Yesterday's Body Page 7

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  The wind had shifted, and the street gang with it. The park was host to only three guys, at least that I could see. The closest was behind a hedge fifty feet from my target, the park maintenance shed, built to resemble a lighthouse. Had there ever been a lighthouse? A fake beacon on top may once have held a blinking light bulb. The two small windows up high were more for interior light than an addition to the lighthouse illusion.

  Thanks to a bit of foresight, I had a key that fit.

  Inside, littering the floor, was a hodgepodge of tools, dirt, and winter cuttings. The air was permeated with mold and dust spores. Quite the housing of last resort. No facilities and it wasn’t at all comfortable. However, no one tripped over me during the night, and my dreams were disturbed only by yowling cats, which may, or may not have been Clyde.

  In the morning I bagged a few weeds to thank the city for the use of their space, changed into business apparel, and was out before Officer Rivlin made his rounds.

  Clyde was cranky from lack of sleep. He didn’t understand the importance of a quick get-away. Fortunately, he adjusted nicely, accompanying me on my way a few blocks down Fulton, past the theater not yet opened, and two more blocks on Jefferson. I’d learned the streets at Queensboro’s core, named for British royalty, had surged in popularity with the latest renewal. The next tier, named for early patriots, had never deteriorated. The newest neighborhoods were either completely land-locked to the west, or poked into the Chesapeake Bay on small peninsulas. The more recent developers had named streets for trees, numbers, letters, or even their children.

  My destination was Lime Street, one of those landlocked streets with older buildings and low rent. I was inside the Fetter Building on Lime Street well before Abbott Computing Services opened for business.

  I took the stairs. Safer that way.

  Why did I worry about elevators when the office would be much worse. Forget channeling some fear-driven alter-ego. I’d never gotten my best stories without a bit of risk—calculated risk.

  As we reached the sixth floor I whispered, “Quiet, Clyde,” even though the hall was empty. So was the office. One of Mrs. Hemingway’s keys opened the door, but I relocked it without entering.

  “We bide our time.” Clyde knew that although I might have found evidence inside pointing to Francine’s killer, more likely, my co-workers would have found me.

  I’d gotten enough exercise on the stairs and the walk from the park, but I explored the halls for another half hour. Walking, unlike Barb’s pumping iron, had benefits beyond the physical. I located exits, found short cuts, and even an empty office on the fourth floor. Clyde was duly impressed when I opened that door with a plastic calendar.

  The empty office was a small suite, one divided room with a closet, an ideal place to stash a change of clothing, or, to lighten my bag. A pair of wool socks and a wool cap went in one of my plastic bags and into the farthest corner of the top shelf. “All replaceable if I can’t get back inside,” I said, just in case Clyde was listening. Except, I’d no longer need those things when I returned to my own life. Perhaps I’d try retrieving the clothing. Certainly add to that chapter.

  By the time I’d thoroughly canvassed the building and returned to Abbott Computing Services, Mr. Talbit had arrived. I hesitated, listening. When I heard him talking on the telephone, I slipped in and sat at Mrs. Hemingway’s computer, right where my co-workers would expect to see me. I popped in my thumb drive, and opened the payables, receivables, and paid file I’d copied. No Deefer showed up, nor, did any other familiar names. I’d already searched the hard files without success. Obviously, any information in those missing folders was permanently gone.

  No way to get around it—I’d have to stay and trust that my young office-mates were more into their personal lives than hard news. Make things easier for them—that usually worked. Before Vanessa arrived I’d scoured the coffee pot, all the mugs, and reliving a past life, wiped dust from the spots commercial cleaners never touch, like under and behind everything, and, of course, in the corners and on the half inch of floor next to every wall.

  Vanessa calmly nodded her acceptance of a clean cup of steaming coffee.

  Barb had quite a different reaction. “What, what, what?” She hesitated before adding, “My God, coffee. Let’s clone you.”

  “Creamer, sweetener?” I asked, unsure how to react.

  “Black,” she said. “Thanks.” After she seated herself, she stared at me for a moment, then asked, “Are you taking this job permanently?”

  “No.” I didn’t add, “Not even if you paid me a million dollars a day,” which was probably not true anyway. I’d take it for a day or two, maybe a week. Five million might do it. I’d buy a publishing company. Go into print in a big way.

  Forget it. Five million would bring its own problems.

  At break time Barb called me over to join their twosome. She asked about my qualifications for Francine’s position, what I knew about bookkeeping, office practices, that sort of thing. Since I wasn’t interested in the job, it didn’t matter a whit. Vanessa talked about the murder.

  “They had the whole weekend to solve it. It can’t be that hard. She was in her house. Who but her husband could have killed her?”

  “How about Asher?” Barb said. “I’m sure he had her key. She may have changed the locks after her husband moved out.”

  I, who’d used a key that wasn’t shiny new, kept my opinions to myself.

  “You talked to her,” Vanessa insisted. “How did she sound?”

  Barb, equally insistent, answered. “I didn’t talk to her. She sent an e-mail. I only read it, then told Mr. Talbit. Remember, Asher was the one who searched her desk.”

  “He had his reasons,” Vanessa said with a smirk.

  Barb murmured, “He must have mended a few fences over the weekend.”

  “The man was in shock. People are naturally bewildered in such situations. But he’s taking care of something that’s quite necessary.”

  Was it Asher’s “necessary something,” or their mutual animosity that affected my office mates? No more was said, but the atmosphere was tense, full of sharp glances, silent pauses, and the crisp snap of filing drawers violently closed. Neither seemed inclined to answer the phone. However, Mr. Talbit picked up the slack. Each time I answered, he was already there, taking care of business.

  I did answer first a time or two, although each caller wanted Mr. Talbit. One surprised me. The soft voice, the Caribbean cadence—it was Zip from the street.

  No, couldn’t be. It was someone who sounded like him. The tension was getting to me.

  As soon as I left work, I called Pat at the temp agency. If I stayed around Queensboro, I might as well have more than one example of working from the street. Besides, hostility affects my digestion, which I didn’t mention. Instead, I told her, “I need another job. They’re starting to include me in coffee breaks. They’re even talking about making it permanent!”

  “The woman’s only on vacation. How permanent are you talking?”

  “You haven’t heard about the murder?”

  “The—murder?” After a pause that included the faint sound of shuffling papers, she was back on the line. “That Mrs. Hemingway?”

  “Yes.”

  She had questions, but they ran more to the murder than to the job search. My answers didn’t enlighten her. Finally, she said, “I’ll look over my list. Call me tomorrow morning.”

  Since I was Pat’s newest client, I didn’t expect much, especially since I’d stressed short-term employment.

  Sylvie hadn’t called, so that evening, in my secluded booth at Chez Goodies, between salad and the wait for my entree, I called her.

  “Jo, where have you been?” she demanded. “I tried calling you all afternoon. You could have been dead.”

  “Why would I be dead? I was at work. You know I don’t turn on my phone while I’m working.”

  Sylvie’s concern was not for me but for her latest scoop. �
��Can you believe the police already took the yellow plastic tape away from the Hemingway house?” she asked. “I mean, they didn’t even solve the murder yet.”

  “And you just happened to be driving by, right?”

  She ignored my sarcasm. “There’s something else.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to tell me anything?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Okay, what’s the problem?”

  “The police were here with your old coat. That blue plaid thing. I told them it wasn’t yours, because you did have a new one, so what did you do with the old one? And they told me all about some woman who saw you. What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You aren’t making any sense, Sylvie.” That could have been true, if she’d been talking, say, to anyone else.

  Sharply, Sylvie said, “Come off it. When you called the other night, where were you? Did somebody see you? Is that why you got rid of the coat, so they couldn’t identify you?”

  “Um,” I said, not admitting anything.

  “Jo, don’t you think you’re overdoing this bag lady thing? Can’t you stay with me nights and prowl during the day?”

  My booth was screened with plants, but no sound-proof wall. “I can’t talk right now, but I will explain everything. It’s quite a story. Suffice to say, I shouldn’t meet your recent visitors, which would happen if I came there.”

  “What’s the trouble? Vagrancy?”

  “Of course not!” My local bank account wasn’t huge, but no one could claim I was a vagrant. “I do have a job, you know.”

  “Breaking and entering?”

  “Are you trying to insult me? Why would I break into a house?”

  “There has to be a reason you’re dodging the police.”

  “Perhaps I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “A witness. You saw something! I knew it.”

  “That may be the supposition. Untrue, of course.”

  “Then why...”

  “Got to go. Here’s my meal.” That was a better excuse than, “I must walk my cat.” In this case it was true.

  She wasn’t through. “They found this dead woman,” she began as I disconnected the phone.

  A dead woman? I shrugged. One does not delay eating filet mignon, regardless of any ploy my sister might invent. My steak needed only the accompanying mushrooms for perfection. The Truffle in Raspberry Sauce was divine. There are times when devotion to research must be overlooked.

  After a completely satisfying meal, I washed my hair in the café’s rest room and dried it with their hand blower. I got several veiled glances, but only one lady insisted on my excuse.

  “A bird. Can you believe it?” delivered with the proper intonation worked.

  I headed for the street. Nobody was around in the usual place, or even nearby. Strange. Perhaps I’d use the maintenance shed again. I stood near the door, searching my bag for the key, when something cracked behind me. I turned.

  Ears was at my shoulder.

  “Hey, stop creeping up on a person,” I snapped. I clutched my key. Had he seen it?

  He said, “Killing up here last night. Be careful.”

  “A killing? What happened? A fight?”

  “Nah. Somebody popped her while she was sleeping. Bashed her head in, near as I heard tell. Half a block away from two guys, she was.”

  Bashed her head in while she was sleeping? Not some rich dame, dripping diamonds, asking for trouble. One of us.

  Chapter 13

  “You’re snowing me,” I wanted to say. I didn’t. Some woman was killed on the street. In her sleep. A homeless woman on the street. I had to ask. “Who was it?”

  “Lacy.”

  “Lacy?”

  “Yeah. She had a plastic bag over her head, like that’s what killed her. Wasn’t. Her head was whacked a good one. Brains and blood all over the place.”

  Sounded like a horror movie. “You saw her?”

  “Not me. No way. But I hear stuff.”

  That I could believe. Ears knew everyone’s secrets, but he was never on the scene of any trouble—always around the edges, listening. Last night? I’d been in the park maintenance building. Near by. Close enough to hear the screams? If there were screams.

  “What time was it?”

  Ears shrugged.

  “I didn’t hear anything about a dead woman.”

  “What’s one dead bum, more or less?”

  I had heard about a dead woman though—from Sylvie. What had she said? I’d disconnected before she finished. I hesitated before asking, “Where is everybody?”

  “’Fraid of this place, that’s for sure. Some in the pokey. Protective custody thing. I’m headed for Mel’s.”

  “Tell him, no, don’t tell him anything.”

  What could I say? “I’m worried?” And why? Because Lacy who goes dumpster diving was dead and the police had my old coat and they were looking for me?

  I waited for Ears to leave, but he was in no hurry. “You going to that dinner Thursday?” he asked.

  “What dinner?”

  “The one them do-gooders throw every Easter.”

  Was my mind going fuzzy? No, I’d heard him right. “An Easter dinner on Thursday? Last I heard, Easter was always on Sunday.”

  “Yeah, funny, ain’t it? They don’t even get the week right. Easter’s over, two, three weeks ago. How’s that for funny?”

  “Go figure,” I said, wishing he’d leave, wishing I had time to think, but he stood there, digging in his pockets. He found what he was looking for, a handful of crumpled papers.

  “I’m passing out invites,” he said, peeling off a cruddy scrap and handing it to me. “You turn this in and you get a coupon good for a pair of shoes. Or maybe it’s socks.”

  I had to take the paper, he shoved it right at me. I glanced at it, but the light was too poor to see the print. I stashed it in my bag. He hovered, so I asked, “What do you get out of it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, not too convincingly.

  Unbelievable, I thought. “Sure,” I said.

  “Aw, you’ll see my name on it, anyway. I’ll get something. More papers with my name, the more I get. Maybe I get the shoes, and everybody else gets to eat. You want a couple more papers? Know anybody needs a good feed?”

  “You know everybody I know.”

  Why wouldn’t he leave? I moved down the hill and he was right with me. Was he protecting me from the killer? Or was he the killer? Who could tell? With him on my tail, I couldn’t use the shed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. We left the park together. We separated after two blocks.

  I headed downtown. I’d walked for maybe twenty minutes when it began to rain. Suddenly, and in buckets. I had to find dry cover for the night. Protective custody in the jail was not an option, not with the police looking for me. A night like this, Mel would have his house full. Any public building would be closed. I’d be happy to spend the money and get an actual room, but no self-respecting establishment would allow such a dripping, disheveled mess into their lobby. And no chance to run home. My car was locked inside a parking garage. By the time I reached town, I sloshed in my shoes.

  There was another option. I’d cleaned that Hemingway house from one end to the other, all for a room I never used. And, according to Sylvie, the police had removed the yellow tape that was supposed to keep everyone out.

  The cops were off to the next murder. They’d forgotten Francine.

  Yeah, sure. What were the chances of that?

  Still, they had taken the yellow tape away. I had the key. The police were watching Sylvie’s house. Where else could I go?

  Chapter 14

  The street was a river, the cars go-fast racers throwing up a rooster-tail of water to drench the sidewalk.

  Even though I stood in a doorway, a plastic bag draped around my shoulders, I was soaked and shivering when the bus finally arrived. I glared at the driver, daring him to say, �
�Sorry, we don’t allow wet rats in the bus.” He didn’t even look my way, just timed his brief stop to allow me to step inside. I lurched to a seat. I didn’t worry about the puddle I left behind when I got off at a stop near the Hemingway house.

  Sylvie was right. The yellow plastic strip had disappeared. I watched the dark house for ten minutes. One neighbor had a porch light on, but the Hemingway sweet gum tree obscured their view. Upstairs windows were lit in two houses. Other homes had either no lights at all or the dim, first floor lamps of TV viewers. No cars approached. And certainly, no one was about to jog around the block in the pouring rain.

  I went in the back way, avoiding those prickly pods surrounding the front door. I took off my dripping shoes and immediately went to the basement. The clothes inside my bag had somehow remained dry. I changed and stuck everything wet into the washer. While I was at it, I gave my coat a whirl in the drier and hoped it wouldn’t shrink. My shoes were a problem. I stuffed them with paper towels.

  This time I played it smart. I put stockings on my hands and padded barefoot around the house, looking at or in everything from the bottom up, even that basement closet. I checked the garage, but it remained the same. One key on the ring did fit the car’s ignition. No bodies in the back seat, or the trunk. What would it be like to be homeless with wheels? Happens. Fact is, someone else beat me to that story, which is why I’d left my car in the garage. Some woman they interviewed on TV did it. She parked her car on various side streets, slept in it, and pranced around town like a society matron getting freebie perfume doused on her wrists.

  I completed my search without leaving a single fingerprint. Toe prints, maybe, but who checks toe prints? It was slow going, since I used only my flashlight. I wasn’t about to alert any nosy neighbors with lights in the Hemingway house.

  There were no surprises, not that I expected any.