Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [105]
While I’ve been edging, Esperanza has brought the wheelbarrow to the bed of perennials nearest the front door. She sits a mulch bag on its end and slits it across the top with a pocketknife, then puts an arm along the side and hoist-dumps it along the curved line of the bed. I’m aware that she’s faking it, yet she almost convinces me that this is her day job, so I imagine it’s good enough to fool anyone zooming in with a camera.
I reach the break in the roundabout’s curve and ease up on the gas, letting the edger idle. Espy turns in my direction and starts working her way toward the flower bed closest to the front door. She uses a hoe to push the new mulch between the flowers.
I cut the power to the edger, set it down, and walk up the front steps—immaculate white stone set in graceful curves that lead to a large open area of smaller blocks and hanging plants. It looks like the kind of setting in which a president or a captain of industry would stage a photo op with dignitaries. My work boots clump along the stones as I aim for the double oak doors, my head tilted down, hat pulled low. I’m a man asking to use the restroom.
An ornate brass knocker sticks out from each of the doors, and it strikes me as curious that the houses where one often finds a knocker are also those large enough for the sound to go unheard. I opt for the doorbell.
In less than twenty seconds one of the doors swings open and an austere gentlemen of perhaps seventy gazes at me with imperious subservience. It’s a look signifying that while he may serve the people within these walls, most others who arrive on the doorstep are beneath him.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to use your bathroom, if I may.” I don’t bother trying to fake an Australian accent. The country harbors its fair share of American expatriates, so it wouldn’t be unusual to find one engaged in gainful employment.
The man looks at my uniform, the Green Gardens logo on the shirt pocket.
“As I am sure you are aware, there are facilities available in the garden house.”
I can hear Esperanza coming up behind me, and I make an attempt to fill the doorway. “I know. But I imagine the ones in here are a lot nicer.”
That takes the man by surprise and he arches an eyebrow. Esperanza is close enough now for me to make my move. I take a step that puts me over the threshold, forcing the man to back away. Espy follows me with a quick step, and then we’re inside and she’s closing the door.
My gun is out as he’s opening his mouth in shock. His eyes widen at the sight of the gun and his words go unspoken. I do a quick check for interior cameras, but my gut tells me I won’t find any. People like Manheim love cameras—as long as they’re pointed elsewhere.
“How many people are in here?” I ask the man.
My captive studies me for a while and then crosses his arms.
“If you are intent on robbing the house, you will have to do so without my cooperation.”
“Robbing?” I look at Esperanza. “Did either of us mention anything about a robbing?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to call you Geeves, and that will be demeaning for both of us.”
I can see that Espy is growing anxious. The longer we stay in one place, the greater the chances that someone will stumble on this little one-act play unwinding in a setting suitable for an Ibsen performance. I take Geeves by the arm, placing the gun just above his right kidney. Even as I do so, I find it difficult to remain in my own skin. Less than a month ago, no one could have convinced me that I would soon force my way into someone’s home and threaten an innocent person with a gun. It flies in the face of everything I thought I knew about myself.
I propel Geeves through a doorway to the left, then through a small greeting