Without a Trace, Page 2

  “Now then, what brings you girls here today?” Ms. Thompson asked. She is a bright, birdlike woman in her forties who is on a couple of volunteer committees with me. She works as a nurse at the local hospital. “Are you on the trail of another exciting mystery, Nancy?”

  I smiled sheepishly as my friends chuckled. Did I mention that I’m sort of famous around town for solving mysteries?

  “Well, sort of,” I admitted. “It seems that someone has been causing trouble in Mr. Geffington’s vegetable patch.”

  Mrs. Zucker gasped. “Really?” she exclaimed. “The same thing happened at my house! Someone stomped all over my zucchini a couple of nights ago.”

  Very interesting. Mrs. Zucker lives across the street and a few houses down from Mr. Geffington.

  “Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked.

  Mrs. Zucker shook her head. “I figured it was just some teenagers on a dare, or maybe animals,” she said. “It must have happened while I was out collecting for Anvil Day after dinner that night. I was out quite late, my husband was downtown at a business dinner, and Owen was probably playing a game with a sitter I hired for the night, so none of us would have noticed a thing. I didn’t really think much about it beyond that, especially since neither my husband nor Owen likes zucchini much anyway.”

  “I don’t blame them,” George said, reaching for another cookie. “I hate the stuff myself.”

  “So you didn’t see the culprit,” I mused. I looked at the other two women. “What about you? Did either of you notice anything strange going on in the neighborhood three nights ago?”

  “Not me,” Mrs. Mahoney said. “Have you asked any of the other neighbors? Harold Safer lives on that side of Bluff Street. Maybe he saw something.”

  Her comment reminded me of something. “I heard that the old Peterson place just sold,” I said, referring to Mr. Geffington’s other next-door neighbor. “Do any of you know who bought it?”

  “I do,” Ms. Thompson spoke up. “I heard it was a young, single French woman by the name of Simone Valinkofsky.”

  “Valinkofsky?” George repeated. “That doesn’t sound very French.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Ms. Thompson replied. “But she moved in three days ago from what I hear. I haven’t met her yet myself, but I understand that she has a very important job at the museum downtown.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured. I knew better than to assume that the newcomer’s recent arrival had anything to do with the zucchini situation. But I couldn’t help noting that as far as I could determine so far, the vandalism had started the same day she’d moved into the neighborhood. Was it a connection, or merely a coincidence? Only further investigation would tell.

  My friends and I finished our tea and then excused ourselves. We walked out the door, and made our way down the sidewalk. Mr. Geffington and Mrs. Mahoney both live on Bluff Street. I glanced at Mr. Geffington’s house, a neat colonial with well-tended flower beds surrounding it. A set of concrete steps led down from the sidewalk to his curving front walk and the lush lawn that swept around the side of his house. In the backyard, I knew, lay Mr. Geffington’s vegetable garden—along with the spectacular view of the river that all the homes on this side of the street shared.

  Next I looked at Mr. Geffington’s immediate neighbors. On the right side of his house was Mr. Safer’s cozy-looking Tudor-style home. To the left was a small cottage-style house with a large front porch and an overgrown tangle of shrubs and vines peeking out of the backyard.

  That would be a perfect place for someone to hide out, I thought, my gaze wandering from the overgrown weed patch back to Mr. Geffington’s yard. The two yards were separated only by a three-foot picket fence. Anyone who really wanted to could clear that easily.

  Of course, opportunity wasn’t the mystery here. The real mystery was motivation. What would make someone want to destroy a garden full of innocent zucchini? So far, I had no convincing theories about that.

  George followed my glance. “The scene of the crime, eh?” she said. “Aren’t you going to go over and dust for fingerprints on the eggplants or something?”

  I gave her a playful shove. “Come on, let’s see if the new neighbor is home.”

  All the yards on the river side of Bluff Street slope steeply down from the sidewalk. I stepped carefully down the stone steps in front of the former Peterson place. Leading the way across the narrow front yard onto the porch, I rang the bell.

  The door opened a moment later, revealing a smiling young woman of about twenty-nine with shoulder-length dark hair and gorgeous black eyes. She was dressed simply but stylishly in a linen dress and chunky-heeled slides.

  “Hello,” she said in a soft, accented voice. “Can I help you?”

  I introduced myself and my friends. Before I could explain why we were there, the young woman gestured for us to enter.

  “Please, come in,” she urged. “My name is Simone Valinkofsky, and I have been hoping to meet some of my new neighbors.”

  Soon my friends and I were standing in the little house’s surprisingly spacious living room. I had never been inside when the Petersons had lived there, but I suspected it hadn’t looked anything like it did now. While there were still boxes here and there waiting to be unpacked, the new homeowner had already done much of the decorating in the room. A large oil painting hung over the fireplace, and tasteful curtains lined the large windows overlooking the backyard. Embossed books were set on built-in shelves on either side of the room, and several exotic ivory-handled fans were displayed on one wall. Bess stared openly at several gorgeous pieces of jewelry that decorated an end table.

  “Wow,” I commented, trying to take it all in. “You have a lot of cool stuff, Miss Valinkofsky.”

  “Please—call me Simone.”

  “Good,” George said. “Because I’m not sure I could pronounce Valin—Valik—whatever. That sure wasn’t in any of my high school French courses!”

  Simone laughed, seeming surprised and delighted by George’s frank comments. “No, it is not a French name,” she said. “My great-grandfather fled to Paris from Russia during the revolution.”

  My gaze had just landed on an elaborate gold, jewel-encrusted orb in a glass display case with a lock on the mantel. “Did that come from Russia?” I asked, pointing it out.

  Simone nodded. “Yes, you have a good eye,” she replied. “That is a genuine Fabergé egg—the most prized heirloom of my family. It is not one of the world-famous imperial eggs that Fabergé made for the czars, of course. Most of those are in museums or elsewhere on display. But it is still quite a treasure, and we are all very proud of it, and of our Russian heritage.”

  She went on to describe several of the other unique and beautiful items in the room. It was so interesting that I almost forgot why we were there for a moment.

  Finally Simone interrupted herself with a laugh. “But forgive me,” she said. “I’m talking only about myself. Please, tell me more about you. What brought you to my doorstep today?”

  “Nancy is a detective,” Bess explained.

  “Is that so?” Simone said in surprise. “But you are so young! I thought American detectives were old, gruff men like Humphrey Bogart, not pretty young girls.”

  I blushed. “I’m not a real detective,” I explained quickly. “That is, I don’t have a license or anything. I just help out my dad with some of his legal cases, stuff like that. For instance, today we’re trying to figure out who has been going around and demolishing the zucchini in people’s vegetable gardens.”

  “Zucchini?” Simone repeated.

  “That’s the American name for the vegetable you probably know as a courgette,” George explained.

  I shot her a surprised glance. Did George remember that random word from French class? But she’s always coming up with odd trivia like this that she finds on the Internet—so maybe that’s how she knew the word. Sometimes her quirky memory comes in very handy.

  Simone laughed
. “I see. Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of any help,” she said. “I’ve been so busy unpacking for the last three days that I’ve barely glanced out the window, let alone left the house. I can guarantee you it wasn’t me, though. I would never demolish zucchini—I’d deep-fry it! And of course, I don’t have a garden myself, so the culprit has had no reason to visit here.”

  I stepped toward the back windows, still looking around. When my gaze wandered toward the view outside, I gasped.

  “Hey,” I blurted out. “Isn’t that a whole bunch of zucchini right there in your backyard?”

  Party Plans

  What? Where?” Simone sounded genuinely surprised as she hurried to join me at the window. Bess and George came over too, and all four of us stared out at the unkempt backyard. I pointed to several vigorous-looking vines twining their way over what appeared to be an overgrown rose hedge. Half a dozen oblong green fruits were growing from the vines.

  “Hey! That does look like zucchini,” George said.

  “I think you may be right,” Simone said. “As you can tell, we haven’t had the chance to work on the yard much. Come, let’s investigate.”

  My friends and I followed her through the kitchen into the backyard. Like the front yard, it sloped steeply down toward the drop-off over the river, which was lined by a low stone wall. About two-thirds of the way to the wall, the rose hedge blocked off at least half of the yard’s width.

  By standing on tiptoes, we could just see over the hedge into a vegetable garden gone wild. Tomato plants sprouted here and there, and spindly onion tops were already going to seed. The zucchini vines wound in and out around it all.

  “Some of the seeds from last year’s garden must have survived the winter and come back on their own,” Bess commented. “Looks like you may be able to have your fried zucchini after all, Simone!”

  “Yes, but only if I can find a way into the garden past all the thorns!” Simone said. “I’ll have to ask Pierre to clear a path through them.”

  “Pierre?” I repeated curiously.

  “You called?” a male voice responded cheerfully from directly behind me.

  I jumped, startled. When I turned around, I found myself face-to-face with a handsome young man, perhaps ten years younger than Simone. There was a strong family resemblance to Simone in his dark eyes and high cheekbones.

  “There you are, Pierre,” Simone said. “Let me introduce you to my new friends—Nancy, Bess, and George. And this is Pierre, my nephew. He’s from Paris too. He’s staying with me for the summer until his university classes start up in Chicago.”

  Pierre gave a little bow. “Charmed,” he said in a strong French accent, his gaze trained on Bess. “It’s an honor to meet such lovely ladies.”

  George and I exchanged a quick glance and a knowing grin. We were used to seeing men go instantly gaga over our friend.

  “I hope you’re enjoying River Heights so far,” Bess responded politely, returning Pierre’s smile. “It’s not the biggest town in the world, but there’s a lot going on.”

  “Oui, like a zucchini bandit,” Simone added with a smile. She gestured to one of the nearby vegetables. “It seems we are lucky to have some courgettes growing wild in the yard, Pierre. Someone is out to destroy all the rest of the zucchini in town.”

  “Yes.” I checked my watch, realizing that it was getting late. I was supposed to meet my boyfriend, Ned Nickerson, for a movie date in a few hours. As much as I was enjoying the visit with Simone, I would have to move on soon if I wanted to do any further investigating today. “That reminds me, we should get going. And I’m sure you guys have lots to do.”

  Pierre looked slightly confused, but he continued to smile. “Ah, must you really fly off so soon?” He rested a hand on Bess’s arm. “But please, mesdemoiselles, will you agree to return before long? In fact, some close friends of mine are coming from France to visit with me, and I know they would enjoy meeting you. Perhaps we could have a party once they are here?”

  “A party?” George said, picking at one of the zucchini vines. “That sounds like fun. When are your friends arriving?”

  Simone glanced at her watch. “Any moment now,” she answered for her nephew. “They are driving in this afternoon from a bit farther down the river, where they were visiting some other friends. Perhaps we could all have a get-together this weekend—perhaps tomorrow night?”

  I nodded. “That sounds great,” I said. “Thank you!” I liked the idea of getting to know our new neighbors better. Even if Simone didn’t know anything about the zucchini vandal, she was an interesting and likable person. I was eager to hear more about the exotic objects in her house, not to mention more details about her intriguing family history.

  “Wonderful!” Pierre clapped his hands. “It’s settled then. Shall we say seven o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I said, and Bess and George nodded. “But now we really must be going. I need to meet my boyfriend soon.”

  “Oh, of course,” Simone said. “And please feel free to bring him along tomorrow night. That goes for all of you.” She smiled at the three of us.

  “Indeed,” Pierre added. “I’m sure such lovely girls as you must all have boyfriends, yes?”

  Bess’s dimples deepened. “Not quite,” she said. “Nancy is the only one of us with a steady guy right now.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Pierre said, though the words didn’t sound terribly sincere. “Well, my friends and I will try to entertain you in any case.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Bess returned the smile, batting her long eyelashes playfully as Pierre grinned in delight.

  We all walked back toward the street. Instead of going through the house, we headed along the strip of lawn that separated the building from the low picket fence that marked Mr. Geffington’s property line. I glanced over the fence curiously, wondering if I would spot any clues at the scene of the crime. But Mr. Geffington had long since cleared up the evidence. His garden looked as neat as could be, as usual.

  I looked over my shoulder at the overgrown garden. Had someone hidden back there in the tangle and crept out to smash Mr. Geffington’s zucchini at an opportune moment? Or had the culprit sneaked down the steep concrete steps from the street and scurried around the house under cover of darkness? Or had Mr. Safer merely had to step over from his own yard long enough to dispatch his neighbor’s prized crop?

  The last possibility still seemed hopelessly farfetched. But a lifetime spent puzzling over mysteries has taught me never to discount any option, no matter how unlikely it seems. That’s one of the things I like best about sleuthing—there’s no way of guessing how any case is going to turn out until I’ve gathered all the evidence, followed all the leads, figured out all the clues.

  When we reached the sidewalk, Bess and George and I bid our new friends farewell. As Simone and Pierre headed inside, the three of us walked toward Mr. Geffington’s house.

  “That Pierre seems like a nice guy, doesn’t he?” Bess commented with a glance back at the house.

  George snorted. “Sure, but I hope you send him your dry cleaning bill after the way he was drooling all over you.”

  Bess blushed. “Oh, stop it,” she said. “He was just being friendly.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said playfully. “And I’m sure you didn’t even notice how cute he was. Or his cool French accent. Or the way he stared at you the whole time we were there.”

  “Whatever.” Bess pointed to Mr. Geffington’s house, which we were passing at the moment. “Hey, don’t you want to stop in and look around or something? I mean, maybe it’s all cleaned up now, but you might find some witnesses. Potatoes have eyes and corn has ears, you know.”

  I groaned loudly at the bad joke. Bess was obviously trying to change the subject, and I decided to let her. “No, I think we’d better go talk to Mr. Safer next,” I said. “He’s the prime suspect according to Mr. G. I’m sure he didn’t do it, but maybe he saw or heard something that night that will give us a lead on the real
culprit.”

  George shrugged. “Sounds like as good a plan as any,” she said. “Just don’t anyone ask if he’s seen any good musicals lately, or we’ll never get away.”

  We walked on to the steps leading down to Harold Safer’s yard. Unlike the plain stone or concrete of most of the steps on the block, Mr. Safer’s are decorated with bits of colored glass that form a rainbow pattern.

  I led the way to the front door. When I pressed the doorbell, we could all hear the faint tune of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” ringing through the house.

  Soon we also heard the sound of footsteps hurrying toward us. A moment later the door swung open—and there was Harold Safer, with a huge mallet in his hands.

  A Call for Help

  I gasped, startled by the unexpected sight. “What are you doing with that?” I blurted out, visions of smashed zucchini dancing through my head.

  Harold Safer blinked, seeming confused by my reaction. “What am I doing with what?” he asked. Then he glanced down at the mallet. “Oh, you mean this? I was trying to hang up a curtain rod in the kitchen, but I seem to be all thumbs today.” He sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically.

  “You’re trying to hang curtains with that?” Bess asked. “No wonder you’re having trouble. Maybe I can help. Do you have a toolbox?”

  Harold Safer looked surprised, but he gestured for us to come in. “It’s in the basement,” he told Bess.

  She nodded. “Be right back.” With that, she disappeared down the hall.

  “Does she know what she’s doing?” Harold Safer asked George and me, still looking surprised.

  “Definitely,” George assured him. “Bess is a wiz with tools—and I’m not just talking makeup brushes either.”

  I nodded. Most people are surprised to find out how handy Bess is. She looks like the sort of girl who would have trouble changing a lightbulb, but in fact she has an almost freakish natural ability to fix things, from a sticky toaster to a stalled car. A simple curtain rod would be a piece of cake for her.