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 glass of tea in front of the policeman. I set a plate in front of him, then put my own glass 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 dishwashing 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.
While I scraped determinedly at a wad of chewing gum one of the many Althaus children had dropped on the kitchen linoleum, I pondered Pardon's violent death and the disrespect shown his body.
Once again, I wondered where that body had been hidden in its curious journeys.
Well, it could have been in the back of Pardon's own apartment. But surely Claude, who'd been so amazingly forthcoming the night before, would have told me if traces supporting that idea had been found. So the body had been close, but not in Pardon's own apartment. Not in the closet under the stairs; Pardon and I had apparently had the only keys, and the killer had not used Pardon's keys, as the clean and orderly closet bore witness.
So, somewhere in the apartment house, or maybe in the garage? It seemed to me as if there was a thought in the back of my head, if I could just summon it up, something one of the tenants had told me, something that had made me wonder at the time... but God Almighty, I'd been talking to so many people lately. No wonder I couldn't remember. It would pop to the top of my mind if I just ignored it. I began thinking about hiding places for Pardon's body again.
I felt sure I could eliminate Mrs. Hofstettler's and Claude's apartments. Marie Hofstettler was very much on the ball despite her aches and pains—she'd have to be totally senile to miss a dead body—and Claude... just hadn't killed Pardon. I didn't know why I was so sure, but I was. The Yorks had been out of town until late. That left the O'Hagens—which meant Tom, since Jenny had been at work—Deedra Dean, Norvel Whitbread, and Marcus Jefferson.
As I plugged in the ancient Althaus vacuum cleaner, I thought about Tom O'Hagen. What if Tom had lied about Pardon's living room being empty? What if Pardon's body had been lying on the couch, as Deedra said it had an hour or so later?
I worked over that idea determinedly but got nowhere. I simply could not think of a good reason for Tom O'Hagen to lie about that. He could have said he thought Pardon was asleep, as Deedra had. He could have said everything looked as normal, so he assumed Pardon had stepped out or retreated to the bathroom for a moment. Instead, Tom had insisted the furniture had been moved, the throw rug rumpled, as if something had taken place in the room.
Finally, I abandoned Tom O'Hagen in disgust. It was Marcus Jefferson's turn in the lineup of suspects. Marcus was certainly strong enough to move Pardon's body. Marcus also had a grudge against Pardon; he obviously adored the little boy Pardon's policies prevented him from bringing home. But that was hardly sufficient motivation to strike Pardon hard enough to kill him, at least to my mind. I could only picture that happening if Pardon had provoked Marcus in some way—had threatened to tell Marcus's ex-wife that Marcus was having a fling with a white woman, say. Could Marcus's former wife have kept the child away from Marcus if she'd received that information? Would it make such a difference to her, in this day and age? And Pardon had called Marcus's workplace the day he died. But then, two hundred-odd people worked in the factory besides Marcus—among them, I recalled, was Deedra Dean's stepfather, Jerrell Knopp, whom I knew as an upright, polite, softspoken bigot, who would undoubtedly have violent feelings about any relationship his stepdaughter might have with a black man.
But Jerrell, if he killed anyone, wouldn't kill Pardon. He'd kill Marcus. Surely Marcus was supposed to work from eight to five? And Pardon had almost certainly died sometime before five. Marcus could have killed Pardon on his lunch hour, maybe. After all, if anyone had seen or heard from Pardon after the phone call he'd placed to his friend at eleven and Tom's knocking on Pardon's door at three, I hadn't heard about it.