EQMM, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "That's what she posted on the Internet,” her father said, “and that's why we're here. She left home last September and we haven't heard from her since."

  "Take a look at the clothing in this closet,” Phillips said. “Tell me if it's all hers."

  Judith glanced through it, pulling a few hangers off the rack. “Some of these are hers, but she was living in New York. Naturally she'd have purchased new things."

  "Her college roommate says she wanted to act."

  "Liza? Is Liza here?"

  "Right down the hall. I'll get her."

  Liza Truman had exchanged the bathrobe for red shorts and a tank top. As soon as he saw her, Sam Borden moved in close. “Liza, what happened to Melanie?"

  "I—I don't know."

  "Who was the man who was killed here?"

  "I don't know. He was hard to recognize with the blue paint."

  Judith Hotchkiss gasped. “What blue paint?"

  "The dead man was painted blue,” Phillips explained. “We don't know why.” He turned to Liza. “You'd better tell them what you told me about this wedding business."

  She sighed and shook her head. “I told her not to post that clip on the Internet. She wasn't really getting married. It was a performance piece she planned for the Governors Island festival tomorrow. She and Pete were going to have a mock wedding ceremony dressed in outlandish costumes. She calls herself a performance artist now."

  "Was Pete the dead man?” Borden asked.

  "No, that wasn't Pete. I think it must be one of the guys who lives upstairs."

  "Do you think my daughter killed the man?” Borden asked Phillips.

  "I have to say she's a suspect, under the circumstances. He was killed in her apartment and she's missing."

  "What is this thing on Governors Island?” I asked.

  "An arts festival,” Phillips answered. “The organizers are veterans of the annual Burning Man festival in Nevada and they're trying to start something similar in New York. These things usually mean drugs, so we'll be watching it."

  It was Judith who spoke again. “My daughter would never take part in such a thing!"

  "You haven't seen her in nearly a year,” I reminded her. “People change fast, especially at that age."

  While they continued to check through her clothing and possessions, I took Phillips aside. “Have you learned anything about the victim?"

  "Not a thing. We're questioning all the tenants in the building but most of them are at work."

  "Liza is probably right that he came from upstairs. None of his clothes seem to be in the apartment."

  The detective nodded. “I agree he must reside here or be visiting someone here. Broadway is a busy street, day and night. Someone would certainly have spotted a nearly naked blue man."

  "It's connected somehow with the so-called wedding and festival tomorrow,” I decided. “I think that's where we'll find the missing bride."

  * * * *

  I had dinner with Borden and his ex-wife at their hotel and promised to be out on Governors Island in the morning. But my day wasn't finished yet. By ten o'clock I was back at the Broadway address. Yellow police tape sealed Melanie's room, but I was more interested in talking to her college roommate.

  Liza Truman buzzed me in and didn't seem surprised at my late evening arrival. “I expected I'd be hearing from you,” she admitted as she held the door open for me. She was wearing the same red shorts, not yet ready for bed.

  "It's better than talking to the police. Have you been in touch with Melanie?"

  She hesitated and then nodded. “I reached her on her cell phone. She's with Pete."

  "What's his full name?"

  "Pete Jenkins, the groom in this mock wedding they're staging."

  "Is she sleeping with him?"

  My question seemed to surprise her. “Well, sure. That's why they're doing the wedding thing. She spent last night with him. I told her she better stay there tonight too because she can't get into her apartment."

  "Doesn't she need some sort of wedding gown?"

  "She has everything she needs, including Pete."

  "Tell me who the dead man was. You must know. He had to be staying in this building."

  "There are three guys on the fifth floor. He was one of them."

  "Let's go see."

  "The police already talked to them. They're probably asleep by now."

  I shook my head. “Not at ten o'clock on a Friday night. Let's go."

  She shrugged and led the way reluctantly into the hall to the stairwell door. The fifth floor was exactly like the fourth, with a row of metal doors, looking more like a college dorm than a Manhattan apartment building. I wondered what outrageous rent these kids were paying.

  She rapped on the door to 509 and I could see a brief darkening at the door's peephole. “Open up!” Liza commanded. “It's me!"

  The door swung open and a lanky young man with sparse chin whiskers and a tattoo on his right arm greeted us—or I should say Liza. She got a hug from him while I was pretty much ignored. As I followed her into the small apartment he asked, “This your dad?"

  "No, silly! Does he look like me?"

  "I'm investigating the murder downstairs,” I told him.

  "Don't know anything about that,” he insisted.

  "This is Doug and that's Ned,” she said. “Tony's not here."

  "A young man about your age was killed downstairs, in Liza's room,” I told them. “I think it was Tony."

  "Yeah, we heard,” Doug admitted. “The detective came around to all the apartments this morning."

  "It's no good lying now,” she told them. “That was Tony Marx's body down there.” She turned to me and admitted, “He was to be their best man at the mock ceremony."

  "We don't know a thing about it,” Ned insisted, and they both stuck to their denials.

  "Are you going to Melanie's wedding?” I asked.

  "Sure. We'll be there."

  "The ferry is free,” Liza said, “but it only runs from eleven till five. Other times you have to come and go by water taxi. That's at pier 101 on the east side of the island, quite close to the festival site."

  There was nothing more to be learned from Doug and Ned, so we went back down to Liza's apartment. “I'll be going out early,” I said, “before Melanie's parents. I want you to come with me. You'd have the best chance of spotting her, whatever she's wearing and whatever her hair color is now."

  * * * *

  Borden and Judith planned to be on the first ferry to the island, so Liza and I took an earlier water taxi at South Street Seaport. I'd paused only long enough to make a phone call.

  "The city wants to develop Governors Island as a cultural center of some sort, which is why they're allowing this festival,” Liza explained. “Melanie and Pete decided to do a mock wedding as a performance piece."

  Even though the festival hadn't yet begun, the north part of the island was crammed with people. Artworks of all sorts were taking shape in a small park area between two rows of empty officers’ homes from the old army base, many of them showing signs of neglect. In the shade of old oak trees a woman artist was assembling wire figures on stands, covering them with fabric until they began to take shape as a group of wild horses. Painted faces and bodies were very much in evidence, and the blue man would have fit in nicely if he were still alive. Further on, a group of city youths rehearsed an African dance routine they'd never learned in school. A giant inflatable starfish was attached to a tree, and a pair of young men in medieval costumes were practicing swordplay. There was a faint odor of pot in the air but not as much as I'd expected. Detective Phillips might have trouble making an arrest here today.

  Suddenly Liza clutched my arm. “There's Pete Jenkins, the groom."

  Jenkins was a handsome young man wearing a white Speedo and not much else. His hair had been greased into dozens of spikey points that gave him an unearthly aura, accentuated by a pair of small white wings glued to his shoulder blades. “Liza!” he call
ed out. “I'm glad you came early."

  "Where's your bride, Pete?"

  "She's around somewhere, changing into her costume in one of the empty houses."

  "Is she an angel, too?"

  "Angel or devil. She hasn't decided which."

  The first ferry of visitors arrived before we could find her, and I hurried back toward the dock to intercept Borden and his ex-wife. I could see immediately by his expression that Sam Borden wasn't about to approve of anything he saw. I reminded him that the so-called wedding was a performance piece and not real.

  That did little to soothe Borden's anger. “Some of these people are running around half naked!” he blustered. “Where's my daughter?"

  "We haven't located her, but she's on the island somewhere.” I said a silent prayer that she hadn't chosen the devil costume over the angel.

  But I had one more worry. The last passengers were coming off the ferry and I saw Detective Phillips among them. He had a couple of men with him and they were all business. I just wasn't sure whether they were after a murderer or some low-level pot dealer. Judith saw me looking back and she spotted them too. “Sam, the police are following us."

  He glanced quickly around, looking for someplace to vent his anger, but I tried to calm him down. “They're not following you. They're trying to find a killer."

  I stood at the center of the festival, trying to ignore the growing crowd of art lovers, some costumed and others nearly nude. A small stage at one end of the area boasted a rock band that kept things lively. One reveler, dressed as a circus ringmaster, wielded his whip over a mermaid-like figure. I saw Pete Jenkins moving through the crowd in search of his pseudo bride, but there was no sign of anyone in even the most imaginative of bridal (or devil) wear. I stared at the twin rows of former officers’ homes. There were twenty in all, with the largest, at the north end, obviously reserved for the post commander. Revelers were already loitering on some of the porches.

  Liza Truman joined us and I asked about Melanie. “I haven't seen her,” she told me.

  A sudden thought struck me. “Liza, if your friend Tony was to be best man, there must be a maid of honor, too. That would likely be you, Melanie's college roommate."

  "I don't—” She stopped and gestured toward the blouse and shorts she was wearing. “Does this look like a maid of honor's dress, even for a mock wedding?"

  "No, you didn't get dressed up because you knew there'd be no best man. Tony was dead."

  She hung her head. “I guess so, yeah."

  "Who killed him? Doug? Ned?"

  "I swear I don't know!"

  Groups of painted people arrived carrying bizarre art objects, and the rock group shifted into some songs I actually remembered. “But you let the blue guy into her apartment, didn't you? You were the one with the extra key, and no key was found with the body. I doubt if Melanie was passing out keys to everyone she knew. She might have let him in herself, but that would make her the likely killer. I don't buy that. If she was defending herself from an attack she wouldn't have fled the scene."

  "You're right,” she admitted. “I let him in. I knew Melanie had spent the night with Pete, but I thought she'd be coming back. Tony wanted to surprise her with his costume."

  "The night before their wedding?"

  "They weren't getting married. It was a performance. They were to start off nearly nude and gradually dress themselves in wedding garments. Melanie had composed some special music to accompany the performance. The best man would be painted blue and I'd be painted pink, like babies."

  "Where is Melanie now?"

  "I swear I don't know. Probably in one of these houses. I told her on the phone last night that Tony was dead. She might cancel the entire performance. The city had already told her she couldn't do it in the evening, that the festival had to end at five."

  Borden and Judith were standing a short distance away, scanning the crowd for their daughter. I looked up and down the rows of abandoned houses and suddenly I knew where we'd find her. “Come on!” I told Liza.

  "Where are we going?” Liza asked.

  "The houses are all numbered. Where else would she be today but in house number seven?"

  It was about halfway down the row on the east side of the festival, a white two-story place that might once have been home to a captain or major and his family. The numeral 7 was still intact on the newel post by the front steps, but the steps themselves were worn and tacky. The white paint was starting to peel from the outside and though its downstairs windows were boarded up, the front door was slightly ajar, making it clear someone was in there.

  I went ahead, swinging the door open, and saw Pete already there. “Melanie!” I called out. “We're friends. Liza is with me."

  She appeared almost at once, wearing a white bikini with little angel wings that matched Pete's. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?"

  "Your father hired me to find you,” I told her. “And I guess I have."

  Liza spoke up from behind me. “Your folks are on the island looking for you."

  She took a deep breath. “The performance is off, Liza. I was going to try it without you and Tony, but with them here I could never get through it. My father would yank me off the stage."

  The door behind us opened and I saw Melanie's eyes grow wide with fear. I realized that her parents had followed us into number seven. “Daddy, please—"

  I turned and saw the pistol in his hand. “Don't do it, Borden,” I warned, but I doubt if he even saw me. He raised the gun and pointed it at the bridegroom with his pure white wings. That was when I shot him in the hand.

  * * * *

  Detective Phillips and his men came as soon as they heard the shot, and I helped bandage Borden's hand until they could get him to the hospital. Judith quickly took charge of her nearly hysterical daughter. I was left to explain it all to the police.

  "I knew Sam Borden was a strict father,” I told Phillips while Liza and Jenkins tried to recover from their shock. “He was going to bring his daughter home when I found her and no one, not even a boyfriend, could stop him. When I took them to that building yesterday morning, Borden walked through the lobby without even a glance at the mailboxes, and when he entered the elevator he immediately pressed the fourth-floor button, though I hadn't mentioned her floor number. I had told him she was in the same building as her college roommate, though, and that address was listed in the phone book. He would have spotted B. Melanie on the mailbox and gone up to her room. Liza had let Tony Marx into the room earlier. When he opened the door it wasn't to Melanie. She'd have had her own key. It was her father and he had a gun. When he found a nearly naked blue man in his daughter's apartment, nothing Tony said would have calmed his fury. He killed the young man with a single shot and left him there."

  "But he flew in with Melanie's mother, didn't he?” Liza asked.

  "He told me he'd be on the flight arriving just ahead of hers, but I phoned someone at the airline this morning and confirmed that he actually arrived late Thursday night. After he killed Tony Marx he simply returned to the airport with his bag and met Judith in the lobby as if he'd arrived moments earlier."

  "How'd he get the gun through security?” Phillips wanted to know.

  "Packed in his checked luggage, probably disassembled and hidden in those lead-lined bags for photo equipment."

  I drove home the next day, knowing I wouldn't be collecting the remainder of my fee from Sam Borden, even though I'd found his wandering daughter.

  (c) 2008 by Edward D. Hoch

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE BEST SUIT by Peter Lovesy

  Around the time this issue goes to subscribers, Peter Lovesey will be receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award of the Malice Domestic Convention. It is not his first such award: In 2000 he received CWA's Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.He is a favorite atEQMM, a past winner of our Readers Award. “The Best Suit"will also appear in the April ‘08 collection Murder on
the Short List from Crippen & Landru.

  She was a talkative redhead and he couldn't hear a thing she was saying. Night clubs aren't places for conversation. Her mouth moved, sometimes making words, sometimes smiling. But it didn't matter. She'd moved in so close as she danced that her breasts kept touching him. Herbie tried to look cooler than he felt. He wasn't used to women coming on to him. He was forty-three, paunchy, and five foot four. He wasn't even a regular clubber. He was there with about sixty other friends of Paddy, one of the regulars at his local. Paddy had decided to celebrate his fortieth in style.

  After twenty minutes, the strain got to be too much, and Herbie gestured that it might be time for a drink. The woman nodded and reached for his hand and they threaded a route to the bar. Even there it was difficult to talk without shouting, so he suggested finding a pub outside. But when they were in the street she said, “You're coming to my place. It's only a short walk."

  Herbie didn't argue.

  Her place was a two-story house on Richmond Hill with a spectacular view of the lights reflected in the river. This was one classy lady. She handed him a bottle and told him to open it while she changed into something more relaxing. “I hope you're not a connoisseur,” she said.

  "What do you mean?” he said. “This is vintage bubbly."

  "It isn't chilled."

  "No problem.” He popped the cork and filled two tall glasses.

  "Tell me about yourself,” she said when she came back in a red silk kimono. “What do you do for a living?"

  "This and that.” He didn't want to say he was unemployed. He'd been made redundant in April. “How about you?"

  "I'm an entrepreneur."

  Herbie wished he'd said he was an entrepreneur. It sounded better than “this and that.” “Cheers."

  They touched glasses and drank.

  "You're not married?” she asked.

  "Divorced."

  "Want to come to bed with me?"

  "Try and stop me,” Herbie said, and it seemed a smart answer.