Night Hunter

by Carol Davis Luce

  At noon, John stirred the pot of chicken soup and tasted it. He added barley, carrots, and a quartered head of cabbage.

  He poured another cup of coffee and returned to the living room, to the blue monitor with the cursed blinking cursor. Standing behind his swivel chair he read the five paragraphs that had taken him all morning to write.

  Pure shit. Punching function buttons, he deleted the entire text. Then he slapped at the back of the chair, sending it spinning.

  Sonofabitch. What was the matter with him? He hadn’t been able to write a damn thing since Regina had moved in above him. He knew it wasn’t her alone that had robbed him of his creative juices, it was the whole frigging situation. Corinne, Amelia, the acid, his feelings of guilt and inadequacy. And until it was resolved he could damn well forget about writing anything that made sense.

  John brought up the names of the Classic finalists. To the top of the page, under VICTIM, he added Tammy’s name to the list: (1) Corinne Odett (2) Donna Lake (3) Tammy Kowalski. Only two names remained at the bottom of the list, preceded by question marks —Amelia Corde and Regina Van Raven.

  He heard a knock on his door, so quietly that at first he thought it was at another door down the hall. He heard it again, louder. It had to be someone who lived in the building, otherwise he would have been buzzed from the entry. He never locked his door and his relatives usually walked in without knocking. Regina?

  He cleared the monitor. He pulled his shirt together, buttoned several lower buttons, tucked it into his Levi’s, then crossed the room and opened the door.

  The young Hungarian girl stood timidly, a plate of strudel in her hands, her gaze meeting his before darting away.

  John looked across the hall to see the door of his aunt and uncle’s apartment closing softly.

  “Hi,” he said. “For me?”

  Ilona nodded, smiling.

  “Bake it, did you?”

  “Yes, your Aunt Anna and me. It’s sour cherry and walnut.”

  “That’s my absolute favorite.” And Aunt Anna knows it, he thought. “Shall we try it?”

  She smiled again, moving ahead of him through the apartment.

  She was wearing a pastel pink summer dress and sandals. Her honey blond hair hung straight down her back to her waist. Her blond hair intrigued him. The Hungarians in his family, and their friends, were all dark haired.

  In the kitchen he poured coffee while she cut the strudel and put it on plates. He pulled out a kitchen chair for her. Then he hoisted himself up on the counter top and sat with his back against the cabinets. After taking a bite, he complimented her baking skills.

  “It’s very sweet and moist. I judge it delicious. You should make one for your boyfriend,” John said.

  “I did. He said it was delicious.”

  “He’s a wise fellow.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  “This wise fellow. Your boyfriend.”

  She smiled at him.

  Oh-oh. They had stepped up the operation. So it’s come to this—pushing the virgin out the door and across the hall bearing edible proof of her talents. The dress was a nice touch. American men were suckers for the mark of femininity. They had to be very trusting or very desperate to allow her to be alone with him. In Hungary, a good Hungarian girl didn’t spend time with men alone in a place with a bed. But this was America.

  “How old are you?” John asked.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen,” he repeated. “Do you know how old I am?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  So they had already discussed his age ... these matchmakers, these conspirators.

  “I’m too old for you, Ilona.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Then you’re too young for me.” He looked into her somber brown eyes. “Look, I know a couple of really nice guys. Men closer to your age. I’ll talk to Mrs. Dobos first to clear it with her.” He slid off the counter, turned to the stove and stirred the soup. In a quiet voice, with his back to her, he added. “I have nothing to offer you.”

  He heard the scraping of the chair legs as she pushed it back. Soundlessly she moved to his back. Her hand stroked lightly along his arm.

  “I like the older man. I like you, Johnnie.”

  “I like you too, but—” A knock at the door interrupted him.

  He expected it to open and Aunt Anna to breeze in. He figured she wasn’t desperate enough to leave them alone too long in case he was inclined to sample the girl’s other talents.

  Another knock.

  He excused himself and went to the door. Regina stood there in a pair of white slacks and a navy and white blouse. She looked fresh and crisp and every bit as feminine as Ilona. This was his day for beautiful ladies, he thought. The soup was on and there was plenty of it.

  “Hi. Since I’m home for lunch,” she said, “I thought you might like to know what Wilma had to say.”

  “Yes, sure. C’mon in.” He stepped back to let her enter.

  “Wilma had both the medical and the police report. It seems that—” She stopped talking abruptly, staring over John’s shoulder.

  He turned to see a barefooted Ilona leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, holding a coffee mug; one thin strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder.

  “Uh, Regina Van Raven, meet Ilona Dobos.”

  “Hello,” Regina said.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Ilona said, but her eyes said otherwise.

  “This isn’t a good time.” Regina backed up. “We can talk later.”

  John looked to Ilona and then to Regina. Ilona disappeared back into the kitchen. In a quiet tone, he said, “Come back after work tonight. I’m serving dinner.”

  “Oh, no—” she began.

  “Bring Kristy with you. That’s an order.”

  “I ...” She paused, her eyes flickered toward the kitchen. Then, as if accepting a challenge, she said, “Okay. Six?”

  “Anytime. It’s soup and it’s ready.”

  She went out.

  John stood in the doorway watching her climb to the second level. He glanced across the hall and noticed the door to his aunt’s apartment was ajar. He smiled. “Great strudel, Aunt Anna. Koszonom.”

  Corinne reread the article from the San Francisco Chronicle. She clipped the obituary and carefully centered it next to the article in the photo album. She lowered the clear plastic and smoothed it down.

  The album was no longer entirely about her. Other beauty contestants, Donna and Tammy, now shared the many blank pages with her. Closing the album, she rubbed fingers over the lettering on the cover. With a black marker she had written The Thrill of Victory — The Agony of Defeat 1970-1990.

  Thrills and spills, agony and death.

  Twenty years ago, she above all had gleaned the greatest thrill, but the agony, to her delight, was to be spread around. Three down, two to go.

  The moaning broke through her reverie. The past few days it had become a constant sound, one she’d become accustomed to and rarely noticed anymore. She checked the clock above the stove. Time for his lunch and injection.

  She wondered why she bothered with the food. For the most part her father ignored it, despite her efforts to make him eat. A balanced diet was essential to a diabetic. She’d have to remind him of that. He’d never taken care of himself properly, that’s how he got in this predicament in the first place. Diagnosed with diabetes in his fifties following a gall bladder operation, he had continued to drink, smoke, and eat everything that was wrong for him. And now this thing with his legs. The crazy fool would kill himself one day.

  Well, there was only so much a daughter could do.

  After work Regina changed into jeans and a short-sleeve sweater. At six o’clock Kristy called from The Farm House.

  “Gotta work over, Mom. We’re short-handed here tonight.”

  “Oh, I was waiting for you.”

  “What’s u
p?”

  “We’re invited to John’s for dinner. In fact we’re supposed to be there now.”

  “Yeah? John cooks?” Kristy said in an amused tone.

  “I guess.”

  “So go on down. What do you need me for?”

  “You were invited too.”

  “I’m sure the two of you can amuse yourselves without the kid there.”

  “Kristy...”

  “Mom,” her tone was patient, parental, “It’s time you learned how to date again.”

  “This is not a date—”

  “So pretend. Practice.” She laughed lightly. “John’s incredibly hot, in case you haven’t noticed. He’s also a cool guy with a great sense of humor. He treats women like they’re an important part of the human race. And she tells me he can cook—hell, the man is righteous.”

  “Your father’s been gone less than six months.”

  “Mom, he’s been gone two years and you know it. Two years.”

  No one knew it more than Regina. The long hospital stay. The many visits when she prayed that he would remember who she was. The anger, confusion, and violence. He had died of pneumonia and Regina had felt the awful pain, but the pain came from a sense of guilt, not loss.

  Kristy was right, she had lost him two years ago. The day he entered the nursing home.

  “You like him a little, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Do you think he’s good looking, maybe even sexy?”

  “Kristy, really.” But despite her embarrassment, she did find John Davie attractive and sexy. Very sexy.

  “I get off at nine. Tell you what, if you’re not at home, I’ll drop in at John’s to say hello.”

  “I’ll be home. Be careful, okay?”

  “Okay. Have fun.”

  “This is not a date--”

  Kristy was gone.

  When the phone rang again, Regina figured it was Kristy with something to add. But a soft voice, unmistakably female, said, “There is a very dangerous person out there who has killed and will kill again—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Don’t interrupt. I will not repeat. Listen carefully. Initially, a sea will lead to the assailant.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  The dial tone hummed.

  Regina jotted down the message, then sat quietly for several minutes, contemplating the call. At last she dismissed it as merely a crank. Someone had seen her on ‘City Gallery’ and had gotten her phone number. That was one of the disadvantages of being in the limelight; no matter how bright or how dim the “light,” people craved contact and they reached out.

  She looked at her watch. 6:15. John was waiting. She rose, went out the door, came back in, grabbed a bottle of red wine, then, wondering if red was appropriate, she grabbed a bottle of white. With a bottle in each hand she went downstairs. She tapped on John’s door with the neck of one bottle.

  Two doors opened at once. Regina glanced at John, then turned to see the landlady standing in the doorway across the hall.

  “Ahh, I see you are home tonight, Johnnie,” Anna Szabo said.

  “Regina and I have some work to do.”

  “Ahh,” she said, glaring at the wine bottles in Regina’s hands. “How are you, Mrs. Van Raven?”

  “Fine, thank you, Mrs. Szabo. And you?”

  John gently pulled Regina inside and, after waving to his aunt, closed the door.

  “She’s not usually a snoop,” he said. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s okay. I understand. I have relatives too.”

  “Where are they? Your parents?”

  “In San Diego. My father’s a retired fireman and my mother’s a travel agent. They travel.” She held up the bottles. “Red or white. I didn’t know.”

  He took the bottles from her and suddenly she felt awkward with nothing to hold. She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. She looked around his apartment. “I like your place. Southwest, isn’t it?”

  “I call it sunbaked Santa Fe.”

  He invited her into the kitchen. The table was set for three. Place mats, linen napkins, a fat red candle, a round ceramic vase filled with spring flowers from the garden, and a bowl with a small, black-shelled turtle.

  “That’s Oliver Tuttle. Ollie for short,” John said when she leaned in to look at the turtle. “I named him after a character in my first book. They’re both slow, quiet, and thick skinned.”

  “Hi, Ollie.” She lightly stroked the shell.

  “Where’s Kristy?” He kneeled, peeked through the window in the oven. He had changed clothes. There was a drop of dried blood in the cleft of his chin where he had nicked it shaving.

  “She had to work. She won’t be here.”

  He looked up at her with a tiny smile, his eyes saying a dozen different things. He pulled the oven door open. “What do you think?”

  She frowned. “About what?”

  “Bread, hot out of the oven.”

  She smiled. “Smells great.”

  She watched him remove the loaf pan from the oven. He has such an easy, relaxed manner, she thought. Nothing seems to faze him. The night they had tangled on the floor at the back door, his mouth bloodied by the top of her head, he’d been able to joke. He was so unlike Leo. Serious, somber Leo, no words wasted, yet Leo had been a warm, caring man, showing his love in a multitude of ways.

  John, she felt, was frivolous. Was he even capable of deep emotions? This is not a date, she reminded herself.

  “You make your own bread?”

  He laughed. “Me and Pillsbury. Hungry?”

  “I wasn’t until I walked in the door. Now I’m starved.”

  “Would you like a drink first?”

  “Wine with dinner will be fine.”

  “We’re having salad, chicken soup, and bread. The Guide to Serving Wine dictates white with chicken. I like red, so that’s what I’m having. How about you?”

  “I like red too.”

  He uncorked it and allowed it to breathe while he ladled the soup into a large bowl. He set out the salad and placed the bread on a small cutting board. The bowl in front of her had a chip on the rim. He switched with her. He sat down, poured the wine, and lit the candle. The bright kitchen light over the table stayed on.

  They began to eat.

  “Wilma was helpful?” he asked,

  “Very.” She told him what Wilma had said,

  “Suicide?”

  “Or accidental.”

  “No acid?”

  “No.”

  “You were one of the last to see her alive. What’s your opinion?”

  “I’d have to agree with the police. She was terrified and depressed. She was up most the night drinking and pill popping. She confessed to being committed four months ago to a mental institution for a breakdown.”

  “Well, that’s that then. Looks like I jumped to conclusions.”

  Regina resumed eating the soup. “This is wonderful. I’d ask you for the recipe, but I don’t spend much time in the kitchen.”

  “I love to cook. I’ll give you some to take home, else it goes out to the dog.”

  Dog? Dog. Regina dropped her spoon in the bowl. “Dog.”

  John stared at her curiously.

  She was hardly able to contain her excitement. “Tammy was terrified because she was convinced her dog had been poisoned. God, how could I have forgotten that?”

  “Her dog was killed?”

  “Yes. Two nights before she died. That’s where I was going when you and I —when we met downstairs. She was hysterical and wanted me there.”

  “Okay. Back up. Tell me everything.”

  She told him, beginning with Tammy’s phone call.

  “And there’s something else that bothers me,” she added. “When I called Tammy’s husband to check on the twins and let him know some of Tammy’s things were at our place, he told me she had called him from the center. He had gone to pick her up and found her in the pool, dead. She was crazy about
that man. I don’t think she’d kill herself if she knew he was coming for her. Tammy was scared, but not suicidal.”

  “That doesn’t rule out accidental.”

  She sank back in the chair. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “The dog, where was it taken?”

  “Daly City Animal Hospital.”

  “Do you want to call, or do you want me to?”

  “Let me. I know the details.”

  “Let’s finish our dinner,” John said. “There’s no hurry.”

  Regina nodded, took a quick gulp of wine, and picked up her spoon. Their eyes met.

  John tossed his napkin on the table. They both rose at the same time.

  “I’ll get the phone book,” he said.

  A switchboard operator at the Daly City Animal Hospital put her through to the doctor on duty.

  “Dr. Phillips, my name is Regina Van Raven. A dog was taken there two days ago for an autopsy. The owner suspected intentional poisoning. I wonder if you have the results on that test?”

  The owner’s name?”

  “Kowalski. The dog was a Labrador, I believe.”

  “A black lab named Warrior?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did that one myself this morning. It was poison, no doubt about it. The Daly City PD have my report.”

  Regina felt her heart beat with excitement.

  “What type of poison?” Regina watched John’s attention suddenly become intense.

  “Ground beef laced with arsenic trioxide. A poison commonly used in rat poison, weed killers, and insecticides.”

  “I see. Thank you, Dr. Phillips.” Regina hung up. To John, she said. “Arsenic.”

  “Looks like your friend was right.”

  “About the dog, yes. But she didn’t get acid. How do you explain that?”

  “It’s possible she saw her attacker before he or she could use the acid. She may have fallen or jumped into the pool. She could’ve been held under.”

  Regina sank into an overstuffed chair. John’s theory had merit.

  “C’mon,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Get your purse and car keys. We’re going for a ride.”

  “Where?” she asked, allowing him to propel her to the door.

  “The Fitness Center. There’re some things I’d like to see for myself.”