"Oh?"
"You won't get any work in Shakespeare ever again," Deedra threatened. "I don't want to be involved in that old bastard getting killed."
"Do you seriously think," I said, one side of my mouth curling up in a very dry smile, "that anyone in this town would give up an excellent and reliable maid like me to protect your hide?"
Deedra's blue eyes widened in shock. A door opened on the second floor, and down the stairs came the Garden Apartments' only black tenant, Marcus Jefferson. Marcus, a handsome man in his late twenties, gave us a startled look, muttered a greeting, and pushed past us to the front door, which gave its heavy groan as it inched shut behind him.
This building was full of people behaving peculiarly today. When I looked back at Deedra, her face was brick red and she was watching the front door close on Marcus Jefferson.
Uh-oh. I had a flash of what might have finally prodded Pardon Albee into "doing something" about Deedra.
"Did you want me to come back on my regular day?" I asked. Perhaps Deedra didn't want my services anymore. I clean Deedra's apartment on Friday mornings. That is prime time, since everyone wants a house clean for the weekend, and I half-hoped Deedra would fire me.
"Oh... oh, yes. Listen, really, let's just forget all about that conversation we had last week, about the door. I left it unlocked, okay? I just remembered it later. I'm sorry I even thought you might have done it. You're just the most reliable ..." Deedra's voice trailed off, a phony smile pasted to her face, where it looked quite at home.
As I walked down the sidewalk to my own house, I wondered if Pardon had indeed been in Deedra's apartment the week before. What would he go in there for? What would he have found if he did? If he was looking for trash on how Deedra lived her private life, he'd have found plenty. In her top dresser drawer, Deedra keeps some pornographic pictures some lover had taken of her in exotic lingerie and some of her naked. I certainly hadn't wanted to know this little fact, but Deedra expects me to do her wash and put it away during the afternoon I spend cleaning the apartment, and that drawer is her lingerie drawer. Deedra also keeps some erotica and some ghastly magazines actually stuck under the bed (where I am obliged to vacuum), and of course the sheets are always a mess. There are probably other "incriminating" things there, too, things Deedra's mother might be interested to know about.
Would Pardon Albee actually have dared to call Deedra's mother, the very proper Lacey Dean Knopp?
By God, that would be just like him.
Five minutes after I had entered my own house, the doorbell rang. I checked my peephole and opened the door.
My visitor was surprising but nonthreatening - my seldom-seen neighbor, Carlton Cockroft. I've spoken to Carlton only three or four times a year since I bought the house.
There is something very "edible" about Carlton. He always reminds me of hot chocolate and caramels in the winter, or the coconut smell of tanning lotion and the tang of barbecue in the summer. Carlton is in his early thirties, like me. He has black hair and dark brown eyes, a cleft chin, and thick arched brows. He smells good. He is maybe four inches taller than I am, about five ten. My neighbor is polite, busy, and heterosexual - and that is the sum total of my knowledge.
"Hello, Lily," he said, his voice pleasant but not cheerful.
"Carlton." I nodded in greeting, then opened my door so he could step inside.
He looked very surprised, and I realized I'd never asked him in before. He looked at the room very quickly and didn't seem to know what to do with himself, quite unlike my assured visitor of the day before.
"Have a seat," I said, taking the wing chair.
"Lily, I'll come straight to the point," Carlton began after he'd settled himself on the love seat. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. He was wearing an unremarkable plaid shirt in navy blue and white, pleated blue jeans, and Reeboks; he looked informally prosperous and comfortable.
I waited for him to come straight to the point. Most people seem to think you should respond when they tell you they're about to do something, but I've always thought it more interesting to wait and see if they actually do it.
He kept his eyes on me for a moment, as if expecting something from me, sure enough.
I made an open-hands gesture - okay, the point?
"I saw you out walking the night of the murder." He waited for me to shriek in alarm. "I got up to get a sinus pill."
I shrugged. "So?"
"Lily, that puts you in a bad position. I didn't tell Friedrich, but he asked me an awful lot of questions about you. If anyone else saw you, I'm afraid he may even suspect you of having something to do with Pardon's death."
I thought for a moment, my hands folded on my lap.
"So, why are you here?" I asked.
"I just wanted to warn you," Carlton said, straightening from his intent-but-relaxed pose. "I've always worried about you some."
My eyebrows flew up.
"Yes, yes, I know," he said with a little smile. "None of my business. But you're a woman alone, a pretty woman, and since I live next to you I feel a little responsible ... I sure don't want anything bad to happen to you."
I felt a terrible impulse to pull up my shirt and let him have a good look. The bad thing, the worst thing, had already happened to me. But I knew he was trying to shelter me, shield me from harm. I knew that Carlton perceived that as the right stance for a man to take. And I thought, as I so often do when dealing with them, that men are frequently more trouble than they're worth.
"Carlton, I live next to you, and since you're a good-looking guy living alone, I feel responsible for you," I said.
Carlton turned red. He started to get up, restrained himself. "I guess I deserved that. I should have turned it around in my own head to hear how it sounded, before it came out. But damnit, Lily, I'm trying to be your friend."
"I see that, Carlton, but why do you feel responsible for my possible trouble with the police? How do you know I'm not guilty of killing Pardon?"
My handsome neighbor looked at me as if I'd grown a snake's head and hissed. He was hurt, his gallant impulse rebuffed.
"Well ..." he began stiffly, "well... I've just wasted my time. And yours."
I looked down at my right hand; my ring-finger nail had an aggravating notch in it. I'd have to get out my emery board before it got worse.
He said unbelievingly, "I'm trying to be nice to you."
I looked up at him steadily, debated whether or not to speak. "Carlton, you've dated too many women who thought you were just what they were looking for," I said.
I had observed the parade to and from his little house for four years. A good-looking guy with no visible vices and a steady income in a town this size? USDA prime.
"But thanks for not telling the police you saw me. As it happens, I don't know who killed Pardon, and I'd rather not spend a lot of time convincing the police of that."
I thought I'd been fairly agreeable. But Carlton said, "Goodbye, Lily," and stalked out in a huffy way. He remembered just in time not to slam the door behind him.
As I went to get my emery board, I shook my head. There was a good guy in there somewhere under a few layers of crusted manure. I wondered how Carlton had imagined his visit would go.
"Lily, I'm the handsome male next to you and I'm showing you by my silence that I'm gallant and dependable. You should develop a crush on me."
"Thank you, hunk who has never noticed me before. I was out late at night on a mysterious but innocent errand. I am truly not the peculiar person I sometimes seem, and I am so grateful you have shielded me from interrogation by the rough police. I am absolutely innocent of everything but a strong urge to go to bed with you and/or hire you to prepare my next tax statement."
I had a little laugh to myself, which was something I needed before I went to my next job.
The Shakespeare Combined Church secretary had called a few days before to ask me to serve and clean up after a board meeting for the SCC preschool, so I left home on foot at 4:55. After passing the apartment building, I began walking by the large parking lot, which is at the end of Track Street. The preschool building, which on Sundays houses the Sunday school, is set at the back of the parking lot and is one long two-story wing. An L-shaped covered walkway runs across the front of the preschool and up the side of the church proper, which faces Jamaica Street. The white-spired church is traditional red brick, but I know little about that part of the establishment. The offices of the minister and his secretary are on the second floor of the Sunday school wing.
If I ever resume going to church, my choice won't be Shakespeare Combined, or SCC, as the locals invariably call it. SCC was formed when lots of conservative splinter groups amazingly coalesced to combine incomes and hire a minister and build a facility that would serve them all.
They'd found the Reverend Joel McCorkindale and they'd fund-raised and collected until they'd had enough to build the church, then the Sunday school building. The Reverend McCorkindale is a super fund-raiser. I've seen him in action. He remembers everyone's name. He knows everyone's family connections, asks after ailments, condoles about losses, congratulates on successes. If he is ever at a loss, he humbly confesses it. He has a spanking-clean wife and two toothy, clean boys, and though I believe Joel McCorkindale truly loves his work, he makes the skin on my neck crawl.
I've learned not to ignore the skin on my neck.
As far as I know, Joel McCorkindale has never broken the law. Probably he never would. But I feel his potential to do something truly dreadful simmering right beneath the surface. I have lived one step away from losing my mind for years. I am quick and accurate in spotting unstable streaks in others.
So far, that strange streak has only shown itself in his hiring of the church janitor. Norvel Whitbread had shown up on the church doorstep one morning drunk as a skunk. Joel McCorkindale had taken Norvel in, given him a good dose of the Spirit (rather than spirits), and taken him on as church maintenance man. Like his boss, Norvel looks good on the outside; he is supposedly now sober, he has a genuine knack for fixing things, and he keeps a smile on his face for church members. He is voluble in his gratitude to the minister and the congregation, which makes everyone feel good.
Though Joel McCorkindale may have a dark monster inside, it may never surface; he's done a great job so far, keeping it contained and submerged. Norvel, however, is simply rotten inside, through and through. All his cheer is a sham, and I am sure his sobriety is, too. He is the most touched-up of whited sepulchres.
SCC pays Norvel's rent at the Shakespeare Garden Apartments, and a salary besides, and members of the church are always inviting him home to meals. In return, Norvel keeps the church bathrooms and the church floors clean, washes the windows twice a year, empties the garbage cans daily, picks up trash in the parking lot, and attempts minor repairs. He also does a little work for Pardon Albee at the apartments. But he won't do anything remotely domestic, like loading the huge church dishwasher or making and serving coffee. So I get the overrun of church duties, if none of the sisters of the church are available to serve for free.
This quarterly board meeting, comprising those elected to sit for staggered terms on the preschool governing board, is always a lively event, and I'm almost always hired to set up the coffee and cookie trays, because any sisters of the church overhearing this group would be liable to (depending on their individual temperaments) die laughing, or stomp out in exasperation.
Norvel Whitbread was lounging in the church kitchen, which is at the end of the preschool building farthest from the church, when I came in. A large broom and dustpan were leaning against the counter, establishing his bona fides.
"How're you [har yew] today, Sister Lily?" he drawled, sipping from a soft-drink can.
"I'm not your fucking sister, Norvel."
"You want this job, you better watch your mouth, woman."
"You want this job, you better stop spiking your Cokes." I could smell the bourbon from four feet away. Norvel's thin, nose-dominated, undernourished face showed plain shock. I could tell it had been a while since someone had spoken to the church's pet convert in plain terms. Norvel was dressed in clothes passed on by a member of the congregation: the baggy brown pants and loose striped shirt had never been Norvel's choices.
While I got out the twenty-cup coffeepot, Norvel rallied.
"I'm a member of this church, and you ain't," he said, his voice low and mean. "They'll take my word."
"I'll tell you what, Norvel. You go on and tell them what you like. Either they'll believe you and fire me - in which case, the next woman they hire will be more than glad to tell them about your drinking habits - or they'll fire you, at the very least keep a closer eye on you. As I see it, Norvel, either way, you lose." My policy has always been to avoid or ignore Norvel, but today I was set on confronting him. Maybe my restraint with Carlton had worn out my quota of "nice" for the day; maybe this was just one face-to-face encounter too many. I often go for a week without talking to as many people as I'd talked to today.
Norvel struggled with his thought processes while I got the coffee apparatus assembled and perking and found a tray for the white-boxed assortment of bakery cookies that had been left on the counter.
"I'll get even with you for this, bitch," Norvel said, his sunken cheeks looking even more concave under the merciless fluorescent lighting.
"No, you won't," I said with absolute certainty.
Inspired by the liquor or the devil or both, Norvel made his move. He grabbed his broom with both hands and tried to jab me with it. I grabbed the stretch of handle between his hands, ducked under his arm, twisted the broom, and bent. Norvel's arm was strained over the handle. It was excruciatingly painful, as I'd learned when Marshall taught me this particular maneuver, and Norvel made a high squeak like a bat's.