“Grabby,” Phillips said as if he knew what he was talking about. “Not just about women, either.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
He turned and began to stroll down Franklin Street, hands clasped behind his back. “That’s what our feud was about. You see, I inherited my house from my mother. My father built it shortly after World War II.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“It was how things were often done back then. And my father was a master craftsman.”
“Even more impressive. So, what happened? With Nixon, I mean.”
“Well, when the Nixons moved in, August immediately had the land resurveyed. Turns out, the fence which had been put in several decades earlier was actually partially on his property.”
“But possession is nine-tenths of the law or something, right?” I’d read that somewhere. Property laws often broke down to who was actually making use of the land, regardless of what old documents said. The neighbors simply signed an agreement, perhaps a changed a token amount of money, and everything was hunky dory.
“You’d think so,” Mr. Phillips agreed, “and I thought that would be the case. And after months of expensive lawyers and court visits, it looked like it was going my way.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t.”
“We’ll never know,” he said grimly. “One night, August rammed his car into the fence, taking half of it out in one fell swoop.”
“Crikey!”
“Indeed. It wasn’t that I cared so much about the land or the fence, but my mother had planted some beautiful rosebushes along the fence after my father died. She cared for them like they were her babies. If things went against me, I planned to relocate them, but August never gave me a chance.”
“He destroyed the roses?”
“Every one of them.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“It does,” he admitted. “And it led to a decades-long feud with my neighbor.”
“You couldn’t forgive him?” I asked.
“Oh, that wasn’t the problem. He sued me for damage to his car.”
“What a jerk!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Or rather, I could. August Nixon had been a big, fat louse. Worse than a louse. “Do the police know about your feud? Because they might decide you’re a suspect.” Though I couldn’t see him being a killer.
“Oh, they know,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But I have an alibi.”
“Well, that’s good. Especially if you can prove it easily.” I hoped he’d get my nudge.
“Oh, believe me, I can.”
I waited. Surely he’d tell me.
“I was at the police station.”
“SERIOUSLY?” CHERYL asked, eyes wide. Her hair was spikier than usual and...
Was she wearing glitter? Naw, I had to be imagining it.
“That’s what Charles Phillips said. He was in the middle of reporting some kids for vandalism. I double checked with Bilson, the duty clerk, and she confirmed it.”
Cheryl and I were sitting with Nina at her wine bar, enjoying a late afternoon glass of wine. Outside, it was raining in earnest. Lucas had left straight after the memorial, as he had a reading at Powell’s Books in Portland the next day.
“Vandalism?” Nina asked. “In Astoria?” She sounded amused. “What did they do? TP his front lawn?”
“Actually,” I smirked, “that’s exactly what they did.”
Nina chortled. Cheryl shook her head and said, “You gotta love small towns. But I guess that means we can cross Charles Phillips off the suspect list.”
I nodded. “The police sure have. It’s pretty obvious. Hard to be in two places at once, and it doesn’t get much better of an alibi than a police station.”
“No kidding.” Nina leaned against the bar and reached over to top off my glass. Pinot noir today. “Well, I’m sorry I missed old August’s memorial. Bet it was a hoot.”
“It was certainly interesting,” I admitted. I’d left out the detail about me getting drunk the night before the memorial service and leaving a note on Bat’s police vehicle. I already felt like a big enough idiot.
“I’m relieved you talked Lucas into going instead of me,” Cheryl said. “I hate memorial services. Plus that looming deadline.” She stared forlornly into her glass.
“Don’t tell me you’re blocked, too,” I said. It happened to the best of us. Not in the way people talked about, like you had no idea what to write. More like, you got stuck in a plot. You weren’t sure which way to move or what should happen next. How to connect point D to point J, as it were. It always happened. Every time. Every book. It was always to be expected, and always frustrating. Usually for me, the best way to shake it was to do something else. Something random and new. Or something fun and enjoyable. I’d feel guilty half the time, but it was a necessary part of the creative process. So far, though, it wasn’t working.
“Totally,” she said, taking a sip. “Stupid Dirk got his stupid butt locked up in a Hungarian prison with no way out.”
“Helicopter,” I suggested.
She blinked. “What?”
“One of his cohorts could land on the roof with a helicopter and break him out.”
“Can’t. No one knows he’s in Hungary.”
“Dynamite.” Nina’s suggestion.
Cheryl shook her head. “Where would he get it? Not like they have stacks of the stuff lying around in Hungarian prisons.”
“Fake illness.”
We all stared down at the end of the bar where Lloyd sat in his usual spot, nursing a glass of cheap table wine. He always bought a bottle at a time and never paid more than ten dollars a bottle.
“What are you talking about, Lloyd?” Nina demanded, propping one fist on her hip. She was wearing jeans today with a snug, navy sweater. Her Saturday work uniform.
“Hungary is part of the EU. Got standards, even in prisons. Prisoner gets sick enough, they gotta take him to the hospital, don’t they? Then he can escape. Easier from a hospital.” Lloyd buried his nose in his glass again.
Cheryl hopped off the stool, dashed to the end of the bar, and planted a big kiss on Lloyd’s cheek. “You’re a genius,”
