Don't Die Under the Apple Tree (14 page)

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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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“Dewitt!” she called after him.
“Who's your friend and what's his hurry?” Riordan asked.
“He's on my riveting gang at the shipyard. You seem to have scared him off.”
“Was it the hat or the tie?”
Rosie glanced at Riordan's tie: satin brocade in a burgundy and white flower-box pattern. “It might have been the tie. But I think it was most likely the badge.”
“Oh, forgot about that. So, what brings you to Bedford-Stuy? A little ways from home for you, isn't it?”
Between putting in a full day at work, hopping two different buses, and hearing both Wolfe's and Kilbride's tales of misfortune at the hands of Finch, Rosie was in no mood to play Riordan's games. “Never mind,” she groaned and began to head in the same direction as Dewitt.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. For dinner and then bed.”
“
I Love a Mystery
is on tonight. Eight o'clock, I believe.”
“That's swell. I'll leave you to what you were doing so you can get home in time to warm up your radio,” she quipped.
Riordan suppressed a smile. “Well, if you must go ... but I do think it's a shame you came all this way only to leave before you could introduce me to Jackson.”
The comment had the desired effect. Rosie stopped and turned around. “Me? Introduce you?”
“You're right. Maybe that wouldn't have been the right way to go about it. I suppose I was trying to think of a way to put Miss Jackson at ease so that she'd tell us what happened to make her lock herself in her house the past few days.”
“How do you know she's been locked up? Maybe she left town.”
“Nope. She's in there. I asked the neighbors. No one has seen Miss Jackson, but they have seen her son take out the trash and then go right back inside. And the upstairs neighbors hear noises coming from her apartment.”
“Do you think she ... ?”
“Murdered Finch and is now holed up and waiting for us to arrest her? Strange reaction, but then again, people in that situation do crazy things. Oh well.” He shrugged and descended the steps that led to the basement-level apartment. “I guess I'll find out on my own.”
“Stop. I know what you're doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“You're trying to get me to go with you to interview Jackson. Most likely because you know she'll talk to me before she'll talk to you. In other words, you want me to do your dirty work.”
“Me? I would never!”
“Oh, wouldn't you?” She trudged down the basement stairs with a sigh. “Okay, you win this time. I'll go with you. Not because I want to talk to her, mind you, but because you seem to need me.”
“Uh-huh,” Riordan replied with a grin and proceeded to knock on the basement door.
There was no reply, but Rosie noticed the sound of movement from behind the paneled wood door.
Riordan knocked again and then called out. “Miss Jackson. Lieutenant Riordan, New York City Police Department. I need to speak with you, please.”
No answer.
“I have a warrant, Miss Jackson. If you don't let me in, I will break down the door. I'd rather your son didn't see that happen.”
Still nothing.
Riordan waved Rosie back and readied his right leg to kick the door in. “Okay, I'm coming in ... one ...
Silence.
“Two ...”
As the lieutenant was about to say the word “three,” the door slowly opened inward to reveal a boy of approximately ten years of age. Dressed in short trousers and a neatly pressed white cotton shirt, his wide, frightened eyes somehow made his thin frame seem even more frail.
Riordan lowered his foot and removed his hat. “Hello.”
“Hello,” the boy murmured in reply.
“I'm Lieutenant Riordan. And this is Mrs. Keefe.” He waved a hand at Rosie. “And you are?”
“Malcolm.”
“Hi, Malcolm. There's nothing for you to be scared of; we're just going to come inside and talk to your mom. Okay?”
Malcolm nodded and opened the door wider. Before he could open it wide enough for Riordan and Rosie to enter, Shelby Jackson rushed from the back of the apartment. “Malcolm! I thought I told you to stay in your room.”
“He was gonna kick the door in, Mama,” the boy explained quietly.
“I know, but you get to your room now, and get to studyin'. You ain't been in school these past days, but I ain't gonna let you fall behind, neither.”
Malcolm shuffled away from the door, pouting all the way.
Shelby looked up at Riordan and then spotted Rosie standing behind him. “Oh! Her! She ... she ...”
“Hit your boss with a stapler when he tried to assault her?” Riordan challenged. “I already know that. And you already know that Robert Finch wasn't the nicest of men.”
“She ... ?” Shelby took turns glancing between Riordan and Rosie. “Is that ... that what happened?”
Rosie nodded earnestly.
“And did you ...?
Rosie shook her head emphatically. “No, I didn't kill Finch. Did you?”
“No! Oh no! It weren't anything like that,” Shelby said.
“Well, unless you're willing to share this story with the whole neighborhood, I suggest we go indoors, huh?” Riordan asked.
Jackson was still skeptical. “I ... I ... I didn't hurt nobody. I've just been so afraid. That's all.”
“I know. And I'm sure you've had every reason to feel afraid. But there's safety in numbers. Besides, you and Mrs. Keefe here could probably find some comfort in commiserating with each other.”
Shelby's body language relaxed. With a nod of her head, she led them into the lower-level apartment. Featuring hardwood floors and carved wood trim, the space was small but gracious, and the windows, although smaller than those in the upper-level apartments, still allowed for adequate light. The gently used furnishings—lace curtains, delicately carved tables and seating, and upholstery in an array of feminine fabrics—reflected both the gender and petite stature of the primary adult of the house and, although mismatched, created a sense of cozy warmth.
Jackson waved them to an antique Victorian settee upholstered in a dark red fabric while she, herself, took the only other seat in the room, a chintz slipcovered armchair.
Rosie looked at the fragile-looking piece of furniture, her face a question. “Are you sure it's okay?”
“No, no, you go ahead and set. That there belonged to my grandmama. You ain't the first to set down and you won't be the last.”
Riordan and Rosie eyed each other surreptitiously before following their hostess's orders. The settee was narrow and its back rigid, forcing its occupants to maintain perfect poise and posture. But the most unnerving feature of all was its lack of length. At just forty-four inches long, with two-inch arms on either side, the slight seating space forced Rosie and Riordan to sit hip to hip.
“So.” Riordan cleared his throat. “Miss—”
But before the lieutenant could pose a question, Shelby rose from her chair. “Where are my manners? Can I get you anything? Maybe some ice water?”
“I'm fine, thanks,” Rosie instantly rejected the offer. In truth, she was as dry as the Sahara, but she wanted this ordeal over and done with.
Riordan, meanwhile, cleared his throat again. “Some ice water would be great. Thank you, Miss Jackson.”
Dewitt was certainly right about Shelby's hospitality. She tottered off to the kitchen as if this were a social call instead of a police investigation.
Rosie and Riordan, meanwhile, sat in awkward silence, neither one looking at the other.
“I'm sorry,” Riordan finally said. “I know you want to get home, but—”
“That's okay. You're thirsty,” she said.“It is rather warm outside, isn't it?”
“Mmm. Especially for April. Seems like we went from winter right into summer.”
“That's what usually happens. Though I notice it a lot more now that I'm working on a scaffold.”
“Yeah, you do look like you got a bit of color today. Better make sure you wear a hat so you don't burn. Perhaps something with a wide brim—like what your sister wore this morning.” He grinned broadly.
“My sis—” She hadn't time to ask, since Shelby had returned with a tray bearing a pitcher of ice water and three mismatched glasses.
“Thank you, Miss Jackson,” Riordan said graciously.
“Yes, thank you,” Rosie echoed, her mind all the while on Katie.
Riordan stood up to pour himself a glass, but Shelby shooed him down. “You set and let me fix that.”
“Thanks again. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. When I was a beat cop, most folks told me to drink out of their garden hoses.”
“Some people have no decency,” she proclaimed and poured a green hobnail glass to a half-inch from the brim.
“I'd like to think that most do, Miss Jackson, but you're right. There are those rare few who seem to delight in the misfortunes of others. I feel sorry for them, though, in a way.”
“Well, that's the Christian way—not to hate but to take pity,” she agreed as she passed the green glass to Riordan.
“Thank you,” he said as he took the glass into his hands. “Oh, it's more than that. It's that people who act that way miss out on the good things that life offers. Like your boy, for instance.”
Rosie slid her eyes toward Riordan.
This was supposed to be a hard-nosed police investigation. What on earth is he talking about?
Although her female guest had stated she didn't want water, Shelby poured some into a short, pink glass and absently passed it to Rosie. “Why, thank you, Lieutenant Riordan. I try. Lord knows I try, but it's tough without his daddy around.”
“I know it is, but you're doing a great job.”
“Oh, but he gets sick. He gets sick a lot.”
“So did I once,” Riordan said.
“You?” Jackson laughed. “You couldn't tell now! You're as big and healthy as an ox.”
“Exactly. Feed him well, let him play out in the sun, and he'll grow out of it.”
“Why, that is music to my ears. You have no idea how much I owe in doctors' bills.” She rested in her chair without pouring a glass of water for herself.
“I can only imagine. My mother had the same problem,” he sympathized. “She took any old job in order to help us to get by. Some were good and others ...”
Jackson stared into the distance. “Yeah, I hear you.”
Rosie was at a complete loss. Here she had wanted to run the interview and shut Riordan out, but he seemed to be getting farther than she was.
“So tell me about Finch,” he urged. “I know he cut your wages.”
“He did,” she confirmed. “He pulled me outta the hull and for no good reason. No good reason at all.”
“And insulted you on top of it,” Rosie added.
“I know.” Shelby's voice rose. “To tell me I gained weight and then say what he did about—about my people! I ... I gotta say I wasn't feeling very Christian then.”
“Can't say I blame you,” Riordan sympathized. “It would take a saint to overlook something like that. Was that the first time Finch had ever acted in an untoward manner?”
“No ...” Shelby frowned.
Riordan glanced at Rosie; she took her cue. “What is it, Shelby?”
“I ... I ...”
He stood up. “I beg your pardon, Miss Jackson, but is there a washroom I could use?”
“Of course. Go out of this room, through the kitchen, and it's just there on your right.”
“Thank you.” Riordan rose from the settee and strode out of the room.
While he was gone, Rosie continued the conversation. “That wasn't the first time Finch behaved as less than a gentleman toward you, was it?”
Shelby shook her head solemnly.
“What did he—” Rosie nearly choked on her words. “What did he do to you?”
“I'd rather ... I can't say.”
“Yes, you can. And you should,” Rosie urged. “Would it help if I told you what he did to me?”
“No, I couldn't ask you to do that... .”
“But I want to. I want you to know you're not the only one.”
“I'm not?”
“Not by a long shot.” Rosie proceeded to tell Shelby what had occurred in Finch's office.

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