Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “But you’ve got other things on your mind.”

  “Sure I do. But I don’t think about them, much. I think about this.”

  “Really?” She folded herself slowly into a chair, exhausted eyes on him. “I’m sorry, Len. I shouldn’t—well, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, for God’s sake! It’s nobody’s fault.” He knelt before her, pulled off her shoes. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No. Maybe something cold. A Coke.”

  He found one in the refrigerator and brought it to her. “Here. Relax a little.”

  “I’ll try. God, Len. There’s no answer, you know? No right answer! Anything I do will hurt someone!”

  “Nance, Nance...”

  “I’m not a person who hurts people.”

  “I know.”

  “I never thought this would happen! And if it did, it seemed it would be easy to be rational about it. But it’s all mixed up—I mean, it’s you and me. Maybe that shouldn’t make any difference, but—And there’s the potential. It’s not actual yet, I know that, but it could be—” She twisted her hands around the aluminum can. “I mean, I always thought someday there might be children. When there was time to be a good mother, and money. What about those children? What about their potential? And yours? And mine?”

  “I know, Nance.”

  “For years, I’ve been trying to be independent. Lead my own life. Not harm anyone. And now, suddenly—” She shook the cloud of blond hair.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Look, let me say something. This isn’t the answer, but it might help a little. Maybe not.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been turning it over in my mind for a while. I thought we could buy a building. Fix up the apartments together. I could be a contractor and manager, I know the ropes, and we could make quite a bit on it after the first couple of years.”

  He could see her pulling her thoughts to this new topic, struggling to see its relevance. “Buy a building?” she said. “But we don’t have that kind of money! You said so before!”

  “Joyce has an investment corporation. She’ll back me if I find the right property.”

  Nancy was puzzled. “Len, I don’t understand. You’d have to go into debt to her, right?”

  “Sort of. Our corporation in debt to her corporation.”

  “But your money would be on the line? Ours?”

  “Sure. We’d get a lot back on it. So would Joyce, after a couple of years.”

  “Okay.” She gestured at his notes. “You’ve worked it all out.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. But is that what you’ve been brooding about these last few days?”

  “One of the things. There’s been a hell of a lot.”

  “Why, Len? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this now?” She put the Coke can down on the end table. Her face was white.

  “Because—” Careful, Len Trager. Don’t make it sound as though you’re looking for a place with a nursery. He kissed her forehead. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. It would be work, but in the end we’d be more comfortable. And I thought if I could get it settled now, you’d know there would be money, and space. You wouldn’t have to worry about those things.”

  “Money and space. Do you mean you want me to have it?”

  Damn. “Nance, I don’t mean anything, one way or the other. But I thought if I did this you’d have that much less to worry about. You’d be free to decide.”

  “Free?” She laughed suddenly, close to hysteria, leaning forward in the chair and hiding her face in both hands. “God, Len, I can’t believe it!”

  “What?”

  “Free, you say! Free to decide! Weren’t you listening? You want me to be free to decide to ruin everything we’ve worked for? Or free to decide to destroy this new life?”

  “Nance, please don’t! All I’m saying is, whatever you decide, it’ll be okay with me. We’ll be okay. Either way.”

  She shoved her feet back into her shoes. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying. You don’t care.”

  “Goddamn, Nance! I care so much it hurts! I just don’t want to tell you what to do!”

  “I know. You want me to be free to decide.” She was at the door again. “Okay. Okay, dammit, I’ll be free!” She ran out.

  Len stood at the window, cursing, and watched her get into the car. What could he do? What the hell could he do? Why didn’t she just have the goddamn abortion, put them all out of their misery?

  Free to decide to destroy this new life.

  Jesus. How could she stand it? How would she live with her choice, either way?

  He poured himself a Scotch and sat down on the sofa. After a while he brought over the bottle and poured himself a second, and a third. Nancy’s paintings glowed on the walls. The big luminous twist of warm pastels over the mantel. Or, if he leaned forward a little, he could see the one in the bedroom. Spring Storm. That had been the first. God, things had always been a bit prickly with Nancy, hadn’t they? As a couple they were rough and soft, tense and yet harmonious in some deep way. Till now.

  He poured another Scotch. He’d still been working for Gordon Banks’s resort office back then. He’d been sent downtown to pick up a stack of forms from a lawyer, and the lawyer hadn’t had them ready yet. Stupid lawyer. Messing up people’s lives. Dunce.

  Len took the Scotch into the bedroom, stripped, flopped back against the pillows, and stared at the painting.

  The lawyer’s receptionist had been pleasant, he remembered. “Sorry, Mr. Trager, really sorry. We’ll have them ready in thirty minutes. Unless you’d rather wait till after lunch?”

  He’d told her he’d be back in thirty minutes, and he’d gone out to look around. With his eyes closed he could see the block even now. A narrow storefront. A lingerie shop, actually, but propped against its window was a cheerful hand-lettered sign: “Bianchi Studio—Show and Sale” and a big arrow urging him into a narrow door that opened on a dingy staircase. On impulse he climbed it, was directed by another sign to the extreme rear of the building, and eventually found himself in a long room hung with a variety of modern paintings. A few people at the far end of the room were laughing and sipping coffee. He picked up a badly Xeroxed program, was informed that the paintings were by students of L. Bianchi, and that the program numbered them counterclockwise. Len started around the room, not exactly with interest, but with a sense that this would be the best way to kill time until the lawyer had the documents ready.

  One of the paintings, a tense curl of pale green and aqua and violet on a white ground, attracted him. Spring Storm. He paused in front of it, enjoying its complexity, the interplay of filmy color with the rough muscular design.

  “What’s the verdict?” She was small, wearing white bib overalls and a hand-woven headband to hold back a cloud of pale blond hair.

  Len said cautiously, “It’s interesting.”

  “Interesting. Mm, yes.”

  Was she mocking him? He explained, “It’s very lively and active for such delicate colors.”

  “Active?”

  “It sort of swirls.” He felt foolish; but he didn’t want her to go away.

  She was frowning at the painting thoughtfully. “No, it sort of jerks.”

  Yes, she was mocking him. He said enthusiastically, “Exactly! It jerks! You might even say it flounces!”

  “Flounces?”

  “It lurches! It staggers! It wheezes with effort!”

  Astonishment, followed by a rueful grin that illuminated the whole room. “God. I asked for that, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “You looked like a businessman. Slumming.”

  “Therefore, I don’t know art, but—”

  “I know what I like.” She finished in chorus with him, and they smiled shyly at each other. Then she asked, “Are you some sort of artist in disguise? Or a critic?”

  “Neither. I’m a vacation-resort agent in my natural garb. I can’t paint, but I like
to look.”

  “How do you know you can’t?”

  “I’ve tried. Did okay in high school, but in college I grew up enough to realize what the competition could do.” He gestured at Spring Storm. “So I became a fan rather than a player.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you a player?”

  “Sort of. I’m looking for a job in graphics, actually. I keep sane here in Bianchi’s classes.”

  “Are you by any chance N. Selden?” He read the name from the corner of the painting.

  “Nancy, yeah.”

  “I’m Len Trager. It doesn’t really wheeze with effort. Will you have lunch with me?”

  “Lunch?” She glanced at the group of coffee drinkers at the end of the room.

  “I’m sorry. Do your friends have a claim on you?”

  There was an endearing flash of truculence in her blue eyes. “Nobody has a claim on me.”

  “Good. Tell you what, I’ll even take off my jacket and tie so I won’t embarrass you in front of the counterculture.”

  She laughed, a heartfelt silvery laugh that reminded him of children playing, and said, “Okay, Len. Why not?”

  Why not, indeed? Maybe now they were learning why not.

  He opened his eyes again and gave the painting on the bedroom wall a bleary look. He waved his Scotch at it companionably. “To Art,” he said. “Why not?” and fell asleep.

  The alarm clamored at his aching head the next morning. Tuesday. He lurched awake, stumbled to the bathroom, dunked his head in cold water.

  She wasn’t home.

  He dressed, fixed himself strong coffee, and only then noticed the note on the refrigerator. So she’d come again, and gone, and him stewed as a wino. The note said, “Len, I’m moving out for a while. Maybe it’ll help.”

  Her clothes were gone.

  But she’d left the paintings.

  He took his aches and worries and his neat columns of figures to the office.

  10

  Julia was thirsty.

  There were lots of other problems, but thirst had gradually worked its way to the top of her list of complaints. She took off her watch carefully and held it to the gray light that seeped through the narrow crack between door and frame. Quarter to three. Still Tuesday afternoon. Her last drink had been last night, that cup of coffee with Amy, about eight o’clock or so. Eighteen, nearly nineteen hours ago. And what she wouldn’t give right now for another cup! Or tea. A tall glass of iced tea. Clear russet liquid, dewy glass, cubes of ice, maybe a slice of lemon. Or a sprig of mint. Mint, she decided. She’d order one with mint.

  She was sawing at the lower hinge with one of the six big screws. Her fingertips were bloody, first from jamming the screws into the wall of the car to keep from crashing into the cellar, and now from the hours of work chipping away at the wood around the bottom hinge. Drat those Sweeneys, they built for the ages. Old Cornelius could have used cheaper wood for the blasted dumbwaiter, you’d think. Or Caroline, who had redone the plumbing—why hadn’t she installed a faucet in here? Or a Coke machine. Julia smiled; but the problem was real. A modern pine door would have given away long since. Oak just wouldn’t. Of course, a screw was not a saw or a crowbar. It was, unfortunately, merely a very small bit of metal with a sharp spiral around it and a bit of a point. She could use it to dig and rasp at the area of the lower hinge, but it was hardly efficient, and it managed to dig and rasp at her fingers too.

  Her first thought the previous night had been to kick the door out somehow. She had braced herself firmly, put her feet against the door, and shoved. But when, in response to her straining, a little movement had finally occurred, it had not been in the door. It had been the car that shifted a tiny bit, its loosely driven screws inadequate to hold it. Julia stopped shoving. Maybe later she’d be ready to risk plummeting to the cellar, to see if the sealed shaft down there was any easier to escape than this bolted door. But not just now. Now digging out the hinges made more sense.

  If only she weren’t so thirsty.

  She had thought carefully about who might come looking for her, and the results were not encouraging. Pauline McGuire generally called Tuesday and they planned a meal together. Pauline, unfortunately, was in Utah kowtowing to her prissy son-in-law. And Julia was supposed to be watering her beloved begonias. Sorry, Pauline, but something came up.

  Then there was Vic Jr. He phoned frequently, but in her eagerness to stay independent, Julia seldom informed him of her exact plans, even when she had them. Anyway, she’d seen Vic Jr. and his family on Sunday at Fred-Law’s birthday party. No, he wouldn’t call until tomorrow or Thursday; and if no one answered, he wouldn’t be surprised. His willful mother was always going out unexpectedly. He’d start checking, maybe, this weekend, after a number of calls had gone unanswered.

  The phone had rung this morning, once, and again at noon. Probably an offer for cut-rate photographs, or a free introductory dance lesson. Just what she needed now.

  Jean was even less likely to be calling than her brother. She checked in once or twice a month, and they’d just had that little talk last week. If she phoned and no one answered, Jean would not be worried either. Probably just go back to studying her film script. Jean in a movie, what an idea. And even if Jean did worry, what could she do from Seattle? She’d call Vic Jr., and he’d complain about how unpredictable Julia was and how she ought to move to Jersey. No, her children were of little use to her now.

  Well, then Benny! Benny would notice her absence sooner. She saw him most days, picking up groceries or at least the newspaper. But she’d missed days before for various reasons, and he’d have no reason to worry for a while. He probably wouldn’t begin to ask around until next week.

  There was a chance, she supposed, that Lieutenant Brugioni would uncover something he wanted to ask her about. She was certain that it was the murderer who had locked her in here, and now just as sure that it wasn’t because of Amy’s visit; it was because there was something here that he didn’t want found. Well, she’d looked hard, and hadn’t found it; trapped in the dumbwaiter, she’d heard her assailant hunting around the stair hall and in her apartment for close to an hour before he left via the kitchen porch again. Maybe he’d found it, maybe not. Julia hadn’t seen anything to find. Maybe, whatever it was, the police had found it in their thorough search, but hadn’t yet realized its significance.

  If someone in their lab figured it out, maybe Brugioni would come back to check with Julia, and maybe he’d stick around banging on the door, and maybe he’d hear her if she shouted. But more likely he’d give up when she didn’t open the door, and decide to come back again later. Or he’d call to see when she could see him. Maybe by next week he’d be worried enough to check. She didn’t think she could wait that long.

  The real-estate people, and Artie Lund’s plumbers and electricians, had come popping in at irregular and inconvenient intervals for months. But now, thanks to that meddling Maggie Ryan, the building was sold. There was no reason for any of them to come back for weeks. If Artie came he’d just leave her in here. And if Maggie decided to keep on meddling, it probably still wouldn’t help. She was always careful not to violate Julia’s territory. If no one answered when she knocked, even she would go away. Meddling when she wasn’t wanted, nowhere to be seen when she was. Julia fell rather cross with Maggie, as well as with Vic Jr. Where were these inconvenient bossy people when she needed them?

  And how about her friends? She had nothing scheduled with them today or tomorrow. Thursday noon, there was the library meeting. Ruth would wonder where she was, because Julia had promised just last night to be there. Ruth might even call. But people did miss meetings, and usually no one panicked, and usually it turned out to be something benign: a visiting niece, maybe, or at worst, a flare-up of arthritis. Everyone knew about Julia’s knees.

  Friday, the World Hunger Committee was meeting again at the church, but not till four o’clock. Ellie would worry. After all, Julia had promised faithfully to explain t
he mission budget. Ellie would call about ten after, and when no one answered, she’d decide Julia was on her way over. She would call again after the meeting. She would call again in the evening. Then she would phone Ruth. If it were still early enough, they might come over to check. Then, when there was no answer, they’d go home. Maybe to bed. Maybe to call Vic Jr. He’d come. He had a key, he had insisted on that, bless his stuffy little heart. So—if Ellie began to worry, and if she thought to call Vic Jr., and if he were home when she called, they would come. Late Friday night. Or Saturday, if Ellie wasn’t worried enough, or if Vic Jr. wasn’t home when she called. But be optimistic; say, Friday night. Three nights from tonight. Four from last night. Four times twenty-four hours. Ninety-six hours, plus the four that took her back to the cup of coffee with Amy. One hundred hours without liquids.

  Too long, Julia knew, to wait for her mint tea.

  So it was up to her. Alone. She had three unpleasant alternatives: Give up. Kick at the door and probably crash into the cellar, still trapped. Or weaken the door somehow. She’d chosen the third.

  She’d worked blindly in the dark for hours last night, digging at the solid hardwood with a screw, dropping it sometimes when her hand cramped or the blood from her torn fingertips made it slip from her grasp, then groping, in mounting desperation, for the little piece of metal on the floor. Once when Jean was little she’d gotten her hand stuck in the iron filigree work of a fireplace screen. Vic had set her on his knee and begun to work with a file, gently, trying not to hurt the tender little wrist, telling her stories and singing her songs. It had taken hours, but his patience never waned. Even when the metal was finally severed and he had carefully pulled it away, shielding the little girl from the cut edges with his own fingers, he had not moved, but sat there long enough to finish the song. Julia, who had busied herself taking care of Vic Jr. and trying not to dither, couldn’t hold back tears of relief. Little Jean, puzzled, had piped, “It’s not a sad song, Mother.”

  Julia had snuffled a little last night too. Sing me a song, Vic, sad or not. I need a song now. About a hundred hours long. Time like an ever-rolling stream.