Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “Under the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances now include two old couples and a golden retriever that have all fixed you in their beady glares, longing for a reportable incident.”

  “Golden retrievers don’t have beady glares,” he objected gently. He offered her his arm and they climbed decorously up to the path again. “Now, Maggie, tell me why you were stalking me.”

  She pulled a scrap of newspaper from her pocket. “There’s a new Park Slope ad.”

  “Aha. Nesting instinct again. Your raging hormones.”

  “Right. I’m out of control. Ready to rape and pillage for a bigger place. This time I’m doing it right.”

  “Well, I’ll be finished at George’s by noon. Why don’t you get us an appointment to see it during your lunch hour?”

  “D’accord. One o’clock, unless I call. I’ll meet you at the realtor’s. Joyce Banks. Seventh Avenue, remember?”

  “Okay. But even if it’s a great place I won’t be interested unless you promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t give up raping and pillaging. You do it so well.”

  Her wide smile was lively as spring. “I promise, Twenty- nine.” Late, she sprinted away across the park again.

  Len was having an irritating lunch with Fred Stein. It wasn’t Stein’s fault. He’d been generous with helpful tips when Len first started in real estate and Len usually liked him.

  “Listen,” said Fred, with a nervous nip at his burger, “you remember Dr. Carr and his buddies? Joyce sold him the Eighth Avenue apartments.”

  “Yeah?” said Len listlessly. If Fred would only shut up, he could think what to do about Nancy.

  “Well, I’ve been managing it for them,” said Fred. “And they want to invest in residential property again, it’s doing so well. I mean, office space is slumping right now, but it’s like Joyce says—now’s the time to buy. They’re thinking the Grand Army Plaza area will hot up. Asked me to manage it again.”

  “Congratulations. Joyce will be pleased.”

  “Well, not really. See, they want a place they can renovate. And you know that sketch you did for Eighth Avenue? The lobby?”

  “Right.” In the fifties, the owner of that building had tried to spruce up the lobby with paneling. The results had not been happy. Joyce had sent Len over with instructions to think of a couple of suggestions so potential buyers would see the possibilities, and he had realized immediately that the scuffed paneling hid some interesting Art Deco detail. Seeing a sketch of his guess about what the old lobby might have looked like, the doctors had purchased the place and taken his advice, discovering, beneath the encrustations of plywood and linoleum, dramatic polished marble and modeled arches. The restored apartment building had become popular with young professionals, with a hundred-percent occupancy.

  Fred nibbled at his burger and said, “They want you to design their new project too. And they weren’t really happy with the contractor last time. I wondered if you and I together could work with them.”

  “Mm, I don’t know. Joyce wouldn’t like it.” Joyce and Gordon Banks had interests in development firms, which were kept strictly separate from the sales and rentals of the real-estate office.

  “Right,” Fred agreed with a little squirrel smile. “But do we want to be stuck with her all our lives, forking over to her a percentage of all we earn? God, Len, I’ve dreamed of developing a building. I’d buy one myself but I can’t these days, with my nephew off to college.”

  “Well, you deal with the doctors then.” Len jabbed at his dill pickle. He couldn’t do a damn thing for Nancy, one way or the other, he knew that; and yet her news obsessed him.

  “I would, but—hell, Len, you know I’ve got no eye for design. But the two of us together—I mean, you’re like a son to me. Think about it, okay?” Fred’s thin gray face was anxious.

  “Okay,” Len agreed, as though he didn’t have enough to think about already.

  Joyce was donning her coat as they came back in. “Oh, Len, good, I want you to take care of this note. Someone just called about the Lund place. They want to see it at one o’clock, but everyone’s at lunch and I have to see Rosenzweig.”

  “Sure.” He made a note in his book. “Um, did you call Mrs. Northrup?”

  Joyce grimaced. “Yes, I had poor Renata set it up. Listen, leave time to show the Abernethy place afterward. They said it was more than they wanted to pay, but they’ll probably change their minds if you show them the old lady first. Oh, and if I’m not back by three-thirty, get the info on the Flatbush listing.” She hurried out.

  The man arrived a couple of minutes before one, a big broad guy, friendly brown eyes, jeans and turtleneck. He was getting bald.

  “Hello, Mr.—is it Ryan?” Len asked, glancing at Joyce’s scrawled note.

  “Nick O’Connor. Ryan is my wife.”

  “Oh, right, sorry, Mr. O’Connor. I’m Len Trager.”

  “Call me Nick.” They shook hands.

  “I’ll be showing you that brownstone on Garfield. You new around here?”

  “We’ve been living over in Chelsea. But I’ve worked here in Brooklyn a couple of times.” Seeing the question in Len’s eyes, he added, “I’m an actor.”

  “That’s interesting.” Len struggled to mask his disappointment. An actor. His afternoon was as good as wasted. Banks didn’t give mortgages to actors, with their unpredictable temperaments and ninety-five-percent unemployment rate. There was little hope of a sale here. But you never knew, some unlikely-looking people, even artists or writers, sometimes had money. Optimism, Joyce always said, a trick of the trade. So he asked cheerfully, “Stage? TV?”

  “Whatever they’ll give me.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Between jobs just now. I was in an off-Broadway thing that folded last week.”

  “Oh. Tough luck.”

  “Not really,” said Nick with a smile. “It was a turkey. Glad to get out of it.”

  “Well, that’s good. You’ll like the Slope, it’s got a real pioneer enthusiasm. Do you have children?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Me either.” Len had a sudden warm vision of Nancy laughing down at a little child. A little boy. His little boy.

  Steady now.

  The door opened and a woman entered. Tall, professional- looking, a trench coat open over a gray wool suit, carefully cut black curls, a red beret, a briefcase. The dignified effect was marred by the overstuffed pastry she was chewing enthusiastically. Len said, “Yes, ma’am, can we help you?”

  “Mmph.” She waved the pastry at him in apology.

  Nick said, “Maggie, meet Len Trager. He’ll be showing us the house. This is Maggie Ryan,” he explained to Len.

  “Oh. You’re together.”

  “Right,” said the woman, having swallowed. “Is it okay if I finish my Danish on the way over? I just have my lunch hour.”

  “Sure,” said Len. He was heartened by this indication of a steady job, a job that required a suit. A bank wouldn’t give a mortgage to a young woman, of course, but an owner like Abernethy might. He unlocked the box and took out Abernethy’s keys as well as the amber-tagged set to Lund’s building. “Car’s around the corner,” he said.

  It was a short drive up to the park, a right turn to Garfield, another right. “Transitional block,” said Len. “You can see the renovation going on.”

  Maggie nodded. The sense of change was almost tangible. Several of the brownstones had been cleaned and repaired recently. Others were in varying states of disarray, some with broken glass, graffiti, boarded windows. The people were similarly various: a pair of stout Italian matrons with shopping bags, a couple of black men with exuberant Afros, an earnest young blond woman in flare-bottomed jeans puttying a windowpane. A gray-haired woman in a navy warm-up suit cycled past them. On some blocks there were still elm trees, filmed now with the flowery khaki-yellow that preceded leaves, but on Garfield many trees had been lost, and the gra
ndeur or decay of each building stood exposed in the cool sunlight. Lund’s place looked okay on the outside, Len decided. But he could already hear the booming syrupy tones of the Jesus station. Damn. He parked and said brightly, “Here we are.”

  The couple got out and stood on the sidewalk looking up silently at the building. It was similar to the other brownstones on the street—narrow, chocolate-colored, three tall stories above a raised basement, a long flight of steps up to a big double door. But its details were its own. Like its Victorian builder, it was at once conforming and eccentric, exuberantly individual within its rigid constraints. Carved stone framed the window bay that ran from sidewalk to a florid cornice at the top. A third-story oriel window and a band of vestigial crenellation under the cornice completed the rugged trim. Nick said, “A forted residence ‘gainst the tooth of time.”

  An actor, Len remembered.

  He said, “Well, shall we go in? Start at the bottom.” If he hit them with Mrs. Northrup first, they’d have time to see the Abernethy place. He led the way to the two broad steps that descended to the iron gate under the tall front stoop, pulled out the keys with the amber tag, and unlocked the door to a shabby hall that ran toward the rear of the building. There were stairs against the left wall and a closed door at the right that did little to block the reverberating voice of the radio preacher.

  A sharp voice answered Len’s knock. “Who’s that?”

  “Len Trager, ma’am. From Joyce Banks.”

  “Blast.” The door opened a few inches to the length of a stout chain and a pair of shrewd eyes glittered at them. Then the door closed again and the chain rattled behind it. Len wished that she would simply refuse to let them in. That might give Lund grounds for eviction or something. But the door opened again and she snapped, “Well, come in!”

  She was wiry, of medium height, with unkempt gray hair around a wrinkled face and neck, a smudged cheek. She smelled of alcohol. Her long cardigan was pilled and unraveling at the sleeves and neck. There were holes in it, a few of them carelessly darned with a darker yarn. Her feet scuffed along in pink terry-cloth slippers that were stained and burst at the seams.

  She stood aside and they entered the dark and smelly apartment, which was ringing with the preacher’s request for money. Len shouted, “Thank you! Mrs. Northrup, this is Nick O’Connor and Maggie Ryan.”

  Nick said, “Glad to meet you.” He had no trouble being heard above the din. An actor.

  Mrs. Northrup’s voice was penetrating too. She gave Nick a sharp unfriendly look, icily inspected Maggie, and asked, “You together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Living in sin, eh? One of those libbers. No bra, I bet. Well, it’s your souls.”

  Len said hastily, “They’re married. We’ll just take a quick look, Mrs. Northrup, okay?”

  “Have I ever stopped you?” she jeered. Maggie, rightly judging that a warmer invitation would not be forthcoming, moved on into the dim room with Nick. Len waited by the door. The smell wasn’t just alcohol today, he decided. There was something rotting too.

  Maggie asked, “Is it okay to open the drapes, Mrs. Northrup?”

  “If it’ll get you out any quicker.”

  “We’ll be quick,” Maggie promised, and pulled the draw cords.

  Three big windows extended nearly to the ceiling in the street-side bay. A sofa, covered by a tattered quilt, held a jumble of newspapers, magazines, old clothes, and whiskey bottles. So did the bookcase, the rumpled bed, the desk, the television, the mantel, the floor, and every other surface of the room.

  Len said cautiously, “You can see that it’s spacious.”

  Mrs. Northrup snorted.

  Nick had walked to the two doors at the back wall. “May I?”

  “Go ahead, hurry up. Maybe Artie Lund will unload this place on you and I’ll be left in peace. Artie thinks it’s his, but it’ll always be the Sweeney place in fact.”

  “Sweeney?” asked Len.

  “Cornelius Sweeney. Invented a new furniture polish, made a little fortune, built this place. Artie Lund will never do as much.”

  “Few of us will,” said Maggie. She picked up a couple of magazines from the heap on the desk, tossed them back, and studied the engraving of Lincoln hung above it. “You plan on staying here in the Sweeney place?”

  “Sure. It’s my legal right. My son is a lawyer.”

  “I see.” Her face expressionless, Maggie joined Nick and they went through the butler’s pantry to the kitchen. Len threaded his way among the bottles and dirty clothes after them.

  Here, the noise was louder, the stench stronger, and the clutter, if anything, worse. Mrs. Northrup scooped up a whiskey bottle from the kitchen floor, inspected it, and apparently found something worth preserving. She scuffed her way over to the mantel and placed it there carefully.

  Maggie crossed the kitchen to look in the bathroom, and Len stepped back to let her pass. His heel crunched on something. The bones of an old chicken leg, greasy and rotting on the floor. Damn.

  Nick was at the sink, which was filled with dirty dishes. He tested the faucet, then looked out the window at a view of the underside of the back porch and a bare maple tree in the rubble-filled yard beyond. Someone on the radio began testifying raucously for Jesus. Maggie emerged from the bathroom, nodded at Nick, and they both looked amused. Maggie said, “Mrs. Northrup, Mr. Lund must be a terrific landlord.”

  “Lund is going to burn in Hades!”

  Maggie frowned at her. Nick said, “But the plumbing and electricity are in pretty good shape.”

  “Yeah? Tell them how long it took him to get around to fixing that, Lennie.”

  Len cleared his throat, but the others were not waiting for a reply. Maggie was inspecting a cabinet door built into the wall at waist level. “Pass-through?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Pantry,” shouted Len. The radio was right next to the little door. “Converted from the old dumbwaiter car.”

  “I see.” The door had a spring latch and a bolt that dropped down from the top of the frame. Maggie undid them and looked in. A little varnished chamber of sturdy Victorian craftsmanship was screwed into the walls. The pale ropes still hung on either side. A snarl of mops, buckets, dirty sponges, and rags had been crammed inside. Maggie closed and bolted the door, and turned back to the others.

  Nick asked, “Do you like this neighborhood, Mrs. Northrup?”

  The old woman looked surprised. She shrugged. “My friends are around here. And down here in the basement I don’t have to worry about the leaky roof.”

  Nick smiled at her and said, “Well, thank you. I guess we’re ready to go on, then.”

  Len was relieved. He said, “Fine. Thanks, Mrs. Northrup.” The radio was now roaring out “Amazing Grace.”

  The old woman nodded silently and watched them make their way back to the door. Once outside, Len said, “There’s no leak in the roof that I know of.”

  Maggie’s grin was lively. “Hey, it’s okay. She’s got her reasons, poor thing. We’ll believe our own eyes. Upstairs now?”

  “There’s a similar place I could show you, on St. John’s,” Len suggested. “At our nine-o’clock meeting yesterday morning, Joyce said the owner is now willing to finance. Plus, it’s delivered vacant.”

  To his dismay, they shook their heads. “Mrs. Banks mentioned it, but it costs too much. Let’s see the upstairs.”

  They walked up the stone steps to the double oak door with its frosted-glass design mostly intact. Len unlocked it and led them through a little tiled vestibule to a long, shabby stair hall. The walls were scuffed and smudged, the ceiling cracked, the varnish of floor and woodwork worn and dull. “Nice staircase,” commented Nick, running a finger along the carving of the newel post.

  “Yes, polish it up a little and it’ll be beautiful,” said Len, automatically professional. He unlocked the door into the peeling parlor. Inside, a recent closet built of two-by-fours and cheap paneling marred the proportions. But the room had high ceilings w
ith elaborate moldings, and the mantel sported a bas-relief Victorian maiden of such delicacy that Len was always reminded of Nancy. “Amazing Grace,” muffled but dominant, rumbled up through the floor.

  They moved into the dining room, also finished with elaborate molding, and on into the soiled kitchen. “Hey, look, Nick, back stairs!” exclaimed Maggie.

  Len felt a prickle of hope. He couldn’t remember anyone else being this pleased by Lund’s weary old brownstone, not after meeting the immovable Mrs. Northrup. Could there possibly be a sale here after all?

  Not to an actor, he reminded himself.

  They went upstairs. Loretta Lund’s uncle, long ago, had divided the upper floors into separate apartments, with shoddily constructed kitchenettes backing onto the original plumbing wall. But the once-glorious Victorian bath still held a marble sink and a chipped clawfoot tub, and a small room at the front overlooked the street. Maggie smiled at Nick and said, “This could be a little study.”

  “One more floor,” said Len. The steps to the top floor, the former servants’ quarters, were narrower than the lower flights. Here the windows were smaller, and the ceilings lower. The front apartment on this floor had been most recently occupied—only Lund’s disruption of the plumbing had finally forced the young couple on this floor to give up, accept his relocation money, and leave. For some reason a section of the hall had recently been repainted white, but in the main room the cheap paneling was blotched by the shadows of posters that had been Scotch-taped to the walls. The preacher’s voice boomed incomprehensibly from below. Nick slapped his hand against a wall. “This isn’t a supporting wall, is it?”

  “No,” said Len, giving the room a professional glance. “You may have a pillar or two in the stair wall, but not here. You’re thinking of remodeling?” That was always a good sign.

  “Maggie’s a gymnast, and actors have to keep in shape. It would be great to have space to work out.” Nick stepped to the doorway. “What do you think, Maggie?”

  She was down the hall, looking into the little front room, the one that sported the oriel window over the main door. For a moment she remained there, still, not answering.