by Leslie Glass
Hanging Time
( April Woo Mysteries - 2 )
Leslie Glass
NYPD DETECTIVE APRIL WOO IS BACK — AND THE STAKES IN HER NEW CASE ARE HIGHER THAN EVER!
Several very disturbing people had their reasons to persuade Maggie Wheeler to open the door of her shop and then savagely murder her. One of them has disappeared. Another confesses. But faced with a corpse hanging from a chandelier, April Woo isn’t buying the story.
When another girl dies in exactly the same way across town, April gets a call from psychoanalyst Jason Frank about a strange man who keeps a sick woman in restraints and might like to dress up in her clothes, and two angry sisters with a very ugly past. Jason and April race to find a vicious killer before another young woman is found dangling.…
“Fine psychodrama. Glass walks on the noir side.”
—The Poisoned Pen
“Complex insights … Deft plotting and strong characterization will leave readers eager for further installments.”
—Library Journal
Also by Leslie Glass
BURNING TIME
LOVING TIME
TO DO NO HARM
MODERN LOVE
GETTING AWAY WITH IT
A Bantam Book
Bantam hardcover edition published October 1995
Bantam paperback edition / October 1996
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1995 by Leslie Glass.
For Charlotte,
and in loving memory of
Harrison Salisbury
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own;
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring sister’s shame.
LORD BYRON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank everyone at Bantam Books who wanted this author. Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, my editor Kate Miciak, Jamie Warren-Youll, Linda Biagi. And others in publicity and sales whose names I don’t know. Years ago, when Bantam was showing the world a whole new way of packaging books, I worked there as a copywriter. It was at Bantam that I first thought I might try to write a novel. No one I knew then is there now, and publishing is no longer a small, gentlemanly, family business. But some things I experienced in the old Bantam are still there: teamwork; a fierce fighting competitive spirit that I fervently hope will never die; and the love of books as well, occasionally, as of those who write them. Thank you, Bantam, for having me back.
Even in fields such as journalism and science, where a person ought to be able to count on a few solid facts, there is very little absolute truth. With no apologies, the novelist tries for the best view of a relative truth. Those who guide her in her studies toward that end are precious and deeply appreciated. Perpetual thanks to Dr. Richard C. Friedman, my psychology professor and consultant on human behavior. Thanks to Arthur Goldman, D.D.S., odontologist and former President of the American Academy of Forensic Science. Thank you, Acting Dean Lawrence Kobilinsky, John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Thank you, Nick Petracco, dust and fiber expert, and Captain George Cockburn for details and corrections. Thanks to Thomas Lacalamita, computer expert, for his recovery skills.
And always first and last: thank you, Lindsey, for the trip, thank you, Alex, for growing up. Thank you, Sarah Jane Freyman, my agent, for waiting so long. Thank you, Edmund, for the photo ops.
1
It was the dog that caught Maggie Wheeler’s eye and ended her life. If it hadn’t been the cutest dog she’d ever seen, she wouldn’t have spoken to the woman. The very last thing she intended was to smile, pull the latch, and open the door for another customer. At six minutes past seven on a hot August Saturday night the cutesy boutique called The Last Mango was closed. Maggie was finally tidying up after a long, exhausting day that started badly at ten when Olga Yerger, the other salesgirl, didn’t show up and never called to say why. Maggie figured Olga had met some guy and taken off for the weekend. It wouldn’t be the first time. Olga was a blond beauty from one of the Scandinavian countries, who was in New York to find a rich guy to marry. Even when she was in the store she didn’t do much work. And now Maggie couldn’t find the store keys. If she left without the keys, her boss, Elsbeth Manganaro, would kill her. Maggie just couldn’t imagine what she had done with them. They were always right there, either on the counter or in the drawer. Shit.
Maggie wasn’t feeling good about the human race. Her legs ached from running up and down the tight circular staircase all day, attempting to please difficult customers who wanted to try on more expensive originals than could be displayed in the tiny showroom downstairs. The staircase to the loft storeroom was so narrow it caught the sides of hangers and sleeves, and Maggie’s arms and elbows, too. She had a number of bruises. In addition, in the great long-ago of last winter, the owner of the store had enticed her into taking the job by promising Maggie she would never have to work on Saturdays in August.
“The Last Mango will always be closed on weekends in August,” Elsbeth had said vehemently, clutching a fox coat around her shoulders even though the heat was on high in the boutique. “My customers and my girls always go away Friday nights.”
Mrs. Manganaro wore many noisy accessories with her skirts and blouses, had the strangest hair color Maggie had ever seen, and made it seem as if she and the salesgirls were all so well off they didn’t need to work.
“Call me Elsbeth,” she had said. “I like close relationships.”
Well, she lied about weekends off in summer, and a few other things, too. Maggie’s mouth soured as she remembered. Nothing was going well for her just then. She wouldn’t mind taking off for a weekend to think things over. She looked around to see what else needed to be done before she could get out of there.
The store was attractive in a spare, trendy kind of way. But nothing was efficient about it. The space was cramped. The display area for clothes was not nearly big enough. Maggie had to keep running up and down the circular staircase to the storeroom upstairs to show the stock, and then to put the rejects away.
The good things were the store was on Columbus Avenue near where she lived, and the owner was lazy, let her do almost everything. Maggie figured she was learning a lot. Hurriedly, she folded the last of the gauzy, wildly colored printed skirts and glittering hundred-dollar T-shirts, sequin-studded with the stars and stripes and other stirring symbols on them. All afternoon she had kept hoping Olga would find it in her hard foreign heart to turn up after all and cover for her so she could go out for something to eat. But Olga never did.
Maggie didn’t dare close the boutique on her own, in case Elsbeth came by to check up on her. She was more than a little afraid of Elsbeth. Her boss was a fiftyish shrew with so much blue in her red dye job, her hair was almost purple. Elsbeth wore glasses in the shape of wings that magnified the deep wrinkles and puckers around her eyes, and she drew her lips on way over the natural line. She was the epitome of the tightfisted, bullying employer who used the fat settlements from her various marriages and divorces to buy buildings and set herself up in small businesses.
Maggie was a birdlike person with blunt-cut short brown hair and a nose and chin too sharp for her tiny face. She was from the little town of Seekonk, Massachusetts, and frightened easily. It never occurred to her that ordering out was a legitimate way of getting food even though she saw other people doing it all the time. She was afraid of delivery boys and a lot of other things. People were always telling her to relax and smile more, but neither came naturally. Maggie was a mournful sort of person, now very hungry and anxious about losing her job when everything was such a mess in her life.
The sudden awareness of sharp tapping on glass made her look up. Peering at her through the window, a
would-be customer had been knocking on the door for some minutes. There was a “closed” sign right in the middle of it that no one could miss seeing.
Maggie shook her head at how stupid people could be sometimes. Quickly folding the last of the T-shirts, she looked up and mouthed the word “closed,” gesturing to the sign.
As she pointed to it, Maggie caught sight of the small poodle. The dog was in a canvas bag slung over the shoulder of the would-be buyer. All that could be seen of it was its curly head and neck. At first glance it almost looked like a baby lamb. But then Maggie saw it had soft ears and an enchanting pointed muzzle with a bit of a mustache at the end. It turned its head this way and that, trying to take in everything, eyes extraordinarily bright.
“Oh.” A little gasp of delight escaped Maggie’s heretofore tightly pursed lips.
Her feeling of betrayal at being left alone all day, and her disapproval at the banging on the locked door, eased instantly at the sight of the puppy. She was sure it was a puppy by the way it studied everything so intensely, its head cocked first to one side and then the other. She could see its tiny teeth. Its mouth was slightly open as if in a smile. Maggie moved over to the window to get a closer look. The poodle followed her movements, almost as if it had heard her speak. The bright black eyes winked as the knocking on the door became more insistent.
The woman at the door pointed at something in the window and then at her watch. Just a minute after closing, a tiny minute, she pantomimed.
Maggie clicked her tongue. It had been a long day. She wasn’t in the mood for the kind of person who didn’t care about the rules. Maggie knew she had to follow all the rules to be safe. All too painfully and well did she know what happened when she slipped and didn’t follow the rules. Still, it occurred to her that if she opened the door, she could find out the vital statistics of the dog. It looked so much like a lively monkey.
One thing she had learned in her short time in New York was that dog owners were the only people who truly enjoyed being approached and talked to on the street. They loved having their babies admired. If she let the customer in, she could probably play with the puppy.
Without considering the matter any further, Maggie smiled and unlocked the door. “We’re closed,” she said. “What an adorable dog.”
“Well, the sign’s up, but you’re still here. Can’t you make an exception for a few seconds? I wanted to buy that shirt for a friend’s birthday.” The woman was tall, imperious. She pointed at an array of blouses in the display window. “I’ve been meaning to drop by all week, but just haven’t had a minute to come in for it. I’m going away,” she said peevishly, “and if I don’t get it now, I won’t ever be able to.”
Through the half-open door, Maggie reached out to pat the dog’s head.
The woman smiled and pushed in. She backed Maggie into the store, moving her shoulder at the same time so the dog in the canvas bag was out of reach. The door clicked behind her.
Maggie’s attention was on the puppy. It was definitely a tiny poodle. The fur was still as fluffy as unspun silk, and she wanted to touch its baby softness. As she reached out to pet it, the puppy’s velvety tongue darted out to lick her. “Oh,” she cried.
“Don’t touch the dog,” the woman said sharply. “You going to sell me the blouse or not?”
“Which one is it?” Maggie asked, putting her mind on the sale. There were several blouses in the window. Then, unable to resist, she added, “What’s its name?” about the dog. “How old is it?”
“Right there. The white one. Hurry up, I don’t have all night.”
“It’s the cutest dog I’ve ever seen,” Maggie cried, unable to take her eyes off it. The pale puppy fluff stood on end, as if it had just been brushed, or electrified. She reached out one finger to touch it.
“Can’t you hear? I said don’t touch the dog.” The woman backed away angrily. “Are you going to get me that shirt, or am I going to have to complain to your boss?”
Maggie flinched at her tone, suddenly uneasy. The woman’s face had frozen into a mask of fury. Maggie hesitated. What would Elsbeth want her to do?
“What’s your problem? I asked for that shirt. Get it for me.”
“The one in the window is a petite. I don’t think we have any white ones in your size left,” Maggie said slowly, glancing toward the back room by the dressing room, where only the blouses and cotton sweaters were stored. The door was open, but from where she stood she couldn’t see the shelves stacked with colorful items in plastic bags. She couldn’t remember if there was a white one left or not. In any case, she didn’t want to leave the woman alone in the shop while she looked. There was something odd about her.
“Well, go and look. Hurry up, I don’t have all night,” she repeated.
Well, Maggie didn’t have all night either. She was hungry and tired and getting anxious about the way the large, pushy woman was talking to her. A muscle jumped in her cheek and now she was looking around as if she planned to take something the minute Maggie turned her back. If the woman stole something, Maggie would have to pay for it with her salary. What did the woman want? All kinds of things happened in New York. Maybe she was a criminal. Maggie hesitated, unsure what the right thing to do was. She didn’t want to make the wrong move. But what was the right move with someone like this?
The puppy winked at her, its head cocked to one side.
Angrily, the woman moved closer. “Just get me the damn shirt and I’ll get out of here.”
Okay. That was it. New Yorkers were something. They had to have what they wanted when they wanted it and didn’t care how they got it. Maggie decided to get the damn shirt. As she turned toward the closet, her elbow accidentally brushed the canvas bag. The puppy, poised like a panther, its front paws together and head drawn back, suddenly leapt out of the bag. Maggie caught it in her arms like a short pass in the end zone.
It was unbelievably soft and sweet. Like a baby, it clung to Maggie’s neck and covered her eyes, lips, and nose with warm, velvety kisses. They were the last kisses she would ever receive.
The woman grabbed the dog, wrenching Maggie’s arm in a fury.
“Ow.” Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. “Let go.”
“Damn bitch. I told you not to touch my dog.”
“Hey, what’re you doing? Don’t. You’re hurting me.”
The woman seemed to have forgotten the dog. The dog was on the floor, sniffing around. “You get it for me. You hear me? You get that shirt for me.” Ranting, she shoved Maggie toward the storeroom.
One of Maggie’s arms was twisted so badly she was sure her shoulder was dislocated. “Stop.” Suddenly frantic, she tried to pull away, get to the front door, and push the alarm. The woman was much stronger than she was. She pushed Maggie the other way, toward the back room.
Maggie resisted and felt something give in her shoulder.
“Help!” she screamed, but the door to the street was closed and locked. On the other side of it, the sidewalk was empty. No one was window-shopping. There was an alarm button by the money drawer. Maggie was dragged away from that, too. She couldn’t reach anything. For an instant she saw the dog sitting on the floor in the shop, watching her struggle with great interest. Then it squatted and peed. Maggie’s last thought before she was shoved into the back room and the door slammed on them was that the dog was a girl.
“Bitch,” the woman cried. “I’ll teach you to touch other people’s things.”
“Ow.” Maggie clawed at the door with her uninjured hand.
“Stop that.” The woman started shaking her so violently that her head snapped back and forth. “Stop that! Stop taking my things. You can’t have my things.”
“I didn’t—I don’t—No!”
The woman let go of Maggie’s shoulders and gripped her throat. With both hands she started shaking her by the neck.
“Always taking my things. Can’t have my things. Think you can fool me. No. You can’t fool me.”
“Agggh.” Maggi
e was choking. Her eyes bulged. “Agggh.” She kicked out, trying to scream, to get away. She blacked out for a second, then revived when the pressure eased.
“Bitch!”
Pain exploded in her head for the last time. The woman had slipped a cord around her neck and was yanking hard.
Twenty minutes later Maggie Wheeler hung from the light fixture in the storeroom in a five-hundred-dollar size-fourteen flowered summer dress that hung way down over her shoulders and hid her feet. Purple lipstick and blue eye shadow, grotesquely applied, further disfigured her mournful little face. The air conditioner, set on high and blowing on her, ruffled her hair and skirt, and gave her the appearance of eternal living death.
2
What was left of the former potato field stretched over several acres at least, flat and vegetation-free. Set back a hundred or so feet from the newly created road, the house in progress soared over the emptiness, straining for even a tiny glimpse of the ocean, a quarter of a mile to the south.
Charles stopped the BMW at the construction site with a jerk and jumped out excitedly.
“What do you think?” he demanded of his oldest friend in the mental health field.
Jason Frank, author of scholarly texts, teacher, and psychoanalyst, got out of the passenger seat slowly, as if both of his long, well-muscled legs had recently been broken and were not yet fully healed. For a minute he took in the Portosan, the construction trailer, the advertising signs of the architect, builder, landscape architect, and the dozen suppliers that littered the site. Without going a step closer he could tell that the eleven-room house would be fully air-conditioned, would have a tennis court and swimming pool, and was already alarmed against vandals and thieves. This was some beach shack for a psychiatrist whose hourly fee was fixed, like Jason’s, at a hundred and sixty-five dollars for those who could pay, and less for those who couldn’t. There was no way he could afford such a house on his earned income.