Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “You mean my job? My scrambling around trying to distract myself with an apartment project? That’s just another little gray twist, Nance. Another twist in the same trap.”

  “But I don’t know what you want! You won’t tell me!”

  “I don’t know what I want, either. What do you want?”

  Nancy looked down at the worn staircase, shrugged one narrow shoulder. “I don’t know, Len. Except I want this whole thing to go away.”

  “Yes. Me too.”

  “But don’t you have any feeling, one way or the other?”

  “God, hundreds of feelings! Both ways! Nance, I don’t—I’m sorry. I’m no good at explaining. I can’t paint. But if I could, I swear to you, it would look like that.” He shook his head. “I care about you, about what you decide. You’re the important one. Why are we talking about me?”

  “Because I need to know how you feel.”

  “But I don’t know!”

  “Hundreds of feelings, you said. Tell me some.”

  “God, Nance!”

  “Please.”

  Her urgent tone forced her need upon him. Len struggled for the words. “Well—I feel confused. Sad. Happy. Betrayed.”

  “Betrayed?”

  “Not by you, dammit! Betrayed by that four-percent failure rate. By the goddamn doctor. By fate. By love. By something. I feel angry.”

  “I feel angry. At my body. At you.”

  “At me?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you angry at me?”

  “Angry at you?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were intent on his.

  “No, Nance, of course not! It’s not your fault! Why should I—oh, hell. Yes! Yes, somewhere in those hundreds of feelings I’m angry at—not you, really. At your power over me. I want to be free.”

  “To be free?”

  “But I want to be a father too. All at the same time.” He kicked at the iron balustrade. “I’m angry because this decision is so important to my life and it isn’t mine to make. And I’m not ready to make it anyway! I feel helpless. I feel guilty.”

  “But it’s not your fault!”

  “You asked for feelings, right? Well, these are feelings!” Len was wound up, heedless of her now, letting everything out in a rush. “I feel sorry for myself. For you. For the baby. No matter what happens, I feel sorry for all of us. I feel like an adult, and like a kid. I feel helpless. I feel powerful. I feel virile.”

  “Virile!” Nancy shook her head with a little unbelieving laugh. “Len! Our whole life is collapsing and you feel virile! And so do—”

  Oh, God, he’d gone too far. The Scotch. He never should have had those drinks. He said stiffly, “Nance, I’m sorry, I’m no help to you. You were right. I shouldn’t have come.” Ignoring her protest, he turned abruptly with what dignity he had left and clattered down the stairs. Damn, why hadn’t he shut up? Why had he spewed out all that pointless stuff to a woman already as tormented as Nancy was? God, why had she stayed with him this long?

  He drove three blocks, saw a bar, and with sudden decision, parked. She’d never come home now. With despair and doggedness, he began to lay in the Scotch.

  Someone was knocking.

  Len raised his throbbing head and blinked. Rain on a windshield. He seemed to be in the car. And the someone knocking was a cop.

  “Hey, pal, better move on. Can’t park here in the daytime.”

  “Yes, of course.” Len fumbled in his pocket, then saw the ignition key lying on the floor of the car. There had been some problem with it last night, he remembered vaguely. Something about it not fitting very well, so he couldn’t start the car.

  It fit now. He got the car moving sedately down the street, though any movement made his head throb furiously. The rain thudded on the roof. After a block or so he remembered to turn on the wipers. What time was it? Seven o’clock. He was due at the office in an hour and a half. And he was supposed to have that proposal ready for Joyce first thing. Damn, he’d meant to go back and finish it last night. And something else too. What? Oh, keys. Lund’s keys. He’d promised to return Lund’s keys last night. He groped in his pocket with little hope. Yes, they were gone. Did Maggie still have them? He’d better remind her right away, and get them back to Lund.

  Well, one thing was clear. He didn’t have time to go home. Not that he much wanted to anyway, now that he’d lost Nancy. Joyce had been right in saying not to count on her. Damn, why had he said all that garbage? Why had he been stupid enough to interrupt her work? What an ugly, ugly vision that had been. And right on target. That was the other reason he had said too much, he realized. The glimpse of Nancy’s torment somehow had implied permission to express his own. That painting had had none of the taut beauty of her other pictures, none of the vigor and color that created harmony in their very tension. No harmony now. None. For either of them.

  His head throbbed.

  Better go through the motions, though. Back to the office now. She was well rid of him, but even so, his responsibility wasn’t over. Child support, if she needed it. If she’d accept it. Just in case. So he’d copy over the figures, leave them for Joyce, call Maggie about the keys, arrange to get them back to Lund at his office. Find a place to shave. Buy some coffee. Renata wouldn’t be in for another hour and a half to brew the office supply.

  This early there was a parking space in front of the café. He ran through the downpour to get a black coffee and bagel to go, then dodged past the plate glass window into the inadequate shelter of the Joyce Banks office doorway. He had trouble with the familiar lock as he juggled keys and food, hunched over to lessen the impact of the blowing rain. Finally he twisted the key hard the wrong way and then back. The door opened.

  Strange to be here so early, without even Renata to greet him. The office seemed mysterious. Odd. But it was all the same. Stein’s desk immaculate. Renata’s still holding the scrapbook and scissors and phone books. His own with a couple of telephone notes and books of mortgage-rate tables. He pulled his proposal from his drawer and sat down at his desk. His trouser legs and shoes were unpleasantly soggy. Doggedly, he concentrated on copying the figures.

  God, he was asking for a lot of money. How could he ask Joyce and her partners for that much? Especially with a head like his today. Right now, if he had any money, he sure wouldn’t invest it in Len Trager.

  Still. He read over the proposal carefully, clarified two points, checked all the arithmetic again with the calculator, and glumly decided it wouldn’t get any better by being stared at. He’d leave it for Joyce, get another coffee, and phone Maggie to arrange to get Lund’s keys back. She’d probably quiz him about Nancy too, dammit. He wouldn’t want Joyce to walk in on that conversation. Better call Maggie when he got to the coffee shop.

  He picked up the proposal, paper-clipped the pages, and took it into Joyce’s office. His head was definitely not in good shape; standing up set it to pulsing again. There was already an open manila folder on Joyce’s usually immaculate desk, he saw. Stapled to it was what looked like a medical record. Douglas somebody’s record. But he read no further. As he reached the desk, the floor creaked behind him. He started to look around but something hard smacked into the turning angle of his jaw.

  The world contracted to a pinprick and then went black.

  15

  Julia opened her eyes to a white fluorescent glare. Light. She hadn’t seen light for days. I shall come back, said Parker, from cool Eternity, a mild and most bewildered little shade. Well, Julia certainly didn’t feel mild. Bewildered, yes. There was a sense of constriction. Her left arm, she saw, was wrapped, tubes running in the elbow. Her right wrist was held by a young black woman, looking at her watch. She wore a crisp white dress. A nurse.

  “We’ve got a nice pulse this morning,” said the nurse approvingly.

  “Have we really?” asked Julia. By golly, her voice was working again.

  “Very nice. Dr. Malley will be pleased. She may even decide to take us off the IV soon.”

  The nur
se’s watch had an expansion band. Julia pulled it deftly from the dark wrist and looked at it. Six-twenty.

  “Here, honey, let’s not do that!”

  Julia handed it back sweetly. “We just took it off our arm for a minute.”

  “Don’t get too smart, honeybunch.” The nurse, pushing it back onto her wrist, was amused. “You’re already down for lethargy and confusion.”

  “We’ll write us down for loony, is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Is it Wednesday?”

  “Thursday morning.”

  Time like an ever-rolling stream. Julia asked, “May I have a glass of water?”

  “Not until the doctor sees you. We’re monitoring your fluids and blood pressure very closely.”

  “Are we really?”

  “Different kind of we.” The nurse gave her a mock-sour look. “You have two notes there on your table if you’re up to reading them. Dr. Malley will be in soon, and if you cut the sass she may let you have some breakfast.”

  Breakfast! Julia had a delicious swimming vision of orange juice, coffee, tea, pancakes, bacon, Danishes, more coffee, sausage, blueberry muffins. More orange juice, fresh-squeezed. More coffee. But as the nurse walked on to the next bed, Julia sighed. This was a hospital. Canned orange juice. Hard curds of scrambled eggs. A dry piece of toast. And the coffee, if any, would be stale. Better think about something else. She rolled over a little, carefully, and picked up the notes from the table with her free hand.

  “Dear Mother: I waited all night but the M.D. said you needed your sleep. I have a couple of important meetings but will check hourly and come see you in the afternoon. You’ll come home with us, of course. Love, Vic.” Phooey. Had Vic Jr. found her? She tried to remember. She remembered the little dumbwaiter car. Hours of scratching in the dark. Getting weak in the head. Dancing with Vic—that wasn’t real. Not in the sense she was interested in now. Was Vic Jr. there? She couldn’t remember. There was an image, fleeting, of a blaze of light, and Maggie, of trying to give Maggie something, and then nothing at all. Was that a dream like the dancing? Probably. Probably Vic Jr. had found her. Phooey. Hard enough to argue with him when things were going well. Now that someone had tried to murder her, he’d get her into Jersey as fast as he could get her declared incompetent. Lethargy and confusion already, the nurse had said.

  Maybe he was right. Her present condition didn’t look much like the results of competence.

  The second note surprised her. “I gave the hair to the police. Bonesy.” And then two phone numbers, one labeled “work.” Now there was a satisfying note. Maybe that fleeting image was not a dream.

  So. Nothing to do now but lie here and wait for the doctor. And think.

  Why had he attacked her? After all this time, why now? What had changed?

  He hadn’t known she had access to the rest of the house, for one thing. He’d found her searching. Then he had attacked.

  Because he didn’t want her to find something? What? Or because he thought she’d found it already?

  Maybe it was something he thought she knew. Something damaging. Did she know something she didn’t know she knew? But then, why hadn’t he attacked until he found her searching?

  Julia had the frustrating feeling that she was missing the main point. Viewing it from the wrong perspective, somehow. She needed a fresh point of view. But who could she trust? Vic Jr., never. Jean was too far away. So was Pauline, for that matter, at the moment. Ruth? Ellie? Too conventional. They’d just urge her to tell the police. Benny? He’d keep quiet, but the poor boy was too dumb to be of much help. Maggie?

  Maggie.

  If Maggie was planning on evicting her, she’d love to get her hands on this information. But Julia had new evidence now. The hair. Not enough to get a conviction, maybe. But something.

  And there was the slim chance that Maggie was telling the truth, and didn’t really want to evict her. She seemed genuinely interested in finding the murderer. Seemed sincere in upholding their promise to Amy not to tell the police about her, or about Curt’s existence. Maybe this would be a good test. See if she kept her promises. Because if she was lying about not evicting Julia, then it didn’t make much difference what she did about this information, did it?

  Keeping a watchful eye on her tube-infested arm, Julia sat up. Ugly hospital gown. She probably looked a fright. Looked like lethargy and confusion. Well, fight that battle when it came. She picked up Maggie’s note, swung her bare legs over the side of the bed, paused for a moment to make sure she wasn’t dizzy, then stood. The IV unit had four little wheels. She pushed it to the next bed. An old woman lay there, asleep. She had a paperback book and a few coins on her table. Julia borrowed a dime and pushed her IV to the door. The hallway was empty and, yes, there was a phone, not too far away. “Heel, Fido,” she muttered to the IV, and walked it along. A strange breed of dog you keep, Mrs. Northrup. Yes, Sonny, but it’s very quiet and doesn’t shed much. She dropped her borrowed coin into the slot and dialed the home number on Maggie’s note.

  “Hello?” Nick, a sleepy mumble. Poor pet, it was barely six o’clock.

  “Julia Northrup here. May I speak to Maggie?”

  “Of course.” Bless him, not even a moment of hesitation.

  And a second later, Maggie’s voice. “Hello, Mrs. Northrup.”

  “I want to talk to you. Privately. Now.”

  “Okay. I’ll come over before work. You’re still in the hospital?”

  “Yes. Don’t bring the cops.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

  “I’ll try to be in the lounge. But there’s a nurse hammering on this booth this very minute, ordering me back to bed. Listen, was it you who found me?”

  “Len Trager and I.”

  It was difficult to say the words, but Julia managed: “Well. Thanks.”

  “You’ll probably have to do it for me someday. I get into scrapes too.”

  “Yes, I imagine you do.”

  “About twenty minutes, then. Oh, shit, it’s raining. Make that thirty.”

  That was quick enough. Julia meekly allowed the clucking nurse to trundle her and the IV back to bed. Dr. Malley came, proved to be a presentable young female, said the IV could come out and that she could have breakfast, but she wanted to keep checking her fluids for a few hours. Julia got her permission to sit up in bed; the doctor seemed pleased at how chipper she had become.

  She’d barely finished her orange juice—canned, as predicted—when Maggie arrived, trench coat dripping.

  “Well, I told them all you needed was a little liquid,” Maggie said with satisfaction. She put down her briefcase and umbrella and dropped the wet coat over the back of a chair. Her dress was a summery blue. “They wanted to treat you for a heart attack.”

  “Would the food have been any better?” grumbled Julia, poking at her square of dried scrambled eggs.

  “Next time I’ll check the menus before I sign you in.”

  Julia looked up into the amused blue eyes and decided to take the plunge. She said, “Maggie, he may try to kill me again.”

  Maggie sat down, alert and unsurprised. “Who? Why?”

  “You have to promise not to tell the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “Telling the police is dangerous for me too.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “Well, I thought I knew what was going on, but I can’t figure out why I was attacked. I need a fresh view of the situation.”

  “I see. Well, I can promise this much. I won’t tell the police or anyone else unless you seem to be in danger again. When I know more we can decide how best to protect you.”

  “That’s only half a promise,” Julia argued.

  “Best I can do.”

  “You think I need a nursemaid,” complained Julia. But she was privately relieved: if Maggie was going to be this sticky about the wording of the promise, it indicated her intention to take it seriously. Julia added slowly, “I have to admit, it wasn’
t good in that closet.”

  “No.”

  “I kept thinking about Vic. And about how I was supposed to water Pauline’s begonias. How thirsty they’d be—” Julia trailed off. She blew her nose into the paper napkin.

  Maggie rescued her with a change of subject. “How in the world did you get that hinge off from inside?”

  “Scratched it off with a screw.”

  “God. You’re one tough woman.”

  “Sure. I’m the Teach.”

  “How did you get trapped, Teach?”

  Julia munched on her eggs and toast between sentences. “You see, I’d fixed up the dumbwaiter so I could get to the top floor.”

  “I noticed it had new ropes. But it’s walled off on all the upper floors. I looked.”

  “The middle floors are walled off. On the top floor there’s only that thin paneling. I rigged it with hinges to open like a door. And I replaced the old ropes and counterweights and made myself a private elevator.”

  Unlike Vic Jr., Maggie didn’t scold. Instead she chortled in delight. “Teach, I want to grow up to be just like you!”

  “Don’t look now, Bonesy,” snorted Julia, “but I think you already have.”

  “Heaven help us both.”

  “Yes. So I used the contraption to check out the house after all the other tenants got driven out. Artie Lund was doing so many mean tricks to get me to leave, you see.”

  “Yes. Sensible to keep an eye on him.”

  “Anyway, that Wednesday, the day before you first came to look at the house, I went up to see what that plumber had done in the morning. I found the body.”

  “And didn’t report it?”

  “Nope. I had reasons. I didn’t get much sleep that night, thinking about it up there. But I couldn’t report it. It would have been playing into Artie’s hands.” She scrutinized Maggie’s face for skepticism, but the young woman appeared to understand.

  “Because you think he arranged to have it brought there?”

  “Or maybe even did it himself, though I didn’t think so then.”

  “Why do you think he was involved?”