Bad Move

“Listen,” Sarah said, softly. “About that. They don’t want it.”

“Whaddya mean? I thought it was a great angle. Former reporter, goes on to write science fiction, finds a body. It’s a perfect first-person thing. It would be what I believe you call an exclusive.”

“I know, and I thought it was a great idea. But we’ve already heard back from Scott and Folks.” The reporter and photog I saw. “And they’ve phoned in, say it’s just some guy, might be murder, might not.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, it happened in Oakwood. The main desk doesn’t care about the suburbs. Nothing ever happens there.”

“But something did just happen here.”

“Yeah, but the way they see it is, even when something does happen in the suburbs, it’s not worth running, because nothing ever happens there.”

I stood there at the edge of the woods, where there were seven police cars lined up along the shoulder of the road, and said nothing.

“You there?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you when you get home.”

WHILE I WOULD HAVE BEEN up for writing an account of my early afternoon adventure, I wasn’t much in the mood for getting back to work on my book. But I sat down at the computer anyway, and there was an e-mail from my editor, Tom Darling. It was, for Tom, a fairly long message. It read, “Whr is it?” Tom was the kind of guy who could edit Moby Dick down to a news brief.

I wasn’t overdue with the manuscript. My contract gave me nearly another month, but Tom was used to me handing things in ahead of schedule, so for me to be taking the time I was allowed was probably throwing him into a panic. The sequel to Missionary was already in the fall catalogue, so not to deliver it on time would be something of an embarrassment to Tom and those to whom he answered. I clicked on “Reply” and wrote, “Had computer virus, lost manuscript with only one chapter to go. Will have to start again. Hope this isn’t a problem.” And then I clicked on “Send.”

Tom must have been sitting on his computer when my note arrived, because less than two minutes later I was notified of a new message. It read, “Dnt fck wth me.” How a guy with these kinds of typing and people skills ended up as an editor with a name like Darling was beyond me.

I called up a chapter I’d been working on, but couldn’t concentrate. I brought up a Star Wars computer game and tried to destroy the Death Star, but even the images of intergalactic explosions couldn’t erase Samuel Spender, as I’d last seen him, from my mind.

So I turned away from the computer, looked at a shoebox full of receipts and tax statements, and tried to occupy my mind with financial matters. Soon I’d have to gather all my tax stuff together and try to figure out my annual return. Rather than hire an accountant to figure out all the possible deductions, I usually tried to do it myself, relying on bits and pieces of information gleaned from talking to others who worked from home, like Trixie.

She was a better person to talk to than most. She’d sat at the kitchen table and told me about her business as an accountant. She suggested that maybe it was time to stop getting free advice, much of it unreliable, and go to an expert. I could turn everything in the shoebox over to her, and she would find more deductions than I ever could. I decided right then and there to bring my shoebox over to Trixie. The truth was, I wanted to tell someone about what had happened, about finding my first body. I was, to put it mildly, a bit wired.

I decided to call her first.

I got out the phone book, then couldn’t remember her last name. I wasn’t sure I’d ever known her last name. For that matter, what was Earl’s last name? I’m not good with names, first or last. You send me into a party, introduce me to a dozen people, and I won’t retain so much as an initial.

I thought maybe if I looked up accountants in the yellow pages, when I came across Trixie’s last name it would jump out at me. There were three full pages of them, and I ran my finger down one column after another, scanning, looking for a name that would make me go “Yes!”

Nothing.

I repeated the exercise, this time looking for an accountant whose office was on our street. No luck there, either.

So maybe Trixie didn’t list herself in the yellow pages. Maybe it was a word-of-mouth thing. Or maybe clients were referred to her. The bottom line was, I wasn’t going to be able to phone her at the moment.

I stepped out the front door and far enough into the yard to see Trixie’s place. Her Acura was in the driveway, plus a new, small Lexus, in black. So she had a client. I didn’t want to bother her when she was in the middle of doing somebody else’s books. I could wait until they left.

Down the other way, the housecoat lady was out watering her driveway again. I hadn’t forgotten her first or last name, because we’d never been formally introduced. I would nod hello as I walked by, and that was good enough for me. I’m not sure what kind of conversation you can expect to have with someone whose only goal in life is owning a driveway clear of microscopic debris.

Nothing doing across the street at Earl’s house, although even from here I could see that he was probably adding his name to the list of those who were unhappy with the work done by Valley Forest Estates. His windows remained cloudy, no doubt condensation trapped within the center of the glass. In our old house, we had windows that had been put in about twenty years ago, and peering outside was akin to looking through a pair of dirty eyeglasses. You might expect that sort of thing with an older place, but it was a real surprise to see it in a house as new as Earl’s. I looked back at our own home, scanning my eye across the first- and second-story windows, wondering when I could expect the same thing might happen to them.

I couldn’t get a very good view, standing as close to the house as I was, so I went out to the curb to take in the whole picture, and while I couldn’t see anything wrong with the windows, I noticed for the first time that the framing around the front bay window was slightly crooked, and that the house numbers over the double garage were not centered properly. Honestly.

The front door of Trixie’s house opened and a well-dressed man, mid-fifties I’d guess, came out. He was a bit tentative about it, glancing out to the street as he did so. He reached into his pocket for his keys, unlocked the Lexus with his remote, then strode quickly from the front door to the car. As he did so, his eyes happened to lock on mine.

“Hi!” I said. I may have my faults, but I’ll always say hello to people.

He looked as though I’d just shot him with a dart. He quickly got into the car, where he was obscured by heavily tinted windows, backed out onto Greenway, then headed down the street, the Lexus making a deep, throaty roar the whole way.

The guy looked rattled, no doubt about it. Maybe Trixie’d told him he was going to have to pay a lot more in taxes than he’d budgeted for. Maybe he’d have to turn in the Lexus.

If he was rattled, maybe Trixie was, too. Maybe this was a bad time. I went back into the house.

I WAS ACTUALLY WORKING WHEN Sarah got home. Not building a kit. Not flying a model of the starship Enterprise around my study, humming the theme from Star Trek. Not playing Star Wars computer games. I was working on the last chapter when I heard Sarah unlock the front door and come in.

I didn’t call out. I didn’t know whether she was still angry with me about the keys thing. But I started hitting the computer keyboard with more intensity, so she’d know I was home, hear where I was, and possibly think I didn’t hear her come in because I was consumed with work. Soon, there was some racket coming from the kitchen, where it sounded as though she was putting away some food, and then it was very quiet, save for the sound of my typing. Although shortly before her arrival I’d actually been writing, I wasn’t, at that moment, being overly creative. What I’d typed since I’d heard Sarah’s key in the door was “Sarah’s home so I better sound busy and it sounds like she’s inside the house now and she’s going into the kitchen and she must have bought something for dinner and I hope it’s something good because it’s just occurred to me that I’ve eaten nothing this afternoon what with finding a dead guy which can have something of a negative effect on your appetite and”

And then I could sense her presence behind me. I work with my back to the door, which means the screen is visible to anyone walking in, but fortunately, Sarah doesn’t have telescopic vision like the Superman statuette up