Dearly Departed

by Carly Winter

  A moment of heavy silence fell, then he burst out laughing. I listened to him chuckle for a good thirty seconds as I twisted the phone cord around my finger, growing more irritated by the moment.

  “Okay, Patty. Now I'm curious. Tell me how you've solved a murder that the police haven't.”

  And there was the rub. Who did I think I was, calling the FBI with my crazy conjecture? “I didn't say I solved it,” I muttered. “I said I may have solved it.”

  “I'm all ears. Tell me your theory.”

  “I think Mrs. Wilson killed Charles.”

  He hesitated a beat before asking, “The little old lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Patty, have you been downstairs smoking dope with the hippies?”

  “No! Just listen to me!”

  “Do you have any proof? Like did she confess or show you the bloody knife?”

  “No.”

  “She's a sweet, old woman, Patty. I don't see how—”

  “Will you please stop talking and listen?!”

  “Fine,” he replied with a huff. “This should be rich.”

  A knock sounded at my door again, but I ignored it and took a deep breath while keeping my gaze focused on the paper in front of me. Ringo pranced out of the bedroom and curled up on the couch next to me, as if urging me on, yet comforting me at the same time. “I just got back from New York and we had left a key for Mrs. Wilson to use to come in and feed Ringo.”

  “Okay...”

  “Well, when she gave it back to me a little while ago, I realized that Donna had left her the wrong key. She'd given Mrs. Wilson the key to Charles' apartment, the one he'd given us.”

  “And?”

  “There was no way for her to access our apartment while we were gone, Bill. We'd never exchanged keys with her, but we had with Charles.”

  “I'm confused, Patty.”

  Closing my eyes, I rubbed my temple again with one hand while holding the phone with the other. The headache seemed to be growing worse by the second. “Charles had our key. Mrs. Wilson didn't, but she did have a key to Charles' apartment. I've seen her use it. What if after Charles died, she went in and made copies of our key and used it to feed Ringo?”

  “What if she grabbed your key from Charles' apartment to take care of the cat?”

  I shook my head. “We took it back a couple of days ago. She had to have made a copy before then.”

  Bill remained silent for a long while. “Even if she did make a copy of your key from Charles' apartment, that doesn't make her a murderer. What's her motive?”

  “Charles' nightmares. She's mentioned how much they scared her and how they kept her awake. She said since his death she's sleeping so much better. She hated the screaming.”

  It sounded as if Bill was tapping a pen against the table. “A sixty-something-year-old lady doesn't kill out of the blue.”

  “What if she's done it before and gotten away with it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Her husband,” I said with a sigh. “He died falling down the stairs here in the apartment building a few years ago. What if it wasn't an accident? What if she pushed him? Or tripped him?”

  “I think you're grasping at straws,” Bill replied. “What happened to your suspicions about the girlfriend, Karen? Or the wife, Claudia?”

  “I've thought about that. Here's the thing: Mrs. Wilson has been there every step of the way, casting doubt away from herself and onto everyone else, planting seeds and ideas in everyone's head. I didn’t even realize she was doing that until just a few moments ago. She called Claudia a shrew, but then was rude and mean to her to force her to act like a harpy. We found a will that Charles had supposedly typed mixed in with a book he'd been writing that stated Karen was to get his estate. Mrs. Wilson had access to the apartment so she could have typed that out and slipped it in the stack of papers for someone to find, which would have been Karen's motive. She also said Wayne, Charles' friend, is a drug dealer, which is true, so he's seedy and could've killed Charles.”

  “What about the hippy downstairs?”

  In-the-Buff Bob. “She told me she hated the way he treated Charles and he could've done it as well. Don't you see? She's actively worked to cast blame anywhere but on herself.”

  “Let me think about this,” Bill grumbled.

  I remained quiet, tossing around all the pieces of the puzzle. “One other thing,” I said. “We found a note under our pillow that was a threat, telling us not to get too close or we'd be next. It had been typed on Charles' typewriter.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I went over there and looked at the ribbon. I could make out the words on it.”

  “And Mrs. Wilson had access to Charles' apartment?”

  “Yes. They'd traded keys.”

  “Wouldn't you have heard her stabbing him? I'm assuming he would have yelled for help or something.”

  “Not necessarily. Donna and I weren't here, but even if Mrs. Wilson killed Charles after I got home, I probably wouldn't have heard anything. The anti-war protesters were so loud, I couldn't have the window open. I also had music on while I tidied up.”

  “Interesting.” He was finally taking me seriously!

  “She knew him, Bill. She could have walked right up to him and shoved that knife into him. He never would have felt threatened by her, because as you said, she's a sweet, little old lady. They were friends and neighbors.”

  “And you think she has the physical strength to do something like that?”

  “She may be older, but she's not infirm. Mrs. Wilson is a strong woman.”

  “You put all this together over a key?” Bill asked, his voice incredulous.

  “When she handed it back to me, I realized Donna had left her the wrong one. In order for her to get Ringo, that meant she'd have to have made a copy of ours, which she’d retrieved from Charles' apartment. No one else has a key.”

  “Karen had access to Charles' apartment. I'm assuming she had a key since she was the girlfriend. And what about Claudia? You said you found her inside the apartment looking for a will. They both had access.”

  Yes, the one little detail that put a dent in my theory. “I know. But I think someone needs to take a look at Mrs. Wilson, Bill. She had motive and opportunity, and she's placed herself in the middle of the investigation but has cast suspicion on everyone else.”

  “What if Claudia killed him for money?”

  “If I were Claudia, I'd make sure I had that will in hand before murdering him. When Mrs. Wilson and I found her in Charles’ apartment, she freely admitted she was searching for it. She didn’t have it. Why kill him over money when she can’t prove she’s the beneficiary?”

  “And Karen?”

  “She had recently found out that he was married, but she's not a killer. She's too... fragile, almost broken.”

  “And Wayne? He was at the apartment twice that day.”

  “No. He lost a friend. He didn't care about the money Charles owed him.”

  “The hippy?”

  I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “Honestly, I don't see it. He's too high and into his peace and love to kill. At least I think so. I think he likes spouting his views, but I don't see him having the wherewithal to murder anyone.”

  It wasn't worth mentioning that Ringo had also scampered away from Mrs. Wilson when I arrived home and met her in the hallway just over an hour ago. The cat's reaction wouldn't be an important part of evidence to a police officer, but to me, it showed a lot. Ringo had been there when Charles was killed and he'd run from Mrs. Wilson, probably only spending time with her so he'd be fed and not alone.

  Bill tapped his pen loudly. “Okay, I'm going to call Peterson and have him come over there. Are you going to be home for a while?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll probably want to see you either tonight or first thing in the morning. I'll have him call you immediately.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “An
d Patty?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If you're right about this and he can nail Mrs. Wilson, you've done some fine police work.”

  A slow blush crawled up my neck and into my cheeks. Accolades from the FBI agent? I’d take it. “Thanks.”

  “I'll talk to you soon.”

  After I slowly set the phone back on the cradle, I sat back against the cushions and closed my eyes. If I dug through enough drawers, I'd hopefully find the cigarette I craved so badly. But did I have the energy to even rise from the couch?

  Yes. I also needed a glass of water. Ringo meowed loudly, then scampered away, obviously upset about something.

  When I opened my eyes and stood, I found Mrs. Wilson leaning against the front door.

  Chapter 22

  How in the heck… had I left the door unlocked, or had she used the key I suspected she had in her possession? I really needed to pay more attention to that.

  “Hello, Patty,” she said sweetly, standing with her hands clasped behind her back.

  I studied every detail of her. She wore a light blue pair of slacks, a white sweater and blue flats. Her normally friendly smile had disappeared and she stared at me with hard, cold blue eyes that sent a shiver down my spine.

  “M-Mrs. Wilson!” I said, my voice a little high, despite my attempts to act as if I weren’t scared to death. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

  “I was knocking, but there wasn’t an answer.”

  Stepping back and to my left, I placed the coffee table in between us. “I’m sorry about that. I-I was on the phone.” Glancing down at the table, I noted the keys. Hopefully, she didn’t notice.

  “I was going to leave you be until I heard my name.”

  Dang it! “Are you sure you did? I wasn’t speaking about you. I don’t like to gossip. That would be rude.”

  Of course, I was lying. Donna and I gossiped with her all the time.

  “Oh, I’m very sure I heard my name,” Mrs. Wilson said, walking toward me. “Please tell me who you were talking to.”

  “Just a friend, Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Do you always speculate on murder with your friends like that?”

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat. What was she hiding behind her back? Could she be ready to kill me as well?

  “I knew my plan was risky,” Mrs. Wilson said. “But I couldn’t take it anymore. Charles screaming at all hours of the night, the fights with Claudia… all I want is to live the last years of my life in peace, and that man made it impossible.”

  Oh, my word. I’d been right! Yet, she kept approaching me, her hands still behind her back. I was literally trapped, the coffee table to my front, the wall to my back, the couch to my left. The only place I could go was the bedroom, and it seemed that would only corner me further.

  Perhaps I should keep her talking? “W-why didn’t you just move?” I asked.

  “I was here first. I like living here. This is my neighborhood. Everyone and everything I know is here. I shouldn’t have to go anywhere to find a peaceful life.”

  “But killing someone… that seems so extreme.”

  “I learned long ago to get rid of the people in my life who bring me unhappiness.”

  Both fascinated and horrified, I listened intently while keeping her talking and trying to figure a way out of my apartment and to safety.

  “Is that what happened with your husband?” I asked. “Did he make you unhappy?”

  “He was a typical man, expecting me to wait on him. I tired of being his maid, bless his soul.”

  “So you pushed him down the stairs?”

  Mrs. Wilson shrugged and her mouth turned up in a slight grin. “I crushed a few sleeping pills in the mashed potatoes and led him out to the landing. He barely needed my help down the stairs.”

  The coffee table was the only thing that separated us now.

  “I really put a wrench in my plan by handing you the key today,” Mrs. Wilson continued. “I never thought a stupid stewardess would have noticed. I thought it would be easy to come in here and exchange it with the correct one. I knew where you girls keep them, because as you guessed, I’ve been in here before.”

  “You left the note?”

  “Yes. With you hanging out with your FBI agent, you got me worried. I thought I’d throw in a little assurance to keep your nose out of the investigation. I wasn’t worried about the police—they’d never suspect the little old lady to kill a man.”

  “You’re quite sneaky,” I said. “You manipulated everyone close to Charles. You made everyone look guilty… but you.”

  “I did,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I thought they’d pin it on Wayne or Claudia for sure. Those two had the most to gain, but I also needed to throw Karen into the mix. She’s weak and an easy target. I typed up that will, hoping the police would find it.”

  “They didn’t. But my friends and I did.”

  “Yes,” she replied with a sigh. “The police weren’t too bright either, were they?”

  I shook my head as she came around the side of the coffee table, pinning me against the wall and the couch. She pulled her hand from behind her back to reveal a knife.

  “You got in over your head, Patty. I’m sorry I have to do this. I do like you and Donna, despite her being a drunk harlot. I’ll miss our chats.”

  “The cops are on their way!” I blurted. “They’ll be here any minute! They know everything!”

  “No, they don’t. They know conjecture from a stupid stew. They have no proof. When they arrive, I’ll be the grieving widow scared out of my mind that another one of my neighbors has been killed. Who do you think they’re going to believe? The sweet old lady, or the young, dumb stewardess?”

  That was the second—or maybe third?— time she’d called me dumb, and frankly I was tired of it. I’d proved just how smart I was… I’d solved a murder.

  Yet, as she drew closer, I debated what to use as a weapon. There was no way for me to move fast enough between the couch and the coffee table. I’d fall for sure and give her an easy target to slam the knife. Hit her over the head with the lamp? I’d have to unplug it.

  But then an idea came to me. Before I could fully think it through, I grabbed the crutch leaning in the corner and, with a scream, raised it over my head and slammed it over hers. That bought me enough time to race for the front door as she dropped the knife and slowly sank to the floor.

  When I opened the door, I ran into the chest of Detective Peterson.

  “Patty?” he said, grabbing my shoulders.

  The fear I’d experienced oozed out of me in sobs. My knees weakened as I pointed over my shoulder. “M-Mrs. Wilson,” I stuttered. “She just confessed everything to me. S-she tried to kill me. With a knife.”

  Detective Peterson’s eyes widened as he propped me up against the wall. “Stay out here.”

  I sank to the floor and held my head in my trembling hands as the tears kept coming. After a moment, I glanced around the corner into my apartment. Detective Peterson was helping Mrs. Wilson to her feet. She wobbled as she grabbed her head, the knife still visible on the floor.

  “What is going on?” she asked. “Do you see what that girl did to me?”

  “You’re under arrest, ma’am,” Peterson said.

  “For what? For being beaten with a crutch?”

  “For murder.”

  Mrs. Wilson turned a shade of red I’d never seen before and began to scream. I placed my hands over my ears, the sound resembling something I imagined Satan emitting—high pitched, guttural, and straight from a black, decrepit soul.

  As he walked her out, the neighbors who lived on the other side me, Rainbow and Dusk, opened their door.

  “What’s going on, Patty?” Rainbow asked, crouching down next to me. Thankfully, she was clothed. Her bright, beautiful face pinched with worry, and next to Mrs. Wilson, she reminded me of an angel from heaven.

  “Mrs. Wilson killed Charles,” I whispered as I wiped my cheeks. “Then she tried to kill me.”

>   “Oh, my. Is Donna home?”

  I shook my head.

  “Come inside with me,” Rainbow said. “I’ll fix you some tea to calm your nerves.”

  After allowing her to help me stand, I followed her inside the apartment, relieved that the murder was finally solved.

  And I’d done it. Alone.

  The stupid stew had solved the murder.

  Look out, FBI. I’m coming.

  Epilogue

  Donna arrived home later that night. Frankly, I was surprised when I discovered she was mostly sober. I sipped on my third cup of tea, waiting for the brew Rainbow had provided to calm my nerves. I hadn’t asked what was in it, but she assured me it would work. I just didn’t know how much more I could drink.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked, flopping down on the sofa next to me. “I’m so exhausted and my feet are killing me. I hope they allow us to wear flat shoes the next time they update the uniforms.”

  “Mrs. Wilson killed Charles.”

  With a gasp, she sat up and turned toward me. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I figured it out and she came after me with a knife. She admitted it all.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Are you okay?”

  I had to consider the question for a moment. Having my life threatened and finding out I’d shared tea and wine with a killer had rattled me emotionally, but physically, I was fine. “Yes,” I finally answered.

  “Tell me everything.”

  As I recounted the whole ordeal, Donna stared at me wide-eyed.

  “Unbelievable,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I never would have guessed Mrs. Wilson in a hundred years.”

  “I know. But we have other things to talk about, Donna.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes. I wanted to discuss your drinking.”

  She rolled her eyes and sat back on the couch. “I don’t.”

  The phone rang, and I muttered a curse as I stood to answer it. “Hello?”

  “Is this Patty or Donna?”

  “This is Patty. Who is speaking, please?”

  “It’s Linda Davenport, Patty.”