“And our young mechanic friend here?”
“That’s Eric. In cowboy-speak, he’s the troublemaker ’round these parts. Mischief maker. Steals beer out of garages, sneaks around with a BB gun, you can see it leaning against the shed there. I will say, however, being the mother of two teenage girls tends to make me a little wary of teenage boys, so, you know, grain of salt.”
The gangly teenager gave up on the bike and chucked his tools inside the shed, securing the door with a rusted bike lock. Turning toward the street, he noticed them walking by, and delivered a thick oyster of spit into the gravel.
“Real charmer,” Francine noted.
“Yeah, well, back to Francine-gossip. Knocked any boots since the divorce?”
Francine grinned as they continued on. “What kind of depraved tour company are you running here?”
“Hey, don’t make me feel like a pervert. I just need to know what I’m working with.”
“What you’re working with is, no, I haven’t been with anyone, and haven’t wanted to be, either. Ben may have killed sex for me forever.”
“Don’t you dare say that! Are you still using his last name?”
Francine nodded. “Orthine.”
“Francine Orthine? Hon, you sound like a Twinkie ingredient!”
“I never liked it either. It’s just…a lot of paperwork,” Francine said, unconvincingly. “I do want to change it back to my maiden name, Haddix. I’m getting there.”
Laura Jean gave her arm a supportive squeeze. “I’ll call you whatever you like, but holy hell, Haddix is much better. Sounds to me like a French name, and French is sexy, which makes my matchmaking job that much easier.”
“I don’t remember hiring you for that.”
“It was in the fine print. Ugh, our next stop is my least favorite of all. Lori Asperski. She’s the self-appointed dictator in our little corner of the world.”
“The only two-story on the block,” Francine observed as they passed the bleach-white New England Colonial. Its immaculate side yard was edged with a low fence that contained a tidy chicken coop and a brown goat lazily chewing long strands of grass.
“Lori’s gotten even prissier since the Banderwalts moved in,” Laura Jean said. “She tried to get thirty-foot hedges put up next to the farm, but they would’ve touched the power lines so the village said no. That put Lori in a bad mood, but only for the last year or so. Remember that woman in the minivan?”
Francine nodded.
“One of Lori’s Hens. That’s what I call her army of sycophantic mommies. They never miss a chance to blow things out of proportion. I’ve been on their shit list lately too, because I got chosen as director of the Fourth of July parade. It’s a pretty big deal around here.
“Let me guess. Lori usually does it.”
“Correct. I’m sure she’s been going stir crazy and driving her husband, Dennis, nuts as a result, though you wouldn’t hear it from him. About as conversational as drywall, that man. Ah.” Laura Jean perked up as they left the Colonial behind for a brown split-level at the top of a long driveway. “Soviet territory at last.”
Francine noticed the house’s backyard met Ellie’s at the huge willow tree in the center of the block. Magdalena Durham lived a lot closer than she liked.
“Well? Don’t clam up on me now,” she prodded, eager to get some information for her detective case.
“Magdalena is Russian—which is totally fine. I’m just sayin’, when it comes to manners, you can definitely tell Baltic from Midwest. The woman’s not a hugger, but before last night I never had a problem with her.”
“She’s married to the big blond dude?”
“She is, indeed. Hollis is our police chief.” Laura Jean smirked. “So you noticed him, huh?”
“Don’t make this worse. I just saw them together at the party. They seemed troubled to me.”
“Okay, normally this would be too gossipy even for me, but since your safety could be at stake…”
“What?”
“Well, I don’t know how else to say it other than ‘mail-order.’ I’m not saying we saw a receipt, but Hollis has all but explicitly acknowledged it.”
“The guy looks like an American Gladiator. Why would he need a mail-order bride?”
Laura Jean shrugged. “Who knows? I feel for her, though, just a teensy bit. Imagine, you get crated up in Moscow, then, days later, someone crowbars the lid off and you walk out into the middle of American suburbia. Next thing you know, my annoying ass is bringing you welcome cakes and what-not. Speaking of which, I owe you a welcome cake. God, what are all those parade preparations doing to my manners?”
Francine wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a pixie cut silhouette peering at them through the blinds of an upstairs window. The sight made her taste cranberry vodka all over again. She tried, with Laura Jean’s new information, to figure out how she could have offended Magdalena, but still came up empty.
“Aha.” Laura Jean interrupted her thought process. “We’ve saved the most interesting house for last.”
The final house on the block was another single-story ranch, with mint green siding and no distinctive features Francine could see.
“This is the most interesting house?”
“Tut tut,” Laura Jean teased. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s what’s on the inside that counts?”
“Okay, so what’s inside?”
“Two words. Mister. Mystery.”
“Mister Mystery?”
“The previous owners moved to Michigan a few months ago and the new owners aren’t moving in until mid-July, so they rented it out.” Laura Jean’s excitement peaked. “It’s the right bowl of porridge at last, Goldilocks. He’s not too old, not too young, quiet but sweet, and more or less handsome-ish, assuming one takes the time to look. His real name is Michael Bruno, but I think Mister Mystery is so much cooler, don’t you?”
Francine thought back to the man she’d seen smoking in a lawn chair. “Messy black hair?”
“Ooh! You met him already?”
“I didn’t meet him, just saw him at the party.”
“Lucky for you I’m so persuasive. That was the first social invitation I’ve been able to get him to accept all summer. I’m gonna try to go two-for-two and invite him to my barbeque tomorrow night.”
“Are you inviting me too?”
“You never need an invite from me,” Laura Jean scolded. “But yes. With bells on, please.”
“Is Magdalena going?”
“Well…yes. Close-knit community etiquette demands that I invite everyone. Maybe the two of you can bury the hatchet in a nice, fat bratwurst.”
“I don’t know...”
“I’ll have a poncho on standby, just in case she gets the itch to drench you again. Please, please, please.”
“Okay,” Francine surrendered. “Couldn’t turn out worse than last night, right?”
“God, I hope not!” Laura Jean took a moment to calm herself. “My girls have mentioned that I can be a touch overbearing at times. The name ‘Smother Goose’ may have been tossed around once or twice. So while you are definitely coming tomorrow night, no argument there, I’ll leave it up to you whether we invite Mister Mystery or not. Fair?”