Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “Because he’s tried every other way to get rid of me.”

  “He thought a body would scare you away?”

  “I think he’d know better than that. No, he wanted to get me arrested.”

  “How?”

  “Planting evidence that I did it. That’s why I was so sure I wasn’t really in danger. I thought if he were really a murderer he could have killed me long since. But he didn’t, because he knew that if I died he’d be the suspect. That body scared me, because it showed he at least knew a murderer, but I still didn’t think he’d do it to me.”

  “I see.”

  “And then Monday you said you were buying the house. With me still in it, you claimed.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t make the offer contingent on me being out?”

  Maggie reached into her briefcase and handed Julia a document. It was lengthy but clear: the Sellers, Arthur and Loretta Lund, had no obligation to deliver the building vacant. Julia squinted at the signatures and corrections. It was an original. She handed it back to Maggie. “So now there’s no reason for him to get rid of me!”

  “Then why the attack?”

  “That’s the question, all right.” Julia pushed her breakfast tray away and rearranged the lap of her shapeless gown. “I wondered if maybe Artie might have killed that young man himself, and maybe dropped something and came back to look for it. Did he think I found it? Did he think I’d seen something in the part of the house he’d locked me out of? Why attack me?”

  “What about Amy’s visit? Could she have told you something?”

  “I wondered about that too—maybe Curt was Artie’s accomplice. But I don’t think so. The reason is that I heard him searching for about an hour after he’d locked me up.”

  “Mm. We may be able to check that. Nick found Curt.”

  “He did?” Julia sat straight up in her excitement. “What does he know?”

  “He won’t tell much. He’s a very sad, suspicious kid who’s lost his best friend. I asked Nick to try to get him to come here this morning. Maybe if he sees another victim—”

  “You invited men here to see me like this?” Julia plucked at the gown in dismay.

  “Come off it, Teach! Compared to the first time we saw you, you look like Princess Grace,” Maggie reminded her tartly. “Anyway, right now why don’t you tell me exactly what happened after Amy and I left.”

  Julia described it—her hunt, and her failure to find anything; Artie’s furtive approach via the kitchen porch; the way she’d been tricked as Artie ran up the back stairs while she waited cautiously on the front ones; how she was tied while he ran down to lock the dumbwaiter exit to her kitchen; the struggle and her prize handful of hair; her horror as she heard the first counterweight fall; jamming in the screws and hearing the second fall.

  “So you could have been killed when the whole dumbwaiter dropped into the cellar?”

  “I was only one floor up at that point. I might have escaped with a few broken bones.”

  “‘Escaped’ is not the word, Teach.”

  “No.”

  Their eyes met, gravely. Then Maggie said, “What did he do next?”

  “He rummaged around for a while. In my apartment and on the stairs. I could hear him opening drawers, moving things, even washing up.”

  “Everything looked tidy when I got there. Apparently the plan was to make it look as though you had locked yourself in there by mistake.”

  “I thought so. The ransacking sounded pretty discreet.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The door closed. He went away. I’d been very quiet. Didn’t want him to know I wasn’t unconscious in the cellar. He banged on the door once but didn’t open it, dammit.”

  “I bet you were ready for him.”

  “He’d be here today instead of me!”

  “I believe you.”

  “He left by the kitchen-porch door again. Did you notice that the building at the corner has a little yard behind it? Well, they leave the gate unlocked sometimes. And of course Artie won’t fix the break in our fence. So he probably got in and out that way too.”

  “I see. Any idea what he was looking for?”

  “No. I’d think everything that could be found had been found. I don’t think he found it either. He just ran out of places to look. Not as thorough as Brugioni and me.”

  “Okay. Now, you said you didn’t see him at first. Only the doorknobs moving. Did you see him while you were fighting?”

  “Let me think. No. No, I guess he didn’t know that I already knew it was him. He made sure I didn’t see him. Shielded himself with that cloth thing that he tied around me.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No. He grunted once, that’s all.”

  “But you’re still sure it was Artie Lund?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” The question astonished Julia. “Who else would want to get rid of me? And he was about the right height, and soft and pudgy, and had dark hair.”

  “Yes. The hair was dark and short,” said Maggie. “Okay. Next question. What evidence did he plant the day he left the body? And where did you hide it?”

  Julia had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Her lips tightened stubbornly.

  “You want a fresh perspective,” Maggie argued patiently, “but you won’t let me see the whole scene.”

  Fastidiously, without looking up, Julia brushed a crumb from her lap. “One Thanksgiving my Grandpa Sweeney let it slip that he hated turnips. Next Thanksgiving, and every one after, my Aunt Kitty brought turnips, though she never had before. And she had a lot less to gain than you.”

  For an instant there was such a depth of hurt in Maggie’s eyes that Julia was ashamed. This woman had saved her life, had proved companionable, had passed every test of trustworthiness that Julia had been able to devise. But Maggie recovered, shrugged. “You’re right. Trusting is one of the hardest things for me too. Were you a Sweeney, then, Julia S. Northrup?”

  “Poor branch. Grandpa Sweeney was Cornelius Sweeney’s younger brother. So when Vic went into a wheelchair after his first stroke, and we needed a cheap ground-floor apartment, the family came through. Caroline Sweeney O’Rourke was already in her eighties, so I kept an eye on her too.” Julia realized she was talking too much, avoiding the real subject. She made herself stop babbling, fidgeted a moment with the unlovely hem of her gown, and said, “Do you really think it would help if I told you? It probably has nothing to do with the attack.”

  “Probably not. On the other hand, it was something he left behind to implicate you, right? And he planted it someplace between the body and your apartment for the police to find. But you haven’t been arrested, or even questioned very hard. So now he knows something went wrong. Maybe the police didn’t find it. He might have been hunting for it, wondering why they missed it.”

  “You’d have to be blind to miss it. He left it right on the banister. Stuck on a splinter, as though I’d stupidly dropped it as I hurried down after strangling that poor young boy. Artie’s not too bright—how was I supposed to hold the kid still while I killed him?”

  “You bashed him first with his own Chianti bottle,” Maggie reminded her. “But what was stuck on a splinter?”

  Julia took a deep breath. It was like being a little girl again, eight years old, running timidly up to the edge of the foaming sea at Coney Island, drawn and yet repelled by the boundless possibilities and boundless danger.

  At eight, she had closed her eyes and jumped in.

  At sixty-eight, too, she closed her eyes as she said, “The weapon. Nylon support hose. It’s so obvious, it had to be to frame me! I don’t wear the dratted things anyway, but I’d never convince the police. Support hose naturally go with crazy old ladies in basements.”

  “I see.”

  “So I hid them, hoping the police would get some other evidence pointing to Artie. I guess they didn’t.”

  “They searched your apartment.” />
  “Yes, I figured they would. So I stuck them in a McDonald’s bag and hid them in a trash basket by my grocery store until the police had finished. Then I brought them home.”

  “Why not just let them be thrown away?”

  “I thought about it. But I figured once they had Artie accused, there might be some tie-in with him. You know, his wife’s size or something. Evidence.”

  “I see. And you don’t think Artie found them in his Monday-night search?”

  “I was listening for the right kind of noise. It didn’t come.”

  “I see.” Maggie nudged back her blue cuff to check her watch. “Seven o’clock. I don’t have to be at work until nine. Would it be okay if I went to your apartment and looked it over? See if I can tell what he was searching for?”

  “I imagine you’d like to see the weapon too.”

  “Well, if you could bring yourself to tell me—”

  “I could. I will. I shall,” said the ex-schoolmarm. “It’s still in the McDonald’s bag, at the bottom of the sugar canister.”

  “Thanks.” With a pleased grin to acknowledge Julia’s gift of trust, Maggie stood, brisk in the summery dress.

  Julia said gruffly, “You’re not really a bag of bones, you know. You’re attractive enough. I imagine your Nick finds ample delights.”

  A flash of surprise and gratitude in the intelligent eyes. Maggie said, “I bet your Vic did too.”

  They smiled at each other across the chasm of years. Julia nodded. “Yes, we managed to keep each other warm. Be careful now.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it. What if Artie comes back?”

  “No problem.” Maggie was shrugging back into her wet coat. “He can’t get in this time. I have his keys.”

  “Um—one other thing. I keep thinking about those thirsty begonias.”

  “Consider them watered. See you in—oh, Nick! You got here!”

  Julia smoothed her hair and swiftly adjusted the sheet around her knees as Nick, damp, ushered in a neat, dark-haired young man in a bright yellow slicker. Nick smiled at the two women. “Hi. Mrs. Northrup, Maggie, I’d like you to meet Curt Pritchard. Dennis Burns’s friend.”

  Curt and Julia inspected each other. Curt went straight to the point. “You were attacked too?”

  “Yes. Probably because I know something about your friend’s death.” Julia met Curt’s eyes squarely. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what I know, so I can’t help much.”

  Curt jerked a thumb at Nick. “Yeah, he said we could compare notes. But I’m not showing anybody the stuff he left.”

  “Understood,” said Nick.

  “What happened to you?” the boy asked Julia.

  “I was locked in a closet and left to die. Whoever it was searched my apartment afterward.”

  “He didn’t hit you?” Curt sounded disappointed. As bad as my grandson, Julia thought, looking for the blatant signs of evil: blood, broken bones. Hours of thirst and darkness were not dramatic enough for young males.

  She hastened to reassure him. “Oh, yes, he slugged me to get me into the closet. I’ve got a big bruise on my ribs.”

  “But he didn’t like strangle you?”

  “No. Didn’t want it to seem connected to your friend’s death, I think. Which makes me think it was.”

  “You’re right.” Curt nodded.

  “Can you tell me why your friend was in the house?”

  Curt glanced at Nick, then back at Julia. “All I know is he was meeting someone. A woman. Not a young one.”

  “And not me.”

  “Yeah, I wondered—but you were really hurt.”

  “Yes. Can you tell me anything else about the meeting?”

  “No. He didn’t tell me where. The only other thing was that she asked him to go disguised. So he put on an old wig he had saved from a play he’d been in.”

  “A wig!” Julia slapped the mattress in her excitement. “That’s why I couldn’t remember him! I saw him go into the house, Curt. Nine o’clock on Wednesday.”

  “Yeah, that would be about right. He split at eight-thirty.”

  “I thought he was a plumber. And I always go out for groceries about then. So I was out of the house when it must have happened. You don’t know why he was meeting this person?”

  “No.” Curt hesitated. Julia was reminded of a fifth-grader trying to decide if giving the teacher the information she’d asked for really constituted ratting on a friend. She put on the look of friendly expectancy that had won over many a child in the past. Curt looked into her eyes and said, “His dad left him some old medical records from his days in Brooklyn. I don’t know why they were special. Denny made copies and told me to take care of them.”

  “Medical records? Not drugs?”

  “Drugs?” Curt laughed. “Nah. Only drug Denny’s old man used was alcohol. A real boozer.”

  “What did the records say?”

  “I don’t understand the language much. I did look up the names in the Brooklyn phone book but they don’t seem to live here anymore. So I don’t know what Denny was into. It’s freaky.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Northrup would recognize the names. She’s lived in Brooklyn a long time,” Nick suggested.

  Curt looked at Julia skeptically. “You know people from Flatbush?”

  “Sure. Some,” said Julia. “Who?”

  “Let me think. Um, Rosalind Williams, the Hepburn sisters, Douglas F. Kilmer, Rock—um, Rock Martin. Oh, and Natalie Kelly.”

  Julia shook her head sadly. “No, guess not. How about Lund? Arthur, or Loretta?”

  “No. Oh, screw this, I knew it wouldn’t work! Let’s split.” The boy wiped his forehead angrily with one hand and turned away.

  “It’s slow sometimes, Curt, but we’ve got to try,” Nick soothed.

  “We were really tight, Denny and me. God, I want to throttle the guy that did it!”

  “So do I,” said Julia.

  “Curt, do you think it had to do with something else?” Maggie asked. “His work as a waiter? An audition?”

  Curt shook his head. “I wondered that. But he didn’t open up much about the job, except to complain about customers ripping him off. He was like ashamed of that job.”

  “How about auditions?” Nick asked.

  “Well, he worked at that. Left his résumé all over and went to cattle calls when he could.”

  “Really? I asked an agent and he hadn’t heard of Dennis Burns.”

  “Well, agents always ignore you.” Curt’s voice was bitter. “Anyway, his stage name was George Day. Said his dad suggested it, and laughed. Private joke, I guess.”

  “Well, that explains why I couldn’t find him.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to split.” Curt turned back to Julia. “Let’s trade phone numbers, okay? And share anything that comes up? But no police. I think I can find out more if the guy isn’t scared.”

  “I’ll share,” promised Julia, “and I don’t want the police around either. But I’ve got to protect myself too.” She scribbled her number into his notebook and tore off the page with his.

  Maggie had been looking dreamily out the viewless window. “Dr. Burns suggested George Day for Dennis. Fill in the blanks.” Her head snapped around and her wide-eyed gaze caught Nick’s. Julia could sense something crackling between them.

  “Robert Mead?” asked Nick.

  “Donald Nickleby. Wow!” She pounced on her umbrella and briefcase, eyes alight. “Look, I’m going to go check Julia’s place, and then go see if anyone is at the real-estate office yet. Curt, if you’d get those records and join me there, we may find another piece of the puzzle.”

  “You putting me on?” Curt looked as bewildered as Julia felt.

  “Come on, I’ll explain on the way,” said Nick.

  They all disappeared in a puff of excitement, but Maggie stuck her head back in after a moment. “I called Brugioni. You don’t have to tell him a thing, Teach, but you might think about how to convince him that you need police protectio
n. That Doberman of a nurse out there is no match for determined types like Nick and me. And our murderer is a determined type, and may hear that you’re out and functioning.” She disappeared again.

  Puzzling over their words, Julia drank another glass of water before light began to glimmer. But before she could work out how she fit into it, Lieutenant Brugioni poked his nose around the door, looking disgusted. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Northrup?”

  “Much better, thanks. Come on in. Hello, Sergeant Cleary.”

  Cleary’s pink Irish face beamed at her, but Brugioni was complaining, “The nurses were supposed to let me know when you woke up. How did Miss Ryan know you were up?”

  “I phoned her. Woke her up. Thought she might have noticed something when she dragged me out of that closet. I’m curious, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, we all are.” He pulled up the chair and sat, adjusting his damp trench coat. Cleary, notebook out, tried in vain to make himself inconspicuous against the white wall. “Now, would you like to tell us about how you got into this situation?”

  Omitting Artie’s name and the evidence he had planted, and scrupulously avoiding Curt’s not-for-police-ears story, Julia described the attack again. Brugioni quirked an eyebrow when she mentioned her dumbwaiter access to the upper floors, but seemed more interested in another aspect of her story.

  “Yes,” she answered him, “I just grabbed and somehow caught his hair, and then he shoved me into the dumbwaiter car.”

  “Was there anything strange about his hair?”

  “Strange?”

  “Was there anything strange about pulling it out?”

  “How would I know?” Julia was becoming exasperated. “What can I compare it with? I don’t go around regularly yanking out people’s hair, Lieutenant. Only on special occasions. Christmas, Easter, and whenever someone tries to murder me.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” Chastised but persistent, Brugioni rephrased his question. “I wondered if it came out easily, if there was resistance, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, his head sort of followed my hand a few inches as I pulled, then he jerked away. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.” Brugioni glanced at Cleary. They both seemed pleased.

  “Why are you so curious about it?”