Invasion of Privacy

caught up with Mr. Dees yet.” More shifting on her cushion. “He has never introduced me to any relatives.”
    “Any PROBLEMS with him?”
    “Problems?”
    “Yes. Any difficulties you’ve had with Mr. Dees as a neighbor?”
    “No.”
    “Loud parties, that sort of thing?”
    Robinette stared at me, then the slow blink. “Mr. Cuddy, why would your clients be interested in Andrew’s social life?”
    “Well, they’re not, really. It’s more if there’ve been any difficulties, and the Hendrix people had to be called in—”
    “They have not.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “At least not by me.”
    “Anything else you can think of about Mr. Dees that might help me?”
    “Help you with what?”
    Her voice had some steel in it, the kind of command/ demand tone you get from being in charge of others at some point in your life.
    “With my job here,” I said.
    “Mr. Cuddy, I am not quite sure I still understand what your job is.”
    “How about the Elmendorfs?”
    “I think you should go.”
    “Mrs. Robinette, I’m sorry if—”
    “Or would you like to be able to tell your clients how well the Hendrix company can call the police for me?” The steel was back in her voice, and I decided that I might be overstaying my welcome just a tad.

    Walking to the car, I also decided my cover story was wearing thin quicker than it was producing much new information on Andrew Dees. Once behind the wheel, I drove around the other clusters, thinking I might spot Paulie Fogerty again. I even checked in the rear, by the pool, the tennis courts, and his little house. No rake, no Fogerty.
    To head back toward town, I went down the front driveway this time. At the intersection with the road was Paulie, facing away from me, at a white, vertical post with a crossbar. Balanced awkwardly in his hands was a rustic PLYMOUTH WILLOWS sign I’d missed on my way in, maybe because it had fallen. Fogerty was trying to hang it back on hooks screwed into the crossbar.
    I stopped and got out. “Give you a hand?”
    “No.”
    “You sure?”
    He half-turned, tears in his eyes. His palms were red with little streaks of blood—from the rough edges of the sign, I guessed. Paulie shrieked at me. “I can do my job! I can do my job! I’m the super!”
    Then he began to cry, and I apologized for interrupting him before getting back into the Prelude.

8

    R eaching the shore road again, I turned north, passing on the right the “scenic overlook” where the developer of Plymouth Willows had ended his problems the hard way. After the bridge, I entered the downtown section of Plymouth Mills and slowed to fifteen miles an hour. Sliding past the photocopy shop on my left, I could see the lights on and a person behind the counter helping a customer. I found a parking space against the opposite curb.
    Crossing Main Street , I walked to the shop’s door, holding it open for the man coming out. Inside, the counter occupied the rear of a shallow front room, a door beyond the counter closed. There was no visible furniture, the paneling reminding me of the cheap stuff in Boyce Hendrix’s office back in Marshfield .
    As the shop door closed behind me, an Asian woman looked up from the cash register on the counter and smiled. She was perhaps early thirties, in a blue oxford shirt with some designer’s squiggle on the pocket. Her hair was pulled behind her head in a simple ponytail, her nails short but polished, her makeup modest. She also wore a wedding band on the left ring finger.
    “May I help you?”
    A slight, singsong accent. “Yes. I’d like to speak with Mr. Dees, if he’s available.”
    She glanced at the telephone next to the register, a tiny red light glowing through a clear button. “He’s still on the phone, but if you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure he’ll be done shortly.”
    I said, “My name’s John Cuddy, by the way.”
    The woman just nodded. “Fee.”
    “Fee?”
    “F-I.”
    “Short for...?”
    A gracious smile. “Filomena, but I could never stand that name. ‘Filomena the Filipina,’ you see what I mean?”
    “ Manila ?”
    “Just outside.” Filomena reached under the counter for some forms that she began counting. “Met my husband there.” She waggled the ring finger at me. “He’s in the service here, the South Weymouth Naval Air Station.”
    I liked the way Filomena answered my question by also answering one I hadn’t asked. “I came by before lunch, but you seemed to be closed.”
    Still counting the