In the latest iteration of Magnum, P.I. on TV, the guy goes around wrecking his pal’s Ferraris with astonishing regularity and discussing his exploits with a good-looking blonde who happens to be a retired secret agent. Scenes containing both characters are filled with plenty of flirting, complete with banter filled with all kinds of sexual innuendos. I, on the other hand, was reduced to discussing my cases with a dog. Was that a surprise? Not really. I admit I was a bit startled the first few times I found myself talking to Lucy, but I’m used to it now. I especially like the fact that she doesn’t talk back, although she always appears to be interested in what I’m saying and maintains steady eye contact. Besides, she was here as my backup, and I felt it was important to keep the lines of communication between me and my partner up and running.
By the time Lucy and I finished our little walk, the mist had morphed into a drenching rain, and we were both soaked. I keep a canvas seat saver in the backseat of the S550. That way, if Lucy has wet or muddy paws when she climbs into the car, she doesn’t get dirt all over the leather upholstery. After putting her into the backseat, I found myself wondering about the official-looking sign I’d seen plastered on that hunk of front-door plywood. Leaving Lucy in the car, I hiked a leg over the orange netting barrier and walked up to what had once been Naomi Dale’s house.
Here the porch was still attached, but it was nonetheless very dicey. The wood surfaces were all coated with moss, and as soon as I started up the steps, I slipped and tumbled right back down. I wasn’t hurt. I had landed in muddy grass that was forgiving enough that I didn’t damage either of my fake knees, but by the time I got back on my feet, I discovered that an invisible nail on the step railing had taken a gouge out of my jacket sleeve, tearing the material, but without slicing into the skin of my forearm. The poor blazer, which had been fresh from the cleaners that morning, was now both dirty and done for.
Up close and personal, the posted sign was official and to the point: THIS PROPERTY CONDEMNED! The fine print declared that the residence had been red-flagged by the city building inspectors and was no longer fit for human habitation. The sign was dated December 23, 2016.
“Way to go, guys,” I muttered under my breath, addressing any number of nameless and faceless city bureaucrats and building inspectors. Obviously the powers-that-be at city hall had nothing on Charles Dickens’s good old Mr. Scrooge and had seen fit to throw a pregnant woman out onto the streets just in time for Christmas. Happy holidays indeed!
About that time Lucy started barking like mad. Hurrying toward the Mercedes, I saw a white-haired woman wearing a bright yellow slicker and using a walker standing near my car. As I headed in that direction, she hobbled away from the Mercedes with Lucy still inside and voicing her very strenuous objections. Spotting me, the woman stopped short and waited while I scrambled back over the netting.
Looking at her, I had no idea how old she might be, although I estimated her age to be somewhere in the neighborhood of upper eighties to low nineties. A prominent widow’s hump was so severe that she had to look at me sideways as I approached, peering up at me through thick, Coke-bottle lenses.
“And just who might you be?” she demanded.
I learned a long time ago that a homicide investigator’s best friend is often the nosy little old lady who lives next door. Eventually that might prove true in this case as well, but for right now she was regarding me with enough ferocity that I was afraid she was going to haul off and whack me over the head with her walker.
“My name is J. P. Beaumont,” I told her. “I’m a private investigator. And you are?”
“Hilda,” the old lady said. “Hilda Tanner, but most people call me Hildie.”
I reached into the side pocket of my soaked jacket and dug out what was now a very soggy business card. The cards were newly printed and had come in a box with a little faux leather carrier, which I’d left behind that morning when I slipped several pristine cards into the pocket of my freshly dry-cleaned jacket. Now