Night of the Living Deed

by E. J. Copperman

  I didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, I took the Maglite out of my pocket and turned it on, as I’d been advised. It helped me to focus on something other than the office’s kitten-based décor (now with added cartoon vampires and cat ghosts for Halloween). In two weeks, it would be turkeys dressed as Puritans and after that . . . it was frightening to imagine what Terry might do for Christmas.

  The target tonight was any locked file cabinet (since the open ones probably didn’t have the good stuff). I was somewhat pressed for time, what with being on the premises without, shall we say, the protection of the legal system.

  I found three such cabinets at the far end of the office, thankfully away from the picture window. And having done extensive work with locks in my previous employment life (one of the departments I’d worked in at HouseCenter involved cutting keys for people and selling locks, and I had done some work with locks at the lumberyard, despite it having nothing to do with my actual job), I could pick through the absurdly rudimentary locks on the files in no time flat—well, no more than ten minutes. Fine. You try it sometime. At least I got them open.

  Most of the files were of absolutely no interest to me or, by extension, Paul and Maxie. In fact, the only one that held the slightest bit of promise was—not surprisingly—the one marked with my address, “123 Seafront Avenue.”

  The plan was that I’d take everything in the file, which seemed massive to me, and copy it to bring back for Paul to peruse at his leisure, of which he had a great deal. But just as I was heading for the copy machine, located in a small room just outside the main office, I heard the exact sound I hadn’t wanted to hear.

  Someone pressing buttons on the keypad just outside the front door.

  I thanked Paul silently for telling me not to turn on the lights, and literally dove into the copy room, where I stayed on the floor, trying to remember any prayers from my misspent youth. The best I could come up with was, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,” so I recited that silently as the front door opened wide as Kerin Murphy, blazered and on the job, walked in, juggling a briefcase, an open file, a cup of coffee and the cell phone into which she was talking.

  “I’m telling you, they’ll come down another six thousand,” she was saying. “If we hold out, we can get the property for less than four.”

  I did my very best to stop breathing temporarily, in the hope that I could avoid anyone making me do so permanently. If Kerin hit the main light switch, there was no chance at all she’d miss spotting me. And for all I knew, she was a homicidal maniac (obviously somebody around here was). That was a terrifying thought—the woman was so thorough at everything she did.

  Kerin struggled with her various loads and stumbled to a desk, where she dumped the briefcase and the file. She held on to the coffee and continued to keep the cell phone in place by craning her neck into a wholly unnatural position.

  Then she walked to another desk in the corner of the room, which I could see clearly from my position (and which made me twice as nervous, because that meant she could see me clearly if she chose to look in my direction). That desk, the largest in the room, sat under a photograph of Terry Wright shaking hands with an official-looking man in a business suit. They looked quite pleased with themselves.

  “No, Neil,” Kerin continued. “I’ve got the figures right here.” And she reached for a light switch.

  I racked my brain for a plausible explanation of my position and my presence. Believe me, your brain can go through myriad scenarios in a split second when you’re lying on the floor wondering if your last words to your daughter had been about not eating too much ice cream.

  But the light switch illuminated only the desk lamp, a Pixar-style Anglepoise bent-necked model, and that actually worked in my favor. Kerin could see what was on her desk, but if she looked in my direction, the lamp would block her view.

  “It was at four two seven, but that was six months ago, and the property is still on the market,” Kerin went on. “In this market, they’ll be thrilled with any price that covers their expenses, believe me.”

  Now my concern became how long I would have to lie on this threadbare carpet, which smelled of dog. If I could just stay still, and if Kerin would just find the paper she was looking for so she could leave . . .

  But Kerin didn’t seem to be concerned with anything on her own desk. It was the one that I could only assume belonged to Terry that occupied her time. She started to go through the unlocked drawers. That seemed odd—wouldn’t Terry object to an employee searching her desk?

  “I’ve got it right here, Neil,” she said, without actually holding a specific document. She opened the top drawer and reached in. “Wait. I’ll make a copy for you.”

  Uh-oh.

  But she didn’t head for the copy machine, which I considered a major plus. She did pull what appeared to be an address book or daily planner out of the desk and smiled triumphantly.

  “You have a copy?” Kerin said into her phone. “You make me schlep out here in the middle of the night and you already have a copy? What are you doing to me, Neil, seriously?”

  She tucked the book under her arm and turned off the desk light, still grinning that strange smile of accomplishment.

  “Okay, then. Go ahead and make the offer to your client and call me in the morning, okay? Good night, Neil. Yes, I adore you, too.”

  Kerin walked back to her own desk and slipped the address book (or whatever) into her briefcase. Then she pushed a button on her cell phone, and almost immediately began talking. “It’s me. I’ve got it. But what do I say when she misses it? Yes, she will. No, I can’t come now. I can’t. I’ll drop it off there tomorrow. Now, about the house on Seafront.”

  What?

  She opened the door and redid her balancing act, pushing buttons on the security system to set the alarm again. Swell. Now I’d have to figure out how to get out without setting off sirens from here to the police station.

  “I think I have an idea,” Kerin said. “All you have to do is . . .”

  And she was out the door, which she closed behind her.

  After I heard her car pull away, I stood up and peered out the front window. I wasn’t happy about being in the office anymore (not that I ever had been happy about it). I looked at the file in my hand. It was thick. And I really wasn’t in the mood to stand at the copy machine for an hour, feeling exposed and on edge the whole time.

  Still, it made more sense than stealing the file and being exposed to burglary charges, even if I could get out of the office without setting off the alarm. So I trudged back into the copy area and, this time, with all the window shades down, felt confident enough to turn on the light.

  And that was when I saw Terry Wright lying on the floor in the back of the room. There was a cup in her hand, and a coffee stain on the rug next to it. Her eyes were wide-open.

  She was quite dead.

  Twenty-two

  “So you broke into Ms. Wright’s office and found her dead on the floor of her copy room, is that it?” Detective Anita McElone shook her head and started walking back and forth behind her desk, which didn’t take long. It wasn’t a large room. “That’s about as shaky an explanation as I’ve ever heard.”

  “I told you,” I said. “The office was open when I went in to see the file of my own property, and I must have gotten locked in while I was examining it.” It was my first time coming up with such an excuse; I was sure I’d get better at it. “I didn’t even know Terry was there until I went in to copy my file. And that’s the truth.”

  McElone stopped pacing and gave me a look that contained as much pity as irritation. She couldn’t believe what a complete idiot I was. “It probably is,” she said. “I don’t think even you are stupid enough to go into her office, kill her, and then call the police to come get you.”

  “Was it murder?”

  “Like I would tell you.”

  “So, can I leave now?” I picked up my canvas bag from the floor, but t
he glare I was getting from the detective indicated I’d gone a trifle too far. I put the bag down.

  “So far, I’ve been pretty lenient in the way I’ve treated you,” McElone said slowly, with great gravitas, indicating she was trying very hard not to draw her service weapon and kill me. “But I can’t abide breaking and entering, I can’t just dismiss you as a suspect and I can’t let you off just because you think you’re witty.”

  “Lenient?” I asked. “You hijacked my computer for almost a week, you called me in because you thought I was sending threatening e-mails to myself and now you accuse me of—something—and you think you’ve been lenient?”

  “Nice try,” she countered. “But the fact is, you were the only person in the room with a dead woman, and you appear to have broken into her office. That’s a serious problem, and I have to tell you in all candor that if I were you, I’d call a lawyer.”

  “I wasn’t the only person in the—” Whoa. “Are you arresting me? Are you telling me my rights?” I asked.

  “What did you mean, you weren’t the only person there? Who else was there?”

  “Depends. Should I call my lawyer?”

  McElone curled her lips, irritated. “Fine. I’m not charging you. Yet. Who else was there?”

  I told her about Kerin Murphy’s visit and the address book she’d seemingly pilfered from Terry’s desk. “Does that mean anything? I mean, Terry was clearly already dead before either of us showed up.”

  McElone didn’t get the chance to answer. As she jotted down some notes, her phone rang and she picked it up, spoke quietly enough that I couldn’t make out the words and very quickly hung up. “Get going,” she said, standing.

  “What do you mean, ‘Get going?’ ” I asked. “A second ago you were sending me up the river, and now I can go? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” McElone said, betraying nothing with her tone. “The desk sergeant told me the initial report is that Ms. Wright died of a heart attack.”

  Twenty-three

  “I’ve never had to bail you out of jail before,” my mother said.

  “You’re not bailing me out of jail,” I told her. Again. “You’re giving me a ride home until I can go get my car tomorrow.”

  “Do they think you killed that woman?” Mom asked. She sounded more intrigued than worried.

  I’d left the Volvo a couple of blocks from Terry’s office, and when the police had come and decided to take me back to the station, I had left it there. Then the cops had asked me where it was parked so they could search it, and they’d impounded it until the next morning. When I’d called Jeannie (with my one phone call, which McElone told me could be two phone calls) to let her know I’d be a lot later than planned, she’d offered Tony as a ride home. But I’d called Mom. Don’t ask me why.

  Mom drives a Dodge Viper, which she calls her “midlife crisis car.” If this is her midlife, she’s going to live to be about a hundred and forty, but okay. We were therefore tooling along looking like we were out to cruise the boardwalk, when in fact she was painfully obeying the speed limit.

  “She had a heart attack, Mom. I didn’t kill anybody,” I said. I left out the part about breaking and entering. I was too tired.

  “Of course you didn’t,” she responded. “You’re a good girl.”

  “Thank you.” Maybe that would put an end to the—

  She plowed ahead. “So, what were you doing in the office when you found the dead woman?”

  “I was just copying some real estate files about the house, that’s all.”

  “You’ve been acting strange lately,” she said.

  “I’m not acting. I really am strange,” I quipped.

  “Oh, you are not,” Mom said, slowing down to some sub-ten speed to make a right turn. “Now, what’s been going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on, Mom.”

  “Of course not.” She was pouting.

  “Honestly.”

  No response. For a very long moment.

  “I have a date tomorrow night.” Maybe I could change the subject.

  “I know, Ally.” And then she was silent again. For another long moment.

  “What do you think Melissa should dress as for Halloween?”

  No answer. If I couldn’t interest her with her granddaughter, I was toast.

  “Okay, so two people were murdered in my house before I bought it, and I want to find out what happened.”

  Mom smiled.

  “There, now. Was that so hard?”

  Paul was eager to see the copies I hadn’t made, Maxie was nowhere to be seen and Jeannie was anxious when I got home. Melissa was supposed to be in bed, but I believed she was upstairs in her room, waiting for the moment she heard the door close and Jeannie’s car leave the driveway.

  Mom, of course, insisted on coming inside, which made the scene that much more chaotic. Especially since Jeannie had no intention of leaving just yet.

  “Okay, you have a date and I have to hear about it from Melissa?” she growled before I had both feet inside the house. Then she noticed Mom. “Oh. Hi, Mrs. Kerby.”

  “Call me Loretta,” my mother reminded her. “You’re a grown-up now.”

  “Loretta,” Jeannie said dutifully, then turned to me. “He’s a teacher? Is he cute?” she asked.

  “In a minute, Jeannie.” I sighed. “It’s been a long night.” I sat down on the floor, letting Mom have one of the folding chairs. It was the first time in my life I would have actually killed for a Barcalounger. Paul, hovering near the ceiling, asked, “Where are the files?”

  “Your date,” Jeannie continued. “Spill the beans, Alison.”

  “The files,” Paul insisted. “What did you do with them?”

  “I was at Terry Wright’s office,” I told Jeannie (and Paul). “Terry’s dead.”

  Paul stopped in mid-gesture. I saw Maxie stick her head in from the ceiling, then withdraw it.

  Jeannie stared. “But . . . but you said you were going to a PTSO meeting.”

  “She’s dead?” Melissa stood at the bottom of the stairs in her nightdress, eyes wide. I guessed she couldn’t bear the wait any longer and had come down.

  After the inevitable brouhaha over Melissa’s arrival (Mom hugging her, Jeannie scolding her for getting up, me just sitting and waiting), I explained that I had discovered Terry’s body at the office, but I left out a few choice details, like the fact that I had broken into the office, that I’d hid from Kerin Murphy and that I had been, at least briefly, a suspect in Terry’s death.

  “Turned out she had a heart attack,” I finished up. Jeannie looked stunned.

  “That’s so sad,” Melissa said.

  “So you didn’t get the files?” Paul asked. I wasn’t sure whether all ghosts were so single-minded, but he certainly had the capacity.

  “I know, honey,” I said, pulling Melissa onto my lap and holding her close. “It’s very sad.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get the files,” Paul muttered. I glared at him for a second.

  Mom’s eyelids fluttered and she frowned for a moment, then she looked at me. “So what’s the plan of action?”

  Everybody, alive and otherwise, looked at me.

  “Plan of action?” I asked. “I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  Cries of protest came from every section of the room. I stood up and headed for the stairs.

  “But what about your date?” Jeannie asked.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride, Mom.”

  My mother looked disappointed, but walked to the front door with Jeannie after Melissa delivered the hugs for which she is so deservedly famous. I reached out my arm after they left, and my daughter walked over and let me lean on her.

  “You didn’t get . . . ?” Paul started.

  “Good night,” I said, and went upstairs. Paul did not come up through the floor to continue the conversation, and I went to sleep.

  Twenty-four

  “So I hear you broke i
nto Terry Wright’s office and killed her last night,” Phyllis Coates said.

  She’d called early this morning to flesh out her story, and offered to drive Melissa to school and me to my car when I mentioned my lack of wheels. An exclusive interview for the Chronicle was the price of such service, despite the fact that no other media outlet had called. We’d dropped Melissa off, and were now on our way to my Volvo.

  “I did not,” I insisted.

  Phyllis laughed. “Calm down, honey. I don’t really think you killed Terry—it was a heart attack. At least that’s what my friend in the ME’s office says is the official cause of death until the full report comes back. But you were there, weren’t you?”

  I looked away. “I thought so,” Phyllis crowed.

  “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

  “In my business, you can’t,” she answered. “Newspapers—real ones, dailies—are having enough trouble surviving. I’ve got to give people the most local stuff, things they can’t even get online, except when I put it there. So I know everyone and everything that goes on in this town.”

  “You’re very good,” I told her honestly.

  “Thanks. So tell me what you saw.”

  I told her the story (leaving out Kerin Murphy) on the condition that she not mention my name when writing about it, since I could be incriminating myself in print. After I’d gotten through with the tale, we’d reached the police pound where my Volvo was parked.

  “I’ve heard them all, and that’s a new one,” Phyllis told me.

  “Stick with me, kid,” I said. “I’ll make you a star.” I got out of the car but didn’t close the door. “Thanks for the ride, Phyllis.”

  “Thanks for the story, Alison. I’ll let you know when I hear anything from my friend in the ME’s office about Terry. I’ll know before the cops do.”

  I shook my head with respect. “That’s some friend you have,” I told her.