LOL #3 Romantic Comedy Anthology

by Anthology

  When I made it through the front door a couple of minutes later myself, I ran into Mr. Smith, my neighbor from the first floor, just coming out of his apartment. Mr. Smith looked about as old as Methuselah, but he was still rather frisky, and I had discovered the hard way that he was a bottom-pincher, so I made sure never to turn my back on him.

  “Hey there young lady,” he greeted me with a flirty wink.

  “Hi Mr. Smith. Be careful if you’re going outside. It’s very slippery.”

  “Oh don’t worry about me. I was a military man.”

  “Okay then.” I smiled and headed up the stairs. On the second floor, I encountered Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Wright, the two elderly widows who lived on either side of my apartment, chatting in the hall. Both of them could be quite nosy, but then I wasn’t doing anything in my life lately worth gossiping about.

  “Hello ladies!” I called out, turning my key in the lock.

  “Hello there. Writing a new book?” Mrs. Wright called back before I could escape inside.

  “Yep! That’s my job. Writing books.”

  “Do you only write mysteries?” Mrs. Wong asked pleasantly.

  “I have so far,” I answered. “But maybe I’ll try something new eventually.”

  “Word has it that Jane left you some of her things,” Mrs. Wright piped up again, referring to another elderly neighbor who had passed away a couple of weeks ago. She and I had been friends and Mrs. Wright’s gossipy tone irritated me.

  “Yes, she did. She was such a wonderful person. I’ll miss her very much,” I said with warm feeling and a cold stare.

  “So will we,” Mrs. Wong agreed. “We’ll have to play three handed poker now. Saturday nights just won’t be the same. Unless, of course, either you or Mr. Taylor would like to join us.”

  “I’m sorry. I really can’t. Um, deadlines. Speaking of… Have a nice day and stay warm!” I said with forced cheer, ducking into my apartment.

  While my social life might not have been thrilling, I had no interest in spending Saturday nights playing poker with Mr. Smith, Mrs. Wright, and Mrs. Wong.

  Chapter Two

  Later that afternoon, as the snow continued to fall heavily, I grabbed a mug of steaming Earl Grey and headed to the other apartment one flight up, which had until recently, been occupied by a lovely, white-haired British lady named Jane Mallowan. Jane and I had shared many a cuppa’ in the year I had been her neighbor, and I found her company not only pleasant, but also entertaining. Jane had been what my grandma would have referred to as “a personality,” recounting wonderful stories from her youth that held me captivated and occasionally made me blush.

  She had traveled all over the world and done some incredibly adventurous and romantic things. More than once I found myself sighing and making mental notes of everything she said. Although I wrote mysteries, I was tempted to write a novel based on Jane’s life. When I returned to my own apartment after one of our chats, I usually sat down at my computer and wrote it all out, even though I suspected that any fictional account could only pale in comparison to the real events from her past.

  Despite the fact that she was quite elderly, she was strong, vibrant, and so very alive. When I came back from the market that afternoon two weeks ago and saw a car marked “coroner,” she was the last person I would have expected it to be ushering from the building. Mrs. Wright sometimes looked like she was at death’s door, and Mr. Smith occasionally looked like he had already walked through it.

  I cleared the landing of the third floor just as the handsome Mr. Taylor was exiting his apartment with a basket of laundry.

  “Going to wash your clothes?” I asked, attempting to make conversation.

  “What tipped you off?” he asked dryly.

  That flirty remark outside earlier had apparently been an anomaly. This was the Mr. Taylor who I knew, about as warm as the frost on the windows.

  “I was just going to clear up some of Jane’s things. She left a letter requesting that I… ”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he responded, but he just stood there and stared. I stared back, noting his hair had a really cute curl to it when it was damp, like now. Moments ticked by as the two of us continued to hold each other’s gaze.

  Maybe he was thinking that I was attractive too. My blonde hair was jammed on top of my head in a ponytail, and the nice curves I had earned on the treadmill were hidden under a baggy gray sweatshirt, but I had been told that I was rather attractive a time or two… in the increasingly distant past.

  “Yes?” I asked, quickly clearing my throat at the sound of my husky voice. I imagined him replying, “Forgive me. I was struck by the breathtaking, azure blue of your eyes, Ms. Klein. They reminded me of waters of the Caribbean by moonlight.”

  “You’re blocking the stairs,” he responded instead, shaking me out of my romantic reverie. I caught the faintest trace of amusement in his voice and I saw that elusive smile begging to escape the firm set of his mouth. I felt my cheeks get hot again and I narrowed my eyes, feeling unreasonably irritated.

  I stepped to my right and Mr. Taylor stepped to his left. I stepped to my left and Mr. Taylor stepped to his right. We looked like we were doing some awkward ballroom dance, and finally, he just stopped and glared. He did glaring very well. I suspected that he had a lot of practice with it.

  “I’m going to step that way,” I said pointing to my right.

  “Fine,” he replied, sounding annoyed. What had I ever done to him? Well, besides knocking him down in the snow and flailing on him. I moved out of his way and he managed to pass by without further incident. Then I marched toward Jane’s door with a harrumph and jammed the key in the lock.

  As soon as the door swung open a wave of sadness crashed against me. I felt a lump in my throat and the sting of tears in my eyes as I looked around the former home of my friend. Then another emotion washed over me, joy. There was still joy in this apartment because Jane’s spirit was still here. Not in the chain rattling, ectoplasmic sense, but in the sense that it was still filled with so much… Janeness.

  She must not have had any family, because a few days after she died, I got a letter from a lawyer letting me know that she had named me as executrix of her estate, what little there was of it. It had been her wish that most of it be donated to charity, but she wanted me to have some of her personal items and asked me retrieve them myself. As much as I would rather have had Jane back, I must admit, I experienced a moment of joy when I found out she was leaving me her books. She had some beautiful, well-preserved first editions among them, including several Agatha Christie novels, and to a mystery writer like me that was like inheriting a diamond mine.

  I set down my tea and went over to the record player that Jane had preferred to any electronic alternative. Selecting Edith Piaf’s Éternelle as accompaniment, I set about following the instructions that she had left for me. Time slipped away as I became absorbed in my work, although I hesitate to call it that, as it was such a pleasure.

  In some ways, Jane’s apartment was like a mini-museum of 20th Century artifacts. The photos, in particular, were quite thrilling. There was one of a young and beautiful flaxen-haired Jane, dancing a Tango with a handsome man, who looked like he might be an Argentine. There was one of Jane, dressed all in black with… was that… my heartbeat sped up as I looked closer. Jane had known Jack Kerouac! She had been a beatnik, an original hipster!

  It was a bittersweet moment because my delight in this discovery reminded me that her passing had signaled the loss of many great stories she had yet to tell me. There was some consolation though. As if foreseeing that I would miss hearing about her adventures, Jane had willed me a collection of her old correspondence with her invitation to read her letters as I might find them interesting. Darkness had fallen when I found the letter written in Jane’s elegant script that was addressed to me. It read:

  Dear Alison,

  If you are reading this letter, it means that I am no longer living. You have been a lovely companio
n, and you are just the sort of person who should take possession of the items, which I am leaving in your care. Please don’t let anyone else get their hands on the papers in The Trial.

  Warmly,

  Jane

  I reread the letter two more times, still not understanding her meaning. She had some papers from a trial and someone else wanted them? Did they want them badly enough to… ” But she had died naturally. Hadn’t she? It occurred to me that I didn’t really know. There had been no news stories about a homicide involving an elderly woman. But was that the sort of thing that would be reported in a city the size of Pittsburgh? And hadn’t I just been thinking how unlikely it was that Jane would be the first of my elderly neighbors to go?

  The record had ended and silence engulfed the apartment. That was how I noticed the creaking sound of the floorboards just outside Jane’s apartment door. I assumed that it was Mr. Taylor returning from laundry duty but I didn’t hear his apartment door open or close. I had just convinced myself that it must have been my imagination, when I heard the doorknob jiggle, making me jump. I had locked the door behind me, and so it remained closed. The jiggling stopped when I called out.

  “Hello? This Ali Klein.” I got up and took a deep breath, telling myself that there was no reason to be nervous. Walking purposefully to the door, I went on, “Jane asked that I have some of her stuff. Her lawyer gave… ” We didn’t have peepholes so I just steeled my nerves and swung the door open. Staring out into the hallway, I felt the hair on my arms stand up. Nobody was there.

  Chapter Three

  The tall, dark, and handsome stranger led me out onto the terrace where the breeze carried the music of the tango along with us that magical night in Buenos Aires. He turned to face me, his long fingers sweeping gently across my cheek. And then he spoke.

  “Querida mia… ..” BANG!

  I sat up in bed, stunned, head still full of cobwebs and magical Argentinian breezes. What was that? It sounded like it had come from above. I squinted at my bedside table and felt around for my cell phone. Finally finding it, I noted that it was midnight. I debated what to do. While my first choice would have been to stay snuggled in my warm bed and return to my handsome Argentinian stranger, it had been one hell of a loud bang. My conscience prickled at the thought that perhaps Mr. Taylor had hurt himself somehow and could be lying on the floor bleeding to death.

  With a sigh, I hauled myself out of bed, slid my feet into some fuzzy slippers and reached for my flannel robe. Shuffling out the door and climbing the stairs, I approached his door and knocked. I waited. No response. I knocked again harder. Still nothing. Finally, I started pounding.

  “Hey! Mr. Taylor!”

  “Yes?” a deep voice asked from behind me and I spun around. I hadn’t heard him come up the stairs, probably because of all the pounding, but there he was, standing behind me, cheeks reddened from the cold and snow melting on his coat.

  “You were outside!” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “You really are incredibly observant Ms. Klein. Perhaps you should have become a detective, rather than writing about them.”

  “Did you have an overwhelming urge to build a snowman, or do you have a death wish and enjoy driving in blizzards?” To my surprise, he smiled.

  “It finally stopped snowing, so I figured I would dig out my car now rather than tomorrow morning. May I ask what you were seeking at my apartment in the middle of the night?”

  “A bang,” I answered without thinking. He raised an eyebrow and what I had just said sunk in. “I heard a bang! And it came from up here.” I gave him an annoyed look as if it were his fault that someone had been making noise while he was out.

  “I can’t imagine what that would have been,” he replied giving me a dubious look. He walked over to join me and unlocked his door. Flipping on the lights, he stepped inside. “You’re a mystery writer, aren’t you? Would you care to join me in my investigation?”

  “If you like,” I said, not wanting to admit that I was curious.

  His place was nice, simply decorated with lots of bookshelves. Mr. Taylor was well read. He took a look around, and while I stayed put, checked out what I presume were the bedroom and bathroom.

  “Well, Ms. Klein, it seems you were mistaken,” he said upon his return. “There is no one banging in my apartment. He smiled and added, “At the moment.”

  “Then it must have come from Jane’s apartment,” I said thoughtfully, remembering the jiggling doorknob earlier.

  “Are you suggesting someone broke in? As a policy, burglars tend to avoid waking the neighbors.”

  “Maybe he accidentally knocked something over. Come on, I have her key. I think we should check.” I turned and started for the door, pausing when I realized that Mr. Taylor had not moved. I turned around to face him.

  “What exactly were you doing when you heard this bang, Ms. Klein?”

  “I was sleeping,” I answered warily.

  “You were sleeping,” he repeated. The look on his face told me he didn’t believe in the Big Bang Theory. “Isn’t it just possible that you dreamt it?”

  “No! It woke me up,” I shot back indignantly. “And I was dreaming about… something else. I’m sure I heard a bang and if it didn’t come from here, it must have come from Jane’s apartment. Now, are you going to come with me to check or not?”

  “If it will put your mind at ease, Ms. Klein, go get the key and I will come with you to solve the Mystery of the Midnight Bang.” I gritted my teeth and glared.

  “Why do you feel the need to be so incredibly patronizing?” I asked, feeling my blood start to boil. “You’re a prosecutor. Haven’t you ever met a burglar before?”

  “I’ve met many burglars Ms. Klein. And I’ve also met many people who think they spotted someone from the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list working at a Quickie Mart, and people who are certain that they know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried because he told them in a dream. They aren’t bad people. They’re just bored people with over-active imaginations.” I dug my nails into my palms and gave him my very fiercest glare.

  “Fine! I’ll go check myself.” I turned and stormed out with a huff, muttering under my breath about arrogant, know-it-all jackasses.

  When I returned minutes later with Jane’s key, I found him standing outside her door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. I raised an inquisitive eyebrow and threw in a smirk for good measure.

  “Hey, sometimes the guy working at the Quickie Mart really is a fugitive,” he replied defensively. I nodded curtly and unlocked the door.

  Hitting the light switch, I stepped into Jane’s apartment again, with Mr. Taylor following close behind. Immediately I saw what had caused the bang, a tall bookcase lay face down on the floor. We stared silently for a moment.

  “I’m assuming that wasn’t there before,” he noted.

  “What do you think?” I replied.

  He walked over and squatted down to examine the bookcase a bit. Then he stood up again and went over to look at wall where it had been. Finally he looked back at me.

  “It’s solid wood, and I’m assuming that I didn’t fail to miss an earthquake.”

  “So, how did it fall over?” I asked, hoping he would come up with some logical explanation so that I could go back to my warm, comfy bed and my hot sexy Argentinian.

  “I have no idea,” he said shaking his head.

  I sighed. Adiós Señor Tango. Then I remembered Jane’s letter. “Sit down. There’s something I want to show you,” I said.

  “Does it involve a bang?” he asked with a smile.

  “It may involve this bang,” I growled.

  Chapter Four

  We sat next to each other on the sofa as he quickly read Jane’s letter. I couldn’t help but notice that he smelled really good in a guy soap and aftershave kind of way.

  “See?” I asked, refocusing my attention on the matter at hand.

  “See what? A letter from an elderly woman telling you to guard trial papers? She may ha
ve been half-senile.”

  “She wasn’t half-senile! She was as sharp as a tack. And she was healthy too. I would like to find out what exactly was the cause of her death. You’re a prosecutor. You could find out.”

  “Ms. Klein… ” He looked up at me then and hesitated. I saw a flash of something in his eyes before he seemed to give himself a mental shake. “Uh… I was saying that while I do think the fallen bookcase may merit a police report… ”

  “When I was up here earlier, someone tried to get in,” I cut him off. “The doorknob jiggled and I called out to tell whoever was there that I was coming. But when I opened the door, nobody was there.” I shivered a little and hugged my waist. He must have notice because his tone was softer when replied.

  “Ms. Klein… ”

  “Ali,” I interrupted. “My name is Alison, but most people call me Ali.”

  “Oh, well you can call me Kevin.”

  “I like that name.” I smiled and noticed his breathing pick up a little. He was sitting close and I could feel the heat from his body. He would make a great bed warmer.

  “Well, thanks… I was saying uh… oh right. I was saying that it is possible that the stress of your friend’s passing might be having an effect on you, especially sitting here in her apartment.”

  “What are you implying?” I narrowed my eyes.

  “I’m not implying, I’m just suggesting that this is an old, drafty house… ”

  “A gust of wind blew by and jiggled the doorknob? It’s not that drafty.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t a full jiggle, but more of a rattle,” he bit out, voice rising.

  I stood up quickly and began gesturing angrily. “It was no mere rattle! It was a full jiggle! I’m telling you I know a jiggle when I see one!”