by Ava Collins
Zoe is a gorgeous brunette, with piercing blue eyes and the body of a pinup queen. She’s exotic and exudes a certain sexuality, shall we say. She’s in her mid-30s, but I suspect she’s had some work done, so she might be a little older. Still, she’s everything most men want in a woman. At least, in the short term. And by short term, I mean, fifteen minutes. I’ve never seen Zoe sober, and this was no exception.
Elliot has brown hair, brown eyes, and a round, friendly face. He was wearing an oxford button down, navy sport jacket, and khaki pants. I like Elliott, but I don’t think he’s ever had to work a day in his life. Most of his time is spent at the country club. He’s one of those guys who thinks he’s just a little more important that he really is. Though, he’s never really accomplished anything on his own.
Elliott was visibly nervous, unsure of how to respond to Zoe’s advances. His face was flushing, and he kept shifting his weight. She’d move closer, he’d move back.
As I was watching Elliott squirm, Isabella Marlow dashed out of the office in tears. She rushed through the lobby and out the main doors. Jake looked concerned and followed after her. Moments later, Mrs. DuMond emerged from the office, stern faced. It wasn’t unusual to see people drenched in tears after a meeting with Mrs. DuMond.
I glanced over to Mr. Bancroft. He just shrugged.
Isabella Marlow has been the maid at the DuMond for the last several years. She is a gorgeous woman with olive skin, curly dark hair, and emerald green eyes. I’ve always thought of her as very nice and hard-working. But Mrs. DuMond seemed to turn up her nose at Isabella from the minute she arrived. Then again, Mrs. DuMond seemed to turn up her nose at just about everything.
Mrs. DuMond did her best impression of a smile and welcomed everyone to the party. She wished everyone happy holidays. Then proceeded to remind us that the new rents would be effective January 1st.
She looked right at me, with a devious glint in her eye. My blood was boiling and I could feel my face heating up. I smiled back at her through gritted teeth.
I caught sight of Mr. Bancroft exiting the lobby. He passed through a solid wall, presumably to eavesdrop on Isabella’s situation. Mr. Bancroft has a way of acquiring vast amounts of information on a great number of people. Since no one else can see him, I’m sure the CIA would love to have Bancroft as an operative.
Not to be nosey, but I was just dying to get the full scoop from Banksy.
CHAPTER 3
WHEN I FOUND Mrs. DuMond's lifeless body, I was conflicted. I’m a little ashamed to admit my first thought wasn’t one of remorse. I would never wish anything bad on anyone. Not even Mrs. DuMond. But I did wonder if we were still going to get evicted.
During the party, I saw Jake push through the lobby doors and pull Mrs. DuMond aside. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. All the other voices were clattering away in the lobby, echoing off the marble floor. But his face was intense. Mrs. DuMond looked quite disturbed that Jake was holding onto her arm. She was leaning away from him. Her eyes were flicking back and forth between Jake’s tense face, and his firm grip on her arm. I was astonished. Mrs. DuMond seemed like the type of lady that didn’t ever like to be touched, and certainly not by a subordinate.
She jerked her arm free and then pointed toward her bureau. Jake backed down and sulked into her office like a scolded child. Mrs. DuMond composed herself and followed him. She closed the door behind her.
Mr. Bancroft strolled back into the lobby, passing through the wall. He glanced around. I was motioning with my head, trying to get him to go into the office and spy. I must have looked like a crazy person twitching and jerking.
“Are you okay?” Otto asked me, in his German accent.
“Oh, yes. I’m fine,” I said. “I went swimming earlier, and I must have gotten some water in my ear. Just trying to shake it out.”
“Rather cold for a swim, isn’t it?”
“Freezing. But it’s actually good for you. It helps boost your immune system. Or so they say.”
“Better you than me,” Otto said. “At my age, I don’t have much of an immune system to boost.”
“You look very healthy, Mr. Hirsch.”
“That is because I don’t go swimming in the middle of winter.” He smiled and winked. I think he completely saw through my little fabrication.
Mr. Bancroft had taken my not so subtle hint to eavesdrop in the office. By this time, Charlotte had gotten territorial and was trying to fend off Zoe. Charlotte grabbed Elliott’s hand and whisked him to the other side of the lobby.
At that point, Mrs. Abbott entered with a tray full of cupcakes. Everyone’s eyes grew wide. Conversation in the room evaporated. People drifted toward Mrs. Abbott like satellites falling out of orbit.
“Oh, how thoughtful,” Charlotte said, practically drooling.
“Keep your mitts off. These aren’t for you,” Mrs. Abbott snapped.
Charlotte’s face crinkled up as Mrs. Abbott kept marching toward the office. The air was one of disappointment and disbelief. Was Mrs. Abbott really bringing cupcakes to Mrs. DuMond?
Mrs. Abbott gave a sharp knock on the door.
“I think she’s busy,” Charlotte said.
A few moments passed without the door opening. Mrs. Abbott gave another sharp knock. Suddenly, the door whipped open. Mrs. DuMond looked very un-pleased by the disturbance. “What is it?” Mrs. DuMond said. Then she saw the cupcakes. She eyed them like a pirate who found buried treasure.
“Happy Holidays, Mrs. DuMond. I baked these just for you. My special recipe,” Mrs. Abbott said.
Mrs. DuMond looked stunned. Her cold exterior melted. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she said, taking the tray from Mrs. Abbott. “These look just divine. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mrs. DuMond. I hope you enjoy,” Mrs. Abbott said.
Mrs. DuMond stepped back into the office and set the tray on her desk. “That will be all, Jake,” she said. “I trust we understand one another?”
Jake stepped out of the office. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, through clenched teeth.
Mrs. DuMond closed the door behind him. Jake grabbed his toolbox and stormed away down the hall, toward the elevator. Everyone was a little perplexed, but quickly resumed their chatter. Mrs. Abbott was met with subtle sneers for not sharing her cupcakes. But that didn’t seem to bother her. She just smiled and marched back to her apartment.
I mingled around the party for a little while and picked at the hors d’oeuvres. They weren’t the greatest in the world, but they were free. I made a plate for Mom and headed back up to the apartment. I looked around for Mr. Bancroft, but I didn’t see him anywhere.
On the way back, Jake was by the elevator working on the piping to the sprinkler system. He was standing at the top of a ladder. The ceilings in the lobby of the DuMond are probably sixteen feet tall.
“Hannah, can you hand me that wrench?” Jake asked, pointing to his tool box.
“Sure, which one?” I asked.
“That large, silver crescent wrench.”
I glanced down to the massive toolbox at the base of the latter. It was filled with an assortment of tools. Screwdrivers, socket wrenches, pliers, clippers, leather work gloves, power tools, and several crescent wrenches. I grabbed the largest one. It was over a foot long—and heavy. I stood on my tip toes and lifted the wrench up to him. Jake leaned down and took it from me.
“Thank you,” he said.
“My pleasure.” I smiled and watched his biceps flex as he lifted the heavy wrench. Jake was wearing a tight tank top, and his muscles glistened with a sheen of sweat. Not that I was drooling or anything.
I pushed the call button for the elevator. While I was waiting, my curiosity got the best of me. “I hope everything is okay?”
“We’ve got a building inspection coming up. I’ve got to get this place in tiptop shape,” Jake said, working on the piping.
“No, I mean, with Mrs. DuMond.”
Jake didn’t respond.
“Isabella l
ooked pretty upset,” I said.
By the look on his face, Jake had a lot he wanted to say about the subject, but he bit his tongue. “Well, I’m sure Mrs. DuMond has her reasons,” Jake said.
“Reasons for what?”
The elevator bell rang, and the doors opened. Again, Jake didn’t say anything.
“Well, I’ll see you around,” I said.
Jake looked down at me and smiled as I stepped into the elevator.
In the apartment, Mom was furiously typing away at her novel. The incessant clatter of the keyboard filled the air. I set the hors d’oeuvres down beside her.
“You need to eat,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes glued to the screen.
Newport eyed the hors d’oeuvres and didn’t waste any time making an attempt to steal one away.
“How was the party?” Mom asked. “Anything interesting happen?”
“Mrs. Abbott baked cupcakes for Mrs. DuMond.”
The clacking of the keyboard stopped. Mom looked up at me for the first time.
“Really?”
“I know. Bizarre, huh?”
“I wonder what she’s up to,” Mom said.
The clacking of the keyboard started again. Mom’s face was buried in the screen. Newport stole another hors d’oeuvre.
I sat on the couch and watched TV for a bit with Newport. I know it’s so lame, but I was thinking of getting ready for bed. It was just about 10pm when I remembered about my assignment. “Oh, poop,” I said.
“Language,” Mom said, chastising me.
“Mom, I’m 19. I can say poop. I can say worse things if I want to.”
“Yes, you can. But not in my house.” She smiled and kept typing.
I had an essay due for my Forensic Science 203 class: Trace Evidence and Microscopic Analysis. I had to write an overview of the various techniques for the examination of physical evidence. I had completely forgotten about it.
I left the apartment to go down to the parking garage in the basement. My forensic science book was in my car. Or so I hoped. On my way down, I saw Mr. Bancroft strolling through the hallway.
“So?” I asked, inquiring as to his eavesdropping during the holiday party.
“I was thinking about having a bit of fun. Making the lights flicker in Miss Alexander’s apartment,” Mr. Bancroft said. “Though I’m a little afraid of what she might be doing in there, and with whom.”
“No, I mean, what happened with Isabella?”
“Apparently, Mrs. DuMond fired her,” he said. “She’s got a month to either get out, or start paying rent.”
“Why did she get fired?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It seems she had quite a favorable arrangement with Mr. DuMond. Perhaps, too favorable.”
“Mom thinks they were having an affair,” I said.
“She was getting free rent and a salary that is almost double the going rate.”
“Mr. DuMond was always a generous man,” I said.
“I rather think Mrs. DuMond shares your mother’s suspicions.”
“Jake sure ran to her defense,” I said. “You don’t think there is anything going on between them, do you?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“Why would I be jealous?” I said, blushing.
Bancroft shrugged, knowingly.
“He’s mildly attractive. But totally not my type,” I said.
Bancroft raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, this is where the story gets interesting,” Mr. Bancroft said. He paused a moment, trying to draw out my anticipation.
My eyes widened. “Well, go on.”
The elevator bell rang. The doors slid open, and Otto Von Hirsch stepped out. He looked at me a bit perplexed. I was standing in the hall for no apparent reason.
“You left too soon. You missed all of the excitement,” Otto said. His coat was draped over his arm. His face was a little flush, and he seemed a tad out of breath.
“Looks like we’ll have to finish this conversation later,” Mr. Bancroft said. He had a devious glint in his eye, knowing that I’d be tormented until he had given me all the gossip. Bancroft drifted away, passing through the wall, presumably to haunt Zoe Alexander.
“What excitement?” I asked.
“Isabella returned and started screaming at Mrs. DuMond. I thought she was going to punch her. Elliott had to restrain her,” Otto said. “She was almost too much for him.” Otto chuckled. Then he leaned in and whispered, “Between you and me, I was hoping Isabella would take a swing at her.”
“What’s happening now?”
“By that time, Zoe was falling down drunk. Charlotte and I had to help her up to her apartment. Don’t worry, everything settled down. I don’t think there’s anyone left in the lobby,” Otto said. “I left my coat in all the excitement.”
Otto sighed and looked at his watch. “Well, it’s past my bedtime. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, strolling away toward his apartment.
“Good night,” I said.
I looked at my watch. It was 10:32pm. Then I strolled to the elevator and hit the call button. Part of the charm of this old building is that the elevator is painfully slow. So slow that I decided to take the stairs. Of course, by the time I had gotten to the stairwell at the end of the hall, I heard the elevator bell ring. The doors opened, and I heard someone step out, but I couldn’t see who it was.
I decided to go ahead and take the stairs for two reasons. One, I’d never make it back to the elevator before the doors closed. It always goes back down to the basement on its own. I would have had to wait another five minutes for it to come back up. Two, I needed the exercise after all of Mrs. Abbott’s cupcakes—no matter how fat free she says they are.
I spiraled my way down the staircase to the basement and pushed through the door into the parking area. I was halfway to my car when I saw a woman’s shoe sticking out from behind an SUV.
Mrs. DuMond's shoe.
CHAPTER 4
MRS. DUMOND'S BODY was sprawled on the concrete, face down in a pool of blood. It looked like she had been hit in the back of the head with something. Blunt force trauma.
This was the first time that I had seen a real live dead body. Looking at pictures in college forensics textbooks isn’t quite the same. I’ve never been squeamish at the sight of blood, but I felt queasy at first. That unsettled, sickly feeling you get when something terrible has happened. Mixed with the dread of what the future holds. I felt like this was just the beginning of worrisome times.
A few bloodstained footprints were leading off toward the elevator. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. After reporting the murder, I snapped a few pictures of the crime scene with my cell phone. I took several shots of the body from different angles and close-ups of the footprints. I was mindful not to step in any blood, or otherwise contaminate the crime scene. The footprints looked like they belonged to work boots. I followed them toward the elevator. But they faded quickly after a few steps.
While I was doing this, it dawned on me that the killer might still be in the parking garage. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and a chill ran down my spine. I glanced around the lot and didn’t see or hear anything.
When I looked back to the footprints, I heard a sound from the far corner of the parking garage. My eyes snapped to the noise. I could have sworn I saw a shadow move across the far wall. I froze. My heartbeat skyrocketed.
“Is anybody there?” I asked, as if a killer would actually respond. I felt instantly stupid, like one of those girls in a horror movie.
The air was still. Nothing but rows of cars and concrete support pillars. I couldn’t help but feel like someone was hiding behind one of those pillars. I took a deep breath and stepped toward the direction of the sound. I crept forward, my head on a swivel, scanning all around me. I angled around a pillar. I just knew someone was hiding behind it—but no one was there. I sighed with relief, spun around, and walked back to the crime scene.
I figured the first thin
g I needed to do was secure the area. It wouldn’t be a good thing if someone accidentally walked through a puddle of blood. Stepped on a footprint. Or otherwise contaminated the evidence.
It took almost a half hour for the police to arrive. I guess they figured there was no rush, since Mrs. DuMond was already dead. A detective arrived along with two uniformed officers and a pair of EMTs.
The detective was a gruff sort of man, wearing a sport jacket and a badge on his belt. Late 40s, balding, weathered looking. Round face, puffy eyes. Looked like he’d been on the job for a long time and was tired of it.
“You the one that called this in?” he said, strolling up to the scene.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
The two uniformed officers began securing the area and taping off the scene.
“Detective Gibbs. Homicide,” he said, pulling his coat back to reveal the gold shield. “What’s your name?”
“Hannah Hazel,” I said.
“Any relation to the deceased?”
“No, sir.”
Gibbs jotted notes down in a small pad. “You touch anything?”
“Oh, no. I know better than to do that,” I said. “I’m majoring in criminology.”
Gibbs looked at me, thoroughly unimpressed.
“Looks like she took a blow to the head. Blunt force trauma. There are footprints leading off toward the elevator over there,” I said. My finger curled out in their direction. “And she still has that massive diamond ring on her finger, so this clearly wasn’t a robbery gone bad.”
“Why don’t you let me do the investigating?” Gibbs said.
“Oh, of course,” I said. “I just want to help.” I smiled.
“Who is she?”
“That’s Mrs. DuMond. She owns the building,” I said.
“She have any next of kin?”
“Her step son, Elliot DuMond.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Gibbs said. “I’ve got more questions for you.” Gibbs strolled over to the other officers and conferred with them. I could still smell his musky cologne lingering in the air after he walked away.
“I’m surprised it took this long,” Mr. Bancroft said.