Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  “Okay.” She rose slowly and tossed the scissors across the room away from Joyce before lifting her hands. The second policeman briskly patted her down and then turned to help Joyce to her feet.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “For the most part.” Joyce could not hide the sly triumph in her glance at Maggie. “Thank God you came. Officer! This woman ambushed me!” She stood erect, though pale. Len could see the marks of teeth on her arm, and she cradled her right hand in her left.

  “Let’s have everyone’s name,” demanded the second policeman coldly.

  Lieutenant Brugioni, with Cleary on his heels, pushed open the door. “Hello, Steve,” he rumbled, raising an eyebrow at the gun. “What’s going on?”

  “Young lady here was attacking this older lady with the scissors.”

  “And why was that, Miss Ryan?” Sounding mildly intrigued, Brugioni motioned to Cleary, who promptly pulled out his notebook.

  “Because she attacked Nancy Selden.” Hands still held high, Maggie gestured at Nancy with her chin.

  Brugioni’s flat intelligent eyes inspected Nancy. “Glad to meet you, Miss Selden. I’m Lieutenant Brugioni. And why did Mrs. Banks attack you?”

  Joyce stirred, indignant. “I didn’t attack her. I just wanted to talk to them.”

  “Mm. Difference of opinion here. What do you say, Steve?”

  “Young lady was attacking the other lady.”

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Who was here first?”

  Len licked his lips. “Joyce, I think. I arrived a bit after seven. The door was unlocked already. I did some work at my desk, then took it into Joyce’s office. I started to put it on her desk and then someone clobbered me, I think with the coffeepot.”

  “And I think he stumbled and hit his head on the desk,” declared Joyce. “He was here first.”

  Len stared at her, trying to untangle the workings of the mind behind the pale tense mask of her face. “Then why is the coffeepot on the floor in there?” he demanded, but she only shrugged. “Anyway,” he continued stubbornly, “when I came to a few minutes later, Joyce was here, and Nancy too.” He went through the familiar story once again. Nancy chimed in with her observations, but Joyce shook her head.

  “Mrs. Banks, you don’t agree?” asked Brugioni.

  “When I arrived, Mr. Trager was already here, unconscious. The important thing is that Miss Ryan attacked me.” She started to gesture with her right hand but halted, smothering a wince.

  Brugioni’s appraising glance was full of sympathy. This was not going right at all, Len thought. He protested, “But it was Joyce who attacked us!”

  “That’s not what the officer saw.”

  “She knocked me out! Threatened Nancy with those scissors!” Even as he said it, Len realized how unlikely it sounded: well-groomed, businesslike, rich Joyce Banks doing all that? Even mussed by Maggie’s pummeling, Joyce retained her formidable dignity. But Maggie was studying her, eyes narrowed, and Len understood that the battle between those two was not finished yet.

  “Those are ridiculous accusations!” Joyce declared.

  “We’ll see,” Maggie said quietly. “Here come the men in the white hats. I hope.”

  A neat, dark-haired young man in a bright yellow slicker entered. Behind him, Len saw Nick swiftly take in the scene: his wife with bloodied cheek, torn dress, hands high before a policeman’s gun. At a nod from Maggie, he asked unbelievingly, “In front of everybody?”

  “You bet!” said Maggie vehemently.

  Nick turned his attention back to the young man, who was pulling a thin bundle of manila folders from under his slicker and asking, “How is this supposed to help?”

  “Check the names on the records Denny left,” Nick instructed him. “You’ll see the name is right.”

  “Joyce Banks?” said the young man dubiously. He shuffled through the folders, stopped at one, and whistled softly through his teeth. “Son of a gun.”

  “She’s also Mrs. Gordon Banks.”

  The young man’s face came to life. “Jesus! Well, Denny always said a couple of these folders would set him up for life. But I don’t—”

  “Just a minute,” interrupted Brugioni. “Who are you?”

  “Curt Pritchard. I was real close to Dennis Burns.”

  “And you know something about his death?”

  “Not much. A week ago Tuesday night he got a call. He was supposed to like meet somebody the next morning. He told me to take care of these folders for him. And he said he was supposed to go like disguised. He put on a black wig and preened around in it a little, joking. And early the next morning he grabbed the wig and the bottle of wine and went off. He was like feeling good, you know? And he never came back.”

  Brugioni nodded at the folders. “What are they?”

  “Denny’s dad was a gynecologist. These are copies of some medical records he kept. Denny took the originals.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Joyce lunged toward Curt. But Maggie, hands still held high, gazing attentively out the window as though the answer to her problems lay somewhere in the rain-swept streets, stuck out a lanky leg and neatly snagged Joyce’s ankle. Joyce stumbled to her knees. Cleary helped her back to the chair.

  “Hey, settle down,” said Brugioni to both of them; then, “Go on, Mr. Pritchard.”

  “He was going to like sell the originals back to people. But I don’t know why. Like what is this crap?” He tapped the top folder. “Fibroadenoma 1950, tubal ligation 1951, fibroadenoma 1953, endometrial biopsy 1960, Rubin test 1961—what does all that mean?”

  “This is ridiculous!” Joyce exclaimed. She was poised taut on the edge of her chair, held back only by Cleary’s proximity. “Lieutenant, I need medical attention. Why don’t you arrest this young woman for assaulting me and find out about the young man’s problem later? It couldn’t have anything to do—” She trailed off at the malevolent triumph in Maggie’s eyes.

  “I’ve got a glimmer, Lieutenant,” Maggie announced. “Len, that party was the Bankses’—what? Fifteenth anniversary?”

  “Yes.” Len was mystified.

  Nick was frowning at Maggie in consternation. “What about that meeting?” he asked her.

  With an impatient shake of her head, she continued, “So they married in, let’s see, 1957.”

  Joyce was looking at Maggie in terror. Len saw that somehow Maggie—hands still raised before the gun—had won. Joyce whispered, “Please!”

  But Maggie’s frosty gaze was implacable. “You think you’re the only one who can hit below the belt? No, ma’am!” she said. Len saw Nick’s eyes narrow in appalled comprehension. Maggie turned to Brugioni. “Joyce was sterilized in 1951, Lieutenant. And married Gordon Banks six years later.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Len. This couldn’t be right. “They wanted kids! That can’t be Joyce on that record. Gordon said he probably wouldn’t have married again at all, but he wanted kids!”

  “Right!” said Nick.

  Len shook his head doggedly. “You’re trying to say it’s blackmail. Well, it can’t be that. Gordon said Joyce was disappointed when her doctor couldn’t find anything wrong to treat. They did tests. And the doctor’s name wasn’t Burns. It was Dr.—not Dr. Gable. Clark, that’s it. Dr. Clark.”

  “Yeah,” said Curt. “Dr. Clark Burns. Denny’s dad.”

  “Dr. Clark Burns?” repeated Len stupidly.

  “Right,” said Nick scornfully. “The Rex Morgan of Flatbush. Joyce’s dear old doctor. And Denny’s noble dad.”

  “Put your hands down, Miss Ryan. And you, put that gun away,” said Brugioni irritably. Maggie moved around to stand behind Nick and Curt, peering at the folders. “I’ll take that,” Brugioni snapped, jerking the top one from Curt’s hands and inspecting it. “So Dennis Burns was going to blackmail her? Because she didn’t want her husband to know about this?”

  “See, his dad started it,” explained Curt. “When his practice started falling apart, he really needed mo
ney bad so he went back to his old records from Brooklyn. Found some people who like didn’t want to have things about them known. He’d been picking up a little money for years that way. Denny didn’t approve, really. But when he found out what a bitch it is to get work acting—well, he wanted to do well for Amy, you see.”

  Brugioni looked up from the folder. “But this record is labeled Douglas F. Kilmer.”

  Nick said, “Celebrity fill-in-the-blanks. Douglas F. is Douglas Fairbanks, so you get Banks in the blank. And Kilmer is—”

  “Joyce.” Brugioni nodded. “I’ve been to school too.” He glanced at Curt. “You say Dennis took the originals of these with him?”

  Len said, “The original of that one is in Joyce’s handbag.”

  “What?”

  “It was on her desk when I went into her office,” Len said. “Douglas F. Kilmer. When I came to, it was gone. Then I saw it in her bag.” He indicated the handbag that Nancy still held. She opened it and pulled out the folder. Brugioni glanced from it to Curt’s copy, then turned to Joyce.

  “Do you want to say anything? You have the right to remain silent.”

  Joyce raised her head. Len was astonished to see tears streaking her usually flawless makeup. Nick glanced at Maggie in consternation. Joyce said dully, “The only reason to remain silent is gone now.”

  “You want to call your lawyer?”

  In her grief she didn’t seem to comprehend. “If only—is there any way to keep it from Gordon?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Banks.” Brugioni’s deep voice was surprisingly gentle. “Do you want a lawyer?”

  “No, why? I’ll try to explain.” She slumped in Renata’s chair, knees together, hands clasped. Her streaked face and bloody collar gave her the air of an unfortunate schoolgirl called before the principal for some mischief or other. “It was because of my sister Jeanne. We were swimmers, you know.”

  “Olympic-class,” murmured Maggie.

  “Yes. We beat most of the medalists, at one time or another. We worked so hard. She was a year younger but we were like twins. We trained together, long, long days. Happy days. We promised each other we would win the Olympics and then become very, very rich.” She blinked down at her damaged hand. “And then—well, swimmers aren’t necessarily puritans, you know. I’m not even sure who the boy was. But something went terribly wrong—you wouldn’t understand!” she hurled angrily at Maggie.

  “I’m trying,” Maggie said.

  Joyce studied her a moment, perhaps found the hint of compassion she was searching for. She went on, “We were training hard that spring. And suddenly one day she got a bad cramp. At first we thought it was a muscle or something. But it got worse. She was pale. She said, ‘Joyce, this is it. You’d better go on and win for me too.’ And by the time the ambulance got there she was so far into shock they couldn’t save her.”

  “What happened?” Nancy’s voice was very small.

  “Ectopic pregnancy. Ruptured and killed her.”

  Nancy bit her lower lip. Len cupped her hand in both of his and saw that Nick had gripped Maggie’s too.

  Brugioni cleared his throat. “This was a long time ago, Mrs. Banks.”

  She said, “I couldn’t train anymore, of course. Couldn’t concentrate. That was the end of the Olympics. Best I could do was a bronze in one event. But one thing I vowed: I couldn’t let it happen to me. I had goals to fulfill for both of us now. So when I heard about a nearby doctor who did—things—for people, I went to him and had myself sterilized. Then I set out to win the world for Jeanne.”

  “You did it, too,” said Maggie, softly.

  “Pretty near. Head to head with men, and I won. On their grounds. Because they couldn’t hurt me the way they’d hurt Jeanne. You’re very foolish, you know,” she added to Maggie.

  Maggie’s lips tightened. She crossed her arms and stared out into the rain. The others were silent, watching Joyce. Len could imagine her as a young woman, flinging herself into the business world with all the competitive hunger of a fine athlete joining with the vengeful thwarted rage of a grieving sister.

  “Well, I accomplished a lot. But not what Jeanne and I had dreamed. And then Gordon happened along. He liked my looks, and I could use his wealth. So I thought, ‘Hey, Jeanne, we’ve won.’”

  “And that’s why you married him?” asked Maggie, still gazing out the window. “As a sort of trophy to prove you’d defeated the male gender?”

  “Listen, things were not that easy in the fifties! It’s easier now. In the fifties you’d have been home in an apron, young lady. You’d have been defeated!”

  “I doubt that.” Nick stepped in hastily, heading off Maggie’s retort. “But in fact your marriage lasted.”

  “Gordon is a good business partner. We speak the same language, in a way. He understands what I’m trying to do.”

  “Except that no children came.”

  “Yes. I couldn’t get him past that. Gordon just doesn’t give up easily. He insisted on the Rubin test and those other ghastly fertility things. So I hurried back to Dr. Burns and offered money if he’d cooperate. He smiled and took it. Did the tests and reported to Gordon that the problem was beyond scientific comprehension, just happened that way sometimes. When Gordon finally accepted the story I thought it was all over.” A bitter smile twisted her lips. “A few months later I got my first letter from the good doctor. He wanted to move to Westchester, he said, and needed a little help with his mortgage payments. So all that started.”

  “Look, I still don’t understand,” Maggie said. “You didn’t care about your marriage except economically. Why didn’t you quietly get some assets transferred to your control and then tell your husband about it? Get back at the blackmailer by exposing him? Get back at your husband for being the same sex as the guy who ruined Jeanne?”

  “I thought of that, of course.” Hands clasped in her lap, Joyce looked up at Maggie. “But the strangest thing had happened. It—well, the closest way to describe it might be to say that after all those years Gordon had become my best friend. It was funny. I really cared about him. I didn’t want him to be hurt.”

  Len thought of Gordon Banks in his lush penthouse garden, mourning for his unconceived heirs, and suddenly felt sickened by what lay ahead for the sharp old man.

  Brugioni said, “What about Dennis Burns?”

  “I didn’t even know that the doctor had died. But a couple of months ago I got a note from Dennis. Introducing himself and giving a new address. And quadrupling the size of the payments.”

  “Ah,” said Brugioni. Cleary was scribbling rapidly in his book. “So you asked to meet him?”

  “Meet him?” Joyce seemed puzzled.

  “To work out more reasonable payments, maybe?”

  She frowned at Brugioni, then with quick wariness at Len and Maggie. “So that’s it—no, I never met him. I could afford what he was asking. And just a couple of weeks after the first payoff to him, you told me he was the one who’d been killed. So again I thought it was over.”

  Brugioni exchanged a sharp glance with Cleary. “You’re saying you didn’t meet him?”

  “I didn’t meet him. Ever.”

  “Even so, Mrs. Banks, you’ll understand that we’ll have to take you in for questioning.”

  “Questioning? You think that—” Joyce shook her head in weary disbelief. “It makes no difference now. But, Lieutenant, this is ridiculous. Last weekend someone called me. Used the same words Dennis Burns used. It was like hearing a ghost. It told me to unlock the office at six-thirty this morning and leave a money order for ten thousand dollars on a desk, and I’d get my medical file back. I wasn’t to return before seven-forty-five. Well, I followed instructions. One does. When I arrived at a quarter to eight the money was gone and the folder was there. But Len was still lying there because he’d somehow knocked himself out. Don’t you see? He’s the blackmailer! And where could he have gotten that folder? Only from Dennis Burns!”

  “Joyce, you’re crazy!” Len
was stunned by the vicious accusation. “You’re making this up! You got that folder when you met Burns!”

  Joyce’s eyes flared open. “Do you want me to say ‘uncle’? Doesn’t Gordon have enough to bear?” She turned to Brugioni in desperate appeal. “Look, Lieutenant, I don’t kill people! My God, why don’t you charge Len? Not me! You might as well charge Sergeant Cleary, or that bag lady out there! Not me! I don’t kill people!”

  “You tried to stab me, and now you’re trying to convince us that you don’t kill people?” demanded Maggie.

  “I wouldn’t have—look, I had to arrange terms with a blackmailer! Len was about to ruin everything I’d done for Jeanne, and for Gordon—” She slumped back into the chair, a hand hiding her ravaged face.

  “Well, now, Mrs. Banks—” Brugioni rumbled uncomfortably.

  Maggie seemed suddenly weary. “Oh, hell, enough of this. Lieutenant, excuse me, better not arrest her. Joyce Banks didn’t murder Dennis Burns.”

  “What do you mean?” squawked Len. “You just heard her admit how he was blackmailing her! How she’d be better off without him! And, my God, you saw her attack Nancy! And attack you too!”

  “Oh, yes, that’s all true,” Maggie agreed. “I’m not saying she’s nice. She packs a mean pair of scissors when she’s upset, and if she ever tries it with me again I’ll kick her face in. But she’s right about one thing.” She jerked a thumb toward the rain-streaked window. “That bag lady did it.”

  17

  “Miss Ryan, you’ve been very helpful, but this is no time for joking!” Exasperation laced Brugioni’s deep tone.

  “Well, shouldn’t you at least talk to her? She was out there before I arrived. She must have seen whoever came in and out.”

  “We can talk to her later.”

  “It’s wet out there. It’s an act of charity to bring her in.”

  “Maybe so, but we have to go over Mrs. Banks’s statement very carefully. We’d better get started.”

  “Still, you don’t want to go arresting Mrs. Gordon Banks until you’ve checked everything pretty damn carefully,” Maggie pointed out.