Читать книгу Caught Redhanded - Gayle Roper - Страница 10

I stared at Martha’s front door as it slowly creaked open. Not good.

“Hello?” I called into the shadowed front hall. “Is anyone home? Ken?” I knocked on the doorjamb. “Hello?”

I thought maybe I heard a quiet thud and a soft swish. My heart began beating so hard my ears rang. Someone was here. I swallowed and elbowed the door farther open.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Remembering William’s edict that I never touch anything at a crime scene—and it didn’t take many brains to figure that with the condo’s resident dead and the front door unaccountably open, this was probably a crime scene—I didn’t touch the knob in case the cops needed to check it for prints or something.

I supposed it was possible that Martha had hurried out this morning to go on her run without shutting and locking her door, but I doubted it. Even I, Merry the Forgetful, remembered to lock my front door. Not the car necessarily, but definitely the front door.

If Ken was still home, maybe she wouldn’t have locked up, but she’d have at least closed the door. I became certain of that as air-conditioned air swirled out of the opening to cool my face. No one was foolish enough to leave a door open with the air-conditioning on at this time of year. I pulled out my cell to call William.

“Martha’s not here,” said a voice behind me. “She’s at work down at the supermarket. You’d think people would realize that at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning.”

I spun and found myself facing a stooped woman with the black hair of a bad home dye-job. Her blue eyes were bright in her wrinkled face and I guessed she was eighty if she was a day. As she gestured toward the house with her chin, her wattles swung gently.

“I guess you’ve got a key?” She gestured at the open door. “The others had one, too. They said Martha was going to meet them here, but they didn’t wait for her very long. When they left, they went out by the back door, sort of sneakylike if you ask me.”

They? “Who went out the back? Ken?” Maybe he didn’t want to see anyone in his grief. Or if he was guilty, maybe he was grabbing his stuff and getting out while the getting was good. Maybe he thought I was the police.

She nodded her head vigorously and her hair moved not one millimeter. “Ken was first. Then the new boyfriend.”

“The new boyfriend?” What new boyfriend? I couldn’t believe I was learning something Jolene had missed. “Ken’s no longer Martha’s boyfriend?”

The woman bent and twisted a dying flower from one of Martha’s geraniums. She straightened slowly, vertebra by vertebra. “Not for a couple of months. Good riddance, I say. Hated his motorcycle.” She curled her lip. “Loud, smelly thing.”

I smiled. “Motorcycles can certainly be loud.”

“Not the bike. Him.” She gave a sniff. “He was loud and smelly. Never could figure out why she let him stay with her.”

I decided I liked Martha’s neighbor. “So this is Martha’s condo, not Ken’s?”

“Oh, yes. Before he came, she lived here alone. Then after he moved out, she lived here alone. The new boyfriend doesn’t live with her.”

“Who’s the new boyfriend?”

“Don’t know his name. Tall, but then everyone looks tall to me. Very handsome, at least what I can see of him. He always comes late and I don’t see as well as I used to at night or even at twilight. He always wears a cap with some logo on it. I looked at it through my binoculars once.” She made a face. “Oops. You didn’t hear that, now, did you, dear?”

I laughed. “I didn’t hear a thing. Did you figure out what the logo was?”

“It was a bird.”

“A bird? Like he was wearing an Eagles cap? Was it dark green and white?”

She thought for a minute. “It could have been dark green. It was certainly dark in color. But the bird didn’t look like any eagle I ever saw, but then, what do I know of logos? One thing I will say for the guy, though—he is always very polite. Nods to me whenever he comes. Makes Ken look like a Neanderthal. He never paid any attention to me.” She pointed proudly to the baby-blue unit next door. “I live right there.”

“Very nice,” I said as I looked at the big pot of yellow daisies and blue lobelia on her doorstep. I could see the lace curtains covering her front windows were parted a couple of inches in the center. The better to use those binoculars?

She frowned thoughtfully. “Though come to think of it, I never saw the new one come in the daytime before today. You’d think he’d know Martha’s at work.”

I looked at the woman, who obviously didn’t yet know about Martha’s death. I decided not to tell her. I’d been through enough emotional drama and I had no desire to face more. Besides, she might be more open and spontaneous this way, telling me things I wanted to know. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Merry Kramer.”

“I’m Doris Wilson, dear. Nice to meet you.” She smiled happily as she took my hand. Her gnarled fingers gripped more strongly than I expected.

“Was Martha a good neighbor?” I asked, then kicked myself for using the past tense. I peered at Mrs. Wilson. Maybe she wouldn’t catch it.

“Was? Oh dear. Are you telling me she’s moving? When Ken left, I thought she might move to get away from the memories, you know? Then she didn’t and I thought she was going to stay.” Mrs. Wilson sighed. “The nice ones always leave. Sergeant Major Wilson was in the army for many, many years and the nice ones always got reassigned just when we got to know and enjoy them. Or we got reassigned. Are you a real estate lady come to check over the place?”

“No, no, not at all,” I hastened to assure her. “I was just asking a question.”

Mrs. Wilson absently twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “She’s a very nice person. Smokes like a lot of foolish young people, but she’s nice. She never hesitates to come over if I need help with something like climbing on the step stool to get a special dish off a high shelf. Oh my.” She looked distressed. “If Martha moves, I would be very sad.”

A faint ringing sounded and Mrs. Wilson went on point like a bird dog taking the scent. Her nose actually quivered. “That’s my phone.” She turned eagerly toward her unit. “Nice to meet you, uh—” She gave up trying to recall my name. “I’m sorry Martha’s not home.”

As soon as her white door closed behind her, I elbowed Martha’s door all the way open. In spite of Mrs. Wilson’s assurances that “they” went out the back door, I called, “Hello? Hello? I’m coming in.”

And I did, pushing the door not quite shut behind me so I could make a quick exit if I needed to. I paused in the hall, listening. The house had that empty feel to it and I decided it was quite safe to look around a bit.

I could just imagine Curt’s reaction if he’d been here. “Merry, what are you doing? This isn’t your house. You can’t just walk in.”

Then there was Mac’s way of seeing things. I knew he’d say, “Good initiative, Kramer. I’m proud of you. What’d you find?”

As to William, I didn’t think he’d see my walk-through as breaking and entering. I wouldn’t touch anything and I certainly wouldn’t take anything.

All in all, I felt good to go.

Martha’s living room looked like it came from an IKEA catalogue, all blond wood and bright cushions. Several inexpensive but attractive framed posters of colorful gardens hung on two of the walls; a flat-screen TV hung on a third over a long entertainment center. Two tall windows looked out on the small front lawn and the parking lot, filling the fourth wall.

Cat stuff was everywhere—pillows sporting cats lined the sofa, two stuffed cats sat in one of the chairs, ceramic cats sat on end tables amid framed photos, a calico fabric cat lay beside the magazine basket. And when I glanced at the gardens on the wall again, I saw they all had cats sitting among the blooms.

I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Wilson if Martha had a live cat or two who needed care now that their owner was dead.

The only jarring note in the room was the disarrangement of the cats and the framed photos that sat in groups on the end tables and the top of the entertainment cabinet. Martha smiled out of several pictures, standing arm in arm with people I didn’t know. In three of the many pictures the same young man stood with Martha, his arms wrapped around her. Ken? If so, he didn’t look dirty or smelly to me. In fact, he looked pretty good to me. An adorable little girl with blond ringlets grinned from a frame that had been knocked over. A niece? A friend’s child? A couple who must be her father and stepmother sat in a rather rigid studio portrait. Beside them a ceramic cat that was washing an extended back leg lay toppled on its side.

On the floor, beside a stone cat sitting with his tail curled about his paws, lay a picture, facedown. Much as I was dying to see the photo since you never know what might be a clue, I didn’t touch it. I hoped William would appreciate my discipline.

In the neat, white kitchen a copy of today’s Philadelphia Inquirer lay on the table, opened to the puzzle page. Someone had begun working the Sudoku with a mechanical pencil that had a very worn eraser. The only other item not tucked away in a cupboard was a small glass with orange juice residue in the bottom. The back sliding glass door stood open, the screen pushed to the side.

Can you say escape route? I was willing to bet this was the swishing sound I’d heard when I first arrived. I gave a little shudder. I had scared someone off, someone I was very glad I hadn’t met, given today’s circumstances.

I peeked in the single bedroom where a faux brass bed stood, neatly made and covered with an Amish quilt in shades of blue and yellow. Blue and yellow curtains hung at the windows and once again everything was neat as could be—except for the night table whose drawer was wide open. An alarm clock and a book lay on the floor beside the toppled bedside lamp.

I looked in the bathroom last and there the mess left no doubt that someone had taken things or at the very least been looking for something specific. The medicine chest had been emptied into the sink, its door left gaping. Bottles, toiletries and a box of bandages lay in a heap; the toothbrush holder lay on the floor.

I wondered which one of Mrs. Wilson’s they had made the mess.

I went back to the kitchen and stared at the open sliding door. Hot, humid air poured in, melding with the crisp air-conditioning. The view out the door was the backs of another five-condo unit, separated from Martha’s by a row of conifers that had grown both tall and thick. I wondered if people were at home in those units and if one of them had looked out at the right time to see who had run from Martha’s place.

I stepped outside and felt my ankle turn again. At this rate I’d be walking down the aisle with a cane.

I looked down at the concrete slab that passed for a patio and saw I’d stepped on the edge of a book. I bent and picked it up without thinking. I grimaced, but the damage was done. My fingerprints were stamped on the red leather cover with or over someone else’s, someone besides Martha.

I grabbed my shirttail and held the book in it. Using the material to protect the pages, I riffled through it quickly. It was a diary or a journal, the kind with all blank, lined pages. Its pages were more than half filled with a pretty, straight up and down penmanship. By the dates marking each new entry, I could see Martha wrote in it frequently rather than daily. When I glimpsed the name MAC, I knew it was time to call William and grabbed my cell.

I’d just pressed the 9 of 911 when the glass door on the powder-blue unit slid open, and Mrs. Wilson stepped out.

Without a thought, I dropped the journal into my purse. No way did I want her to see it and ask questions about it, maybe even demand I leave it here. It was something for William’s eyes only.

I needn’t have worried. She didn’t see me. Her eyes were red, and she kept sniffing and wiping her nose with a crumpled wad of tissues. She stood staring at the conifers for a few minutes. Then she took a long, shuddering breath.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked.

She jumped and turned, her eyes wide and fearful. Her hand came up to cover her heart when she saw it was only me.

“You scared me out of ten years,” she gasped. She patted her chest rapidly. Then as fear fled, I could see suspicion replace it.

“What are you doing here? Why are you in Martha’s house?” She began to move slowly backward toward her door. “I never saw you here before.”

“Sure you did.” Maybe she wasn’t as sharp as I’d thought. “We talked out front.”

She shot me a scathing look. “I know that. Before today. And you shouldn’t be here. No one should be here. Martha’s dead.” It was a wail. Clearly she’d cared for Martha. “I called the police and told them there had been people here. I told them you were here.”

“Good,” I said, holding out my phone. “I was about to do the same thing.”

She blinked, uncertain what to think of me. I couldn’t blame her.

“How did you learn about Martha?” I asked.

“That phone call? That was my friend Jennie. She heard about it on the TV.” Tears filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her wrinkled cheeks. “She was so nice.”

“That’s what I hear.” I smiled sadly. “I wish I had known her.”

Mrs. Wilson drew back like I’d slapped her and I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

“If you don’t—didn’t know her, what are you doing here?” She shook her finger at me. “You go away. Right now.”

“I want to wait for the police,” I said.

“No. You go. Now.” Her voice quavered with distress, but her eyes were determined. She stepped back until she was at her door. She leaned, clearly reaching for something just inside. When she drew her hand out, I stared in disbelief at the object she held. She clutched the burglar bar for her slider and she swung it through the air with all the panache of a knight wielding his broadsword.

“Go,” she ordered as the rush of air from her mighty swing brushed my face.

“But—”

“Go!” She took a step toward me, her weapon raised. Clearly her years with Sergeant Major Wilson and the army had rubbed off on her.

Feeling like a Great Dane being chased by a miniature dachshund, I went.