by Norma Huss
“Clyde, do you mind staying in a house so recently inhabited by a body?” I asked. He didn’t. He even led me to the windowless bathroom. Ah, glorious electric lights. I soaked in a bath, scrubbed my scalp, and used the Hemingway hair drier.
I’d searched the house, but Clyde wanted another look. He pranced before me into the master bedroom. It was just as I’d left it, nicely made bed, dusted furniture. Clyde, ever the curious cat, pushed his way into Mrs. Hemingway’s closet. He was correct to do so. I’d looked inside but hadn’t noticed. The pair of shoes I’d found and returned were no longer there.
As a detective, I was the pits. I’d eliminated clues, run the dishwasher, and wiped fingerprints. Now even the evidence I’d merely moved was gone.
The third bedroom, the one without furniture, and the one where a light would be least likely to attract attention, was the obvious choice for my overnight stay. That meant no TV, no Monday night sit-coms, no PBS specials.
It would do.
For entertainment I stashed a three-week old TV Guide in my cell before returning to the basement.
My wash was ready for the drier so my coat had to come out, ready or not. I hung it beside the two blouses before I started transferring my wet clothing.
That’s when I heard noises.
It wasn’t Clyde, and it wasn’t the wind. Quietly I closed the drier door. Turned off the lights and lit my pen light. Perhaps it was nothing. Only branches in the wind.
Footsteps. Heavy, and overhead.
I was trapped.
The police? My God, not the killer! Where could I hide? Behind the pile of boxes?
No, the furnace was bigger. I slid into a narrow opening and flicked my light off.
Suddenly a light shone above like a beacon. The door to the basement was open. My coat hung by the drier.
I didn’t dare move. I pulled further back behind the furnace. The footsteps clunked, stopped, doors slammed, and the footsteps moved again.
What was going on? It sounded like doors, opening and closing. Kitchen cupboards? Another door opened and his voice boomed in the silence.
“Where the hell did she put it?”
Right, he was searching. Find it anywhere but the basement, I thought, then amended my plea to add the bedroom I’d prepared, and the bathroom, steamy from my bath.
My hopes were dashed, for the basement light flared and he started down the steps. I saw pant legs descending and shrank back even further, but not before I saw something else. One of my wet socks was on the floor.
He started his search near the washer and dryer. Fortunately, not in them. He opened, then shut each of the two cabinet doors over the washer. “Hope he finds it there,” I told myself. If he didn’t he’d clear out each of the boxes near me.
I judged his progress around the room by sound that suddenly got closer.
Oh, hell. I’m dead, I thought.
But, suddenly he left—mounting the steps three at a time. I didn’t move, even when the basement light went out and the door slammed shut. More footsteps, then even that sound stopped. Did he leave? Had he gone into the adjoining garage?
A few minutes later I heard his laugh, then his voice, but I couldn’t hear the words. Had someone else entered the house? Was he on the telephone? Had he found what he’d looked for?
Then I did hear his words. He yelled, “Don’t try to con me. I’ve got the list. Fifty thousand before Wednesday, or I’ll call the police.”
Blackmail. Bad move.
“Why do you care how I found it? I’ve got it, that’s all you need to know.”
Found what, I wondered. Logically, that would be Francine’s husband overhead. Or was it the killer returning for something he’d forgotten?
“Oh, yeah? Even an ex knows where the secret hiding places are.”
Definitely Mr. Hemingway.
“You think I’m not serious? He lowered his voice, still, I heard a few words. “photo... Francine... You...”
Suddenly he laughed. Harsh and decidedly deadly. “Nice try. I’m not the killer. You are. You have nothing against me.”
He was blackmailing the killer. Or, he was the killer.
Now was the time to worry that he’d stay the night. I’d definitely be trapped. Would he find my nest upstairs? But why would he go into a spare room? He’d already found what he came for.
Keep telling yourself that, I thought.
What if he entered the steaming hot bathroom? He’d start another search. He’d see me cowering in the basement and kill me. Or at least, turn me over to the police.
The telephone call had come to an end, but I still heard Mr. Hemingway. Heavy feet. How big was he anyway? Were those footsteps on the stairs? I couldn’t tell. Then, after a brief silence, a door slammed. After a long silence, I began to breathe normally. He was gone. He hadn’t found me—or murdered me.
I unfolded myself, and turned on my flashlight. I was alone. I had work to do. As I put clothes into the drier, I saw that wet sock. It was no longer on the floor. It was on top of the drier. Mr. Hemingway had moved it.
Oooh, boy. It wasn’t his, or his wife’s. And, it was wet. He hadn’t even thought about it, or my coat. The stocking was just something to pick up. What was he, a terminal neatnik? Wasn’t that what Barb said?
He would remember. He’d realize anything Francine dropped days ago would be dry. How soon? In an hour? Two? Or in ten minutes.
I’d better be gone when he came back. Because, he would return.
Chapter 15
Fog had replaced the torrential rain. Fog and drizzle and a darkness that blinded me. I tripped on an unseen curb, walked into a tree branch. But Clyde could see with his large, yellow eyes. He didn’t desert me. He led me on a meandering path to a sign.
HOUSE FOR SALE
Exactly what I needed.
I circled the house. No lights. No curtains at the windows. Vacant. If only I had one of those keys to realtors’ lock boxes. I circled again. No back porch. But Clyde trotted off, toward the back of the property. And there it was, an unlocked shed.
A defunct lawnmower and a box of rusty tools were inside. Still plenty of room for me. And Mr. Hemingway wouldn’t find me. I pushed tools aside, unfolded my space blanket, and curled up against a bag of something—seeds, weeds, or, possibly fertilizer. Clyde purred at my shoulder.
Was it Clyde who’d drawn my attention to the telephone book open in the Hemingway kitchen? Only a jagged edge remained from a missing sheet—the sheet between pages 396 and 399. What had Mr. Hemingway wanted? Who had he called?
I’d pressed the telephone’s “redial” button. A woman’s voice, carefully devoid of personality or identity, recited the telephone number. “After the tone, please leave your number and reason for calling.” Classy. Each word precisely enunciated. And she had a tone, not a beep like everyone else.
But, was hers the voice of the homeowner or the telephone company’s answering service? Either way, the blackmailee had left home, but why? To meet Mr. Hemingway? To pay a ransom, or to kill again?
Or possibly, she, or he, sat by the phone as I dialed, screening the next call. That would be my choice.
But that phone number. A clue that could lead me to the killer. By rights, I should be out-of-my-wits terrorized. Instead, I remembered myself as a twenty-something kid who chased her first news story. Apprehensive, sure, but excited. Hell, I was too old to be wise.
~ ~
At dawn I woke and realized there wasn’t much to do in a garden shed to repay my host, and no water to do it. There was also no electric outlet to recharge my phone. But it still had juice. I turned it on to check. Immediately, it began ringing.
Sylvie? Mel? No, it was a female voice—young from the sound of it.
“Ms. Durbin, Ms. Jo Durbin?” she said. “You don’t know me, but I wonder if we’re related. Do you come from Pennsylvania?”
Lord love a duck! What next? “Nope,” I said and disconnected. She should have asked if my husband came from Pennsyl
vania, although I wouldn’t answer that either. Not unless I wanted to say, “Husband? You mean that louse who skipped with all our money, including the entire proceeds of my latest book? Or the one before that—the one who drove himself and his lady love into a Mack truck while I kept the home fires burning?”
And, of course, Francine, that lady love from years before, survived the first fiery accident to get herself killed just in time to send me running from the police.
Why couldn’t people leave me alone?
And why had I even turned on the phone? And what time zone was that woman in? Who calls strangers looking for a cousin at six in the morning?
She had my name. She had my telephone number.
How? And who?
Someone tracking me by my telephone after lifting my fingerprints, that’s who. Someone who called me Joan or Mrs. whatever-it-was before discovering, not only my given name, but my last one as well. Was she the same woman who made those other calls? Could they locate me from that phone call? Use some electronic device? Cruising cop cars with direction finders? Lord, I hoped not. The few seconds I was on the phone. No way. Still, I wouldn’t hang around.
I deflated my pillow, folded my foil blanket, and jammed them into my bag. My coat was nearly dry but I had to wear those wet shoes. My hair stuck out in awkward tufts. My laundry could stay in the Hemingway drier. It was only one outfit. I didn’t need it. Or, I’d get it later. If not, so be it.
I walked the two or three miles into town under threatening skies. After making myself presentable, I arrived late at Abbott Computing Service, but I didn’t care. What could they do, fire me?
Mr. Talbit’s door was shut. Barb didn’t look up. But as I unbuttoned my coat, Vanessa said, “Jo, take this to the post office.” She gave me an envelope and a twenty dollar bill. “It’s got to go overnight air, return receipt requested.”
They paid me to follow orders, so I did. The envelope was addressed to the Virgin Islands. What was Vanessa’s Virgin Island connection? I glanced at the return address and corrected myself. What was Mr. Talbit’s Virgin Island connection? Had the envelope I’d mailed previously come from him? I hadn’t noticed, but it had probably been his too.
When the elevator stopped. I stepped from the claustrophobic cell into the lobby as several police men and women entered the building.
I turned my back to look at a potted plant and watched another woman’s reflection in the polished glass wall. The police stopped her at the swinging doors leading out.
I didn’t wait to find out why. I headed for the back of the building. There was another exit, and I reached it before the cops did.
Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you, was my motto. Were the police targeting me, or did they have another quarry in mind? The cops had my old plaid coat, my sister’s address, and what else? My name, definitely, and where I worked? If they asked at Abbott Computing Service, they’d learn I was headed for the nearest post office. Instead, I holed up and dialed Pat at the agency.
“Did you find me a job?” I asked, not mentioning police in any way. “I certainly don’t want to be a permanent installation here.”
“A job?” Pat said after a long hesitation.
“You did tell me to call this morning.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
“Do you have a job, or don’t you?” I demanded, then I knew. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Instead, she asked a question. “Are you...really a homeless person?”
Of course. They’d found my employment agency too. I had no questions. Just one comment. “Pat, this will be straightened out,” I said before I hung up.
And if it wasn’t, I might never publish another book.
It was too late to leave Queensboro, hole up and write my book. They had my name. They’d find my apartment. Once they got me, I’d have no chance to catch the killer.
Chapter 16
Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
And do not pass even close to the post office. I wasn’t playing Monopoly or cops and robbers. I didn’t need any “go to jail” cards. Mr. Talbit’s envelope to the Virgin Islands would have to wait.
An old woman in a full-length gray coat, that’s what the police wanted. I had to get rid of another coat. It was too damp to keep me warm; still, it was a pity I had to lose it. I’d had it such a short time. The coat covered everything, but they might know about the black skirt and yellow sweater, and even those serviceable black flats. I needed a disguise before I could do any active detective work.
I cut through alleys and back yards until I reached Dagen’s Drugs, the kind of old-fashioned pharmacy that survived only because the city fathers had decreed that no historic building would be destroyed to house a Walgreen’s.
Inside, one of the few customers chose antacids, another browsed the cosmetics aisle. An employee nodded over a paperback behind the check-out counter. The pharmacist in her alcove concentrated on drams of powdered nostrums. I strolled to the back, then pushed through a door marked, “Employees only.” It lead to a storage room that included a closet where I hung my coat on a sturdy plastic hanger. Chances were, everyone would assume it belonged to a co-worker. It might hang there for a year or two.
I went into extreme disguise mode, altering my looks from all-business to ditzy-tourist with the flowered slacks from the bottom of my bag. I rather liked them, especially with my black pullover. My hair, string-straight, needed attention, but I was camouflaged enough to venture out. I strolled past shops, paused before touristy windows, studied displays of huge lollipops and miniature lighthouses before entering one shop. Their rest room was my personal favorite—large, infrequently used, and with hot-air hand driers that flipped up or down. I dampened my hair slightly and set it using bobby pins, which made square curls, but took up less room in my bag than rollers would. Drying my thinning hair didn’t take long. I even frittered away a few minutes aiming the hot air at my slacks, smoothing out major wrinkles. A new woman returned to the street.
“Clyde, did you notice the flowers?” I asked as we passed newly filled concrete pots on the sidewalk.
He didn’t hesitate. I did—to breathe deeply while glancing behind me. Daffodils and tulips. Unfortunately, those blossoms were all show, no fragrance, and even lilacs wouldn’t overcome the oily stench of cars idling in traffic. Perhaps Clyde was right to ignore the flowers. I strolled the street, not at all alert for cops, or dreading the sound of police whistles.
The police would come up empty at the office, but not before they got a complete rundown on my appearance. I had to augment my wardrobe. Where was K-Mart when you needed it? Downtown Queensboro had only the trendy, and expensive boutiques tourists loved.
What those tourists didn’t love were last season’s more exotic styles. I entered a shop that had obviously misjudged its clientele.
Clyde found the rack before I did. Winter skirts and sweaters at seventy-five percent off. The skirts were bias cut, and nearly ankle length. The sweaters approached the knee. Quite horrible, extremely unflattering for one of my age, but so chic. Fortunately, the colors were muted. I went with shades of dark magenta, forest green, and gray. The cardigan sweater was the same dark green.
As I carried my selections toward the check-out, I told Clyde, “I need a new bag and either a coat or a jacket.”
“Do you really, dearie?” a passing woman asked. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking her considerate, until I intercepted the glance she traded with a younger, snickering clone.
How rude, staring at my flowered pants like a couple of fools. Obviously, I’d offended their fashion sense. I didn’t care. In fact, my appearance was a plus. Should anyone ask, they hadn’t seen a working woman in a gray coat.
How long before I’d have to change again? It was worrisome, hiding from the cops. Did all fugitives have such trouble?
Tuesday was not a day for garage sales, but the Goodwi
ll store was a few blocks away.
Ten minutes later, ten minutes out in the open where any cop could see me, I ducked inside the building, safe for the moment. How long before the cavernous space would be retrofitted into a mini-mall, closed off with doors, walls, and walkways? Now it was filled with old, scarred furniture, tables piled with musty junk, and rows of outdated clothing on hangers. The dregs, the castoffs of society. One could read stories in those rejects. Initials carved on a table. A heart embroidered on a tiny shirt. Chair rungs worn thin. But I didn’t have the time for speculation. I bee-lined to women’s clothing.
I searched for something to replace my bag and found a backpack. Why not? New image all the way. A black one with a thin gray stripe. That color would even match my gray coat, if I managed to retrieve it. And backpacks were definitely in. Perhaps not with long skirts, or for mature women, but, what the hey?
“What do you think, Clyde?”
Clyde, of course, didn’t answer. Silently, he swished his tail encouragingly and led me to a rack of coats.
“Good cat,” I whispered, mindful of nearby shoppers, but they weren’t as nosy as the boutique kind.
I rejected a puffy gold and white jacket, an orange and brown tweed coat that fit exactly, and a cropped, navy jacket. None of them were my style.
Then I found it, a charcoal jacket flecked with shades of rose from deep maroon to pale pink. I tried it on. It was a trifle big so I squared my shoulders. It was long, reaching past my thighs. The sleeves hung past my wrists. I rolled them once. Maybe not perfect, but yes, I liked it, even if it was too big. For one thing, the colors matched nearly everything I had, an important consideration for one with a limited wardrobe.
I could wear sweaters under it, especially that new one. I pivoted for Clyde’s admiration. But he’d left me for a table of pet toys, cleverly placed to lure that extra dollar from shoppers. Would Clyde like a ball with a bell inside? Too noisy. Frog stuffed with catnip? Too intoxicating. And he certainly didn’t need a sawdust-filled pile of red feathers for a chew toy.
