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After Bill left, she went into the family room to rouse Karl Klaus. They were scheduled to meet with Bob Goodman first thing in the morning and she figured it would take some time to get him up and out. Hopefully out for good, she thought, staring at his unconscious body, sprawled on her sectional in Bill’s borrowed pajamas. Now that she had him, how was she going to get rid of him?
They were running late for the appointment with Bob Goodman since it had taken Lucy quite a while to get Klaus up and dressed and fed. Bob, however, had put the time to good use, following up on the information Lucy had left with his receptionist, and greeted them with good news.
“It’s a simple fraud,” he said, turning his monitor around and showing them the title transfer form that Klaus’s assistant, one Michael Green, had filed in the county Registry of Deeds. “I can get this cleared up in no time.”
“How soon would that be?” asked Lucy, grateful that Bob had agreed to see them on the weekend. He was dressed in jeans, which made him look youthful despite his now receding hairline.
“Well, normally it would have to go through the court and that would take a while. However, I happen to be on excellent terms with the Registrar, and if Klaus here doesn’t want to press charges, I think we might be able to simply clear up the paperwork. Then the sheriff would evict Mr. Green and Karl could move back in. That could happen in a couple of days, a week at most, depending on the sheriff’s schedule.”
“What do you think, Karl? Do you want to press charges?” asked Lucy, sending up a silent prayer.
The sculptor shrugged and rubbed his nose. “I don’t want to make trouble. I just want my place back.”
Great, thought Lucy. But where was Klaus going to stay in the meantime? She knew a week was lightning speed in the legal system, but much too long to keep Klaus as a houseguest. “I’m afraid Karl needs a place to stay in the meantime,” said Lucy.
“Hotel?” suggested Bob.
“Card doesn’t work,” said Klaus, shaking his head.
“Really?” Bob was sensing further trouble.
“Couldn’t get gas.”
“Let me see your card,” he asked, and Karl pulled a worn leather wallet out of his pants pocket and handed over a handful of plastic. “I tried a bunch,” he said. “None of ’em was any good.”
Bob picked one up and dialed the number on the back, punched in the account number, got the last four numbers of Klaus’s social security number and punched them in, and listened keenly to the recorded voice. “You’ve reached your limit,” he told Klaus.
“No way.”
“Do you think your friend Mr. Green has had something to do with this?”
Klaus chewed his lip thoughtfully, then nodded. “Could be.”
Bob sighed. “Well, this definitely complicates things and will take more time,” he said. “I’ll do some more digging but I suspect we’ll have to refer this to the DA for a full-blown investigation.” He turned to Lucy. “Is there a reason Karl can’t stay with you?”
Lucy chuckled. “The reason would be Bill.”
Bob nodded and Lucy could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “I have an idea,” he said. “You know Rachel’s been working with Rosie Capshaw, who’s doing the man-eating plant for Little Shop of Horrors.” Lucy did know that Rachel was directing this year’s Little Theatre production, and also that Rosie was an acclaimed puppeteer who constructed giant figures for parades and other events. “Well,” continued Bob, “she’s got that big barn studio on the Van Vorst estate, she’s even got a couple of apprentices living out there.”
“Do you think she could use another?” asked Lucy, her heart leaping at the prospect.
“Let’s call her and see,” suggested Bob, reaching for his phone. Amazingly enough, Rosie declared she’d be delighted, thrilled actually, to add the noted sculptor to her little art colony.
“Anything else I can do for you?” asked Bob, writing out a receipt for Klaus’s credit and debit cards. “Just sign here and I’ll get started on this right away.”
“You doing this for free?” asked the sculptor, narrowing his eyes.
“No. No way,” said Bob. “But I will get you your house and your money back.”
Karl shifted uneasily in his chair and made grumbling noises.
Lucy decided some encouragement was needed. “You’ll like Rosie,” she said, producing her phone and flipping through the photos. “Ah, here she is.” She showed Klaus a picture of the puppeteer, taken at last year’s July Fourth parade. Her long hair was blowing in the wind, she was smiling broadly, and her tiny T-shirt was dampened with sweat and clinging to her curves. She hadn’t been able to use the photo, she remembered, because Rosie was braless and Ted insisted it wasn’t suitable for a family newspaper.
“Okay,” grumbled Klaus, taking the pen and signing his name. “Let’s go,” he said, slamming his hands down on the desk and pushing himself upright.
Klaus had to retrieve his truck, which was back at the house on Red Top Road, and Lucy had him follow her out to Pine Point, the late Virginia Van Vorst’s estate on Shore Road. Rosie greeted him warmly, proclaiming him a master sculptor in residence. She assigned one of the apprentices to show him around and when he’d gone, turned to Lucy. “Thanks, Lucy, this is a fabulous opportunity for my crew.”
“Well, you’re really helping me out, too. I found him dumpster diving, you know, and brought him home but, well, he’s not quite house trained.”
