by Sarah Fox
After what felt like hours, Mrs. Landolfi flipped to the last page of the album and finished her narrative. I smiled with relief.
“Thank you for showing me your photos, Mrs. Landolfi. You have a beautiful family.”
“Oh, thank you for listening, dear. I hope I didn’t bore you.”
“Not at all,” I lied, pushing back my chair. “But I should be on my way now.”
“Yes, yes, of course. It was lovely of you to stop by to talk about dear Jeremy.”
We both stood up, but a thud from somewhere below the kitchen made me pause. The thud was followed by the tinkling of breaking glass. I glanced at Mrs. Landolfi, but she apparently hadn’t heard a thing. Maybe she really was hard of hearing.
“Ah, Mrs. Landolfi? Is anyone supposed to be down in the basement?”
The elderly woman placed our two empty glasses in the kitchen sink. “No. Why do you ask?”
I strained to hear more sounds but all was quiet. “I’m not positive, but I think you could have an intruder.”
Mrs. Landolfi’s blue eyes widened. “Oh my. Goodness me. Should we call the police?”
I thought I detected another muffled thud from somewhere in the basement. I fished my cell phone out of my purse. “I think that would be a good idea.” I eyed the door to the basement. “And maybe we should go out on the front porch.” I didn’t like the idea of a criminal deciding to join us in the kitchen.
“Yes, yes. Good idea.” Mrs. Landolfi fingered the collar of her sweater as we made our way quietly to the front of the house.
I dialed 911 as I eased open the front door, trying to make as little noise as possible. We stood on the small porch in a pool of yellow light from the sconce by the door and I related my suspicion about an intruder to the dispatcher. I rattled off Mrs. Landolfi’s address and explained that the last occupant of the basement suite had recently been murdered.
As the dispatcher instructed me to remain outside, I thought I heard something from around the corner of the house. With my phone still to my ear, I tiptoed down the front steps and along the narrow concrete path that led to the side gate.
“I think the intruder might be leaving,” I hissed into my phone.
“Do not attempt to approach or intercept the suspect!” the dispatcher ordered.
“I won’t,” I whispered, not bothering to mention that I’d left the front porch to investigate. I didn’t plan to confront the burglar—I knew that would be stupid—but I wanted to know if I was right, if there really was an intruder.
I leaned over the wooden gate and peered into the darkness. I could barely make out a stairwell and the side door to the house. A dark shadow moved in the stairwell and I froze, my heart fluttering in my throat like a trapped moth.
My free hand gripped the top of the gate. It rattled, and the shadow leapt out of the stairwell. It was a person. I had no doubt about that now. The burglar faced me for a split second, and then whipped around and sprinted away through the backyard.
“He’s getting away!”
The dispatcher ordered me to stay put, and I retreated back to the front yard, my legs shaking. Moments later a police cruiser pulled up to the curb and I ran to meet the two officers who climbed out of it, informing the dispatcher of their arrival as I went.
“Someone just came out of the basement through the side door and took off through the back,” I said, pointing toward the gate.
“We’ll need you to remain here, ma’am,” one of the officers told me as a second police cruiser arrived on the scene.
I rejoined Mrs. Landolfi on the front porch while two of the four police officers, their flashlights casting beams of light around the yard, proceeded through the side gate. The other two officers entered the house through the front door to take a look around.
I hugged myself and rubbed my arms, feeling the chill of the night air now that the immediate excitement had worn off. “How are you doing, Mrs. Landolfi?”
“It’s rather frightening, having an intruder,” she said. “And you, poor thing, standing out here in the night without a sweater.”
“Don’t worry about me.” I peered through the open front door but saw no one. “Hopefully you’ll be able to go inside and sit down soon.”
“I think I’d like to call my son.” Mrs. Landolfi fingered the collar of her sweater again.
“Does he live in Vancouver?”
“Oh, yes. He’s a professor at UBC.”
I held my cell phone out to her. “You can use my phone to call him.”
“Thank you, dear. But I wouldn’t have any idea how to use one of those newfangled contraptions.”
I smiled. “That’s okay. If you know his number, I can dial it for you.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t memorized a phone number in decades,” Mrs. Landolfi confessed. “I have his number written in my address book, and he programmed it into my telephone.”
The two officers who had disappeared into the house came back along the hallway toward the front door.
“Maybe the police will let you go inside and phone him now,” I said.
“It’s all clear, if you’d like to come in,” a female officer said.
I followed Mrs. Landolfi into the living room. She settled herself in an armchair and picked up the receiver of the telephone set on a round side table. While she spoke to her son, the police officers conferred on the front porch. I tried to listen in on their conversation but couldn’t make out their words.
I thought back to the figure I’d seen fleeing from the side of the house. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that someone had broken into Jeremy’s suite mere days after his murder. But if it wasn’t a coincidence, did that mean I had caught a glimpse of Jeremy’s killer?
It had been too dark around the side of the house to see the intruder’s face, so it wasn’t as if I could identify the person, but the thought of being in such close proximity—yet again—to what might have been Jeremy’s murderer creeped me out.
I thought about calling JT but remembered he was working in his studio all evening. I considered calling Hans instead, but rejected that idea almost immediately. Even if I hadn’t had any doubts about his innocence, I wasn’t sure that our relationship was at the point where I could call him for comfort and reassurance.
Mrs. Landolfi said goodbye to her son and hung up the telephone. “He’ll be here within the hour,” she told me. “He wants me to stay with him for a few days.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” I knew I wouldn’t want to stay alone in a house that had just been broken into.
I heard new voices out in the foyer and my ears perked up. I thought I recognized Detective Bachman’s voice. Yes, I decided after another moment, it was definitely him talking.
I wasn’t surprised that Bachman had an interest in the break-in, but I hadn’t expected him to show up quite so soon. I moved closer to the foyer so I could pick up some of his words.
“ . . . know he was blackmailing Clausen . . . maybe . . . connection . . .”
Stunned by what I’d heard, I stepped out into the hallway. Bachman and Salnikova were both there with two of the uniformed officers. All four heads turned in my direction.
“Jeremy was blackmailing Hans?” I couldn’t believe it.
Bachman cleared his throat. “Ms. Bishop. You seem to be turning up everywhere.”
I narrowed my eyes, unsure of what, if anything, he was insinuating. “I came to talk to Mrs. Landolfi about Jeremy. I didn’t realize there was anything wrong with that.”
“We’re not suggesting that there’s anything wrong with it,” Salnikova said in a placating tone.
I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I was more interested in what I’d overheard. “Are you sure Jeremy was blackmailing Hans?” I wanted them to tell me that I’d misheard.
Neither detective answered my ques
tion, but I could tell from their expressions that they were certain. I was at a loss.
“Why?” I asked. “What reason would he have to blackmail Hans?”
“That,” Detective Bachman said, “is something you’ll have to ask him.”
He and Salnikova passed by me to join Mrs. Landolfi in the living room while the two uniformed officers headed out the front door. I remained in the foyer, too stunned and confused to move.
Jeremy had blackmailed Hans.
Hans. Blackmailed.
Reality was sinking in, slowly but surely. But as it did, one question continued to repeat itself in my mind.
Why?
Chapter 10
I WAS STILL in the foyer when Salnikova emerged from the living room a moment later.
“Ms. Bishop, I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened.”
With effort, I forced myself to think of something other than Hans. “I don’t really have much to tell, but all right.”
“Shall we sit down somewhere?” the detective suggested.
I led her back to the kitchen and we settled in at the table, Salnikova with her notebook and pen out. I recounted how I’d heard noises from the basement and how I’d seen someone emerge from the stairwell at the side of the house.
“Did you get a good look at this person?” Salnikova asked.
I shook my head. “It was too dark. He was wearing a dark colored hoodie, and I’m pretty sure there was white lettering on the hood, but that’s all I could make out. I didn’t even catch a glimpse of his face.”
The detective made a notation in her notebook. “So it was a man?”
Her question made me pause. “Actually, I’m not sure.” I replayed the memory in my head, focusing on the shadowy figure I’d seen. “It could have been a woman. If it was a man, he wasn’t all that big.” It was hard to form a precise mental picture of the person’s size. I’d seen the intruder for less than five seconds, and for part of that time he or she had been standing down in the stairwell.
A thought struck me like a lightning bolt. “You don’t think it was Hans, do you?”
Salnikova’s face gave nothing away. “Do you?”
“Of course not!”
“Because the intruder wasn’t the right size and build, or because you don’t want to believe him capable of breaking and entering?”
Both! I wanted to yell. But was that the truth?
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Why would Hans break into Jeremy’s place?”
Salnikova didn’t reply, but I could see the answer in her eyes. Jeremy had blackmailed Hans. If Hans had killed Jeremy because of that, maybe he wanted to destroy some evidence.
Another thought struck me, this one giving me more hope. “If you already knew that Jeremy was blackmailing Hans, what would be the point of Hans trying to destroy evidence?”
Salnikova’s expression was shuttered. She wasn’t about to answer my questions.
My frustration level was on the rise, but I tried my best to quell it.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Salnikova reminded me.
It took me a second to realize which question she meant. I sighed, releasing some of my frustration. “I think the intruder was smaller than Hans. But,” I added with reluctance, “I can’t be sure.” It was almost painful to admit that.
If only I’d seen the person’s face. If only I could have identified him or her as someone other than Hans.
I slumped back in my chair, tired and hungry and more than a little grumpy.
Salnikova’s pen moved across the page of her notebook. “Do you remember anything else?”
“No. Nothing.” I paused for a split second before saying, “If you don’t know who the person was, I take it they got away.”
“Unfortunately,” Salnikova said. “We brought in a dog and it tracked the suspect to the end of the alley, but we figure he or she must have retreated by car from that point.”
That only added to my frustration. Mrs. Landolfi’s neighborhood was a residential one. Without traffic cams or surveillance video from businesses, what was the chance that the police would be able to track the intruder? Slim to none, was my guess.
If the police had caught the intruder, they probably would have been much closer to solving the murder. Now, however, the case was muddier than ever. At least, it was to me.
“Do you have any other suspects aside from Hans?” I asked, hoping for an affirmative response.
Salnikova shut her notebook. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”
I gritted my teeth. “And you really won’t tell me what the blackmail was about?”
The detective got to her feet. “I can’t.” For a second her expression softened with something close to sympathy. “I’m sorry.” She pushed her chair back underneath the kitchen table. “That’s all the questions we have for now, if you’d like to leave.”
Disgruntled, I grabbed my purse and stopped by the living room to say goodbye to Mrs. Landolfi. One of the uniformed officers assured me that someone would stay with her until her son arrived, so I took my leave, hoofing it along the darkened street to the nearest bus stop.
I understood that the police couldn’t discuss an open investigation, but their unwillingness to share even a shred of information still rankled. Although, if I were completely honest with myself, some of my annoyance stemmed from the fact that I had more doubts than ever about Hans.
I didn’t want to believe that Jeremy had blackmailed him, but it was hard for me to have faith in him when he’d avoided my questions the last time I’d spoken to him. I was starting to wonder if he was worth the effort, if I should even bother trying to make sense of things. But at the same time, I knew my mind wouldn’t rest until I’d found the truth, and part of me still craved a chance to pursue our relationship. If he was innocent.
Yet, even if he hadn’t killed Jeremy, he must have a secret. Otherwise, why would Jeremy have blackmailed him?
I arrived at a bus shelter and sat down on the bench, pulling out my phone to check the time. It was getting late, but I wanted answers and I wanted them that very night. So instead of going home, I decided to visit Hans.
HALF AN HOUR later I walked up the path to Hans’s duplex. I hadn’t forgotten about my promise to JT, and I paused outside the front door, wondering how to confront Hans without breaking my word. I didn’t plan on going inside, but I wasn’t sure that standing on the front porch on a dark, deserted street counted as not being alone with Hans. Actually, I was pretty sure it didn’t. But I was determined to talk to him that night.
I decided on a compromise. Before knocking on the door, I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to JT.
I have to talk to Hans. I’m at his house. I’ll text you again in 10 minutes. Don’t freak out!
I raised my right hand to knock on the door but my phone chimed before my fist made contact with the wood. I glanced at the display. JT had responded already.
Dori, don’t!
I have to, I wrote back.
What’s his address?
I sighed, knowing that if I gave JT my location he’d probably hightail it over to meet me. I had to admit, however, that I’d feel safer if someone knew where I was. Just in case Hans really was capable of harming Jeremy. And me.
I tapped out Hans’s address and then added, Stay home. I’ll be fine. Don’t. Freak. Out.
I didn’t wait for any more messages, rapping hard on the door with my knuckles.
My phone chimed, but the door opened before I had a chance to read the latest text.
I stared at the woman standing in the doorway, her flawless ivory skin expertly highlighted along her cheekbones, her shiny blond hair cascading over her shoulders. “Elena?”
“What do you want?”
“I . . .” My tongue seemed to have stuck to
the roof of my mouth. “Is Maestro in?”
“Sorry, no.” She looked me over from head to toe. “Is there something I can help you with?”
With every passing second, my stomach sank lower. My throat had gone dry and I had to swallow before I could speak again. “No. I was hoping to speak to him about . . . something important.”
“You’d better come in, then,” she said with a sigh. “Hans should be back any moment.”
Hans. Not Maestro. Hans.
She was on a first name basis with him and she was in his home, barefoot and with an unmistakable air of belonging. I wanted to turn around and flee, to pretend that I’d never run into her there. Yet, somehow I found myself stepping into the foyer. Numbness had taken over my body and I couldn’t seem to process any thoughts.
“It’s Dora, isn’t it?” Elena asked as she closed the door.
“Midori,” I corrected, my voice strained.
She didn’t even seem to hear me. “You might as well have a glass of wine while you wait.” She started toward the kitchen and, like a robot, I followed her. “Red or white?”
I shook off some of my numbness. “Neither.” I hesitated in the kitchen entryway. “I should be going.”
Again she gave no indication that she’d heard me. “I’m surprised Hans isn’t back already. It doesn’t take that long to buy a few groceries.” She opened a bottle of red wine and took a glass down from one of the cupboards. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
I nodded, my stomach sinking even lower as I realized how familiar she was with Hans’s kitchen. I took a step backward. “I should really go.”
“Don’t go on my account.” Elena poured a generous amount of wine into her glass. “Don’t you want a chance to confront Hans?”
“Confront him?” I still couldn’t think clearly. My thoughts were scattered, racing helter-skelter in my mind, so I couldn’t pin down a single one.
“About me.” She leaned one hip against the kitchen counter and took a long sip of her wine. “I don’t think you stopped by to chat about orchestra business.” She regarded me over the rim of her wineglass. “You thought you were his only lover, didn’t you?”
