Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “No one.” Maggie stood again and pulled a thin square children’s book from the bookcase. Abe Grows Up, by Julia S. Northrup.

  “She’s my aunt,” said Julia stiffly.

  “Mmm. A very interesting family.”

  This round was a draw. Better get back to business, Teach. Julia sat down on the sofa, folded her hands, and said, “I think Lund left the doors unlocked himself.”

  Maggie replaced the book and sat down again too. “Would he do that? He must be a terrible landlord.”

  No need to lie about this. Julia nodded. “He’s done all the worst things he can think of. Bribed the other tenants to move. Made sure the furnace pilot light kept going out all winter, but I learned to fix that. The electricity was off for ten days. The water was out for three full weeks before he called the plumbers. I had to tell him my son would bring suit for punitive damages too before he fixed it.”

  “That’s rotten.”

  “I got some obscene phone calls too. Finally I started calling his wife every time and quoting them to her. Poor old fluffy-top Loretta. But the calls stopped.”

  “All to get you to move out?”

  “Yes. But he hasn’t succeeded.”

  “No. I can see that you can’t be forced. But I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

  “What is there to understand? Artie Lund’s a rat.”

  “Right. So why are you trying so hard to keep him from selling this house?”

  “I’m not!” said Julia indignantly. “I’d love to have a better landlord!”

  “Look, Mrs. Northrup, I’m not blind. Number one, here on the coffee table is today’s Times. Heaped on top of it are lots of older newspapers and magazines. Months older.”

  “So what?”

  “Number two. This place was reeking of rotten garbage a few minutes ago. Now it’s fine.”

  Drat. Julia said defiantly, “I just got tired of the smell.”

  “Good. So did I. Number three, there’s no dust in your corners. No soap scum on your sink or tub.”

  “So who uses soap?”

  Maggie smiled but continued inexorably. “Number four. In the kitchen, the sink and floor are clean under a layer of trash.”

  “What the devil are you getting at?”

  “I’ll leave aside the book you say your Aunt Julia wrote. I suppose those are her notes about Frederick Law Olmsted too, the ones called ‘Fred-Law Grows Up’? The ones I almost spilled my coffee on? Anyway, we’ll leave them aside too. We’ll go straight to number five. A few minutes ago you were shambling around just this side of an alcoholic stupor. Then you whipped up and down three flights of stairs without a stumble, and held a long, coherent, cold-sober discussion with me about the poor fellow upstairs.”

  “So? I’ve always been able to hold it.”

  “Number six. Your clothes are neat and clean.”

  “You think so, Bonesy?”

  “Yes. But you’ve roughed up your hair and smudged dirt on your cheek, and put on that hideous sweater. Then you came hobbling out to meet us. It’s a costume, Mrs. Northrup, all the way down to the slippers.”

  Mouth tight, Julia tried for an instant to stare her down, but failed. Instead, she had to swallow a wild urge to giggle. Teach, old thing, you’re losing your touch. You used to be able to stare down an entire fifth-grade class. And here you’ve been bested by this skinny statistician. She said snappishly, “They itch.”

  “The slippers?”

  “Yes.” Briskly, Julia got up and scurried into the bathroom to comb her hair and wash her smudged face. Blasted observant little chippy. Impudent. Julia found herself smiling at her reflection in the mirror. What the devil, the police were coming, and a little respectability wouldn’t hurt. She stuffed the ratty sweater and slippers back into the box under the vanity cabinet and slipped her grateful feet into her loafers. Neat again, she emerged from the bathroom.

  Maggie was inspecting the kitchen mantel, more workmanlike and simpler than the one in Julia’s main room, but with graceful proportions. Servants had gathered in this room, not the elegant Sweeneys. She said, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Northrup.”

  Julia said severely, “Don’t get ideas, Bonesy. I’m changing my attire for the police. You and I are still at war.”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I help?”

  “Just stay out of my way.” Julia grabbed the box from under the kitchen sink and pitched everything in. Bottles on the bottom, old cans and wrappers next, newspapers on top. Then she shoved the box back under to await its next use. When she straightened, she saw that Maggie was lounging in the kitchen doorway, eyes on her watch.

  “Two minutes flat,” she said in admiration.

  “I can set up even faster.” Julia scowled. “The dishes really do have to be washed, of course. And that”—she pointed an accusing finger at a smear on the otherwise shiny kitchen floor—“is where your oaf of a real-estate man stepped on a chicken leg.”

  “Clumsy of him.”

  “Out of my way, Bonesy.” Julia shouldered her way past the younger woman to the living room, pulled another empty box from the closet, and whisked the room straight.

  “One minute, forty-eight seconds, this time,” announced Maggie. “But did you really want to stow away your brand-new Times?”

  Julia dove back into the box, retrieved her newspaper, and tossed it on the coffee table. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and open those stupid drapes?”

  Maggie complied. “It was a good show.”

  “I know. It always fooled everyone. The real-estate people, the would-be buyers, even Artie Lund.” Julia was flipping the bedclothes straight. “Everyone but you.”

  “I’m married to an actor,” Maggie explained. “And I like to play games too. This was a good one.”

  “Humph.”

  “A very good one. But I’m still not clear about why you don’t want a change of landlords. Lund sounds terrible.”

  Julia shrugged. “Artie’s turned into a jerk, but he was okay at the beginning. Once he resigns himself to keeping the place he’ll be all right again. I faced him down about the lights and the water. Why change now that he’s broken in? It hasn’t been that much trouble handling him, till now.”

  “What do you mean, till now?”

  “Look,” said Julia, ignoring the question, crossing to the big windows. “Here come the police.”

  3

  The first uniformed officers were followed within minutes by the suited homicide detectives. Lieutenant Brugioni was short and swarthy, with a triangular face and flat intelligent eyes. He introduced Sergeant Cleary, a pink and smiling Irishman. Julia and Maggie followed them upstairs and hovered curiously as the detectives surveyed the scene.

  “Any news?” Maggie murmured to Nick.

  “Not much. You were right: no weapon in sight.”

  Brugioni turned to young Lennie. “Were all these doors locked when you arrived?” He had a deep rumbly voice.

  “No,” said young Lennie. He was upset, Julia could see, but was trying manfully to sound calm and businesslike. Brugioni sounded that way without trying; poor dear, this sort of thing was his business. Lennie explained, “We keep the parlor-floor apartment locked because there’s woodwork worth saving, and the stairwell to the basement is locked because Mrs. Northrup is still living here. But the apartments on the two top floors aren’t locked separately. They’re empty, nothing worth stealing. Anyone who managed to break into the main hall could easily come on up.”

  “How easy is it to get in down there?”

  “Not easy. Deadbolt locks on the front door and kitchen door. The French door in the dining room has a full-length rod lock.”

  “Windows?”

  “The usual latches, plus bolts and grilles on the ground floor and parlor floor. Someone might get in by climbing to the second floor and breaking a window, I guess, but I didn’t notice any broken panes.”

  “We’ll check for forced doors. Who has keys besides you?”

 
“The owner. Arthur Lund. And maybe some of the ex-tenants kept keys. They all turned their keys in, Lund said, but of course copies can be made. The workers Lund has hired recently might have been given keys. Plumbers, electricians. And Mrs. Northrup has keys.”

  Brugioni, noting it all down, raised his eyebrows at Julia. She said crisply, “I have a key to the basement street doors, and to my own apartment. That’s all. The garden door in the laundry room is sealed shut. And I don’t have keys to anything above my floor.”

  “So you’re limited to the ground floor?”

  “Ground floor and cellar. That’s all.”

  “I see.” Brugioni’s flat dark eyes looked her over. “You’re the only one living in the building now?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like to talk to you in a few minutes. First let us give this area a once-over. Mr. Trager, can you come along with us to answer questions?”

  They moved off. Sergeant Cleary went downstairs. Julia could hear young Lennie’s earnest explanations about closets and flues and sealed dumbwaiter shafts and window locks. Maggie was down the hall peering curiously into the little room, while the young officer who had been first on the scene looked on nervously. Julia realized suddenly that Nick was watching her.

  “You’re looking very winsome, Mrs. Northrup,” he said.

  Winsome, Julia shrugged. “Impressing the police.”

  “Yes, I figured it was something like that.” He smiled at her. He wasn’t a handsome man, but his warmth was contagious. Ah, Maggie, you silly young thing, keep him happy, keep him charmed, because a warm man is hard to find and impossible to replace.

  Winsome, he’d said.

  Julia reminded herself that he was the enemy and scowled at him. “It’s not to impress you!”

  “I’ll remember.” He nodded solemnly.

  Young Lennie and Brugioni came back into the hall as the medical examiner and the first of the police technicians arrived, led by Sergeant Cleary. Brugioni conferred with them briefly, then turned to his witnesses. “We’re going to let these fellows take over. Why don’t we move on downstairs? You can show us the other floors, Mr. Trager.”

  “May I wait in my apartment?” Julia asked.

  “Okay. In fact, if you’re willing, Mrs. Northrup, it would be best if everyone waited there. We’ll talk to you one at a time. Mr. Trager first, since he’ll be showing us the other floors anyway.”

  The technicians were taking photographs, measuring, drawing diagrams. Julia and Maggie and Nick went down to wait in Julia’s ground-floor apartment. Soon young Lennie appeared, looking distracted, and informed Maggie that it was her turn. He phoned his office to tell Joyce Banks about the problem. It was clear from his reaction that the news upset his boss. When he finally hung up, he looked unhappily at the phone a moment. Only then did he glance around Julia’s apartment with increasing surprise.

  “Hey,” he blurted, “the place looks good, Mrs. Northrup!”

  Julia smiled at him, winsomely. But Nick, browsing in her Dorothy Parker books, didn’t notice.

  “What’s going on?” cried a familiar husky voice outside, followed by a patrolman’s polite murmur. Julia hurried outside and unlatched the wrought-iron gate under the stoop.

  “Hi, Pauline. Can’t talk now.”

  “What’s going on, Teach?” Pauline McGuire leaned her bike against the steps. She was in her navy fleece cycling outfit, Nikes, short-clipped gray hair. Behind thick lenses, her dark eyes were bewildered.

  “I’ll tell you about it later. All right?”

  Pauline glanced at the patrolman but refused to be intimidated. “Come on, Teach! You’re as evasive as a teenager.”

  “Evasive as yours, maybe,” snapped Julia. “In my opinion, your Audrey was better back then. She’s turned glum since she got religion and moved away.”

  “I’ll never complain about a rich and faithful son-in-law. Now, tell me, did Artie—oh! You’ve got visitors?” She squinted into the darkness under the stoop behind Julia.

  “I’m just here looking at the house.” It was Maggie, blast her, still dogging Julia’s footsteps somehow. “I’m Maggie Ryan.”

  Pauline took her extended hand. “Pauline McGuire. Friend of Julia’s here. Well—sorry to bother you. Give me a ring when you can, Teach.”

  “Maybe, since you’re here, you can tell us something,” Maggie suggested. Julia noticed Brugioni peering out inquisitively from the door under the stoop. “You were here for dinner Tuesday night, right?”

  “Um—yes.” Pauline’s glance at Julia was uneasy.

  “The plumbers were making a lot of noise.”

  “Yes. We asked them to be quieter.”

  Brugioni joined them. “Lieutenant Brugioni, homicide,” he said to Pauline, flashing his card. “Would you mind answering some questions about Tuesday?”

  “Me?” squeaked Pauline. “Homicide?” She looked wildly at Julia.

  “Yes, ma’am. Your name is McGuire?” rumbled Brugioni.

  “Um—Pauline McGuire, yes.”

  “Since you’re here, maybe you could give us some information.”

  “I just stopped to see if Julia was okay, because I saw the cop,” explained Pauline.

  “I’ll see you in just a few minutes.” Brugioni was firm. “Please wait with Mrs. Northrup while I finish with Mr. O’Connor.”

  “Um—yes, of course.”

  They followed him back into the building. When he and Nick had left, Julia waved a hand at her sofa. “Sit down, Pauline. I tried to warn you.”

  “What does he mean, Teach? Homicide?”

  “They found a murder victim in the top-floor front,” Julia explained wearily. “Young man. Blond, curly hair.”

  “Do you remember anything, Mrs. McGuire?” asked Maggie eagerly. “We were wondering if the plumbers were involved.”

  “The plumbers? A murder? Look, I’m all muddled!”

  “We all are,” said Julia. “Oh, I almost forgot. Pauline McGuire, this is young Lennie from the Joyce Banks agency. Trager, is that it, Lennie?”

  “Yes. Glad to meet you.” He was slumped morosely at the other end of the sofa, but smiled politely enough.

  “Do you remember anything about the plumbers, Mrs. McGuire?” Maggie persevered.

  “They were in the kitchen just upstairs, clowning around. But they were about ready to leave. We’d left the oven on so we came right back down when they left. Why are you so interested? Was he murdered with a pipe or something?”

  “Nope. He was knocked out with a bottle, then strangled,” said Julia.

  Pauline’s hand gave a sympathetic twitch toward her own throat. “God! Top floor, you said?”

  “Yes. Front room. Remember where Jack and Ann served us that Ethiopian food?”

  Pauline nodded, distressed.

  “Hey, old thing, I know it’s a shock!” Julia hugged her friend. “But be grateful you didn’t have to see the body!”

  “Did you see it?” whispered Pauline.

  But Julia’s attention had been caught by an angry voice outside. She hurried to the bay window, shielding herself behind the drapes. It was Artie Lund, arguing with the uniformed officer who was posted by the stoop.

  “But it’s my house!”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Lund. Just a moment, we’re asking about it.”

  “But Mrs. Banks said I should come right over!”

  Sergeant Cleary appeared at the top of the steps and identified himself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Lund.”

  “You want to ask me? Do you realize this thing could ruin me?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “In what—my God! I’m trying to sell this place, you know!”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, my God, who’s going to buy it with murders going on? Why can’t you people protect us? Protect our property?” He was shouting and his face had grown crimson.

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Cleary politely. “Can you tell me who has access to this building?”r />
  “Anybody can get in! No police around, any hippie or junkie in the borough could walk in!”

  “You leave it unlocked?”

  Artie sobered up a little. “No, of course not! Good locks on this building. Expensive. But junkies just break in.”

  “Yes, sir, but there are no signs of a break-in here.”

  “What? But then how—”

  “It was probably done with a key, sir. Can you tell me who can get in? Who has keys?” Cleary was leaning against the main door, holding it open, while he took notes.

  “Keys.” Lund’s face worked. “That old bag in the basement apartment!”

  Julia’s hand clenched on the heavy drapery fabric. You liar, Artie. You rat.

  Cleary said, “Yes, sir, we’re checking on that. Who else would have a key?”

  Artie was too shrewd to push it. He mumbled irritably, “Quite a few, I guess. Realtors, meter readers. Plumbing foreman. Old tenants might have copies, I guess.”

  “You, too, of course?”

  “Of course we’ve got keys! We own it, for God’s sake! Wish we didn’t.”

  “Yes, sir. When you say ‘we,’ you mean yourself and who else?”

  “My wife.”

  “Name?”

  “Loretta.”

  “Loretta Lund. And her occupation?”

  “She’s a beautician. Owns half of the Loretta Rose Salon down toward Midwood.”

  “Okay. And your occupation is landlord?”

  “Hell, no! I’m an accountant. We inherited this thing from her uncle. He added those apartments upstairs, got it stuck under rent control. Thought he was doing us a favor, but my God! After a few years we could see we had to get our equity out. But in eight months we only got one offer, and that was contingent on delivering the damn thing vacant. The idiot must have thought we had rent control by choice. Look, officer, um, Sergeant, does this have to get out? It’s so tough to sell the place already.”

  “Sorry, sir. This appears to be a homicide. Papers are usually interested.”

  “Hell.”

  “Maybe you’d come in with me, Mr. Lund, and see if you recognize the body.”

  Artie’s eagerness to go in evaporated. “My God! Do I have to?”