Fine. On the other hand, every other real estate agent had also had something to show Peg that she was going to love, and every one of them had been wrong. So Peg was restrained in her joy. "I'll look at it," she allowed.
"It just came on the market," Call Me Tom explained, "or it would have been snapped up already. The owners didn't leave till Tuesday, we needed the cleaning lady to go through, so it's only today I can start to show it."
Peg said, "How come the owners left in such a hurry?" Because if it didn't mean the owner was on the run from the Mob so the house was likely to get itself firebombed, it must mean the house was full of asbestos that the owner just found out about.
But Call Me Tom said, "He's a scientist with a big pharmaceutical company, they had some kind of problem in their plant out on the West Coast, all of a sudden he had to transfer out there for the next four months. He doesn't like to leave the place empty, so that's why it's for rent. Fully furnished. Within your price range."
"Let's take a look," Peg said.
Okay. Here's the house: It's a small old farmhouse, built in the early nineteenth century, a center-hall Colonial with entrance and second-floor staircase in the middle. Downstairs is a big living room, medium-size dining room, small kitchen, and tiny bath. Upstairs, two bedrooms and two more baths.
Modern windows and screens and central air. A wooden deck behind the house. The swimming pool, small but very nice, was in a wooden-fenced enclosure just beyond the patio. The circular asphalt drive in from the secondary country road included a spur to a two-car garage, built to match the style of the house; it contained a 1979 white Cadillac convertible up on blocks and space for another vehicle, such as Freddie's van. The house, tastefully furnished with American antiques and every known modern appliance, came with a cleaning woman and a guy to mow the lawn and take care of the pool, each showing up once a week.
All the way through the place, while Call Me Tom was pointing out features and Peg was trying to see and listen and comprehend, she kept getting insistent little jabs in the side and taps on the elbow from her invisible playmate. In the master bathroom, just as Call Me Tom was leaving and Peg was about to leave, steam appeared on the medicine cabinet mirror, which would be Freddie's breath, and a moving but not observable finger wrote TAKE IT.
Peg, who already knew that, rolled her eyes and would have left the room, but Call Me Tom had turned back to remark on something or other, and when Peg looked at him he was frowning past her toward that mirror.
Immediately, she turned back. Keeping her own head visible in the mirror, blocking Call Me Tom's view of the message, she stepped forward, saying, "I forgot to look in the medicine cabinet."
"That's funny," Call Me Tom said, musing, following her.
As Peg neared the medicine cabinet, an invisible palm swiped over the steam, removing it. Peg opened the door fast, hoping to whack her playful companion a painful one, but missed. The interior of the cabinet was empty. All the personal goods the owner had not taken with him had been stored away in the attic.
"Very nice," Peg said, and shut the cabinet door, to see in its mirror Call Me Tom's face looming over her right shoulder, frowning deeply at his own reflection. She lifted an eyebrow.
"I could have sworn," he said.
She lifted both eyebrows. "What?"
"Oh, nothing."
The tour continued, and so did the jabs and jostles, until finally, back downstairs in the kitchen, while Call Me Tom was pointing out the food disposal in the sink, Peg yanked away from one poke too many, and cried out, in exasperation, "I know! I know!"
Call Me Tom gazed at her, hurt. "You don't have one of these in New York," he said, justifying himself. "They're not legal in the city."
"I'm sorry," Peg told him, "I just, uh, I didn't mean that, I was thinking about something else. Anyway, we'll take it."
"Good," Call Me Tom said, well pleased, but then looked confused. "We?"
"My boyfriend," Peg explained. "He couldn't come up today, he's working, but he'll visit me on weekends. We'll share the cost."
"Are you sure he won't want to see it first, before you take it?"
"Oh, no. I know Freddie's taste," Peg assured the agent. "I'm as positive of how he'll feel about this place as if he were standing right here next to me."
"That's beautiful," Call Me Tom said. "When a couple have that much understanding of one another and confidence in one another."
"We understand each other pretty good," Peg said, and on the way out she did at last manage, with a sudden unexpected shove of the front door, to give Mr. Smartaleck a satisfying whump. She distinctly felt and heard it hit, and definitely heard that sharp intake of breath.
Peg smiled, all the way back to the van.
21
At just about the same moment that Peg was looking into the empty medicine cabinet up north in Columbia County, "A very frustrating guy, your Freddie Noon," Barney Beuler was telling Mordon Leethe in the backseat of a maroon Jaguar sedan in the underground garage where they'd met before. Barney liked this way of meeting, except for the dental bills; he really did have to keep those appointments. On the other hand, his teeth had needed work for some time, as both his wife and his lady friend had more than once pointed out. And the main point was, he liked the idea of these secret meetings in the underground garage here, these shadowy figures together. Like he was Deep Throat, in the backseat of this car here. The other Deep Throat.
Anyway, "A very frustrating guy," he repeated, and settled more comfortably into the luxurious cordovan-tone leather of the Jaguar upholstery.
"Is that right," said Leethe. Sour as ever, which was his problem, wasn't it?
The other nice thing about meeting here instead of at the restaurant was, down here Barney didn't have to do his restaurant grovel with this asshole. They could meet as . . . what? Partners.
"Lemme tell you about Freddie Noon," Barney told his partner. "He's got no phone listed in his name, he isn't registered to vote—"
"That's a surprise," Leethe said, with deep sarcasm.
"No, there's a lotta guys registered you wouldn't think so," Barney told him. "Your serial killers, for instance, they tend to be very scrupulous voters. I dunno, maybe it's a way to meet people."
"You were talking about Fredric Noon."
"His pals call him Freddie," Barney said. "And he's got a true scoundrel's take on life. No vehicle registered in his name, no account with Con Edison, no way to get a handle on him. A guy that's ready to cut and run at any second."
"Are you saying it's impossible to find this fellow?"
"Well, we know he's in town," Barney said, "with those fingerprints of his showing up in all the wrong places. Pretty good, huh? The invisible burglar." Barney'd been getting a kick out of that idea ever since he'd browbeaten Leethe into telling him the secret.
"We would prefer him," Leethe said, "to be an invisible burglar for us."
"Well, naturally. Okay, the other thing is, besides he's in town, we can figure he's got himself a lady friend. Somebody's got to get those electric bills, put their name on the apartment lease. The question is, how do you find the lady friend?"
"I take it," Leethe said, "you wanted to speak to me because you've succeeded."
"Wait for it," Barney told his partner. He refused to let Leethe's sourness spoil the occasion. "It happens," he said, "I have a friend in the department has a friend in probation has a client that's an old pal of Freddie Noon. So my friend asks his friend to ask Freddie's friend how Freddie's doing these days, and Freddie's friend says he thinks Freddie went straight—"