Rip Your Heart Out Page 12

  The man's response wasn't very informative so I stared into his bluer-than-blue eyes and waited patiently for him to elaborate on why he was there. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable about the man's unexplained presence.

  Appearing uneasy himself, he finally said, "I just dropped by to see how things were progressing on the house."

  "Why?" I asked wearily. His justification seemed to me to be contrived.

  "Well, you see," he began hesitantly, "for a number of years I took care of a lot of the handyman projects here for Mabel. I guess you could say I have a personal interest in the preservation of this historic home."

  "Really?" I asked, dumbstruck by his explanation. Did that mean the tiny Irish man I'd met wasn't the real caretaker Sydney had been doubtful even existed? Recalling what she'd told me earlier, I had to wonder if the widowed church choir ladies had actually met Mabel's houseguest. And, if so, had they truly believed this was the gentleman their friend was "shacking up" with? In her dreams, maybe, I thought. I asked the uninvited visitor, "Are you saying you were the caretaker here?"

  "Um, yeah, I guess so."

  "So, you must be the Ridley Wickets the neighbor lady told me about," I stated matter-of-factly.

  Before he could confirm or deny my statement, it occurred to me that he could assist me with the draperies. "As the caretaker here, Mr. Wickets, you should be able to point me toward a ladder so I can pull down all of these dreary drapes."

  "I wasn't actually Mabel's caretaker, per say."

  Oh, dear! I thought. I stepped back and glanced at the opening into the foyer, judging the distance I'd have to cover to make an escape if it were to become necessary. If he wasn't the caretaker, who was he? The possibilities that rushed into my mind were terrifying. Visions of Ted Bundy, the physically attractive but monstrous, serial-killer from the seventies, zipped through my mind. I subconsciously reached for the fireplace poker.

  Studying my anxious expression and defensive reactions, he took the brass poker out of my hand and spoke in a comforting tone. "It's okay, ma'am. I was hired by Mabel Trumbo to do some handy work. However, I was just a friend willing to help out on occasion, rather than an actual caretaker."

  Tomayto, tomahto! I thought with relief. I was relieved to know it was just a distinction without a difference. What Mabel called a caretaker, out of a sense of superiority, perhaps, Ridley modestly referred to as a friend helping out.

  "I see." I chuckled and asked, "Did you know she referred to you as her caretaker to her friends?"

  "Well, you see, there was a misunderstanding about that which I never had the heart to bring up with Ms. Trumbo. I met her one day, several years ago, at a church function. Mabel asked me if I knew of a handyman she could hire to do a few chores for her. Since I live nearby, I offered to help out and told her I wouldn't accept payment from her because it was the neighborly thing to do."

  "How thoughtful! That was very generous of you." I was relieved to discover that Ridley Wickets was not the devil in disguise, as I'd momentarily feared. Evidently he was the Mr. Wickets Itsy had mentioned, but not an actual caretaker. I no longer worried I might be a serial killer's next victim. In fact, instead of being a monster, the man was an absolute angel.

  "It was no big deal really. But Mabel said she wouldn't feel right asking me for any assistance in the future if I didn't accept payment for my services."

  "I can understand why she felt that way," I said in Aunt Mabel's defense.

  "I could too. So I told her that for twenty-three dollars, I'd take care of the items she needed repaired around this place."

  "Twenty-three? That seems like an unusual amount."

  "It was. I deliberately made it an odd amount so she'd think I'd carefully calculated what my expenses would be. I suppose what transpired afterward was my own fault. I should've been more specific about the terms of our agreement." He laughed, clearly not troubled about the misunderstanding.

  "So, Mabel accepted your offer, assuming you meant repairs needing done right then and any that might pop up in the future. And for the rest of her life you were at her beck and call. Am I right?"

  "Yep! Something like that." Ridley chuckled again. "But, it's not as bad as it sounds. Living alone gets rather lonesome, so I enjoyed fixing things around here. She never asked me to do anything that was a major project. I did, however, repair a few things that Mabel wasn't disturbed by but concerned me greatly. For instance, a gas leak in her stove and an electrical short in the lamp next to her bed."

  "Did you consider replacing the dangerously loose and deteriorated boards on the front porch and steps?"

  Mr. Wickets looked down, as if ashamed. I hadn't meant to imply he should have done even more for Mabel Trumbo than he'd so generously volunteered his time, effort and resources to do. Twenty-three bucks would barely cover the cost of a hammer and box of nails these days, much less all the other expenses the repair jobs must have entailed over the years. Before I could clarify my remark, Ridley explained.

  "Every board of the porch and stairs needs to be replaced. I was planning to begin that project when, all of a sudden, Mabel passed. The place needs a lot of work, as I'm sure you've discovered. It's a money pit, to be totally honest, and I could only afford to do so much."

  "I'm sorry if I sounded critical. I certainly didn't mean it that way. I feel like you deserve a medal, Mr. Wickets." I detected an uneasy expression on the man's face after my last remark, but chalked it up to the fact he was the kind of stand-up guy who didn't want to be rewarded for his humanitarian efforts.

  "Truly, I didn't mind helping out at all, even when at times it seemed as if she needed something fixed nearly every day. I suppose she was lonely, too, and welcomed the company, if only for the few minutes it took me to change a bulb, replace a furnace filter, or knock down a spider web."

  "Well, it was extremely kind of you. I can only imagine how lonely I'd be if I lost my husband, which I nearly did recently when he experienced a cardiac episode." If I'd been in Mabel Trumbo's shoes, I might have found something that needed fixing every other day, too, just for the pleasure of this kind man's company. He would've been a nice treat for the aging eyes, as well.

  However, even as tight as I am, I wouldn't have felt right not paying the man for his labor and the necessary materials. And I don't mean twenty-three dollars. I mean what he actually earned for his work. "I suppose she enjoyed telling people she had a tall, handsome caretaker on the payroll, too. Don't you think?"

  "I don't know about handsome, but I suspect so," Ridley replied with a wry grin. "I recall a number of times being introduced to one of her lady friends after she'd call me over to look at some insignificant thing. Like the time she had a drawer pull in dire need of tightening. When I arrived, I was suddenly the center of attention at a luncheon she was hosting for our church choir. Involvement with the church was the one exception to her otherwise reclusive lifestyle."

  Ah-ha! I thought. Mabel's friends were familiar with her so-called caretaker. They all attended the same church. The two "least likely to cohabitate" parishioners must have been the most popular subject of the church's gossip grapevine if the bulk of the choir believed Mabel's story.

  Before I accidentally made an inappropriate comment, I motioned toward the Steinway in the corner. "That explains the beautiful grand piano. By the looks of the music sheet displayed on the rack, which is one of Franz Liszt's 'Hungarian Rhapsodies,' she must have been a gifted pianist."

  "Yes, I suppose so, although I never heard her play it. The Steinway used to be a fixture at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, until several years ago when the elders decided to upgrade. The remarkable acoustics of the cathedral were ideal for a Quimby pipe organ. We had a host of bake sales, car washes, a pie-eating contest, and a few other money-making events to raise the funds to purchase one. We also raffled off the piano. There were 1,626 tickets sold, bringing in nearly seven thousand dollars to go toward the new organ. And Mabel, who had only purchased one raffle ticket, h
ad the winner."

  "Wow! How lucky was that?"

  "Yeah. Lucky." Ridley's tone was a mixture of ruefulness and sarcasm.

  He looked away, but I caught his reflection in a framed mirror next to the fireplace. I was almost certain he'd rolled his eyes. I had to wonder if he'd hoped to win the Steinway himself. He might have bought a lot of the tickets to increase his chances, and still lost out to a lady who'd bought only one. And how often does that seem to be the case when you hear about some fortunate soul winning a huge lottery prize? Then again, maybe he thought the raffle was a foolish way to dispose of a piano whose worth was probably four or five times what the raffle collected for it. As I'd been trying to assess his expression in the mirror, I had tuned his voice out. Now I turned my attention back to Ridley as he continued to talk about the magnificent new instrument.

  "The sound is absolutely amazing. If you and your husband get an opportunity to come–" Ridley stopped abruptly, as if he'd suddenly realized he was about to give away state secrets, and switched to another topic. "So what were you contemplating when I entered the room a few minutes ago. Anything I can do to help?"

  Even though the screeching halt of his explanation regarding the church's pipe organ nearly made my neck snap back from the sudden about-face in momentum, like a Lamborghini going ninety to nothing in the span of two seconds, I chose not to ask what he was about to say. Instead I winked and asked, "Could I interest you in a twenty-three-dollar contract to do a little handy work around the place?"

  "I am at your disposal, ma'am, but your money is no good with me," he responded. He followed his remark with a deep bow.

  "Actually, I just need a ladder so I can reach the drapery rods. I'm sure I saw one out in the garage. Could I impose on you to carry it in here for me?"

  "Absolutely. But I know the location of a sturdier one upstairs, which I'll go fetch."

  "Thank you. I want to brighten up this dark and gloomy room with something that will let light in, like vertical blinds if I can get the cardiac center's approval."

  "Blinds would look nice. With nice window coverings, this room will be cozy once the furniture is all uncovered. I'll get the drapes taken down for you, and then I'd best be on my way."

  "Thanks. I'd appreciate it, Mr. Wickets."

  The helpful gentleman appeared to be contemplating a response, but after a few seconds he shook his head and walked toward the staircase.

  When he returned with the ladder, I decided to quiz him. Aware now that the elfin-like Irish fellow I'd encountered that morning was not actually Ridley Wickets, I was both curious and concerned about his true identity. Who was he if not the man Mabel thought of as her caretaker? Before I could question him, though, he began to quiz me.

  "I know you haven't been around here much, Ms. Ripple, but have you seen anything, or anyone, that seems out of place?" Ridley asked nonchalantly as he positioned the ladder next to the window.

  "Oh! Have you come across the leprechaun too?"

  "The leprechaun?"

  "Well, he's not an actual leprechaun, but he sure resembles one." I raised my hand to my chest to indicate the height of the little Irish guy. "Have you not seen an odd little guy around the neighborhood who's about this tall and speaks with an Irish brogue?"

  With neither a yay nor a nay, Ridley asked, "Did you converse with the man?"

  "We spoke briefly after he nearly scared the life out of me right here in the drawing room. He moves silently, like a cat. Well, most cats, I should say. Dolly, my sixteen-pound tabby, couldn't sneak up on a mouse if her life depended on it. It'd be like a twenty-year-old sloth trying to run down a two-year-old cheetah."

  I noticed Ridley wasn't laughing along with me. Instead, he appeared impatient, as if totally uninterested in my cat's weight issues.

  "Did he mention why he was here? Did he tell you his name? Or what the nature of his relationship with Mabel was?" Ridley's inquiries were more in the nature of an interrogation than a run-of-the-mill interest in the comings and goings of the Heart Shack, but they convinced me he'd never met the Irish intruder.

  "Everything about him was unusual. As a matter of fact, he pretended to be you. He insinuated he'd been the caretaker around here for a number of years. Why do you ask?"

  "Just wondering why he was here. I guess it's just second nature for me after keeping an eye out for Mabel for some time. I really have no clue why the guy you met would pretend to be me. But I wouldn't worry about him, if I were you. I certainly wouldn't make any effort to track him down and question him."

  "Do you think he might harm me? Should I call the local police?"

  "No. I don't believe for a moment that he's dangerous. He's probably just a nosy neighbor," Ridley said, echoing my husband's opinion. "I'll look into it for you."

  "Thanks." I felt better knowing this handsome, capable man was going to try to identify the trespasser. "By the way, Ridley, I'm Rapella Ripple. My husband, Rip, and I will be staying here in the Heart Shack for approximately two months while he recovers from heart surgery."

  Ridley shook my outstretched hand firmly. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Rapella. Heart Shack's kind of a silly name for this place, don't you think?"

  Another déjà vu moment, I thought. His words had nearly mirrored Itsy's from my conversation with her less than an hour earlier.

  After Ridley stacked all of the drapes in a neat pile on the floor, he said, "There you go, Ms. Ripple. You're all set to turn this gloom-and-doom room into a neat and sweet retreat."

  "You're a poet and didn't know it, Mr. Wickets," I replied with a smile. "I am most appreciative of your kindness, and your long reach."

  "Happy to help." As he spoke, he withdrew a wadded-up slip of paper out of his front pocket. He straightened the strip of paper out as best he could and wrote "564-555-0206" on the back of it. "Here's my number if you need any help. Also, if you do hear anything new about Mabel's death, please drop a dime on me. I heard they're exhuming her body to perform an autopsy. Anonymous tip, or not, it seems a little disrespectful to me. Not to mention, totally unnecessary. Regardless, we had a special relationship, and I'd like to be kept in the loop."

  "I'll make sure you're kept up to date. I was glad to hear the real story about Mabel's caretaker. Her niece, Sydney, will be interested to hear the truth too."

  Ridley's face was unreadable. I was usually good at interpreting expressions, but this was an exception. I'd been about to inquire about his relationship with Mabel's next-door neighbor, but something in his demeanor stopped me. He may not want to share details with me any more than Itsy had. I'd try to wring it out of the woman the next time I had the chance to chat with her.

  "Well, I'll let you get back to your work." Ridley realigned the neatly-folded stack of draperies while speaking, as if he was either nervous or afflicted with OCD. "I'll probably drop in and check on you now and then in case you need some help with something or just need a fellow with a long reach—if that's all right, of course."

  "If that's all right?" I repeated his last few words in disbelief. "Mister, you are welcome to stop by any time you feel like donating a little elbow grease to the cause."

  Ridley picked up the ladder and started to walk toward the staircase, but then stopped and turned back to face me. "Your last remark reminded me of something I'd been meaning to do. Every door in this house needs to have its hinges greased. If I don't take care of lubricating them right now, I'm apt to forget. Mind if I take care of that little chore tonight? Otherwise, the squeaking sound every time a door is opened or closed will drive you crazy within a week."

  I wanted to let him in on a little secret. Stopping the doors from squeaking was but a drop in the bucket when it came to everything about this house that was driving me crazy. But I was all for having him silence the nerve-wracking squeaks. "That'd be awesome! I put a can of graphite spray in with my cleaning supplies this morning."

  "Graphite can coat the floor with a black powder, which can do a number on light carpet, lik
e that in the bedrooms. The stain left behind is nearly impossible to remove."

  "Well, in that case, there may be a can of WD-40 under the sink. Let me go see if–"

  "No, no. This would be a good opportunity to try out some plumber's grease I just bought. It's very light and stable enough not to run off the hinges like some of the lubricating oils. I've heard plumber's grease lasts significantly longer than silicone spray, which is also a good option. On the other hand, silicone spray is less sloppy. Automobile grease will also–"

  "Whoa!" I interrupted him because I didn't have the time or patience to sit through a long drawn-out dissertation on the pros and cons of different lubricants. "You don't have to justify your choice. I trust you to make the correct one."

  "Okay, good. Then plumber's grease it will be."

  "That'd be great. I think I saw a container of that stuff under the kitchen sink."

  "On second thought, I believe silicone would be the best option."

  "Don't have any of that, I'm afraid." I didn't care if the handsome, but incredibly indecisive, gentleman used a fistful of grease off one of the axles under our Chevy truck. I just wanted to be able to mark that time-consuming task off my to-do list.

  "I have some. I'll run home to fetch it and be back in a while."

  "Sounds good. I'll be here another couple of hours, most likely."

  "Oh, really?" Ridley looked at his watch as he spoke. The wheels in his head seemed to be working overtime. No doubt he had a stressful job like so many other people. His next remark convinced me that my assumption was correct. "Actually, I won't be able to get back until later. I almost forgot I have a work-related meeting I need to attend in about forty-five minutes."

  "If you don't mind me asking, what do you do for a living?"

  Apparently he did mind me asking, because he simply replied, "Let's just say I have a very powerful boss who is always looking over my shoulder. He doesn't miss a single thing."

  I was a little flustered about why he didn't just say whether he was a teacher or an attorney, or even a Chippendale dancer, which did not seem to be beyond the realm of possibility. But I didn't have time to dwell on it. "I assume you still have a key?"