Rancor: Sinister Attachments, Book 1

by Connie Myres

  Jess closed the lid. “Nothing. Just being nosy, I guess.”

  Maggie drummed her fingers on the large desk pad calendar. “What else am I looking for?”

  “The will?” Jess immediately answered.

  “Oh, yeah.” Maggie stood and walked to the bookcase built into the far wall.

  “I thought the will was in a safe,” Jess said, watching Maggie as she began taking books off the center shelf.

  Maggie took George Orwell’s 1984 off the shelf and sat it gently on the floor beside her. Then J.R.R. Tolkien’s trilogy of The Lord of the Rings was next. When she finally removed an oil painting that had been cut to fit behind the books, and between the shelves, sitting flush against the wall, a previously hidden wall safe was revealed.

  “Good hiding place,” Jess said, moving up behind Maggie.

  Maggie punched in a code on the keypad and the small wall safe opened, revealing two narrow shelves. The lower shelf used to hold the handgun that Cory used to commit suicide, now only a box of ammunition sat there. The other shelf had an envelope, an old coin, and jewelry.

  “Is that coin and jewelry valuable?” Jess asked, moving in for a closer look.

  Maggie took out the envelope. “They belonged to Cory’s grandmother. She was wealthy and passed them down to Cory.”

  “What about Cory’s parents, did they get anything?”

  “They got a lot,” Maggie said, opening the envelope to make sure the will was inside it. “But his Oma Gerdie, that’s what he called her, didn’t entirely trust that his parents would pass down any of their wealth to him. I disagree, however, because they dote on him and give him whatever he wants.” Maggie looked up from the envelope. “I mean gave him . . .”

  “It’ll get easier,” Jess said softly.

  Maggie took a deep breath and read the beginning of the document. “Last will and testament of Cory McGee.” She sighed and placed it gently back inside the envelope. “I’ll take this to the lawyer, too.”

  “Were there any changes to it?”

  “Changes?” Maggie asked, closing the safe. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s always good to know those things.”

  Maggie replaced the picture in front of the safe and began re-shelving the books. When she had finished, she sat back down at Cory’s desk. “I could use another shot of that whiskey.”

  “I’ll get us more ice,” Jess said, leaving the office.

  Maggie leaned forward and began reading Cory’s entries on the calendar while she waited for Jess to return. A meeting with a client had been scheduled for yesterday; a hair appointment for this Monday and a note to call JP. Who was JP? Cory’s crew foreman was named Jim Peterman, it could be him. But then, Maggie did not know all the people that Cory had dealings with.

  “Here you go,” Jess said, walking into the room. She sat the tumbler of ice and bourbon on the desk next to the calendar. “Drink up.”

  Maggie downed the contents of the glass; it felt both cold and hot in her mouth. “You know Jess, I don’t usually drink whiskey, but I guess I have a good excuse today.”

  “Yes, you do.” Jess had taken a seat in the chair in front the desk, facing Maggie. She sat her empty glass on the desktop.

  “You’re not going to be able to drive.” Maggie waved her hand in front of her face, trying to catch the bit of air it moved, to cool her now flushed face. She looked back down at the calendar and looked at the date he had taken his life, May first. There was only one note jotted into the box, it simply said JP. Surely the police had noticed this and followed up on it. Maggie still could not believe Cory could take his own life, someone else had to be involved, but the police seemed not to agree. His death was caused by a self-inflicted gunshot wound, there was no evidence to the contrary.

  “We’ll just stay here tonight,” Jess said, leaning forward. She put her elbows on the desk and asked, “What are you looking at?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Maggie leaned back in the cushioned chair. For the moment, she was happy.

  “Let’s play some music,” Jess said, looking at the small radio on top of the file cabinet. “Do you mind if I play music on the audio system in the living room? It’ll sound better than that radio up there.”

  “Sure, but I’m not going into that part of the house,” Maggie said, closing her eyes.

  Jess picked up Maggie’s glass and walked into the living room.

  Maggie was surprised that Jess chose classical music. She had never heard her listen to anything other than rock or pop. Still curious about JP, Maggie flipped the page of the calendar to April. She found one JP and then another.

  “I brought you another drink.” Jess sat it beside Maggie along with the whiskey bottle. “Still looking at that calendar?”

  Maggie shrugged and reached for the tumbler. She was feeling the whiskey’s effect on her senses, or rather lack of senses, as she downed the drink. Then she looked at Jess’s empty tumbler. “Your glass is empty.” Maggie was beginning to slur her speech.

  “I already drank it,” Jess said.

  “Is that Bach you're playing?” Maggie’s elbow slipped off the table.

  “It is the Goldberg Variations, do you like it?”

  “I didn’t even know we had it,” Maggie said. “It sounds beautiful though.”

  Jess reached over and filled Maggie’s glass.

  “No more,” Maggie said, reaching for Jess’s hand.

  Jess continued pouring. “I don’t want you to get all depressed on me, being here in the house and all. Besides, it’s Saturday and I want to have some fun.”

  The whiskey had taken Maggie's common sense and thrown it out the window for the buzzards to peck at like road kill and carry away. “One more, then. I don’t want to go all crazy on you.”

  Jess filled the glass and sat back into the chair on the other side of the desk. “Maggie, you know you can call me anytime if you need anything. I know this is hard for you, losing Cory, but I will always be here for you.”

  With words that smeared into each other, she said, “I know Jess; you’re my best friend in the entire world. If I can’t depend on you, who can I depend on?”

  Jess smiled and watched as Maggie tipped to the side and almost fell out of the chair. “I still think you should move out of that awful apartment building. It’s so old and run-down, not to mention it has a spooky history. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone died there, actually I’m sure people died there because it was a hospital.”

  The whiskey was going down like cherry Kool-Aid. So much so that when she sat the glass back down it tipped over. Jess jumped up and ran to the kitchen, returning with a dishtowel.

  “I think it’s time for bed,” Jess said, drying the desktop.

  Maggie tried to stand but slid to her knees, giggling. “But I don’t want to go to bed, I’m having fun. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “To your feet,” Jess said, helping her stand. She guided her to the downstairs guest room where she fell onto the bed. Jess took off Maggie’s shoes and covered her with the blanket that had been folded at the foot of the bed. “Sweet dreams,” she said, closing the bedroom door tight as she left the room.

  TWELVE

  “I’m never drinking again,” Maggie said, adjusting the sunglasses she had borrowed from Jess. “And thanks for letting me use these shades, my eyes are rather sensitive today.”

  Jess laughed as she pulled up to the sidewalk leading to the entry of Sandpiper Bluff. “I take it you’re not going to church this morning, and no problem, you can keep them. I have another pair I like better anyway.” Jess looked at the building and cringed. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  Maggie opened the car door and got out. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Jess waved as she drove away. Maggie felt woozy as she walked up to the double doors and inside the vestibule. She decided to look into the cloudy window of her mailbox to see if there was any mail in it, but as expected th
ere was not. She unlocked the door and went inside the building. Glancing over at the superintendent’s office, she hoped to see Mr. Zimmerman so that she could ask about getting a better lock for her apartment door, but he was not there.

  Other than the sound of her shoes scuffing on the steps as she walked up to the second floor, the building was quiet. As she walked to her apartment, Bruce’s door opened.

  “Oh, hi, Maggie,” Bruce said. He moved the garbage bag he was holding to his other hand and raised his eyebrows. “Do you feel okay?”

  Maggie knew she looked awful. She had not showered, had bed head, and she still was wearing Jess’s sunglasses. She stopped and looked at him. He wore a white T-shirt, blue denim jeans, and his black hair was swept neatly up from the forehead. She took the sunglasses off and smiled. “I’m fine, just had a little too much to drink last night.”

  “I have just the cure for that,” he said, opening his door wider. “Come on in and I’ll get you fixed up.”

  “That’s all right, but I think I’ll just go take a nap.” Then she remembered she was out of aspirin. “You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin would you?”

  “I have a whole bottle of pills. Come inside and I’ll get them for you.”

  Maggie thought she had to get to know the guy anyway, so she might as well follow him inside apartment 20A. She looked at his lock on the way inside; it looked the same as hers. “The locks in this place are old; do you have to use a skeleton key?”

  “No, not a skeleton key,” he said, gesturing for Maggie to sit at the chrome dining table. His apartment was different from hers. The kitchen was the first room walked into; the living room was beyond that—it was larger than hers with south and west-facing windows—and the bathroom and bedroom were to the left.

  Bruce walked to the bathroom and returned with a bottle of aspirin. He drew a glass of water and sat both the bottle and water in front of her on the Formica tabletop. Then he filled the teakettle with water and sat it on the stove’s burner. “Chamomile tea with honey will cure that hangover of yours.”

  Maggie swallowed the aspirin. She did not want to stay, but he was already heating the water. “Maybe one cup.”

  He pulled out a turquoise vinyl covered cushioned chair and sat at the table across from her. “Are you liking it here?”

  No. “Yes, the place has great views. How about you; have you lived here long?”

  He leaned back and crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’ve been here a long time. It’s hard to leave this place. Sure, Mr. Zimmerman could do a better job of maintaining it, but not a bad trade-off for living on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan.” He did not take his eyes off her. “So what do you do for a living?”

  Maggie was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with his fixed gaze. Or was it bedroom eyes. “I’m a writer.”

  “A writer, that’s wonderful,” he said, sounding interested. “I would have taken you for a nurse. You look so kind and empathetic, especially since you helped Debbie out by babysitting Susie. Not many people would have done that.”

  Maggie glanced at the steam coming out of the teakettle’s spout and then looked at Bruce. “Good guess, I used to work as a nurse. And the babysitting,” she shrugged. “Debbie needed help, what was I to do?”

  “Debbie always has problems with finding someone to watch Susie, mostly because she can be a handful.” Bruce leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I used to watch her, but I think she needs to be at a psychiatric hospital.”

  “Why is that?” Maggie thought there was something off about Susie, and Debbie for that matter.

  “Because Susie has an antisocial personality disorder. You don’t have a cat, bird, or some other animal, do you?”

  The teakettle’s sharp whistle was increasing with Maggie’s anxiety. “No, but why?”

  Bruce stood, took the angry kettle off the heat, and poured the boiling water over an infuser of chamomile inside the rose porcelain teapot. While the tea steeped, he said, “She has a history of being cruel to animals . . . Even people.”

  “What?” Maggie was shocked. How could Debbie ask her to babysit a child that should be institutionalized? “You have to be kidding.”

  Bruce took two matching teacups, spoons, and a honey pot with a wand to the table. “She’s better now. Debbie makes sure she takes her medicine. There haven’t been any negative episodes in a long time.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I used to be her psychiatrist.” Bruce removed the infuser from the teapot and poured them each a cup of steaming tea.

  “Is it safe to babysit her?” Maggie watched Bruce drizzle honey into her cup of chamomile. Her throbbing head and queasy stomach were minor compared to the terror of having babysat someone who could be dangerous.

  He sipped his tea. “It’s safe.”

  Maggie looked at the light brown liquid in her cup. She stirred and took a sip, thinking there was no way she was babysitting again. The tea was warm and soothing. Maybe she was overreacting; Bruce did say she was better. “This is good.”

  Bruce reached across the table with an open hand, beckoning for a handhold. “Anything for you, neighbor.”

  Maggie looked at Bruce; he was attractive. She would play along and put her hand in his, but that would be the extent of any physical contact between them. No sooner had she felt his warm, strong hand, then the door opened. It was Debbie.

  Debbie stopped in her tracks and looked at their hands. “Maggie! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. What’s going on?”

  Bruce pulled his hand away. “Maggie wasn’t feeling well, so I made her some of my special hangover medicine. What are you up to?”

  Debbie finished walking inside and closed the door behind her. “Just came to see you.”

  Maggie could not help but notice Debbie’s skimpy clothing. A tight T-shirt hugged her braless breasts while low-cut, short shorts showed her belly button. Maggie got the impression Debbie was there for more than a cup of tea. “I was just leaving.”

  “You don’t need to leave on my account.” Debbie walked over to Bruce and put a hand on his shoulder. “I may need a babysitter soon, are you up for it?”

  Babysit? “Ah . . .” Maggie stood up.

  “I don’t know yet, I’ll let you know.” Debbie moved behind Bruce, put her arms around his shoulders, and brought her head next to his so that they were cheek to cheek.

  Maggie looked at Bruce, who was looking back at her with eyes that said, I am interested in you. When she looked at Debbie's eyes, they said, He is mine. Stay away.

  THIRTEEN

  Maggie took a pillow from her bed and lay down on the couch. She closed her eyes and began tallying a mental account of the positives and negatives in her life. Positives included Jess, her apartment’s gorgeous view, and . . ., she paused. She could not think of any more positives. The negatives included the creepy building and its history, Debbie, Susie, and probably Bruce. Of course, the death of Cory was a negative, but there was nothing she could do about that. Before she dozed off, she debated whether she should call Ethel, Mr. Zimmerman, the cashier and the old woman at Lenny’s, a positive or a negative. They could go either way, she thought.

  Her slumber was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming shut. Was it Bruce's? She looked at her watch; it was one in the afternoon. After she took a shower and grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator, she decided to walk downstairs and out to the backyard. When she walked by Ethel’s door, she stopped. For a moment she had thought about speaking with the seer; after all, Ethel did invite her to stop by her apartment. Instead, Maggie continued walking out to the back porch.

  The air was fresh and invigorating. It was if she walked outside a bubble, a bubble filled with a suffocating oily liquid.

  “Hi, dear.”

  Maggie turned and saw Ethel sitting in a rocking chair at the end of the porch. “Hi, Ethel. Out enjoying this beautiful day?”

/>   “Yes, I suppose I am.” She coughed and then lit a wood tip cigar. “Or to have a smoke.”

  Maggie laughed.

  “Care to join me?” Ethel said with her sandpaper voice as she pointed to the rocking chair next to hers.

  “Sure, I’d love to.” Maggie walked down the creaky planks and sat in the creaky rocker.

  “Are you doing all right?”

  “It’s taking a little getting used to living here.” Maggie watched the wind gently ruffle Ethel’s loose gypsy skirt. “I could use a new lock, but I can’t get a hold of Mr. Zimmerman. Have you seen him?”

  Ethel blew a puff of smoke and adjusted the green scarf wrapped around her head. “He’s usually in his apartment on the third floor. You may have to just go up there.”

  Maggie nodded.

  Ethel rolled the ashes into the ashtray sitting on the small table between the two rockers. “No one else will tell you, but I will. This place is not all that it seems.”

  “I know about the building’s history, but that was then and this is now.”

  “True, but sometimes then is now, and now is then.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Ethel rocked back and forth. Back and forth. “I wanted to tell you to watch that friend of yours. I get a bad feeling about her.”

  “You’re not the first one that’s told me that,” Maggie said. “An old lady at the grocery store said the same thing.”

  Ethel laughed and coughed at the same time. “That must be Claudia. We go way back. When I was a receptionist here, back in the sixties, Claudia and I used to belong to a group called The Seers. We would have séance’s right here in the basement of this building during the sixties. We were quite powerful back then; now we’re just a couple old hags. I don’t think she even knows I live here.”

  “What did you do in the séances?”

  “We communicated with spirits,” Ethel said, smiling as if recalling the memories were pleasurable. “Claudia and I would take turns being the medium in charge of the séance. People would come from all around to speak with their deceased loved ones or have us tell their future. We made quite a living helping people,” Ethel puffed the cigar. “But we were not frauds, not our group.”