(LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord

by Charlaine Harris

  I looked out through the glass door into the darkness.

  “Any woman should be interested in self-defense,” I said, and walked out into the night.

  I drove home tense with rage and fear, thinking of the bloody-eyed Ken doll, thinking of Tom David Meiklejohn mulling over what had happened to me with his buddies over a few beers. I had found the source of the leak in the police department, I was pretty sure.

  I parked the car where it belonged, unlocked the back door, and threw everything but my keys and my driver’s license into the house. Those I stuck in my T-shirt pocket, where they made a strange bulge over my breast. I had to walk. It was the only thing that would help.

  The street was deserted at the moment. It was about 9:00 P.M. The night was much warmer than it had been the last time I walked, the humidity high, a precursor of the dreadful hot evenings of summer. It was fully dark, and I drifted into the shadows of the street, padding silently along to pass through the arboretum. Marshall’s house on Farraday was not far. I didn’t know the number, but I would see his car.

  It relaxed me, moving through the night invisibly. I felt more like the Lily who had had a stable existence before the murder of Pardon Albee. Then, my only problem had been the sleepless nights, which came maybe twice a week; other than that, I’d had things under control.

  Standing concealed in the undergrowth of the arboretum, I waited for a car to pass on Jamaica Street, so I could steal across.

  I hadn’t considered my route at all, but now sheer curiosity led me to drift toward the house Marshall had up until recently called home. There is very little cover on Celia Street, which is one of modest but spruce white houses with meticulously kept yards. I planned my approach. It was earlier than I usually walked, and there were more people on the move, which in Shakespeare isn’t saying a hell of a lot—a car would pass occasionally, or I would see someone come out of his house, retrieve something from a pickup or jeep, and hurry back inside.

  In the summer, children would be playing outside till late, but on this spring night, they all seemed to be inside.

  I worked my way down the street, trying to be unobtrusive but not suspicious, since there were people still up and active. It was not a workable compromise. I’d rather be seen than reported, so I moved at a steady pace rather than drifting from one cover to another. After all, I was wearing white, hardly a camouflage color. Still, no one seemed to notice me, and curtains up and down the little street were uniformly drawn against the dark.

  I only saw the police car when I was directly opposite Marshall’s former home. It was parked up against Thea’s next-door neighbor’s hedge, which divides their yards from the street to the back of the lot. The cruiser was pulled right up behind a car that I assumed must be Thea’s, which looked dark red or brown in the dim light of the streetlamp. So it didn’t exactly seem the driver was paying an official visit; in fact, I concluded, Tom David Meiklejohn, whose car number 3 was parked in the driveway, was inside chitchatting with the rat-plagued Mrs. Sedaka, while he was supposed to be patrolling the streets of Shakespeare to keep them safe for widows and orphans.

  Instead, it seemed Tom David Meiklejohn was personal bodyguard to one about-to-be-divorcée.

  I had a fleeting desire to make yet one more anonymous phone call to Claude Friedrich, before I reflected that not only would that be sneaky and dishonorable but also that a possible relationship between Thea and Tom David was none of my business.

  I began moving again, ghosting silently down the dark, quiet street, thinking hard as I passed from shadow to shadow.

  In five minutes, I was on Farraday. Marshall’s car was parked in the gravel driveway of the house on the corner, a little house smack in the middle of a small lot needing a great deal of yard work. The rental was definitely a step down from Celia Street.

  I wondered if it had been hard for Marshall to leave the Sedaka house in Thea’s possession.

  The porch light was glowing yellow, but I continued on through the yard and around to the back door, my eyes adapting quickly to the darkness. I rapped three times, hard, and heard Marshall’s quick footsteps.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. He’s not a man who likes surprises, either.

  “Lily.” He opened the door quickly. I went up the step and into the house. And despite what he had said about having an evening of conversation, the minute the door shut, his arms went around me and his mouth found mine. My hands snaked underneath his T-shirt, eager to touch his body again.

  I did not have time to marvel at my ability to have sex without fear; I did not have time to wonder if what I was doing was wise, since I carried burdens enough for two, and Marshall was not exactly an unencumbered man. But we did take a moment for protection this time, and I hoped we wouldn’t pay for our previous stupidity.

  AFTERWARD, IT WAS hard to feel the limitations of my own skin, to feel myself shrinking back into the mold in which I’d cast myself before I’d come to Shakespeare. For the first time in years, it felt confining rather than comfortable.

  And yet, as I looked around Marshall’s Spartan bedroom—the queen-sized mattress and box spring on a frame, no headboard or footboard; a dresser clearly retrieved from someone’s attic; a thrift store night table—I felt uneasy at being out of my own home. In many months, I hadn’t been in anyone’s house except to clean it.

  We’d been lying together quietly since making love, my back to his front, his arm around me. Every now and then, Marshall would kiss my neck or stroke my side. The intimacy of the moment both excited and threatened me.

  “You know Thea is seeing someone else,” I said quietly.

  If he wanted to get divorced, he needed to know that. If he wanted to reconcile with Thea, he needed to know that.

  “I thought so,” he said after a long moment. “Do you know who it is?”

  “What will you do if I tell you a name?” I turned over to face him, automatically reaching down for the sheet to cover my scars. Before he answered, he took the sheet, pulled it back down, and kissed my chest.

  “Don’t hide from me, Lily,” he whispered.

  My hands twitched with the effort I was making not to grab the sheet. Marshall moved even closer to me so that his body covered the scars, and I gradually relaxed against him.

  “Are you thinking I might track him down and beat him up for Thea’s honor?” he asked after letting enough time pass to let me know he didn’t consider Thea’s affair a personal thing.

  “I don’t know you well enough to know what you would do.”

  “Thea is a hometown sweetheart, because she’s pretty and she was born and bred here. She knows when to act charming and sunny. She’s good with children. But the people you won’t find talking about Thea with this exaggerated awe are the men she’s dated for a while—the men she’s dated long enough to go to bed with.”

  I pulled back a little to look at Marshall’s face. He looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Lily, by the time I came to town, Thea had run through the few locals she felt were worthy of her. She could tell, I think, that people were starting to wonder why pretty, sweet Thea couldn’t seem to form a lasting relationship with anyone, so she dated me and married me quickly. I didn’t go to bed with Thea before I married her. She said she wanted to wait and I respected that, but I found out after maybe a month, that was just because she didn’t want me to back out like other men had.”

  “She doesn’t like sex?” I asked hesitantly. I should be the last one to criticize a woman who had problems dealing with men.

  Marshall laughed in an unamused way. “Oh, no. She likes it. But she doesn’t like it like we do it,” and his hand ran down my back, caressed my hips. “She likes to do…sick things, things that hurt. Because I loved her, I tried to oblige, but it ended up making me feel bad. Sad.”

  Degraded, I thought.

  “Then she decided she wanted a baby, and I wondered if that might save our marriage, so I tried to oblige. But I’d lost my i
nterest by then, and…I couldn’t.” This cost Marshall a great deal to say. “So she called me names and taunted me, only in private, only when no one else could hear. Not because she cared about me, but because she didn’t want anyone else to know she was capable of saying those things. Going home was like going to hell. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I haven’t had sex in six months, Lily, but that wasn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. So here I am, in this dump, wondering how to file for divorce without Thea taking my business away from me.”

  I had no response to his money worries. I have very little available cash myself because I am saving strenuously against the day when I have to have a new car, or a new roof, or any of the sudden catastrophic expenses that can wipe out a one-income household. But at least all my finances, good or bad, are dependent on me and me only. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I had to give half of my business away to someone who had found pleasure in degrading and humiliating me.

  “Tom David Meiklejohn.”

  His eyes had been focused far away, staring past my shoulder at a bleak vista. Now he looked at me.

  “The cop.” His dark eyes stared into mine. I gave a tiny nod. “I’ll bet she loves the handcuffs,” he said.

  I tried not to shrink at the thought of a woman handcuffed, but my breath came out in a little whine that drew Marshall’s attention to me instantly. “Don’t think of it, Lily,” he said quietly. “Don’t think of it; think of this.” And his hand slid gently between my legs, his mouth found my breast, and I did indeed think of other things.

  “Marshall,” I said afterward, “if you hadn’t noticed, I wanted to tell you I have absolutely no complaints about your virility.” He laughed a little, breathlessly, and for a while we dozed together.

  But I woke soon, anxious and ill at ease. Moving as quietly as I could, I got up and began pulling on my clothes. Marshall’s breathing was still heavy and even and he shifted position, taking up more of the bed now that I wasn’t in it. For a moment, I bent over the bed, my hand an inch from his shoulder. Then I drew back. I hated to wake him: I felt compelled to leave.

  I eased out of the back door, punching in the button on the knob so it would lock behind me.

  I’d begun thinking, as Marshall talked about Thea, of the dead rat someone had left on Thea’s kitchen table in that neat white house on Celia. When I’d woken, the rat had worried me more and more.

  The Ken doll, the toy handcuffs, the dead rat. Obviously, the tokens left for me referred to my past. The dead rat seemed cut from an entirely different pattern. A thought trailed through my mind like a slug: Had Thea perhaps tortured animals in her childhood? Was the rat also from Thea’s past? I grimaced as I moved through the darkness. I could not bear cruelty to a helpless thing.

  At this time of night, the streets were deserted, the town deep in sleep. I wasn’t being as careful as I usually was. The only people likely to see me at this hour were the two patrolling policemen, and I knew where one of the two was; I’d checked on my way home, and Tom David was still at Thea’s. Surely he’d gone off duty; wouldn’t the dispatcher be trying to raise him otherwise?

  I was yawning widely as I walked up my driveway. I’d pulled my keys from my pocket and was about to step off the drive to go to my front door when the attack came. Tired and inattentive as I’d been, I had trained for this moment for three years.

  When I heard the rush of feet, I whirled to face the attacker, the keys clenched in my fist to reinforce my blow. But the man in the ski mask had a staff, maybe a mop or broom handle, and he swung it under my guard and whacked my ribs. I kept myself upright by a supreme effort, and when my assailant tried to swing the staff again, I let the keys fall, grabbed the staff with both hands, swung up my leg, and kicked him hard in the chest—not a very effective kick, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. He did have to let go of the staff, which was good, but I staggered when he released it and dropped it myself, which was bad.

  My kick had made him fall back, too, though, and that gave me time to recover my footing before he launched himself at me with a savage growl, like a dog out of control.

  I was close to that point myself. When I saw the face coming toward me, shrouded in a ski mask but otherwise unguarded, I inhaled deeply, then struck as hard as I could with my fist, exhaling and locking into position automatically. The man screamed and began falling, his hands going up to clutch his nose, and on his way down, my knee came up, striking him sharply under the chin.

  And that was the end of it.

  Though I stood in a fighting stance in the dim light, the man was rolling and gurgling in a whipped way on my grass. Lights were coming on in the apartments—the man’s scream had been piercing, if not long—and Claude Friedrich, the man used to dealing with emergencies, dashed around the dividing fence with speed rather amazing for a man of his age. His gun was drawn. I took him in at a glance, then resumed guarding the man on the grass.

  Friedrich stopped short.

  “What the hell are you doing, Lily Bard?” he asked rather breathlessly. I glanced at him again, long enough to notice that he was clad only in khaki slacks. He looked pretty good.

  “This son of a bitch attacked me,” I said, very pleased to hear my voice come out even.

  “I would think it was the other way around, Miss Lily, if he didn’t have a mask on and you weren’t in your own yard.”

  I saw no point in responding. I kept my attention focused on the writhing, whimpering figure.

  “I think he’s pretty much whipped,” Friedrich said, and I thought I detected a note of sarcasm. “What I really wish you would do, Lily, is go inside your little house there and call the police station and tell them I need some backup here.”

  What I longed to do was jump on my attacker and hit him a few more times, because the adrenaline was still pumping through my system, and by God, he had startled me. But Friedrich was making sense; there was no point in my getting into trouble. I stood straight, dropping my hands, and took a cleansing breath to relax. I took a step toward my house and felt a stab of pain, sharp enough to cause me to stop dead.

  “You all right?” Friedrich said sharply, anxiously.

  I found I was aching from more than the wish to punish my attacker. His first blow had been a good one, and he’d managed to rake my face with his fingers, though I couldn’t remember how or when. As the rage ebbed away, the pain seeped in to take its place.

  “I’ll make it,” I told him grimly, and reached out to pull my keys from the grass. To my dismay, the little chain had snapped and the keys had scattered under our feet. I could find only one, but at least that one was my house key. I hobbled into the house, making my way to my bedroom. I called the police station first. After I hung up, my hand stayed wrapped around the receiver. I had no idea what I’d said to the dispatcher, the unseen Lottie. It was now one-thirty in the morning.

  Marshall had made me promise to call him if I had trouble.

  I checked the little piece of paper he’d scrawled his new phone number on, and I punched it in.

  “Yes?” Marshall asked, a little groggy but conscious.

  “I’m at home, Marshall,” I said.

  “I knew you’d left,” he said curtly.

  “I had a fight.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Not entirely. But not as bad off as he is.”

  “I’m out the door.”

  And suddenly, I was talking to a dial tone.

  I wanted more than anything else to lie down on the bed. But I knew I could not. I forced myself to get to my feet again, to move slowly back out to where Claude Friedrich was still holding a gun on “the whiner,” who had covered his now-blood-soaked ski mask with both hands.

  I still didn’t know the identity of my attacker.

  “I guess you get to pull off his mask, Lily,” Friedrich said. “He can’t seem to manage.”

  I bent painfully over, said, “Put your damn hands down,” and was instantly obeyed. I grasped t
he edge of the ski mask with my right hand and pulled it up. It couldn’t come off entirely because the back of his head pinned it down, but enough of the knit front slid up for me to recognize its wearer.

  Blood slid from Norvel Whitbread’s nostrils. “You done broke my nose, you bitch,” he said hoarsely, and my hand snapped back to strike. Norvel cringed.

  “Cut it out!” barked the chief of police, no trace of comforting rumble in his official voice, and with an effort of will, I relaxed and stepped away.

  “I can smell the bourbon from here,” Friedrich said disgustedly. “What were you doing when he came at you, Lily?”

  “I was walking up to my own house in my own yard, minding my own business,” I said pointedly.

  “Oh. Like that, huh?”

  “Like that,” I agreed.

  “Norvel, you are the stupidest son of a bitch who ever drew breath,” the chief of police said conversationally.

  Norvel did some moaning and groaning and then he vomited.

  “Good God Almighty, man!” exclaimed Friedrich. He looked over at me. “Why you think he did this, Lily?”

  “He gave me some trouble at the church the other day when I was working there, so I thumped him,” I said flatly. “This is his idea of revenge, I guess.” Norvel seemed to stick to tools of his trade when he planned an assault. I was willing to bet the staff was the same broom he’d tried to hit me with at the church, with the straw sawed off.

  A city police car came around the corner, lights rotating but siren silent, which was something to be thankful for.

  A thought struck me and I squatted a few feet away from Norvel, who now smelled of many unpleasant things. “Listen, Norvel, did you leave that doll on my car tonight?” I asked.

  Norvel Whitbread responded with a stream of abuse and obscenity, the burden of which was that he didn’t know what I meant.

  “What’s that about?” asked Friedrich.

  “Okay, let’s try again, Norvel,” I said, struck by a sudden inspiration. I held up a wait-a-minute hand to Friedrich. “Why did Tom O’Hagen go upstairs to see you the day Pardon was killed?”