Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “No, but I prefer it. How about Lund? Would he have keys?”

  “He might not mind,” said Len hopefully. “Just yesterday he was offering to help if he could. We could drive by his office. It’s close.”

  “I’ll call him if you want,” said Joyce.

  “Let’s just stop by.” Maggie was already half out the door. Len grabbed his umbrella and followed. It wasn’t raining, but the humid May day was threatening. They hurried out to the car.

  “His office isn’t far,” said Len, turning toward Flatbush.

  “Did you ever manage to reach Mrs. Northrup?” asked Maggie, settling into the passenger seat.

  “No, but I didn’t try very hard. You said you didn’t have to see that part of the house.”

  “I don’t. It’s just that I had something else to tell her, and I haven’t been able to reach her either. Did she say anything about going away?”

  “No, but I doubt she’d tell me anyway.”

  “True. We’re neither one of us on her preferred list.”

  “What are you planning on doing in the kitchen?”

  “New range and countertop. And paint.”

  “You’ll probably want to paint a lot of the rooms.”

  “Yes. Kitchen, bedrooms first. And tear out that old paneling.”

  Babies needed preparation. Len murmured, “Makes sense.”

  “Len, stop!” They were still two blocks from Lund’s office, but Maggie was jerking up the hand brake, grabbing the door handle, jumping out. Startled, Len watched her dodge oncoming traffic to the sidewalk to confront a short man with thin dark hair.

  Arthur Lund, hurrying away from his office.

  Double-parked, Len got out and joined them.

  “Oh, yes, Joyce called,” Lund was saying nervously. “I was just on my way to your office. Guess I misunderstood.”

  “Glad we caught you,” Len said, confused by the crackle of tension in the air. “Could we borrow your keys? Our set seems to be out, and Miss Ryan needs to measure the rooms.”

  Lund hesitated. “But what happened to your keys? Did the police take them?”

  “They had them,” admitted Len, “and I was in such a state of shock I wasn’t keeping track very well.”

  Lund was still reluctant. “But listen, there’s old Mrs. Northrup. You don’t plan to go in her apartment, do you?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No. And even if I did, I’d ask her permission first.”

  “But—” Lund caught himself. “So you won’t be seeing her?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Well, okay then.” Lund selected a ring of keys and handed them to Len. “Trager, you’ll be personally responsible for them?”

  “Of course. In fact, if you want, I can drop them by your home tonight.”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay. We’d better get moving.” Maggie started over to the car, but Lund pulled anxiously on Len’s sleeve.

  “Trager?” he whispered pleadingly. “Don’t let her talk to the old lady. It could all fall through.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Lund. We won’t have to talk to her. But I don’t think it will fall through. They want the place, and they’re committed. Legally. Money down.”

  “I know, but—well, be careful. Tell her we’ll clean it again if she wants. Anything she wants. This deal can’t fall though!”

  “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  Len escaped back to his car, and they rejoined the heavy rush-hour traffic. It was well after five when they arrived back at Garfield. Len said, “I have a six-thirty appointment back in the Village.”

  “It won’t take us long. See, I have a sketch already. Just have to fill in the numbers.”

  “You’re all set, then.”

  They parked a few spaces away from Lund’s brownstone. Len was surprised at its air of serenity, as though in its eighty years it had become used to human foibles. Maggie ran down the two steps to ring the bell of the basement apartment.

  “I thought you weren’t going in there!” Len objected.

  “I just want to tell her about something. It should only take a second,” Maggie told him placidly.

  But seconds went by, and minutes, and there was no answer to her repeated rings. She moved over to the bay window of the apartment. The drapes were drawn but she peered shamelessly through a crack where they didn’t quite meet.

  “Do you see her?” asked Len. Maybe Mrs. Northrup was in one of her alcoholic fogs. Maybe Lund was right. After all, when they’d visited before, she’d tidied up for some screwy reason. Would the sight of Mrs. Northrup, stewed again, make Maggie change her mind?

  “No, I don’t see her,” said Maggie slowly. “But there’s a coffee mug on the bookshelf next to the door. And something’s wrong with the door chain. It’s just dangling from the door—Len, let’s go in.”

  “She’s probably just out with a friend—”

  Maggie, exasperated, said, “All right, if you insist. But I just remembered I wanted to measure the laundry room too.”

  “The laundry room? But—”

  “It shares pipes with the kitchen over it, right?”

  Reluctantly, he unlocked the door to the basement hall and then dropped the keys back into his jacket pocket. Nothing seemed amiss—the uncarpeted steps up to the locked landing door off the first-floor hall above, the darkened laundry-room door at the far end of this hall, Mrs. Northrup’s door closed solidly. It was silent inside. No gospel music today, thank God. Maggie had hurried to the door and was turning the knob. “It’s locked,” she said.

  “Of course it is. And we can’t go in there without her permission. It’s illegal.”

  “Is it a deadbolt?”

  “Yes. We can’t go in. On top of everything else, we promised Mr. Lund.”

  “Len, I’m worried about her! I know you think she’s just an alcoholic old woman. But even if she is, we should check.”

  “Well, we can look again when we’re finished,” he temporized. “She’s probably just taking a nap, or out visiting a friend. Maybe she’ll answer next time we ring. Let’s get the measurements done.”

  He walked past her decisively, but at the laundry-room door realized that she had not followed. He turned and saw that the door to Mrs. Northrup’s apartment was ajar and Maggie nowhere to be seen. In disbelief, he reached into his pocket for the keys. They were gone.

  Len sprinted back to the apartment door and yelled, “Dammit, Maggie, it’s illegal! And her son is a lawyer!”

  “I’ll confess that it’s all my fault.” She was searching the room hastily, opening closet doors. “Do you smell something?”

  “It always smells in there.”

  “No, this is different.” She disappeared through the little passageway that led to the kitchen. Len hesitated, then, despairing, followed her in. Joyce would fault him whatever he did, but maybe he could prevent worse damage. Mrs. Northrup’s apartment was neat, he saw, except for three coffee cups. But Maggie was right, there was a stench.

  Maggie, heading for the bathroom door with a quick glance at the empty kitchen, paused. She was looking at a jumble of mops and buckets strewn in the corner of the kitchen, and at the cabinet door, where a torn piece of dirty cardboard was stuck between latch and frame. A fly landed on it and crawled into the crack. Swiftly, she bounded across the room and lifted the top bolt. The door sagged as she jerked it open.

  A withered apparition of filthy, stringy hair and cracked lips blinked out at them, brushed away a fly, and made a harsh noise.

  “Hair?” repeated Maggie.

  “Pocket,” rasped the apparition, slowly swinging bloodless legs over the edge of the opening. It started to straighten up, clutching at its breast, then pitched forward onto the floor.

  14

  “God, I’ve never seen her this bad!” exclaimed Len, batting at a fly that came whining from the smelly cabinet toward his face.

  Maggie had scooped up the limp, filthy old woman and was striding out.
“Hospital,” she said.

  “She’s just drunk again, isn’t she?” Unable to keep the hopeful note from his voice, he hurried after.

  “No.” Maggie kicked the wrought-iron gate under the stoop and shoved it open. “Will you get your goddamn car? Or do I have to lug her all the way to the emergency room like a sack of potatoes?”

  Emergency room. Len galloped to his car, urgency warring with disbelief, and opened the door for them. Maggie folded herself into the back seat with her thin burden across her lap. Well, at least they were no longer trespassing, thought Len morosely, though he wasn’t sure if kidnapping was a preferable charge.

  The hospital was five blocks away. He pulled into the emergency lane, took the smelly old woman from Maggie’s arms, and carried her in. Maggie darted ahead to speak to the crisply unflappable admissions nurse.

  “Heart attack?”

  “No. Dehydration.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “She’s had nothing to eat or drink since Monday night.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Locked in a closet.”

  “Sure it’s not heart?”

  “That’s what it’ll turn into if you don’t get a move on! And listen, her son is a lawyer!”

  “Yeah, yeah, she’s waited three days already, you say.” But she turned a starched white back and summoned other people, who took Mrs. Northrup from Len’s arms, checking her pulse and pressing her fingertips as they deftly wheeled her away to the treatment area. One eye on the proceedings, Maggie was giving the nurse information: Mrs. Northrup’s name, age, address.

  “No, I’m not the next of kin,” she said. “Len, do you know who her son is?”

  “No. Never met him.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Once she mentioned New Jersey.”

  “Check this directory, okay?” Not bothering to ask the well-ironed nurse this time, Maggie pounced on a book by the telephone on the desk and handed it back to Len. “It’s Jersey. Should say ‘attorney’ or ‘Esquire’ after his name.”

  Len thumbed through several pages before he found a Northrup. “Victor Jr.?” He looked up to suggest.

  “That’s the one.” Maggie gave the name to the nurse and assured her that he would take care of payment. The nurse, still skeptical, shrugged philosophically; obviously she had seen many worse cases of indigence in her career.

  When the nurse ran out of questions, Maggie called the police from the booth. “Pass it on to Lieutenant Brugioni,” she added to the officer who took the information. “Yes, we’ll wait here.” Only then did she turn back to Len.

  “What the hell happened to her?” Len struggled to keep the exasperation from his voice. “How do you know so much about it?”

  “Let’s sit down.” They found a scuffed bench. “I don’t know what happened exactly. But she’s been locked in that little pantry since Monday night.”

  “How—”

  “I visited her Monday night, and I left that coffee mug on the bookcase by the door myself. She would have cleaned it up.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. She’s a neat person, except when it suits her to be otherwise.”

  “You saw her Monday night?”

  “To tell her we were buying the house. She was perfectly healthy then.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. And tonight, the chain on her door had been forced. It was okay Monday. Had to undo it myself when I left. But the main deadbolt lock hadn’t been tampered with.”

  “Maybe she tore off the chain herself. She’s an odd lady.”

  “Oh, sure, you can make up other theories. We don’t know how she got locked in that cabinet either. Maybe the door blew shut when she was in there and that top bolt dropped down to trap her. But it’s also possible that someone broke in and locked her in there.”

  “You mean the murderer came back? But she’d been living there alone for a week—no, longer than that, after the murder was committed.”

  “Oh, I know. She’ll tell us about it when she comes to, I imagine. Assuming those dolts in there are treating her for dehydration and not heart attack.” Maggie shot a surly look at the admissions nurse, who smiled back serenely. “Anyway, maybe she really did lock herself in that dumbwaiter. But there are things that make me wonder. One, that chain. Two, the keys missing from your office.”

  “But I probably took them home by mistake!” Len’s mind balked at following the implications of Maggie’s words.

  “You can check. Three, her basic good sense. And four—”

  “Good sense! Mrs. Northrup?”

  But Len was interrupted by a uniformed policeman who came in and jocularly began to take down their story. Len cringed as Maggie unblushingly admitted to picking his pocket and entering the Northrup apartment without permission. Finally, to Len’s utter bafflement, she pulled a small clump of hair from her pocket.

  “These were in her blouse pocket,” she explained. “She said ‘Hair—pocket’ before she blacked out. It’s important. She’d even scratched it into the cabinet. ‘Hair in pocket.’”

  “Graffiti everywhere,” observed the cop cheerfully. “Think it means anything?”

  “My guess is it belongs to whoever locked her in there. Maybe we can ask her soon. But I’m certain it’s important.”

  “All right.” He slipped the hair carefully into a plastic bag.

  Len, in turn, had to answer some questions, then Brugioni arrived and they had to go through it all again. The lieutenant called across to the nurse, “Can we talk to Mrs. Northrup?”

  “Just a minute.” She made a call. A harassed young doctor appeared shortly.

  “No,” she said simply to the lieutenant’s question. “She’s still unconscious. Even if she were awake, she’d probably be incoherent. Tomorrow sometime is the earliest we can hope for.”

  “Isn’t it just hypovolemic shock?” demanded Maggie.

  The doctor’s eyebrows lifted, appraising Maggie. “Yes,” she told Maggie, “most likely.”

  “When I had it, it only took a couple of hours to come out of it.”

  The doctor shrugged. “Maybe you weren’t as dehydrated. And you’re younger. With someone her age, we have to go slowly with the IV’s or it can cause pulmonary edema and stress the heart.”

  “I see.”

  “But”—the doctor turned back to the lieutenant—“if she responds well, she could be back to normal soon. She’s basically healthy, aside from the dehydration.”

  “Well, all right. Tomorrow, then.” Brugioni sighed and nodded at Len and Maggie. “You two can go on home now. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

  They walked back slowly to the car. Len unlocked it and asked, “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

  “Well—” Maggie looked at her watch, and a look of dismay crossed her face. “Len! Your appointment!”

  Len checked his own watch. Seven o’clock. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” He pounded his fist on the top of the car.

  “It was important?”

  “Nance. I got her to agree to have dinner.”

  “Shit! Well, get the hell over there! I’ll catch the IND.” She practically shoved him into the car.

  Len got the hell over there, but Nancy was gone.

  “Did she leave a message?” he asked the headwaiter.

  “Nope. The lady waited twenty, thirty minutes, then left.”

  “Hell!”

  “Can we do anything for you?”

  “No. Yes. I want a Scotch.” Len sat down in the bar to pull himself together. What the hell should he do now?

  He knew where she was. She’d be down the block, at the studio.

  He was not supposed to bother her at the studio. Her painting time was sacred, and had its own rhythms. Interrupting her was probably the worst thing he could do, now that she so desperately needed the peace and fulfillment it brought her. It would be the worst thing he could do to their relationship.

  Or would it?
/>   He ordered another Scotch.

  She would be furious at him. He’d better explain. Get through to her that you care, Maggie had said. And Maggie had been through this herself.

  He paid for the drinks and quickly, before his courage failed him, hurried down the street and up the stairs to the studio.

  Two or three people were spaced around the huge room amidst the untidy clutter of easels, canvases, paintboxes, storage cabinets. They were all silent, concentrating, oblivious to the traffic noises that rumbled through the metal-framed windows. Nancy had moved her easel to a corner of the room, and, in profile to Len, was focused intently on her canvas. She had on a smudged blue smock, and there was a smear of black paint on her cheek.

  Len went closer and cleared his throat. “Nance, I care. I really do.”

  Her head jerked around. Her trance was broken. Pain twisted her face. He hurried on. “It was old Mrs. Northrup. We were at Lund’s place and she collapsed. I had to help take her to the hospital.”

  “I see.”

  “It was life or death.”

  “I see.” She lowered her brush and looked back at her canvas, dully.

  Len edged around behind her to see what she was painting. She saw him move and stepped forward to jerk the big canvas from its easel and lean it, face hidden, against the wall. But Len had already seen.

  “God, Nance! God!” He was staggered by the ugly image he had glimpsed. The big blackened canvas. The little area, sharply bordered, that had been worked and reworked in smears of brown and gray, tight little twists laid on top of each other, scrubbed out, laid on again. There was one break in the border, a tiny one, and through it one of the little gray twists surged, thinned as it leaped across the canvas, and ended in a puddle of red and dead brown. Tormented, hopeless, it bored into his heart.

  “You weren’t supposed to see!” There was a little catch in Nancy’s voice. She thrust her brush into the solvent and ran to the door.

  Frantic, he followed and caught her on the landing outside the studio door. “God, Nance! That’s how I feel too!”

  “How could you? You have your own life.” She was backed against the stained wall, the bare bulb above turning her hair to an aureole.