Blood Count ac-9

by Reggie Nadelson

“First Lionel, now the dog,” said Lily. “Virgil told me about Lionel. I can’t believe it. He was fine. I should have done something.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “Virgil told me he was killed around three this morning.”

  “I know,” I said.

  She looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking. We had been at the club dancing, or fooling around in her apartment, when somebody killed Lionel Hutchison.

  “Does Celestina know?” I asked Virgil.

  “I told her.”

  “It must have hit hard.”

  “She said she brought the dog home from her sister’s yesterday when she came to change for the party, and she left the dog with Lionel because her sister couldn’t put up with Ed’s yapping. She said Ed was especially nervy and barked a lot, so she left him with Lionel for the night.”

  Again I thought about Marie Louise. If she had been in the Hutchison apartment, if she went to get rid of Lionel, she would have found the dog. Did she, terrified, kill Ed? Did the dog yap at her? Was she also scared the neighbors would hear, would hear the dog and find her? But why like this? Was this some kind of awful exorcism?

  I had seen the awful fear in her eyes, her fear of this black dog, a dog she’d told me had orange eyes and was an evil spirit. There had been plenty of time in the night for Marie Louise to stuff it in the washing machine. And she knew her way around the laundry room.

  “Lily?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you seen Marie Louise?”

  “Why?”

  Lily knew about Marie Louise and her fear of the black dog. “What do you want her for, Artie?” She was defensive.

  I moved a few yards away from the washing machine and closer to the dog. Virgil pulled back the towel covering the animal. I wanted to puke.

  “You found him?” I said to Shirley.

  “Yes. I opened one of the old dryers. I saw something sticking out that made me open it. I found him. I put him there on that mat. I put the pieces there.” She turned away suddenly, and covered her face.

  “Lily?”

  “I saw Marie Louise a little while ago, when I got back from the cemetery.”

  “Where was she?”

  “She was on her way into Lennox’s apartment. She had some cleaning to do, she said.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. If he needs extra stuff, ironing, shit like that. She works like…she works really hard,” said Lily, and I knew she’d almost said “works like a dog” but caught herself.

  “I know that.”

  “She works two, three, four jobs. She’s determined to go back to her country and make a real life.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do, Artie.”

  “Where else does she work?”

  “She does anything-cleaning, babysitting, she works at a local coffee shop. The job market sucks, you know that.”

  “Why don’t we go upstairs.”

  “I don’t see why you want to know about Marie Louise suddenly? You’re doing a favor for a pal in immigration?”

  “No.”

  All the time we were talking, Virgil stood back, phone in hand, watching us, his face expressionless. “I have to go,” he said suddenly. “I’m going to leave a couple of guys here to wait for the animal people.” Without another word to Lily or me, he left the room, and I could hear his footsteps as he went down the hall.

  He knows, I thought. He knows Lily and I were together last night.

  “Can you go see if Marie Louise is at Lennox’s place?” I said to Lily when we got upstairs. “I don’t want to bother her if I don’t have to,” I added. “You understand? But she cleaned for the Hutchisons and maybe she saw something, or someone, OK? I’ll try to help her. If I can.”

  Lily nodded, handed me her keys, I went into her apartment as she walked across the hall. Less than a minute later, she was back.

  “She’s there,” she said. “Marie Louise is at Carver’s place. She said she’d stop by when she was done.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I don’t believe she did anything,” said Lily. “I want a drink.”

  “Me too.” I went to the kitchen, found the Scotch and some glasses, and poured the drinks.

  Dropping her shawl onto the floor, Lily slumped onto a kitchen stool, took the glass, drank half the Scotch in one gulp.

  “At least it’s over. With Marianna. At least there’s that,” said Lily, who, in spite of Hutchison’s death and the dead dog, seemed composed, as if the trip to the cemetery had helped steady her. Maybe she was relieved that her friend had been buried, that she, Lily, had done the right thing.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “What was it like?”

  “Lonely,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looked at me. “There was nobody except me and the guys making the grave, putting the coffin in like something in a bad Shakespeare production. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry-you know how I can get really stupid giggles at the wrong time?”

  “I remember.”

  “So, I’m there alone in this cemetery, and there’s only one other group, at a grave close by, and they’re all in black. They look like something from a mafia movie, except I guess they’re Jews, since it’s a Jewish place, and there’s me, and this skinny young rabbi. I guess they got him cheap. Or he’s all they could get on a Sunday or something. Lionel Hutchison told the funeral home Marianna wanted a Jewish burial and they sent this rabbi, he looked about twelve, and he was Orthodox.” Lily finished her drink. “Marianna would have hated it, and I was no good. I mean, my mother was Jewish, but she didn’t have any religion, so what do I know?”

  “You did what Marianna wanted. What Lionel Hutchison said she wanted, and we know she talked to him. They were close.”

  “I guess,” said Lily. “I don’t want to be buried like that, all alone. We didn’t even call her friends.”

  Simonova’s address book was still in my pocket. “There wasn’t much time.”

  “Lionel told me she wouldn’t want anybody there. But early this morning-you were still asleep-I decided I wanted him to go with me, that Marianna would have wanted him there. I knocked on his door, but nobody answered,” Lily said. “I thought he was asleep. I guess he was already dead. My God, how did it happen? I don’t understand.”

  “This is a bad time,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else.

  “There was one bizarre thing,” said Lily. “Carver called me.”

  “Why?”

  “He called and said, was I at the cemetery, and I said yes, but I couldn’t really talk, and he said, could they hold it, he wanted to come, and I said it was too late. They had already put Marianna in the ground, and he asked me to describe the scene and tell him the location of her grave, I think he was crying. Then he just hung up.” Lily pushed her hair back and fastened it in a pony tail with a rubber band. “When I went by his place a few minutes ago, to find Marie Louise, he looked wrecked. I asked what it was. He just shook his head and didn’t say anything.”

  “Listen, didn’t Simonova have presents for him and his kids under the tree? She made up stockings for them, with money and chocolates, right? Maybe they were close.”

  “I guess.” Lily leaned on the kitchen counter. “All the way home, I was thinking how lonely it was there, Marianna all alone. I don’t want to be like that,” she said. “Artie, tell me about Lionel.”

  I told her how I’d found him lying on the ground, that I figured it for an accident at first and then thought it might be suicide. I told Lily the ME was now sure Lionel Hutchison had been pushed.

  “How sure?”

  “When they find the spot where he was pushed, when they match some boot prints to the person who pushed him, when there’s some decent forensic stuff, we’ll know for sure. Meanwhile, pretty sure.”

  “Pushed from where?”

  “The roof. I was up there. There’s a broken wa
ll.”

  Lily poured more Scotch for both of us.

  “Talk to me, Artie.”

  “What should I tell you?”

  “Everything. Anything. Whatever it is that’s buzzing around in your cop’s brain. I mean, who would fucking kill Lionel? Who would kill a dog like that?”

  “I don’t know. You want to know what’s on my mind?”

  “Sure.” She drank a little more and pulled a plate of cookies across the counter. “If we’re going to drink like this, we should eat something.” She picked up a cookie, put it back. “I can’t eat.”

  “How well did you know Amahl Washington?”

  “Hardly at all, I told you,” she said. “Why?”

  “You must have figured out where I’m going with this. Lily? Right? I’m going to work this case, if it’s OK with you,” I said.

  “What about Virgil?”

  “With him. It’s his case. I’ll help.”

  “So it’s been decided.”

  “The chief at the local house is going out of his mind. This is pretty high profile. I mean, Hutchison meant something in this community.”

  “And you think whatever happened to Lionel is connected to Amahl Washington?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Artie?” She kicked off her boots. “The dog-you thought Marie Louise was involved, didn’t you, as soon as you saw it?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Lily hesitated, and before she could answer, somebody knocked at the door. Lily opened it. It was Virgil.

  “Celestina Hutchison is back,” said Virgil. “She’s asking for you, Artie. She says you’ll understand.”

  “She knows about the dog?”

  “They came, the animal forensics unit, and she wouldn’t let them take the dog. It’s in her apartment. Your phone’s ringing, Artie.”

  It was a message from Gloria Lopez. I sent her a text saying I’d call soon. She sent me one back saying she’d have information by the next day, information on the pills I’d sent over to her.

  CHAPTER 44

  Celestina Hutchison was in her bedroom, packing a suitcase. On the floor near the bed near the suitcase were six pairs of shoes, tiny shoes with high heels, all highly polished.

  In the room with her were Virgil, the young cop from the church-Officer Alvin-and Carver Lennox.

  As soon as Lennox saw me, he whispered something to Celestina, nodded at me, and left the apartment. “The place should be sealed,” I said so Celestina could hear me. I wanted to see her reaction, but she went on packing.

  “I told her she could get some of her clothes before moving over to her sister’s,” Virgil said.

  I lowered my voice. “Just so she doesn’t take anything we might need.”

  “I hear you.”

  “And Lennox?”

  “She says she needs him. Says he’s helping her with the funeral plans. He’s saying it should be a big, important funeral because Lionel was a big deal in the building.”

  “Where’s the dog?”

  “Bathroom,” Virgil said. “I’ll leave you with Celestina now.”

  “They killed my Ed,” said Mrs. Hutchison when we were alone, as she folded a white silk blouse carefully and placing it in the suitcase.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know that I can survive without him,” she added. What about your husband, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “I really am sorry,” I said.

  “And no, detective, I did not kill Lionel, if that’s what you’re wondering. Or his friend either.”

  “Simonova, you mean?”

  “Ugly woman that she was, ugly with stupid political ideas, and her theories about black people, black people and Communists, we were alike, she said, we understood one another, she said. Paul Robeson, my ass, if you’ll forgive me, it’s no more likely he cared for her than a pig can fly. But Lionel liked her. He said he wanted to help her. I was so furious yesterday with all his nonsense, I said to him, ‘Well, did you kill her, dear? Did you, as you like to say, help your girlfriend on her way? Did you kill Amahl, too?’ I said. ‘Did you help them leave this life less painfully?’ ” Her tone was mocking. “He did not. I knew from his face. He didn’t kill them, or himself. In point of truth, detective, I’m not sure he would have had the guts, if he himself was sick. Somebody else murdered him.” Her face was blank, eyes filled with rage. “Killing is a sin,” she added.

  “Was he sick?”

  “No, so long as he took his medication, he was fine. It was only his blood pressure, and that was under control, and he was very rigorous about it. He was an old man, of course, he had his aches and pains, but his illness was all in his head, his ridiculous ideas. He was a weak man. He could not bear to see even a little minor suffering but that he wanted to murder the patient. But this time, somebody murdered him.”

  “We know that now.”

  “Do you? Good.” She looked around the room and said, “I hope this is the last time I ever see this place. I’ve been a prisoner here for too many years.”

  “Prisoner of what?”

  “Of all the history,” she said. “Now please ask nice young Officer Alvin to take me to my sister’s. I’ve had enough of this for today.”

  “What was Carver Lennox doing here?”

  “As I’m sure you were told, he is helping me plan the funeral. The last thing I will do for Lionel is to make sure he has a good funeral. Even if he was an atheist.”

  “At your church?”

  “Of course.” A faint vengeful smile on her face, she sat on the edge of the bed, removed her hat, ran her hand across her head. Her body sagged, as if she had let go for a minute.“I asked Carver because he is my friend. He wouldn’t let them take Ed away. We’re going to have a lovely funeral for Ed.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Diaz is coming to get him.”

  “Who?”

  “Ed. To take him to the funeral home. It’s in Brooklyn. Mr. Diaz can drive Ed to the All Pets Go to Heaven home in Brooklyn. They will prepare him. I’ve contacted them.”

  “Will Carver help with that, too?”

  “Carver will do what I ask,” she said. “With him, I don’t have to pretend.”

  “Pretend what?”

  “All of it. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re white.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t see, detective, you can’t see. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t kill Lionel, I don’t believe in killing, and if you need to check, you’ll find I was at my sister’s house all night after I left the party, I can give you the receipt from the taxicab I took from the club to my sister’s, if you like, and not only was she there but so were several of her friends. I shared the guest room with one of them. You can call her. Her name is Miss Sophia Roberts.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Do you? You seem mighty suspicious, especially about Carver.” She put a yellow silk scarf around her neck. “He helped me out, as I said. I wanted to leave this place a long time ago. I wanted to leave this city. I wanted to live somewhere warm. I thought about Hawaii. Or a lovely condo in Sarasota, Florida, quite a few wealthy African American executives have retired down there, Carver tells me. Or perhaps I’ll go to Trinidad. Every year, Carver has always purchased two tickets for me for one of the islands, though Lionel only ever accompanied me quite grudgingly. Said he didn’t like the heat. One year I just went with my sister. I did like Barbardos, but not Jamaica. I would certainly not choose that island,” she said with contempt. “Carver thought it would help persuade Lionel if he saw how nice life could be.”

  “What did Carver want?”

  “He wanted us to sell him the apartment. I promised him that we would. I didn’t care if it was a bribe; it was just lovely to have those two weeks to look forward to, and every year at this time, when it started turning cold, I’d say to Lionel, dear boy, I want to spend our remaining days near the sea, under
the sun, and if we sell this apartment, we can live a really fine life with the money, and he refused me. Every year, he refused. He said his people were here. What people?” she asked. “Was I not his people? After all I had done for him?” She was enraged. “I was sick of it, of this city, of its memories. Oh, you think that I relish all this, the past, everything that’s dead and dying? If you do, it’s because you’re still young. Because you don’t know what it all meant, especially for women. To be colored and female,” she said. “Never mind. I don’t dwell on the past,” she added. “He wouldn’t leave. Lionel said the Armstrong was his life.”

  I looked at her carefully. “So there was good money if Lennox bought the apartment?”

  “Yes, indeed. In fact, he has already given me some.” She smiled. “As a sort of down payment.”

  “And the vacations?”

  “Money, too, and little gifts to make life agreeable. I believe he did the same, or proposed it, to the others.”

  “What others?”

  “Marianna, Amahl Washington, and Regina McGee, though I don’t know that any of them was smart about it as I have been. I have put a little money into property here and there,” she said.

  “The apartment is in your husband’s name, isn’t it?”

  “It was,” she said, expressionless. “Until this morning.”

  “It’s yours now.”

  “Naturally,” said Celestina Hutchison. “Carver Lennox is the only real man in the building, the way he’s helped us and put up with so much from so many silly old people.”

  “You can sell it to him now.”

  “Yes. But I won’t have my Ed.” She placed a photograph of the dog in her suitcase. “I’m going to say good-bye to him now. Will you come with me?”

  In the mint green bathtub was a large wet bundle. It was the dog-or the pieces of the dog-wrapped, the sheets and blankets like a kind of shroud, blood on it. There was blood in the bathtub. The smell was bad.

  Celestina went to the tub, looked down, kissed her fingers and placed them lightly on the bundle, nodded at me, and turned, and I followed her out.

  In her room, I picked up the suitcase, and we went to the living room, where Alvin took it from me and escorted her to the door. He was a tall guy, and with her hand in his, she looked even smaller, small as a child.