(LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord

by Charlaine Harris

  “What about the one the church mailed?”

  “Didn’t get to Pardon’s mailbox until the day after he died.”

  It would have been typical Pardon behavior to go by the church or up to Norvel’s to ask about the rent, I thought, and raised my eyes to Friedrich’s.

  “But Norvel says Pardon didn’t come to his apartment,” the big man said, and I bent back to my work before I realized how strange the little exchange was.

  “He’s lying, though,” I said.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because Pardon did the vacuuming Monday himself. Remember the way the cord was wrapped? So he must have gone up to find out why Norvel hadn’t done it. He’s supposed to go in late to the church on Monday, after he’s cleaned the apartment building’s halls. The church gets a discount on his rent.”

  For the first time since I’d known him, Claude Friedrich looked surprised.

  “How do you know all this, Lily?”

  “If it’s about cleaning, I know it. I think Pardon told me all that when he explained why Norvel was going to be cleaning the building instead of me.” Pardon had just wanted to talk, as usual. It was fine with me not to have the poor-paying and tedious job of working under a constantly supervising Pardon.

  Claude (as I now thought of him) looked at me a moment longer before resuming his running narrative of the day of the landlord’s death. “So that morning Pardon stopped by Mrs. Hofstettler’s to get her check, then went to the bank with three of the rent checks.”

  I put together a marinade and popped the strips of chicken breast in the bowl. I had a hankering for stir-fry tonight. I began to brown stew meat in a skillet while I chopped potatoes, carrots, and onions to go in the stew pot. I stirred the sauce for the tortilla casserole. I had some leftover taco meat to dump into the sauce, and a tomato, and after that I shredded three flour tortillas. I handed Claude the grater and the cheese. Obediently, he began to grate.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Cup,” I said, putting one on the table by him. “You were saying?”

  “And he talked on the telephone several times,” Claude continued. “He called the plant where Marcus works; we don’t know who he talked to, there. Of course, that might be completely unrelated to Marcus. At least two hundred other people work there. About eleven, he called someone in rural Creek County, a pal he went to school with at UA, but the guy is on a business trip to Oklahoma City and we haven’t been able to track him down yet.”

  I dumped all the stew ingredients into the slow cooker and got out my wok. While it was heating, I layered the tortilla casserole, including the grated cheese, and popped it in the freezer. Claude’s voice provided a pleasant background sound, like listening to a familiar book on tape.

  The stir-fry would provide two meals, I figured, the stew at least three; one night, I would have a baked potato and vegetables; the remaining meal could be the tortilla casserole and a salad.

  After I put the rice in the microwave, I began stir-frying the chicken and vegetables. I was hardly aware that Claude had stopped talking. I stirred quickly, conscious only of the quiet content that came when I was doing something I could do well. The rice and the meat and vegetables were done at almost the same time, and I faced a little dilemma.

  After a moment’s hesitation, since sharing this meal represented yet another disruption in my formerly pristine schedule, I got two plates out of the cabinet and heaped them with food, then put a fork, a napkin, and a glass of tea in front of the policeman. I set a plate in front of him, then put my own glass and fork on the table and retrieved my plate. I put the soy sauce within reach, added the salt and pepper, and sat down. I gave Claude a curt nod to indicate everything was ready, and he picked up his fork and began to eat.

  I kept my eyes on my plate. When I looked up, Claude had finished his food and was patting his mouth with his napkin, carefully making sure his mustache was clean.

  “Real good,” he said.

  I shrugged, then realized that was not a gracious response to a compliment. I forced my eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” I said stiffly. Never had I felt my long abstinence from society more keenly. “Would you like some more?” I made myself add.

  “No thank you, that was a gracious plenty,” he responded correctly. “You finished?”

  I nodded, puzzled. I found out why he’d asked in the next minute, when he reached across, took my plate and fork, and went to the sink. He turned on the faucets, located my dishwashing liquid, and began to wash all the dishes stacked on the counter.

  I sat at the table with my mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then snapped out of my daze to get up and put away the leftovers in appropriate containers. Hesitantly, I set the now-empty wok by the sink for Friedrich to wash. I wiped the table and counters with a clean rag while he finished, and I swept the floor. Then, not knowing what else to do, I dried the dishes he’d put in the drainer and stowed them away.

  The instant we were done with the homely procedure, before I could tense up again wondering what was to follow, Claude stuck out his huge hand, shook mine, and said, “I appreciate the good cooking. I get mightily tired of my own,” and went to my front door.

  I followed him as I ought to, but I wrapped my arms across my chest protectively. “Good-bye,” I said, feeling I should say something more, but I couldn’t think what. He gave me a totally unexpected smile, and I realized I’d never seen him like that, his wrinkles deepening as his lips curved up, his gray eyes suddenly slanting as the smile reached them.

  “Good night, Lily,” he rumbled, and then went down my driveway to the sidewalk. He turned toward the apartments. He didn’t look back.

  I shut the door, locked it mechanically, and went back to make sure the kitchen was spotless before going to bed. I was smiling, I saw in the bathroom mirror. I caught myself actually wondering what Claude Friedrich would be like in bed, and I shook my head at my reflection in the mirror. “You are going to the dogs, Lily,” I said to the mirror. My face in the mirror looked rather pleased at the prospect.

  Chapter 10

  THE TELEPHONE RANG WHILE I WAS PUTTING ON MY makeup. I blew out a breath of exasperation. I’d hoped with the new workweek beginning, my life would get back to normal.

  “Yes?” I said curtly.

  “Lily Bard?” asked a faintly familiar voice.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Alvah York. T. L. and I just happened to remember yesterday that we owed you money.”

  “I can stop by this morning at ten-thirty.” I’d be through with my first client by then.

  “We’ll be here.”

  As I checked my supplies and loaded my car, I wondered if I should ask the Yorks how their granddaughter was doing, or just ignore the subject. I’d feel more comfortable myself just ignoring it, I decided. It was time to get back to my old familiar distance.

  As I was giving the Althaus home its weekly two hours (it could have used five, but the two was all the Althaus budget would stand), I thought long and hard about the people in the apartment building. One of those tenants had killed Pardon Albee, whose somewhat irritating presence was already growing faint in my memory. For all his petty faults—his enjoyment in knowing about the lives of other people, his determined gossip gathering—Pardon hadn’t deserved what had happened to him.

  While I scraped determinedly at a wad of chewing gum one of the many Althaus children had dropped on the kitchen linoleum, I pondered Pardon’s violent death and the disrespect shown his body.

  Once again, I wondered where that body had been hidden in its curious journeys.

  Well, it could have been in the back of Pardon’s own apartment. But surely Claude, who’d been so amazingly forthcoming the night before, would have told me if traces supporting that idea had been found. So the body had been close, but not in Pardon’s own apartment. Not in the closet under the stairs; Pardon and I had apparently had the only keys, and the killer had not used Pardon’s keys, as the clean and orderly
closet bore witness.

  So, somewhere in the apartment house, or maybe in the garage? It seemed to me as if there was a thought in the back of my head, if I could just summon it up, something one of the tenants had told me, something that had made me wonder at the time…but God Almighty, I’d been talking to so many people lately. No wonder I couldn’t remember. It would pop to the top of my mind if I just ignored it. I began thinking about hiding places for Pardon’s body again.

  I felt sure I could eliminate Mrs. Hofstettler’s and Claude’s apartments. Marie Hofstettler was very much on the ball despite her aches and pains—she’d have to be totally senile to miss a dead body—and Claude…just hadn’t killed Pardon. I didn’t know why I was so sure, but I was. The Yorks had been out of town until late. That left the O’Hagens—which meant Tom, since Jenny had been at work—Deedra Dean, Norvel Whitbread, and Marcus Jefferson.

  As I plugged in the ancient Althaus vacuum cleaner, I thought about Tom O’Hagen. What if Tom had lied about Pardon’s living room being empty? What if Pardon’s body had been lying on the couch, as Deedra said it had an hour or so later?

  I worked over that idea determinedly but got nowhere. I simply could not think of a good reason for Tom O’Hagen to lie about that. He could have said he thought Pardon was asleep, as Deedra had. He could have said everything looked as normal, so he assumed Pardon had stepped out or retreated to the bathroom for a moment. Instead, Tom had insisted the furniture had been moved, the throw rug rumpled, as if something had taken place in the room.

  Finally, I abandoned Tom O’Hagen in disgust. It was Marcus Jefferson’s turn in the lineup of suspects. Marcus was certainly strong enough to move Pardon’s body. Marcus also had a grudge against Pardon; he obviously adored the little boy Pardon’s policies prevented him from bringing home. But that was hardly sufficient motivation to strike Pardon hard enough to kill him, at least to my mind. I could only picture that happening if Pardon had provoked Marcus in some way—had threatened to tell Marcus’s ex-wife that Marcus was having a fling with a white woman, say. Could Marcus’s former wife have kept the child away from Marcus if she’d received that information? Would it make such a difference to her, in this day and age? And Pardon had called Marcus’s workplace the day he died. But then, two hundred–odd people worked in the factory besides Marcus—among them, I recalled, was Deedra Dean’s stepfather, Jerrell Knopp, whom I knew as an upright, polite, softspoken bigot, who would undoubtedly have violent feelings about any relationship his stepdaughter might have with a black man.

  But Jerrell, if he killed anyone, wouldn’t kill Pardon. He’d kill Marcus. Surely Marcus was supposed to work from eight to five? And Pardon had almost certainly died sometime before five. Marcus could have killed Pardon on his lunch hour, maybe. After all, if anyone had seen or heard from Pardon after the phone call he’d placed to his friend at eleven and Tom’s knocking on Pardon’s door at three, I hadn’t heard about it.

  Well, then, Deedra. Deedra had been at work until about four-thirty. She’d left her job early to give Pardon her rent check. Every Shakespeare Garden Apartments tenant knew Pardon was a stickler for getting paid on the dot. Why would the living room be in disarray at three if Deedra killed Pardon later? I tried to picture Deedra enraged, Deedra lifting something heavy and striking her landlord the crushing blow that had killed him. What would Deedra lift? There was nothing at hand there by the door to the apartment, and I didn’t think Pardon had been fool enough to stand talking to a young woman with a poker in her hand. Besides, if I knew Deedra, Deedra was more likely to vamp her way out of a bad situation than to resort to violence. I sighed. Scratch Deedra.

  Then there was the hopeless, hapless Norvel, at this moment languishing—desolately, I hoped—in the Shakespeare jail, which was so outdated and decrepit that the town was wondering when, instead of if, it would be ordered to build a new one. Norvel was certainly dumb enough to commit murder at a time when other people were in and out of the apartment building. He was panicky enough to try to hide the body. He was prone to get angry enough to attack, as I knew from firsthand experience.

  But though I tried to picture it while I gathered the wastebaskets from each room, I could not imagine anything Pardon could have on Norvel that would provoke Norvel to that much rage. Norvel was not especially strong after years of drinking, eating improperly, and avoiding hard work. The blow that had killed Pardon had been delivered by someone strong and someone furious. It could have been Norvel, by some extraordinary circumstance, but I was inclined to doubt it.

  As I carried bags of garbage out to the Rubbermaid trash receptacles, dropped them in, and clamped the lids shut against loose dogs or raccoons, I felt glad I’d chosen housecleaning as my livelihood and not private detecting. This murder, I thought, pausing to stretch my back muscles, had been a murder of impulse, though whose impulse, I hadn’t the foggiest notion.

  Pardon had finally spoken the sentence, the one sentence in his lifetime of watching, prying, and telling, the hearer could not bear to hear.

  And that person had struck two blows, the second one closing Pardon’s mouth forever.

  I locked the door to the Althaus home behind me, feeling satisfied at having, however temporarily, restored neatness to the Althauses’ chaotic environment. I could not figure out the identity of the murderer of Pardon Albee, but I could bring order to chaos.

  I actually work harder for Carol Althaus than for any client I have, because frankly, Carol arouses my pity, which is not an easy thing to do. Carol is a nice, plain woman coping with a blended family of two children of her own and two of her husband’s, and Carol has limited brainpower to handle the load. She works hard at a low-paying job, comes home to try to feed and chauffeur four children under ten, and every now and then fields a phone call from her husband, whose job involves a lot of traveling. I often picture Jay Althaus in his quiet motel room, all alone, bed with clean sheets, TV with remote control that he alone wields, and contrast Jay Althaus’s evenings with Carol’s.

  I had a break from ten-thirty to noon; at noon, I’d clean a lawyer’s office during his lunch hour. During this time every week, I usually run errands and pay bills. The first thing on my list for today was collecting the money owed me by the Yorks. As I drove back into town, for the very first time it occurred to me that Jay Althaus might be longing desperately for his wife and children every night he spends on the road.

  Nah.

  Rather than park on the street, which was too narrow for my comfort, I drove behind the apartment building. At this time of day on a weekday, there would be plenty of spaces empty.

  Since I’d been considering the garage as a possible storage place for Pardon’s body, I took the time to look it over. I pulled into Norvel’s parking space—the apartment number is above each space, the effect remarkably like horse stalls at a big racetrack—and stood back to scan the white-painted wooden structure.

  The garage, never a thing of beauty, didn’t look its best empty. Since Shakespeare Garden Apartments doesn’t have a basement, always a chancy thing in Arkansas, everyone in the building uses his or her stall for storage.

  Starting from the left, the gap between the first stall and the fence surrounding the apartments was filled by the controversial York camper. The first stall is Norvel’s. He doesn’t own a car, but he’d leaned a broken framed mirror and a set of fireplace instruments in his allotted space: scroungings, I figured, that he hoped to sell. Marcus had put a wooden crate in the corner of his stall, and from it protruded a fat red plastic baseball bat and a tiny basketball goal. Claude Friedrich had put in a set of metal shelves that held car repair odds and ends and some tools. Deedra’s space held a folded tent and a pair of muddy rubber boots. I have always thought it an odd sidelight to Deedra that she enjoys camping; of course, she doesn’t enjoy camping alone. But it has always interested me that Deedra is willing to get away from her hot curlers for a weekend every now and then.

  The first-floor tenants had scantier pic
kings. Marie has a car that I drive her around in, but other than that, her stall was empty. The Yorks, like Claude, have a set of shelves, but they were almost empty, and I thought they’d even been dusted; that was typical of Alvah. The O’Hagens had two expensive bicycles, covered with a tarp, at the back of their stall, and Pardon’s car and a lawn mower were parked in his stall. I felt a little bleak as I looked at them. There is something melancholy about a dead person’s possessions, no matter how impersonal they are, and there’s nothing personal about a lawn mower.

  This careful examination had told me absolutely nothing. The stalls are so open to view, it was hard to see how Pardon’s body could have been hidden in any one of them. Maybe at the back of the stall between Mrs. Hofstettler’s car and the wall? Or the same place in Pardon’s stall? Those were the only two cars the killer could have counted on remaining in place. Self-consciously, I checked the two stalls. Not a stain or a thread from the green-and-orange shirt.

  The camper would be a great hiding spot, but the Yorks had been driving it home at the time Pardon died.

  Well, I had to get my money from those upright people. I turned to go into the building and got an unpleasant shock. Norvel Whitbread was standing in the doorway.

  “How’d you get out?” I asked.

  “Church put up my bail.” He grinned at me, an unnerving sight, since Norvel is missing some teeth. Perhaps I’d knocked one of those out myself? I hoped so. His nose was many-colored and swollen.

  “Get out of my way,” I said.