Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  The sound of a ... shroud? .............

  The floor creaked!

  Not his imagination this time. It was a noise Z knew from making it himself; from Susan making that squeaking sound in the dead of night on her way to and from the bathroom. Not only did he know that sound but also where the loose floorboard that made it was located: five feet on this side of the bedroom door.

  What he'd been feeling now made sense to him: the shift in air pressure had been caused by the bedroom door being opened, then quietly closed. As if ... something ... had slipped into the bedroom, that same ... something ... now moving slowly toward him.

  Z held his breath. Within ten seconds ... "it" ... would be standing by the bed.

  Eight -- seven -- six -- five -- four ....

  There was an odor. Not unpleasant, but ...

  The bed began to move, ever so slightly ....

  Z tensed his muscles! Ready to spring off the other side! Ready to race around the bed and out the door!

  "Z." A whispered voice.

  Chills shuddered Z's body. The ... thing ... even knew his name! ....

  Wait a minute.

  Knew his name?

  "Z, it's me."

  Jamie Stewart.

  Now climbing on top of him.

  Jamie Stewart.

  Naked.

  "You're supposed to be in the kitchen," Z whispered, knowing at the same time, it was a stupid thing to say.

  "So, I lied," Jamie murmured, nuzzling his ear.

  "But ... this is crazy!" Z was whispering, also, partly because he didn't dare speak any louder, partly because his voice was shot. But mostly because Jamie -- tightly packed little sausage that she was -- was cutting off his air.

  "Yeah. But fun, don't you think?"

  Fun? This was Jamie's idea of fun!?

  "I told you I'd want something beside just seeing the bed you and Susan made love in. And don't try to tell me you don't want me, buster. Not from what I felt under the table tonight."

  She had him there. What had gotten him into trouble in the first place, was being unable to resist this girl's charms.

  Though he'd hate himself later, he also knew he'd hate himself less and less as the "solitary" hour passed.

  * * * * *

  Z was awakened by a knock and Jamie's cheerful voice calling through the door that the hour was up, Z apparently falling into an exhausted asleep, Jamie dressed and gone.

  Snapping on the light, Z pulled on his clothes. Was relieved to see that he and Jamie hadn't messed up the room. "Quiet" sex never more essential than at this moment!

  Ready, at last, he opened the door and joined the others, the four women already in the living room.

  By the time Z arrived -- at least to his surprise -- Rachel had announced she'd had the feeling the poltergeist was with her.

  The group gathered, Jamie now herded them into the kitchen, Jamie going alone to the living room to confront the "spirit." From there, they could hear her mumbling in words intending, Z assumed, to sound like Latin.

  Ten minutes of that and Jamie came back to them to announce that the spirit had been "exorcized" and that they could all go home.

  The women friends saying their thank-yous -- for what? -- Rachel and June left, Z hoping Rachel had sobered up enough to drive.

  Though Z tried to wait Jamie out, Jamie timed her departure so that she left when he did.

  In the parking lot, on the dark side of the dumpster where Jamie had parked her seedy truck, Jamie insisted on a moonlit kiss, Z too chicken to refuse her.

  "How did you ... manage it?" Z asked, still holding hot little Jamie in his arms. As long as Z was going to feel bad anyway, he might as well try to find out how Jamie had done the deed.

  "You mean, rigging the poltergeist in Susan's apartment, or lifting the table?"

  "Both. First, getting into the apartment. I put a deadbolt on the door. Even I have trouble getting past those."

  "Simple. The apartment manager let me in."

  "What!?"

  "Sure. I told her I was a potential renter. Insisted on seeing a ground floor apartment before giving her my down payment. Said I wanted to see the view on this side of that particular building.

  "Since Susan works in the daytime, the manager used her duplicate key to let me into Susan's apartment."

  "The woman should be fired!"

  "Standard procedure," Jamie sniffed. "She stayed with me the whole time. Made sure I didn't disturb anything."

  "Then how ....?

  "I had a 'fainting spell' when we got back to the manager's office, the nice lady rushing off to get me some water. Since I'd paid attention to which key on the lady's pegboard she'd used to let me into Susan's place, while the manager was gone, I made an impression of the key in a piece of wax I just happened to have brought along. After that, it wasn't too hard to cast my own key."

  "You made a key to Susan's apartment?" Z could hardly believe it.

  "I don't have it anymore, if that's what you're worried about."

  "No?"

  "No. I thought you could always use an extra key, so I put it in your billfold."

  "When?"

  "When do you think, dummy? It's a good thing you don't diddle whores. Falling asleep like that, they'd pick you clean." To demonstrate, Jamie gave her own variation of "picking him clean."

  Getting nowhere, she sighed. Returned to the topic. "With my own key, I could come and go as I liked. As for the noises I made, there was nothing to that. I put a few creaks and groans on a small, battery-operated tape recorder. Hooked to a timer. Hid the recorder, first in a closet, then in a drawer where Susan is storing winter sweaters. No way she's going to open that drawer in the summertime. I set the machine to come on when Susan was home and to play just a short time so Susan wouldn't get wise. I moved a few small items. Nothing obvious, but something any woman would notice."

  "And the table?" Z didn't see how she could have done that. Jamie's knees -- flexible as they were -- were too short to have lifted the card table off the ground. As for Jamie's hands, he'd seen her hands on the tabletop as the table rose into the air.

  "Simple," Jamie said with a shrug. "It's just another old spiritualist trick. What you do is get the edge of the sole of your shoe under the table leg at the corner nearest to you. Card tables often have rubber 'bumpers' over each leg, making it easy to get the edge of your shoe under it. By pressing down with the palms of your hands, if you're strong enough, you can keep the table steady while you use your foot to raise the table off the floor."

  So, that was the trick -- so simple, Z would never have guessed it. "How did you know Rachel would say the living room was the 'home' of the ghost?"

  "Poltergeist. Ghosts are much more trouble to produce. True, there are a lot of body cavities available for storage." It wasn't so dark that Z couldn't see Jamie shrug in the still, late-night air. "I told you about the trick of swallowing cheesecloth." Thinking about that, Z gagged. It had been a rough night.

  "Something more solid, can be trouble. In order to get out of handcuffs, Harry Houdini used to swallow lock picks. Not all the way, just until they'd lodged at the back of his throat ..."

  "I'll take your word for it," Z said hurriedly.

  "But you asked about the little drunk? Easy. I didn't know she'd hallucinate a poltergeist. It's nice, though, if you can get others to play along."

  "Didn't know?

  "No. But I thought it likely. After all, I put her in the living room."

  "Living room ...?"

  "Alone with the wine. If she hadn't 'ratted' on the poltergeist, I would have."

  And that was where they left it: Jamie, whistling as she pulled out in her truck; an overly tired Z, feeling like the fool he was!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 12

  By the time Z arrived at his office the next afternoon, the mailman had slipped a letter through the mail slot in Z's door. Retrieving the letter, sitting back on his "secretary's" desk, Z looked at the return
address; was shocked to find the letter was from the IRS!

  Tearing open the envelope, Z took out a single crisp piece of letterhead paper announcing that Z was about to be audited and that he should get his records together for the last five years.

  Records?

  One of the "joys" of Z's barely-above-the-poverty-line job, was that he paid hardly any tax; what tax he did pay, calculated for him by Millie-Across-the-Hall.

  Audited.

  More bad luck. Which, except for escaping the clutches (in a matter of speaking) of Jamie Stewart last night, Z had been having a lot of, lately.

  And bad dreams.

  Again this morning, he'd awakened in the grip of sweaty shadows that faded into unpleasant oblivion. Z's best guess was that the business with Howard Kunkle was haunting him more than any ghost stalked Susan. While Z could tell himself that Kunkle's death wasn't his fault -- over and over -- he seemed to be having trouble getting his dream-self to believe it.

  Now this.

  Z read the letter again. And then again. Then a few more times.

  It made no sense. As little as Z made, as little as he paid in taxes, there was no reason for the IRS to be on his back.

  Hating -- like any other man -- to have to ask for advice, a tap on the shoulder by the IRS was the exception. Meaning ... Millie.

  He knew, of course, that the twenty dollars he paid Millie every year to do the 2+2 calculation of his taxes didn't include her accompanying him to tax court. Still, Z though his twenty bucks (plus what he had to go through when venturing into Millie's lair,) should include a simple question about what the Internal Revenue might want.

  Screwing up his courage to ask for help, Z left the "secretarial wing" of his office to cross the shadowed hall at the back of the Ludlow to the office door labeled "Millie's Tax Preparation."

  First knocking on the badly lettered door, he pushed it open and stepped inside to find birdie Millie hunched over her desk, papers spread out around her. Millie's office was the mirror image of Z's own "two-holer" across the empty hall, except that her space had wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling file cabinets. Gun-metal gray. One drawer pulled-out, stuffed with folders.

  What Millie was working on now -- forms, yellow post-it notes, and receipts surrounding her -- was anybody's guess. If, in late summer, she was still calculating someone's delinquent taxes, the offender would do better to fire Millie and hire the slipperiest lawyer he could find. On the other hand, anyone who had Millie at work on next year's tribute, had to be a tax-phobic basket case.

  Millie looked up, her pale eyes froggy-big behind thick lenses; one of those early-faded women who could be thirty, but who looked fifty. She wore a plain long-sleeved blue dress with lace flounces at the wrist. Had gray, bee-hived hair, some of it her own.

  "I'm Bob Zapolska."

  Millie blinked once.

  "From across the hall."

  Blinked twice.

  "You do my ...."

  "I'm well aware who you are," the woman said, impatiently, her voice the whine of mosquitoes buzzing past your ear. "Do you think I don't know my own clients?" Millie took offense easily. But her price was right.

  "Well ... no."

  "What do you want? I assume this is not a social call. If it is, it's been years in coming."

  "Ah, no."

  "As you can see, I'm busy. I'm a very busy woman. So much to do and so little time to do it in." She began to disco-tap her pencil on the desk.

  "I got this letter ..."

  "What letter? If you'd learn to be more precise we wouldn't be wasting so much time, would we? No time to waste. We aren't getting any younger. Time flies, you know."

  "Yes."

  "Yes, what?"

  "This letter. From the IRS."

  "Oh!" It was clear from the sudden respect in Millie's tone that Z had just trod on sacred ground.

  "They want my records. For five years."

  "I can't think why," she jeered, hooking off her rimless glasses, staring about blindly while polishing the shiny lenses on the edge of her lace sleeve. "It's not as if you've got any business to speak of."

  Millie could be blunt.

  "Yes, Ma'am," Z said.

  "Unless ...." Snagging on her wire-frame temple pieces, adjusting both lenses, tapping the nose bridge to lock the heavy specs in place, she stared at Z across the clutter of her desk. "Unless you've been failing to report everything to me."

  "What?"

  "Do a cash business, do you? To avoid paying your rightful due? Not that I haven't suspected it. Nobody can live on what you're reporting. Didn't you think I'd figure that out?"

  "No, Ma'am. That is, yes, Ma'am. What I mean is I report everything."

  Millie snorted. "Your business a front? Money laundering? What illegal activities are you involved with, young man?"

  "No. That is, none."

  "Selling drugs, are you? Marijuana? That's the third leading cash crop in America. There's a lot of it in Missouri. Most planted during the war. There's a monument to it somewhere in the state, I hear tell. 'Course, they didn't call it marijuana. In those days, they called it hemp. Planted this 'hemp' to help the war effort. Made rope out of it. But it was marijuana. Once you get it growing, it's like a weed. You can't root it out. It's like crabgrass. I got crabgrass growing in my front yard and can't get rid of it, either. Even had the Lawn-Guard men out. They said to spray. So I hired them. What they did, is they sprayed poison that killed every sprig of green in the lawn. Said they had to kill everything to get the crabgrass. But they didn't get it. I called the company and demanded satisfaction!"

  She glared at Z.

  "I'm not into drugs."

  "Well, give me the letter, then."

  Stepping forward, leaning across the paper-piled desk, Z handed it to her.

  Snatching the envelope, Millie extracted the page. Unfolded it. Adjusting her glasses, read the letter, then looked up at Z again. "This your idea of a joke?"

  "No, Ma'am."

  "'Cause if it is, it's in bad taste. Yessiree. In very bad taste."

  "Joke?"

  "You're trying to tell me this is from the IRS?"

  "That's what it says."

  "Well, things aren't always the way they seem. You can't judge a book by its cover, you know."

  "But ...?"

  "This isn't from the IRS. Wrong logo," Millie was stabbing at the paper. "Wrong paper. Wrong sentence structure. Wrong ... everything!"

  "Not ... from the IRS?

  "How many times do I have to say it? It's not from the IRS. It's a joke. And not a very funny one, if you ask me. The IRS is no one to fool with, you know."

  "No, Ma'am."

  Cramming the page back in the envelope, with a flick of her wrist, she handed the letter back to Z.

  What Z was feeling, was ... relief. "What do I owe you?"

  "Owe me? For what?"

  "For telling me the letter is a phony."

  "You don't owe me anything. Unless you waste any more of my time, that is. I don't know what this world's coming to. People always barging in, asking foolish questions. Always interrupting a body when they're busy. And I'm busy. So much to do and so little time to do it in."

  "Yes, Ma'am," Z said. "Sorry to bother you."

  "And next year, try to get your records -- such as they are -- in to me earlier than you did this year. Even though you don't have that much to report, it's never a good idea to be late. You should have more ...."

  By this time, Z had back-stepped to the door and slipped out, easing the door shut behind him, Millie's voice still audible as she continued to berate his afterimage.

  Quickly across the hall again, safely inside his own office, retreating to the back room to barricaded himself behind his splintered desk, Z turned the letter over in his blunt hands.

  A joke.

  Not a funny joke. He could agree with Millie on that.

  Not something any of Z's friends would do -- not that Z had that many friends.

  Jamie Ste
wart? .......

  Not her style.

  Z was relieved, of course, that Internal Revenue wasn't breathing down his neck, but still bothered by who'd sent the letter and why.

  In fact, was still thinking about the "joke" in the late afternoon as he pulled the Cavalier into the sagging back alley garage behind his "pad" in Mary Urquhart's house-cut-into-apartments.

  Was still considering the joke's "punch line" on the way up the cracked back walk, past the litter that was the backyard.

  Thinking .... when he looked up to see Peg-Leg Mary hobbling along the walkway from the front. Clearly, she'd been watching for him out the back window on the elevated first floor where she lived.

  Z didn't think it was about his rent. He remembered being paid up. Anyway, Mary wasn't that concerned about money. He'd gotten to "rent" the apartment in the first place because Mary Urquhart had been unable to pay him for a little job he'd done for her. In addition, she liked to have a detective living on the premises. Made her feel safe. So when he fell behind, she never complained, to say nothing of his having enough money, lately, to catch up. Taking him full circle to the original question about why Mary was waiting for him along the walk.

  Mary had been in terrible shape last winter because of her diabetes. In January, had to use two crutches to get around. But had stabilized. Maybe having only one leg left had helped.

  Z came up. "Ma'am," he said, nodding down at her.

  "Mr. Zapolska." Except that Mary pronounced it Thapothka because she had to lisp his name through missing teeth. Mary's voice was as weak as Z's, but was more the grate of gravel than a tiger's purr.

  Z noticed she was holding a piece of paper.

  "I got this," she continued, waving the page, "in the mail." Balancing on her crutch, bird-bright eyes upon him, she handed Z the sheet.

  A letter.

  Typed.

  Brief.

  The gist of it, that someone in the building department of the Gladstone Government was asking Mary to produce her permit for adding the unit at the back of the house, the apartment Z now rented, the letter claiming there was no record of the permit, going on to say that, if Mary couldn't produce her copy, the city would tear down the add-on.