The doorbell sounded.
Madeleine bustled to answer, welcoming Mia. Within minutes, the bridge began. It might have been any Wednesday evening. Madeleine wished her head didn’t hurt. She didn’t win a single hand.
Mike looked over his shoulder, punched in Cindy’s phone number. He was a third assistant to the executive assistant in a start-up development company. His boss snarled like a junkyard dog if you made personal calls on company time. Mike was relieved when Cindy picked it up on the first ring. He had to convince her… ‘‘Cindy-’’
The soft voice interrupted. ‘‘I rewrote the scene last night. You’re right, Mike. We have to get rid of Kelly’s wife to increase the pressure on him. Now he’s backed into a corner…’’
The tight muscles in the back of Mike’s neck eased. Cindy was a swell writing partner. They’d met in his script class at UCLA and been going like gangbusters ever since. He wished he didn’t have to sneak around to meet her, but Meg would flip if she found out. Cindy didn’t like things not being aboveboard but she understood when he explained that Meg wanted to co-write everything. He’d tried for a while, but he’d soon realized that Meg didn’t have the magic. He thought he did, especially with Cindy. A tiny thought darted in the back of his mind. Meg always acted like she knew so much about the business. He’d been excited when she assured him he was going to make it big someday. That’s why he’d married her. Even though she could be fun and exciting, sometimes he wondered if he’d done the right thing. But he’d made his choice. He’d thought she had more contacts than she really had. Still, she knew some people. Maybe when this script was finished, if she didn’t get mad, she’d help him sell it. Could he ever tell her about Cindy? Well, he’d worry about that later.
‘‘Great. Listen, we’re almost there. In the last scene…’’
Meg was good at computers. She’d easily broken into Mike’s. The new script was almost finished. God, it was good. It should have been hers too. She’d teach him to double-cross her. That was the only reason she’d married him, a long-haired kid with about as much attraction for her as a missionary. But he could write, that was for sure. This script could hit it big, really big. She knew an A-list producer who’d kill for a script like this.
Just like she would.
She clicked off Mike’s computer, rose and paced to the kitchen. She poured a drink, leaned against the counter. She’d had it all planned. As soon as the script was done, they’d go sailing. A crack with the tiller and off he’d go. The script would be hers and her fortune would be made.
How did the old bitch upstairs know? How could she possibly know? Meg had a dim memory of her ancient aunt Ida, hunched over a table, reading cards and saying a death was coming-and the next day Meg’s mother was hit by a car as she crossed La Brea.
Meg felt cold as ice. How could cards know anything? But Madeleine knew. Those cards and that shaky voice… Now if Mike died in an accident, Madeleine would run to the police.
Meg looked up toward the floor above. Madeleine saw the letter M and somebody dead.
Meg said it aloud. ‘‘M. M for Madeleine.’’
Meg waited until the front door slammed, Mike hustling out for his morning run. What a Boy Scout.
Meg slipped out of bed and glanced in the mirror. The red silk shorty nightgown emphasized her long slender legs. She was proud of her legs. She pulled on a T-shirt and jeans over the nightgown. It would take only a minute to return to the apartment, strip them off. She’d tell the police she heard a scream. She’d be distraught. She smiled in anticipation. The old bitch always went down and got her paper first thing in the morning. Out of those boring sterile nights of bridge, Madeleine had droned on and on about her breakfast, that hideous cat, the wonderful paperboy always coming early, the cost of milk, and on and on and on. More, Meg thought sourly, than she’d ever wanted to know, but now it was paying off.
Meg hurried to the cupboard above the broom closet. She pulled on plastic gloves and picked up a small paper sack.
Outside the door, she slipped in the shadows to the stairway, nice steep steps with a metal-edged tread. Birds twittered as the first hint of dawn added a rosy glow to the horizon. She started up the steps, moving fast.
In the third-floor apartment, Madeleine hummed as she poured a cup of green tea and spread cream cheese on a bagel. Certainly Mike looked uneasy last night. Perhaps she’d send an anonymous letter too. That should be enough to keep Meg safe.
The sound of shredding cloth brought her to her feet. Oh dear. Dandelion was a love, but she was ruining the sofa. Why didn’t she meow?
Madeleine rushed to the front door, aware she’d forgotten to let Dandelion out. This was her safe time to roam, before the street was busy with traffic.
Madeleine opened the door, cautioned, ‘‘You be careful now. Stay out of the street.’’
The cat slipped out into the grayness of dawn. The door shut behind her.
Meg froze on the steps, the hammer tight in one hand, a slender strip of wire in the other. The head of a nail protruded five inches from the wall to her left.
Dandelion, amber eyes glowing, trotted toward the steps.
Meg’s heart thudded. She flung the hammer toward the cat.
Dandelion slipped sideways. Her tail puffed. She hissed, launched herself forward, claws extended.
Meg recoiled. She flailed away, twisting, turning, trying to evade the cat, the sharp-edged steps forgotten. Her balance gone, she arched backward, scream rising. She plummeted down, her head smacking against the risers. She crashed onto the landing to lie in a bloodied crumpled heap.
When the police arrived, they found the strip of wire still clutched in a plastic-gloved hand, the hammer on the upper landing, and the protruding nail.
That night Detective Lieutenant Miguel Mendoza shook his head as he told his wife about his day. ‘‘… so go figure why this dame wanted to kill the old lady who lived upstairs. Maybe she played her music too loud. Guess we’ll never know.’’
The Whole World Is Watching by Libby Fischer Hellmann
‘‘ ‘The whole world is watching.’ ’’ Bernie Pollak snorted and slammed his locker door. ‘‘You wanna know what they’re watching? They’re watching these long-hair commie pinkos tear our country apart. That’s what they’re watching!’’
Officer Kevin Dougherty strapped on his gun belt, grabbed his hat, and followed his partner into the squad room. Bernie was a former marine who’d seen action in Korea. When he moved to Beverly, he’d bought a flagpole for his front lawn and raised Old Glory every morning.
Captain Greer stood behind the lectern, scanning the front page of the Chicago Daily News. Tall, with a fringe of gray hair around his head, Greer was usually a man of few words and fewer expressions. He reminded Kevin of his late father, who’d been a cop too. Now Greer made a show of folding the paper and looked up. ‘‘Okay, men. You all know what happened last night, right?’’
A few of the twenty-odd officers shook their heads. It was Monday, August 26, 1968.
‘‘Where you been? On Mars? Well, about five thousand of them-agitators-showed up in Lincoln Park yesterday afternoon. Festival of Life, they called it.’’ Kevin noted the slight curl of Greer’s lip. ‘‘When we wouldn’t allow ’em to bring in a flatbed truck, it got ugly. By curfew, half of ’em were still in the park, so we moved in again. They swarmed into Old Town. We went after them and arrested a bunch. But there were injuries all around. Civilians too.’’
‘‘Who was arrested?’’ an officer asked.
Greer frowned. ‘‘Don’t know ’em all. But another wing of ’em was trying to surround us down at head-quarters. We cut them off and headed them back up to Grant Park. We got-what’s his name-Hayden.’’