Shakespeare's Landlord Part 15

The last time I'd been in Kroger's, I'd been shopping for myself and for the return of the Yorks. . . . Hey, they'd never reimbursed me for the groceries, or for the work I'd done last Wednesday. I hated the thought of bothering them, knowing how devastated they were by the trial of their granddaughter's a.s.sailant, but if they felt better to the extent of being able to take a walk, they could pay me.

I was trying to remember all the ingredients of my favorite tortilla ca.s.serole when a cart slammed into mine. I looked up sharply and realized the anger rolling around inside me had found an excellent focus, here to my left, wearing a modest s.h.i.+rtwaist dress and loafers.

The woman pus.h.i.+ng the other cart was Thea Sedaka. Thea had b.u.mped my cart on purpose; the stare she fixed on me aimed at contrite but never made it past loathing.

It had been a long time since I'd seen Thea this close. She was as pretty as ever. Tiny and small-boned, the future ex-Mrs. Sedaka has a sweet oval face outlined with shoulder-length dark hair cut to frame it perfectly. Thea had always made me feel like a hulking milkmaid to her dainty princess. I'd never known if the effect was intentional or a result of my own touchiness.

Now that I had the inside scoop on Thea's character, I could see how she achieved my displacement. She looked up, far more than she actually needed to, to make me feel even taller, and she pushed her cart with a little frown, as if it was almost too heavy to manage.

Thea's dark green dress was covered with teeny-weeny flowers in a sweet pink; nothing splashy or florid for Thea. She curled her lip at my workout clothes.

She guided her cart until she was at my side, right in the middle of the canned vegetables. I watched her lips curve in a venomous grin, and I knew she was about to say something she hoped would be painful.

So I beat her to the punch.

I leaned down to Thea and said with the widest smile I could stretch my lips into, "Drive past my house one more time and I'll have Clause Friedrich arrest you."

Thea's expression was priceless. But she snapped back together quickly.

"Marshall is mine," she hissed, reminding me vividly of my seventh-grade school play. "You're trying to break up a happy marriage, you home-wrecker."

"Not good enough," I said. "You'd better warn Tom David to find another parking place."

Once again, Thea was disconcerted. But being Thea, belle of Shakespeare, she rallied.

"If you're the one leaving those awful things at my house"-and here she actually managed tiny tears- "please stop." She said this just loudly enough for an older lady who was comparing soup cans to absorb her meaning and then eye me in horror.

"What things?" I asked blankly. "You poor little gal, has someone been leaving things on your doorstep? What did the police say?"

Thea turned red. Of course she hadn't called the police; the police, in the person of Tom David Meiklejohn, had already been on hand.

"You know," I said, with as much concern as I could muster, "I'm sure Claude would station someone outside your house all night if you think there's a prowler." The older woman gave me an approving nod and ventured down the aisle to compare the prices of tomato sauce.

I hadn't said anything insincere in so long that it actually felt refres.h.i.+ng and creative.

Thea had to content herself with a low-voiced "I'll get you" and a flounce as she laboriously pushed her cart toward the meat counter. A very weak finale.

I left the grocery store with several bags, and I managed to feel almost like myself when I got home.

d.a.m.ned if the chief of police wasn't still there. He'd just moved his car, probably to its parking s.p.a.ce behind the apartments, but he'd returned his body to my carport. I pulled into my driveway and unlocked my trunk. I would not be kept out of my own home. Friedrich uncrossed his arms and sauntered over.

"What is it with you?" I asked. "Why do you keep turning up here? I didn't do anything."

"I might think I wasn't welcome if I didn't know better," Friedrich rumbled. "Your face is looking a lot better. How's the side?"

I unlocked my kitchen door and pitched in my purse and workout bag. I went back to the car for the first two bags of groceries. Friedrich wordlessly gathered the next two and followed me into the kitchen.

In silence, I put the cans away in the pantry, stowed the meat in the refrigerator, and slid the juice containers into the freezer of my side-by-side. When all that was done, when the bags were folded and put under the sink in their designated place, I sat down at my plain wooden table opposite Friedrich, who'd seated himself, and said, "What?"

"Tell me what you saw the night Pardon was killed."

I looked down at my hands. I thought it over carefully. My goal in keeping quiet had been to keep the police from asking questions about my past. Well, Friedrich had done that anyway, and been too trusting of his subordinates; my past was out, and the results hadn't been as dreadful as I'd always thought they would be. Or maybe I had changed.

If only Claude Friedrich was here to listen to me tell it, and I didn't have to go down to the police station again, why not tell him the little I knew?

And maybe Marshall had spooked me a little, with his "woman who knows too much" scenario.

Friedrich was waiting patiently. I would feel much more comfortable in this big man's presence if I had nothing to conceal; he would then drench me with his warm approval. My mouth went up at one corner in a sardonic grin. This ambience was undoubtedly what made Claude Friedrich such a good policeman.

"I'll tell you what I saw, but it won't make any difference," I told him, making my decision abruptly. I looked him in the eyes and spread my hands flat on the table. "That's why I didn't see the need to tell you before."

"It was you that called me that night, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was me. Partly because I didn't want him to lie out there all night, but mostly because I was scared some kids might find him."

"Why didn't you tell me all this to begin with?"

"Because I didn't want to come to your attention. What I saw wasn't important enough for me to risk you calling Memphis, getting the story about what happened to me. I didn't want people here to know. And yet it's happened, anyway." And I looked him directly in his eyes.

"That's a mistake I can't make up to you," he said. "I regret letting that report sit around on my desk, more than I can tell you. I'm taking steps to minimize the damage."

That was as much apology as I'd ever receive; and really, what more could he say?

I shrugged. My anger against him deflated gently. I had known all along that someday it was inevitable that my past would block my path again.

"What I saw was someone wearing a raincoat with a hood, wheeling Pardon over to the arboretum," I said flatly. "I don't know who it was, but I'm sure it was someone from the apartments. I figured you already knew that, since Pardon's body appeared and disappeared so many times. Gone when Tom O'Hagen paid his rent, back when Deedra paid hers. It had to have been hidden in a different apartment, though I can't imagine why anyone would move Pardon's corpse around."

"How was the body moved over to the arboretum?"

"It was in some garbage bags, one pulled on from the feet and another pulled on from the head. Then it was loaded in my garbage-can cart and rolled over there." I felt mad all over again when I thought of the use of my cart.

"Where are the garbage bags?"

"Gone to the incinerator."

"Why'd you do that?"

"My fingerprints were on them. I checked to see if Pardon was dead."

Friedrich gave me the strangest look.

"What?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Start at the beginning," he rumbled.

I began with my walk. Friedrich's eyebrows went up when he realized I walked by myself in the dead of night quite frequently, but he said nothing until I had given him the whole account.

"Do me a favor, Lily," he said finally.

I raised my eyebrows and waited.

"Next time, just call me to start with."

It took me a moment to realize he was joking. I smiled. He smiled back, no great big grin, but companionable. He was letting that warmth wash over me, and I was enjoying it just as much as any other suspect who'd just come clean. Why not? I thought, forgoing scolding myself for being a chump. I was prepared for Friedrich to take his leave, but there he stayed, seemingly content at my clean, bare kitchen table.

"So," the policeman said. "Happening in the same time frame, we have the murder of Pardon Albee and the strange persecution of Lily Bard and Thea Sedaka. Thea never called us in, officially. But Tom David said a few things to Dolph, who figured he better tell me. I like to know what's going on in my town. Don't you think it's strange, Lily, that so many unusual things are happening at the same time in Shakespeare?"

I nodded, though I had my own ideas about the "strange persecution." Moving quietly, I gathered my cutting board, a knife, and a package of chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I began to skin and debone the chicken.

"The Yorks were gone on Monday. They returned that night late," Claude said. I worked and listened. "Mrs. Hofstettler was there all the time, but she's partially deaf and sometimes almost immobile. Jenny O'Hagen was at work, and Tom O'Hagen was sleeping. When he got up, he played a round of golf at the country club. He came home and went upstairs to pay blackmail to Norvel Whitbread, who was home from work 'sick.' Then Tom went down to pay his rent. You were unlocking the Yorks' apartment. When Tom found Pardon's door open, the body wasn't there, but the furniture was not in its usual order. An hour and a half later, Deedra came home from work, went upstairs to get her mother's check, then went down to pay the rent. And Pardon's traveling body was back on the couch, but arranged naturally enough that Deedra thought he was asleep."

"When did all the others pay their rent?" I asked over my shoulder as I scrubbed my hands at the sink. I thought this show-and-tell time was very strange, but I was enjoying it.

"I'd slipped my check under his door on my way to the station that morning," Friedrich said. "Norvel's rent was paid by the church. The secretary mailed Pardon a check, the Reverend McCorkindale told me. Marcus Jefferson says he'd also slid his rent check under Pardon's door on his way out to work that morning, and Pardon must already have made a trip to the bank right when it opened, because Marcus's check, mine, and Mrs. Hofstettler's were credited to Pardon's account when I called the bank."

"What about the one the church mailed?"

"Didn't get to Pardon's mailbox until the day after he died."

It would have been typical Pardon behavior to go by the church or up to Norvel's to ask about the rent, I thought, and raised my eyes to Friedrich's.

"But Norvel says Pardon didn't come to his apartment," the big man said, and I bent back to my work before I realized how strange the little exchange was.

"He's lying, though," I said.

"How do you figure?"

"Because Pardon did the vacuuming Monday himself. Remember the way the cord was wrapped? So he must have gone up to find out why Norvel hadn't done it. He's supposed to go in late to the church on Monday, after he's cleaned the apartment building's halls. The church gets a discount on his rent."

For the first time since I'd known him, Claude Friedrich looked surprised.

"How do you know all this, Lily?"

"If it's about cleaning, I know it. I think Pardon told me all that when he explained why Norvel was going to be cleaning the building instead of me." Pardon had just wanted to talk, as usual. It was fine with me not to have the poor-paying and tedious job of working under a constantly supervising Pardon.

Claude (as I now thought of him) looked at me a moment longer before resuming his running narrative of the day of the landlord's death. "So that morning Pardon stopped by Mrs. Hofstettler's to get her check, then went to the bank with three of the rent checks."

I put together a marinade and popped the strips of chicken breast in the bowl. I had a hankering for stir-fry tonight. I began to brown stew meat in a skillet while I chopped potatoes, carrots, and onions to go in the stew pot. I stirred the sauce for the tortilla ca.s.serole. I had some leftover taco meat to dump into the sauce, and a tomato, and after that I shredded three flour tortillas. I handed Claude the grater and the cheese. Obediently, he began to grate.

"How much?" he asked.

"Cup," I said, putting one on the table by him. "You were saying?"

"And he talked on the telephone several times," Claude continued. "He called the plant where Marcus works; we don't know who he talked to, there. Of course, that might be completely unrelated to Marcus. At least two hundred other people work there. About eleven, he called someone in rural Creek County, a pal he went to school with at UA, but the guy is on a business trip to Oklahoma City and we haven't been able to track him down yet."

I dumped all the stew ingredients into the slow cooker and got out my wok. While it was heating, I layered the tortilla ca.s.serole, including the grated cheese, and popped it in the freezer. Claude's voice provided a pleasant background sound, like listening to a familiar book on tape.

The stir-fry would provide two meals, I figured, the stew at least three; one night, I would have a baked potato and vegetables; the remaining meal could be the tortilla ca.s.serole and a salad.

After I put the rice in the microwave, I began stir-frying the chicken and vegetables. I was hardly aware that Claude had stopped talking. I stirred quickly, conscious only of the quiet content that came when I was doing something I could do well. The rice and the meat and vegetables were done at almost the same time, and I faced a little dilemma.

After a moment's hesitation, since sharing this meal represented yet another disruption in my formerly pristine schedule, I got two plates out of the cabinet and heaped them with food, then put a fork, a napkin, and a gla.s.s of tea in front of the policeman. I set a plate in front of him, then put my own gla.s.s and fork on the table and retrieved my plate. I put the soy sauce within reach, added the salt and pepper, and sat down. I gave Claude a curt nod to indicate everything was ready, and he picked up his fork and began to eat.

I kept my eyes on my plate. When I looked up, Claude had finished his food and was patting his mouth with his napkin, carefully making sure his mustache was clean.

"Real good," he said.

I shrugged, then realized that was not a gracious response to a compliment. I forced my eyes to meet his. "Thank you," I said stiffly. Never had I felt my long abstinence from society more keenly. "Would you like some more?" I made myself add.

"No thank you, that was a gracious plenty," he responded correctly. "You finished?"

I nodded, puzzled. I found out why he'd asked in the next minute, when he reached across, took my plate and fork, and went to the sink. He turned on the faucets, located my dishwas.h.i.+ng liquid, and began to wash all the dishes stacked on the counter.

I sat at the table with my mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then snapped out of my daze to get up and put away the leftovers in appropriate containers. Hesitantly, I set the now-empty wok by the sink for Friedrich to wash. I wiped the table and counters with a clean rag while he finished, and I swept the floor. Then, not knowing what else to do, I dried the dishes he'd put in the drainer and stowed them away.

The instant we were done with the homely procedure, before I could tense up again wondering what was to follow, Claude stuck out his huge hand, shook mine, and said, "I appreciate the good cooking. I get mightily tired of my own," and went to my front door.

I followed him as I ought to, but I wrapped my arms across my chest protectively. "Good-bye," I said, feeling I should say something more, but I couldn't think what. He gave me a totally unexpected smile, and I realized I'd never seen him like that, his wrinkles deepening as his lips curved up, his gray eyes suddenly slanting as the smile reached them.

"Good night, Lily," he rumbled, and then went down my driveway to the sidewalk. He turned toward the apartments. He didn't look back.

I shut the door, locked it mechanically, and went back to make sure the kitchen was spotless before going to bed. I was smiling, I saw in the bathroom mirror. I caught myself actually wondering what Claude Friedrich would be like in bed, and I shook my head at my reflection in the mirror. "You are going to the dogs, Lily," I said to the mirror. My face in the mirror looked rather pleased at the prospect.

Chapter Ten.

The telephone rang while I was putting on my makeup. I blew out a breath of exasperation. I'd hoped with the new workweek beginning, my life would get back to normal.

"Yes?" I said curtly.

"Lily Bard?" asked a faintly familiar voice.

"Yes."

"This is Alvah York. T. L. and I just happened to remember yesterday that we owed you money."

"I can stop by this morning at ten-thirty." I'd be through with my first client by then.

"We'll be here."

As I checked my supplies and loaded my car, I wondered if I should ask the Yorks how their granddaughter was doing, or just ignore the subject. I'd feel more comfortable myself just ignoring it, I decided. It was time to get back to my old familiar distance.

As I was giving the Althaus home its weekly two hours (it could have used five, but the two was all the Althaus budget would stand), I thought long and hard about the people in the apartment building. One of those tenants had killed Pardon Albee, whose somewhat irritating presence was already growing faint in my memory. For all his petty faults-his enjoyment in knowing about the lives of other people, his determined gossip gathering-Pardon hadn't deserved what had happened to him.