Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he told her.

  “Fine. I’ll plan on that.”

  “Well, even that may not be certain. I wasn’t able to reach Mrs. Northrup. Do you want to see her place too?”

  “No. Just the parlor floor. Does that mean we can go tonight?”

  “Well, the keys aren’t here at the moment. Tomorrow would be better.”

  “Okay. Shall I come over after work? About this time? I’ve got a lunch meeting so I can’t manage anything earlier.”

  “Sure. That’ll be fine.”

  “How’s Nancy doing?”

  “Well, you know. As well as can be expected. Every time we bring it up, she gets upset and runs out.”

  “God, yes, I remember. Where does she run?”

  “To go paint, usually. Or—somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Len, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that this time she took her clothes. But she’ll be back.”

  “Mmm. Yes, I think so too. Just have a little patience.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “She’s got a couple of good friends at Bianchi’s. Painters. Probably one of them.”

  “Yes. I wish I could help her.”

  “So do I.”

  “You can, Len. Just get it through to her somehow that you care.”

  You don’t care, Nancy had said. Did she really believe that? Len said, “I’m trying.”

  “Good luck. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Len hung up to find Joyce, car keys in hand, looking at him severely. “Nancy?” she asked. “Is that who you were talking about?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “She’s moved out?”

  “No, not really. She’ll be back.”

  Joyce turned abruptly back into her office and a moment later Len’s proposal landed in front of him. “You’ll have to rework it,” she said tersely.

  “What?”

  “I can’t recommend a project that involves the money and talent of someone who may not be in on the project.”

  “But she will! This is only temporary, Joyce!”

  “Maybe so. But as a businesswoman, I can’t bet on it. I was edgy before, but I figured at least there wouldn’t be children to mess things up. But you see, you don’t have a contract with her. Not even marriage. Bring something with her legal signature, or else rework the proposal so it involves you alone.”

  “Yes. I see. Okay.” Len could feel the flush rising through his skin. Joyce’s tone humiliated him.

  “I’d still like you to bring it to the board meeting. But it has to be a truly viable proposal.”

  “Yes, I see.” Part of him realized that the advice was well-meant.

  Joyce regarded him sadly. “I don’t understand you young people sometimes. You and Nancy seem more married than ninety percent of our married friends.”

  “She really will be back.” His certainty surprised him.

  “Well, I’m not preaching. Just explaining economic reality.” She tapped his proposal with a manicured fingernail. “Give it another try, okay? I’ll need it by Thursday morning. We meet at two. You should plan to come too, if the revised proposal looks okay to me.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Joyce.” Len tucked the papers into his briefcase and watched her leave. Damn.

  “It’ll be okay, Len,” soothed Renata. She was looking rather down at the mouth today too.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Spat with Nancy?”

  “Not really. She’s just under some pressure. Needed a little vacation.”

  “I know how she feels.”

  “Yeah.” He was thumbing through the directory. “Here. I’ve got two more addresses to add to this list, and it’ll be done. Think you’ll have time to type them the next couple of days?”

  “I think so. Joyce gave me all this stuff for the Feldheim closing and the Wednesday meeting, but addresses are easy to squeeze in.”

  “You’re terrific, Renata.”

  “Yeah, spread the word, why don’t you?”

  “I always do. Want me to spread it anyplace in particular?”

  She looked around the office, dissatisfied. “No. This is as good a job as I’m likely to get. And Joyce isn’t bad. Gives me raises along with all the extra work. Listen, Len, this project you were just talking about with her. Is that a personal loan?”

  “Not exactly. There’s a building that would secure part of it, and a chunk of my own money. If I blow it she’d lose some but I’d lose more.” He slid the last addresses onto her desk and stood to leave.

  “A building, huh?” Renata looked glum. “I don’t have a building. She probably wouldn’t just give me a loan.”

  “A little one, she might. She knows you’d pay it back.”

  “Yeah. Well, forget it. It’s not important. See you tomorrow, Len.” She turned back to the Feldheim papers.

  Once on the street, Len changed his mind about going home and decided to get a hamburger first. He pulled out his proposal and looked it over as he munched. Subtracting Nancy’s savings would hurt, but not as much as subtracting her talents in the renovation. Len had a good eye but not her ability to find the perfect audacious combination that lifted a space from pleasant to exciting. At home she had painted the walls a warm shade of off-white, the mantel a cool shade. Both looked dingy until she hung one of her big paintings over the mantel and suddenly the entire space resolved into a humming chord of harmony. Still, it was hard to put a dollar value on talent; and Joyce’s investors would look only at the numbers.

  Maybe he should get it over with. Taking Nancy out of this proposal would hurt. Why prolong the agony? He paid for his burger and went back to the office.

  It was already darkened and locked. But not empty. As he turned the key and stepped inside, he heard an indrawn breath. Len fumbled for the light switch and the room sprang from its shadows.

  Renata was closing the lock box.

  “Hi. What wicked things are you up to in the dark?” he teased.

  She gave him a weak smile. “Hi. I was just—well, I was leaving, and forgot something. Did you forget something too?”

  He dropped his proposal on his desk. “No, just decided to come back to finish some papers. Listen, are you okay?” Looking at her now, he saw that she was pale, the eyes behind the horn-rims hollow.

  “Yeah, sure. Everything’s groovy.”

  But he was disturbed. He walked over to her, fastened the lock box, and led her to her own chair. “Sit down a minute and rest. You want a glass of water?”

  “Everything’s okay.”

  “I don’t think so.” He pushed aside the newspaper clippings and scissors on the edge of her desk and sat on it, hand on her shoulder. “You are scared, and sad, and poking around in the dark. What’s wrong? Is it your brother?”

  “Oh, God, Len!” She buried her face against his knee as the sobs burst out. “I don’t know what to do!”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He felt clumsy and thoughtless. Couldn’t do anything right.

  “No, no, it’s not your fault. You’re right, it’s Tony.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “You know that scene last week? That fight he was in?”

  “Yeah, where he got his leg broken.”

  “Yes. Well, a lot of kids got hurt. And one of them was Leone’s son.”

  Len whistled. Leone was reputedly a capo, with hit men at his beck and call. “Leone’s hassling Tony?”

  “No, he doesn’t know! Nobody knows except Tony’s friend Paul. But Paul says he’ll tell if Tony doesn’t pay him off.” She spoke in little bursts, in the rhythm of weeping.

  “Some friend!”

  “Leone’s offered a reward for information. They know the boy was hit with a wine bottle.” Unbidden, Dennis Burns’s image swam into Len’s mind. “But Paul is the only one who knows it was Ton
y. I mean, it was a freaky mistake. He was fighting on the Leone kid’s side.”

  “So Leone is hunting down the other side. Unless Paul tells.”

  “God, my crazy brother! This has really shaken him up, Len. But what if we can’t get the money?”

  “You were asking about a loan from Joyce.”

  “It’s a thousand dollars, Len! To match Leone’s offer. I mean, Joyce would want to know why. I can’t tell her.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “God, Len, you know my grandfather disappeared. Probably mob. And my mom swore she’d shake loose for Tony and me. Sent me to college two years, army for Tony when he’s old enough. But he can’t seem to get it together!”

  “Look, Renata, what does all this have to do with the lock box?”

  Red-nosed, she gave him a frightened glance and murmured, “Len, I’m at the end of my rope!”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I thought—well, you know, some of the places we show have nice things, and people have moved out—and Tony needs the money so much!”

  Len shook his head. “Renata, I don’t know what the answer is. But I know that’s not it.”

  “I couldn’t think of anything else. Do you have any money, Len?”

  “I’m pretty much a have-not like you,” he said. The edge of the desk was sharp but he stayed there. He didn’t want to seem to be withdrawing. “Listen, Renata, can Tony go away?”

  “Away?”

  “Do you have friends or relatives in another state?”

  “Some cousins in Iowa. But Tony won’t want to split from his friends.”

  “His so-called friend Paul won’t stop with the thousand bucks, you know.”

  “Yeah. I’ve thought that.”

  “Well, I just think you ought to talk it over with Tony before you destroy everything you and your mom have been working so hard for.”

  “Yeah.” She pulled another tissue from her bag. “Tony’s so freaking stupid! But, you know, he’s my brother.”

  “He’ll be okay,” said Len, wishing he could believe it. “He’s young. He’ll straighten out.”

  “I know. But he always turns out to be in heavier than he tells me.” She stood up, tightened the belt of her coat, and picked up her bag. “I’ll talk to him again, Len. Please don’t tell Joyce.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or anyone else.”

  “None of this happened,” Len promised.

  “Thanks.” With a last watery smile, she left.

  Len took out his proposal, but found he had no heart for it anymore. Maybe tomorrow. He left it in his desk drawer and went home.

  The bottle of Scotch, uncapped, was still on the nightstand. He put the top on and took it back to the kitchen, along with the dirty glass, and looked around. A mess. If she came, it might help if it looked less like skid row. He made himself some coffee and sipped it while he picked up the kitchen, then straightened the bed and gathered up the scattered clothes and newspapers. There. No traces of his binge. Jag. Spree. Orgy. All those cheerful rollicking words, nothing of the desperation of the reality.

  Poor Renata. He and Nancy weren’t the only ones with troubles. That brother of hers was a real headache. He wondered idly which keys she’d been taking.

  Or returning, he realized suddenly. She could have been putting them back.

  Quit thinking things like that, Len Trager. Haven’t you got problems enough?

  He turned on the TV and tried determinedly to concentrate on a bad sitcom. Once, just in case, he called Mrs. Northrup again, but she was still out. Or drunk again. Not that he was any shining example. He decided to keep the line clear so that Nancy could call.

  She didn’t.

  12

  Julia’s drooping eyelids felt gritty.

  Eight-thirty, she thought, though she could hardly make out the numbers on her watch. Tuesday night.

  Twenty-four hours she’d been here, sawing at the thick oak door with her pitiful little tool. Twenty-four hours of filthy clothes, grimy hair, aching muscles, the latrine-like stench in the near dark. A sob ratcheted up through her dry throat. Her knees throbbed with pain, and she was desperately sleepy.

  She’d stayed awake late last night in the vain hope that she could weaken the wood around the hinge enough to kick her way out. And now, though closer to that goal, it was clear that she’d need hours more to rasp her way through to the last screw.

  She felt guilty about Pauline’s begonias. Poor things, they’d be getting thirsty too.

  But she’d probably do better if she got some sleep. Maybe she could wake up early tomorrow.

  She checked her blouse pocket. His hair was still there. Carefully, she dropped the screw in next to it. Then she curled up, fetuslike, pressed against the rigid walls of the oaken prison. A cruel womb, dry and rigid. No life-giving fluids to buoy her up. Strange location you’ve chosen for your second childhood, Mrs. Northrup. Well, yes, Sonny, but it was handy to home, you see.

  Julia whispered good night to Vic and slid into restless sleep.

  Past Yonkers, a flood of violets had swept through the tender grasses. It was dusk, but the energy of the new season was palpable in the air. Even along the rails, among cinders and two centuries’ worth of buildings and trash, the green tides of spring were lapping higher.

  “May’s newfangled mirth,” said Nick.

  “Yeah.” Pensive, Maggie was gazing out the grimy window of the commuter train. “Everything is newfangled right now. Everything is changing. Flowers, leaves, home, job, baby.”

  He nodded. “The end of this year will be a lot different from the beginning.”

  “Yes. It’s scary.” Her blue eyes were troubled.

  “Mm-hmm. Are you scared of anything in particular?”

  “All of it. I want to be the best mother. The best wife. The best statistician. The best business partner for Dan. It seems such a big job.”

  He took her hand. “Oh, you can do all that stuff. But thank God you aren’t aiming to be the best housekeeper. Then I’d know you were in trouble.”

  She laughed. “True. I don’t need any lessons from Mrs. Northrup in how to trash an apartment.”

  “No Ladies’ Home Journal award in our future.”

  She smiled absentmindedly. “Nick, you have to change jobs so often. Is it still frightening?”

  “Always. Each one could be the last.”

  “You aren’t used to it? I mean, more than at the beginning?”

  “Not really. But I’ve learned to cope with my feelings. Learned to channel the fear and despair into productive directions.”

  “Wish I could. I’m glad they liked you today.”

  “Yeah, this hiatus was relatively painless.”

  “But this is the first time I’ve changed jobs. And Dan is a friend too. I mean, now that he’s arranged this deal on the computer, it suddenly seems real. We’ll have to borrow so much just to get started! And there are the mortgage payments on the brownstone, and the baby, and even Mrs. Northrup, bless her sour old heart. All of a sudden other people really depend on me.”

  Nick remembered his first wife: committed actor, intelligent woman, guilty child. Without her dependence, would he ever have matured enough to cope with his erratic profession? He said, “That can be a source of strength too, you know.”

  “I guess so.” She frowned. “But I have these crazy worries. You know, about the baby. Will it be healthy?”

  “Most likely. You know the statistics,” he chided gently.

  “With my head,” she admitted. “But I want this baby so much. And I’m just not worthy. I mean, Christ, the gall it takes, to assume responsibility for another human being! I can sense God up there, cackling, the lightning bolt already poised. And then I think, why should He care? And that’s even worse.” She tried to smile, but the shadow of loss hung in her eyes. “Anyway, it scares me.”

  “I’m supposed to say, pooh! Silly! What ridiculous fears!” He kissed her fingerti
ps. “They are ridiculous, of course. But I have them too.”

  “You do?”

  “Old Good-time Nick a father? Are you kidding? Fathers are solid. Young. Earn salaries. Mow lawns. Fathers trudge stoically down the road to being grandfathers. Me a grandfather? What am I getting into? It’s like admitting I’m mortal. And fathers know what to do with a kid. I don’t. I’ll probably drop it or stick pins in it. I’m an oaf. So surfeit-swell’d, so old, and so profane.”

  “And so ridiculous!” She squeezed his hand, comforted.

  He shrugged. “I know that with my head. Like you. But all those worries are there. We’ll hurt the baby, or the baby will hurt us. Ugly Lear: ‘If she must teem, create her child of spleen, that it may live, and be athwart disnatur’d torment to her!’”

  “You’re saying people have always had these worries. And have muddled through.” She stirred the hair on the back of his hand with her fingertip. “And so will we.”

  “Yes. We will too. But it’s true, the newfangled can be pretty terrifying.”

  Outside, apple trees dotted the Westchester hills, pink-and-white celebrations in the dusk. This was a green area of estates, the wide-scattered houses shielded from the railroad lines by woods and hedges. Nick glanced at his watch. “Just think how much these people have to pay to be so far from work.”

  “Tree fetishists,” said Maggie, with the condescension of the country-born New Yorker. “I just hope there are a few people still awake when we get there.”

  “Do you think they’ll know Dennis Burns is dead?”

  “Probably not. The Brooklyn police don’t seem to know his background yet. And Curt and Amy aren’t talking much about it. We had to trick her into admitting what she did. It’ll take Brugioni a while to slog through channels. He’ll have to do it the hard way.”

  Remembering the little revolver, Nick said, “I wouldn’t call Curt the easy way.”

  “Well, you know these Westchester toughs. The city ain’t safe.”

  Nick eyed the three carefully coiffed matrons in pastel wool who were passing them in a puff of Chanel, headed for the smoking car. Each looked like a careful copy of Pat Nixon. “Yeah. Hard cases, all right.”