by Deany Ray
The TV was dark and silent. No stupid commercial blared into my ears, no brother sprawled across the couch, no mother asked nosy questions about whether I might consider a sperm donor if no man came along.
Perhaps this might not be so bad. Perhaps I could gift this man with several pairs of nice dress slacks. Or perhaps Half Naked Man was just a crazy uncle who’d snuck out of his bedroom while his caregiver took a break. Tomorrow he might very well be on a plane back home. Perhaps the real landlord would show up any minute in a button-down shirt and jeans. “Never mind Uncle Jake,” he’d say. “I thought that he was sleeping.”
But I had no such luck.
“I’ve lived here eighteen years,” Tighty Whitey said proudly. He showed me the space that would have been my bedroom: smallish, pink and neat.
He also pointed out his room, which connected right to mine. “Side by side,” he said. “Isn’t that swell and cozy?”
Well, no. It most certainly was not. I’d have to pass through his room to get in and out of mine. What had the builder been smoking when he designed this house? The whole thing was just too weird.
I thanked him for the tour. “I’ll be in touch,” I said, as I walked, ran, then leapt into my car.
Hmm. This was going well.
All the other options made me want to weep as well. One apartment was a single room with the shower way too close to where I would be eating dinner. Another complex would give me more space but the bathroom was shared with others on the hall, including an older woman who loved to talk. In the ten minutes that it took me to escape her in the hallway, I learned all about her five cats and her worthless son. I learned who was sleeping with someone else’s husband in another apartment unit that was two floors up, and who was dying a slow and painful death on One Life to Live. Which I could watch with her in the afternoons, she offered with a bright smile. She could make some tea!
“No thank you,” I told her. “I really have to go.”
I knew that often it was a poor girl’s fate to have to settle for a roommate. So I tried to be optimistic when I rang the bell at a lovely townhouse whose occupant, a secretary at a bank, was looking for another girl to share the rent and the payment for the utilities. But the whole place reeked of pot, and given my potential roomie’s very mellow conversation, I figured she must have started smoking with her morning java.
The last stop was a pretty space where I could live blessedly alone. There were neat rows of flowers, a well-kept lawn, and fresh coats of paint on every door. But the apartment manager told me there was a catch. The vacant apartment was on the second floor above a field that was set up for games of archery.
She took me up and showed me the vacant one-bedroom space. She gave me a defeated frown when she saw me looking out the window at the archery equipment. “The sport seems very popular,” she said. “Who knew so many people liked to play with bows and arrows.”
I wondered. Were they loud, these people who played archery? It might not be too bad if they didn’t start too early. Perhaps I could even try to play the game myself. It might be fun to learn. And imagine how convenient. I did need exercise. My new job seemed quite physical, and I was out of shape.
“You’d have to keep the windows shut.” The manager came to stand beside me and gaze out at the field.
Oh.
“The arrows come that close?”
“Really, really close.”
I looked around. The place would be fine, I guess, if I could live with the arrows. Could an arrow pierce a window? Would I be safe huddled in the corner? I guessed this was another no.
I thought about my tiny place in Boston, which I used to complain about non-stop. The kitchen had been barely big enough to give a person room to turn around. But it was quiet when I wanted quiet. The couch was an ugly brown, but it was soft and comfy. From the bedroom window on a clear day, you could catch a breeze that smelled of Upper Mystic Lake. And you’d never ever catch an arrow or a whiff of pot.
I pointed the car toward the office. I needed to somehow turn this job into a decent paycheck.
Chapter Six
I arrived to find Marge way up on a ladder. Her round figure was precariously perched on the highest rung as she hung up a framed poster with kittens wearing funny hats. A slightly lopsided poster hung beside it: fuzzy cats fast asleep in pots of brightly colored daisies.
Not exactly the kind of art that said Techno Wizards Hard at Work or Tough Investigators. We’ll Nab the Bad Guys Quick.
Marge’s round body dipped and swayed as she stood up on her tiptoe to hammer in a nail. Hmm. The dangers of the job came in all kinds of forms.
“Whoa, there,” I said. I spoke in a soft voice so as not to frighten the unlikely acrobat in her tight pink dress. “Marge, get down from there.” I held up my hand to help her down. “Ease down very carefully. How can we make a living if you break your leg?”
“Thanks, sweets. I love you too.” She jumped down from the last rung with an indelicate small hop, then stood back to admire her somewhat crooked kittens.
Celeste was on the phone, furiously scribbling something on a pad. “We gave you the pinky finger. Now you give us the name.” Uh oh. Someone was getting an ultimatum. Celeste wasn’t happy. Was she talking to her ex?
“She’s on a mission,” Marge whispered. “They’ll cave any minute. I’ll bet you anything.”
After a few more minutes of talk, Celeste slammed down the phone. “A Mr. Baxter Duvant. Age twenty-five. Of 8 Clove Street in Springston.”
Marge gave me a high five.
“Great work, Celeste,” I said. “You go get ’em, girl.”
“Must have put a rush in to get the name that fast,” Celeste said. “Remember what Agnes told us when she took the fingerprints?”
Marge nodded. “She said it might be a while.”
Celeste paused. “Something’s going on that they’re not telling us. Why were they in such a hurry to find out the victim’s name?”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” I said, excited – and a little scared – of the possibilities. “Plus, Alex was acting really odd.” He’d intrigued me with his hints that something big and dangerous was going on in Springston. Oh, yes, our little pinky was part of something bigger. I was almost sure.
Celeste stood up from her desk. “Something’s brewing, girls. But CMC is on the case. We’ll figure out what’s up.”
“What else did they tell you about the pinky guy?” Marge hurried over to her. “Is this Baxter guy okay?”
“Well now, that’s the thing.” Celeste stuck her pencil in her tall mass of hair, which was now free from its scarf (since she was not on a case). “The police have no idea. No hospitals have seen him. There are no records anywhere. The police can’t find the guy. Or at least that’s what Bert tells me. Who knows if they’re holding back with some information.”
“That can’t be good,” Marge said. “The pinky person might be hurt! Let’s go and find this Baxter.” She clasped her hands and giggled. There was Minnie Mouse again. “Isn’t this exciting?” She looked around. “Do you think I’ll need my tape recorder?”
Celeste rolled her eyes. “Hold you horses, Marge. We’re not heading out to look until we have a plan.”
But where to even start? Surely the police had already checked out Clove Street. I sighed, tired already. “Well, at least this time it’s a person, not a bear,” I said. “We can go out in the daylight…without a bowl of pickles.”
“And this subject’s not as likely to fart right in your face,” Marge said.
Thank goodness for small favors.
“But he could be dangerous,” Celeste said. “This Baxter is not exactly some cool, upstanding dude.” She glanced down at her notebook. “This guy has a record. Burglaries, theft of motor vehicles, possession of stolen property.”
Marge looked disappointed. “Oh, but that’s no fun. I really, really wanted to go out and save a good guy, not a thug.”
Celeste put up her ha
nd. “A crime is a crime is a crime,” she said. “And an assault is an assault, even if the victim’s not a person you’d care to grab a cup of coffee with. We don’t discriminate.” She took a green scarf from her desk drawer and tied it around her hair. “I have an idea, girls. Get your keys, detectives. Let’s take a little ride.”
I pulled my sweater off the hook. “I suppose we’re off to Clove Street?”
Celeste nodded. “I’m sure the cops have been there already. But some of them are doofuses. And maybe this nine-fingered thief was out when they were there. The three of us might have better luck. I’m sure the police are keeping a real close eye on the property. So we need to be extra careful. It’s best they think we’re off chasing pandas while the big boys handle this. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“They must know we’re up to something,” I said. “Since you demanded information.”
“But I’ve promised we be cool,” she said. “I said we’d concentrate on other things if they kept us in the loop.”
We got into Marge’s car and sped away. I had to grab the wheel a couple of times so as not to derail because Marge kept clasping her hands. That was not the way I wanted to die.
It turned out that 8 Clove Street was an apartment, not a house.
“Well, that’s just great,” Marge said. “Which apartment is it? I suppose the police conveniently forgot that little detail when they gave you the address. They’re afraid we’ll solve the case first before they even know what’s up.”
Celeste gave her a thumbs up. “And we will do just that. But, luckily, I have everything we need.” She glanced down at a paper that she’d tucked into her scarf. “We’ll find our Mr. Duvant living in apartment number sixteen.”
With their peeling paint and rotting wood, the Clove Street Apartments seemed like the kind of sad place that would fit my budget. Super! I was in the income bracket of a low-life thug. I couldn’t wait to meet my neighbors once I found a place.
A few older model cars were parked out in the lot, but nobody much seemed to be around. The place seemed sad and empty.
Marge studied the four-story building carefully. “Hmm. A fire escape.” “Let’s go up the fire escape. Very, very quietly.”
“What?” I looked at Marge. “Would it not be simpler just to knock?”
“Oh hon, I don’t think that’s best,” she said. “Because if there’s something fishy with this Duvant guy, he’s not likely to invite us in and point out all the clues.”
She did have a point.
“Right,” Celeste said decisively. “Best to take a quiet peek and then ask questions later.”
But the fire escape looked more like an abandoned ruin than a safe way to get up to the higher floors.
“I don’t know, you guys,” I said, pushing my glasses further up my nose. “That thing looks really old. What if it just collapses?” The steel looked so corroded that I was afraid a single footstep might just do it in. “Plus, what if we get caught peering in the window? Caught not just by anyone but by a burglar-thief?” Not the best enemy to make.
As usual, my cohorts felt braver than I did. As usual, they won. So up the fire escape we’d go. Which made me nervous.
“First things first, however.” Celeste spoke in her take-charge voice. “We need to go inside, look at the numbers, see which window is Duvant’s. Just act like you belong here, like we’re here to see a friend.”
We were back in undercover mode. Marge had put on a gray coat to cover up her bright pink dress. Celeste had on her usual disguise. And me? Well, I needed no adjustments. I kind of blended in anywhere I went. I guess I’d found a job where plainness was a virtue.
The Clove Street Apartments were even more dismal when you got inside. The linoleum hallways were cracked, and the building smelled like garbage and old fish. We had to climb the dirty wooden steps to the fourth floor before we found two peeling plastic numbers, a one and a six, hanging from loose nails.
“Remember that,” I told the others. “Should be second window from the left.”
Marge repeated it over and over as we made our way outside. “Second window from the left, second window from the left. Hopefully that’s one that we can get a good view of from the fire escape.”
“Quiet, Marge!” I whispered. If somebody was listening from behind their door, that would not sound good at all. The doors were pretty thin and cheap. I’ll bet sound carried in those hallways.
Outside, the street was empty. “Coast is clear,” I said.
But first there was a problem. We had to somehow figure out how to get the drop ladder down. We stared up at it in silence.
Celeste was the first to speak. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. Marge, clasp your hands together just like this.” Celeste formed a tight web with her hands. “Then Charlie, you climb up. Our hands will be your steps.”
“Do what?” I asked. “No way!”
“You can do it,” Celeste said. “But you should hurry, before somebody comes.”
Okay. I took a deep breath. Could I do it? I could do it!
I gave it my best go – and quickly tumbled backwards, landing on top of Marge.
“Ouch,” she said, as we got up gingerly, checking to see which limbs might ache in protest or refuse to even work. “You should be okay,” Marge said. “Because I was right there as a cushion. Always glad to help.” She winced as she rubbed her side.
The second time went better, although my perch was quite uneven. With Celeste being extra tall and Marge being extra short, they formed a crazy kind of ladder.
Stretching my arms as high as they would go, I could just reach the bottom of the drop ladder. Then it took some effort to pull the darned thing down. I was out of breath. I added work out more to my ever-growing mental list of ways to improve my life. Maybe I should join in my mother’s yoga group. No one was under eighty. I should have no trouble keeping up with them.
Celeste glanced up the ladder and pointed to the window of our pinky person’s unit. “Okay, Charlie, you climb up there.”
“Why me?”
“Who else?” Celeste said. “You’re in the best shape of the three of us.”
I glanced over at my friend. She seemed pretty strong to me. But I guessed all those cigarettes might have had their way with her. Still, if I was the fittest one in our little group of ladies, we were one sad lot. The bad guys could have a field day!
“Hey,” I said. “Did I ever tell you I have a fear of heights?”
“We need you, Charlie. Please,” Marge begged. “You’re the fittest and the lightest.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said. “This wasn’t my idea.” I felt like it was someone else’s turn to play Superwoman. But, still, I let her words sink in. No one had ever called me that: the fittest and the lightest.
I decided I would do it. Trying to live up to my reputation (The fittest! And the lightest!), I began my climb. The fire escape felt sturdy; this might not be so bad. That meant I got the first peek into Duvant’s window. For the first time that afternoon, excitement trumped my fear. Hopefully, something would be in there to give us just a hint about what was going on and where we might go from there.
But what I saw inside the window was not what I expected. Was this really the apartment of a young guy with a long string of crimes? Why was there a grandma and a grandpa spinning around to some music from their tiny radio? They were bobbing their heads and doing jerky dance moves. This was crazy. Colored lights flashed in the background in time with the music’s steady beat. I was so mesmerized I forgot that I was on a job. And that I was perched up on a fire escape I did not completely trust.
Then Celeste coughed from down below, reminding me that they were waiting for a report on what I saw. How could I very quietly describe what I was seeing? I shook my hips a little bit and did a small one-handed wave that I hoped looked like a dance move.
I could tell the others didn’t get it. They looked up at me, confused, but that was the best that I could do. It wasn�
�t easy being up there and keeping my careful balance, let alone performing some jazz dance in midair. Now was the time to peek inside, see if there was anything around the room that might be a clue. I could explain when I got down.
They looked at me, expectantly. Why were they so impatient? If they couldn’t wait to find out, they could climb up and look themselves.
But should I try just one more time? What other dance moves did I know?
I’d only been to one prom, because some guy owed Brad a favor. I’d spent most of it in the corner, but I’d been impressed with this Egyptian kind of dance that some other kids were doing. They’d all stood in a line, making jerky arm movements with bent elbows, and thrusting their heads forward. Now, several flights above the ground, I gave it a try.
Marge stood below with her mouth open in amazement. Celeste shrugged and gave me her frequent frowny look that I knew meant What the hell?
Then I bent over and pretended to move slowly with a cane. I meant to send two messages: Old People. Weird Dance Moves.
Their mouths were still open in confusion. Then something vibrated in the pocket of my jeans. Duh. Texting would be much easier than fire-escape charades. But couldn’t it wait till I got down?
I pulled out my cell.
MARGE: What the heck are you trying to tell us? Did Duvant steal King Tut?
ME: Old People dancing in the kitchen. Are you sure we have the right apartment?
Marge showed the question to Celeste, who looked thoughtful, then concerned. Was it my imagination or did that look mean whoops? Celeste ran inside the building and came back looking sheepish. She and Marge conferred. Then I got another text.
MARGE: Wrong place. You’re at 19. The 6 came loose and was hanging down.
