F. Paul Wilson - Quick Fixes - Tales of Repairman Jack

“My husband’s?” She blinked and paused, as if she were translating the words. “Oh, yes. I suppose so. It’s around back in the shed.”

“Could you show me?” To underscore his probity, he added, “I’ll walk around the side and meet you there.”

They converged at the shed in the backyard.

“It’s in here.” She pulled open the doors.

“Thank you.”

He waited for her to notice the magazines, then realized they weren’t there. He poked his head in and looked around, but they were gone.

He took hold of the lawn mover handle and pulled it out, wondering if they had slipped beneath. But no . . . no magazines.

“Did your husband come out to the shed this morning?”

“What? No. He was running late. Skipped breakfast and ran. In a big hurry to get to . . . the city.”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll be sure to have it back by tonight.”

She only nodded, looking distracted.

Theodore wheeled the mower across the street. Where were those magazines? He’d ponder that while he mowed the grass – something he hadn’t counted on. He always hired a lawn service whenever he moved into a new town, but he’d put it off because of the Woolbrights. Today he’d planned to be so upset by the sight of those magazines that he’d forget about the mower. But now that he had it, he was obliged to use it.

*

He turned off the mower. Finally. He’d forgotten what a noisy, monotonous chore it was. Plus he was no spring chicken. He was puffing a little and had wet rings in his armpits. He’d clean off the mower – always be a good neighbor – and wait for Mr. Woolbright’s return before wheeling it back across the street. Might catch an earful of domestic strife along the way – though not as much as there could have been had she found those magazines. Someone had taken them. But who?

He saw the mail truck pull up to his box. Even though he’d never receive anything but flyers and contest come-ons at this address, he’d introduced himself to the mailman, whose name was Phil. He waved and Phil waved back.

After the mail truck moved on, Theodore slipped into the backyard and stood behind the big rhododendron next to the post-and-rail fence that divided his property from the Robinsons’. The bush shielded him from the street. Once he was sure no one was in line of sight, he climbed over the fence. In the old days he would have hopped it, but he wasn’t as spry or as flexible as he used to be.

He hurried to their back door. When helping Mr. Robinson transplant a spirea on Saturday, he’d noted that the back door lock was a Schlage. He inserted a Schlage bump key, gave it a twist as he tapped it with a little rubber hammer, and he was in. He’d seen no evidence of an alarm system on his introductory visit, so no worry about disarming that.

He hurried upstairs and had no problem locating Chelsea Robinson’s room – pink wallpaper, posters of the latest boy group. He went to her dresser and found her underwear drawer. He removed a pair of panties – pink, of course – and stuffed them into his pocket.

Then he was on his way down the stairs, out the way he’d come in – making sure to lock the door behind him – and back over the fence.

Five minutes from leaving his yard to returning. And no one the wiser.

Now that he had the panties, he could pick which photos of Chelsea to print out.

*

He watched the Rashid house until all was dark except for the glow of a TV from the master bedroom. He’d printed out half a dozen photos of Chelsea – close ups of her face, and crops centered on her flat chest and her little rump. With these trapped under his shirt, and the panties in his pocket, he stole across the street and into the Rashids’ backyard. On Sunday he’d helped carry bags of wood-chip mulch from the van to the rear, and had made note that the backdoor to their garage was secured by another Schlage. No surprise. Development builders invariably used the same hardware on their houses.

A tap and a twist of the bump key and he was in. He opened the rear passenger door of Mr. Rashid’s Volvo sedan and placed the photos and the panties on the floor where the pink could not fail to catch Mr. Robinson’s eye. Then he would see the photos beneath.

Theodore pulled out a penlight and snooped around until he came upon an expensive-looking socket wrench set. He tucked that under his arm and slipped back outside, locking the door behind him.

Before heading for the Longwell house, he detoured to the Fabrinis’ front yard where he pulled up every geranium Mr. Fabrini had planted over the weekend and scattered them across the front lawn.

He strolled the starlit street to the other end of the block where he slipped into the back of the Longwells’ corner lot and hid the wrench set under the deck.

Back home, he slung ice cubes at Daisy’s doghouse until Mr. McCuin screamed again from his window.

After making his daily entry in the ledger, he went to bed.

Wednesday, April 28

Theodore had set his alarm to be sure he’d be awake to see Mr. Rashid pick up Mr. Robinson. He’d given himself enough time to make coffee first.

So now, steaming cup in hand, he sat by his front picture window to wait and watch.

Right on time, Mr. Rashid pulled out of his garage and backed into the street. Equally punctual, Mr. Robinson strode from his front door to the Rashid sedan. He opened the rear door . . .

. . . now the good part . . .

. . . and placed his briefcase in the rear . . .

. . . here we go . . .

. . . then slammed the door and slipped into the passenger seat. Mr. Rashid gunned the car and off they went.

Theodore found himself on his feet, staring through the window. How could Robinson have missed the panties and the pictures? Impossible. Unless . . .

Unless they weren’t there.

He focused on the yard next to the Rashids where he’d pulled all the geraniums last night . . . where the lawn should have been littered with dead or dying plants.

But wasn’t. At least it didn’t appear so from here.

He threw on some clothes and hurried outside, slowing as he reached the sidewalk. Had to be calm. Had to appear to be going for a morning stroll, a constitutional, as they used to say back in the day.

But his inner pace was anything but leisurely as he passed the Fabrini yard and saw that each and every geranium he’d torn out last night had been replanted. He might have convinced himself that he’d dreamed what he’d done but for the orange petals and scattered clumps of potting dirt here and there on the lawn.

He heard a garage door rolling and saw Mr. Fabrini smiling and waving as he backed out of his driveway.

“Good morning!” he called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it.”

Theodore nodded. “Yes. Beautiful.”

Another wave, another smile – “Have a good one!” – and Mr. Fabrini was on his way, acting nothing at all like a man who’d been forced to spend his first waking hours repairing mindless vandalism. Theodore had been all set to tell him that he’d glanced out his window last night and thought he’d seen the McCuin boy in the front yard, but no point now.

Someone was on to him.

Hard to see how that was possible. He knew no one in town, especially on this block, and no one knew him.

Or was he wrong about that?

He supposed it was possible. In fact, statistically it might even be inevitable that after all these years he would run into someone from a previous distribution point.

But he was always so careful, so circumspect. How could someone connect him with the unfortunate incidents that occurred during his brief stays?

He couldn’t avoid the possibility that someone had. Judging from the missing porn magazines, the replanted geraniums, and what he had to assume were the missing panties and photos, the possibility looked more like a certainty.