I DROVE UP TO THE MAIN HOUSE but I parked away from the windows, so Marlon wouldn’t see me this time.
“Where are your tools?” I asked after I saw Nasty Joe leaving the car with nothing but his unpolished presence. The excessively tight khaki pants he wore were too short for him. A gray shirt that should’ve been white and an orange tie that was, again, too short and too wide, didn’t help to remove the attention from those inquisitive fingers of his. Some people swore that, at times, Nasty Joe was so into it, you could actually hear him scratch his own brain. And to be completely honest, the brain was the best part of his body-picking business.
Nasty Joe opened his leather jacket and showed me its inside. It was lined with all kinds of tools, from screwdrivers and pins to tweezers and hooks of different sizes and handles. And those were the pieces I was able to identify.
“I travel light,” he responded, closing his jacket and opening his dreadful mouth to let a scary grin out.
The three of us walked around the main house and reached the guest residence at the back. I explained to Nasty Joe what I wanted him to do. He removed his jacket and placed it on the ground next to the door. Then, he proceeded to squat down to work. Annie and I stood in front of him, trying to block the view from anyone coming from the main house.
“I’ll need two hours, Annie.”
“That’s too much. I don’t think I can keep it up for so long. It’s just a routine check.”
“The man is two hundred and thirteen years old, there’s nothing routinely about a person like that.”
“So, he’s a mummy, uh?” Nasty Joe asked.
“Mind your own business, Joe,” I snapped. “Annie, please, extend it as much as you can. I might have to remove some paintings from their frames. It could take me a while. Talk to him, pretend you want to make an assessment of his mental health.”
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
“Voilá,” Nasty Joe said behind our backs, and the squeaky sound of a door opening was heard. The treasure chest’s lock had been broken and I could sift through it as I pleased. Nasty Joe taped the lock, so it wouldn’t close until I wanted it to. Then, he set himself to rearrange his tools.
After that, I led them to the glass garden. I wanted Annie to inspect the place before she went to see Lord Hurlingthon. Annie walked into the abandoned flower garden and approached the swing.
“This is it?”
“Yes, that’s our smoking gun.”
Annie took a stroll around the swing. She examined the marble seat. Right after that, she pulled the rusty chains to prove their strength and got to her knees to examine the ground. I had no idea she was such a good bloodhound.
“So, Robert, is there a bunny down this hole?” I asked to my sniffing partner.
After taking a closer look at the distance from the floor to the seat, she got to her feet and dusted the dirt off from her knees.
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Annie. It fits.”
“Your brilliant theory is that she committed suicide by letting herself fall from a swing that holds a distance of fifteen inches from the ground? What else you've got? Death by excessive laughter?”
I contemplated my idea like a sandcastle being swallowed by the sea.
“What if she stood on the top of the seat and fell backwards? That could break your neck, right?”
“If you land stiff as a table, sure. But I doubt that’s even possible. At best, you’ll get severe bruising and broken bones. Maybe a concussion. There are far more effective ways to kill yourself. Death by swing is absurd. A broken neck from that is one chance in–”
“One chance is all I need.” I walked up to Nasty Joe who was occupied peeping at the mansion, probably trying to find a way to break in. “Annie, just...look around. Try to understand what happened here. I have to take Joe to his car and I’ll be right back.”
I drove Nasty Joe out of the Hurlingthon manor and paid his fee. Then, I proceeded to inflict upon him the usual threat I employed when making deals with sewer rats which basically consisted of assuring the rat in question that, if he talked, I would personally break his legs. And in Joe’s case the warning package came with a free treat: Nasty Joe not only would be needing clutches, but I’d also have an extensive conversation with his mother. Nasty Joe was more scared of his own mommy than the police. She took him to church every Sunday. Unbelievable.
After following protocol, I jumped back into my car and raced to meet Annie. The clock started ticking the moment Nasty Joe had opened the door. I had to get in, find my clues and get out. By that point, I was convinced that, even if Hugh Hurlingthon’s story wasn’t real, I still had a lot of work to do trying to figure out the deal with his parents. If his age wasn’t as advanced as he claimed, maybe the truth would bring him some peace and allow him to finally die. And if he was telling the truth, then the road to death was through his relatives. I still needed the back of those paintings. I needed a date that would allow me to confront him with the manufactured story, or that would empower my search.
Once back in the mansion, we went to the front door and my buddy Marlon let us in. As usual, he flew upstairs in his cage while Annie and I took the stairs. On the way up, I gave the coroner one last recommendation. “Please, keep Marlon occupied. He’s the most annoying fruit fly.”