Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  They crossed the parking lot and turned down the long road that led back toward the station, toward their faraway home. Beside him, Maggie murmured, “Cruel to be kind.”

  “Yeah. Probably sounded like Moses to them. Thou shalt not dream. But I felt—I don’t know. Responsible.”

  “I know. I was starting to get qualms too. It seemed a good idea at first, because of Amy. We turn up with a story that gives her some evidence that Dennis was a good actor. Gives her something to hold on to. That seemed kind. But seeing how those kids reacted, how personally they took it—” She shook her head. “Si jeunesse savait.”

  “Yeah. We were contributing to the myths. I just couldn’t leave it there.”

  “You think anyone will listen?”

  “If even one of them does, I’ve saved years of squalor and anguish.”

  “Would you have listened, Nick?”

  “Jesus, of course not! I mean, fate chose me to be an actor, right? And I really wanted it. And I was willing to do anything. How could I miss?”

  Pleased, she took his arm fondly. “I see.”

  “Besides, young blood doth not obey an old decree.”

  She chuckled. “Know what, love? You’re going to be a damn good dad.”

  13

  Julia didn’t so much wake Wednesday morning as come to. She sat up slowly, in a dry haze of aches and needs. She had to work, to do something. What was it? It was so hard to think. She had a good mind, her papa had always said. You don’t belong in Brooklyn, you belong at the Algonquin Round Table. You don’t belong in Brooklyn, said Vic Jr. too. But he meant it, he wanted her to move away. But she’d stay here, she had decided. She remembered that she had decided. But what else was she trying to remember? Something she had to do. Water Pauline’s begonias. They were thirsty. And work. Work is the province of cattle. But even so, she had to work. Where was she? Shouldn’t she get out of this place so she could work? Get out, yes, that was the first thing.

  She pushed on the dark door, and the sharp pain in her fingers cleared her head. The hinge. That’s what she was working on. With a screw, wasn’t it? Where was the screw? She hunted around slowly, groping all the corners of her prison, and finally found the screw in her blouse pocket. She pulled it out and fingered it. That was it, she remembered now, that was what she had to do. That was her work. The province of cattle. But she was so tired. She needed rest. Rest’s for a clam in a shell. So she’d better work.

  After a while she noticed that there was a problem. What? Why wouldn’t her mind work? Concentrate. Oh, not a problem, really. She’d finished the hinge, that was all. Three screws exposed, she could feel their lengths with her torn fingertips. Her throat burned. She tried to make her sluggish mind focus. What came next? Oh, yes. Push. So she could water the thirsty plants. But when she tried, the door wouldn’t move. She pushed again, and pain shot through her cramped body.

  Okay, Teach, concentrate.

  Four attachments. Hinge low, hinge high, bolt high, latch low. Right. The low hinge was loosened now. The other three made a sturdy triangle. So she should remove another one. Which one? Latch or hinge? Not bolt, that was in the middle. Latch or hinge, latch or hinge?

  Exercise. Maybe that would clear her aching head. She remembered yesterday, a couple of times, stretching her legs. Standing up, bent at the hips, swinging her arms. That would help.

  She mustered her failing strength, forced her stiff knees under her, straightened up to kneel erect—and blacked out.

  When she came to again, there were flies. Where was she? Why flies? A fly lit on her cheek and she brushed it away, annoyed. She’d been going to stand up, why was she crumpled down here? Okay, slowly now. More cautious this time, she raised her head, her shoulders, leaned back dizzily against the wall of the cabinet. Pretty soon the dizziness eased, and she pulled her aching legs forward. She’d forgotten to put on her skirt. Oh, yes, her skirt, she remembered. And flies. That’s why the flies were here. Ugh. But that wasn’t the big problem, was it? The big problem was getting out. Concentrate, Julia. Hinge low, hinge high, bolt high, latch low. Something good had happened. What? Oh, yes—the hinge was loose! The low hinge. Her heart seemed caught in her constricted throat. She had to work on the high hinge. But she’d have to raise herself to do it, and that had made her black out.

  How about the latch, then? It was low. Concentrate. Why not the latch? There was a reason why not. Concentrate. Oh, yes, too much wood. It took a long time even for a hinge. The latch was all the way on the outside. It was a normal sort of latch, she remembered. An image swam into her head. A beveled catch. The kind that was bad for front doors because plastic cards could open them. If you had plastic cards. She should have planned ahead, applied for a credit card. Your passport to the world. Julia giggled, but no laughter came out, only harsh rattles, and she stopped because it sounded so scary. She didn’t have any credit cards. Nothing stiff and slim. Just a screw, her blouse, her torn skirt, her loafers, and her undies. Nothing stiff.

  Her loafers.

  Carefully, Julia removed one shoe, and probed inside gingerly with scabbed fingertips. Yes. Maybe. She scrabbled around in the shoe, finally found a loose place. It was hard work. She tore a fingernail, and from time to time she couldn’t remember what she was doing. Finally, after a long time, she managed to peel off a piece of the insole lining, a precious, irregular piece of tough fabric stiff with glue. Bewildered, she clutched the piece in her bleeding fingers.

  Why had she wanted it? Why? She knew it was of value. She had three things of value. Hair. Screw. Insole lining. Three be the things I shall have till...

  They were kept in her pocket. She reached in, checked. Hair. Screw. Now insole lining. She tucked it in too. In a minute she would remember why it was valuable. Concentrate, dammit, old woman!

  After a while, miraculously, she did. She pulled out the insole lining. The screw fell out too. She found it, returned it to her pocket. Had the hair fallen out? No, there it was. Hair, screw. And insole lining. Yes. The insole lining was her credit card, that’s what she was doing. She was going to break in. No, break out. Slip the card through the latch. Light now seeped through the crack around the door. She found the latch, and laboriously jiggled the piece of lining toward it. Resistance. Gently now. Concentrate. Strong spring in that latch. There. There, it was done! The catch was pressed back, the insole lining was caught between it and the strike plate.

  Now what?

  Think!

  Hinge low, hinge high, bolt high, latch low.

  The low hinge was loose. The latch was open, sort of.

  That left, let’s see, high hinge and high bolt. Yes, time to push the door again. Work, Teach. Province of cattle.

  She pressed against the door. Blackness swirled behind her eyes. She rested, pressed again. A little movement. Not much. Not enough.

  She was too weak. She couldn’t push hard enough now. She’d never get out. No, no, that was wrong. She’d have to take out the upper hinge too.

  But first maybe she’d better rest a little.

  She leaned back, checked her pocket for her things. Screw, yes. Hair, yes. Insole. Where was the insole? Had she lost it? She groped around, worried, hearing her breath rasp in the darkness, realizing dimly that she was fading out again, until finally she remembered that the lining was already in the latch. Good. Hey, Teach, old thing, two down. Get that last hinge and you’re all set. Things are looking up. Hurray.

  But first, she decided, she’d just take a little nap.

  And work is the province of cattle,

  And rest’s for a clam in a shell,

  So I’m thinking of throwing the battle—

  Will you kindly direct me to...

  Julia slept.

  “Nance?”

  “Len!”

  “I’m sorry to call you at work, Nance.” He stood at the phone at the rear of the coffeehouse, not wanting Joyce or anyone to overhear. A teenage boy with a mane of strawberry-blond hair and tattered, flared dunga
rees waited impatiently for him to conclude a conversation he hadn’t yet begun, staring at him with fierce eyes. “But couldn’t we meet for dinner? I want to see you so much.”

  “I don’t know, Len—”

  “Please. It’ll just be an hour or so. I want to see you.”

  “God, Len.”

  “At Rossini’s, okay? That’s close. Just for a little while, Nance.”

  “Oh, hell, why not? Six-thirty.”

  “Six-thirty. Great! I just want to see you.”

  “I already said okay. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.” She hung up abruptly. Len replaced the receiver and found he’d been sweating. He turned and strode away, avoiding the teenager’s accusing stare. Damn, how could a person get so dependent on another person? In running away, she had kidnapped his hopes and his future. Her power over him infuriated him. Why had he let himself be tethered to her this way? What obscure urges would cause a man to let his independence slip away, and not even notice until it was too late?

  And why did he feel so much happier now than before she had given him that grudging consent?

  Damn.

  He had several commercial buildings on Seventh Avenue and Flatbush to show to a new prospect that afternoon. Maybe now he could face up to reworking his apartment proposal too. Joyce needed it first thing tomorrow. He walked briskly back to the office, weaving his way through the noontime bustle of the streets.

  Renata was leaving for lunch as he turned into the block. She’d been hollow-eyed but composed and efficient all morning. He paused to greet her. “How’s it going, Renata? Didn’t have a chance to ask, with our Wednesday meeting this morning.”

  She shrugged and adjusted her miniskirt. “Who knows? Joyce advanced me enough for a Greyhound ticket to Iowa. I gave it to my brother and told him it was up to him.”

  “Good.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But he did take the ticket.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Yeah, we could use some.” Her eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses blinked and she pushed past him, her platform shoes clopping on the pavement.

  Fred Stein was alone in the office, pawing disinterestedly at some papers. Joyce was at the Feldheim closing and the other two had lunch appointments. “How’re you doing, Fred?” asked Len.

  No answer, just a rustle. Len glanced over at him. Fred was staring stonily at the papers on his desk.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The bright eyes darted a glance at him. “Renata told me you were thinking of getting a building of your own. With Joyce’s help.”

  Oh, God, so that was it. Len said, “Well, Gordon and Joyce said it might be a good idea.”

  “Jesus!” Fred slammed a fist down onto the desktop. “I hand you your future on a silver platter, and you trot it straight over to sell to Joyce!”

  “Fred, for God’s sake! I told you from the beginning I couldn’t antagonize her! I asked in a general way. She said, do it now.”

  “Look, she’s no good, Len! Makes promises, turns right around and does something else!”

  “Joyce has always been completely square with me.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought at the beginning!” Angry, Fred looked foolish, a little chattering creature. His strengths were amiability and solid preparation, not forcefulness. “But after you came—”

  Stung, Len swung around to face him. “What?”

  “Look, it can’t be a secret! Joyce comes to me, says take care of this kid—he’s wet behind the ears. So I do. And then instead of funneling some big stuff to me, she takes what I used to get and gives half to you!”

  “Fred, it wasn’t that way! This office was understaffed. Losing sales. That’s why they took me on.”

  “Understaffed? Are you kidding? With the bottom falling out? All the big developers leaving the city? Okay, so Joyce is still solvent, but people working closer to the edge are failing in all five boroughs.”

  “We’ve all got work. Are you—jealous?”

  “Of course I’m jealous! Jesus, kid, if it hadn’t been for you, if Joyce had come through, I wouldn’t be—well, hell, you didn’t mean to, I guess. But watch out.”

  “That loan—the one that’s due soon. Is that the problem?”

  Fred refused to meet his eyes. “I expected enough work to pay it off by now, yes. And instead she hires you and siphons it away!”

  “Can’t you reschedule the payments? Sometimes banks—”

  “This isn’t a bank,” said Fred, and then seemed to regret it.

  Len felt a chill. Renata’s terrified face swam into his mind. “Jesus, Fred! Are you in trouble?”

  “No, no, no. Not that bad.” A little evasive smile twitched Fred’s face. “Or maybe worse.”

  “Worse?”

  He hesitated before he said, “My nephew. My sister loaned me her boy’s college money. He graduates from high school next month. You can’t reschedule that.”

  “Jesus.” Len was dismayed. He poked his toe at the leg of Stein’s desk. “Would it help—I mean, maybe I could do a sketch or two for you after work? Get you started with the doctors.”

  Fred sighed. “Not good enough. But I understand, you’ve got your future to think of, too. Getting your own kids through college someday.” Bitter, he looked back at his papers, his face twisted.

  Len, dismissed, could think of nothing to say.

  Julia was dancing. Dancing on the greensward, with Vic. She could hear water, a fountain playing. She had on her nicest white sprigged frock, with a low pink sash that kept her from looking too hippy. She looked pretty. Winsome. They were in Central Park, and Abe Lincoln was watching, his eyes kind, and sassy old Caroline Sweeney O’Rourke, and Fred-Law. Not young Fred-Law, of course, but the older, wiser Fred-Law, bearded and leaning on his cane. Band music floated across the lawn, and she and Vic and the other couples danced and danced. I’ll be young and lusty among the roaring dead.

  She was thirsty, though. Dancing made her thirsty. So thirsty. She tried to tell Vic that she needed a drink, but her voice didn’t work and her lips cracked. Not pretty. And the music was suddenly shrill. There was a fly on her face. She brushed at it and woke up.

  The phone. The phone was ringing.

  Well, let it. She was too tired to answer. No law that said you had to answer the phone.

  But there was something she was supposed to do. The hinge. Oh, hell. The upper hinge.

  Dratted phone. How could she concentrate?

  The screw. She patted the pocket. Yes, there it was. All she had to do was get up to where the hinge was, take the screw from her pocket, and scratch with it until the hinge was loose.

  Slowly, inch by inch, Julia raised herself. When the dizziness came, she lowered her head until it cleared. Visions, some dark, some lovely, pressed in and fell back. At last, kneeling erect, she found the place where the hinge blocked the crack of light. She pulled the screw from her pocket and began, tediously, to scrape at the hard wood. Just this one to go. Come on, Teach, keep at it.

  How much time passed before she heard the doorbell?

  Someone coming to see her? Who? Vic? It didn’t matter. She must yell, shriek. “Help! Police! Help!” But the words made no noise. They rasped out in a harsh whisper. The doorbell repeated. She tried again. But after that there was only the quiet, broken by her rattling breath.

  The effort had exhausted her. She was too tired to work on the hinge anymore. It would just have to wait until she felt better. She sagged back down into the corner. Maybe she would let that dream come again. It had been so nice, dancing on the greensward. Maybe this time Vic would bring her some mint tea.

  “Hi, Len. Hope I’m not too early.”

  “Oh, hi, Maggie! No, this’ll be fine. But I didn’t expect you till after five.”

  “I went in early this morning and asked my boss if I could cut out a little early this afternoon. It’s a pretty flexible job as long as you have continual brilliant insights.”


  Len laughed. “Yes. That takes you a long way in my job, too.” He glanced at his desk. Everything done except for his own apartment proposal. He had roughed out the figures, swallowed a bit at the size of the loan he now had to request, found a couple of corners to cut, and decided to go ahead. But the proposal was still just a few pages of scribbles and dramatic-looking arrows pointing to unlabeled numbers. An hour should do it, though. He’d come back and copy it tonight after he had dinner with Nancy.

  He shut the figures into his desk and turned to the key box. The Lund keys were still gone. Damn, he should have checked earlier, but with all the showings, he’d forgotten.

  “Renata,” he called, “have you seen the keys to the Lund place?”

  She laid down the big silver scissors she was using to cut out the day’s ads for the scrapbook and frowned. “No. Aren’t they in the box?”

  “They’ve got to be there,” said Joyce, who had been pouring herself some coffee. She came over.

  “Did Lund pick them up, maybe?” asked Len.

  “Not while I was here,” said Renata.

  “Fred? Have you seen them?” Len asked Fred, who was on the phone. Without lowering the receiver from his ear, Fred opened his desk drawer, sorted through a few keys, and shook his head.

  Maggie was watching with frank impatience. Joyce, who hated to appear less than competent in a client’s eyes, frowned at Len. “Did you take them home yourself?”

  “Home? No. I never take keys home.”

  “None of us do. But you were the last to have them, and it was a rather upsetting day.”

  Maggie said, “Brugioni had them at the house. But I remember him getting them out for you.”

  “Well, I’ll check.” She was right, Len thought; but he couldn’t remember what he’d done with them. “The question is what to do now.”

  “Does it have to be today, Miss Ryan?” asked Joyce. Surprisingly, there was an edge in her voice.