“I’m looking for Irene.”
The operator’s reply came as a shock. In a moment of astonishing clarity, Ali knew exactly who Irene was and also that she was totally unreachable.
“Sorry,” she mumbled into the phone. “There’s no need.” With trembling hands she ended the call, nearly dropping the phone in the process.
Sister Anselm frowned. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”
“I should have recognized the number before I dialed it,” Ali answered. “Irene’s not there. She’s dead. She’s been dead for years.”
12
Princess did not like Joe Friday. At all. She followed him everywhere, going from room to room, barking like crazy. Betsy didn’t attempt to shush her, because, for one thing, Betsy was more than half convinced that the dog’s assessment of the situation was correct.
When that nice young man from Arizona, Stuart, had called her earlier that morning to say that Joe Friday would be stopping by early in the afternoon, Betsy had more or less expected a Jack Webb look-alike to show up on her doorstep. In her mind’s eye, Jack Webb had never aged a day since she had first seen that handsome black-haired man on the black-and-white TV console Alton had installed in the living room. Even with an antenna planted on the roof, the images on the screen were hazy with snow, but she’d been able to see enough of the actor’s features to think he was just the cat’s meow.
The Joe Friday who rang her doorbell and later carted an immense tool kit into her living room did not resemble Jack Webb at all. He had black hair all right, but rather than being trimmed in a conventional manly way, it came all the way to his shoulders in shiny waves that a lot of women would have killed for. Joe had tattoos everywhere Betsy could see—which is to say everything that wasn’t covered by his red plaid flannel shirt and raggedy jeans. She theorized there were probably lots more tattoos in places she couldn’t see.
In other words, as far as Betsy was concerned, Joe Friday already had two strikes against him—long hair and tattoos—to say nothing of the nose ring. Why young people insisted on putting studs in their faces and rings in their noses was more than Betsy could understand. No doubt Alton would have sent Joe packing based on appearance alone. Unfortunately, Alton wasn’t here, and Betsy knew she needed help. As a consequence she did her best to overlook that first bad impression. It helped, of course, that Joe Friday was unfailingly polite.
“Mrs. Peterson?” he inquired, when she opened the door holding Princess in her arms to keep the dog from racing outside and tearing into the hem of his pant legs.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Peterson, and this is Princess.”
“Cute dog,” he said, glancing at the dog, removing his worn baseball cap, and holding out his hand to the dog in greeting. “I’m Joe, the one who called earlier. Stuart Ramey sent me.”
He had indeed called earlier, asking a question that Betsy had considered odd—what color switch plates did she have on her light switches and electrical outlets? Were they black or white?
White was the answer. Decades earlier, when they had been doing a remodeling project, Betsy had lobbied for avocado-colored appliances and beige switch plates and outlet covers. Alton had vetoed both those ideas at once, saying they were just fads. Much as Betsy hated to admit it, Alton had been right on both counts.
Joe had repeated Ali’s suggestion that if anyone asked what he was doing there, she should tell people she had hired him to bring her electrical service into the twenty-first century, and that the work would most likely take a day or two.
When he bent down and started to unlace his boots before entering the house, she told him not to bother. “Having a little melted snow here and there never hurt anybody.”
Leaving his boots on, he picked up the heavy metal toolbox he had carted up onto her porch, lugged it into the living room, and opened the lid. Sitting on the couch and still holding tight to Princess, Betsy was amazed. Joe Friday may have been lacking in the dress-for-success department, but his toolbox would have won Alton over in an instant. It was neat as a pin.
“I have several more boxes to bring in,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to remove my boots?”
“Your boots are fine. Just wipe them off on the mat before you come inside.”
He dragged in several loads of cardboard boxes, setting off a new set of noisy objections from Princess every time he reentered the house. “All right,” he said, setting down the last ones. “Show me where your breaker box is.”
Betsy led him into the laundry room and opened the door to the metal box that hung on the wall above her washer. Next to each breaker switch was a neat label, printed in ink, in Alton’s own hand.
“Are the labels all accurate?” Joe asked.
“Of course,” she said indignantly without bothering to look. “My late husband labeled them, and Alton was a very careful worker.”
“I’m sure he was,” Joe said with a grin, “but I’ll check each outlet as I go, just to be sure.”
“What are you going to do exactly?” Betsy asked. She had expected that the surveillance system would require unsightly cameras placed in full view all over her house.
“I’ll show you,” he said. Back in the living room, he opened two of the boxes. From one he removed what looked for all the world like an ordinary switch plate—a white one—wrapped in clear cellophane. He passed it over to her. After examining it, she shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s a switch plate,” she said. “Just like the ones I already have.”
“Not quite,” Joe said. “The base of the hole for the switch has been slightly enlarged. Once I get the Wi-Fi up and running, I’ll wire pinhole cameras inside each switch plate with the lens aimed through that bit of extra space. Because the cameras will be wired directly into your electrical system, they won’t require any batteries, making the actual devices that much smaller. Whatever the camera records will go through your new computer by way of an invisible file, but it won’t be stored there. Instead, the material will be uploaded to High Noon’s servers. An alarm will sound on our end and the cameras will start recording whenever an unidentified image shows up.”
“But what Princess and I do won’t be visible?” Betsy asked.
“Not at all,” Joe assured her. “Once I do your 3-D photo shoot and have your images uploaded into the system, the two of you will be exempt. More people can be added to the exempt status at a later date, but we don’t recommend that immediately, especially not now while we’re still trying to ascertain who may have been here the other night and turned on the gas.”
Betsy had longed for someone who would believe her version of the other night’s disturbing events. Clearly Joe Friday did. You had to watch out what you asked for.
“What if I have company?” Betsy asked. “What if someone stops by for coffee?”
“Whatever they do inside your house will be recorded.”
“That seems like a terrible invasion of privacy,” Betsy objected. “I mean, what if one of my guests needs to use the powder room?”
“I understand your concerns about invading your legitimate guests’ privacy,” Joe said. “And I’m willing to go so far as to make the powder room a camera-free zone, but everywhere else is fair game because murder is the ultimate invasion of privacy, wouldn’t you say?”
He had her there. Betsy nodded. “I suppose so,” she agreed.
“Now,” he said. “First things first. Where do you want me to set up your new computer?”
“There’s a desk in my bedroom,” she said. “As long as I have to have the dratted thing, I don’t want it here in the middle of the living room.”
“All right, then,” Joe agreed. “That’s where I’ll start—the bedroom.”