Murder On The Mind

by L.L. Bartlett

  * * *

  The condo was in a tract of ubiquitous clones in Tonawanda, off Sheridan Drive. If you came home drunk on a Saturday night, you’d probably never find your own place.

  Maggie parked in the short drive, killed the lights and engine. No porch lamp shined at number three twenty-two. It wasn’t much to look at. A double garage took up most of the front of the place. The entrance was a white steel door. A round, leaded window was the only source of natural light on the south side of the first floor, although double dormered windows were centered on the story above.

  We got out and I looked around. No neighbors peeked out to watch us. Not even a barking dog cut the silence.

  Maggie headed for the front door, stuck the key in, and reached for the handle.

  A sick feeling welled in my stomach.

  “Wait! You have gloves?”

  I met her on the steps, could hardly see her eyes in the dark.

  “What for?”

  “If the cops haven’t been through here already, we don’t want them finding our fingerprints when they come.”

  “Good idea,” she said, and pulled a pair of knit gloves from her coat pocket. I held the cuff of my right glove between my teeth and pulled it on my hand, as she fumbled with the key in the lock.

  The condo was dark. I waited until she shut the door behind us before patting the wall in search of a light switch.

  A crystal chandelier illuminated the entry. Stark white walls, tiled entry, carpet and sectional furniture in the room straight ahead: the place reminded me of a hospital. No art or photos decorated the hall. To the right, a staircase led to the loft above. The place felt cold, like no one had been there in weeks.

  We wandered into the living room, Maggie flicking on switches as we went. A cathedral ceiling soared some twenty feet above us. Rectangular skylights, like black eye sockets, reflected the glow of track lighting. A black-and-white, modern-art painting decorated the space above the white mantle. A companion piece of corporate art hung near the dining table. The rest of the walls were blank. A natural-looking fake fern filled the cold hearth. A stereo cabinet held audio equipment, but few CDs. The black box of a TV sat on a pedestal across from the couch, its remote the only clutter in the room.

  “Not much personality, is there?” Maggie commented. “It hasn’t changed a bit since I was here five years ago.”

  “Apart from the style of furniture, it’s not much different from Sumner’s house.”

  I ventured farther into the sterile room, looked over the breakfast bar into the galley kitchen.

  “What’s through that door? The garage?”

  She nodded.

  “And upstairs?”

  “Two good-sized bedrooms. A terrific bathroom. Double shower, Jacuzzi bath. There’s a hot tub on the deck.” She walked over to the French doors. Beyond her I could see the lights of the other condos on the next street.

  “The basement opens out to the back courtyard. Matt had a wet bar down there. Pool table, too. Wanna see?”

  I shook my head, looked around the room once more. Too bad I couldn’t touch anything. I just hoped I’d suck up whatever residual essence remained of Sumner by other means.

  I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, opening myself up to the place. Tendrils of something nudged at my brain.

  Maggie and Sumner had made love here. He’d touched her. Maybe memorized her every curve.

  A wave a jealousy washed through me.

  Don’t think about it.

  But I couldn’t stop. It ate at me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.

  The tendrils grew stronger. I wasn’t sure just what it was I was getting—but I was definitely getting something. Fear, maybe, but unlike what I’d felt before. I concentrated and the feeling swelled. Yes, another’s stomach-churning fear.

  “You okay?” Maggie asked, worried.

  I let out a long breath, forced a smile. “Yeah. Let’s look upstairs.”

  Maggie led the way, turning on more lights as we went. It seemed to enhance my newly awakened senses, the fear expanding with each step.

  “This is the guest room,” she said, adopting a real estate broker’s cadence, “but I doubt anyone’s ever stayed here.”

  Like the living room, it was a study in black and white. The headboard and matching dresser were ebony enamel. A white spread covered the mattress, and sheepskin acted as a throw at the left side of the bed, its ivory softness a contrast to the stark white carpet. No night tables with bedside lamps for reading comfort. No books, either. No decorations on the walls. I opened the closet door. Nothing. Not even coat hangers.

  “Next is the bathroom. I’d kill for one like this,” she said and flipped on a switch.

  Chrome and tile sparkled like something out of a builder’s brochure. Except for a box of tissues, there was nothing in sight to indicate anyone lived here. I opened the medicine cabinet. An electric razor, toothpaste and single toothbrush, mouthwash, cologne, a can of men’s hair spray, and a half-empty box of condoms. Old Matt liked to be prepared. A drawer in the vanity held a dozen new toothbrushes—no doubt for use by Sumner’s lady guests—and an unopened box of disposable cups. Freshly laundered white towels sat neatly stacked in the linen closet.

  “I take it Matt didn’t spend a lot of time here.”

  “It didn’t take him long to climax,” she said, sarcasm filling her voice. She cleared her throat. “The master bedroom’s got a king-sized bed, a down comforter and—” I felt her tension rise.

  I left the bathroom, saw a hand towel on the threshold between the master bedroom and hall. A dark smudge marred its pristine state. “What’s wrong?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Do you smell something?”

  I did. A flat, coppery odor I recognized.

  “Stay here,” I told her and headed down the hall.

  I hit the light switch. Blood—like paint on a blank canvas—splattered the walls by the right side of the bed.

  “What is it?” Maggie called.

  I moved to the far side of the bed, careful not to tread on the footprint stains that ruined the carpet.

  Claudia Sumner lay huddled on her side, naked, the top of her head blown clear away.

  “Jeff?” Maggie cried, fear threading her voice.

  No gun was visible. Where were Claudia’s clothes? Her car? In the garage?

  My gaze drifted to her face as phantom images of Shelley’s murder exploded in my mind. But it was Claudia’s blood, brains, and bone sprayed across the walls, floor, and bed.

  The room was suddenly too hot, making it hard to breathe. I backed away, hoped to hang onto my stomach contents long enough to reach the bathroom.

  I brushed past Maggie, threw up in the sink. Coughing and gasping, I ran the water until I could catch my breath.

  “What did you see?” she cried. “What’s in there?”

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

  “Claudia.”

  Maggie’s eyes went wide with fear. “She’s . . . dead?”

  I nodded. “Hours ago. Maybe even yesterday.”

  She took a ragged breath, eyes wild, and backed away, crashing into the wall, then bolted for the stairs.

  “Wait!”

  I caught her at the landing, grabbed her sleeve.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” she wailed, and tried to pull away.

  I pushed her against the wall, pinning her with my body.

  “Listen to me. We can’t panic. You hear me?” She shook her head, terrified. “Maggie, listen to me.” I clasped her chin. “We’ve got to turn off the lights. Make it look like we were never here.”

  “I’m going to lose my job. My God, we could go to jail!”

  “No one has to know we were here. We wore gloves. It’s going to be okay.”

  But she covered her face with her hands, weeping. I pulled her close, let her cry on my shoulder. I smoothed her hair in rhythm with her sobs. “It’s okay, Maggie. It’ll be okay. I promise.”


  “How? How can it ever be right?”

  I had to come up with something. Some answer. She was depending on me.

  I drew back, looked her in the eye.

  “You ever do any acting?”

  Since I’d already reported one find to the cops via 911, I figured I’d be pushing my luck to try it again. In the parking lot of a drugstore, I wrote Maggie a script. She practiced it three times, speaking lower, slower, sounding sexy as hell.

  We stood under the glare of a mercury vapor lamp, clutching the phone between us, Maggie transmitting her fear like carrier waves. She pressed the touch-tone pad. It rang twice.

  “Please listen,” she said calmly. “I’ll only say this once. There’s a body at three twenty-two Maiden Lane. Claudia Sumner, wife of Matthew J. Sumner. She was shot. Today, possibly yesterday. Please send someone.”

  I pressed the switch-hook and our eyes locked. “You did great, Maggie.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”