“Come with me,” I said.
I ushered her into the kitchen with me where I pointed at the refrigerator door, which was papered with odds and ends. Under assorted magnets shaped like vegetables, there was a photograph of Pete, a dental appointment reminder card, two fliers, and a calendar on which she’d noted her work hours. “Look at this. You have your schedule posted where anyone can see it. The first time he broke in, he was taking a big risk. After that, he knew what shifts you worked, so he could come and go as he pleased.”
Ruth put a hand on my arm. “I really have to pee. If I stand here one more minute I will wet my pants.”
“Go and pee,” I said.
She left the room. I could feel my own mental processes at work, ideas tumbling over one another as though escaping from a cage. I turned back to the refrigerator door. Dead center was the junk hauler’s flier, headline hand-drawn in mock-three-dimensional letters, fashioned after the messages left under bridges by a tagging crew. I pushed aside the magnets and freed the flier, which read:
No Taste for Waste? Want Junk Displaced?
Fifty Bucks in Cash Eradicates Your Trash
Call (805) 555-2999
Leave your name, address, and a list of the items you want removed. One-time offer, so don’t delay!
Cash only. No checks. No credit cards.
We accept carpet, scrap metal, discarded furniture, lumber, tires, appliances, leaf & garden waste, mattresses, and anything else you want to get rid of.
We’ll be in your neighborhood on Monday, October 24.
The ad was catchy and the guy made it easy to take him up on his offer. Fifty bucks was cheap, especially since it had to cover the fees at the local dump. Robert Dietz and I had spent the better part of two days searching the very boxes the junk hauler had carted off. I remembered loading some of them into Henry’s station wagon, moving them from Pete’s office to my studio, where Dietz and I sat cross-legged on the floor, going through them item by item. I was guessing we’d barely finished the search when the junk hauler began canvassing the neighborhood in his search for work.
Ruth returned, saying, “Sorry about that.”
“This is the flier the junk man left?”
She nodded. “I kept it in case my neighbor needed him. I swear he cleans his garage every other month.”
“Didn’t the timing strike you as odd?”
“Are you kidding? It was perfect. I don’t know what I’d have done with all that crap if he hadn’t come along when he did.”
“So two days after Dietz and I searched the boxes, someone just happened to stick this in your screen door.”
“Yes.”
“You read the flier and did what in response?”
“Just what it said. I left a message telling him I had a garage full of stuff I needed to get rid of. I knew he’d be in the neighborhood the twenty-fourth, so all I had to do was give him my address. I had to be at work, so I put the fifty bucks in an envelope and taped it to the back door. I came home, he’d emptied the garage, and everything looked great.”
“So you never actually laid eyes on him and you never got his name?”
“I needed the garage cleaned. I wasn’t looking for a friend. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not a fan of coincidences. I know they happen in life, but you’ve been plagued with happy accidents and it seems off to me. You mind if I try the number?”
She seemed skeptical, but she gestured her assent.
I carried the flier as I crossed to the phone. I picked up the handset and punched in the number. The line rang twice, and then a three-tone signal sounded at an earsplitting pitch. I held out the handset so mine wasn’t the only hearing under assault. An automated operator in a singsong voice said, “I’m sorry, but the number you’ve dialed is no longer in service.” She went on to tell us what we could do about it, which was precious little.
“The number’s been disconnected. Why should I care?”
“Put the incident in context. This unseen guy carts Pete’s boxes away. Four months later you receive a letter from the IRS.”
“What’s one have to do with the other? I’m not getting it.”
“We’re talking about three men you never met. The junk dealer, the IRS agent, and the guy who broke in. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“No.”
“Well, it should. I mean, think about it. The junk dealer walks off with Pete’s business records. Then the IRS agent comes along and expects you to find documents that date back fifteen years. And now you’ve got some thug going through everything you own.”
“I agree it’s creepy.”
“Not my point. What if they’re the same man?”
“Like they’re in cahoots?”
“I’m saying one man instead of three. And not just any man. We’re back to Ned Lowe.”