Junkyard Man

Book 2: Locust Point Mystery

by Libby Howard

Genres: Ghost; Female Sleuths; Private Investigators; Paranormal; Cozy Mystery; Paranormal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Kay Carrera sees ghosts. And when the dead turn to her for help, she just can't say no.

Mr. Peter has lived across the street long before Kay moved into her house, and over the decades the collection of old washing machines, lawn mowers, and refrigerators in his front and back yard has reached the point where it's nearly impossible to find the front door. The man is an eccentric recluse, but how can anyone dislike a kindly person who loves old pottery and dinnerware, and slips Taco, the cat, chicken sandwiches every chance he gets?

Evidently someone disliked him—disliked him enough to kill him.

Was the killer one of the frustrated neighbors? Mr. Peter's nephew? The delivery man? Or someone else? Mr. Peter's ghost won't rest until his murderer is brought to justice, and neither will Kay.

Release date: August 24, 2017

Publisher: Debra Dunbar LLC

Print pages: 164

Sample

The pumps fired up with a whir of sound and a whoosh of water. I cheered like I’d just witnessed a Hail Mary pass at a Locust Point High School football game. The hot tub repair man wiped a hand across his forehead and grinned at me. “Wasn’t sure I’d be able to get this going, Mrs. Carrera. These things sit for too long and the pumps seize up.”

I’d had no idea. After an entire day of scrubbing the inside of a hot tub, rubber gloves up to my elbows, knee-deep in cleaning spray and some anti-mold stuff, I’d happily filled my sparkling clean hot tub and turned it on to…nothing. Thankfully Sweenie’s Pool and Spa took pity on my frantic pleas for help and sent Franc out to work his magic on my pumps.

“Thank you so much, Franc. Did I get the chemicals right?” It had been a huge worry for me. I’d tested pH and did all the little test strips, measuring the different chemicals carefully. This had always been Eli’s thing. After the accident, I’d muddled along for a few years before draining the hot tub and throwing in the towel. Taking care of an invalid husband didn’t allow much time for things like maintaining a hot tub that no one used.

He grinned. “I took care of it, Mrs. C.”

I looked into the frothing water highlighted with blue and purple lights. When we’d bought this thing, it had been top of the line, insanely expensive. We’d had money to spare, and there had been many nights when Eli and I had relaxed in this tub, letting the stresses of the day fall away. Most nights, we’d wound up making out like teenagers, giggling and running inside to make love, still damp and warm, just inside the back door.

And now I was revitalizing this hot tub so that two teenagers could enjoy a quick dip after finishing their homework.

Franc got to work on the invoice while I surveyed my yard. The herb garden was clean and neat, and the spot for my little vegetable garden had been tilled courtesy of my neighbor Will Lars. I had a dozen packets of seeds, peat pots, starter soil, and cheap aluminum roasting trays to hold my seedlings until the weather was warm enough to plant.

“Is it working? It’s working! Madison, it’s working!” Henry was nearly dancing with excitement. He eyed me hopefully.

“Finish your homework?” I asked. He nodded enthusiastically. “Then make sure it’s okay with your dad and get your suit on.”

He ran into the house past Madison who was sitting at the patio table, a laptop and several heavy textbooks spread out in front of her. I felt bad for the girl. Her homework was nearly double Henry’s. I wasn’t sure she’d get done in time to squeeze in a bit of a hot tub swim. Maybe I could ask her father, Judge Beck, if she could stay up a bit late. Or maybe she could have a couple of friends over and we’d do a pizza and hot tub party this weekend.

“Here you go, Mrs. C.” Franc handed me the invoice. I grimaced when I read the amount. Judge Beck’s rent payment covered my mortgage, leaving my paycheck for food, utilities, and other luxuries. This wasn’t in the budget, but I couldn’t disappoint the kids, and after all my work cleaning this thing, I didn’t want to just let it sit and get moldy. I’d need to cut back here and there to pay this one.

“Thirty days, Mrs. C.” Franc smiled knowingly at me. In a small town like Locust Point, there were no secrets. Well, there were secrets like that our mayor was a murderer and one of his victims, a young successful party-planner, was running a prostitution ring. But my secret, that I was flat broke after my husband’s death, wasn’t.

“Eli was a good man, Mrs. C. You need anything, you let me know, okay?”

I felt the sting of tears. Eli had been a good man. I missed him. I missed the man I’d married as well as the man he’d become after the accident. “Thank you, Franc. I appreciate it.”

He grinned, gathering up his tool bag and heading down my walkway to his truck. “Call me if you have any other issues. We guarantee our work.”

I smiled, knowing that he meant they especially guaranteed their work on my hot tub.

After Franc left, I wandered over to Madison, stooping to pick up my tabby and running a hand along the thick fur of his back.

“What have you gotten into, Taco?” I asked the cat. His fur was sticky and smudged with something dark. I’d need to bathe him, and there was nothing Taco hated more than a bath.

Madison wrinkled her nose. “He’s been going over to the place across the street. I see him over there when I get back from school.”

Ugh. I had nothing against Mr. Peter, but his lawn was like a junkyard, and his house inside wasn’t much better from what I’d heard. He had a soft spot for cats and dogs and was known for putting out food for strays. I was pretty sure he was slipping Taco some scraps on a daily basis to encourage regular visits. And given the diet I’d put my cat on a few weeks ago, Taco wouldn’t say ‘no’ to supplemental meals. Actually, even without the diet, Taco wouldn’t say ‘no’ to supplemental meals.

I’d need to go talk to my neighbor and ask him to lay off the treats. Taco really did need to lose weight, and obviously there was something over there he was rubbing against. There were only so many baths I could give my kitty before he ditched me and permanently moved in with Mr. Peter. And as much as my neighbor would probably like that, I wasn’t going to give up my cat.

“What have you got going on there, Madison?” I put Taco down and leaned over her shoulder. “Chemistry. Hmmm.”

“It’s an AP class.” The girl chewed on the tip of her pen. “I don’t think I have a future in biochemistry.”

“It’s good to explore different options. How else are you going to know what you might want to have as a career—and what you know you absolutely don’t want to have as a career.”

“How did you know you wanted to be a journalist?” she asked.

I was a skip tracer now working for a bail bondsman/private investigator, but until Eli’s accident I’d been a journalist. I’d still be a journalist if it was a viable career, but in today’s world, news stories were purchased in bulk or acquired from freelancers making forty dollars an article. So, I’d turned my talent for research and fact checking to a field that might actually pay my bills.

“I worked on our high school newsletter and was a member of the yearbook committee and loved it. In college I thought I might want to be a novelist or maybe teach English, but creative writing wasn’t my strength and my short stint as a professor’s assistant made it clear that teaching wasn’t my strength, either.”

“Well, chemistry isn’t my strength,” she grumbled. “And biology wasn’t much better.”

I pulled out a chair and sat next to her. “So what is your strength?”

She shrugged. “I’d always wanted to be a doctor, but I’m beginning to think that’s a bad idea.”

If she wasn’t fond of biology or chemistry, then she was right. “What do you like? Maybe you can be a lawyer like your father.”

“Ugh, no.” She wrinkled her nose. “He worked crazy hours even before he was a judge. We barely saw him when we were little. As much as I hate this divorce, Dad spends more time with us now than he ever had before. I don’t want that kind of life.”

I leaned back in the chair. “What kind of life do you want?”

“Time for softball in the evenings and weekends. A job I really love, but one that lets me have space for a husband and my kids. I want to be able to go with them for a week at the beach, and weekends skiing, and to their birthday parties and…all that.”

My heart ached. Madison loved her father, that much was clear from the short time I’d known them. She loved him and acutely felt every missed moment that his career had cost them. But a teen didn’t always understand the joy of losing yourself in the passion of a career that didn’t end at five o’clock. And children didn’t always understand that in a marriage, sometimes one partner sacrifices time with their family to be the provider, and the other sacrifices a career and financial independence to be the primary parent.

Henry came dashing out, bright plaid patterned swim trunks on and a towel over his shoulder. Judge Beck followed him, eyeing the hot tub. “It’s ready, Kay? Doesn’t it need to sit a bit and let the chemicals…I don’t know, settle or something?”

I smiled, watching Henry toss his towel on a chair and scramble into the tub. “It’s ready. Well, it’s more of a lukewarm tub than a hot tub at the moment, but I don’t think your son minds.”

No, he didn’t. The boy had leaned back against the headrest, his feet stretching out above the water toward one of the jets. “Someone bring me a piña colada. And some ice cream.”

Madison snorted. “This isn’t the Hilton. If you’re thirsty, go get a juice box.”

Judge Beck looked down at the girl’s textbook, reaching out a hand to tousle her hair. “Almost done, honey?”

She smiled up at him and my heart swelled to see the affection exchanged in their glance. “No. I’ve probably got another hour at least. Once I’m done with this, I need to do some research for a Civics essay.”

The judge winced. “Can you take a break? Miss Carrera went to a lot of trouble to get this hot tub running for you two.”

She looked longingly over at her brother, lounging in the churning water. “I’d be up ‘til midnight if I did. I’ll get in another night.”

“When it’s actually hot,” I added. “Maybe your dad will let you have a few friends over this weekend to have pizza and get in the spa.”

Her eyes lit up, then her face fell. “We both have games Friday night and then there is another one for me on Saturday morning, and Henry in the afternoon.”

And Sunday was for family. I got how Judge Beck was trying to keep one day to actually bond with his kids, especially now that the hectic sports schedules ate up what wasn’t earmarked for schoolwork. With him and Heather splitting custody, their Sunday family time had become more like every other Sunday.

Judge Beck looked over at the hot tub, then back down at his daughter. “Henry would have to have a couple of friends over too. That’s a lot in your hot tub, Kay.”

Madison wrinkled her nose, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. It wouldn’t nearly be as much fun having a few girlfriends over if her younger brother and his friends were gawking at them and making fart jokes the whole evening.

“Maybe Madison can have two or three of her softball teammates over after the game on Saturday. I’ll play hostess and you can spend some one-on-one time with Henry after his game. Then in two weeks, when you have the kids for the weekend again, we’ll switch and I’ll entertain Henry and his friends while you do something with Madison.”

“We could go to the mall together,” the girl teased her father.

The judge’s eyes widened with horror, then he laughed. “All right. Madison, no more than four friends, okay? You really don’t mind, Kay?”

I’d just spent a bunch of money getting this hot tub fixed up. Might as well put it to good use. Besides, it felt good to hear footsteps in the house, to hear the sound of laughter and conversation. Eli and I had always loved parties, and we’d made a habit of entertaining weekly. After his accident, the house had grown silent and I’d forgotten how uplifting the presence of others could be in my home. A house this big deserved to be filled with life, lighting up the dark corners and chasing away all the old ghosts.

“I don’t mind at all.”

Madison pumped both fists up and down in excitement “Yesssss. I’ll send some texts just as soon as I’m done with this chapter.”

The girl had been working so hard the past few months, trying to regain her parents’ trust after she’d been caught at a party drinking beer with much older kids—one of whom had been the woman who’d been running the prostitution ring. I wasn’t sure Judge Beck was ready to let her go to sleepovers or out with friends yet, but this supervised party would reward Madison for her squeaky clean behavior the past few months.

I watched Taco roll in the dirt and winced. “You kids haven’t been slipping Taco any extra treats, have you?”

Both of them denied it.

“I think Mr. Peter from across the street is feeding him,” Henry called out over the noise of the hot tub. “The house with the appliances, and tires, and old mattresses in the front yard.”

“Mr. Lars was yelling at him yesterday when I was getting the mail,” Madison added. “Told the Junkyard Man that his place was a fire hazard.”

It probably was, although Will Lars hadn’t been quite as vocal about it until he and his wife decided to turn their house into a Bed and Breakfast Inn. Will and Kat weren’t the only ones who were frustrated with Mr. Peter’s hoarding tendencies. Every time someone put their house on the market, they complained about the eyesore. Petitions hadn’t helped. Calling the city and the county hadn’t helped. One neighbor had tried to get the property condemned without success. Each year the junk pile grew, but Locust Point was a small town and Mr. Peter was a bit of a fixture here. I hated seeing the mess right across the street from me, but over the years I’d learned to ignore it.

“I’m sure his name isn’t Junkyard Man,” Judge Beck scolded. “Nicknames like that aren’t amusing, Madison.”

She blushed red. “I don’t know his name. And you don’t want to know what Mr. Lars was calling him.”

I’m sure he didn’t.

“His name is Harry Peter,” I told the girl.

Silence greeted my words. Then Madison giggled, and Henry burst out laughing. Even Judge Beck quickly hid a smile behind a frown. “Harold Peter,” he corrected.

“No, actually, his first name is Harry. And he’s quite proud of it.” Harry Peter. I’d laughed myself breathless the first few times I’d heard what the poor man’s mother had saddled him with, but after all these years it hardly elicited a smile anymore.

“Is it really hairy?” Henry choked out between laughs. “Dillon’s mom told him if he spent too much time—”

“Henry, that’s enough,” Judge Beck scolded. “You kids will call the neighbor across the street Mr. Peter, and if I hear anything different, you’ll be grounded. Got it?”

“Got it,” both kids chimed.

“Well, I’m going to have a chat with Mr. Peter,” I told them. “Because he’s sabotaging my cat’s diet.”

Our road was lined with big old Victorian and Queen Anne-style homes with varying accents on the same basic theme. Mine had a corner turret with gingerbread trim and was full of sharp angles. Mr. Peter’s had pointed dormers and a jutting glass-enclosed side porch that was filled to the ceiling with cardboard boxes and plastic bins overflowing with dinnerware and paper goods. The Larses’ house was right next door, the mirror image of Mr. Peter’s house without all the junk. And their elegant porch had been made into a lovely breakfast nook—with a less-than-lovely view of Mr. Peter’s eighty rolls of toilet paper and cardboard boxes. And three plungers.

I paused to regard the plungers. Generally, when one needed such a device, it was an emergency, and thus it was important to keep these things right next to the toilet. They would be less than useful all the way in the enclosed porch behind dozens of boxes. Perhaps these were spares.

Turning away from the porch, I made my way through the maze of old appliances, automotive parts, rusted lawnmowers, and piles of half-rotted lumber to the front door, noting that in spite of the clutter, the porch was sound and appeared to be freshly painted. There was the sound of footsteps at my knock, and one of the narrow wooden doors squawked open to reveal a trim man in his early eighties with a tobacco-stained silver beard and dark brown eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Peter. I’m Kay Carrera from across the street.”

“I know.” His voice was gruff, no doubt from the same tobacco that had yellowed his beard. “Sorry to hear about your husband.”

I’d gotten a condolence card from him just before Eli’s funeral. I’d been touched that a neighbor I rarely saw had thought to send his sympathies. Maybe it was my fault that I didn’t see Mr. Peter very often. His yard gave the impression that he wouldn’t welcome visitors, but that might have been far from the truth. Not that it had crossed my mind to share a cup of tea with this man in his junk-filled house.

Mr. Peter stood aside, holding the door open. “Come in. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, no thank you.” I did step inside though, filled with curiosity to see what the inside of his house looked like.

It looked pretty much like the outside of his house. I couldn’t see anything past that main parlor because it was stacked floor-to-ceiling with boxes, a narrow path winding its way toward what I thought might be the kitchen. To the right stood a broad staircase, made nearly impassable by stacks of books and old newspapers. To the left, the entrance to the enclosed porch was blocked by two large shelving units lined with little china vases and crystal plates. Across the top was a long decorative sword. I eyed it, hoping it didn’t fall and cut one of us.

“You sure you don’t want some tea? I just put the kettle on.”

The house was claustrophobic, overloaded with stuff, the boxes coated in dust, the ceiling cracked, the floor scuffed and gouged. Mr. Peter must have spent his little cleaning time on the contents of the shelving units because the pretty little china vases and plates were sparkling. It wasn’t quite as bad as I’d imagined, though. I’d expected horrible smells, dead animals sticking out from carelessly placed rags, a floor two feet under layers of stuff. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Peter was a hoarder, and the house had to be violating all sorts of fire codes, but there was a narrow pathway around the boxes, and it actually smelled like someone’s attic—a sort of dust-and-mothballs-and old boxes smell.

 “Honestly, I can’t stay. I just came to apologize for my cat’s trespass on your property and ask if you could please not feed him if he wanders over again. He’s getting so fat, and the diet I have him on isn’t working when he’s begging food off the neighbors.”

This was really my own darned fault. I needed to keep Taco inside and not let him wander the block like this. I hated the thought that he might be hit by my paper-man on his early morning delivery route, or one of the neighbors coming home late from work. And it really wasn’t fair that my cat was trotting across people’s lawns, annoying their dogs and possibly hunting down their songbirds.

“I’m going to try to keep him inside the house from now on,” I vowed. “It’s hard because he yowls his head off to go out, and I know he’ll probably sneak through the door on occasion. Can you call me if he comes over? And not feed him?”

“Oh, but I love the Taco-schmacko.” Mr. Peter reached out and took my fat-and-dirty cat from my arms. “There’s a good boy. He comes and visits me every day and shares my chicken sandwiches. I’ll miss my little buddy’s visits.”

Well, the chicken sandwiches were probably the reason why Taco visited every day, but the cat did seem very fond of Mr. Peter, rubbing his head across the man’s beard and purring loud enough that I was sure people two blocks away could hear him.

“Maybe you could get a cat of your own.” But then I looked around at the condition of the house and reconsidered the idea. Yes, it was cleaner and somewhat more organized than I’d thought, but I could just envision a cat jumping from stack of boxes to stack of boxes and getting stuck behind a bunch of them to slowly starve to death.

“I’ve considered it, but cats knock things over, and I’ve got a lot of precious stuff in this house.”

Precious cases of toilet paper and tissue? Although those vases on the shelves were pretty.

“Taco-schmacko doesn’t break stuff. Do you boy? Do you boy?” he cooed to my cat.

I wasn’t sure what bothered me more, his nickname for my cat or the fact that he was using baby talk and smooshing his face into Taco’s fur. He was right, though. Taco wasn’t the sort of cat who pushed china off tables, knocked over wine glasses, or pooped in the potted plants. I think some of that might have been that he was fat, and all that took effort—effort that was better spent begging for food.

“He’s gained a lot of weight the last three months,” I told him. Then I reached out and took my cat back. “Please just call me if he comes back? And please don’t feed him?”

Mr. Peter’s smile was more than a bit sad. “Okay. I’ll miss him.”

And now I felt like a horrible person. Yes, his house was cluttered to the point that I was on the edge of a panic attack, but he seemed to be a nice guy, and he clearly had a genuine regard for Taco. I’d lived here for thirty years and hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to him the whole time. I’d rarely seen visitors, only someone I thought might have been a nephew.

“I’m hoping to have a neighborhood cookout soon.” As in, I was thinking about it right now and hadn’t been planning it for more than the last two seconds. “I’ll send you an invitation. Or maybe you could come over for a glass of wine on the porch with Daisy and me Friday evening?”

“I don’t leave the house anymore. My knee. And the arthritis in my hip…” His eyes lit up. “Do you think you could bring something by sometime, though? There was a beautiful nineteenth-century Rorstrand pitcher you had in the front window a few years back that I always admired. I’d love to see it up close.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “The one with the gold lacy pattern and flowers? Or the leaves?”

“The gold and flowers. I’m a fan of Faience, French and Northern Italian mostly, although some of the Polish patterns are quite attractive. They’re far more readily available.”

No. Idea. “Is that what the vases are on the shelf up front?”

He beamed. “My newest pieces, although I have some of the rarer ones stored up in the bedroom including some fourteenth-century Majolica.” A wary expression crossed his face. “None of it is all that valuable. Junk really. Because everything here is junk.”

Two seconds ago, I would have believed that. But Mr. Peter had nothing to fear from me. I didn’t want his pretty pottery, and as cash-strapped as I was, I’d never stoop to stealing.

“Value is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “And in my eyes, every item in this house is priceless.”

“Even the cases of toilet paper?”

He grinned. “Even the cases of toilet paper.”

I picked my way back through the maze of a path, hoping none of the boxes, or that darned sword, fell down on my head. Then I wished Mr. Peter a good evening and headed across the street, a pudgy purring Taco in my arms. The light was dimming. Madison was typing on her laptop and taking notes. Henry had climbed out of the hot tub and wrapped a towel around himself. He tucked the end in at his waist and reached up to flip the lid over the spa, sliding his feet into a pair of sneakers. The golden lights came on in the garden area, bathing the backyard with ambient light. I heard the clank of pots and pans through the open kitchen window against a backdrop of insect song. My home. And it was so much more of a home now that I wasn’t here alone.

A shadow moved by the porch, approaching and falling in beside me. Taco squirmed in my arms and I reluctantly let him down, knowing he’d be meowing at the door in five minutes wanting his dinner. As the cat darted off into the bushes with an irritated growl, the shadow drew closer. It felt cool by my side, a dark blur just in the corner of my vision.

“Dinner!” Judge Beck called.

Henry hustled inside. “Give me five to put some clothes on.”

Madison grumbled under her breath and snapped the laptop lid closed, gathering up her notebooks and pencils. “Coming.”

I watched her trot up the stairs and in the back door. I listened to the quiet murmur of their voices, the clink of their dishes as they ate. Taco raced by, chasing a bug. I sat in the glider, and the shadow sat down beside me, leaning back into the cushions as I rocked us back and forth.

The shadow was rarely around during the day, and occasionally in the afternoon, but he had become my constant companion in the night hours. He was near as I watched movies on the basement entertainment center. He was by my side on evening walks, or as I sat in the backyard garden. Sometimes as I slept, I could feel him near, even though in the darkness I couldn’t see him. And if I ate dinner alone, as I often did to give Judge Beck and his children their private time, he sat to my right.

And the shadow was a he, of that I was sure.

“It’s a beautiful evening. I’m glad I got the hot tub fixed. The kids are going to have such fun with it. And I do want to have that neighborhood barbeque. Maybe next Friday evening when the kids have their games. It will be an adult party with wine and cigars, like Eli and I used to host before the accident.” I thought for a moment. “No. That was the past. That isn’t something I can recapture. I’ll schedule it on an evening when the kids will be here and that way the neighbors can meet them. That way Judge Beck and his family can start to feel like they’re truly part of the neighborhood.”

The shadow didn’t reply. He never did. But I still got the impression that he approved.