Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

Just perhaps, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Clyde, we have a problem.” Clyde didn’t even meow, but then, he was a quiet cat.

  I almost wished he were real. I could sit on a rocker, stroking his fur. I’d think out loud and come to some remarkable conclusions. Like, nobody would be returning to the Hemingway house any time soon. Nobody would mind if I stayed the night, except me. But when they found the body, they’d mind. Big time. I’d left fingerprints, more than I could possibly clean up. And an eyewitness had seen me unlock the door.

  She hadn’t seen me enter. Perhaps, if I got rid of every sign I was inside the house.

  In the kitchen I guzzled the pint of milk, ran my garbage down the disposal, crushed the packaging and stuck it under the trash in the waste basket. “Come on, Clyde,” I said as I repacked my tote bag.

  But Clyde would not come. Never mind that the creature was imaginary, I couldn’t leave it behind, could I?

  “I mean now, Clyde.”

  Okay, so maybe a cat wasn’t a good idea. I had a dog, eager to please. “Here, Fido,” I tried, looking over my shoulder. But it was Clyde behind me, rooted to the floor.

  Of course he was right.

  I grabbed the kitchen towel and ran through the place, rubbing door knobs, faucets, and handles.

  Why hadn’t Clyde been around earlier, to caterwaul, “Ackk. Danger,” when I found Mrs. Hemingway’s keys in her desk?

  Ten minutes tops and I was ready to escape. I listened at the back door. An owl, or was it a dove? Distant traffic. A barking dog, far away. No voices, not even from someone’s TV. I stepped out. The dampness and chill pressed on my shoulders, bringing with it an irrational fear.

  No one was after me. Don’t run. I scurried through the yard to the sidewalk. I forced myself to slow down, to walk in a steady cadence. I’d wiped the telephone, the refrigerator, everything I remembered touching. Had I gotten all my prints? Impossible. The police would find them somewhere, and they were certainly on file.

  I could see the headlines. WOMAN FINDS BODY. No,they wouldn’t be so kind. WOMAN BREAKS INTO HOUSE—FINDS BODY. But they’d want to grab the man on the street. WOMAN MURDERED IN HER HOME. And, underneath—Intruder Suspected.

  No, they’d Google my name. Find an even better headline. WHITE WIDOW KILLS AGAIN.

  Oh, hell.

  Chapter 3

  Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.

  Why did I think of silly ditties at the most inopportune times? And, if I recall, running didn’t do the Gingerbread Man a bit of good. I had no reason to worry. After all, Mrs. Hemingway was on a month’s vacation. No one would miss her, enter the house, or find the body for weeks.

  I walked sedately in shadow, stepped briskly near street lights. No one would notice me. The police wouldn’t stop me. No one would yell, “She’s getting away!”

  Why would they? I wasn’t the only one on foot. Queensboro is a walking kind of town. Tourists follow maps to historic monuments. Shoppers seek the latest bargains. Families push strollers. Joggers weave in and out of traffic. It isn’t just the parking crunch. It’s the vacation atmosphere—the fresh sea breezes, the sun drenched or star-studded sky, the open shop doors, and the water—the Chesapeake Bay that surrounds most of Queensboro.

  I pulled my collar up, rubbed my elbows. That cool breeze had freshened a bit too much. Twenty knots at least. Good for sailing, they’d say, but it tore at my hair and at the tree branches. And tore, as well, at my complacency.

  Yes, I’d eliminated all my fingerprints. No, the neighbor wouldn’t identify me, or even remember me when they discovered the body. I should call in a report, suggest a search of the Hemingway house. But how could I? I was never there. Except for the fingerprints. I must have left some. The witness was curious. She’d remember. At least, she’d remember a woman. But in a month would she remember my face, my clothes?

  I walked aimlessly. There was absolutely no reason to panic, no reason to walk in a fog. I had to think defensively, preemptively, creatively.

  What did I know about the body? Was she Mrs. Hemingway? My new employer—her boss—and her coworkers, did they have a motive to kill? Did anyone else? What could I tell the police when they arrested me? That I’m a journalist conducting in-depth research? Would they care? I passed the library and hesitated. Yes, the library, a temporary shelter, and one that included a public comfort station. I turned back. It was also a superior information source.

  The library closed at ten. I was inside well before nine. I headed for an open computer. Its monitor urged me to punch keys. I did.

  “Hemingway, Francine,” was listed in the Queensboro directory, nowhere else. Obviously not at all famous.

  Abbott Computing Services was listed in the business directory. President, Mr. Talbit. For a president, he’d been decidedly non-presidential the entire day. He’d holed up in his office, turned away visitors, and yelled into his telephone. No mention of a Mr. Abbott. Number of employees, between zero and fifty. Shouldn’t the category be from one to fifty? Hard to run a business with zero employees. Product, computer software. Of course there had to be other departments besides Billing. Someone to do the brain work, others to ship products.

  I clicked to Arts, and Waterman’s Museum. The ticket I’d found mentioned something about England, but what? A new display? A new wing? A new setting for an old display? The museum filled two floors on the waterfront, according to the diagram. Large displays on the main floor, small exhibits and offices above.

  Not yet nine-fifteen. I browsed non-fiction looking for a book I didn’t want to find, but it was there. The exposé some hot shot wrote “uncovering” my past as the White Widow.

  They’d had a year and a half, no two. I’d send the usual letter with a copy of the court order, but would they destroy the book, or would they stick it in a discard pile to sell at some fund raiser?

  I turned away.

  Why did I keep seeking a book of innuendo and falsehoods? I should be looking for clues instead. I’d found none of them. No motives for a body in Francine Hemingway’s house. Not that I could expect to find any current information if that discredited exposé was any indication. I headed for the library restroom.

  A good wash-up rejuvenated me. I brushed my teeth, changed into sweats from my tote bag, and told Clyde, “I didn’t actually kill anyone.”

  Lord love a duck. I was losing it, talking to an imaginary cat when there was no one around to confound. Did he care if I’d been accused of murder because of a couple of lurid “true” stories I wrote? Did he care that the trial lost me credibility for the money jobs? I opened the door—to a hallway without light.

  It wasn’t just a burned out bulb, the entire library was dark. Was it ten already? Now what would I do?

  I’d leave, and the quicker, the better. I headed for the front door, quietly, as befitted the library ambiance, but what did I whisper? “Clyde, did you know you are consorting with a woman of questionable values?”

  He knew. Maybe not about the, “White Widow murders,” but Clyde was a perceptive cat. I had no need to explain what Officer Rivlin thought of ladies who, for instance, slept in the city hall garage, even after I explained the enormous tax waste of the empty, dry space. So where would I go? Possibly the motel downtown. Cheesy, but cheap. But first, I’d stop at Fu Lee’s Karate.

  Fortunately, my bag held a tiny flashlight. By its dim beacon I found the library’s front door.

  Leaving posed an unexpected problem. The massive door and its antique lock did not yield to a mere turn of the dead bolt. No keys in my collection fit. But there was a back door at the end of a hall of offices. I released the dead bolt and pushed the emergency bar down.

  All hell broke loose. A siren pierced my ears. I shoved the door open. A strobe light circled the sky.

  I ran—flat out. Was a lick of flame, a blast of hot gases, or an entire panzer division following me?

  I didn’t look back.
/>   Chapter 4

  I raced ahead of the screaming siren. My bag thumped against my back. The blazing light overhead disappeared, leaving a dark, blacker than midnight, then it returned, stabbing the sky again. I stumbled, then caught myself. My heart jumped inside my chest.

  As I barreled out of the alley and onto the sidewalk a second siren joined the hullabaloo. I had to slow down. People were in my way. The ubiquitous Queensboro walkers gathered in buzzing knots. A young couple peered into the alley, then, quite pointedly, at me.

  “Why are you running?” the man demanded.

  I fluttered my hand over my heaving chest, which didn’t require a lot of acting. “That noise. My God, it’s enough to wake the dead. Scared me half to death. It’s the last time I take a shortcut through an alley.” Taking the offensive, I accused him. “Didn’t you see anything?”

  He shook his head as more curious walkers arrived. When a police car zoomed by he turned to a newcomer. The young lady stared at me, then she, too, turned to a more likely informant. I gradually stepped backward through the gathering crowd until I was a block away.

  My pulse still raced. Nervous perspiration dripped in my armpits. Maybe it was time to call the project off, head for my hidden car and home. Instead, I headed for Fu Lee’s Karate.

  The late class was forming in the large, unheated room by the time I donned my gi, belted with my latest accomplishment, a yellow sash. Students followed the sensei, warming up with stretches. I bowed and joined the group. Karate was impersonal, no questions asked. You pay the fee, you do the karate, no matter how poorly, no matter your age, and you’re one with the rest. Little kids, bald executives, thirty-something house Frau. We all concentrated on the perfect stance, the perfect move. The outside world faded as we chopped, kicked, punched, and sparred. The final bow came unexpectedly soon.

  I headed for the showers.

  Yes, karate classes were an excellent idea. For my membership fee I got exercise when I wanted it, a shower when I needed it, and my own personal locker. For a couple of bucks extra, I even got laundry service.

  Two women preceded me and claimed the showers. The ladies talked non-stop, and when the water began running, they yelled. Their outside world intruded on my serenity. I couldn’t help hearing them. One said, “I got a free copy,” and my ears came to attention. There’s something about the word “free.”

  “How?”

  I listened eagerly.

  “My friend works there and she made a copy. Even bypassed the security thing. I mean, she’s a real computer head.”

  “No bugs? No virus, I mean?”

  They were talking software and the all-American pastime; bootlegging computer programs. I tuned out again until I heard one ask, “Did your friend know the murdered woman?”

  Lord love a duck. Could she possibly mean the body in the closet?

  “...but I don’t believe she did, really. I mean, just because their kids went to the same school doesn’t necessarily mean they ever met,” the woman continued.

  Okay, some other murder, some other time. I chose clean clothes from my locker. Eventually, the women left and I had the shower I really needed.

  I didn’t mind waiting for the last shower and having the locker room to myself. I pulled my mini-tape recorder from my locker, loaded the tape and updated the day’s events. I didn’t mention the body. That would not go in the book. So far, I’d sent eight filled tapes to a mail drop service I’d used before.

  After I left Fu Lee’s, I headed for West Street. A car usually parked in the five hundred block was never locked. The street light was obscured by trees and the sidewalk was deserted. I climbed into the back seat and covered myself. I’d already had a shower. I snuggled down for the night. What more could I ask?

  ~ ~

  Breakfast after a short walk was my preference. The seven blocks to the downtown McDonald’s didn’t really qualify as short, especially with the cold breeze blowing off the Chesapeake, but what the hey. It was warm inside and breakfast was cheap. I sipped my orange juice, stirred sugar into my coffee, nibbled my Egg McMuffin. I ate slowly, savoring the warmth that seeped into my body.

  I’d eaten half my egg when my cell phone rang inside my bag. Why hadn’t I turned the darned thing off?

  Too early for Sylvie. However, I answered the phone. Some dithering idiot wanted to talk. “Joan,” she said, “I’m so glad I reached you.” I wasn’t Joan and I didn’t want to chat. I replaced the receiver and turned off the power. Weren’t unlisted cell phone numbers free of all that kind of garbage?

  Who was Joan?

  Anyone could stretch Jo into Joan, but why?

  Uneasily, I sipped the last of my coffee and turned my attention to Clyde. One should not neglect cats, even imaginary ones. I wiped a drip of melted cheese from the paper and offered it to him. He turned up his nose. He’s quite the aristocrat.

  I’m not. I licked my finger clean. Then, from habit, I swiped my crumpled napkin across the table, clearing water spots and crumbs. And I’d already paid full price for the meal. I stuck an extra sugar packet into my pocket. Fair trade.

  Fair trade? When had I become so fixated on “tit for tat?” Had I sunk too deeply into my homeless persona? And, who was Joan? Nobody I knew.

  Should I worry? Not me. That nosy neighbor had nothing to do with the call. She’d only glimpsed my card.

  Chapter 5

  I’m not saying Abbott Computing Services suffered from an acute form of TV demographics, but, how did I get the job? I wasn’t under forty. I wasn’t anorexic slim. I didn’t have a face that would launch a thousand ships, or even a rowboat. Of course, I was a temp, and the young and beautiful wouldn’t have to look at me forever.

  Mr. Talbit, the main man, was my boss. Visitors had to work their way through the mini-waiting room and my inquisition to reach him. The day before, on his orders, I’d turned everyone away, including several VIPs. He had accepted no phone calls, except for one. That man said, “He’ll talk to me. I got his number from a mutual friend.” And, strangely enough, he was right.

  The rest of the room was the Billing Department, with two cubicles, and a row of file cabinets, which I thought strange for a company so into computers.

  Vanessa Kline, who would look even better without her perpetual frown, was the office manager, “And Vice President,” she’d told me the day before as she stiffly ignored the angry voice from the adjoining office.

  Barbara, “Call me Barb,” Girod, in the second cubicle, was the instant buddy type and at least the head bookkeeper. She had reacted to the roaring boss with shaking head, shrugs, and rolling eyes.

  “This place isn’t for me,” I muttered to Clyde, who quite agreed. We like a pleasant office, calm and efficiently run. Maybe I should quit immediately, hole up in my apartment, and start writing. Devote a chapter to Clyde and any other inspired oddities.

  Mr. Talbit stomped past my desk, entered his office, and slammed the door. Evidently, yesterday’s irritation was not a one-time deal. Did he miss his Girl Friday? How had Mrs. Hemingway reacted to his outbursts?

  Maybe I’d give the job a week, then quit. I’d be long gone when they found the body. Still, this was an opportunity. I’d been dropped in media res—right where every journalist, war correspondent, and mystery writer wants to be.

  “Watch an old news pro in action,” I whispered to Clyde. I could delay the reality journal of the homeless and proceed with my life as a crime solver. Full length, hard cover. Sure hit with readers. Besides, I needed a few good answers before they found my fingerprints.

  Which was why I started my morning with an innocent question. “Barb, where’s Mr. Abbott’s office?”

  “There is no Mr. Abbott.”

  “Oh?” I said, like I didn’t already know.

  Smirking Barb said, “It’s a ploy to lead the pack, alphabetically, you...”

  Vanessa interrupted. “Francine always begins the day by clearing up the invoices.”

  With a hint like tha
t, I knew I’d better hop to. I grabbed some papers and shuffled them like I had everything under control. My breakthrough manuscript was waiting. I had questions to ask. “She sounds efficient. Did she leave any notes for her replacement?”

  “She didn’t even tell us she was going on vacation. Just left a message. Can you imagine?”

  “Then I guess you don’t know where she went.”

  “Who cares? She’s inconsiderate, leaving without notice that way.”

  Pushing a whole lot, I blurted, “What’s she look like?”

  Vanessa didn’t hesitate a moment to question why I wanted to know. “Forty if she’s a day. A hag. Easy to guess why she has men hanging around.”

  Clearly, Francine Hemingway was not Vanessa’s favorite person, which Barb confirmed when we were alone. “Vanessa thought she had Asher in her pocket, till Francine looked his way. I mean, who could go up against a swinging party girl with a head of chestnut curls and a bikini body?”

  Interesting juxtaposition of attitudes. A hag? A swinger? “Alive or dead?” was my question. I leaned forward. “You said her husband left. She’s divorced then?”

  “Not quite. He only left a month or two ago. Hey, the guy drove her crazy. Pick, pick, pick.”

  Francine Hemingway was a party girl, almost, but not quite the gay divorcée who stole another woman’s man. Not a good person. Was she the corpse? No matter who was dead, if the police found my fingerprints, they’d track me down. Not the kind of publicity I needed to sell my account of street life. The crime story was something else.

  So, did the body have chestnut hair?

  She could have been bald for all I noticed. No, that’s not true. I would have remembered a bald head. She definitely had hair and was slender enough to fit into a tight space. I sat at my desk, trying not to think, “White Widow Killer.” I could be charged for murder. With my past notoriety, innocence would be no defense. Forget any crime manuscript. The invoices were in front of me and Vanessa was breathing down my neck. I picked one up.