“Imagine my surprise when I discovered there is a Smith & Wesson 442 registered in your name. In the state of Florida.”
I pushed hair from my face, shook my head, and opened my mouth.
Farlow wasn’t ready for me to speak. “You want to change your answer? Is this weapon still in your possession?”
My knees began to buckle, so I slid into the nearest chair. “I’m sorry, I can explain. When you asked me about a weapon, I’d forgotten all about the gun.”
I folded my hands, trying to appear honest.
I am honest.
“When you asked, I believed I was telling the truth. I just forgot. You see, my husband was killed in a drive-by shooting, in Florida. I couldn’t stand looking at the gun and packed it away after that, and sealed the box. That was over five years ago.”
Deputy Farlow squinted at me and folded his arms across his chest. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss. I understand it must’ve been a trying time, and you might have forgotten about storing it. Let’s open the box and get the weapon now. I’ll take it down to the office to be checked out.”
Uh, oh.
I clenched my hands tighter and inhaled deeply. “I. I was thinking about the murder the other day and got scared because I live alone. Well, that’s when I remembered the gun. I got it out of the box, for protection, and put it in my purse.”
I pried my hands apart and reached into my handbag. Deputy Farlow took a step back as I pulled out the gun. His right hand went to his own weapon, still in the holster at his side.
I let my gun dangle from two fingers while I offered it to him. “I’m sorry. When I remembered the gun, I forgot that I told you I didn’t have one.” My story was so convoluted, even I didn’t believe it.
“It’s loaded?”
I nodded once. “Yes sir, it is.”
Without taking his eyes off me, Farlow pulled a plastic baggy from his pocket, let me drop my handgun into it, and slid the whole thing into his jacket pocket. “Ms. Halloren, I’m taking this downtown. I’m going to ask you not to leave town until I talk to you again. Depending on what we find, I may have more questions.”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded and then shook my head. “I won’t be going anywhere. Well, I have a trip planned, but not until the end of next week. I’ll be sure to talk to you first.”
“Right. I’ll get back to you.” He tipped his hat and left.
What had I gotten myself into? Suddenly my throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow, and I trotted to the kitchen for a glass of water. Always a step ahead of me, Mason leapt to the counter and to the window sill. I scratched his ears and gazed through the window. Wallace’s car sat in his driveway.
Thank you, God.
I ran out of the house, cutting through the yard to his back door.
Chapter Twenty-eight
W allace stood at his kitchen counter, dishtowel in hand, when I showed up at his screen door.
“Lauren, good to see you. How’s everything?” He threw the towel over his shoulder and held the door open for me.
“I’m so glad you’re home, everything is a mess. I thought I’d be bored in this little town, but instead, my life has been turned upside down.” I paced around the kitchen and drew in a deep breath. “The police released Helen Peters. She has an alibi.”
“So I heard. Is that a problem?”
I stopped and looked into his eyes. “Now I’m a murder suspect.”
A smile spread across his face and he laughed. “What? You aren’t serious.”
With a closer look at my expression, he sobered mid-laugh. “What makes you think so?” Pulling out a chair from the kitchen table, he said, “Sit and tell me about it.”
Wallace maintained an unblinking gaze as I explained about the gun, my forgetfulness, and inadvertent lie.
He lowered himself into the chair across from me and closed his eyes for a moment. “Repeat that last part.”
I painstakingly explained about remembering the gun, loading it, and putting it in my handbag, only to have to surrender it to Officer Farlow.
Wallace ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath through his teeth. “Have you fired the weapon recently?”
I was happy to reply. “No, not in ages, since Marc insisted I take lessons. It’s been boxed away, more than five years.”
“Good, they’ll discover it hasn’t been fired and check the caliber of the bullet, which probably won’t be a match. Most likely, they’ll return it to you in a few days.”
“Do you think you should you be carrying a loaded gun?”
“I’m very careful.” Did he think I was a child? Wallace narrowed his eyes, in an expression I read as doubt. I rushed on with my explanation. “I need it. With Helen exonerated, the killer is still loose. I’m sure Paul Cooper knows I’ve been asking questions. He glares at me every time I see him. What if he’s the killer and he comes after me?”
Wallace nodded. “Have you mentioned your suspicions to the authorities?”
“No.” I let my shoulders slump. “My own friends think I’m crazy, I can’t go to the police saying I don’t remember him and he gives me mean looks.”
“You’re probably right about that.” Wallace leaned back and leveled his gaze at me. “What have you discovered about Cooper?”
I squirmed. “Not much. I haven’t had time to look into the information you gave me. Things have been busy at my house and I thought the murder was solved.”
Wallace raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. “When they return the gun, don’t carry it in your purse. Keep it in a drawer at home and lock it in the glove compartment when you go out.”
“Wallace, I know how to use it.” I began to defend myself.
“The last time you fired it was five years ago?”
“It was, but….” I choked under Wallace’s steady gaze. “Okay, I guess it would be safer.”
Wallace visibly relaxed and smiled. “When you get it back, why don’t I take you to a shooting range and give you a refresher course?”
~
A week later, Officer Farlow returned my gun, stating it wasn’t a match for the murder weapon. As soon as he left, I glanced over at Wallace’s empty driveway. With only a tinge of guilt, I reloaded the Smith & Wesson and slipped it into my handbag.
Chapter Twenty-nine
O ne call to Anita and I would be on my way to the big city, happily leaving Evelynton behind.
“I’m off to the airport.” I scanned my checklist. “You’ll find the spare key under the flower pot on the front porch. Take it and I’ll get it back when I see you.”
Mason jumped into my arms for a last cuddle. I carried him to the back porch and made sure the doors were locked.
At a table near the front door, the slip of pink paper caught my eye. I hadn’t even looked at Paul Cooper’s New York address since the day Mason moved in. Troubling suspicions had been shoved to the back of my mind. Maybe that’s the way it should be. Life is easier without mysteries.
Tucking my handbag under my arm, I took one step out, stepped back in, and grabbed the note. It would be easy enough to check out, while in New York. After I shoved the note into my handbag, I realized I was about to make a big mistake. The suitcase dropped to the floor, and I pulled the Smith & Wesson out of my bag. Carrying a gun onto the plane was not a good idea. I hurried to the linen closet and shoved the weapon under a stack of towels.
The drive was easy, although I was forced to exceed the speed limit to arrive on time. After depositing the car in long-term parking, I boarded and found my aisle seat next to a plump woman in a shiny black running suit. Her focus remained on her paperback, and by the time we were in the air, she’d slouched to the side, snoring softly. I snuggled down in my seat and pulled out the flight magazine wishing I could sleep as easily.
It seemed only a minute later that the pilot announced our imminent arrival at JFK. My pulse pounded and I stretched for a view of the city through the window. Sun
glistened off buildings as our plane circled the airport. I gripped the armrests for the touchdown and bounced up, with the rest of the passengers, as soon as the plane rolled to a stop. In my excitement, I barely noticed the usual aggravation of the baggage claim and locating the hotel shuttle. Before long, I was gawking at the view from my tenth floor hotel room.
I had just enough time to change, and resisted the urge to dive onto the king size bed to stretch out among multiple pillows. Instead, I pulled a dress from my garment bag, changed into my city pumps, and ran to snag an elevator.
Waitresses served lunch as I entered the conference room.
~
I wish I could describe the enthralling session, but my thoughts often strayed to the address on the slip of pink paper. Should I phone the current residents or knock on their doors?
At dinner, I calculated the cost of a taxi ride to Paul Cooper’s apartment building. We were finally released, late in the evening, and I collapsed into bed, not opening my eyes until the wake-up call Saturday morning.
Sometime during the first break, I noticed the age discrepancy. The other writers in the room were at least ten years my senior. This didn’t help my dedication to purpose. My career of homey magazine writing had run its course. I longed for bigger, more exciting writing topics in my future.
During the afternoon meeting, Katherine asked me a question I didn’t hear because of my wandering thoughts. I had to apologize, and a guilty conscience forced me to double my efforts at concentration.
On Saturday evening, all meetings finished, I returned to my room with Maps open on my phone. After assessing the cash in my wallet, I planned the taxi ride to the apartment building after breakfast on Sunday.
Chapter Thirty
M y plate stacked with everything from the breakfast buffet, I selected a table near the window. When I’d stuffed in the last bite, I tried to enjoy the atmosphere—white linen tablecloths, friendly waiters, no gossip—with no luck.
The excitement of the chase wouldn’t let me rest. After tossing my napkin on the plate, I strode through the lobby in search of a cab.
Before long, I gripped my seatbelt and braced myself against the door, as the green and white cab darted through traffic. How quickly I’d become accustomed to small town drivers.
When the car came to an abrupt stop, I pried my hand from the armrest, paid the fare, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The drab, gray brick building before me was austere by Evelynton standards, only revealing traces of life at the windows. Here and there, a windowsill held a flower pot, lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, or a face gazed at the street.
I climbed the steps to the front door, grateful to find the window free of fingerprints and the foyer swept clean. Someone cared about these apartments.
A row of fifteen brass mailboxes hung in the foyer, with an intercom button centered on each box. I would need a resident to unlock the door leading into the building. Noting Paul’s former apartment number—303—I began with the adjacent box in hopes someone might have known him.
The name Edwards was printed on apartment 301. I pushed the intercom. No answer. I pushed it again and waited. Still no answer. Not to be discouraged, I chose the next mailbox in the row, Marasovitch at number 302. This one got an immediate response.
“Yeah?” barked the speaker.
Not sure if the gruff voice was male or female, I began cautiously. “Hello? My name is Lauren Halloren, I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about a former tenant.”
“What do you want?” Still no clue as to gender.
I leaned closer to the intercom. “I want to ask you about someone who lived on your floor about six years ago.”
“Can’t help you.” I heard the intercom click off. Okay, thank you.
I tried apartment 304, punching the button several times with no response. Why had I assumed everybody would be home, and agreeable?
I moved on to the second floor, selecting the button for 201, Marino.
No answer. No one home. I kicked the wall with the toe of my shoe. Did I really want to spend the whole day on this? What if no one remembered Paul Cooper?
I took a deep breath, blew it out, and pushed 202, Alcott. “Yes, hello.” This was a cheerful voice.
Encouraged, I rushed through my request. “Hello. Mr. Alcott? I’m sorry to bother you. I’m in town for a few days and trying to track down someone who used to live in this building, in apartment 303. I wonder if you knew him.”
“No bother. What’s this person’s name? Mrs. Twite lives in 303.” I knew Mr. Alcott would be helpful.
“Paul Cooper. He lived in 303 about six years ago.”
“Hmm.” I waited hopefully. “I don’t recall the name, but I’ve only lived here for three or four years. I moved here from Virginia to be near my daughter. No, sorry. I don’t think I can help you.”
Shoot. I raised my voice. “Is there anyone in the building who has lived here more than six years? Someone who might remember the previous tenants?”
After a pause long enough to make me wonder if Mr. Alcott had deserted, he said, “Oh, mercy me. There’s, um no. Oh yes. Maybell Abernathy. She’s been here years and years.” A static filled chuckle sounded over the intercom. “She knows everybody who ever lived in this building. You should talk to her.”
I pressed both hands on the wall and leaned close to the intercom. “Abernathy? Would she be in apartment 203?”
“Yes, right down the hall from me. Doesn’t get out much, and keeps up with everyone’s business.”
I pushed away from the wall. Yes! “Would she be home right now?”
“Oh, I would think so. She’s in her eighties. Almost always home. Unless her niece comes to take her to the doctor. She’ll tell you all about your friend.”
Mr. Alcott was so nice, I leaned close to the intercom, and used my sweetest voice. “It’s difficult to hear over the intercom. Could you buzz me in so I can knock on her door?”
“No.” How quickly a mood can change. “I couldn’t do that, seeing as I don’t know you. What if you’re a thief or something?”
Hmmph. “No problem. You’re very wise. Well, thank you for your time. I’ll call on Mrs. Abernathy and see if she knows my friend Paul. Goodbye, Mr. Alcott.”
I think I heard him say “Good day to you” as I pushed 203.
No one answered. I pushed it again and counted to twenty, wondering how long it would take an eighty year old woman to get to the intercom. What were the chances that today she’d be out? I may not be cut out to be an investigator. I turned and looked out through the window in the front door, my eyes drawn to a green and black, Starbucks sign. I’d taken one step in that direction when a soft, breathy voice sounded from the intercom.
Chapter Thirty-one
“H ello, who is it?”
I pivoted so fast my hair slapped me in the face. “Mrs. Abernathy, I’m Lauren Halloren. Mr. Alcott suggested I talk to you about a man who used to live in the apartment above yours.”
“Mr. Alcott sent you? Just a minute, I’ll let you in.”
A buzzer sounded and I heard a click as the latch released. Guilt pulled at me as I grabbed the door handle. I didn’t like deceiving a little old lady, but desperately wanted to talk to someone face to face. Bypassing the elevator, I took the steps two at a time. The door to 203 opened, revealing a softly wrinkled face, surrounded by thin white curls that didn’t quite conceal a pink scalp.
I looked down into her pale blue eyes. She stood four feet tall, at best. “Hello, Mrs. Abernathy, I’m Lauren.”
“Hello dear. Please come in. Would you care for a cup of tea? I made it just before you rang.” She backed away from the door and shuffled to a rocking chair.
“Thank you, I’d love some.” I perched on a diminutive upholstered chair, matching the rocker Mrs. Abernathy occupied. A small round table separated us.
From my seat, I could see most of the apartment—bedroom, efficiency kitchen and sitting room, where we were now. Lace curta
ins, tied with pastel ribbon, revealed window shades raised to let the sunshine fill the room.
“Do you remember Paul Cooper? He lived in 303, a few years back.”
Mrs. Abernathy poured the tea, her face scrunching into a beautiful smile. “I remember him well. Such a nice young man. He used to pick up groceries for me and help if something needed to be fixed in the apartment.” She puckered her lips and blew on her tea. “The super takes care of repairs now, as he should, but Paul would just come in as soon as he was home from work, and ask how he could help.” She tested her tea. “I miss his friendly face.”
Her eyebrows drew together, adding more wrinkles. “He left without saying goodbye. It wasn’t like him. I thought he must have been so grief-stricken when his friend was killed, he up and left.” Mrs. Abernathy studied the contents of her cup. “He never wrote. I thought Paul would write.” She glanced up at me. “You young people don’t do that anymore, do you? Letter writing is a lost art. Everyone emails or texts. If you don’t have a computer or one of those smartphones, you’re out of luck.”
I had to agree. “I guess we don’t write letters much.” I set my teacup on the table. “Did you say a friend of Paul’s was killed?”
“Yes, such a tragedy. Roger Hicks was the man’s name, although I wasn’t convinced that was his real name. Hicks. A homeless man Paul took in. Paul was like that, didn’t think anything at all of talking to vagrants loitering on the street.” Mrs. Abernathy’s white curls bobbed as she shook her head. “He invited Roger right into his apartment. Cleaned him up and put him to work. I don’t mind telling you, I didn’t like it one bit, at first. But Roger turned out to be a decent sort. Paul even taught him to do some of the repair work. Fixed my jammed windows and they slid up and down real easy after that. He was alright.”
I pulled a notebook from my bag and recorded the name. “And Roger was killed?”
“Yes, I read about it in the morning paper. They found him in an alley. Thieves probably got him and dragged him back there. Too bad.”
Heart Strings Page 12