“Who was that?” he asked, looking past me. I glanced back over my shoulder.
“That’s Becca Whitley, you know her,” I said. “And her brother, Anthony. I just met him. Big guy.”
“Hmm. Brother?”
“Yep. Anthony. Brother.”
Jack put his arm around me and we strolled off as if he’d never been angry.
“They don’t look much alike,” he said after a moment.
“Not much, no,” I agreed, wondering if I’d missed something. “Do you look like your sister?”
“No, not anything,” Jack said. “She’s got lots more pink in her complexion, and she’s got lighter hair than I have.”
We didn’t talk much on our way back to my place. The fact that we loved each other seemed enough to contemplate for the moment. Jack decided he wanted to go work his abs while Body Time was open, but I was awfully sore after wrestling Joe C through his bedroom window.
“I’ll start your laundry if you want to go on,” I said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Jack protested.
“It’s no trouble.” I knew Jack hated doing laundry.
“I’ll make supper,” he offered.
“Okay, as long as it’s not red meat.”
“Chicken fajitas?”
“Okay.”
“Then I’ll go by the Superette on my way home.”
As Jack pulled out of my driveway, I reflected on how domestic that little exchange had been. I didn’t exactly smile, but it hovered around my heart somewhere as I opened Jack’s suitcase, which was really a glorified duffel bag. Jack didn’t look as though he’d be neat, but he was. He had several days’ worth of clothes compactly folded in the bag, and they all needed washing. In the side pockets Jack kept his time-fillers: a crossword puzzle book, a paperback thriller, and a TV Guide.
He always carried his own when he traveled because it saved him some aggravation. This week’s was new and smooth; the one for the week just past was crumpled and dog-eared.
I was about to pitch the older one in the garbage until I realized that this was the same edition as the one missing from Deedra’s coffee table. I flipped through the pages of Jack’s magazine as if it could tell me something. Once more, I almost tossed it into the trash, but I reconsidered and put it on my kitchen table. It would serve as a reminder to tell Jack the odd little story of the only thing missing from Deedra’s apartment.
As I sorted Jack’s laundry, my thoughts drifted from Deedra’s apartment to Becca’s. She’d wanted to talk to me. I glanced down at my watch. Jack wouldn’t be home for another hour, easy. I started a load of his jeans and shirts and put my keys in my pocket, locking my door behind me as I went to the apartments. It was a cooler evening after a cool day, and I wished I had thrown on a jacket. Taking the driveway to the rear of the apartment building, I strolled through the parking lot with its numbered shed-one stall for every apartment. Because it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and because two of the apartments in the building were temporarily vacant, there were only two vehicles parked in the shed, Becca’s blue Dodge and Claude’s new pickup.
Looking at Deedra’s empty stall, I was seized by a sudden idea. I don’t like loose ends. I went into the open wood structure-really a glorified shed-and began examining the items hanging from nails pounded into the unfinished walls. Some long-ago tenant had hung tools there. Deedra had left an umbrella, and on a shelf there was a container of windshield-wiper fluid, a rag for checking the oil, an ice scraper, and some glass cleaner. I unhooked the umbrella from its nail, upended it, and out fell… nothing. Deedra’s spare key was no longer in its usual hiding place.
I found that even more peculiar than her purse being missing from the crime scene. Her killer had known even this about Deedra, the small secret of where she kept her extra key. Now the killer could have in his possession two keys to Deedra’s apartment, the other keys on the big ring in her purse, the other contents of the purse, and Deedra’s TV Guide.
There didn’t seem to be anything to do about this missing key. I’d tell the sheriff when I saw her next. I shrugged, all to myself.
I went to the rear door of the apartment building and stepped in. Becca’s was the rear door to my left; Claude Friedrich lived in the front apartment next to it. Claude and Carrie were due to return from their mini-honeymoon this evening, and I assumed they’d go to Carrie’s house permanently. Three apartments empty, then; I hoped Becca would be too busy to clean them for the next tenants. I could use some extra money.
I rapped on Becca’s door. She answered almost instantly, as if she’d been standing right inside. She looked surprised.
“You said you needed to talk to me,” I prompted her.
“Oh, yes, I did! I just didn’t think… Never mind. It’s good to see you.” Becca stood aside to let me come in.
I tried to remember if I’d ever been in her apartment before. Becca had left it much the same as it had been in her Uncle Pardon’s day. She’d just rearranged the furniture, added a small table or two, and bought a new television (Pardon had had a small, old model).
“Let me get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Becca urged me to sit down, so I perched on the edge of the couch. I didn’t want to stay long.
“Anthony’s gone to the car wash,” Becca told me. “I was sure it was him when you knocked.”
I waited for her to get to the point.
“If Anthony and I do go on this trip he’s planning,” she began, “would you be interested in being responsible for the apartments while I’m gone?”
“Tell me exactly what that means.”
She talked at me for some time, giving me details, showing me the list of workmen who kept a tab for the apartment-building repairs, and explaining how to deposit the rent checks. Becca was a sensible woman under all that makeup, and she explained things well.
The extra money would be welcome, and I needed the job just for the visibility. Used to be, I cleaned maybe four out of the eight apartments in the building, but that was a couple of years ago. And Pardon had hired me to clean the public parts of the building from time to time. I told Becca I’d do it, and she seemed pleased and relieved.
I stood up to go, and in that moment of silence before Becca began the courtesies of saying good-bye, I heard something upstairs.
From Deedra’s apartment.
Becca said, “Well, Lily…,” and I raised my hand. She stopped speaking immediately, which I liked, and she mouthed, “What?” I pointed at the ceiling.
We stood looking up as if we had X-ray vision and could see what was going on overhead. Again, I heard movement in the apartment of the dead woman. Just for moment, my skin crawled.
“Is Lacey here?” I breathed, trying to catch any sound I could. Becca and I stood together like statues, but statues whose heads were rotating slightly to hear as well as possible.
Becca shook her head, and the ribbon she’d tied around the elastic band holding back her long blond hair rustled on her shoulders.
I jerked my head toward Becca’s door. I looked questioningly.
She nodded and we went quietly across to her apartment door.
“Police?” I asked in the lowest voice that would carry.
She shook her head. “Might be family,” she whispered, with a shrug.
Nothing could creep like Becca and I up those stairs. We were familiar enough with the apartment building to know what creaked and what didn’t, and we were at Deedra’s door before I was ready for it.
We had no gun, no weapon of any kind besides our hands, while the person inside might have an armory. But this was Becca’s property, and she seemed determined to confront the intruder here and now. We both became comfortable with our stance, and I rotated my shoulders to loosen them.
Becca knocked on the door.