“Well, the lab looked at the hair, Mrs. Northrup. And it’s modacrylic.”
“What?”
“It was from a wig.”
“That wig again!”
“Again?”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you. I remembered where I saw Dennis Burns. He was the workman going into the building at nine o’clock Wednesday morning. He was wearing a black wig. That’s why I couldn’t place him.”
“I see.”
“So the killer must have taken the boy’s wig, and then worn it when he attacked me!” Julia gave a little bounce of excitement on the mattress.
Brugioni smiled wanly. “Perhaps. That still doesn’t tell us who it is.”
“It tells us one thing,” Julia insisted.
“What?”
“The killer doesn’t have thick black hair.” Artie’s was thin.
“Perhaps.” Brugioni nodded. “Now, is there anything you want to add?”
Julia hesitated. She hadn’t accused Artie directly. Her case against him was too intimately tied to the evidence he’d planted against her—evidence that Brugioni might decide to take at face value, especially now that he knew about her elevator. No, she couldn’t accuse Artie or she’d be in real trouble. She thought wistfully of mentioning Amy and Curt. That would give Brugioni another angle, a lead that might reveal a connection between Artie and the victim. But she’d promised them. And in all her years of teaching and mothering, she’d never broken a promise to a child. She said slowly, “I don’t think so, Lieutenant.”
“Well, if it’s all right with you, I’ll take a look around your apartment. And—what are you doing here, Miss Ryan?”
Maggie, dripping wet and looking very serious, was standing in the doorway. “I told Mrs. Northrup I’d fetch her handbag.”
“Hey, Maggie, guess what?” Julia enthused. “The hair was from a wig! The killer took Denny’s wig and wore it when he attacked me!”
Maggie did not look pleased. “That seals it,” she said. “It’s not the one we talked about.”
“But—”
“Nobody’s trying to frame you, Teach. It’s for real.”
“Frame you?” interrupted Brugioni. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing!” Julia glared at Maggie. “We just wondered, since I live in the house, if the killer might try to make me a suspect. Nothing specific.”
Maggie crossed the room to the bed and dropped Julia’s handbag beside her. “It’s up to you, Teach. I won’t make your decisions for you. But there are other possibilities. I’m going now to start checking them out.”
A sense of dread lay heavy in Julia’s stomach. She ignored it. “Well, keep us posted,” she said cheerfully.
“Of course. Oh, one other thing. Don’t worry about the begonias, they hadn’t dried out at all.”
Julia felt her eyes filling. Angry at her own weakness, she drew up her knees under the sheet and rested her face against them. Didn’t want the young folks to see her sniveling.
“Things will look better tomorrow, Teach,” said Maggie gently, her hand light on Julia’s shoulder.
Julia shrugged it off, swiped at her eyes with the ugly sleeve of her gown, and glared at this clear-sighted, disruptive young woman who seemed to read her so easily She snapped, “‘So long as I have yesterday, go take your damned tomorrow!’ Now scram, Bonesy, I’ve got a lot more to tell the lieutenant.”
Obediently, Maggie scrammed.
16
This was a hell of a hangover.
Len opened his eyes. Light splintered his head and he closed them again. Hadn’t he done this already this morning? A cop, hammering on the car—
He wasn’t in his car now. His head was floating somewhere. A memory tugged at him: his proposal. He was working on the proposal. At the office, right? In Joyce’s inner office. He tried opening his eyes again, just a slit. Yes. Here was the flecked carpet, itchy against his face. That was Joyce’s radiator, unabashedly Victorian under its thick wrap of layered paint. And his proposal—his proposal! Where was it? He raised his head and saw it, pages fanned out, by his left hand. The coffeepot lay beside it. Why? He squinted at it. What was it doing on the carpet?
For that matter, what was Len Trager doing on the carpet?
A familiar voice knifed into his consciousness. “Is Len here?”
“Len? No—ah—”
Len mumbled, “Nance!” He sat up, brain throbbing, and squinted through the door into the main office.
Nancy was running toward him, her raincoat dripping. “Len! What’s happened?” She dropped to her knees beside him.
“I don’t know. My head—I hit my head somehow.” His tongue was too thick.
“Let me see.” Her gentle fingers brushed through his hair, probing delicately. Beyond her he could see Joyce frowning at them. “You’ll do,” Nancy decided. “A little bump is all.”
“Why are you here?” Len enunciated carefully.
“I waited for you at home. All night.”
“You were home?”
“You ran away so fast! By the time I cleaned up enough to follow you, you’d disappeared. So I waited at home.”
“God, Nance! I was out getting drunk.”
“So I see.”
The quick smile in her eyes helped clear his head. He said, “I thought you’d never want to see me again, after what I said.”
“After what you said, you’ll never get rid of me! But, Len”—there was real concern in her voice—“what happened here?”
He dragged his amazed eyes from her and struggled to make sense of the scene. “I was here early. Someone must have broken in. Everything was normal when I got here to finish my proposal. No, wait, the lock gave me trouble. So maybe he was already here, hiding in Joyce’s office. He must have hit me with the coffeepot and then escaped while I was unconscious. Did you see anyone? Did you, Joyce?”
“Not in here,” said Joyce. “And only that old wino outside.” Her eyes were wary, fixed on Len.
Nancy rose slowly to her feet. “Len?” she asked. “Were you unconscious very long?”
He blinked at his watch. “No,” he said, surprised. “It’s just now a quarter to eight. Maybe ten minutes since I checked the time.”
“Ten minutes!” Nancy turned to Joyce. “Did you phone for a doctor?”
“No. The door was unlocked when I arrived. I was—ah—checking to see if someone had broken in.”
“And poor Len lying here!” Nancy’s indignation was swelling into flush-faced anger. She stepped accusingly through the office door toward Joyce.
“Nance, be reasonable!” protested Len, stumbling to his feet and clutching the desk for support. “She thought someone had broken in. She probably didn’t even see me—” He trailed off. Next to him, draped across Joyce’s desk chair, were her damp raincoat and her big handbag. The medical record that had been on the desk was gone. He looked back at Joyce, and suddenly his skin seemed to tighten.
“No one broke in, Len!” Rage roughened Nancy’s voice. “She knocked you out herself!”
Joyce was studying Len, tenseness about her eyes. “Not true. Maybe he stumbled and hit his head. Nancy, Len and I have some business to discuss. Would you wait outside for a moment?”
Len, still hazy, struggled to keep the anger and fear down in his stomach. He leaned against the frame of the door to the main office. Through the plate glass window he could see a couple of people half-hidden by umbrellas, scurrying beetle-like past the building. Across the street a bag lady adjusted the plastic trash bag that covered her hair and nestled herself mournfully into a doorway.
Nancy was shaking her head, following Joyce toward Renata’s desk. “No. How can you ask me to leave him now?”
“I must talk to him. It’s vital!”
“At best, you didn’t help him. At worst, you knocked him out!” Nancy insisted.
“Nancy, please.” An edge of desperation colored Joyce’s words. She reached out a hand in nervous appeal to Nancy, too
k her wrist, and wrenched it up behind her back. Nancy gave a little cry. Unbelieving, Len saw the sudden flash of Renata’s big scissors in Joyce’s hand. His body went rigid. The cruel points rested on Nancy’s throat.
“I hate to do it this way, but I must talk terms with Len! And people will be here soon,” said Joyce. “We’d better go for a drive.”
“What do you want me to do?” Len’s tongue seemed unbearably thick. Nancy stood stiff with fear, unresisting. The ice-bright blades gleamed at the hollow of her throat.
“Bring my handbag. Nancy will carry it.”
There was no choice. He went to her inner office and picked up the bag from the desk chair. He had to keep Nancy safe, concentrate on doing what Joyce wanted. But his head was pulsing with pain and with questions: Why? Why was Joyce threatening Nancy? Had she in fact hit him? Was she insane? Or was there a reason? What terms did she mean? Her bag was gaping open, and he caught a glimpse of the medical record inside as he closed the flap and turned back to Joyce. “Here it is.”
“Stand five feet away from us and hand it to Nancy. That’s right. We’ll take your car, it’s right outside. You drive, we’ll sit in the back seat, and we’ll work something out. Really, I think you’re getting greedy.”
“Greedy?”
“To try to claim I attacked you, on top of everything else!” Joyce shifted the scissors to Nancy’s back. “But first, get rid of her.”
“Get rid—oh.” Len followed her gaze and saw Maggie Ryan outside the door, closing her umbrella.
“Hello, everyone,” Maggie caroled cheerfully as she stepped inside and set her umbrella to drip next to the others by the door.
“Hello, Miss Ryan.” Joyce smiled, warm and businesslike except for the set of her eyes.
“Hi.” Len was amazed that his voice didn’t crack. “What can we do for you?”
“I’m glad to find you all here so early. Especially on a day like this.” She glanced out the window.
“We aren’t really open for another hour,” said Joyce. A faint thread of desperation ran through her tone. “In fact, we were just leaving.”
“Just a couple of questions. I have to get to work too.” Maggie was standing with her back to the door, looking brightly from one to the other. A puddle was forming below her dripping coat.
“Sure, if they’re quick,” said Len. Joyce’s mouth tightened. He had to get rid of Maggie somehow.
“Let me just find something.” Maggie unsnapped her briefcase. “Where are you going so early? Nothing much is open.”
“It’s, ah, a special appointment at my decorator’s,” Joyce improvised smoothly. “I need some advice from an artist, and Nancy has such excellent taste.”
“Oh, I know.” Maggie smiled. “Len brags about her.”
Len’s mouth was dry with anxiety. “Well, we do have to—”
“Here they are!” Triumphantly, Maggie pulled a set of keys from her briefcase. “Len, in all the excitement, I forgot to return Mr. Lund’s keys last night. And you were in such a rush to get back to Nancy, because you were late.”
“Thank you.” Len snatched the keys. “Now, would you excuse us?” If she’d only get out of the way! Joyce was so tense, so unstable. The hand holding the scissors at Nancy’s back was trembling.
But Maggie stood fast. She had put down her briefcase and was unaccountably unbuttoning her coat. “I hope you weren’t too hard on Len for being late, Nancy. Did he explain what happened?”
“Yes.” Nancy didn’t nod or gesture, and Len could sense the strain that went into keeping her voice level. “About finding Mrs. Northrup and rescuing her.”
“Yes. It was such a shock!” Maggie was gushing. Why was she so thickheaded today?
Joyce shoved Nancy toward the door. “Excuse me. Miss Ryan, we’re leaving.”
“You’ll need your raincoat, Mrs. Banks!” Maggie was half out of her own. But at last Maggie was stepping aside, turning to look at them as she did. Len, relieved that Joyce was no longer being antagonized, still felt a pang to see Nancy approaching the door.
“Open it, Nancy,” urged Joyce. Nancy bent away from her slightly to put down the handbag so she would have a hand free to reach for the handle.
Then Len saw that Maggie was stepping between them, her arm snapping up below Joyce’s to knock the scissors up. Endangering Nancy.
“Do what she says, dammit!” He dove across the room to tackle Maggie around the waist, to jerk her away. She ignored him, concentrated completely on the weapon. The scissors raked against Maggie’s cheek as Len dragged her off balance and Joyce turned on her, but she managed to seize Joyce’s wrist. Then something heavy slammed painfully into Len’s head as Maggie writhed out of her raincoat and free of his grasp.
“Whose side are you on, idiot!” he heard someone—Nancy—demand. She had struck him with the handbag.
On all fours, Len shook his head, woozy from the blow and from his hangover. He saw his hand still gripping Maggie’s wet, rumpled raincoat. The important thing, he realized, was that Nancy was free. Time to get her away from here.
Except that Joyce and Maggie were blocking the door. Joyce, grunting, was pounding furiously on Maggie’s back with her left hand, clawing at her hair, her eyes. Gone was the carefully manicured businesswoman; instead Len could glimpse the fabled Olympic contender, raging for the win as though her life depended on it. But Maggie ignored her, focusing on the scissors. Both her hands were still clenched on Joyce’s right wrist, keeping the glinting blades at bay.
Joyce went suddenly still. “Look, this is ridiculous,” she gasped. “I’m an old woman. I quit.”
Maggie didn’t release her. “I don’t know what the problem is, Mrs. Banks. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m being as ladylike as possible. But you have to drop the scissors.”
“All right.” The fingers of her right hand loosened and Maggie relaxed to take the scissors. But with a flick of her left hand, Joyce snatched them, pulled back, drove the points at the younger woman. Maggie lurched violently away, stumbled over Renata’s chair. The points gashed the blue dress.
Nancy screamed, “Joyce, stop it! She’s pregnant!”
Wrong move. Awkward and off balance, Maggie was wrestling with the overturned chair, desperately trying to right herself. And Joyce twisted Nancy’s words into a recipe for victory. She leaned slowly over Maggie’s struggling form, drew back the scissors, and aimed straight for the unprotected belly.
Aghast, Len tried to stand up. But it was Nancy, swinging the handbag, who clipped Joyce behind the knees. The stab went wide. Maggie, still off balance, slapped wildly at the scissors hand and seized it again, wrenching Joyce down. They skidded back across the chair together, flailing.
But now Maggie too abandoned all restraint. She fought with a hailstorm of fists, knees, teeth. Wild as a street punk, yet coldly efficient, she snapped Joyce’s finger back until the other woman screamed in pain. The scissors fell. Maggie drove a savage elbow between Joyce’s breasts and she screamed again. By the time Len had reached his feet, Maggie had a knee on Joyce’s abdomen. She snatched up the scissors and nudged them into the hollow of Joyce’s throat. A trickle of red oozed onto the designer collar.
“It’s all right, Len,” Maggie panted, not looking around. The scratch on her cheek was bright. Joyce lay rigid, unmoving. “Mrs. Banks and I have reached an understanding. We’re both going to be ladylike now. Call Mrs. Northrup’s number. Brugioni should be there.”
Len turned to Nancy. She was leaning white-faced against Stein’s desk, Joyce’s big bag still dangling from her hand. She gave him a trembly smile. “I’ll be okay. Call him.”
He picked up the phone. “Be right there,” said Brugioni’s deep voice.
“Now,” said Maggie, still focused on Joyce, “would someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Len’s pulse was jackhammering in his temples, as though he’d been the one fighting. He forced his thoughts into coherence. “I came in early to work
on my proposal. There was some problem with the lock, I remember. Maybe it was unlocked already. I came in and everything was normal. But when I went into Joyce’s office to leave my work on her desk, someone hit me. I think with the coffeepot. I blacked out for a few minutes. When I came to, Nancy and Joyce were here.”
“Joyce hit him,” Nancy declared, “and then threatened me with the scissors.”
“Mrs. Banks?” Maggie’s voice was courteous, but when Joyce tried to shift beneath her, the scissors prodded her throat and Maggie’s bony knee ground into her stomach again. Joyce grunted. “Mrs. Banks?” Maggie repeated. “What were you doing?”
Joyce spoke through her teeth to keep her chin from jostling the scissors against her throat. “I was checking to see if anyone had taken anything. The door was unlocked. I did not hit Len.”
“That’s what she said before.” Nancy was scornful. “You saw what she did to me! And you!”
“I was trying to work something out with Len!”
“Work something out?” asked Maggie. But when Joyce remained silent, she said, “We’ll come back to that. Len, do you think she hit you?”
“I think she was here already. With that weather out there I would have noticed if someone came in, even if I wasn’t looking. And someone sure hit me.” He touched the tender place behind his ear and winced. “And someone moved the medical record. It was on Joyce’s desk, and now—”
“Are you insane?” Joyce spat at him.
“It was there!”
“Len, don’t.” Joyce lay rigid on the floor, still wary of the scissors and of Maggie’s immobilizing knee, yet she seemed more afraid of Len. “I’ll meet your terms!”
“My terms? Why do you keep talking about—”
“Freeze! And drop those scissors!”
The uniformed officer came bursting through the door into a combat crouch, gun leveled at Maggie. His black rain gear rivered water into the soggy carpet.
Maggie didn’t take her eyes from Joyce. “Len, is it a real cop?”
“Yes.” Len could see the patrol car outside, the second officer approaching the door. “Real gun too.”
Murder Unrenovated Page 22
