Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

“You’re kidding!” Mug in hand, she stared at him.

  “Nope. She’s coming here in a few minutes to work out the terms.”

  Renata had looked up from her work too. “Hey, far out!”

  “Fantastic!” Joyce crowed, dimpling. “I told you to be optimistic! You clever thing, Len, I’ll have to put you on some of our other dog properties!” She sobered suddenly. “Do they understand about the Northrup woman? Not that you should belabor the point, but she’ll be tough to remove. We did make it clear yesterday.”

  “So did Mrs. Northrup. No, they understood perfectly well. The wife thinks Mrs. Northrup is smart and scrappy. Even said she liked her.”

  “Really? No accounting for taste. The only sign of competence I’ve ever seen from that old lady is that rent check coming in like clockwork. Even when Arthur was trying to refuse it she registered the letters.”

  “Maybe she’s okay when she’s sober,” said Len. “Joyce, I have another question.”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “I’ve been toying with the idea of investing in a building. Renovating it myself, and so forth, one of these days. Do you think that would be a problem with my work here?”

  She regarded him thoughtfully. “Two reactions,” she said. “First, you’d be better than ninety percent of the guys who try to do that. Second, when you’re ready, I’ll submit it to my investment team.”

  Len was elated. This was better than agreement. But before he could follow up, the street door opened and Brugioni and Cleary entered. “Good morning,” said the lieutenant, nodding at them.

  “Hello, Lieutenant Brugioni,” said Joyce. “How can we help you?”

  “A couple of things, thank you, Mrs. Banks. First, our people have come up with this sketch of the victim. They cleaned up the—face—and so forth, so it’s closer to his appearance in life. We thought you people could give it a look, see if it reminds you of anyone.”

  “Sure,” said Joyce. How sordid this whole affair must seem to her, Len thought. But if the house sold anyway, it would make anything all right in her eyes. Joyce added, “You’ll probably want to show it to our office manager, too. Renata Giordano.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Brugioni. His dark eyes crinkled a little at the blinding magenta of her miniskirt.

  “And I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Cronin, who handles our rentals.”

  Brugioni greeted Cronin, but handed the picture to Len. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. A young man, wavy blond hair, blue eyes, square athletic good looks. Len shook his head. “No. No, I’ve never seen him.”

  “He was five-eleven, hundred and sixty-five, early twenties. He’d had wine for breakfast. No other detectable drugs, no medical problems.”

  “Sorry. That doesn’t help. I just don’t know who he is.”

  “Mrs. Banks?”

  Joyce fingered the picture thoughtfully, then shook her head. “No. Never saw him before. You’ll check with the plumbers and so forth?”

  “Of course.”

  “God, he looks young.”

  “Early twenties,” repeated Brugioni.

  “What a shame.” She turned away, clutching her mug with both hands.

  “Yes, ma’am. Miss Giordano, would you look too?”

  Renata inspected the picture, then shrugged. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Cronin, looking over her shoulder, shook his head too.

  “Who else works here?” asked Brugioni.

  “Karen Weld is showing a property now. And Fred Stein is checking something at the borough housing commission.”

  “I see. Have they had anything to do with Mr. Lund’s building?”

  “Not me,” said Cronin. “It’s a sale, not a rental.”

  “And not Karen,” said Joyce. “She showed it once or twice when it was first listed, but that was months ago. She’s been in Florida the last two weeks. Mr. Stein has shown it more recently. And of course Mr. Trager and I show it occasionally.”

  Brugioni was noting this information in his book when the door opened again. Maggie Ryan came in, tall, lively, and eating a rather sloppy hero sandwich.

  “Well, hello!” she said, more pleased than not to see the police. “Is there news, Lieutenant?” A shred of lettuce was attempting to dribble from her sandwich, but she snagged it with a skillful tongue.

  “Yes, we have a sketch of the victim that our labs put together. Why don’t you take a look too, since you’re here?”

  “Glad to.” She inspected the picture closely, munching on the sandwich. “No. Never saw him. Has anyone else recognized him?”

  “Not yet,” said Brugioni.

  “And you must not have any I.D., or prints or a file on him, otherwise you’d know who he was. Interesting.”

  Joyce’s blue eyes had been assessing the interloper. “Miss Ryan, I presume?”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Len. But Maggie was nodding at Joyce.

  “Right. Maggie Ryan. And you’re Joyce Banks herself. I’d shake hands but I’m all over mayonnaise.”

  Joyce smiled, always gracious to clients, even those who brought messy heros to her office. “Len tells me you’re interested in the Garfield building.”

  “Yes, we need more space than we can afford in Manhattan.”

  “You’re a gymnast, Len tells me. You’ll enjoy having your own space to work out. I always feel the edge is off when I miss my morning swim.”

  “Joyce and her sister were both Olympic-class swimmers once,” said Len.

  “Terrific!” Maggie’s eyes flashed appreciation. “God, when I was about twelve I thought I’d get there too. But then I started growing. Got too tall for the tricky moves. Did you make the team?”

  “Yes. I was off my form but I did manage a bronze,” said Joyce evenly. “And I still hate to miss my morning swim.”

  A rumbling noise, Brugioni clearing his throat, brought their attention back to him. “Have you shown the sketch to Mrs. Northrup?” asked Maggie.

  “No. We’ll check her out when we finish here.” He turned back to Joyce. “Mrs. Banks, I’d like to ask you who knows the house.”

  “Lund, of course. Ourselves. The various tenants. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.” Brugioni tapped his pencil against his front teeth. “What about the people who’ve looked at the house? As clients?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say they know it, really. It’s usually a quick tour.”

  “We’d know it enough to remember the layout,” said Maggie. “A lot of row houses have similar plans. Stair hall on the left, two big rooms on the right and a third at the back on all the floors. Garden and parlor levels have entry halls, top two floors have little rooms at the front. That’s where our blond friend was found. I might not get all the baths and closets exactly right, especially upstairs where it’s cut into apartments. But I know it enough to remember that it’s empty except for the basement level. If I needed a place to do something illegal, Mr. Lund’s house would seem safe and private.”

  Joyce forced a little laugh. “Are you volunteering to be a suspect?”

  “No, no. I’ll be pretty low on the lieutenant’s list of suspects. I don’t have keys. I’d have to jimmy my way in.”

  “We didn’t see any signs of recent forcing,” said Brugioni. “So you see, Mrs. Banks, we’re most interested in people who have access to keys. But just in case, we need a list of everyone who’s seen the building.”

  “Surely you don’t mean to bother all those people!”

  “We may not have to. When we find out who the victim was, there may be an obvious answer. But right now all we have to work with is the house and the people who have had access to it.”

  “But these people are clients! We can’t violate that relationship!”

  Maggie, downing the last of her hero sandwich, said, “It won’t be bad for business.”

  “Not everyone is as calm about murders as you are,” said Joyce. Len could sense her struggle to keep her voice gentle—however annoying, Maggie was a client too, one who
was about to sign.

  “Most people will be fascinated,” Maggie insisted. “And Lieutenant Brugioni is a gentleman. He won’t go charging in, guns blazing, shouting that Joyce Banks put the finger on them.”

  Joyce’s lips tightened. But Brugioni chuckled. “Miss Ryan is right,” he told Joyce. “We’ll be gentle. And we’ll be sure to explain that you were cooperating with us when you gave out the information. And of course, it’s possible that we won’t have to contact them at all. But we do need the list.”

  His flat eyes met Joyce’s. It was clear that further protests would only delay the inevitable. She decided on a tactical retreat.

  “All right. Renata, pull it from the files. Names, addresses, phone numbers, date they saw the building, who showed it. But please, Lieutenant, there’s a slump in real estate right now. Don’t contact them unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “We won’t unless we have to. But you must understand, Mrs. Banks.” The lieutenant was very serious again. “A murder investigation is not a pleasant thing.”

  5

  Julia stared at the sketch. “No,” she said at last. “I just can’t place him.”

  “You think you might know him?”

  “I definitely don’t know him, Lieutenant. But there’s something a little bit familiar about him. It’s just that I don’t know what.”

  “Do you think you might have seen him in the neighborhood?”

  “I just can’t remember. I should recognize that hair, but I don’t. And there are just so many people on the street.” She frowned at the picture again. “Maybe I saw his brother. Or maybe I taught him years ago and lost track of him, and this is his grown-up face. It’s that kind of familiarity—not the familiarity of this particular person, but a closely related person.”

  Brugioni sighed and glanced at Cleary wearily. “I see.”

  “Maybe it’s just that I saw him dead. Do you think that’s all it is?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Northrup.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll keep thinking about it. ‘Women and elephants never forget.”’

  “What?”

  “A poem.”

  “I see. Well, this picture should be in the papers today, so we may find out soon who it is.”

  “I hope so. I don’t like dead bodies in my home.”

  “We don’t either, Mrs. Northrup.” The lieutenant slipped the picture back into a manila envelope. “Well, thanks for looking. And thanks again for letting us check your things.” He and Cleary had returned Julia’s toaster and iron and clothing, absolved of any involvement in the homicide. “Call us if you remember why he seems familiar.”

  “Of course.”

  Julia stood frowning for a moment after they’d left, but the tantalizing sense of familiarity did not crystallize into memory. Women and elephants my foot, Parker. Was it just her old brain? Dying, bit by bit, limping ahead of her body into death? Would a younger person remember? No, she told herself briskly. You’re doing fine. You remembered Nick O’Connor being in that bank commercial, and he was wearing different clothes, and a whole different personality too. A good actor. A good actor, and you remembered him.

  But where could she have seen this dead young man?

  Give it up for now. Let the subconscious work on it. Freud would say there was a reason she had forgotten, some worry or buried fear from her childhood. Dear old Freud, with his fertile imagination, would have invented a splendid and plausible link between her childhood and her present failure to remember. And who knows? Maybe he’d have been right.

  Brugioni had said there would be a story in the papers today. Julia decided to go see Benny. It was warming up, and she went a block out of her way so she could walk along the edge of Prospect Park. Fred-Law had been proud of this park. He’d be horrified by the graffiti-sprayed walls urging peace and drugs and by the vandalized lampposts. But the underlying frame of meadow and woods, berm and valley, remained sound and lovely. There was talk of restoring it. That would be good. But the biggest problem just now was that spring was so late. She hoped it would be warm Sunday for his big birthday celebration in Central Park.

  “Heard anything, Benny?” she asked as she handed him fifteen cents for the Times.

  “Not yet, Mrs. Northrup. But I saw the story and the pictures.” He tapped a forefinger on the little inner-page item that she had already opened to. “I’ll keep my ears open, but I sure never saw him before.”

  “Well, I hope he’s nothing to do with any of us.” If Benny hadn’t seen him, the dead man had not been a neighborhood regular. But then why did she feel that nagging familiarity?

  Vic Jr. called later in the afternoon.

  “Mother! What the hell is going on there?”

  “You suburbanites wouldn’t understand.”

  “It’s in the paper, Mother, don’t try to brush it off! A man strangled, it says. At your address!”

  “Hasn’t anybody ever been murdered in Jersey?”

  “Not on this block. Mother, for heaven’s sake! Loyalty to your old friends is fine, but I told you years ago that the Slope was on its way down!”

  “And you were wrong. It’s getting better.”

  “Better!” squawked her son. “Mother, you’re out of your mind! Absolutely!”

  “Calm down, Vic. Nothing’s going to happen to me. On the other hand, you should watch out for your blood pressure.”

  “Oh, quit telling me what to do! I’m forty years old, Mother!”

  “And I’m sixty-eight,” snapped Julia. “And which of us is telling the other what to do?” Though he was right too; she shouldn’t needle him on such a sensitive topic. His father had died of a stroke.

  “Oh, hell. Listen, I’m coming over.”

  “No need.” But he’d hung up. Julia sighed as she put the receiver in its cradle. It was all very well to encourage your children to be individuals, to live their own lives, to become responsible adults. But it was a shame when their individuality led to stuffiness. To bossiness.

  On impulse, she dialed Seattle.

  “Hello, Jean?”

  “Yes. Mother? Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m fine. But I thought I’d better call you before Vic Jr. did. He’s overdramatizing again.”

  “Vic is? Old Sobersides?”

  “Well,” admitted Julia, “he might have cause this time, I guess. They found a dead body in the empty apartment upstairs.”

  “Oh, my God! A renter?”

  “No, no. Even Artie Lund isn’t crude enough to strangle a tenant. It’s a mysterious stranger, and the police are still trying to figure out who it is.”

  “Mother, are you scared?”

  “A little. But I don’t think anyone’s out to kill me. Not even Artie, drat him.”

  “You seem to think it’s exciting!” Jean accused.

  Julia laughed. “Beats those dreary sitcoms.”

  “True.”

  “What are you up to, honey?”

  “I just accepted a part in a film.”

  “A film?”

  “Isn’t that a hoot? The university is making a publicity film, and they asked three of us from this office to take screen tests. The guy in charge of casting needed a middle-aged, motherly-looking administrator. He also said I had good bones. So I guess I beat out Joe and Wayne for good bones and for motherliness.”

  “You introduced me to Wayne, right? Desk next to yours? He’s a lot more motherly than you are,” said Julia. “You’re a tough cookie.”

  “Sure. That’s in the genes. But we don’t look it, do we? Anyway, I won’t argue with their sexist attitudes if it gets me onto the silver screen.”

  Julia laughed. “Fame and riches and Hollywood next, huh?”

  “Natch. But listen, Mother, you’re not in trouble, are you? Do they suspect you? Didn’t you say you were the only one still standing up to Lund?”

  “Yes, but that’s all they could possibly have against me. I don’t even have keys to the upstairs.”

  “
Mother, Mother! If they knew you as well as I do!”

  “Shhh. No need to defame my character. But there’s a nice sober young Italian lieutenant in charge, and he’ll do a good job. My biggest problem is that Vic Jr. has decided to worry about me.”

  “Poor Mother. Well, if he complains to me, I’ll try to straighten him out. I wish we lived closer.”

  “I’d like that too. But anyway, don’t let his sermons worry you. The investigation is in good hands, and the whole thing is entertaining.”

  “God, Mother, I think you would have got first-row seats at an auto-da-fé.”

  “Right next to you.”

  “Of course! It’s good to hear from you.”

  Julia hung up, smiling. Too bad Vic Jr. wasn’t more like his sister. But there probably had to be a few sober folks to keep the world rolling along.

  The Hunger Committee was meeting at the church at four o’clock. She had closed her history of Hartford and was gathering her material on third-world agriculture when the bell sounded. From the window she could see Ann, seething with anticipation, standing at the door under the stoop. Julia hurried out to open the door.

  “Ann! How wonderful! It’s been so long!”

  “Oh, Teach, you know what a bitch moving is. You’re still here, huh?”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Boy, you’ve got more grit than I have. Listen, is that article true?”

  Julia waved a hand at her sofa as she closed the apartment door behind them. “Yes. You missed all the excitement.”

  “Not all of it, honey.” Ann lowered her elegant form onto the sofa. She was wearing big feather earrings, a slim cream-colored mini-dress. “Artie Lund kept things hopping for a while.”

  “He sure did. After you left, it was obscene phone calls.”

  “Ain’t that a bitch. I’m just as glad we missed that. When Jack found that KKK in our hall he was ready to throw Artie down the stairs. But tell me about this murder! The paper didn’t give many details.”

  “Details. Well, the body was found in your African room.”

  Ann squealed. “Really? God! Jack will freak!”

  “On your old mattress.”

  “Oh, my Lord!”