I smiled. “I found a cat.”
“Oh. Is it a he? Potential partner for Sandra Day O’Connor?”
I held up the little metal kitty, “I’m not sure he’s her type.”
Miss May and I decided the maneki neko could be a clue. So we spent the next few minutes trying to solve the mini mystery of the mini cat. But the darn thing was inscrutable.
We asked questions. We poked at the kitty. We picked it up and shook it. In some contexts, I’m sure the zen, meditative spirit of the animal was relaxing and calming. But in the heat of a murder investigation, we felt as though were being taunted by the persistent pawing of the metallic minx.
After fifteen minutes, Miss May and I were still convinced the cat was a clue. But neither of us could figure out who would have left it. Nor could we discern what the clue was.
We were about to give up when I noticed a very tiny latch on the back of the cat. I got tweezers and pried the latch open. Inside was a small battery compartment with a watch battery. The little circular ones that are so hard to find when you need them.
When I removed the watch battery, I saw a minuscule white sticker with microscopic writing printed on the surface.
“What does it say?” Miss May asked.
I leaned in to get a closer look. But there was no way I could read the writing. “I don’t know. I can’t read that! The font is like Times New Roman negative twelve.”
“You know what this means?” Miss May smiled.
I shrugged. “That my bright, young eyes are not as strong as you expected them to be?”
Miss May exited and returned a few seconds later, carrying a small wooden box.
“This means that tonight is the first night in our careers of amateur sleuths that we have an occasion to use...a magnifying glass!”
Miss May beamed.
I laughed. “That’s what you’re so excited about? A magnifying glass?”
“Of course! This is a rite of passage. Every sleuth has their first magnifying glass case. We’ve arrived, baby! Now scoot over and let me try this thing on for size.”
Miss May leaned over the maneki neko and used the magnifying glass to get a better look at the inscription on the tiny sticker.
I edged up next to her. “Well? What does it say?”
Miss May lowered the magnifying glass and looked at me. “It’s an address.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “In New York City.”
18
Rent Destabilized
THE NEXT MORNING, TEENY drove us down to Manhattan in her stylish death machine. Oops, did I say death machine? I meant convertible.
I would go into great detail about how Teeny captained her convertible like a madwoman. Slowing to a crawl in the fast lane because she thought she saw a deer. Yelling at a driver who she was convinced “gave her a look.” Going in reverse on the highway after she missed her exit. But the drive was so beautiful, I did my best to ignore the multiple near-death experiences and focus on the scenery instead.
We started off on the Taconic Parkway, surrounded on every side by tall, green trees. In a few months, those stately oaks and maples would change to fiery reds and oranges, but at that point, they were a deep emerald. Then we jumped on the Westside Drive. The Hudson River rolled by on our right. The beginnings of New York City sprouted up on our left. And Teeny played her “New York City Mix” on the stereo.
The playlist kicked off with “New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra. Then “New York State of Mind,” by Billy Joel. After that came a few rap songs, all with New York in the title. It surprised me to hear hip-hop on Teeny’s mix, but she waved my doubts away. “I’m hip to the new sounds,” she insisted. “I don’t like ‘em, but I know ‘em.”
As we drove, I tried to mentally prepare for what we might find at the mystery address. Last time we’d followed a clue into the city, it had been a valuable lead but a bizarre experience. And I wondered what this venture would hold.
I looked down at my hand, where I’d written the address in permanent marker just in case we all forgot it.
15 Waverly Pl., #1B
New York, NY 10003
Teeny saw me checking the address. “Do you think it’s an apartment or a business?”
“I think it’s an apartment, based on what I saw online,” I said. “But there wasn’t much information available.”
“Whatever it is,” Miss May said. “We need to keep our composure.”
I leaned forward from the back seat. “Do you think this place could be dangerous?”
Miss May craned her neck to meet my eyes. “It’s possible. Someone is dead, after all.”
“We’ll be fine,” Teeny said. “I brought protection just in case.”
Miss May and I exchanged a nervous look.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
Teeny dug in her purse without taking her eyes off the wheel. She pulled out lipstick, a pair of sandals, a pair of tennis shoes, and a jar labeled “emergency sprinkles,” but nothing that seemed like it could protect us if the situation turned frightening.
“What are you looking for in there?” I asked.
“One second!” Teeny kept digging. “I wanted to bring pepper spray but I didn’t have any. So I grabbed this instead.”
Miss May and I exchanged another concerned glance. Then Teeny pulled a large spray can from her purse and thrust it into the air with a triumphant fist pump.
“Found it!”
Teeny handed the spray to Miss May.
“Teeny. This is olive oil cooking spray.”
Teeny smiled. “You think you spray that in someone’s eyes, it’s not going to slow them down?”
“I guess it would,” Miss May said. “But not for long.”
“Plus we can spray it on stairs if we want to make the bad guys slip and fall,” Teeny said.
“The can’s not even full,” I said. “I don’t think we can coat a flight of stairs with it!”
“Yeah,” Miss May agreed. “I say our best strategy in the face of danger is to flee.”
“You can run,” Teeny said. “While I stay back and fight.”
Miss May handed the spray back to Teeny. “We’re just heading down for some research. I’m sure we’ll be fine. Remember the last time we came to the city? We thought we were about to come face to face with an attacker, and it was a squirrel!”
I chuckled. “The squirrel attacked Teeny!”
“And if that bushy-tailed terror comes back for more, this time I’ve got my spray!” Once again, Teeny hoisted her olive oil spray in the air.
“I don’t think olive oil is a squirrel repellent,” Miss May laughed. “But I hope this place is nothing like that sketchy apartment. I hated it there.”
I looked out the window to my left. The skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan loomed above us. The intimidating buildings sent a shiver down my spine.
I hope everything goes OK today, I thought. Because I don’t have a license to use cooking spray as a weapon.
BY 10 AM, WE WERE IN the heart of Greenwich Village, one of New York’s most exclusive neighborhoods, surrounded by quaint brick buildings and cobblestone streets.
According to the map on my phone, we were only a few minutes from our destination. So we parked the car in the first available spot, and followed the little voice directing us from my phone.
First, we took a short cut through one of my favorite spots in Manhattan, Washington Square Park. The park was even more wondrous than I remembered.
Jazz musicians played quiet love songs under hundred-year-old trees. College girls sunbathed on the far lawn. A portly man sold hot dogs from a cart. NYU students read beside the central fountain, quintessential young learners in action.
When we emerged on the other side of the park, we found ourselves on a quaint tree-lined street with small, charming brick buildings.
Even though I was happy I didn’t live or work in Manhattan anymore, I had never fallen out of love with the Big Apple. The atmosphere that day
had me swooning with love for New York City all over again.
The sound of the GPS lady cut my nostalgia short with a loud bing. “You have arrived at your destination.”
When I looked up, I saw she was right. We were standing at the foot of 15 Waverly Place. What I saw surprised me.
Unlike much of the surrounding area, 15 Waverly was a modern structure. A dozen stories of steel and glass, with reflective windows and a shiny exterior.
During my time as an interior designer, I had trained myself to find value in almost any aesthetic. And I had learned to love many peculiar buildings and homes. But I could find few redeeming qualities in 15 Waverly Place.
Large, imposing and ugly, it had none of the soul or charm of the smaller brick buildings in the village. Instead it evoked a cold and cruel invader, descended from outer space to devour all semblance of attractive architecture.
I don’t use this word lightly, but the building was a monstrosity.
“Holy momma,” Teeny said. “This building is hideous. Are we sure this is the right place?”
I nodded. “This is it. What should we do now?”
Miss May pointed out a sign posted on the door of the building.
TOUR YOUR FUTURE HOME TODAY.
COME INSIDE.
“It’s an apartment complex,” she said. “Something tells me we won’t run into any squirrels in there.”
A PERKY SALESGIRL APPROACHED as soon as we entered the building. She was wearing a tight black dress with high heels. She had perfect makeup, complete with cherry red lipstick. And her bright white teeth glimmered in the light.
The girl clutched her heart like she pitied us as she spoke. “Oh I’m sorry ladies, are you lost? The soup kitchen is 15 East Waverly, not West Waverly.”
Teeny and Miss May scoffed in unison. I couldn’t tell who was more offended. But I spotted Teeny reach into her purse for the olive oil.
Miss May narrowed her eyes. “Come again?”
The salesgirl spoke louder, like she thought maybe Miss May didn’t speak good English.
“Soup kitchen. East Waverly. Not here. Bye now!”
The girl click-clacked across the lobby and held the door open for us to leave. Neither Miss May nor Teeny budged. I smirked, excited to see what might happen next.
“We’re not here for soup,” Miss May said. “We’re here to find out about our future home. Like the sign on the door suggests?”
The salesgirl stammered. Teeny took a step toward her. “That’s right. We read the sign on the door all by ourselves. We can do our timetables too. And the young one can recite the state capitals by heart.”
“That’s right,” I said. ”Did you know Augusta is the capital of Maine? Most people think it’s Portland.”
The salesgirl blinked a few times, shocked. “That’s... great. So you ladies are here for a tour of the complex?”
Miss May nodded. “Yup.”
Throughout the tour, Teeny, Miss May, and I refused to acknowledge the grandeur of the building’s interior.
None of us wanted to give the annoying salesgirl the satisfaction.
But the space was magnificent.
The basement had an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a sauna, a steam room, and a hot tub.
The roof deck had gorgeous outdoor furniture. Chaise lounges with durable, luxurious pillows. Long, elegant fire pits for the winter. And barbecues that the salesgirl was careful to point out had come from the direct recommendation of an award-winning celebrity chef who “could not be named.”
The model apartment had sixteen-foot ceilings, elegant mid-century modern furniture, and a TV in the bathroom.
And every resident we saw was just as beautiful as the building itself.
In the gym, attractive people lifted weights without breaking a sweat. In the business center, attractive people typed on fancy laptops. In the lounge, attractive people sipped on fresh-brewed lattes and made nonchalant conversation.
The whole building had a bit of a Stepford vibe. But not in a murderous way. More like in the “rich people are taking over the world and making everything the same” way.
Toward the end of the tour, Miss May asked if we could see apartment 1B, and the salesgirl looked confused.
“We don’t have an apartment 1B. That would be a basement apartment. And as I’ve shown you, our basement contains a gym and a lounge. Not an apartment.”
Miss May narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure there’s not—”
“Never.” The salesgirl hardened. “We would never put an apartment in the basement of this building.”
“OK,” Miss May said. “Sorry for asking.”
The salesgirl smiled. “Not a problem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another tour set to begin shortly. Such a pleasure meeting you.”
The woman hurried back toward her office, but Miss May called out before the salesgirl got across the room.
“One last question?”
The woman turned back. “How can I help?”
“When was this place built?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “We’ve been open sixteen months. Can’t you smell the new?”
“I guess I can smell it,” Miss May said. “And do you know what stood on this lot before they built this place?
The woman crinkled her nose. “Rent-stabilized housing. Section 8. This is so much nicer, don’t you think?”
“This certainly is luxurious,” Miss May said.
“Hold on.” I stepped forward. “Isn’t rent-stabilized housing for people that don’t have a lot of money? Where did they all go?”
The salesgirl shrugged. “I don’t know. New Jersey?”
The girl’s phone rang. “I have to take this. No more questions. Bye!”
We watched the salesgirl slip into her office and close the door. Then Miss May turned to me. “I know where at least one person who used to live here went.”
“Where?” I asked.
Miss May looked me square in the eye. “Pine Grove.”
19
Watching Wallace
THAT NIGHT, WE WENT looking for Wallace in town. We found him in the middle of what appeared to be a one-person ballroom dance on the sidewalk outside the Brown Cow.
Sure, Wallace looked ridiculous dancing. But the guy had undeniably great dance moves.
He could do the robot. And the moonwalk. And he could pop and lock like J Lo at a sold-out show. If he didn’t also have a penchant for angry outbursts, I would have joined him that day for a Viennese Waltz. But I was afraid of Wallace. So I stayed in the VW Bus with Miss May and enjoyed his dancing from afar.
“I can’t believe Wallace used to live in apartment 1B,” Teeny said. “Are you two a million percent positive about that?”
Miss May nodded. “Chelsea confirmed it online last night.”
“And Rosenberg led the team that tore down the Section 8 housing where Wallace lived? You confirmed that too?” Teeny asked.
I nodded. “Yup.”
“So what now?” Teeny asked. “We found the guy. Are we going to sit here all day or are we going to question him?”
“This is a stakeout,” Miss May said. “We’re going to watch. Learn. See if we can gather more information that confirms our theory.”
“And the theory is that Wacky Wallace killed Rosenberg because Rosenberg destroyed Wallace’s home in the city?” Teeny asked.
Miss May shrugged. “Kind of. Yeah. But Wallace is not the type of guy you approach on the street and interrogate out of nowhere.”
Teeny sighed. “Poor guy. With moves like that, he should have been a reality TV dance star. Not a small-town killer.”
“If only he’d been born a generation later maybe he would be on TV,” I said. “He has terrific moves.”
Across the street, Wallace had morphed his ballroom dance into an impromptu 60’s routine. He did the Egyptian, he held his nose and wiggled underwater, and he bopped his head in time with imaginary music.
“How did you to find where someon
e lives on your phone, anyway?” Teeny asked. “I thought that stuff was private.”
“I found a post Wallace made in an online forum. He used to hold meetings in apartment 1B for his ‘Military Fantasy Book Club’ and he had been looking for new members.”
“‘Military Fantasy?’ That’s a whole genre of books?” Teeny said. “Who has fantasies about the military? I have fantasies about fuzzy blankets and winning the lottery.”
Miss May chuckled. “To each her own.”
Teeny shook out her arms like she had gotten a chill. “Gives me a bad feeling. That guy being into military stuff.”
“Maybe he likes the historical aspect,” I said.
“Yeah right,” Teeny said.
Out the window, Wallace stopped dancing and screamed at the passing cars. He didn’t say much, but his face was red and he clenched his fists.
Just at that moment, Germany Turtle approached Wallace’s position from a few feet away, licking an ice cream cone and listening to music on his headphones. Germany stopped when he spotted Wallace, but it was too late. Wallace spun on the poor, defenseless Turtle with crazed, angry eyes. We couldn’t hear what Wallace said, but we watched the entire scene play out from our spot in the VW bus.
Wallace took a few steps toward Germany. Germany stumbled backward and raised his hands in surrender. Wallace kept advancing, and Germany tripped over his own feet. We cringed as Germany lost his grip on the ice cream cone, and a perfectly good scoop of strawberry plopped to the ground.
“What a waste of ice cream,” Teeny said.
“Poor kid,” Miss May said. “Look at him. Terrified. You’d think being around all those lions would have toughened him up.”
“Maybe he’s right to be terrified,” I said. “If Wallace is a killer, shouldn’t we try to help or call someone or something?”
Miss May shook her head. “Nah. The Turtle is getting back in his shell. See?”
We watched as Germany hurried over to a parked car, one of those tiny clown cars like they have in Europe. Germany got in and drove away.
Teeny laughed. “Turtle back in his shell! Look at that funny little car!”
Berried Alive Page 12
