Page 44 of Dear Debbie

She texts me her address, and I enter it in my GPS. She lives outside Hingham, over in Rockland, but it won’t take me too long to get there.

As for our lunch, I decide to go the healthy route and make the two of us a salad using the tomatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce in my fridge. No avocados, although I love avocados in a salad. I grab a bottle of miso ranch dressing and load everything into my car.

I pull out of my driveway, and as I’m rolling down the block, I notice there’s a bit of a commotion in front of Jo Dolan’s house. A man is standing next to a tripod, holding an expensive-looking camera in his hand, and Jo is standing in front of him, yelling and waving her hands wildly. The argument seems to be attracting some attention from our neighbors. Even Bev who lives across from me has made the trek down the street and is standing on the sidelines and gawking.

Curious, I pull over on the side of the road and climb out of the car, leaving my salad and dressing in the passenger seat. I don’t want the salad to wilt, but I’m sure this won’t take long.

“Bev,” I whisper to my neighbor, “what’s going on?”

Bev giggles. “Looks like Jo has a little insect problem.”

I turn my attention to Jo and the man with the camera. Now that I’m closer, I can see the veins standing out in Jo’s scrawny neck. Her housedress is swaying in the wind.

“I have the best rose garden in all of Hingham!” Jo is ranting at him. “You won’t find better roses than mine. I guarantee it!”

The man flashes her an exasperated look. “I don’t care how nice your roses are. I’m not photographing a garden infested with bugs.”

“There are hardly any bugs!” Jo shouts.

The man gives her an “are you kidding me?” look. That’s when I swivel my head to take a look at Jo’s rose garden.

Wow, there are Japanese beetles everywhere.

Japanese beetles are shiny, metallic green with bronze wings. The tiny insects are clinging to the blades of grass and the leaves and petals of Jo’s precious roses. It almost looks like every Japanese beetle in the Hingham area—hell, maybe every beetle in Massachusetts—has congregated in Jo’s rose garden. It’s practically a swarm. Soon, they will have devoured all the flowers and leaves, leaving behind a patchwork of holes and lacy remnants.

Those trap refills worked even better than I hoped.

“You!” she cries. “Did you do this to my garden?”

“Me?” I feign astonishment. “You really think I have the ability to bring a swarm of Japanese beetles to your garden? I’m not a beetle whisperer, Jo.”

“You were jealous yesterday!” she reminds me. “You were mad that I stole your photo shoot.”

“Yes.” I nod. “And I did mention something about karma, didn’t I? I guess I was right about that.”

Jo narrows her eyes at me, but there’s nothing she can do. She doesn’t know anything about the three traps buried in the mulch of her yard that are attracting every Japanese beetle in the area. And until she finds them, she’ll never get rid of the pests.

I hope she never finds them.

35

It’s a similar length ride to Harley’s as it was to get to Coach Pike’s place. Thankfully, even though it’s close to lunchtime, there isn’t much traffic. Her house is on a dead-end street, which contains one other house that looks like it’s empty, possibly abandoned. She wrote in her text message that I should go around back to find the door to her basement apartment.

I arrive at Harley’s door, balancing the salad dressing in one hand and the Tupperware in the other. When she opens the door, she’s wearing her workout uniform, her pink-streaked blond hair tied back into a neat ponytail. Her stomach is peeking out, and the outline of her abs is visible.

“Debbie!” Her face lights up at the sight of me. “Come on in! I’ll show you around Casa Harley.”

I laugh as I step inside and Harley relieves me of my salad and dressing. “It’s so quiet here. There isn’t even one other car on the street.”

“I barely see my landlords who live upstairs,” she says. “They mostly stay inside, but right now, they’re in Michigan visiting their grandchildren, so I really am completely alone. They won’t be back till Monday.”

“You should throw a wild party.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plans.”

We take a little tour of the apartment. It’s small, but she makes the most of the space. She has a comfy-looking blue sofa with a TV tray set up in front of it, and Japanese doors separate the kitchenette from the living area. She has managed to stuff a queen-size bed, a bookcase, and a dresser into her bedroom, with just enough room to walk between them.

“Nice place,” I say appreciatively as I look around the bedroom. It reminds me a bit of an apartment I rented back in my pre-Cooper days.