by Norma Huss
Miss Wilson arrived before the cops returned. I told her of Mr. Talbit’s attack. She was gratifyingly solicitous. I told her that I’d given the key to the police. “Based on legal advice,” I said, “what else shall I tell them?”
“You’d better tell me what else you have to tell.”
That was the problem with talking. Once you started, you had to tell everybody. I shrugged and formally began my litany. “The police know I was inside the Hemingway house after the murder. They know I was inside another time when they caught me taking my wash out of the drier. And now everybody knows that Mr. Talbit attacked me with an axe. It’s the in-betweens, the befores and afters that they may not know.”
Her eyes had glazed over, so I stopped filling verbal space. “I found keys to the Hemingway house in Francine’s desk. Mr. Talbit or the police have them all now. The single key I just gave the police was the key Mr. Talbit wanted.”
“Since they already know you were in the house illegally, and Mr. Hemingway has declined to press charges, I think you’re safe telling that.”
“What they don’t know is that I was in the Hemingway house three times. The second time I overheard Mr. Hemingway make a call, obviously blackmailing someone. After he left, I pushed the redial button. The recorded voice answered with a phone number. Just today I learned it was Mr. Talbit’s home phone.”
Miss Wilson kept her cool quite well, only glancing up quickly for the smallest moment. “You should tell that, too. It’s important evidence.”
It didn’t get any easier, spilling my guts to the world, but I had to go whole hog. “You’ve heard about the theft at Waterman’s Museum?”
“How did you know about that?” Thinking better of her response, which piqued my interest, she said, “Do you believe any—museum incident is behind these killings?”
“Mr. Talbit may have arranged for the museum exchange from England, the one where the gold ring was found. You’ve heard about that?”
She inclined her head slightly, like it was something we shouldn’t talk about.
“Of course, Mr. Talbit told me he didn’t kill Francine. But then, he was trying to get me to hand over the key.”
“What started this whole thing? I mean, Mr. Talbit chasing you with an axe.”
“This is another sticky area. I used Mrs. Hemingway’s key to open the office door so I could check Mr. Talbit’s phone number.” Which, of course, was close to the whole truth.
She nodded, not committing herself to an answer.
“The first time I got into the office...”
“The first time?” She limited herself to an incredulous tone and a raised eyebrow.
“Hunting for missing files that time. I’d found a group of unpaid receivables when I worked there, then they disappeared. Since then I discovered this listing,” I said, hunting for the envelope in my bag. “As you see, it has dollar amounts. This name, Deefer, was the only name I remember of those missing files. Could someone be siphoning a bit off the top?”
“You are suggesting it was Mr. Talbit?”
I shrugged. “Mr. Hemingway may be more involved than we suppose.” That could be true. He certainly knew enough to blackmail Mr. Talbit. “Or, maybe not.”
Miss Wilson was not impressed. However, on her advice, I told them everything in great detail. She sat at my side, adding up the billable hours. Sylvie, in the meantime, was in another room, telling the story in her own dramatic way, which may even have agreed with mine.
My two uniformed policemen had finished, I thought, when another man, not in uniform, came in with a new line of questions. “When did you first meet Francine Hemingway?”
What was this? “I never met her.”
“It may have been before her marriage. She may have looked different.”
I shook my head.
“She was known as Franny Irving.”
“No, I never met the woman.” I’d certainly heard of the husband-stealing. I held my breath, but he didn’t continue.
So they knew about her and Vic and the fatal accident. I didn’t volunteer another word. Let them assume I never knew her name, didn’t remember, or hadn’t connected the dots. I went on the offensive. “Are we quite through with this inquisition now so you can get on with catching a killer?”
Whether they intended to catch Mr. Talbit or not, they finally released me. My lawyer followed me. Sylvie was waiting on the same bench we’d warmed earlier.
“You remember my sister?” I asked Miss Wilson.
“Of course,” Sylvie answered for her. “We met the last time you were in jail.” Picking up on my grimace, she amended, “Okay, the last time you were questioned.”
I turned my back on Sylvie. “Miss Wilson, I assume the police will question the museum staff and Nell Nordstrum about the gold ring. They may even have found Mr. Talbit’s safe deposit box. As my attorney, will you ask what they’ve found out?”
“They won’t tell us what they’ve found out. I was pushing it to get the cause of death from them.”
Sylvie leaned around me. “And why not tell us? We’ve solved their case for them.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she said.
“Isn’t turn-about fair play?” I asked.
“For school games, maybe,” she answered.
Eventually, they turned us loose.
~ ~
“I’m so glad it’s all over,” Sylvie said when we got to her house. “Fortunately, I was there to help. You could have been killed if I hadn’t diverted Mr. Talbit’s attention. I’ve got to admit we’re a great team. It was dangerous, wasn’t it? You really should...”
She raved on, and I let her. I didn’t want to start a battle. I was too exhausted to find alternate lodging. And the police certainly wouldn’t allow me to leave Queensboro now. What had become of Clyde? Had I lost him? My brain was on vacation. I couldn’t even think about the manuscript. Was it stress? No, I’d been too logical for way too long. Listlessly, I searched Sylvie’s fridge and cupboards for supper ingredients.
“We need comfort food,” she said, taking a half loaf of white bread from her breadbox and putting the teakettle on the burner.
I knew exactly what she planned. Hot toast with lots of butter and so much applesauce on top you had to be careful how you held the toast. And tea with sugar and real milk. We’d invented the combination when we were kids and left alone with a limited food supply. We discovered a lot of unlikely combinations that way. Leftover rice with cinnamon and sugar. Raw carrots dipped in salt. Potato chip salad. But toast and applesauce was the absolute best, although we didn’t always have milk in our tea. Sometimes we had Kool-Aid, which meant that somebody had gone shopping with kids in mind. They didn’t always remember us.
We finished off the loaf of bread, then sat where we were because we couldn’t move.
“I just knew it was Mr. Talbit,” Sylvie said finally. “That house of his, must be well over half a million. And his wife complaining about canceled trips.”
“You overheard what she said too?”
“I mean, with a wife like that, you can’t let up. You have to provide all those goodies.”
“Um-hum.”
“I’m just so glad it’s all over.”
“You said that before. But it isn’t, you know. They haven’t caught him yet.”
“They will. I mean, where can he go? It’s solved.”
It was. And yet, something wasn’t right.
All those other bodies. What were the motives for each murder? And Mr. Hemingway, the blackmailer, was still alive. There were too many questions, way too many.
“Even if all the questions are answered, why would Mr. Talbit kill Francine before he got her key?”
Chapter 40
I was exhausted. I should have fallen asleep in moments, but I didn’t. My muscles twitched, my big toe ached, a dull pain throbbed behind my eyes. Even worse, my brain couldn’t let go of the argument I’d had with Sylvie. She’d racked up the points, crowing because
she’d solved her first big case, but that wasn’t my problem.
She could be right.
Sylvie’s words swirled in my head. “There is absolutely no honor among thieves. Francine stole his key and he didn’t know it. Remember, Mr. Hemingway blackmailed the man.”
And Asher’s death?
She’d had the answer to that too. “It’s obvious. He was Francine’s boyfriend. He had to know everything. You said he searched her desk and asked questions. If I were Mr. Talbit, I’d have been worried.”
But Lacy?
She’d given me the aloof stare that said, “Couldn’t Mr. Talbit mistake her for you as well as any other suspect?” What she actually said, with the confidence of a master detective, was, “We may never know the reason why Lacy was killed.”
How could I sleep after Sylvie poo-pooed my every question, my every logical explanation? I still saw them. Mr. Talbit with his hatchet overhead. Asher sprawled under the bushes. Francine crammed into the closet. I even saw Lacy and Zip, but that was after I finally slept. It had to be them, both together in a bloody mess, he sprawled next to my blue plaid coat crumpled on the pavement, she with her decapitated head staring at nothing.
~ ~
In the bright sunshine the following morning, my entire viewpoint changed. The evidence against Mr. Talbit was overwhelming. While I brushed my teeth, I planned my words. “Sylvie, you are right. I was wrong. Mr. Talbit is guilty.” So what if she gloated.
Then, as I swished my mouth with water, Sylvie walked in. “We will go on the assumption that Mr. Talbit is not the killer,” she said.
“What?”
“Look at it this way. It’s safer. Remember, someone killed Lacy because he thought she was you. If it isn’t Mr. Talbit, you’re still vulnerable.”
I rubbed my eyes and peered into the mirror. No one wanted to kill me. Lacy’s death had to be a random killing. Or, just maybe, she had the bad luck to meet up with the killer. No telling what she would have said.
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Mel,” she said, bouncing to the new subject with dizzying speed. “So, when you claim you are sleeping on the street, are you really with him?”
How did I want to answer that? Which was worse, living in sin or on the street?
“You seem to have a long-standing relationship. Living like you do... That is... Do you know about sexually transmitted disease? And protection?”
What was I, a misinformed teenager?
“I’ll assume you are aware,” she said. “But tell me, what are Mel’s intentions?”
I could tell her, but it wasn’t any of her business. I changed the subject back to murder. “If Mr. Talbit didn’t do the killing, who did?”
Sylvie gave up on the inquisition and followed my lead. “True, Mr. Talbit may be the killer, but we must keep our options open.”
She didn’t have a clue. She wanted to prolong the mystery, the delicious suspense, of her unofficial involvement.
“So who didn’t do it? Who can we eliminate, in your estimation, that is?”
“The successful sleuth never tips her hand. She must have all the clues before she dismisses even one suspect.”
“It’s not a game. This is real life.”
“Or, real death,” she said, smugly.
When breakfast was over, Sylvie changed the subject once again. “Mel is eligible, isn’t he?”
“Who cares?” I slammed dirty dishes into the sink. Ran hot water. Scrubbed at waffle remnants and put the whole mess into the dishwasher.
She gave up on waiting for my response and reworded her question. “Is he married? Does he have a significant other?”
“Do you want me to run this half empty, or will you fill it up at supper?”
“Rinse and hold.” As I pushed the buttons, she tried again. “How old is he?”
“You want him? Go for it,” I snapped. “But after the divorce, I’ll pick him as the friend and drop you.”
“Jo, you’re too sensitive. I’m looking out for your welfare. One can’t be too careful. Some men are just waiting to take advantage of a lone woman.”
And one of them already got everything I owned, I wanted to say. What was going on? Was I the only one getting into the homeless thing too deeply, when my sister acted like she had to take care of an ignoramus? I didn’t mention that either. Instead, I said, “Oh, yes, he’s sure to get my diamonds and my condo, not to mention my yacht.”
“La-de-dah,” she said, and left the room. It was quite the most intelligent comment she’d made. Myself, I left the house.
Monday morning. The crime was solved, although the killer was still on the loose. Time to pick up my car, pack up, go home, and start writing. A quick stop to check out at the police station did not go quickly, or well. The officer at the desk made calls, reporting on each. After dialing this one, that one, another two or twelve officers, and remaining on hold for way too long, he gave me the news.
“Please stay in town. We have your telephone number if we need to get in touch.”
Couldn’t I stay in touch a few hours away, in my own home? Not likely. “It will only be a day or two. Three at the most.”
Why? That query received no answer at all, only thanks for checking in with them.
Lord love a duck. Two or three days? Okay, I had the time, I’d try for another job to include in my chapter on the working homeless. I stopped by the employment agency to see Pat.
We discussed who killed Francine Hemingway, and why wasn’t he in jail. When she tired of the subject, she said, “We had an opening this morning,” as she pulled a box toward her. “Gone now. Let’s see, you like to be within walking distance, right?” She flicked cards, glanced at some before rejecting them. Chuckled. “Night club bouncer?”
“Sure.”
She flipped more cards, assuming I was joking. Why couldn’t I be a bouncer? I’d certainly have surprise on my side.
“Sales?” Pat asked hopefully. “Oh, no. Outside sales. Requires a car. You don’t have a car.”
I did, but I wanted to keep the research realistic. I shook my head. “Why not a night club bouncer?” Hadn’t I stopped Mr. Talbit?
She completely ignored my question. “Try tomorrow. Earlier,” she said. I thought she’d dismissed me, but she hadn’t. As I opened the door, she added without looking up, “Maybe I won’t have anything for you.”
I slammed the door and turned on her. “Why?”
“It’s those breaking and entering charges. People won’t trust you, and I can’t say I blame them. You’ve lost credibility.”
“Was I ever accused of anything illegal on the job?”
She shook her head, but I knew it was hopeless. Never mind that the newspaper had linked “homeless woman” with my name and face. That wasn’t my fatal flaw. I’d played at detective, caught my boss in felonious activity. What business wanted a crime buster on the payroll?
Chapter 41
No job. No prospects of a job. The mystery was solved, the fun and games were over. Skip the working homeless chapter. I had to get on with my life. Except, the police wanted me in town and available. I’d look for a job on my own. And get away from my dear sister. I left a message for Mel. He owed me a night’s lodging after the meal I cooked for him and Sylvie.
Somehow, I kept hearing questions. What if Mr. Talbit isn’t the killer? What if the killing had nothing to do with that gold ring? Or, if it did, what if someone else killed Francine?
I couldn’t waste time agonizing over murder. First things first. The job. I headed for Maizie’s Diner. I wasn’t hungry, but it was a great place to think. Surprisingly, Keisha was there.
“You’re not at the museum today?” I asked.
“Oh, not on Monday. They’re closed on Mondays, you know.”
I hadn’t, but I should have. Tourist spots, especially museums, have rewritten the calendar. They want the weekend trade, which is understandable. And yes, they deserve a day off. But why is it always Monday?
>
Keisha said, “They’re looking for a killer, did you know that?” Before she scuttled off, too busy to tell me why weekends at the restaurant included Monday, she added, “The TV says they’re looking for some kind of widow. I never heard of a white widow though. Did you?”
“White Widow?” I croaked. Okay, forget about that job hunt. And, forget about going home, because they’d track me down for sure. I grabbed the tea pot, lifted my cup. When they caught Mr. Talbit, he’d have an alibi. When they came for me, I needed to hand them the killer—the real killer.
But who was it? And how would I find him? Why was I in the middle? What combination of circumstances involved me?
First Francine was killed. That’s where my troubles began. She was killed and I lost credibility. Lacy was killed while wearing my coat. Zip was nearly killed. But I’d leave Zip out. His M.O. was different. Was Asher killed because he wanted to meet with me?
I poured my tea. Stirred in half a spoonful of sugar. I certainly wasn’t that important, was I?
No. No way. Logic. There had to be some logical explanation, some reason.
I sipped tea, which didn’t help the thought processes a bit. So, why was Francine killed? I never met her, at any time, especially not when she laid claim to my long dead husband. And, she was killed before I took over her job and her house. Therefore, I had nothing to do with her killing. And, if the killings were connected, I had nothing to do with any of them.
Except, possibly, Lacy’s.
Lord love a duck. What I needed was Agatha Christie and all of her sleuths, or her devious mind. Or another mind to augment my attempts. Who?
I’d consulted with Sylvie, Mel, Miss Wilson, and even Clyde. We’d all come up empty.
Attack it from the other end. Mr. Talbit. Why would he kill Francine? They were partners and he wanted the loot to himself? They weren’t partners but she got his key? Or, whether they were partners or not, she made him incredibly angry. He had the temper to kill in a rage, I could testify to that. Would he kill for any other reason?
