by Carly Winter
My relationship with them was still strained. My dad didn't speak to me for months, and now, the conversations were short and curt. My mother had no interest in hearing about my job. I hadn't become one of the party girls they feared I would, but they still assumed I had embraced the hedonistic lifestyle the media portrayed.
Perhaps a change in careers would please them and mend our relationship. Or maybe they'd think of me as a woman who just wanted to push my way into a man's field for the attention.
A knock sounded at my door, and I rose to open it, then teetered over on my crutches. I'd been using them a few hours and my armpits already hurt.
I opened it to find one of Charles' friends—the one with the long, greasy hair. “Can I help you?”
He stared at me a moment with glazed eyes. “Have you seen Charles?”
I almost blurted out that he was dead but decided to see if I could fish for a little information instead. “Um... no. Is there a problem? I'm sorry, I don't believe we've ever been introduced.”
“I go by Wayne. He owes me money.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, nodding, as if I understood completely. “It's nice to put a name with the face, Wayne. He owed me money as well once when he didn't have enough to pay his electric bill.”
“He owes me for something else.”
“What's that?”
He hedged a moment and glanced both ways in the hall as if he wanted to be certain no one overheard our conversation. “Weed,” he whispered. “If you ever need any, I'm the guy you want to call.” I smiled and nodded, hoping to hide the shock that railed through me. Charles had done drugs? “It would help a lot with your ankle,” Wayne continued.
“T-thank you,” I replied. “It's not too bad. Just a really mild sprain. I'll be up and around in no time after a bit of rest.”
“That's good. Can you tell Charles I topped by?”
And there was the catch. Did I tell him Charles was dead, or simply play it off like I didn't know?
Wayne looked a little seedy, but he seemed pleasant enough, and it would probably be a good idea to let him know he wouldn't be seeing any of the money Charles owed him. “Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”
“What's that?”
I pursed my lips together and hoped I wasn't making a huge mistake. In my gut, I didn't think Wayne was dangerous. If he'd killed Charles, then why come back to the scene of the crime looking for money? That simply didn't make any sense.
“Charles was killed.”
That unfocused stare didn't leave me for a very long moment. Then, he glanced from Charles' door, and back to me. To my utter surprise, tears welled in his eyes and quickly tracked down his cheeks. “He's dead?”
“Yes.”
“He survived ‘Nam, and he’s dead? How?”
“He... he was murdered.”
Wayne placed his palms on the side of his head as if his thoughts would seep out his ears, and shut his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked, truly concerned. I hadn't expected such a reaction from a hardened drug dealer.
“Charles was my friend,” he whispered. “How do you know he was murdered?”
“I found the body.”
A string of inappropriate curses fell from his mouth and the tears continued. His chest rose and fell in labored pants as if he couldn’t get enough air while he slowly spun in a circle. Wayne wasn't a murderer, but he did seem on the verge of some sort of attack. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” I asked.
He nodded and I moved aside so he could enter. Ringo eyed him from the kitchen and then ran for the bedroom. Either the cat didn't appreciate having his personal space invaded or he didn't like Wayne. Ringo had been present when Charles had been murdered, so the cat may recognize the killer. Is that why he ran? Because he'd watched Charles die? Had I made a terrible mistake in inviting Wayne in?
After he took a seat in the living room chair, I hesitantly sat on the couch. I couldn't imagine the devastation on the man's face being faked.
“We served together,” he whispered as he wiped his eyes, his left knee quickly bobbing up and down. “Dang it. I never cry.”
“I didn't know you were in the service,” I said.
“It's not something I tell everyone about,” he said with a sigh. “I don't want any trouble.”
I recalled the anti-war protests and the violence that followed, and I understood. “Why did Charles smoke marijuana?” I asked, still trying to recover from the shock of that discovery. I had never smelled it coming from his apartment and he always seemed to have his wits about him.
“Nightmares,” Wayne replied. “It helps with the nightmares. The crap the doctors give us don't work but weed does.”
“Nightmares?”
“War is ugly,” Wayne muttered, then swore again. “We've seen things no one should have to see. It stays with us.”
I couldn't imagine the atrocities. The news always gave us a fairly sanitized version of the war, and I didn't even like watching that.
“I'm... I'm sorry, Wayne,” I said, at a complete loss for words for the crying man in my living room.
“Me, too,” he said, standing. “I guess I'm out my money and my weed.”
He seemed to have aged a decade as he walked over to the door. His shoulders hunched and his feet shuffled against the carpet. The sound of the panel closing seemed to reverberate around the room like a gunshot.
As I stared into space and replayed my conversation with Wayne, my sympathies for the man, and for Charles, rose. Obviously, the nightmares were the mental issues he'd spoke of—his memories terrorizing him as he tried to sleep. I wouldn't have heard it as our apartments were mirror images, putting our bedrooms far from each other. However, I wondered if the neighbor on the other side of Charles heard him often. I’d have to pay Mrs. Wilson a visit and get her take on the sad situation.
I rose from the couch and teetered on my crutches as I struggled to find my balance. “Darn things,” I muttered as Ringo sauntered back into the living room. “Hopefully I won't need them more than a day or two.”
When I heard the key in the door, I turned to see Donna sauntering in carrying a bottle of wine and her overnight bag. “Lucy, I'm home!” she yelled in her worst Desi Arnaz accent, then kicked off her heels. When our gazes met, she furrowed her brow and her smile faded. “What the heck happened to you?”
Chapter 6
“I tripped over a Mr. Pig on the plane and took a spill,” I said, limping my way over to her. “How was your flight?”
“Oh, my goodness,” she replied, drawing me in a tight embrace. “Did you kick him between the legs?”
“Of course not,” I said with a laugh. “I wanted to, but I refrained.”
“Your resistance is impressive. Nice rug burn on the chin, by the way. Let me help you over to the couch. Good thing I brought home some wine.”
Even though it was barely noon, she poured us both a glass and sat down next to me. She smoothed a hand over her blonde bob and her blue eyes twinkled with happiness and mischief.
If I had to describe Donna in a word, it would be something like tornado, or whirlwind. A party stew to her core, she lived for laughter, drama, and men. I loved being with her simply because she was so different from me, and we giggled like no one's business. She was the trailblazer, the one who garnered the spotlight wherever she went, and I was the one in her shadow who basked in pieces of her glory as she took over a room. I was fine being second fiddle when we ventured out together because l always thought living Donna's life would be absolutely exhausting.
“Where have you been?” I asked as she handed me mine.
Her eyes widened and she grinned ear-to-ear. “Patty, I got to go to France.”
I gasped and envy washed through me. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. I saw it all. The Louvre. The Arc de Triomphe. Le Eiffel Tower! All of it!”
“Oh, my gosh. Was it as amazing as it looks in the brochures?”
“Mais oui!
Très belle!”
I shook my head and sipped my wine. “How in the world did you land a spot on a plane to Paris?”
Both of us had graduated from stewardess school around the same time and started where all the newcomers do: in the back of the plane. International travel was something reserved for the more senior stews. While I longed to be promoted to the front of the plane, Donna traipsed around the world. It didn’t seem fair in the least bit.
“How do you think I did?” she grinned mischievously. I rolled my eyes, knowing the answer.
“You slept with a captain?”
Donna threw her head back and laughed, then reached out and touched the tip of my nose. “Bingo, my dear! After, I just happened to mention how much I wanted to see Paris, and he pulled some strings for me. Next up, I'm heading to see Big Ben! Or maybe the elephants in Africa!”
I did envy her, but I wasn't like her. I’d wait until I'd done my time in the rear of domestic travel and move up the ladder without compromising myself.
“If he asked, I'd marry him in a heartbeat,” Donna said with a sigh. “He's such a gentleman. When we were in Paris, he took me to a few fancy restaurants and walking through the streets with him was so romantic. The weather was beautiful… sunny with a slight breeze. The food, the wine… it was such a great trip. I was sorry to have it end.”
“Where does your captain live?”
“Seattle. We met in the airport in Utah a couple of weeks ago and hit it right off. I kept running into him during our travels, and in Boston… well, you know the rest. It's been magical.”
Donna would love nothing more than to find the right man and settle down into a stable life. Unfortunately, she also thought every man she met was the right one and gave her heart away far too quickly. I'd always thought, deep down, Donna was terribly lonely and her need to be the center of attention was her way of fighting that loneliness. Perhaps it had something to do with the bits and pieces of her childhood she’d shared with me—a father who traveled all the time and a mother who would rather spend her days with a bottle of gin instead of her daughter.
“Is he single?”
Her grin faded as she shrugged. “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. He wasn’t wearing a ring, though, so I took that as a no.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Not to be a downer, but you need to start asking, Donna. It’s not fair to the wives. Think if you were in their shoes.”
She nodded absently as her cheeks tinged pink, but I knew she wouldn’t discuss the subject any further. We’d already talked it to death.
“What's going on here?” Donna asked, glancing around the apartment. “Where's Ringo? Is he with Charles? You know, I think that cat may like him more than he likes us.”
A quick change of subject to put her back in her comfort zone. “No, Ringo's here. He just went into the bedroom a little while ago.”
On cue, the tabby stalked out and meowed, then jumped onto Donna's lap.
“There's my favorite boy,” she whispered as she stroked his back. “You’re the best boy ever. Even better than the captain who got me to Paris.”
I snickered as she whispered her sweet nothings, but a heavy feeling settled in my chest. She obviously had no idea what had happened to Charles since she'd been jet-setting in Paris. Delivering bad news was such a bummer, especially since she was still on a high from her amazing trip.
“There's something I need to tell you,” I said, setting down my glass on the coffee table.
“What's that?”
“Charles is dead.”
Her eyes widened as she stared at me for a long moment. “Well, don't beat around the bush or anything,” she said. “Oh, my goodness. What happened, Patty?”
“He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Donna whispered. “Are you kidding me?”
I shook my head.
Donna placed her hand over her mouth in surprise. “Did I lock the door? I better check.” She handed me Ringo and ran over to examine the lock. “Who did it?” she asked as she returned to the couch and the cat immediately curled up in her lap again. He always wanted the attention of the one who had been gone the longest.
“The police don't know. I was the one who found him.”
Donna stilled for a moment, then shook her head and poured more wine into her glass. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. This is just… horrible.”
After I completed my story—everything from the demonstrators to my fear of being in the apartment—I waited for Donna to comment.
“I feel awful for Charles,” she said. “That's a terrible way to go. I wonder who did it?”
“Well, I don't think it was his friend with the long, greasy hair. His name's Wayne, by the way.”
“Why not him? I didn’t really know him, but he always looked a little rough to me.”
“He was here not too long ago,” I replied. “He cried like a baby when I told him. And if he did do it, why come back to the scene of the crime? Why not stay away and keep off the radar?”
“That's a good point.”
“Wayne said Charles suffered from nightmares from the war because of the things he saw when he served.”
Donna shook her head and sighed. “That's awful. I'll tell you this: I wish I was still in Paris. Things here are downright depressing.”
“I know.”
“Did the police give you any indication on who they thought did it?”
“No. They asked me a lot of questions about people who knew Charles.”
Donna sipped more wine and stared off into space. After a moment she asked, “Have you talked to Mrs. Wilson? To see what the cops said to her?”
“I haven't. I was actually about to hobble over there right before you came home.”
“Let me change and freshen up,” Donna said. “We'll go together.”
Fifteen minutes later, we stood in front of Mrs. Wilson's door and Donna knocked. We waited a few seconds, and then she answered.
“What a surprise!” Mrs. Wilson said, her face brightening up with a smile. “What can I do for you girls?”
Mrs. Wilson was in her sixties, a sturdily built widow who loved hearing stories of our travels. Donna had once said Mrs. Wilson lived vicariously through us. I only hoped I would be in as good as shape when I reached her age.
Unfortunately, she didn't get out of the building much except for her weekly trip to the salon to spruce up her gray bouffant and her monthly bridge meeting. Yet, she did like hanging around in the lobby downstairs and chatting with our super and the other residents, and claimed she got her exercise by climbing the apartment stairs.
“We wanted to talk to you about Charles,” Donna said, leaning down and giving the woman a hug, who didn't stand an inch above five-foot-one.
“Oh, what a terrible thing,” Mrs. Wilson said, her eyes widening when she noticed my crutches. “Come in. My goodness, Patty, what in the world happened to you?”
“A pig tripped her,” Donna said.
“A pig? As in a police officer?”
“No, a different kind. A drunk and handsy customer,” I clarified as I moved inside. “It's only a light sprain. I should be back on my feet in no time.”
Once we'd gathered in the tidy living room, Mrs. Wilson smiled again. “Would you girls like some coffee or hot tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said. I’d always liked her apartment because it smelled like sugar cookies. The pea green sofa and aqua blue chairs were from the fifties, but still in great shape. A black and white picture of Mrs. Wilson and her husband sat on top of the spindly-legged television and as always, I couldn’t tear my gaze from it. Taken the day they were married, Mrs. Wilson stared at her husband with such love and hope shining from her eyes, my chest ached. She was an attractive woman, but in her youth, she’d been absolutely stunning with long, blonde hair and a megawatt smile.
We’d moved in after her husband had passed, and she’d told us bits and pieces of their lives together. They’d raised two
children, the boy becoming a doctor while the girl went into teaching. She talked of her husband with longing and sometimes her eyes became misty. His death had been quick—a fall down the apartment stairs. I hoped to one day find someone who touched my soul that way, but not now. And I certainly wouldn’t find him while shlepping drinks on a plane, no matter what the airline advertised.
I noted a new picture had been placed next to the wedding shot—two blond children staring adorably into the camera. Baring a slight resemblance to her, I guessed they were her grandchildren. The apartment had always seemed very homey to me.
“We're actually drinking wine,” Donna said. “Want to join us?”
“Oh my. Drinking in the middle of the day. How scandalous. I'd love to.”
Donna rushed back to our apartment and returned a few moments later with a full bottle she must have retrieved from our stash. If I had much more, I wouldn't be able to maneuver on my crutches.
Mrs. Wilson took a long sip of the Chardonnay, then asked, “What's on you girls’ minds?”
“Well, we were wondering if the cops gave you any indication on who killed Charles,” I said.
She shook her head. “None. They sure asked a lot of questions, though.”
“Same here,” I said. “They asked me about everyone he knew.”
“Yes! They were quite nosey.”
I pursed my lips together to hide my laughter. Mrs. Wilson calling someone else nosey was the pot calling the kettle black. She loved to lurk and listen, claiming no one paid her much attention because she was old and seemingly harmless. If I were a betting gal, I would say she knew something about everyone in this building.
“So, what did you tell them?” Donna asked. “Did you give them any good information?”
“Well, yes, I did,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I told them about that horrid Bob downstairs—that hippy who’s always throwing insults at Charles about him being a war veteran.”
