Murder on the Mind (16 page)

“What is this?” she nearly screamed, her thin voice shrill in the virtual silence.

I turned to see what she was looking at. Old Mr. Alpert stood in front of his closet, fastening a cardigan, his skeletal, heavily veined hands fumbling with the buttons.

“None of your business,” he said, and closed the door.

“You bought her flowers, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. It’s the least I can do for her now. Goodness knows I should’ve done more for her in life.”

“How dare you say that to me? She took my boy. She stole him!”

“And you stole her child.”

Dizziness rolled over me as I realized who and what they were arguing about.

The scene wavered, images colliding like a double-exposure. I could just make out Richard standing where I’d left him in the open doorway. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

As Mrs. Alpert stepped between us, the past obliterated him.

She leaned heavily on her cane, spittle flying as she spoke. “I took what was mine. Flesh of my flesh.”

“You destroyed her—drove her insane.”

Furious, she came at him, smacked him on the arm with her cane. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

Old Mr. Alpert glowered at her for a long moment, then without a word turned for the closet. He took out a suitcase, set it on the bed, and opened it. He crossed to the dresser.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.” He took out shirts, set them in the suitcase, then turned to another drawer, taking out underwear and socks.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“California. To visit Richard.”

Torrents of her anger drilled through me, made my head pound, my pulse race. All these years later, that old, fragile-looking woman still scared the shit out of me.

“Why?” she demanded.

Mr. Alpert turned toward his bathroom. “Because I can’t take being with you any more. I don’t want to be with you any longer.”

Her hand crumpled the paper; then she dropped it onto the floor.

He crossed the marble threshold between the carpeted bedroom and the ceramic tiled bathroom.

She followed.

I did, too.

Oblivious to her, Mr. Alpert reached into the bathroom cabinet for his shaving gear. Her face twisted as she hauled back and slammed the cane against his skull. He went down as though pole-axed.

I jumped forward to stop his fall, but he passed through my hands. His temple smacked the side of the claw-footed tub and he crumpled on the floor.

Mrs. Alpert glared down at him, watching his scarlet blood pool on the cool white tile. Her smile was thin-lipped, triumphant.

She turned for the bed.

I followed, watched as she returned the old man’s clothes to the highboy, then placed the suitcase back in the closet. Without a backward glance, she headed for the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind her.

Seconds ticked by.

Mr. Alpert lay unmoving in the bathroom.

The emotions tied to that incident still clung to these rooms: the old man’s despair at betraying my mother, his wife’s fury at my mother for stealing the affection of Richard’s father—her only child.

The crumpled paper the old woman had discarded lay at my feet. I bent down, picked it up. Smoothing it out on my knee, I read the typed script, an invoice from Mankowski’s Florist Shop: $35 for flowers, placed on Plot 58975, Elizabeth O. A. Resnick.

The room shimmered back into the present.

I stood upright again—back where I started. The overhead light blazed. Richard gripped my shoulders, gently shaking me. I took in a sharp breath, staring into his worried blue eyes.

“Jeff? Jeff, snap out of it!”

Brenda appeared in the doorway. “Richard Alpert, what have you done?” Then she was between us, her arms wrapped around me. I let her steady me. “It’s okay now,” she soothed. “It’s over now.”

I took a ragged breath and suddenly realized I was okay. No residual anger, fear, or hatred remained. The room was just like any other in the house. I wiped at my eyes and coughed.

“Are you all right?” Richard asked. “Christ, Jeff, what the hell happened? You were practically catatonic.”

I cleared my throat, pulling away from Brenda. “Got any Irish whiskey?”

Ashen-faced, Richard nodded, then disappeared.

I collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

Brenda joined me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. “She killed him, Brenda. Old lady Alpert whacked the old man over the head—killed him right in the bathroom.”

She rubbed my back like a mother comforting a child. “I knew something bad happened here.”

I looked at her, confused.

“I always got bad vibes in this room,” she explained. “But not like you. My grandma would’ve said you’ve got the second sight.”

“You, too?”

She shook her head. “Not like you.” She rose from the bed and opened a drawer in the dresser, took out a yellowed piece of paper. “I found this while we were redecorating. I don’t know why, but I never showed it to Richard.”

A cold shadow darkened my soul. The same florist bill I’d seen only minutes before.

“I can’t tell Richard. He loved the old hag.”

“Then don’t.”

“He’s already asking—”

“He doesn’t have to know everything.”

She was right.

Richard arrived with a highball glass filled to the brim with ice and good sipping whiskey. I wondered how he’d managed to get all the way upstairs without losing half the glass’s contents.

I tasted it and coughed. “Damn fine.”

“What the hell did you see?” he demanded.

I glanced at Brenda. Her nod encouraged me to explain.

“The day your grandfather died, he had an argument with your grandmother. About this.” I handed him the aged invoice.

He studied it. “She found out.”

“Found out what?” Brenda asked.

“Grandfather always bought Betty flowers on the anniversary of her death. Before his arthritis got too bad, he used to go to the cemetery. I drove him a couple of times.” He looked wistful. “He was a good man, Jeff. The only father I ever knew.”

“At least you
had
a father figure.” That came out sounding a lot worse than I’d meant, but Richard had the grace to ignore it. As a kid, I’d had none of the privileges Richard had. But for all the advantages of wealth, I bet he was nearly as miserable as me. We had more in common than I thought.

The light outside continued to fade, the shadows growing more dense.

“Anyway,” I continued, “they argued and she . . . she went off in a huff. He . . . uh . . . slipped in the bathroom.”

Brenda gave me a comforting smile, but Richard was looking at me, not her, and didn’t see.

“You going to be all right?” he asked.

I took another sip of that damn fine whiskey. “Sure.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Brenda said. “It’s close to dinner time and I can use some help in the kitchen.” She rose from the bed and left us. I heard her soft footfalls on the stairs.

Richard looked around the room, apparently caught up in his memories. He seemed content with the shorthand account I’d given, which satisfied me. I had no desire to destroy whatever illusions he had of his little old grandmother.

I took another sip of my drink.

“Aren’t you still on medication? You’re not supposed to be drinking,” Richard admonished.

“You going to report me to my doctor?” I stood. “Come on. Brenda wants help in the kitchen. Think we got any cheese and crackers?”

“I expect so.” Richard led the way.

I took one last look around the room. I’d faced and conquered my fear. I felt like Neil Armstrong on the moon: one small step—and one giant leap toward getting my life back.

CHAPTER 13

We sat down to eat dinner watching the kitchen TV. The top story on the six o’clock news was indeed the anonymous tip the cops had received on where to find the last of Sumner’s remains. The reports sounded so sanitized. The man was viciously killed, gutted like a deer, and the news media tiptoed around the truth. I suppose they were looking out for the tender sensibilities of children in the audience, but was the reality of Sumner’s murder that much worse than the violent fantasy of network dramas?

A brown-eyed blonde reporter with big hair from Channel 7 stood by the roadside with a live report. We even saw our shovel. I was surprised she didn’t try to interview it. She hinted it was the murderer who’d tipped the cops.

Yeah, right.

After dinner, I went back to my room to draw up a research list for the library, but found I couldn’t concentrate. I tried going over the news clippings, with the same results, and instead toyed with the idea of calling Maggie. I thought about her a lot lately. I wondered what her apartment looked like, where she shopped for groceries, what she liked to do on cold winter evenings, if she slept in flannel or nothing at all. . . . And I wondered if it was too soon to call her again.

I had to force myself to think of other things. Something bothered me about my first visit to Sumner’s neighborhood—nobody seemed to have seen anything the night the body was dumped. People usually want to be helpful, especially in a murder investigation. Of course, I hadn’t spoken with all the neighbors. If I had my own car, I might’ve spent a day tracking down everyone.

Someone had to have seen something the night of the murder.

Stretching out on my bed, I realized that so far I’d been pretty timid in pushing this investigation. Not my usual style. But I’d been busted down to field investigator, and then unemployed for so long. And that stupid mugging. . . . Richard’s reluctance to believe in me hadn’t helped, either. But ultimately, the problem was mine. So what was I going to do about it?

I’d been a damned good investigator, so why was I holding back? Despite my success earlier in the day, I knew I couldn’t depend on my funny feelings to solve the case. I had to do some real, hard-nosed digging. I wanted to talk with Sam Nielsen, the reporter from
The Buffalo News
, and I needed to make my peace, or at least attempt it, with Detective Hayden.

I hauled myself up and headed for the kitchen. Searching the cabinets, I found an unopened package of rainbow chip cookies. I stared at the drawing of the little hollow tree. My mother had drilled into me that you should never, ever take cookies from an unopened package when you hadn’t paid for them yourself. Despite the fact that Richard’s millions could buy a lot more cookies, the rule still applied.

I closed the cupboard door and again longed for my own car, so that I could go buy my own cookies or nachos or beer. Having no money put a definite crimp in that scenario. I hadn’t owned a car in years, although I’d always kept my license current. In Manhattan, a car was pointless; murders occurred to protect parking spaces. But occasionally Shelley and I would rent a car and spend summer weekends at quaint little bed-and-breakfast inns in Cape May or head for the Green Mountains of Vermont.

I shook my head clear of the memories, then realized I’d remembered something good about my time with Shelley. Two years after her death, it still hurt to think about her.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I realized that for the first time since the mugging I felt downright bored. I truly was on the mend. I looked around and caught sight of the phone book on the counter. What I really wanted was to call Maggie.

And say what?

Instead, I found myself flipping through the white pages, searching the columns of six-point type. I already knew Sharon Walker’s name wasn’t there, but there was a James M. Walker listed at an East Aurora address.

My finger traced back and forth under the name. All I had to do was pick up the phone, call old Sharon, and maybe we’d have ourselves a real nice conversation. Excuse me, ma’am, did you kill Matt Sumner?

A glance at the wall clock reminded me it was getting late to pull that kind of a stunt. The worst that could happen was she’d hang up.

Grabbing the phone, I punched in the number. What the hell.

One ring.

Suddenly nervous, I wished I’d taken time to write a script. Hello, Ms. Walker, I’m taking a survey.

No.

Two rings.

Maybe she wasn’t home.

Three rings.

I hoped to God she wouldn’t use the phone’s call-back feature—or have caller ID.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

Ready or not.

“Hi, this is Ken with Niagara Associates. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Buffalo media.”

For a moment she said nothing. I heard a TV in the background. “A survey?”

So far so good.

“Do you regularly read
The Buffalo News
?”

“On Sunday. I get it for the coupons.”

Had I expected a quaver in her voice? Maybe some kind of intuitive message that screamed she was Sumner’s murderer? Instead, she sounded like any ordinary person answering an annoying phone call.