by Lori L. Lake
"I was asleep."
"When did you awaken?"
"I dunno. When the cops came, I guess."
"With your room right here, next to the TV area, why weren't you watching this television?"
He scowled. "A fellow gets shack-wacky after a while. I'm stuck here in this godforsaken damn dinky room." He glanced around. "Why sit in here watching the walls close in on me? Place gives me the flying twitches."
"Why stay at Rivers' Edge at all then?"
"Where the hell else would I go?"
"I see. Where did you grow up, Mr. Green?"
He stared at her, his face hard-edged and gradually turning red. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"Background."
"You don't need no background on me. Get off your dead butt and find the killer, then ask him about his background."
"What makes you think it was a man?"
He coughed out a chuckle. "You get a load of the size of that woman?"
"What was your opinion of Callie Trimble?"
"I don't bother with opinions of people like her," he scoffed.
"You didn't like her?"
"Didn't know her. Didn't want to get to know her. Not that other one, either. Both of them unnatural, if you know what I mean. You married?"
"My marital status has nothing to do with this murder case."
"I see you got a wedding ring. S'pose some butchy woman could've given it to you as easy as a man."
Leo refused to rise to the bait, though she was sorely tempted. Instead, she kept her voice calm. "You do know that statements like that do nothing but draw suspicion upon you?"
"Who? Me? I had nothing to do with any killing. I was asleep, and everybody knows that."
"Actually, you could easily have gone down the hall, suffocated Mrs. Trimble, and crept back to your chair. A big man like you could have done the job in a couple of minutes."
"But I didn't. I told you that."
"Why should anyone believe you? As far as I can tell, you're the one wild card, the one person here who held a grudge against Mrs. Trimble and Mrs. Sinclair. You had motive, you had opportunity, and—"
"You—" He lurched up out of the recliner, bowlegged and shaking. "You get the hell out of my room. Get out!" He pointed a gnarled finger, his body quivering with rage.
"I suggest you sit back down, Mr. Green."
"I will not!"
"Threatening me does nothing to help your situation."
"The hell with you!"
Leo let out a sigh. She was weary of this battle of wills but not ready to capitulate. "Please, Mr. Green. Sit down and finish this. For the record, I'm not enjoying it anymore than you are. And whether you liked her or not, a woman is dead. An elderly woman who deserved better than to be killed so callously. So please, let's get this over with."
His arm dropped to his side. He shuffled backwards until his ankles touched the base of the recliner, then he dropped heavily into the chair, his knob-knuckled hand searching for the handle that controlled the footrest. He flipped it up and settled back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Thank you," she said. "Is there anyone here who you'd suspect of this crime?"
"Not a one. All the ladies who work here are just that—ladies."
"In the last week or two, have you seen anyone or anything unusual? A workman, a strange delivery, unusual visitors?"
"Nope."
"Are you aware that Habibah Okello has been taken into custody by the police?"
"One of those little Negro girls?"
Leo resisted the urge to stand up and smack him on the head with the recorder. "Yes. She's originally from Kenya. Do you have any reason to think she might have committed murder?"
He didn't answer for a moment. Instead, the words that ran through Leo's mind were Mr. Green in the Library with the Pillow. She stifled a snort and closed her eyes. Realizing how tired she was, she took a deep breath and steadied herself. Walter Green sat in profile, worrying his lips between his teeth.
"Both them little Negro girls is too dinky. Any chance they could've got up a gang of their people to come in and do it for 'em?"
Leo took a deep breath. There were so many things wrong with that response—and she wasn't thinking about his grammar. "Where did you grow up, Mr. Green?"
"Ironton, Ohio."
"Is that close to Cleveland?"
"Not a bit. It's about the farthest south you can get before shambling over into Kentucky. Near the West Virginia border."
"You lived there your whole life?"
"Until I got laid off from the railroad in my fifties." He sighed. "Then I moved up here where my son and daughter-in-law were living. Got a job in South Saint Paul working in the stockyards. Then the assholes laid most everybody off, so I worked catch as catch can 'til I could retire. Thought I'd live like a pauper on the pittance the Social Security morons were handing out, but my great-uncle died and left me a bundle. So here I am, living in the lap of no luxury at all."
"Your son still lives in the vicinity?"
"He got a job in Chicago two years ago."
"You didn't want to move to be near him?"
"Nah. You got any idea how expensive that town is? 'Sides, I'm settled, got all my stuff here."
Leo took stock of the room. As far as she could see, he could pack up his things in the backseat of any SUV and buy a new recliner and bed elsewhere. But she did know what it was like to find a comfortable place and never want to leave it. If she hadn't been persuaded by Daria, she'd still be living in a cozy two-bedroom house off West Seventh in Saint Paul.
"Can you look me in the eye, Mr. Green, and tell me you didn't kill Callie Trimble?"
"Without a doubt."
His gaze met hers, his expression mocking. Everybody lies, she thought. He could be lying through his teeth.
She rose. "I hope I don't have to bother you again, but if anything else comes to mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd notify the police and also let me know."
"Oh, yeah," he said mockingly, "you'll be the first to know." He leaned forward and fumbled around in the cushion he sat on and came up with a TV remote. As Leo left the room, a commercial for Dodge trucks blared out.
She paused in the entryway and organized things in her valise so she could zipper it shut. Everybody lies, she thought. Some of them to preserve their pride, some to protect others. Who was lying in order to shield himself from a murder charge?
At home, she entered the dark house quietly and locked the door behind her. She set her valise in the entryway, not bothering to empty it. She was bone-tired, it was well past eleven, and she was going straight to bed.
She passed the living room area on the way to the stairs and was surprised to catch sight of a pinprick of red light out of the corner of her eye. At the same time, she smelled cigarette smoke.
She crossed the hall and stopped in the doorway. Now that her eyes were adjusting, she saw the outline of Daria's head over the top of the leather armchair, a cigarette in one hand and a glass held in the other.
"Daria?" She reached for the light switch, but Daria interrupted her.
"Stop," she slurred. "No light."
"I thought you quit smoking."
"Yeah. After tonight."
"What's wrong?"
"Everything and nothing." She leaned forward and put out the cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table. "I was an asshole earlier tonight."
The admission brought tears to Leo's eyes. A tight band around her chest released, and she realized how nervous she'd been feeling since their fight. "Come to bed, Daria. We've both got a long day ahead of us."
"No shit." She rose, staggered before recovering, and limped toward her. She was in stocking feet, but had stripped down to briefs and a t-shirt. At the doorway, Leo folded her into her arms. She smelled of Scotch and stale smoke.
"I'm sorry, Leo."
"We're both stressed right now."
"Yeah, but that's no reason for me to take it out on you."
Chapter Ten
ELEANOR HADN'T SLEPT well since Callie died, and she knew this night would be no different. She didn't bother to change into her pajamas, only taking off her sandals and lying down fully dressed on the coverlet of the double bed in Callie's apartment. She lay in a languid half-stupor, not fully awake, but not asleep either. An occasional tear trickled down her face, and she roused to brush her cheek dry.
The air conditioning was off, and the window facing the street was open partway. The breeze that gently wafted in was warm, but not yet uncomfortable.
Voices raised in the corridor brought her out of her torpor. She jerked upright. She couldn't hear distinct words, but one voice was deep and rumbled while the other was shrill and female.
Fumbling around on the bedside table, she located the cordless phone and picked it up. Barefoot, she went to the door, unlocked it, and peeped into the hall. In front of the TV Room, Eleanor saw Rowena Hoxley's back. She was dwarfed by the looming figure of a tall man in a powder-blue tracksuit.
He ran a hand through curly blond hair and in a weary voice said, "Tell me where she is."
Rowena held her hands up. "She's not here. I'm sure she'll call you. How did you get in?"
"Please. Nobody answered when I knocked."
"You should have rung the bell. One of the residents would have heard it and come."
"I didn't want to wake up the whole complex. Where were you? Why didn't someone answer?"
"I wasn't here yet, Chuck. If no one answered the bell, how did you get in?"
"Hopped the wall."
Eleanor stepped into the hall. "Excuse me."
He glanced past Rowena and squinted. "Hi, Mrs. Sinclair."
She strode down the hall. "What's the matter?"
"I've been waiting on Habibah for nearly two hours. Granted, she works late quite often, but this is ridiculous." He leaned down slightly and addressed Rowena. "If you're working her a double shift, that's fine. Let me see her for a few moments, and I'll be on my way."
Tight-lipped, Rowena glanced at Eleanor. Ridiculous was right, Eleanor thought. Why couldn't Rowena tell him where his girlfriend was? From the expression of fear on Rowena's face, Eleanor could tell that she didn't want Chuck informed. Too bad.
"Chuck," she said, "the police came by earlier tonight and took Habibah down to the station to question her."
His handsome face went blank for a moment, then he frowned. "What? Why?"
"They think she might know something about Callie's death."
"What? But—but—"
Eleanor took his arm and steered him down the hallway, toward the foyer. "I wish I'd known you were waiting for her. I could have told you where she is. Go to her. Regardless of what she's done, she needs somebody to help her."
Chuck stopped. "Oh, my God, she'll be so scared. Where do I go? What do I do?"
"I don't know. Let's go find the phone number for the police station. Rowena," she called out.
"Right behind you."
"We need your office."
"Whatever. Go ahead. Phone book's in the upper right-hand drawer."
Eleanor went in first and sat down behind the desk while Chuck hovered like a giant pterodactyl, his eyes glittery with anger.
"Here we go," she said, offering him her cordless phone.
"Got my own, ma'am." He held up a shiny silver cell.
She read out the number for him, and soon he carried on similar conversations with four different people. With each new person, his voice raised a few more decibels. When he finally hung up, he said, "I can't believe this. They won't tell me where she is."
"You need a lawyer, Chuck."
Breathing fast he said, "Yes. Good idea. Great idea." He fumbled with his cell phone before pressing it to his ear. "Come on, Jamal. Pick up… Pick up!"
Someone answered, and Chuck stepped out of the office carrying on an increasingly panicked conversation. Eleanor waited in the office chair and watched him pace. After a moment, he snapped the phone shut and leaned into the office. "A basketball buddy of mine is a lawyer. He's going to call back. Oh, Jesus, why didn't someone tell me? There's no way Habibah had anything to do with your friend's death. No way, ma'am."
Eleanor tried to communicate kindness in her next words. "People surprise us sometimes. Perhaps Habibah was trying to be merciful."
"No, no, no!" He bent forward and put his palms flat on the desktop. "She no way killed anybody. She was on the phone with me at the time."
Eleanor admired the young man for his loyalty to his girlfriend. Such concern was admirable, perhaps even unusual in this day and age, but she doubted that Chuck could provide an alibi with such a weak story.
"What?" he said. "You don't believe me?"
"I'm not the one you have to convince."
He gripped the phone in his hand so tightly that Eleanor wondered if he could actually crush it. "Every night, whenever they have the sing-along, she always cuts out and calls me. I guarantee she was talking to me. We were having a—a—kind of a personal conversation," he said and his face reddened, "if you know what I mean. They can check my phone records."
Chuck's forehead broke out in perspiration. He unzipped his sweat-suit top to reveal a maroon U of M Golden Gophers t-shirt. Before he could say anything else, his phone rang, and he flipped it open before the ring concluded.
"Yeah? Okay, I'll be there in ten."
He bolted from the office calling out, "Thanks for your help, Mrs. Sinclair." His truck roared to life, and he peeled out of the parking lot. She rose, shut out the office light, and found Rowena Hoxley sitting on the couch in the community area.
"This place is a sieve," Rowena said. "Any damn fool can get in here. The dining room and yours and Willie's apartments are locked up, but someone unlocked and opened Norma's windows."
"You're going to have to install some sort of security system."
"Don't you think I know that?" Rowena slapped her fingers against her mouth and muttered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that how it came out."
"We're all tired. We're all afraid. Don't worry about it."
Rowena hefted herself from the couch and staggered forward. "Yeah, I'm beyond worn out. And I suppose I'll have to report this to that woman from Human Services. She'll probably close us down, and I'll get fired. All of you will have to move. Oh, God."
"You're exhausted and not thinking straight. Why don't you go sleep for a while in the staff room, and I'll sit out here and keep an eye on things."
"I couldn't let you do that."
"Sure you could. I wasn't sleeping anyway, which was why I heard you in the hall. Seems like I'll never sleep again. You go catch forty winks. I'll wake you if anything important happens."
Rowena dragged herself around the furniture and over to the entrance to the staff quarters. "Thank you, Eleanor. Get me up in an hour or two, and I'll be good as new."
Eleanor doubted that. Neither she nor Rowena would recover that quickly. She sank down into the capacious sofa and thought about her companion, her lover, her world—about their time together, the way they used to laugh at puns and silly jokes, the thousands of cups of tea they'd shared. And now it was over. Never again. She closed her eyes and forced back the tears.
A FAINT HUMMING awakened Eleanor. She straightened up, and pain shot through her neck. She'd fallen asleep, her head tipped against the corner of the couch, and now her neck muscles were screaming.
Sun shone through the slitted windows on either side of the front door, and the light was on in Rowena Hoxley's office. Eleanor rose and shuffled toward the office, rubbing the stiffness out of her neck and right shoulder. She stepped into the doorway, but instead of finding Rowena, Claire Ryerson stood next to the desk with a sheaf of file folders.
In profile, she reminded Eleanor of a student from many years earlier. Cissy had been blonde with beautiful sparkling eyes and a movie star's grin. She was the prom queen, the homecoming queen, royalty in every way, and scores of boys wanted to
date her. Cissy had come up to Eleanor in the grocery store just this last Christmas, and Eleanor hadn't recognized the haggard woman with lank hair and a hangdog attitude. Time sometimes played terrible tricks on beautiful girls.
But this woman was fresh and fit. Her navy-blue-striped pants matched her navy jacket, and the gold buttons on the jacket were exactly the same as buttons adorning her open-toe slide sandals. Her white silk blouse fit perfectly, accentuating a shapely figure. She turned to face Eleanor.
"Oh, Claire. I expected Rowena," Eleanor said.
"Good morning. I need to talk to Rowena. Do you know where she is?"
"Let me see if she's in the staff room."
Rowena Hoxley lay face up on the lower bunk, breathing heavily with one arm flung over her brow. Eleanor called out her name softly, and the manager jerked upward. She sat up too fast and nearly bonked her head on the bed frame. By the time she managed to slide out and get to her feet, she was awake but disoriented.
"What time is it?"
"I don't know, but Claire Ryerson is waiting in your office."
"Oh, shit." She leaned against the laundry tub and gazed into the mirror above it. "I look like hell."
Eleanor had to agree. Rowena's shirt and pants were rumpled, and her dyed blonde hair was flattened on one side and sticking straight out on the other. What little makeup she'd been wearing seemed to have rubbed off under one eye giving her the appearance of a prizefighting raccoon.
Eleanor left her and returned to the front foyer. The overhead light in the tiny office was on, but Claire Ryerson was no longer in there. Eleanor peeked through the window of her mailbox. Once again it was empty. The heap of mail on the entryway desk threatened to spill over, so she set to work sorting it all into piles.
When she finished, she and Callie—and every other resident—had received a tire store flyer and a Target circular, and the other occupants had various letters, bills, and targeted mailings. But neither she nor Callie had anything of consequence. This is ridiculous, she thought. I'll be speaking to the mail carrier, that's for sure. And she might as well go off to the bank later, as well. She needed to transfer funds from savings to checking so she could pay for funeral arrangements.
