Neighborhood Watch (A Tracer Family Mystery)

By Jeff Andrus

With the help of a ragtag collection of in-laws, a pig named Alfred and a dog named Dog, the sleuthing Tracer Family sets out on their second comedic adventure. The search is for their next-door neighbor's elderly sister, Corinth, a one-time femme fatale turned wandering drunk and princess from outer space. The quest leads to a bizarre Oregon town, the sleazy side of Hollywood and a few murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Andrus
• Release date: May 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452459882

Jeff Andrus

I was born and raised in California’s Salinas Valley. I was selected as an AFS high school exchange student to South Africa and spent a second year in South Africa attending the University of Natal, Durban. I earned a BA in English from Stanford University where I studied Creative Writing under the tutelage of Wallace Stegner and Nancy Packer.I did post-graduated work at UCLA's film school and dropped out in 1971 when my comedic screenplay Doc placed first in the Samuel Goldwyn Creative Writing Competition. I then spent two years at Wolper Productions, developing documentaries.For thirty years I have been a freelance writer, scripting nine movies for television, including Proud Men starring Charlton Heston and Peter Strauss, and Triumph of the Heart: The Ricky Bell Story. I was a writer on the award-winning animation series, The Kids' Ten Commandments, and wroted the theatrical film adaptation of The Jeweler's Shop from a play by the late Pope John-Paul II.I have consulted on numerous projects to bring stories from conception to the screen. I have edited and ghostwritten a variety of articles and books, fiction and non-fiction, and have authored three crime novels.

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NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH (A TRACER FAMILY MYSTERY)

by

Jeff Andrus

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Jeff Andrus on Smashwords

NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH (A TRACER FAMILY MYSTERY)

Copyright © 1996-2010 by Jeff Andrus

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Discover other titles by Jeff Andrus by visiting his website, http://www.jeffandrus.com.

To Gwynneth,

Nicole, Neil,

Zulu, Kitty-Kat, and Sumo

Prologue

Martin Syrenus Riley lived in Creekside Estates, off Highway 68, the main road from Salinas to Monterey. On a dreary Sunday evening during the first storm of the rainy season, Riley watched his television fade in and out. He adjusted the rabbit ears, daring to hope that the Empress was trying to contact him with news of Princess Ariel. If Riley could find the Princess, they could complete their mission on Earth. Then at last they would be allowed to return home.

But it was a news clip that crackled from the snowy screen. To his amazement Riley saw that the clip was about his neighbor: yesterday Mr. John Tracer had apparently saved a girl from a drug ring in Los Angeles!

Riley knew many things about the man next door, all of them underscoring why Venus had sent citizens such as himself to Earth in the first place. The sudden knowledge that a being so materialistic, aggressive and ill-tempered as Tracer would actually help a fellow life form came as a complete shock. But it was on CBS, so it had to be true.

Just as it was true that so far Riley had failed at bringing Ariel back to the fold. He weighed that and his loneliness against his disdain and distrust. Reluctantly, Riley picked up the telephone. He would ask Tracer's help in finding Ariel, Princess of Zartov, the largest of Venus' city-states. Nobody's fool when it came to dealing with Earthlings, Riley referred to her more simply as his sister Corinth.

Or thought he did.

Chapter One

She-devil, is what Tracer heard. Plus some gabble about short dogs.

Tracer glanced uneasily toward the kitchen where his wife Christine and their two children were finishing dinner. The newscast about his first and only case as a private investigator had attracted calls all evening. Chris' eyebrows were raised in a question: which of their friends and relatives was expressing amazement now?

Tracer clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. Client.

Who?

Tracer turned his back to the kitchen and lowered his voice. She-devil? Who's a she-devil?

Corinth when she gets it in her.

Who's Corinth?

I told you.

Uh...no, you didn't.

My sister. Can't you find her? The TV says you're a pretty big detective down in L.A.

But I live up here, don't I? That's why you can't ever believe the TV. Besides, I'm thinking about retiring.

You can't retire! Not until you find the Prince— I mean...

You want to hire me, is that it?

What? I can't hear you. Why are you whispering?

Look, why don't I pop over, and we can talk about it?

Now?

Or end of the month. Halloween. I like Reeses Pieces.

There was a long pause, then: No, please. Now would be good. Riley hung up.

Tracer put the dead handset back in its cradle and pulled a kink out of the 100-foot cord that lead to the phone jack in the front room. He began coiling up the cord. That way he didn't have to look toward the kitchen.

Where Chris was smiling at him proudly. He had just today promised her that he was giving up this detective nonsense for good. Chris knew that he might never get a position as good as Director of Personnel at the late, great Vulcan Tire & Rubber Company, but it at least a new job would be something normal that didn't require dental work.

Clint? Who's Clint?

Who?

That's who you said was on the phone.

Riley, our esteemed neighbor.

The children, Shorty and Brad, looked at each other. Mr. Riley was seldom seen, but his Jungle House was well known to the kids in the neighborhood. Although they were too old now to think it was haunted by a witch, their voices always dropped when they passed to and from the school bus stop. Just a couple of days ago their father had gone after one of the Jungle House's trees with a chain saw so that it wouldn't uproot the shingles of their roof. Mr. Riley had threatened to call the cops.

Their mother's smile lost some of its conviction. What's he want? Chris asked.

Something about his sister.

What sister? I didn't know he had a sister.

He wants me to find her.

Can you use your gun?! Brad shouted.

Shorty sighed, God, is that all you can think about?

Chris said to her ten-year-old son, It was taken away from him, remember, dear? To her thirteen-year-old daughter she said, Please don't use the Lord's name in vain, sweetie. And when she looked at her middle-aged Peter Pan, her eyes glinted like black ice on a hairpin curve.

Hon, I'm just going to talk to Riley, Tracer said. OK?

Chris rose with her plate. No. Not OK.

Tracer moved into the living room and set the phone on the floor next to the only piece of furniture, a vinyl covered lounger with a footrest that jutted out crookedly. Except for carpeting that looked grim along the trafficked areas, the spacious and empty room appeared pretty much as it had when the realtor first took Chris and him through the house. Before the movers had come with the Tracers' worldly goods. When God was in heaven and all was right with a hard working family man with a corporate future that would assure his ability to service the debt on another step upward. When Vulcan laid Tracer off, he had made ends meet by hocking whatever the family had of value, which was the furniture that Chris had brought to the marriage. He didn't blame her for being upset. But he couldn't blame himself for living in an era when the market for middle aged ex-managers of companies in Chapter 11 was about the same as it was for engineers of steam locomotives.

So why not be a private eye? Tracer had done his 6,000 practical hours as a rent-a-cop and a process server. He had paid $200 and passed the three-hour examination given by the California Department of Consumer Affairs. He had an investigator's license with as much scroll work as those issued for chiropractors and as suitable for framing as his Stanford diploma, a BA in history earned just at the dawn of Aquarius. The diploma was stuck in a box someplace in the garage, but the PI license represented a new lease on life. Unfortunately, finding cases was very much like having his resume constantly put on file when he was on the downside of the American Dream. But if Mike Hammer could take it on the chin, then so could John Tracer.

Tracer went outside without a raincoat because he was born and bred in the Salinas Valley where rain was relatively rare and set-in storms were usually confined to December and January. He figured he'd be inside Riley's within thirty seconds.

A redwood fence encircled Riley's property. Originally it had been constructed high in back and on the sides to keep people out and low in front to allow the fire department some access, but now the fence supported bougainvillea vines in a thicket that had grown to nearly twelve feet all the way around, with shooters here and there that looked like telephone poles. Getting his bearings from the mound of ivy marking Riley's curbside mailbox, Tracer found the front gate in a dent in the bougainvillea.

At first he couldn't find the latch which was frozen with rust. A full minute of barking his knuckles and tearing his nails finally freed it. Then Tracer had to pit his full weight against warped wood and resilient vegetation to force the gate open enough to turn sideways and maybe squeeze through. He wedged his body into the front yard, shaking free water drops the size of golf balls from the overhead leaves that now completely blocked out the street light. His pupils dilated, but his retinal rods were already working overtime. Otherwise Tracer would have made a dash forward. The rank smell of compost caught his nostrils; his felt as if he was standing on something soft and depthless—a carpet of mulch about to cave in over an abandoned cistern?

In the nearly ten years of living beside Martin Syrenus Riley, Tracer had only a vague notion of the layout of his neighbor's home, and it had been formed just recently atop a ladder during the attack on the peach tree which threatened to ruin roof Tracer's roof. It was one of many trees that skirted Riley's house from the back to the front. When Tracer applied eminent domain to branches encroaching on his side of the fence, he had spotted flower beds winding below in the shadows of ferns and succulents. The effect in daylight was unsettling. Gardens in the Golden West weren't supposed to grow like mutant rain forests. At night the sensation was positively creepy.

The dim form of the house, unlit as far as Tracer could see, took shape in the gloom. He was reminded of a science fiction movie he had once seen. Something about space explorers living on a jungle planet where it was supposed to rain all the time. Must have been Hollywood's idea of Venus before the clouds enshrouding the planet were known to be pure poison, not water vapor. Tracer stepped forward at a slight crouch, one arm cocked half way out to protect his face. What else lived in this riot of chlorophyll and rot? He got to the front porch, no more than fifty yards from the warmth of his own home, drenched to the skin and with water dripping from his eyebrows and nose. He pounded on the door.

A single light went on at the back of the house. After a moment Riley opened the door. He was a head shorter than Tracer and looked much older. Seventies maybe. Tracer stepped past his neighbor, gritting, Don't you ever go to the store?

I grow vegetables in back.

Tracer turned full circle in the cramped room. The musty odor of mildew fought with a lilac fragrance that might have come from a cheap brand of air freshener. But how do you get in here?

Riley squinted suspiciously at Tracer. What do you mean?

That front gate hasn't been used in years.

Because, Riley thought, Chester Gould got it right: the nation that controls magnetism controls the universe. I come through the garage, is what he said.

Oh. Tracer's eyes swept to Riley, who wore baggy corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt buttoned to the neck, and over it all a bathrobe. Saving electricity?

What?

Tracer was trying to get a fix on Riley's ability to pay a fee, not that he could say that directly. It's dark in here. Cold too.

Let's go to the kitchen.

Riley led the way past overstuffed furniture and end tables encrusted with doilies. He moved a cane bottom rocking chair aside to step into the small kitchen. The movement revealed the cuffs of long underwear under Riley's shirt, and the light from the kitchen made his pale complexion look ghostly. Tracer wondered whether Riley had been rocking in the threshold. An odd place to pass the time. Or maybe the chair belonged in the kitchen and Riley had just moved it to mop the floor.

The floor was paved with yellowing linoleum, clean and looking as if it had been damp mopped near the threshold. Tracer sniffed something vomitty, and it mixed sweet and sour with the lilac fragrance. But he hadn't come to smell the flowers.

There was hardly a space on the walls that wasn't filled with shelving to hold meticulously kept rows of knickknacks, but a swath of wall above a table in the corner featured a National Geographic map of the moon with about a dozen colored pins stuck into it. The table supported a napkin dispenser, a ketchup bottle and two place mats. They were neatly nested among orderly stacks of Farmers Weekly and Weekly World News. On the counter beside the sink was a portable television with rabbit ears from which were draped strips of aluminum foil. A silent picture rolled endlessly on the screen.

Riley motioned him sit in a molded plastic chair at the table, the only chair in the room, then asked if he wanted a drink. As Tracer's income curve had started to bottom out, drinking was something he gave up in rapid stages. Anchor Steam to generic beer; Abalour single malt scotch to Duncan Sinclair, the house blend of Thrifty Drug & Discount Stores; everything for an occasional half-gallon jug of Gallo wine, any color that was on sale; and finally whatever other people would pay for.

Yes! Tracer was surprised by his own eagerness.

Liquor, I suppose?

Tracer squirmed into a more comfortable position. Well. I just ate.

Water then?

Tracer forced a laugh. Oh, I'm wet enough already. Let's make it something stronger.

Riley left the room. Tracer had seen copies of Weekly World News at the check-out stand of the local supermarket. The temptation was to find the edition with the greatest headline ever written: Donor Wants Kidney Back. Either that or ask Riley whether the pins in the moon map tracked missing World War II bombers dutifully reported by the tabloid. But Tracer remembered that he was looking for a job. So he picked up an edition of Farmer's Weekly. Flipping pages, he spotted an ad for Vulcan tractor tires, and that's when he hoped Riley would pour him a double.

Riley came back with a space heater. He plugged it in and set it near his guest's feet where it began to give off the smell of burning dust.

Thanks, Tracer said. "Farmer's Weekly, why do you have it?"

Princess Ariel, who loved to garden in a big way, was the reason for the magazine, but Riley didn't think it wise to go into that just now. Oh, I suppose I have a green thumb. Grew up on a farm, you know.

No, I didn't know.

Riley abruptly opened the refrigerator's freezer compartment. He banged around in the impacted frost, bits of ice falling to floor. I keep my hooch in here so I don't have to bother with ice cubes. Do you know how much energy it takes to make one ice cube?

The correct answer was enough to telepathically send a six-line message to the main Venusian outpost on the moon, and if there was too much ambient electricity in a room, it would ruin the message with static. Any fool knew that, and Riley cursed himself for asking and possibly giving himself away.

No.

I mean, I can chip off some ice if you want it. I just don't like carrying trays back and forth.

I'll be fine, Riley. What are we drinking?

A bag of home grown peas hit the floor. With a grunt Riley tugged out an unopened pint bottle of Old Granddad, then picked up the frozen peas with a grimace that made his face blotchy. He gestured with both. Bourbon OK with you?

You're buying, neighbor.

Old Granddad's the best. Pure, not like those blended brands. It doesn't put on airs like fancy labels. With finicky movements Riley returned the peas to the freezer before opening a cupboard and taking out two tumblers that used to be jelly jars. He wielded a paring knife to remove the lid from the Old Granddad, then carried the lid to the sink, in which a cut-away milk carton held garbage. With a single finger Riley pushed the lid into the garbage.

Don't need that any more.

We're going to drink it all?

Riley offered a knowing smile that made his pale blue eyes look kinder than Mother Theresa's. Do you have a problem with that?

Tracer felt a tug of regret for going after Riley's peach tree. He showed it with a shrug.

From the Venusian point of view Tracer looked and acted very much like a large, disease carrying cockroach. The Earthling's kind, if left to their own devices, would soon destroy the planet with their pollution, and if their propensity for war and instruments of destruction got out of hand, Earth would become a festering sore that infected the delicate harmony of the entire Solar System. The trick for spiritually evolved beings such as Riley, whose ethics did not allow him to use highly advanced technology to obliterate baser creatures, was to re-educated them, to pull them up by their souls, as it were, to a higher sphere of consciousness. Sometimes that required the application of ethanol. Riley equally portioned the pint into the two jelly jars. He got his rocking chair from the other room and, fighting revulsion, set it close to the table.

Tracer watched Riley hold his glass out in a toast and smile again in a way that reminded Tracer of a spinster aunt when she used to give Johnny and his brother Petey cookies for being a good boys and not teasing their sister.

To your health, Riley said. To balance and harmony.

Tracer clinked his jelly jar against Riley's. To Great Aunt Barbara. Tracer took a sip. Liquor fumes burned his eyes, and the bourbon, although tasting sweet, felt like varnish on the tooth loosened when he was hit with his own .45 semi-auto. Scotch would have been his preference, but Grandpa warmed him through and through.

Water?

Too early to tell if it's a drought year. Tracer issued a short, gruff laugh. Why waste it?

Riley nodded. With the delicate moves of a bird in a courting ritual, Riley brought his glass to his lips, tipped it and his head back simultaneously. In three long swallows Riley drained a half pint of bourbon into his stomach. He didn't squeeze his eyes closed; he didn't sigh. He just put the empty glass on the table and smiled again.

Tracer coughed and turned his gaze to the map on the wall. He was dealing with a crazy old alcoholic who probably couldn't pay him to find where the moon was located. Oh, well, tomorrow was another day.

I don't assimilate food like other people, Riley said.

That a fact?

Or alcohol.

Uh-huh.

But it helps my thinking. Helps it a lot.

Garbles mine, but to each his own, hey? Tracer took another sip.

"In vino veritas. Of course I mean that only as metaphor."

"Semper Fi."

'Always Faithful.' Riley folded his hands on the table and leaned close. See? I know Latin.

"Or you saw Don Amiche get it in Guadacanal Diary."

Wasn't it William Bendex in that picture?

Watch the Late Show, do you?

My sister knows movies better than anyone.

You want to tell me about your sister?

Riley wanted more time for his thinking to get straightened out completely. He smiled cagily. Were you a Marine?

Marines always got the publicity. Tracer took a deeper swallow. Army.

You can handle yourself?

Tracer figured it was time to cut to the chase. For forty dollars an hour plus expenses, I can handle myself.

Riley pushed back in his chair and rocked for a while. Tracer took another swallow. Tomorrow, on the way to the dentist, he'd stop by Alrad Employment Services. They had wanted his head when it was firmly settled at Vulcan; then they couldn't hunt up a new job when he was laid off, but things could have always changed for the better. At least Chris would be happier if he dropped in for another ego stomp.

What if I don't sue you?

Pardon?

If I don't sue you, would you discount your price?

Riley, I was within my rights about trimming that tree, and you know it.

Don't get upset.

I'm not upset.

You are upset.

When did you become a mind reader?

Riley pushed the envelope: Since conception of the great time-space continuum to which all life is connected.

Tracer turned his head to the moon map, then looked back to Riley. When did they let you out?

1929. That would be by your time measurements.

But you see a doc on a regular basis?

What for?

I don't know. Lithium?

Riley stopped rocking and stared at Tracer with a combined sense of betrayal and anger. Tracer thought he looked like Superman upon hearing the dreaded word Kryptonite.

"Sorry. In vino veritas, you said."

Metaphor, I said, metaphor. Riley's voice was pitched high with indignation. There's nothing good about the fruit of the vine. The Romans didn't have distilled spirits, so that was the best they could come up with. Wine is worse than...than lithium.

Yeah, well, in my house you're known as Crazy Riley. I mean, look at this place. It's a swamp outside and... Tracer dragged the back of his hand up the stack of Weekly World News and flicked his fingers against the moon map. What am I supposed to think?

It's a very fine map from the National Geographic Society.

The pins, Riley. The pins.

Moon landings.

Weren't that many.

Manned and un-manned.

Tracer looked at the map again. What did he know besides, One small step for a man, one giant leap for taxpayers? He cleared his throat, took another drink. I'm into Elvis sightings myself.

Riley leaned close again. Really?

Sort of. I get a kick out of Princess Di too.

'Return to sender, Riley sang with eerie skill, address unknown. No such address, no such...' His brows furrowed.

Phone?

Or 'no one's home', I can't remember.

'No one's home' makes more sense for a letter.

Yeah. Riley's eyes focused far away. It's terrible not knowing where someone you love is.

Your sister?

Riley nodded.

On the phone you called her a she-devil.

When Corinth switches to short dogs.

When she what?

"Short dogs, short dogs. Go to any city, look on the dirtiest streets. Human