Tips for Living(71)

“I thought you said this was about my neighbor?”

Roche raised a palm. “Just empathizing, Ms. Glasser. The show would stir up a lot for me if I were in your shoes. This is about your neighbor. Sergeant Crawley received a call this afternoon regarding a building on the other end of your property. A farmhouse.”

I nodded. “You must mean Jack Mance’s place. He’s my landlord.”

“We understand it’s a summer home, uninhabited since early September. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Seems the meterman came by this morning and found a broken window at the back—near where he takes his reading every month.”

“A burglary?”

Roche ignored my question.

“The power company contacted Mance. Mance tried to call you so you could take a look for him, but couldn’t reach you.”

“That’s because you took my ph—” I stopped. The son of a bitch was toying with me.

Roche smiled. “Apparently, he tried you earlier in the week, too. He’s been a little worried about you, given everything that’s going on. At any rate, he spoke to the good sergeant here and reported the break-in. Sergeant Crawley investigated. Mr. Mance provided a list of valuables to look for. The place had definitely been burglarized, but only a few small items were missing. One in particular prompted Sergeant Crawley to contact me. As a county detective, I don’t generally get involved in a local theft, but we believe this item has a direct connection to the case.”

“What did they take?”

“A metal lockbox.”



“Nora? It’s Jack Mance. Landlord and bon vivant. David and I have some friends out for the holiday weekend. Don’t be a stranger. Come by for a drink this afternoon. Put a face to the name.”

Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend. The opening of vacation season the spring I moved to Pequod. I’d never met Jack Mance or his partner. A realtor from Town and Country Properties had shown me the Coop and handled all the paperwork. That weekend was the first Mance had visited his house since I’d become his tenant. He sounded very gay and very nice. And funny. It was about time I ventured out and socialized with new people in Pequod. Grace, Mac and the kids made for a limited selection.

“Delighted,” I said. “What can I bring?”

“Your charms, and a bottle of olives, if you have them. Corwin’s Market was out.”

Maybe if he liked me and my olives, which I happened to have, he’d go easy on our next lease negotiation, I mused.

Strains of Sondheim floated on the warm, early summer breeze as I walked across the grassy field between the Coop and the solar-paneled farmhouse. There were cars in the driveway—two Jeeps, a gray Mercedes, an Aston Martin. I heard laughter as I stepped onto the wraparound porch. The front door was open, so I went right in.

A half dozen tanned, attractive men were gathered around a white desk in the corner of the airy living room. I glanced around at the skylights, the oversize windows and bleached wood floors. The contemporary furniture upholstered in chocolate, pale blue and various creams. A tall, tanned man in jeans and a white linen shirt, who I assumed was Jack Mance, stood at the center of the group regaling them.

“I found it when my sister and I cleared out my father’s study last week to get his house ready to put on the market. We had no idea he even owned one.”

No one had noticed me yet. They were busy listening to Jack and admiring some object he was showing them.

“I’m registering it in my name and keeping it for sentimental reasons, but it’s staying out here. I can’t have it in the city. I’d be too tempted to use it on Bigfoot, my upstairs neighbor. Or on the Tony Soprano look-alike with the jackhammer tearing up the street in front of my apartment at seven a.m.”

The men laughed. Jack lifted a martini to his lips. He finally saw me across the room.

“Ah, this must be Nora Glasser, my tenant. She’s a journalist with the local paper. Our resident Joan Didion.”

“Thank you. I’m very flattered, but you exaggerate.”

“Come in. Come in.”

He waved me in with his other hand, the one that held a gun, and I instinctively ducked and shielded my face with the olive jar.

“Jack! Put that fucking thing away,” shouted the man I’d pegged as his partner, David.

“Sorry. One martini and I’m Annie Oakley,” Jack said sheepishly.

He put down the gun and his martini, opened a gray metal box that sat on the white desk and deposited the weapon in it.



“Ms. Glasser, did you hear me?”

“What? Sorry.”

“I’ve noticed you drift off a lot.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.”

Roche gave a fake smile. “That can happen when you’ve got too much on your mind.” He studied me. “I said the lockbox contained a .22-caliber handgun, which happens to be the caliber of the bullets in our investigation.”

I experienced a strange sensation in my gut akin to snakes slithering.

“You think the same person who took the box used the gun to commit the murders?”

“That’s a possibility we’re considering, yes.”

“How would they get the gun out?”