MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology

by Lawrence Block

“Ah, Margie, hello. It’s me, Pastor Dave, from church? Um… sorry… I… you did know people from the church were coming by to water the plants? Today was my turn.” He ambled forward, smiling from behind his round spectacles.

  Margie relaxed, put the gun down, and held out her hand. “Uh, I… I did forget… but thank you, Pastor. I appreciate everyone’s kindness.” She tried not to flinch as his moist palm touched hers. There was something she didn’t like about the man, no matter how unchristian that might be. He reached forward and enfolded her in a hug. From his clerical collar, she caught a whiff of his aftershave. It was the same as Larry’s.

  Her heart contracted, and her eyes filled with tears.

  She withdrew a tissue from her pocket, maneuvering so that the edge of the reception desk was between them. “Thank you for taking care of the plants. Larry sure loved his orchids.”

  “We all loved Larry. Everyone wants to help any way we can. How soon will you get the office up and running?”

  “Oh,” she shook her head. “I’m selling the business.”

  “Gosh, that seems awfully quick.” Pastor Dave stroked his comb-over. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  Margie shrugged. “I don’t want to run it myself, Pastor. Larry was the rainmaker… I’m the computer geek. Now that Larry’s gone…” Her voice trailed off as grief swept through her.

  “I can understand that.” Pastor Dave patted her arm. She suppressed the urge to recoil as he continued, “And I know you have work to do, so I’ll—”

  “I’m sorry, have I come at a bad time?” The voice at the door startled them both. A petite red-haired woman, dressed in a belted Burberry raincoat and holding a dripping umbrella, stood on the mat at the entrance.

  Margie looked up with a sense of relief. “Oh, no, not at all—”

  “Mrs. Holcombe.” Pastor Dave was at the woman’s side faster than Margie thought he could move. “I just want to say again how sorry I am for your tragic—”

  “And you are, again?” Mrs. Holcombe interrupted him. Margie liked her just for that.

  “Dave Brush.” He pumped her hand. “I’m the pastor from Holy Spirit Lutheran? The one on the corner of Lexington and Concord?” He tittered, as if he’d made a joke. “I—I assisted Pastor Norris at your husband’s…”

  “Ah, yes. At my husband’s funeral. Of course. I thought you looked familiar. Thank you, Pastor Brush. That was very kind of you.” She glanced at Margie, who was wondering why she recognized the woman’s pale face and haunted eyes. She looked more bereft than Margie.

  The woman continued, “Mrs. Dowling? I think we’ve met briefly in the past but never been introduced. I’m Jocelyn Holcombe. I have a case I hope you’ll take.”

  II

  Margie waved a thankful good-bye to Pastor Dave, then gestured to the chair beside the receptionist’s desk. She sank down in Rosemary’s chair. She couldn’t bring herself to go into the back offices, even though she knew she should if she were going to talk with a prospective client.

  But then, she reminded herself, Mrs. Holcombe wasn’t a prospective client because Margie wasn’t taking her case.

  “Thank you so much for taking time for me, Mrs. Dowling.”

  Margie tried to smile. “Well, the thing is, Mrs. Holcombe—”

  “Call me Joss. Everyone does.”

  “Okay, and please call me Margie. But, you see, I’m not taking any more cases. My husband died a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Joss sat straighter. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t realize… how selfish of me… I…”

  “No, how could you know, after all,” Margie said. She opened Rosemary’s desk drawer and pulled out a tablet. “Let me give you the names of a couple of others who could help you.” She scrawled two, then handed Joss the paper.

  To Margie’s surprise, Joss glanced at it, then shook her head. “Any other ideas?”

  Margie cocked her head. “You’ve already talked to them?”

  “Both.”

  “Okay, let me think.” In the greater Trenton area, there were dozens of private investigators. Margie tapped her pencil on the desk, then wrote three more names. “Try those.”

  Joss glanced down, then handed the paper back with an apologetic shrug. “I already have.”

  “They all said no, too?” Margie felt genuinely stumped. Who was this woman, and why did Margie think she should know who Joss was?

  Then it clicked.

  The Holcombe Home Invasion, as the press had dubbed it. It had occurred in a neighboring town, a couple weeks before Larry’s diagnosis. Jocelyn and Jonathon Holcombe were both doctors. Dr. Jonathon Holcombe was especially well-known in his field of endocrinology. A noted researcher at Princeton University, his team had just announced a break-through in the hormones involved in the aging process. Some papers called it the “Fountain of Youth.”

  But in the middle of the night, the Holcombes’ home was broken into by a couple of thugs. In the chaos, the house was set on fire, and Dr. Jonathon Holcombe was killed.

  Dr. Jocelyn Holcombe, a black belt in judo, escaped with minor injuries after disabling one of the assailants. He’d died of smoke inhalation, and the other had died in a car crash while trying to escape. With both perpetrators dead, there was no one to prosecute. The case was closed with no motive but happenstance. It could’ve been any house, anywhere.

  But fear lingered. Margie vaguely remembered a sudden spate of neighborhood watch flyers, calls for volunteers to serve as block captains, and community meetings across the greater Princeton area.

  Beneath the blur of Joss’s makeup, Margie could see the red line of a new scar. She felt a deep swell of sympathy for the other woman. As blindsided as Margie felt by Larry’s death, at least she hadn’t been attacked in her own home.

  “Joss, forgive me, but I don’t understand… what kind of case?”

  Joss met Margie’s eyes. “Everyone says we were just unlucky.” She paused. “But I don’t believe that. I heard those men talking to Jon. They came looking for money. And he seemed willing to give it to them.”

  “Why was he willing to do that?”

  “I don’t know—most of the conversation was in Spanish, and I don’t speak Spanish. But we had a few minutes to talk, and Jon told me to go to the bank. They were going to make me drive, and I figured I could disable the one who was coming with me. I could’ve driven directly to the police station. But Jon insisted I get the money.”

  “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “Exactly.” Joss slapped the top of the desk with an open palm. “That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

  “Why didn’t you just go to the police, despite what your husband said?”

  “Because it was clear from what I could overhear that Jon was involved in something… something not… not right.” She broke off, face contorting, then took a deep breath, visibly composing herself. “They came looking for him… I heard one of them say, ‘Now we come for you.’”

  She gazed at Margie with the intensity of a high beam headlight. “Please help me understand the truth. Three men are dead. One’s my husband. One is dead because of me. I need to understand why. And the police, the DA—they’re not telling me what really happened. I just know it.”

  Margie took a deep breath. “You said you could tell from the way they were talking that your husband was involved in something ‘not right.’ Are you going to be okay finding out whatever that is?” She knit her fingers together. “Dr. Holcombe was very well-known. Well-respected.I remember reading all the articles about his new results… the Fountain of Youth…” She hesitated, wondering if she really wanted to get involved with this, and what an investigation might unearth.

  “Yes, he was. But we all have a dark side, don’t we? Isn’t that how you and your husband made a living?”

  She’s brave, Margie thought, much braver than I am. She stared back into startling blue eyes that fortunately weren’t at all like Larry’s. But they were like Hunter’s. At the th
ought of their old partner, her heart contracted again. They’d been such good friends and partners for so long. She hadn’t heard from Hunter in over five years—not since right after the dramatic breakup of the partnership forced her to take sides. She had never understood why Larry didn’t take Hunter’s name off the door. She didn’t even understand what the argument had been about. Maybe it was time she heard Hunter’s side.

  Margie made a sudden decision, surprising even herself. “I’ll help you, Joss.” She sighed and shook her head. “I have a feeling Larry wants me to. I dreamed last night that he told me to get my butt in here. I guess I can always pack this place up after your case is done.”

  III

  For a long time after Jocelyn left, Margie sat staring at the retainer check. They’d discussed first steps. She wasn’t going to be able to do this alone.

  She should call Hunter, she thought. After it was all over, he’d called one night when Larry was at choir practice and told that her if she ever needed anything, she should let him know. It was a small omission she’d kept from Larry, figuring it would only upset him.

  With a shaking hand, she punched in the number she still knew by heart. It rang three times, and then the familiar growl said, “Margie, that you?”

  She sank a little, some of the tension leaving her body at the sound of his voice. “Hunter, how’d you know?”

  “The miracle of caller ID. I read about Larry in the paper. I’m so very sorry, Margie. I should’ve come.”

  “After the way things ended…” She sighed. “I understand why you didn’t.”

  “You doing okay?” He sounded somewhere between gruff and worried.

  “I’m doing okay… it’s the shock. One day he was fine, and the next day he was dying, and the day after that he was gone. At least that’s how it seems.”

  “Maybe it’s better, Margie. He didn’t linger, he didn’t suffer long. Things were good, right?”

  She took a deep breath, hesitating. Were things good? Maybe as good as it was possible for them to be. The older Larry got, the unhappier he seemed. “Yeah… yeah, things were good. We were good, the business was good….” Margie shook herself. Whatever issues she had with Larry were gone with him. “I’m sorry, Hunter, that’s not why I’m calling. How… how are you doing?”

  “I’m doing all right. Hate the DMV. Other than that, not much has changed.”

  “You haven’t found another pretty woman to settle down with?”

  “Mm.” He made a noise that somehow conjured Violet, his ex-wife. Violet could be a lot of fun… when she was drunk. “No, no more pretty women for me. The one I had and the one that got away were plenty. And no pretty woman wants an old bulldog like me. Did you call just to chat, Margie, or is there something you need?”

  He knew her so well. She wondered fleetingly about the one who got away, but the time wasn’t right to ask. “I guess there’s something I really need.”

  “The doctor’s in, kiddo. What can I do?”

  “Does the name Jocelyn Holcombe mean anything?”

  “The Holcombe Home Invasion… the one who survived. Why?”

  “She came to see me this afternoon. She wants me to find out why it happened. She says her husband knew the perps. And that the police are covering it up.”

  “No shit.” Hunter gave a long low whistle. “Margie, you sure you want to get involved in this right now?”

  “Yeah, I think it would be good for me. I took a retainer from her.”

  “Give it back.”

  “I think Larry wants me to take this case.”

  “Oh, honey. What makes you think that?”

  “Last night, I dreamed he woke me up and told me I’d better get to the office. It was so real, Hunter… he was teasing me about staying in bed on rainy days, like always. He even picked out my outfit. And then I woke up, and he was gone, of course. But it was raining, just like my dream, and the outfit he picked out was in the front of the dry-cleaning that came yesterday.” She paused for breath. “So I took it as a sign.”

  “That you should go to the office?”

  “Yeah, start picking up the pieces, try to move on…you know.” She had to stop to swallow the lump in her throat.

  “You know he wants you to be happy.”

  “So within ten minutes, Jocelyn Holcombe showed up. I tried to refer to her to five other agencies, Hunter. All of them already told her no.”

  “Of course they did, Margie. Anyone not in the throes of grief would.”

  “You really think I should turn her down, Hunter? You believe my dream was just a coincidence? That I just happened to be there when I haven’t been in six—no, almost seven weeks?”

  Margie could almost see his skeptical expression before he responded. “So what can I do?”

  “You said you hate the DMV. Take a few days off. Come help me. For old times’ sake.” The words tumbled out of her mouth like stones. Until she said them, she had no idea how much she’d missed having Hunter around. He had always been a balance to Larry’s mercurial nature.

  “Oh, kiddo.” The silence dragged on so long, she prepared herself for a ‘no.’ But instead, he surprised her. “Sure, I’ll come. You can’t do this without me. Not now.”

  IV

  It was late by the time Margie left. She listened to the messages, sorted the mail, and called a temp agency for someone until Rosemary got back. Maybe by the time she closed out the Holcombe case, the entire office could be closed out, too.

  And then what, she wondered. Maybe she’d take a cruise or go backpacking around the world. She was only forty-five, after all. She could find a Greek island, have an affair with a younger man, run away to Paris, and go to cooking school. Or art school.

  The setting sun blinded her as she pulled into her street. At least the rain was over. As she turned into her driveway, she glanced up at the house, at the bedroom window that overlooked the street.

  A white oval looked back at her.

  And then it was gone.

  A chill swept through her, gooseflesh rising up and down her arms.

  No, she told herself. No, Larry wasn’t haunting her.

  Someone was in the house.

  For the second time that day, she pulled out her gun. She put her phone in her pocket and cautiously opened the front door. From upstairs, she heard a crash and the sound of splintering glass. Without hesitation, she grabbed her phone, hit the 911 button, and ran up the steps, gun drawn.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “Someone’s broken into my house,” Margie replied in a fierce whisper.

  She reached the top of the steps and paused, listening intently.

  “What’s your location?”

  “1683 Morningside.”

  “Car’s on its way, ma’am. What’s your name?”

  “Margie Dowling.”

  “Are you safe, Margie?”

  Margie shoved the phone back into her pocket. She heard nothing but an ominous silence. The crash had come from the direction of her bedroom. The carpet muffled her steps as she edged down the hall, clutching the gun.

  From far away, she heard the wail of a siren.

  “Margie?” The 911 operator squawked in her pocket. “Can you answer me? Margie?”

  The sirens were getting louder. Margie raised the gun and swung into her bedroom. A cold breeze blew the curtains, one out and one in the shattered window. The room was empty.

  “Mrs. Dowling?” From the first floor, she could hear the policeman shout.

  “I’m up here,” she called. “Please, come… there was definitely someone here.”

  * * *

  It was after eight by the time they were ready to leave. The detectives who came to the house took their time. They asked questions, took pictures, and dusted for fingerprints. They seemed marginally interested in the fact that Jocelyn Holcombe had come to see her.

  It bothered Margie that despite their interest in her conversation with Jocelyn, they dismissed her concern tha
t the two incidents were related. After all, the perpetrators in the Holcombe attack were dead.

  She decided she wouldn’t stay in the house, because there was no sign of forced entry, which implied that the intruder might have a key. The thought of staying here with the plywood-filled hole in the master bedroom window and being alone in the otherwise empty house unnerved her.

  It was too late to call a locksmith, and she needed to consider a home alarm system. Or a dog, something Larry’s allergies wouldn’t have tolerated.

  A dog, she thought, as she grabbed an overnight bag and began to pull a few things together. A dog might keep her from feeling too lonely. The plywood rattled against the window frame. The rain was starting again. Shards of glass glittered in the carpet. She was going to have to do a better job of cleaning up later.

  The house phone rang as she was on her way out the door. She briefly considered not answering, then recognized the number. “Hunter,” she said. “I’m on my way out. Can I call you in an hour?”

  “Where’re you going at 9:30?”

  “Checking into the Holiday Inn. Someone broke into the house this afternoon.”

  “Margie.” Hunter cleared his throat. “Did you say someone broke into your house? You’re not going to a hotel. You’re coming to me. I’m still in Hightstown. Same address. I’ll expect you in an hour. No arguments.” Then he hung up.

  V

  “Margie, this sounds dangerous. As your old friend and Larry’s… I think you should take this warning seriously.” Hunter poured Scotch into her glass. “I know you want to help Jocelyn Holcombe, but don’t you think this is hitting too close to home?”

  “So what’re you suggesting? Say I changed my mind?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Maybe. At least lie low a couple days.” He paused. “What did the cops say? They think it’s related?”

  “They said it was most likely an interrupted robbery. They told me to get an alarm system. And a dog.”

  Hunter rolled his eyes. “Tell us something we don’t know. I think you should hide out here a few days. Turn off your cell phone and go off the grid.”