Junkyard Man Read online

  Junkyard Man

  A Locust Point Mystery

  Libby Howard

  Copyright © 2017 by Libby Howard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Libby Howard

  Chapter 1

  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 t
hink 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 no
ok—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.