent a rat in the toilet?” I asked, resigned.

  “I’ll install a special flap that closes before a rat can get through the sewer pipe.”

  “Sounds good.” I unlocked the door, and he followed.

  “You always lock up when you’re outside?” he asked.

  “When I’m inside too.” I glanced back at him, sensing his presence behind me.

  “Smart.” His gaze was cool. Why did he ask and why did he notice? Suddenly, I was uneasy in his presence. He noticed my nervousness, and said, “Stuff can happen any time, in any neighborhood. Best to keep everything secure.”

  I hesitated. “Yes. I’ve had some vandalism.”

  “That’s tough.” He nodded, sympathetic.

  “It’s not good.” I showed him to the lower bath.

  “I’ll get started. Should do both toilets,” he said.

  “Yes.” I’d already factored in two toilets. “So, double the rate you quoted?”

  “Two toilets, two flaps.”

  “Yep.” I sighed. Randy didn’t work cheap. “I’ll leave you to your job.”

  I headed upstairs to clean up the broken mirror, cursing as I collected the pieces, keeping an ear out for Randy’s progress. After double bagging the shards of glass, sweeping, then damp mopping to get any stray pieces, Randy appeared at the entry.

  “Ready to do this toilet?” I asked.

  “Yep.” He had his tool kit in hand and waited for me to leave. He’d worked up a sweat and removed his hat. His bald spot shined with perspiration, and his shirt was soaked.

  While he worked, I called Tim from the Exterminator R Us company. He promised to be out the next day.

  I struggled to make small talk with Randy. I was curious about his relationship with Fernando and Sarah, his father’s ex-wife.

  “Did you live in Mesa?”

  “Yep.”

  “You worked there too?”

  “I worked with my dad until the market went bust. It forced dad to sell to Vinnie.”

  “Who’s Vinnie?”

  “Vincent Deala,” he grimaced. “He was my dad’s partner. A crook.”

  “Oh?” I waited for an explanation. He pursed his lips.

  “Must have been tough on your dad?”

  “Yep.” He frowned.

  “So, Vinnie still owns the business?”

  “Guess so.” He shrugged and let the toilet lid slam.

  “Tough times.” Randy must be bummed, if he’d thought he’d take over the business from his father. Did Randy Sr. really want to sell? “Do you like Minnesota?”

  “It’s okay. Hard to build a business again.” He shot me a cool look.

  “I get that. You seem to do okay. I see your truck around the neighborhood a fair amount.”

  “Uh huh.” He collected his tools, stood up, and adjusted his hat. “I’ll get your invoice.”

  “Sure.” I waited in the entry, credit card in hand, while he went to his truck to figure my bill. He stood at the van’s passenger’s door, writing. When he finished, he ripped off a form and met me. I handed him my card, “I know. There’s a fee for credit cards.”

  “Yep.” He ran my card, and I signed off.

  Not very chatty.

  Tim came the next morning, and I breathed a sigh of relief after he inspected the lower level and outside grounds and didn’t find droppings or nests for Norway rats. That meant Randy’s visit likely stopped any swimming rodents. It was worth the money for the peace of mind.

  “You could have a prankster in the neighborhood.” He charged my card for another visit.

  “Maybe.” I bit my bottom lip and frowned.

  He left, and I searched the perimeter of the residence, filling in around exposed pipes with a white foam, and leaving boxes of rat poison as a precaution.

  I gnashed my teeth and bought another mirror for the bathroom. Eddy helped install the unframed simple plate glass.

  “Looks great, Kate.”

  “I guess. I’d liked the ritzy frame on the broken mirror.” I grimaced and threw up my hands.

  “This way, the new owner can put their finishing touches on the home.” He grinned. “Sometimes, you have to let it go.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed, viewing the bathroom. I couldn’t afford an expensive mirror with the additional bills and delays in the project. Time was money, and the months had flown. The longer the dwelling stayed unoccupied, the costlier the renovation.

  I worked several nights into the wee hours of the morning to finish cleaning and painting. It was during these marathon work efforts that I heard noises and dismissed them as part of an overtired and overactive imagination. I wasn’t going down the path of anything or anyone haunting this rehab. I had to keep my eyes on the prize. A finished home listed and sold.

  In the early morning hours of one of my last long sessions, I heard sounds of shouting. I went to the picture window and peered out. Randy’s van was parked in Fernando’s driveway and the two men were arguing. I crept downstairs and opened the front door a crack to hear the commotion. The surrounding homes were dark and quiet while the men shouted.

  “You threw everything out?” Randy yelled; his voice ringing. “You bastard!”

  “She wanted to be free of the life she had with your father!”

  “You lie! She was ready to leave you! My father wants her stuff!”

  “The boxes are gone. Sarah would never leave me. You are a sick man!”

  I held my breath and listened. A gust of wind caught the screen door, and it flew open with a creak and slammed shut. The noise caught the two men’s attention, and they looked over. I pretended not to notice their argument and latched the screen. Randy marched to his vehicle and drove away, agitated, mouthing what appeared to be profanities. Fernando saw my retreat and went inside.

  I thought about their argument and remembered the containers Fernando had disposed of in the first dumpster. They’d looked like mementos from earlier years in Sarah’s life. What if she’d packed them to take to a new life? Maybe she didn’t mean to dispose of them, as Fernando claimed? Don had taken the cartons for his investigators to sort through for possible clues to her death. I’d heard nothing about the contents, and it was doubtful I would, given he wouldn’t disclose anything about the investigation.

  I called Randy later that morning. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, I have another job; could you inspect the hose to the washing machine?” By now, my calls to Randy were probably keeping his business afloat.

  “Is the hose cracked?”

  “No. Not that I can see. I’m having carpet installed, and the washer is in an area next to the new flooring. I want to be sure the hoses are good before they install the new carpet.”

  “Every homeowner should have hoses and faucets inspected annually.”

  “Sure.” Another thing to do.

  “If you need work, I’ll give you an estimate then. I can be there about four o’clock today.”

  “Perfect.”

  Later that afternoon, I watched for Randy’s truck.

  “You again,” he commented, and I smiled. He was all business as he examined the hose to the machine and did a routine inspection of other faucets. I trailed him as he checked all the connections. “It’s a good thing you called.”

  “Oh?”

  “This faucet is leaking.” We were in front of the house and he pointed to a trickle of water after he closed the spigot. While I observed the dribble, he stared past my shoulder at Fernando’s. His lip curled, and his focus narrowed.

  “Oh?” Figures. I’d just turned on the main control to the outdoor faucets for watering the lawn and bushes. I ignored his distracted manner.

  “I can change it now.” He pursed his lips.

  “Sure.” He heard me sigh. “It’ll cost you a bunch more on the utility bill, if you don’t fix it.”

  “No. Go ahead.” Ka-ching, ka-ching.

  I hung out and trimmed bushes while he fixed the leaky faucet.

  “I suppose you get into a lot of muck and pests as a plumber?”

  “Yep.” He brought out a wrench from a toolbox.

  “Like the sewer rat in my toilet?” I clipped a branch from an evergreen shrub.

  “Yep.” He hesitated and tightened the faucet.

  “You do jobs all over the city?”

  “Yep.” He inhaled, frowning at the connection. Randy was not a talker.

  When he finished, he straightened, and said, “I’ll get your bill.”

  I went inside, retrieved my credit card and met him at his van.

  “So, does your dad still live in Arizona? Their summers are beastly hot,” I said, trying to make polite conversation while he ran my charge.

  “No. He hated Arizona. He’s a Minnesota native; loves the four seasons.”

  “Oh? What kind of work does he do?” He had loosened up, and I wanted to keep him talking.

  “Retired. Does odds and ends kind of jobs.”

  That sounded vague, but I went for it. “I could use a handyman.”

  “I’ll tell him.” He relaxed.

  “Do that. Does he live nearby?”

  “No.” He was brusque and handed off the receipt. “Thank you for your business.” He shook my hand and motored away, making a final stare toward the neighbor’s house. Randy wasn’t giving me much information. He’d started to talk about his father. Not so much about his work. Later, I would Google.

  By the time he left, I was exhausted. It was dinnertime, and I needed to feed Boots, clean up, eat, and research Randy Jackson, Sr. I won’t lie; mostly, I wanted to snooze. It’d been a restless night, and I was operating on about three hours of sleep. That morning, I’d fed the cat, ate a quick breakfast, filled up on strong coffee, and hustled back to the house for more chores.

  I glanced in my rearview mirror and backed out of the driveway, smacking into the side of Fernando’s red pickup. The impact jolted me.

  “OMG.” I jumped out and stared at the creased fender. “I can’t believe it. I looked!” In my haste to leave, I didn’t see the truck. Lack of sleep does funny things to your vision.

  “It is okay, Katelyn. Insurance will cover it.” Fernando had heard the impact inside his home and ran out to the vehicle.

  “OMG, I didn’t see it! Isn’t it usually in the drive?” I protested, flustered.

  “Yes. I parked on the street. I will sealcoat the driveway today.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll get my insurance information.” I grabbed my messenger bag and dug out the card.

  “I will give you mine.” He slipped his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, and flipped through the clear holders. We scribbled our data on scraps of paper from my purse.

  “You have pictures?” I glimpsed a photo of a blonde woman. “I love pictures.”

  “Yes. It is my Sarah.” He opened his wallet, displaying the worn photo. “I’m afraid it is old.”

  “No problem. She’s beautiful.” My stomach churned. It was the same picture I’d taken from the bins he’d dumped. But the man Sarah had posed with had been clipped out.

  “We were planning to take a new picture, but time got away from us. It is sad. Time is fleeting and precious.”

  “You said you and Sarah had been married a year?” I kept my expression neutral. Plenty of time to take a new picture.

  “Ahh,” he sighed, “we were married for many years, in each other’s eyes.”

  I frowned.

  “Our living together was commitment enough for us.”

  “But it wasn’t a legal marriage?” I guessed.

  “A license is just a piece of paper.” His sad eyes implored.

  I groaned inwardly. As a single woman, I’d heard that line a few times.

  “She was lovely.” I smiled, meeting his gaze.

  I slid in behind the wheel of my Ford with the newly dented corner and drove home. What is it with men who don’t want to make a legal commitment?

  After a hot shower and dinner, I repeated my thoughts to Myra over the telephone. I’d settled in on the sofa with my computer, ready to Google Randy Jackson.

  “I agree with you. A man should commit legally to a woman he loves.” I felt vindicated and fully supported. She added, “Perhaps she didn’t care to commit.”

  “Okay.”

  “Like you with Eddy?” She reminded me of his casual marriage proposal before Lola moved into the Bluebird Street residence. My anxiety had risen, remembering our fast and furious year as teenage newlyweds, and all I could think was, Nooooooo.

  “You think Sarah didn’t want to marry Fernando?”

 

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