Aunt Amelia took the book from Kate’s hand and said, “I remember Fenton reading Dick and Jane books in elementary school, but the ones he read had the word ‘New’ next to the title. I hope the woman buys it. I feel bad we had to close the emporium shops today and you’re losing out on sales. If she doesn’t buy it from you, I will.”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia,” Kate said. “If she doesn’t purchase it, I’ll find the perfect home—it’s what I live for. Plus, if the shops weren’t closed, I wouldn’t have gotten those two boxes of treasure I rescued at that first yard sale, or the sailboat weather vane from the second sale.”
The musty odor from Kate’s treasure boxes filled the back of the van. A few minutes earlier they’d set off a series of sneezes from Liz that almost caused the van’s windows to explode. Kate’s prized sailboat weather vane was missing its east-west indicator—not much help during one of the barrier island’s frequent gales.
Aunt Amelia handed over the book. Kate left the engine running, got out, and scurried up the chipped and potholed walkway toward the small brick house. The yard was overgrown with the typical, spiky Florida grass that caused you to yelp if you walked barefoot on it. That was one thing Liz missed about Manhattan. Central Park in the summer, lying on a blanket with a book or your boyfr—She let the image fade.
Liz watched as Kate peered into the front picture window. The blinds were closed, but there were gaps where numerous slats were missing. Kate rang the doorbell. After a few minutes, she banged on the door. Then she looked back at the van and shrugged her shoulders.
“Kate might need help,” Liz said. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
Aunt Amelia didn’t hear her—she was too busy reading an article from one of the vintage magazines she’d bought at the second garage sale entitled, Tattletales from Television.
When Liz caught up with Kate, she said, “I’ll go check the back. You look in the windows to see whether there’s furniture and maybe grab some mail from the mailbox. On second thought, you’d better not. Stealing mail is a felony.” She knew better—she’d just dared Kate.
“It’s only a crime if you steal mail, not take a picture of it and place it back.” She opened the mailbox and clicked her tongue. “Doesn’t matter. There’s only a coupon flyer for Space Coast Pizza addressed to ‘Current Resident’.”
“Darn,” Liz said. “I have to report back to Detective Betty. Failure is not an option.”
“Excuse me, young ladies, can I help you?” A man came toward them from the house next door, brandishing a hand rake. His yard looked like the Garden of Eden compared to the unkempt property on which they were now standing.
They walked toward him.
“We’re looking for Greta Kimball or her daughter, Iris,” Liz said. “Will they be home soon?”
He chivalrously took off his Atlanta Braves baseball cap and looked them over. “You’re not selling anything, are you? We don’t allow door-to-door salesmen or saleswomen around here.”
“We aren’t selling anything,” Kate said. “We’ve lost touch with the Kimballs. We’re down here on vacay and wanted to look them up for old times’ sake.”
Liz quickly waved the envelope in front of him. “We got a Christmas card last year and we wanted to stop by and catch up.” She strategically placed her hand over Iris’s name.
The man ran the fingers of his free hand through his thick mane of white hair, making furrows ready to seed.
“I love your sausages,” Kate said.
Liz whipped her head around to face Kate, then she followed Kate’s gaze, which was aimed at the man’s front yard. Sure enough, there was a tree sprouting two-foot-long sausages.
He said, “Ain’t she a beaut! Kigelia Africana. Saw one in the Africa section at Walt Disney World’s Animal Kingdom and discovered that our local nursery sells them. Two years later, I have sausages up the kazoo. The sausages are the fruit. Have you ever seen the flowers up close?”
“No,” Kate said. “I’d love to see them. Come on, Liz, let’s go check out his sausage…” Liz held her breath. After a two-second pause, Kate finished her sentence, “…tree.”
They walked into the yard and saw, among the sausages, bell-shaped magenta flowers that, instead of hanging vertically, hung horizontally. After Liz and Kate oohed and aahed, the man smiled, and the gates opened to any misgivings he had about sharing the whereabouts of whom he called “poor Greta Kimball.”
After getting everything they needed and more from Pete Foster, former semipro golfer and wicked shrimp-boil maker, they got back in the van. Aunt Amelia was engrossed in another vintage movie-star magazine. Liz leaned forward from the back seat and saw a full-page head shot of the actress Anne Francis, with a caption, “Private Detective—Honey West.”
Kate looked over at the open pages. “I have a pulp fiction copy of the first Honey West book, This Girl for Hire, by G.G. Fickling. Honey West was one of the first female private eyes in fiction. G.G. Fickling was a pseudonym for a husband-wife writing team. The wife was a fashion editor for Look magazine and Women’s Wear Daily, and the husband a former U.S. Marine. Aunt Amelia, I’ll give you my copy of the book, if you want it?”
“Oh, sweetie, I appreciate it, but I’m more of a visual person, always have been. I love watching faces and gestures—a window to the soul, I always say.”
Liz couldn’t help but ask, “What kind of soul did Regina Harrington-Worth have?”
“We aren’t our outward appearances, Liz. You know that better than most. For all we know, Mrs. Worth could have been a scared and lonely child, hiding behind a façade of anger and entitlement.”
Liz didn’t think so, but she let her great-aunt believe what she wished. “Then I wonder what the soul of the person who killed her looked like?”
They all remained quiet after Liz’s comment.
Chapter 24
When they
