by Norma Huss
Which meant the cops were looking for me everywhere. Me and my blue plaid coat. Mel didn’t ask questions. I didn’t explain.
My two extra days were up tomorrow. Sunday. Always a good day for travel. Except—there must be a few of my fingerprints at the scene, and with a witness who saw me, how could I leave?
I had to find the killer.
Chapter 11
So some plump jogger thought I looked like I weighed one-fifty. Was Vanessa right? Old ladies shouldn’t wear plaid?
I had to get rid of my coat. I yanked it off, hurriedly rolled all traces of blue plaid inside the grey lining, stashed the bundle under my arm, and fanned my face—in case any snoops were watching. I wasn’t even warm, but I walked a block and a half before I opened my tote bag.
Black sweater and yellow scarf. Yes, a complete change of color scheme. For good measure, I tied another scarf around my waist as tightly as I could.
“Now do I look like one fifty? Maybe one twenty-five?” I didn’t expect Clyde to answer. He was no judge of weight.
Eventually I reached the recycle bin Lacy had claimed. She was gone, out scrounging for the day. I pushed the coat inside.
That neighbor woman who saw me going into the Hemingway house must have thought it over, told a friend who urged her to call the police. “Right away!” And she called, maybe even before I left the house. Which is why they found the body so quickly. And why they had my description. Fortunately, they didn’t have me—yet.
I stopped at an ATM and took out two hundred dollars. I might need get-away money. I headed for the Good Will store. What did “Good Will” stand for anyway? The good will of the people who donate old clothes, the good will of the organization that runs the show, or the good will of the financially challenged who buy their castoffs?
For forty of my two hundred plus in cash I got a grey coat, full length but no hood. Almost too warm, but that would be helpful at night. There were no bags with personality, not like my old one. I hated to get rid of it. I’d made it myself, when bright colors and patches were in style. But the neighbor would certainly remember it.
Saturday meant garage sales. But Saturday at eleven forty-five was almost too late to find anything I wanted. I plucked a nearly unwrinkled newspaper from a trash barrel, grabbed the first passing bus, and turned to the want ads. Fortunately, there was a neighborhood sale toward the end of the bus route.
The garage-sale homes were single with small yards, each one with its table of goodies, a few browsers, a proprietary adult hovering nearby, and children darting between them all. No police cars in sight. Lots of tiny T-shirts, old shoes, the occasional bicycle with a bent frame. The good ones had already been snapped up. Not that I was in the market for a bicycle. Florists’ vases and clay pots with moldy dirt still clinging inside. A freshly cleaned kitty litter box, but Clyde didn’t need one of those.
At the seventh house, I found what I was looking for. An aging flower child might have discarded it. It was a home-made job of sturdy blue denim, somewhat faded, with Velcro, zippers, draw strings, and a dandy shoulder strap.
The woman wanted five dollars. “That old thing?” I asked. “I’ll give you two dollars.”
“Three-fifty.”
“Three twenty-five and you’ve got a deal.”
She agreed and I carried my new bag away. I headed for the bus stop, but a delightful aroma lured me across the street. The church ladies had their own fund raiser, food for weary shoppers. They served a vegetable soup that was a luscious meal. I had two bowls, then finished off with a cupcake, a piece of fudge for me, and another for Clyde. With the inner woman satisfied, I completed my makeover, discarding the old bag for the new. Why had I haggled over that bag? Would that woman remember me?
That soup must have been brain food, for it occurred to me that standing downtown at the bus transfer point was not wise. I called a taxi. Sylvie expected me to stay the night. Perfect timing with the police searching for me. And, with Sylvie’s love of all things mystery, a perfect headquarters for my newest project.
My sister lived near the hospital where yards were neatly manicured, shrubs severely clipped, and houses completely wild. Sylvie’s was fake pink stone. The inside was fake too: the fireplace with plastic flowers in the firebox, the Naugahyde chair, the Tiffany-style lamp. But the curios were real, for Sylvie collected with a vengeance.
Naturally, she asked where my cat was.
“Oh, you know how it is with cats. Independent. Clyde saw a bird. I didn’t insist he come inside.”
Sylvie mumbled, “Poor defenseless creatures.”
“A bird has a lovely defense. It flies.”
“Cats still catch them. It’s a shame.”
“No, it’s nature. That’s what cats do, catch and kill birds.”
At least cats killed for food. People, on the other hand, killed for anything but food. And they, too, killed despite the best of defenses.
“And what do your homeless—friends say about a cat?”
“The question never came up.” To forestall the lecture Sylvie was sure to give, I quickly asked, “May I put a bowl of milk outside?”
Sylvie wasn’t deterred. “You know about my allergies, yet you adopt a cat and bring it to my house.”
“Lord love a duck, Sylvie. He’s an outdoor cat.”
“I’d like to know how this creature will impact your book,” Sylvie added. “And, while I’m on the subject, don’t you think, with your inside track, a true crime story about Francine Hemingway’s murder would be considerably more attractive to publishers?”
Figured. Sylvie would be eager to solve this mystery, but I couldn’t let her know we agreed. Not yet, at least. I repeated, “Do you mind if I put a bowl of milk out for Clyde?”
With a humongous sigh, she gave up, at least for the moment. “No. I’ll do it. Mix up that mustard sauce you do. There are just too many leftovers in the fridge. You don’t mind, do you?”
Why should I mind? My whole life was one leftover after another.
~ ~
The next morning, Sylvie woke me with an accusation. “Your cat drank the milk, but he’s gone again. Where is he?”
“Around, I’m sure.” Clyde obviously had friends in the neighborhood.
He didn’t have as many friends as Sylvie. Her gossip went beyond idle chitchat. She was on the phone for an hour. I clanked breakfast dishes and ran the vacuum, but I still heard the names she dropped. Mr. Talbit. Francine Hemingway. Abbott Computing Services. And any number of others.
Then, of course, she presented her evidence in amplified form. I pretended indifference. I knew my sister. I knew how to ratchet up her determination. I wanted her help—needed it. We had to find the killer or the police could arrest me for obstruction of justice. I’d obviously destroyed the real clues and left nothing but signs of my entry to Francine Hemingway’s house. Arrest for obstruction? Hah, I should be so lucky. Arrest for murder was more like it.
“Since the victim worked for Abbott Computing Services, I asked around,” she said. “Mr. Talbit is the major stockholder of the company. They say that wife of his gets everything money can buy. Fabulous parties. Great vacations. And the clothes!” Sylvie paused, allowing my imagination to flourish. “Paris for gowns. Italy for shoes. Like she’s a Rockefeller.”
Or a Bill Gates, I could have added, but I wanted to hear her gossip. “Maybe she is. Maybe Mr. Talbit is rich. Who knows? That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“You know what I mean. Putting on airs, that sort of thing. I do hope Mr. Talbit has money. What’s he like?”
“He’s a boss. Seems okay. A little brusque, but with his receptionist murdered, who can blame him?”
“You read about the reward? Five thousand dollars.”
“Not much to find a killer.”
“Someone’s sure to add to it. I mean, how much does one expect a company to contribute?”
“You mean it’s from Abbott Computing?”
Her nod meant either, “Yes,” or “Be quiet
, I’m on a roll.” “One of my contacts knew Francine Hemingway. Knew everything about her she said, even to the accident with Vic. I didn’t tell her I knew Vic. To her, the whole thing was Francine’s tragedy. First the accident with months of therapy and plastic surgery. Now—murdered. Unlucky in love, she said.” Sylvie took a tsk-tsk moment. “She was popular in school. Prom queen, a hunk for a boyfriend, you know. But she was a brain. On the honor roll. Perfect at absolutely everything.”
Probably teacher’s pet too. Why hadn’t she died in that accident? Certainly would have made my life easier. “Perfection will get you killed every time.”
Sylvie ignored my attempt at humor. “Her husband walked out on her a month or so ago. He had an excellent reason. She had another man—in their house.”
I wasn’t surprised. “An aggressive man trap,” I muttered, and added. “There’s the office scuttlebutt. Take your pick from either version. She was a fun, party girl, or a slut who stole a boyfriend. Classic murder victim, if one is talking classics.”
“My first contact referred me to Francine’s high school buddy who doesn’t believe she changed a bit. To her, Francine was still the sweet, perfect girl she always was.”
“Hey, she was a husband-thief eight years ago. Does that sound perfect? Now she steals a co-worker’s man.”
Sylvie dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “This other woman, the best buddy, had a completely different story to tell. Francine and her husband were very affectionate at the class reunion. Francine was shocked when he left her. Inconsolable—and so despondent that she must have committed suicide.”
“Before or after she squeezed into the closet?”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. Nobody knew about the closet but the police.
Sylvie pounced right on it. “J.M.! She was in a closet? That wasn’t in the newspaper.”
“Heard it at the office,” I said, belatedly playing the innocent act.
“What did you hear? What haven’t you told me?”
I’d done it now. I knew Sylvie wouldn’t quit. She’d nag, I’d stonewall, but in the end, she’d worm it all out of me.
Sylvie sat, her fingers itching to grab the telephone and authenticate any story I might give her. “Okay, J.M., fess up,” she said with that self-satisfied smirk of a little sister who could pry loose any secret. She’d spent a lifetime honing those skills. But I’d learned a thing or two myself.
“Don’t call me J.M.,” I shouted. “I haven’t been J.M. since I was seventeen. My name is Jo, and I’ll thank you to—"
Sylvie broke in, chanting, “J.M., J.M., J.M. Or would you prefer Josephine Marlene?”
“You know perfectly well, I’m Jo! Can’t you remember that? It’s simple enough. Are you deliberately trying to bug me?” Really, I didn’t care what she called me, as long as she forgot about the body in the closet. And if she could act like an infant, I could too. “How would you like to be called ‘Baby Sil?’ Sil, Sil, Sil, Silly Sil!” I went the whole nine yards, stomping my feet and glaring daggers.
Sylvie ignored my tantrum. “Oh, shush,” she said. “We’re going to solve this murder. We have clues. You have access to the murder victim’s office. I’ll continue to gather information from the community.”
“Nice term for gossip.”
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll provide any necessary transportation. You’ll do the protection bit.”
“And what protection bit is that, may I ask?”
“I mean, if, while questioning suspects, either of us is endangered...”
“What’s the protection bit?”
“Your karate.”
“My karate? Are you crazy?” Could she guess I’d kept it up? No way. “I’ve forgotten any karate I learned. That was five years ago, at least, for Pete’s sake.”
“Gee, only five years, and you’ve forgotten it all? How about that man you disabled a couple of years ago?”
“Paparazzi don’t count,” I muttered.
Sylvie smirked and said, “We’re getting terribly off the subject.” She opened the newspaper. “Now, take this newspaper picture of the Hemingway house. Look at the trees. Anyone could get close without being detected.”
“Um.” I relaxed.
“Maybe except for that tree. What kind is it? You know, with all the prickly stuff. Seeds.”
“Sweet gum.”
“Right,” she said and I worried that I’d started a new problem. However, she didn’t comment on my unexpected knowledge. “Suppose the killer stepped on the seeds and they ground into his shoes. That will be one way to identify him.”
I nodded without speaking. I would not check the soles of my shoes.
“There was the old geezer. Ears saw Francine arguing with him down by Ego Alley.” Yes, that unconfirmed rumor was a great clue to dangle in front of Sylvie.
“An old geezer? You mean an old man? Can we learn more?”
“Maybe, if we pay for it. And Lacy claims she saw Francine take something from a dumpster.”
“Ears? Lacy? Those are names? Who are they?”
“Street people,” I admitted.
“Great. Your homeless research is helping us out here. So what did this Lacy person see? Ask her.”
“Oh, I did. Do you really want to hear about a man in yellow pants killing and cooking her dog?”
“Whose dog?” The question in her eyes changed to enlightenment. “None of the above?”
“Yep, she’s crazy as they come.”
Sylvie shrugged, then returned to the subject she could have dropped. “Okay, the victim was found in a closet. That’s no accident. And the newspaper definitely called it murder. I wish we knew more. Do you know any police you can ask?”
The police who harass the homeless certainly knew me. There wasn’t a one I could walk up to and ask, “How was Francine Hemingway murdered, and oh, yes, what else can you tell me?” I could only answer, “No.”
“We must assign our priorities. We’ll both gather information. Then, we get together, and I’ll act as the clearing house.”
“Ah, here it comes. The big plan.”
Sylvie favored me with the disdainful, half-lidded stare she’d perfected before puberty. “I really think that any reflections on my hobby, coming, as they do, from a woman who chooses to reside on the street for research, are totally without merit.”
I’d drawn it out long enough. “Okay, I’ll grant you always win every mystery game. You’re a master of deduction, the first to guess ‘who-dun-it.’” I capitulated. “Agreed. We’re a detective duo.” She didn’t know how desperately I would need someone on my side when the police identified my fingerprints inside Francine’s house. I’d need her even more when they discovered Francine’s connection to my late, first husband, Vic Barnette.
We spent the afternoon making lists of suspects. We surfed the Web and learned that Vanessa was older than Francine, Barb slightly younger. Mr. Talbit was involved with more groups than I cared to count. We culled newspaper items on line and discovered that Mrs. Talbit had once been a beauty queen. Princess, actually. After several hours, we agreed that we needed more information. Which was my opportunity to tell all about finding the body. I didn’t. Perhaps I would have, but my cell phone rang. It was Mel.
“They have names. Not the right one, but close.”
“How close?”
“Joan or Jane Dustin or Driver, possibly from a security agency. Wanted as a witness.”
Those calls had been a fishing expedition. The nosy neighbor remembered a few numbers and almost a name. Had they been dialing every combination?
“They also want to hear about Mrs. Hemingway’s past, especially eight years ago. Wonder why.”
“Oh,” I said, attempting a nonchalant tone. What were the chances they weren’t interested in Vic’s auto accident? Zero to none.
After Mel hung up, I kept talking for Sylvie’s benefit. “That sounds delightful. See you soonest.” Then I to
ld her, “You don’t mind? A dear friend has plans for the evening.”
“A dear friend,” to Sylvie, meant a gentleman. Naturally, she didn’t mind. “You’ll be back later?” she asked.
“No.”
“I swear, you must know every way to illegally spend the night by now. Where is it this time?”
Drawing myself up to my full height was a futile exercise. I hadn’t towered over Sylvie since we’d reached our teens, but I tried. “You don’t know whom I might be staying with, and I prefer keeping it that way.” Perhaps she’d assume I had a late date, which might relieve her mind. Or not.
“I get so provoked,” she said. “I get diddly-squat out of you. Why do you keep on with your so-called research? You must already have more than enough to fill three books.”
“Will you call the cab, or shall I?”
She eventually called, probably since I’d actually talked to someone by telephone. “Have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” she said, a bit too sarcastically.
Of course she was right. I didn’t have a date. Nor did I have a bed for the night, or even a plan. But the police were closing in. If they came up with the correct name, they’d soon learn where my sister lived.
Chapter 12
“Here you are, my good man,” I said as I handed the driver the fare plus a meticulously computed fifteen per cent tip.
The cabbie’s mouth gaped, but only a gurgled gasp came out. He grabbed the money and stuffed it into his pocket without another glance. I could have stiffed him, for all he knew. He slammed the door and drove away with a squeal of burned rubber.
So I’d scared him. But it wasn’t like I’d held a gun on him. All I’d done was dip into my bag and dress myself for the occasion. I’d added the sweaters, sloppy socks, and mismatched gloves that screamed, “bag lady.” I’d become a woman the driver would never have allowed to step into his cab. However, I now could go anywhere, and I did.
On Prince Street, I passed the bank with the hot air vent by the bus stop. Great place to warm up on a chilly night. Turned a corner and passed the glass and steel apartment building that encroached upon genteel but fading mansions. Passed a belt of green that replaced what was once marginal housing. Finally I reached the wall surrounding Sinking Springs Park. I knew exactly where the stones had crumbled enough to climb through.
