Murder Is Pathological

by P. M. Carlson

  “Yeah, I understand,” she said. “Right after a show closes is a down time, isn’t it?” Her dark eyes were worried, bruised. But he had to get out.

  “Yeah, it always is. I’ll see you later, okay?” He made himself kiss her smooth forehead and then picked up Zelle’s leash and snapped it on. Zelle bounced toward the door, eager for adventure, her long curly ears flapping.

  “Okay,” said Carmen. “ See you later too, Zelle honey.” She watched soberly as he undid the locks and picked up Zelle’s folded crate. Then, with indecent haste, the little dog and the pig-man pushed out into the hall. As they started down the second of the two flights of stairs, Nick could hear her above, slowly clicking the locks closed again.

  Maybe for an encore he should find a nice little old lady to mug.

  It was a long walk to his own apartment. Over on his left, where streets slotted through the wall of looming buildings, he could see the river glimmering. Shiny, cold, seductive.

  With his beautiful Lisette he had learned the joy and pain and freedom that come with absorption in another’s life. It had taken a long while to piece himself back together when death had ripped her from him. With George’s help and Maggie’s, he had healed. But now, again, he felt divorced from himself, disgusted, attachments and appetites out of phase.

  Lisette was at peace now, and the river gleamed.

  Zelle tugged impatiently at the leash. He sighed and succumbed to her heartless enthusiasm for this dark trudge along the city streets. She quartered back and forth eagerly ahead of him, sampling the obscure information in each dark current of air, processing it into coherence in her mysterious canine brain. He let her set the pace, and they meandered along the sidewalk toward the bleakness of home.

  There were two letters in his box. One was a check; his commercial for Elson had been surprisingly successful, and money for residuals kept coming in as they reran it.

  The other was postmarked Laconia. From Maggie. He sat on the sofa, nuzzling Zelle’s curly head as he read it. As always, it was brief and breezy.

  Dear Uncle Nick,

  Great news! Last term Bennett said I should spiff up my term project on Bonferroni techniques and send it to the Journal of Statistics. They’re going to publish it! Joy! Freude! Do you feel like this, Nick, when the audience applauds you? I sang the Ninth Symphony all the way home.

  Do you suppose anyone will ever actually read the thing?

  My friend Monica—I guess you still haven’t met her—helped me get a job analyzing data for Dr. Weisen out at the neurology lab. Monica says this drug he’s testing is a real breakthrough, because it reverses one type of brain tumor.

  Two big companies are after the rights to it. The analyses I did on the first batch of data look terrific. It’s good to be involved in real research. A nice change from the hundred and forty-six students in Bennett’s summer statistics course. They’re good kids, but sometimes we get exactly the same question a hundred and forty-six times.

  News flash from the exciting world of chemistry! Did you know that a small piece of potassium in a wastebasket will explode when combined with half a cup of coffee? My buddy Norman, the lab custodian, helped me run the experiment. He’s tired of people dumping coffee in his clean wastebaskets. Nobody’s done it since our experiment. You would have approved—it was very theatrical!

  You must be almost finished with your pig-woman. I bet she was gross. Sue insists on referring to you now as Oinkle Nick but I’ll never stoop so low. Let me know what you’re doing next.

  Freude!

  Mlle M.

  Nick stared at the letter for a long time, not really seeing it, Zelle a groggy weight across his lap. Once, dancing with Maggie to that old Fats Waller record, there had been a moment of hope. But there was no promise in this letter, no change, only fulfillment of the terms she had insisted on: friendship, period. An honorary uncle. Her young world was so different from his, composed of classrooms and laboratories, equations and journals. And joy. Images of her shifted in his mind: Maggie bounding exuberantly up a cliffside, unmasking a sham French waiter, comforting a friend, playing Paganini on her flute. Watching a wastebasket explode.

  If he skipped the audition, he would have three weeks.

  He was really very tired of being the pig-man.

  He eased Zelle to the floor, stood up, and began to clean the apartment. Books and clothes into boxes, garbage out, sheets down to the laundry room. Scrub the refrigerator, scrub the stove. Nick the White Tornado. Outside, the tips of the buildings were becoming pink in the dawn sun; behind them in the west, though, there were clouds, nasty weather coming. No matter, that was where he belonged. He scrubbed the bathroom, crammed things into suitcases, and packed Zelle’s crate with dog food and toys.

  It was almost seven. Morning. The extravagant and erring spirit hies to his confine. He called George.

  “Mmph?”

  “It’s Nick, George.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m leaving town. Just wanted you to know.”

  “Hey, look, it’s early. My ears aren’t awake. You didn’t say you were leaving. Did you?”

  “Three weeks in Laconia, then straight to the summer company.”

  “Three weeks—what about the Defender deodorant audition? You’re called back! Larry said you’d be a shoo-in!”

  “Scratch it, George. Let someone else become the nation’s symbol for sweat-free masculine daintiness. I’m called back for something more important.”

  “You’re crazy. Get some sleep and call me in the morning.”

  “Listen carefully, George. Number one: cancel the Defender audition. Number two: look after my mail until the subletter gets here. Okay?”

  “Where’d you say you were going?”

  “Laconia. Your advice. Yesterday you told me to straighten myself out, today I’m going. ‘In delay there lies no plenty.’”

  “Don’t quote at me. Listen, I thought I was telling you to forget her.”

  “I tried that. Didn’t work.”

  “God, Nick. It’s that bad, is it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Listen, you bastard, don’t get hurt, okay?”

  “The damage is done, George. I’m just looking for pieces to glue back together.”

  “Yeah. Well, give me a call when you can.”

  Nick drove across the bridge and started up the Palisades. On his left the sky was sullen; but on the right, sun shot gaily across the buildings and river and trees. Zelle, in the backseat, scrambled back and forth, peering myopically out the windows, trying to savor the entire world. In the recesses of Nick’s mind, Carmen’s violated gaze still burned. But when he heard an unobtrusive knocking in the motor he felt cheered. He noticed suddenly that he was whistling. Beethoven’s Ninth. Ode to Joy. Freude!

  The storm hit thirty miles east of Laconia. His headlights glanced back from the sheeting water; the road surface disappeared somewhere under a vast churning surf. Zelle, taking it personally, had subsided unhappily on the backseat. Finally the sky lightened a little and the rain settled into a workmanlike downpour as he approached Laconia. Neon motel signs were surprisingly bright in the gloomy daylight. None of them had vacancies. Awkward. Hero foiled; no room at the inn. He followed the broad curve of the highway toward town while the rain faded to a faint drizzle.

  The university was spread over the hills northwest of town. It was the major business in Laconia, and little signs pointed up one-way streets to direct everyone there. Today, there were extra signs in damp red and white: WELCOME BACK ALUMNI!

  She had pointed out the psychology building to him once, a thirties structure with square windows and a flat-roofed entrance lobby. He found a space in a nearly empty parking lot; it too was marked WELCOME BACK ALUMNI. He left the windows cracked open for Zelle and hurried through the last drops of rain to the shelter of the lobby. Not that it was much shelter when he got there. That flat roof must be as old as the building; thick dribbles of water were still coming through
the ceiling in several places. The plaster was cracked and bulging, stained tobacco brown. Someone had put trash cans under the heaviest leaks.

  Bennett had an office on the second floor, the wall directory said. Start there. At least the stairs were warm and dry. And in fact, the second floor, though a bit creaky, had warm brown wainscoting and white walls, not an unfriendly place. A longhaired young woman told him that the statistics assistants were all in Room 226, and pointed down a cross hall. He took off his raincoat and wiped back his thin damp hair. He felt about as attractive as a drenched grizzly. Another swashbuckling entrance for the dashing O’Connor.

  A sign on the half-open door said DEPARTMENT OF AMBITION, DISTRACTION, UGLIFICATION, AND DERISION. That was it, all right. He stepped inside.

  Five red pencils were scribbling across sheets of mimeographed exams. Five heads were bent over the desks. Nick saw the one he wanted, black curls across the room from him. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I need a good mechanic.”

  Five faces turned to look at him, but he was only watching the one. And for the briefest instant the blue eyes that met his were unguarded, dilating and darkening in a startled and delighted welcome that warmed him through. But it was just for that instant; she looked back to her stack of papers hastily and was absorbed in straightening them by the time the four other faces had swiveled toward her and someone said, “Maggie, your services are required.”

  “Hi, Uncle Nick,” she said, and stood up with a neutral friendly smile. “You’re damp.”

  “Strange, Mademoiselle. The weather is so pleasant.”

  She waved a hand at him. “This is Nick O’Connor, everyone, an old buddy. Star of stage and boob tube.”

  “You’re kidding,” said a sandy-haired woman, looking unbelievingly at Nick.

  “Nope, really. He does commercials and villains and kings and Cyrano.”

  “Wet bears too,” said Nick. “And you ought to see me as a Brillo pad.”

  “Have I seen you?” The sandy-haired woman was curious.

  “Possibly,” said Nick. “Maybe you’ve seen Elson Beer. ‘A man owes it to himself.’” He hooked his thumbs in his belt, stuck out his paunch, and produced the famous Elson grin.

  “Hey, I’ve seen that one! Wow!” She was excited.

  “Personally, I prefer Cyrano,” said Maggie.

  He dropped the Elson character and grinned at her. “I do anything for money,” he said.

  “God. So do we,” admitted Maggie. “Look at us, slaving away at these hundred and forty-six exams. The crazed scribblings of terrified undergraduates.”

  “Sounds serious,” said Nick. “Is the end in sight?”

  “No. We’ll be here till five or six,” said a young man cheerfully.

  The sandy-haired woman still looked dazzled by the idiotic Elson commercial. She said, “Listen, Maggie. You want to go talk to your friend, go ahead. We can fill in this time.”

  “No, no. I’ll do my share.”

  “How about a trade? We’ll finish the questions, you can add them up and make the curve.”

  “Is that okay?” Maggie asked the room generally.

  “Sure!” said the young man. “That way we’ll be done sooner.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She grabbed a trenchcoat from an ancient coatrack by the door and slipped it on over her shirt and jeans.

  Nick fell into step beside her. He was still a little giddy from that first radiant glance. But there was something wrong. Today there was a shadow too.

  The dark blue eyes flicked toward him as she opened the door to the staircase. “Well, Unk. A surprise.”

  “But, Mademoiselle, I had to. The car was coughing.”

  “Describe the symptoms.”

  Nick said, “Tock-tock-tock-tock. Vroom, vroom!”

  She laughed. “That’s a direct quotation?”

  “Maybe you’d better listen for yourself.” They pushed open the doors at the bottom of the stairs. Water was still dripping into the trash cans in the lobby, but it had slowed down some. He said, “Your decorator must have studied in the Okefenokee.”

  “Right. A real swamp. They claim they’ve run out of maintenance money.”

  “They must have money! What about rich alumni? What about my state taxes?”

  “I’ll show you.” She shoved open the big front door and went out into the damp day. Across the street was a building with a broad flagged approach, bright annuals banked in front of trimmed evergreens. “The administration building,” she explained. “Remodeled in 1966, three years ago, for a hundred thou. And again this spring for fifty thou. The reason for both remodelings was to make an attractive welcome for our distinguished visitors.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly go there next time.”

  “I said distinguished. Nick, where are we going now?”

  That brief shadow again. What was wrong? He asked, “How long do you have?”

  “About three hours.”

  “Suppose we go to your house first so you can change. Then to the Cafe Michel for lunch.”

  “That’s miles out of town!”

  “You can entertain yourself listening to the tock-tock.”

  She treated him to a sardonic smile, but did not refuse. The combination of a mechanical problem and French food, as he had hoped, was irresistible to her.

  “Someone you haven’t met yet,” he said as they approached the car and he opened the driver’s door. “Maggie, meet Zelle.”

  She laughed as the black puppy bounced up from the backseat, quivering with joy and affection, temporarily abolishing the shadow. “Hey, Zelle!” she said, reaching back to fondle the long ears. “Nick, what a terrific animal! Zelle, I bet your hair kinks up in this weather just like mine!’’ It was true—as she bent toward the spaniel the two clusters of dark curls blended, springy, black as jet. Something caught at Nick’s throat and he turned abruptly and walked around to the passenger door. She straightened and spoke to him across the top of the car.

  “Why Zelle, Nick?” she asked curiously. “Is it short for Zelda?”

  “No, Mademoiselle. Not Zelda. Here, catch.” He tossed her the keys, and even in her shock she caught them automatically. He sat in the passenger seat and slammed the door. For a long minute she stood outside, bouncing the keys in her hand, and he wondered if he had failed already. But finally she sat down behind the wheel and put the keys in the ignition without closing the door. Both hands gripped the top of the steering wheel and she leaned forward, tensed, a picture of wariness.

  “Nick,” she said, “please. What do you want?”

  What do I want. For a moment his mind churned with all the things he wanted. But aloud he said only, “The show closed. And it was pitiful to think of you singing the Ninth Symphony all alone. It takes two, at least.”

  Her mouth softened a little. “You came to celebrate?”

  “I wanted to get out of the city, yes, and celebrate. With champagne. Apologies for my tacky taste in the naming of animals.”

  She leaned back, studied her hands on the wheel, and decided to grant a reprieve. When she spoke her voice was bitter. “Wrong animal. She’s sweet. She should have been a hornet, Nick. Or a vulture.”

  “Maggie, it’s not just me, then. Something’s happened. You’re unhappy.”

  She slammed the door and started the car abruptly, pulling it skillfully out of the parking lot, heading toward the big brick house where she lived. After a moment she said, “It’s Norman, Nick. The custodian. My friend.”

  “Out at Dr. What’s-his-name’s lab? The one with the exploding wastebasket?”

  “That’s right.” She jerked the gear stick angrily. “Nick, he’s dead.”

  III

  “Dead! I’m sorry, Maggie.”

  “And things have gone crazy at that lab. And that trick with the potassium I put him up to. Nick, nobody would kill him for that. Not kill him!”

  “Someone killed him?”

  “I don’t know!” She shook her black curls in frustration
. “I don’t know what happened, or why!”

  “Tell you what. We’re almost to your place. On the way to the restaurant, you can tell me everything, in order.”

  “Okay.’’ The blue gaze slid toward him, met his eyes, jerked away. “I’ll try to make more sense.”

  While she ran in to change, he let Zelle out for a walk. Then the door of the house burst open again and two young women bounded toward him, a tall blonde and a stocky brown-haired one. Nick found himself hugged from all sides.

  “Uncle Nick! Hey, you don’t look any piggier than last time!”

  “I got rid of it with Clearasil.”

  “Listen, I’m late for class already,” said Sue, her broad freckled face alight with welcome. “But you’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?”

  “If I’m invited.”

  “Of course! By decree of Sue the Most High!” Beaming, she bounced off toward campus. Nick turned to the quiet smiling blonde.

  “Mary Beth, how are you?”

  “Fine. Almost done. Craig and I will be leaving for Guatemala in September. Both jobs came through.”

  “Great! But we’ll miss you.” He watched Zelle check the credentials of a telephone pole, and added diffidently, “Mary Beth, what are my chances?”

  She looked at him in dismay. “Ask her, Nick.”

  “She won’t let me.”

  “That’s your answer!” They stood for a moment, uncomfortable, until she added guiltily, “She sneaks a look at Elson commercials when she can, and she watched every goddamn episode of that soap opera until you died.”

  He grinned at her. “Thanks, Mary Beth.”

  She kicked at the telephone pole, angry at her own betrayal. “Look, Nick, don’t push her. Really. She still hurts.”

  “Yeah. But I do too.”

  Her anger faded a little. She knew about hurting. She said, “Yeah, I know.”

  Maggie came out again then, rangy and delicious in a simple blue dress. Even George would have to approve. “All set?” she asked.