“I had a perfectly lovely evening, which gave me a great deal to think about, thank you.”
“Because your cop told you about Genevieve Tucker instead of about how hot you were.”
“Okay, I don’t need this abuse. I am cured, I am purged. I truly believe what I just said. There is no mad killer, there is nothing except sweet, sweet normality, which would have been the situation had you not dragged me in to see Doris.”
“It was something she should have known about.”
“And now she does. Case closed. Nobody else is going to die…at least not violently. Not that I’m implying they ever did…oh God, I’m babbling again. Look, I gotta go, it’s almost time for the music session.” I paused at Karen’s door and looked back. “But yes…I mean no. No suspicious deaths, no suspects, just a burglary. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. No Monday Night Killer, right…”
Now the question arises as to who is next. It may grow more difficult. I think that there are some people who suspect that there was more to the deaths of Enid Shaw and Rachel Gold than merely old age and tired hearts.
I must confess that I find myself drawn more and more to one person in particular, and that is Olivia Crowe’s mother, Elizabeth. There is a sadness and vulnerability about her that I find most congenial, and she seems so…familiar somehow. I can’t help but feel that she might welcome death rather than fight against it, no matter in what shape it might appear to her. I could help her into it, deliver her and deliver myself in the process. Of course, now she locks her doors, but that need not be an obstacle…
But I must be more careful than ever before. I feel myself watched, especially by that one old fool in particular. He knows more than he should, there’s no doubt whatsoever about that. His prying eyes seem to follow me everywhere. I don’t know if he’s spoken to Livy Crowe about his suspicions, but he may eventually.
It’s an odd thing how your past follows you, how it seems to never leave you alone. Something you do shapes you, and follows you down the years. Feelings you think were gone suddenly spring up once more, and you find them true and fulfilling once again.
I must think about who is next. Perhaps, before I bring everything to a grand conclusion, I should first bring down my elderly nemesis. There is risk, yes, perhaps too much. It would be a grand but futile gesture. Still, if there would be some way in which I could dispose of him while putting no suspicion on myself…tricky, very tricky. Perhaps another should be delivered first. I shall have to think about this, but whatever my choice it will not be long before there is another death in the Gates Home for the Sorrowful and Dying…
Chapter 14
I fled down the hall, record player bumping against my knee, my records tucked under my arm, anxious to get in the company of undemanding and unquestioning seniors who would be happy to see me and hear the music I’d play them. I made myself a mental note to say nothing about murderers prowling by night. Music, that was all I was going to talk about, just music.
Tom Drummond was right inside the door of the social hall in his wheelchair, and he nodded to me as he entered. “Did you get your tape recorder okay?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Yep, thanks. And thanks for the change, too,” he said, as though it had come as a surprise.
“Is it working all right?” He looked at me oddly. “The recorder.”
“Oh. Oh yeah, it’s fine.”
I looked down at his empty lap. “You didn’t bring it today?”
“Forgot it,” he said after a moment.
“Well, bring it Tuesday, and I’ll bring along some old Monroe Brothers records.” Tom Drummond seemed to like the old-time gospel stuff I occasionally played better than anything else, and I almost got a smile out of him with that. Almost, but not quite.
Harold Newbury was sitting with two other old gentlemen who were relative newcomers. When he saw me, he gave a little wave, but I thought he looked distracted. The distraction ended when I started talking over the din as I put on the first record.
“We’ll start off today with a request,” I said. “I don’t play much opera in here…” There were a few low moans—the elderly are very open about expressing their feelings. “Now, now,” I said, “it’s not only good for you, but it can be beautiful too. And I listened to this, and believe me, it is. This is Leonard Warren singing the Credo from Verdi’s opera, Otello, which was based on Shakespeare’s play. If you like good singing, you’ll like this.”
“Is he good as Perry Como?” Roy Davenport asked, from a bit of a fog.
“Yes, he is, Roy,” I answered, “but he’s a little different from Perry. You’ll see.” I set the heavy tone arm on the black shellac disc and heard the hiss of an old 78. Then the music started to come through like sun through fog, and Leonard Warren’s clear baritone voice filled the room.
Even those who had disparaged opera to begin with seemed to fall under the music’s spell, but Harold, for whom I had chosen the record, was transported. His gaze held on some place far away, and at the end his lips parted and his eyes closed, and they didn’t open until the last note faded away and was replaced by the scratchy roar of surface noise. He looked over at me and smiled and nodded his thanks. I grinned back and wondered if Dave Hutchins would be as gentlemanly as Harold with another forty or so years on him.
I played Perry Como’s “Prisoner of Love” for Roy, and we talked about the two different voices we’d just heard. “That first guy was louder,” Roy pointed out, “and I couldn’t tell what he was sayin’.”
“That’s because he was singing in another language,” I said. “Does anyone know which one?”
Several people correctly answered Italian, though Roy hazarded Polish as a guess. Even after I confirmed that it was Italian, Roy stuck to his guns. “Sounded Polish to me. We had a Polish guy workin’ on the farm once, and he talked just like that. Couldn’t sing, though. Don’t think so, anyways. Hey, you ever have any of that Polish sausage?”
I finally steered the conversation back to music, and played a wide assortment of songs, including folk songs by Woody Guthrie (“This Land Is Your Land”), Burl Ives (“The Blue-Tailed Fly”), and the Weavers (“Goodnight Irene”), all of which at least some people sang along to whether they knew the words or not. I played Frank Sinatra’s “I’ll Never Smile Again,” Vaughn Monroe’s version of “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” which always gave me the willies, Artie Shaw’s “Cherokee,” and even an early Elvis Presley Sun record of “Blue Moon of Kentucky.” It was my usual wide and eclectic variety of gems, and when I was finished and packing up everybody seemed happier than when they had come in.
Harold came up to me grinning. “Thanks, Livy, you made my day. Man, that guy sure could sing. That’s one of my favorites.”
“Glad you liked it, Harold. What are the words all about? There’s no translation on 78 labels.”
He chuckled. “Don’t exactly remember—the usual opera stuff, honor and courage, I guess, words to live by.” His expression grew less humorous. “How’s your mother?”
“She seems okay. I’m going to drop in on her now.”
“The police find anything out about the burglar?”
“Not that I know of. I think the only way they’re going to get him is to catch him in the act.”
He nodded. “Lotsa stinkers around, Livy. More every day, I’m afraid. Getting to the point where people are bad just because they’re people.”
“That’s pretty pessimistic, Harold.”
“Hard to stay upbeat when you’re my age, cookie.”
“Harold,” I said, looking about to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “How well do you know Genevieve Tucker?”
“The night nurse? A little, why?”
“Oh, she’s been spending some time with my mother, and I just wondered what you thought of her.”
He looked at me oddly. “She’s all right, I guess. Seems friendly enough. A little…imperious, maybe? Is that the word?”
“Sort of above it all
?”
“Yeah. Like she knows something you don’t. In my case, that’s probably true. But she’s certainly caring toward all us residents. I’m sure she’s good company for your mother. You going to visit her today?” I nodded and he patted my hand. “Hope you find her well, and thanks, as always, for coming in. You always make our dismal days a little brighter.” He straightened his shoulders and a twinkle appeared in his eye. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe that nature is finally calling. Ah frailty, thy name is roughage…”
What was a conversation with Harold without a poo joke?
I made the trek to my mother’s room and found her door closed. I knocked, heard her invitation to come in, and found her in her usual spot in front of the TV. “Hello, dear,” she said, offering her cheek for my kiss.
I asked her how she was feeling, and she said, listlessly, that she was fine, a little tired. “Been having any bad dreams?” I asked her. “Because of the other night?”
“Oh no, I sleep well. I hardly remember anything that happened.”
“You’re sure you didn’t see the man.”
“No, I just woke up when you yelled. By the time I looked he was gone.” She sighed. “I’m just glad he didn’t get any of my good jewelry. I want you to have that.”
“Well, you just keep wearing it, Mother. For a long, long time, okay? You’ve been locking your door?”
“At night, yes. When I remember.”
“Well, you remember. Have you…had any visitors lately?”
“Oh yes, Genevieve came by early this morning.”
Oh-kay. “Ah. That’s nice. What’s she like?”
“A lovely girl.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Oh, she asks me about my life and I tell her stories, you know, things we used to do when your dad was alive. Trips we had, vacations. What our holidays were like with the family. Just nice memories.”
“Uh-huh. Does she ever tell you about…her memories?”
“Oh, sometimes.”
“What was her family like?”
“Not very big. She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. I think her father died when she was young.” Mother smiled, just a little. “She says that I remind her of her mother.”
“Oh.” Goodie. How could things get worse?
“She died a few years ago.”
That’s how. “Did she live around here?” I asked.
“I don’t know, she didn’t say. I don’t know where she’s from. She had an aunt, too, but she died much longer ago. She and Genevieve’s mother were twins.”
“Like…identical twins?”
“Yes. She said they looked so much alike that she couldn’t tell them apart sometimes.” Which meant that my mother reminded Genevieve of her aunt, too. Her aunt. The one she had helped kill herself. Or the one she had just plain killed. “But her aunt never got married. I think she and Genevieve were very close, from what she said. She said her mother and her aunt argued a lot, and Genevieve had to take care of the aunt when she got sick. I don’t think she really liked talking about it, so I didn’t push her.”
I talked to Mother about some other things then, and I made plans to take her to see a movie on Saturday. Ted might be peeved at being in the store alone on a Saturday afternoon, but that was what I paid him for, and I really felt the need to be with Mother. When you come right down to it, I think I just felt guilty that Genevieve might be spending more time with her than I was.
Okay, it was a little creepy that my mom reminded Genevieve of her dead mother (and her dead aunt), but the more I thought about it, the more I knew there was no way that I had struggled, ever so briefly, with Genevieve that night. It was a guy, plain and simple, and my imagination had been working overtime when I fancied it might be a woman.
…But of course, that didn’t mean that Genevieve hadn’t smothered Enid and Rachel in their beds…
Shut up, Livy. Just shut up and tell those stupid voices in your head that come up with such crap to shut up too.
And they did, for a while anyway.
Chapter 15
The weekend was uneventful. My mother seemed to enjoy the movie, though it was hard to tell with her. It was some sweet career-girl-makes-good film with Anne Hathaway, who’d been a favorite of Mother’s ever since that Cinderella Unbound movie or whatever it was called. For me, cute as the actress was, the only real Anne Hathaway was Shakespeare’s wife. Still, I liked the movie well enough as an example of a life so simple that funny romantic complications had to be dreamed up by a screenwriter, and were totally fixable within the span of ninety minutes. Exactly what real life should be like.
I offered to take Mother out for a meal after the matinee, but she said she was feeling tired. Still, I pressed her. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have something other than that dining hall food, Mother?”
“Oh, you know, it’s what you get used to,” she replied. “I don’t want to upset my stomach.”
So back we went, slaves to Mother’s limited digestion. I saw her to the dining hall and then went home to Fudge, wondering what Dave Hutchins was doing on this Saturday night. I didn’t have long to wonder, however. There was a message on my answering machine from him. “Hi, Livy,” it said. “It’s Dave. Um, look, I was wondering…I had a great time the other night, and I, uh, wondered if maybe you’d like to go out again next week? Um, I work Monday and Tuesday, but Wednesday would be good. Maybe we could do dinner and see a movie or something? You can either call me back or I’ll try and call you later, okay? Well, um, okay. Talk to you soon, I hope…”
It made my night. I wanted to call him back right away, but I made myself wait. Tomorrow would be fine. I put a mini-pizza in the microwave, opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and watched Bette Davis in The Letter, a sleazy tale of sin and suffering in the Orient, based on a story by Somerset Maugham, who did sin and suffering better than anybody in his day.
Sunday morning was lazy as usual. I’m not a churchgoer, so it’s the one morning a week I allow myself to be totally useless. I made up for it in the afternoon by catching up on updating Internet entries, taking down sold items and putting up a batch of new ones. Then I walked down to the store and dusted the shelves, which I try to do every week. There’s nothing that drives me crazier than watching a browser slip a book from a shelf and then blow across the top page edges so that that annoying little gray cloud of dust billows into the air. What I love is when they do it and nothing happens. Their eyes widen in surprise and I think, Yep, cleaner than your place, ain’t it? Good thing they can’t blow the dust off the books in my apartment—they’d choke to death.
After that, I finally got around to the box of Argosy magazines I’d bought at the auction in Lykens the day I’d visited Uncle Ralph and Aunt Sue. I discovered something I’d missed before—one of the 1936 issues had a story by Robert E. Howard, the Weird Tales writer who had created Conan, the barbarian who Arnold Schwarzenegger had made a movie star (and who had returned the favor to Ah-nult). I could probably get fifty bucks for that one from the right buyer.
When I’d finished cataloging and bagging the Argosys, I turned my attention to the yearbooks at the bottom of the box. There were nearly a dozen of them. In the thirties, high school yearbooks hadn’t yet become the bulky items they did in the more affluent fifties and sixties, when they began to resemble Brittanica volumes. Depression-era yearbooks were relatively cheap, with paper covers—senior pictures, shots of teams and clubs, some ads from businesses still solvent enough to buy them, and that was pretty much it. No frills at all.
All told, they were basically worthless, but I’d posted some that were in really nice condition on eBay and sold a couple. The problem was that most of the people to whom they’d be of interest were probably too old to be online, though there were exceptions. I once sold a 1932 high school yearbook to a ninety-year-old former Pennsylvanian who lived in California and had lost his years before. He told me he did searches on ABE and eBay once a week, and it had fin
ally paid off for him when he’d spotted my listing. So, there you go.
I put the pile of yearbooks aside, intending to go over them in a day or two, and started listing some of the high valued Argosy on eBay, making scans of the covers and uploading them. By the end of the day I was bushed enough to say screw my diet, and went out to a Subway two blocks away. I had a low-calorie special, but loaded it with veggies and had, goddammit, not only a small bag of chips but a macadamia nut cookie as well.
Oh yeah, I called Dave, too. I did it around noon, and he was in. We talked for about ten minutes, which I think is a pretty long time for a guy to be on the phone with a woman. We decided to meet for dinner and a movie Wednesday night, and Dave sounded sweet and funny and kind of shy, and made me altogether glad that I’d met him.
The next morning, being Monday, I overslept, as I frequently do. I always turn off the alarm Sunday, since that’s the only morning I sleep in, and two out of three times I forget to reset it for Monday. Usually I wake up, but that morning, due no doubt to my Bacchanalian feast of macadamia nut cookie and the rest of the bottle of wine consumed the night before, I slumbered late.
Ted, knowing of this predilection of mine, is charged with awakening the goddess by coming up to the apartment and knocking on the door of the sacred chambers, and he did so this particular morning. “Livy?” I heard him call tentatively, “Are you awake?”
“Oh shit,” I mumbled into my pillow, stirring enough to dislodge Fudge from his curly-up spot in the hollow of my bent legs. “Okay, I’m good,” I replied a bit louder.
“Okay, I’ll be downstairs,” the acolyte responded, and I heard his retreating footsteps. I hit the john, brushed my teeth, splashed some water in my face, threw on some clothes, fed Fudge, grabbed a yogurt, and headed downstairs, hoping Ted would have the store coffeepot on. He did, God love him. The Maxwell House wasn’t my ground beans from Costco, but it was strong and black and bore at least some resemblance to what I thought of as coffee, and I imbibed it gratefully.
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