Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One)

by Nancy Tesler

  “They’re worse than usual today,” I panted between breaths. “I don't know what's gotten into them.”

  “Animals are pretty sensitive. They pick up on tension they feel from their owners.”

  “Really?” I mumbled, resolved to show no emotion.

  Dr. Stoner paused, needle in hand, and smiled at me. “You just hang in there. This’ll all blow over before you know it.”

  My resolve crumbled like dry rot in the face of his kindness. “I feel like howling louder than Lucie. The girls in the office didn't even say hello.”

  “Nobody thinks you were involved. They’re just uncomfortable. Probably didn't know what to say.”

  “You think that was it?”

  “I'm sure it was,” he said firmly, and plunged the needle into Luciano's rump.

  As I was paying the bill, Judy, the plump assistant who's been with Dr. Stoner the longest, patted my hand and whispered, “I'm not one to wish anyone harm, but if you ask me, she deserved it.”

  DRIVING HOME TO drop off the cats, I kept thinking about Dot’s keys. I remembered Brodsky saying Dot hadn’t been home or at Rich's office. If she’d taken a few days off, this was the ideal time to search her apartment. By the time I pulled up in front of Meg’s shop, my mind was made up. Mirimar could wait.

  I could see Meg talking to a customer just inside the doorway. Impatient to get started, I leaned on the horn and waved. An eternity later, she joined me and I moved to the passenger seat.

  “That was a two-hundred-dollar sale,” she commented dryly as she shifted the car smoothly into gear. “You mind my asking what’s so important that you couldn’t let me write it up?”

  I dangled the keys in front of her. “Change of plans. We’re going to search Dot’s apartment.”

  She shot me a look that said louder than words that she thought I’d flipped out. “No kidding. With or without Dot in it?”

  “She’s not there. At least, I don’t think she is. We’ll have to phone first.”

  “Called breaking and entering, isn’t it?”

  “Not when you don't have to pick the lock.”

  “Aren’t you in enough trouble? You have to go looking for it?”

  “I am in trouble,” I agreed. “That’s why you’ve got to help me.”

  “Forget it. I’m not going to help you land yourself in jail.”

  “Meg,” I pleaded, “Dot knows everything that goes on in that company.”

  “So what? What do you think you're going to find in her apartment, assuming you can get in and out without anyone seeing you? The murder weapon?”

  “Maybe. If Dot killed Erica there’ll be something in that apartment that will give her away. She’s not clever enough to cover her tracks completely.”

  The car slowed, and Meg angled in towards the curb. “I'm your friend,” she said when she’d brought the car to a halt. “I'll go with you to Mirimar, I’ll help you find a criminal lawyer, I’ll even go door to door and grill your old neighbors—-even that Tomkins creature. But I refuse to go along with this insane idea of breaking into Dot’s apartment like a couple of cat burglars. Clear?”

  “Why’re you being like this? What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “God, you’re so naive. The worst that can happen is you get arrested, you get convicted, you do time, and you have a record for the rest of your life. How would you like to explain that to your kids?”

  “How do you suggest I explain a murder rap to them?” I countered.

  She didn’t answer, just reached into her purse for a cigarette. We sat there in silence, the tension like a wall between us. She smoked and I fumed. I knew she was adamant. I'd touched a chord somewhere, and nothing I could say or do was going to change her mind.

  After a moment I came up with another idea. “Would you go into New York with me?”

  “I thought we were going to talk to the investigator.”

  “That can wait. There’s someone I want to talk to first.”

  “Who?”

  “Don't worry. I plan to ring his bell like a good law-abiding citizen.”

  “Well, that’s a plus. Anybody I know?”

  “Guy used to work for Rich. Erica forced him to resign. Name’s Herb Golinko.”

  We found Herb in Saint Claire’s Hospital in Manhattan, on a floor for AIDS patients. When I phoned Herb’s house, I got his partner, Charles, who gave me the news.

  In all the years I’d known Herb, I’d never discussed anything other than company business with him. I knew nothing about his personal life except that he’d been wounded in the first Iraq war. I hadn’t been aware he was gay. I don’t think anyone in the company had either, because Erica would surely have used it against him.

  “I think I would’ve preferred breaking into Dot’s apartment,” Meg announced glumly as we drove down Ninth Avenue looking for a parking space.

  “I know,” I agreed. “I feel terrible bothering him when he’s so sick.”

  “How long’s he been in the hospital?”

  “Charles didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “Charles was crying.”

  “Jesus.” Meg turned down Fifty-first Street and found an empty meter. We didn’t talk while she concentrated on backing into the tight space without creaming the car behind us. After she turned off the motor, she sat staring at an ambulance parked near the hospital emergency entrance.

  “You sure we should go ahead with this?” she asked finally. “You don’t really think he was the one did it, do you?”

  “I guess he couldn't have if he's been in the hospital.”

  “Right. So...”

  “On the other hand, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have had anything to lose, would he?”

  Meg sighed and opened the door. “Let's go.”

  THE HOSPITAL RECEPTION area was a microcosm of New York City’s unmelted ethnic pot. We took our place at the end of a line of impatient visitors waiting to be given the thumbs-up by a supercilious receptionist ensconced behind a large wraparound desk. It there was air-conditioning, the constant opening and closing of the doors made it virtually ineffective. Despite the improved temperature outside, by the time our turn came I looked like I'd been caught in a rainstorm. Fortunately for us, visiting hours were in progress and we were given passes without much hassle. The receptionist did cast a suspicious glance at Meg who had the appearance of a woman who had just taken a cool shower. There are some people to whom dirt, grime, and sweat simply do not adhere.

  We followed a yellow line down a narrow corridor to an elevator bank and waited ten minutes for it to arrive. By the time we reached Herb’s floor, I was bedraggled in spirit as well as body and dreading the coming interview.

  Herb shared a room with three other men. No one glanced up as we entered their space.

  I hardly recognized Herb. He’d lost at least thirty pounds; you could see every bone. The black eye patch stood out starkly against his pallor, and the veins in his hands were so close to the surface, his skin looked azure-blue against the white coverlet. Would this man have had the energy to lift a rock, much less bash in Erica’s head with it? I glanced at Meg and knew by her expression that our thoughts were running along similar lines.

  “Herb?” I kept my voice to a whisper. It seemed sacrilegious to speak normally here.

  He opened his eye, turned his head listlessly in my direction, didn’t recognize me immediately. “Carrie?”

  “Hi, Herb”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I...came to see you.”

  He took in Meg, then raised himself slightly. “Rich with you?”

  “No. He—-uh...you didn't know we're separated?”

  “Can't say I'm surprised.”

  Had everyone known about Erica but me? I felt Meg's comforting grip on my arm.

  “I spoke to Charles today. That’s how I knew you were here.” I shifted uneasily, wondering how I was going to lead into the reason for my visit.r />
  “Who's your friend?” he asked finally.

  “Sorry. This is Meg Reilly.”

  Meg had pulled up a chair and taken out a cigarette. She dropped the pack onto the chair and held out her hand. “Hi.”

  He took it with his fragile one. “Spare a butt?”

  Meg reached for the pack. “Sure.”

  I was horrified. “Meg, this is a hospital. You can't---”

  “What the hell’s the difference?” she hissed at me.

  Herb smiled for the first time. “I’ll be discreet.”

  Meg placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. Herb took a drag, seemed to gather energy, and struggled to a sitting position.

  “Okay, Carrie, what’s this about? You didn’t suddenly get a calling to visit the sick and wounded, did you?”

  I was embarrassed and ashamed but I was here so I forged ahead. “I came to see you about Erica Vogel. I wondered if you knew---”

  He choked and started coughing. Meg took the cigarette from his shaking hand.

  “That witch!” he managed when the spasm subsided. “Got hers finally, didn't she?”

  Meg handed him back the cigarette.

  “Sure did,” I replied. “How’d you know about it?”

  “Charles called me.”

  “He tell you she was living with Rich-—that it happened at my old house?” I asked.

  He seemed startled. “No. But we didn’t talk long. I was at my mom’s when he called.” He grimaced. “We don’t talk long when I’m there. She hates Charles. Thinks this is his fault.”

  “You weren’t here on Saturday?”

  “Came in yesterday. They carted me here from the Cheshire Cheese.” A crooked smile appeared briefly. “Caused quite a stir. A few diners permanently lost their appetites along with their soup.”

  “Then you were in New Jersey on Saturday,” I said casually.

  His laugh racked his wasted body more painfully than the cough. “Think I did it, Carrie?”

  “No,” I said uncomfortably. “Of course not. Well...” All of a sudden honesty seemed the only way to go. “To tell the truth, I thought about it. Wouldn’t’ve blamed you either, but I don’t think you have it in you. Any more than I do.”

  “So why’re you here?”

  “I-—I’m a suspect, Herb.”

  His body started to shake underneath the covers, and I glanced around for the nurse before I realized he was laughing again.

  “What a fucking joke,” he gasped. “David vanquishing Goliath.”

  I didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered by the analogy. “Well, it wasn't this David. I was hoping you’d have some ideas about who else wasn't too fond of Erica.”

  “Maybe it was a burglar.”

  “Nothing was stolen.” I didn't mention the necklace, but there was no reaction. I breathed easier.

  He sank back onto his pillows and closed his eyes. “Could’ve been almost anyone. ‘Let ‘em eat shit’ was her motto. Just rolled over anyone got in her way.”

  I knew.

  “Everybody thought you knew about her. Just put up with it ‘cause you liked livin’ high. I told them you never knew about any of ‘em. You were blind where he was concerned.”

  I felt like I’d been jabbed with a cattle prod. “Any of them?”

  “Carrie, let’s go,” Meg said, getting to her feet. “Herb needs his rest.”

  “Godalmighty, Carrie, sonofabitch’s been chasin’ every model walked through our doors for years. Just never took any of them seriously till her. What the hell was the matter with you?” Suddenly he was shouting. “What’d you think he was doing all those nights he said he was workin’ late?”

  His anger made him cough again. Meg took the cigarette and put it out. I couldn’t speak. The three men in the other beds had turned off their TVs; we were better than the afternoon lineup of reality shows.

  “Always liked you,” Herb continued, his voice soft again. “Pissed me off, how a smart lady like you could be so dumb about a man. Christ, it was a disease with him. Even that misbegotten gargoyle he calls a secretary!”

  All of a sudden I felt nauseous. “Dot?” I croaked. “Dot Shea?”

  “Visiting hours are now over” came over the loudspeaker. “All visitors please leave the floors. Visiting hours are now over.”

  “Ten years, baby,” he hissed. “Ten years that broad’s been trailin’ after him. Joke’s on her, his leaving you for Erica. But she's been laughing at you—-giving you the finger. Hell, where were your eyes?”

  The room blurred. Herb’s words pounded in my ears. Every model walked through our doors! Misbegotten gargoyle he calls a secretary. Ten years, baby!

  Meg had to drag me to the elevator. My breathing was coming in jagged painful gasps as I leaned against the wall in the corridor.

  The door to the elevator opened. I knew there were people in it, but I was hardly aware of them. We rode down in silence. Memories flashed through my mind. Images of Rich in his office talking to young hopefuls. Images of him with Dot the hundreds of times I saw them together, her eyes worshipping him, his, remote and businesslike. God, he was good at it. Did it make his infidelity worse knowing for certain there were many instead of just one? I wasn't sure. But by the time we got to the car, a kind of calm had settled over me. I was certain of what I was going to do. Meg knew it too.

  “Oh, Carrie,” she said. “Don’t go off the deep end because of what Herb said. He’s so sick, who knows if he even knows what---”

  “With or without you,” I interrupted. “She had a motive. If there’s anything in that apartment of hers, I’m going to find it.” I turned away from her and stared out the window.

  Cars flew by, white cars, green ones, blue,

  Black...blue. I turned to Meg. “Who makes the Prius?” I asked her.

  She took her eyes off the road for a second and looked at me. “Toyota. Why?”

  I wanted to smile, but my lips wouldn't stretch that far. “Because I just remembered. A couple of months ago, Dot bought a new car. A blue one. A blue Toyota Prius.”

  I CALLED DOT’S apartment. The phone rang a half-dozen times and then I got a robotic voice telling me that the person I’d called was not available and I should please leave a message. I didn’t. By now, I’d convinced myself she and Rich had gone off somewhere together. Some secret place-—a love nest where they’d been rendezvousing monthly, or weekly, or maybe daily for the past ten years. Dot Shea! Neurotic, unsexy Dot! Erica-—you could attribute her to a middle-age crisis. You could hate her, convince yourself she'd stolen him away by casting some magical, youthful spell. But Dot...

  Stop! I told myself. This was old ground, covered months before in my therapist’s office. What difference, at this point, if Rich got it on with one woman or twenty? Some men are born womanizers. Like Clinton and Spitzer and that Dominick Strauss Whats-his-name. It’s a known personality disorder.

  But this was my husband who had been leading a double life right under my anesthetized nose. I had not only been blind, I must have been brain-dead.

  Meg glanced at me inquiringly as I flipped my phone closed. “Well?”

  “Not home.”

  “You still determined to go?”

  “You don’t have to come.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She hit the accelerator and we turned on to River Road.

  DOT’S APARTMENT COMPLEX was located south of us in Edgewater, a town where high-rise buildings have sprung up like giant trees amid the weeds of commercial flotsam adjacent to the river. The town’s proximity to New York City and its panoramic view of the Hudson had enticed developers out to make a quick buck to erect buildings wherever they could purchase land. Little if any thought was given to architectural harmony or to the original character of the town. The result was, the town had no character at all.

  Dot’s building, lacking a swimming pool and a health club, fell just short of being labeled luxurious. It did, however, have a doorman plus a security guard, who roamed t
he parking lot checking bumpers and windshields for tenants’ and visitors’ stickers.

  Meg pulled over half a block from the entrance.

  “How’re we going to get past the M.P.?”

  A dilemma.

  “If we park here,” I said, “and walk along the river to the entrance, I think we can bypass him. We’ll only have to deal with the doorman.”

  Meg flipped open her purse, applied some lipstick, and fluffed up her hair. “No problem,” she replied, opening her door.

  I didn't question her. I’d seen men preen like peacocks doing a courtship dance over Meg.

  We jogged along a dirt road toward the river, residents out for our daily constitutional.

  “You'll have to go up by yourself,” Meg said.

  “Wouldn’t it be quicker if we both--?”

  “I’ve got to keep the doorman’s eyes off the elevator TV. Don’t make me do it for longer than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “That won’t give me enough time.”

  “Make it enough. We don’t know where Dot’s gone. She could come home any minute. Know her apartment number?”

  I did. Fourteen K. I’d been there only once, when Dot first moved in several years ago. She threw a party for herself celebrating her tenth year with the company. Rich groused and grumbled all the way over in the car, but once there, he was charm personified.

  The doorman was a dark-skinned, Middle Eastern guy wearing a snappy blue uniform with gold buttons and a mustache that took up half his face.

  I loitered among the rhododendron bushes watching in awe as Meg spun her web.

  “Hi,” I heard her say in a tone I hardly recognized. Would you know if there are any apartments coming available in this building?”

  “You must call real estate agency,” the man replied. “I cannot give out this information.”

  “Oh.” Meg looked forlorn, Cinderella barred from the ball. “It’s just I’m in such a mess.” Tears rolled out of those gorgeous eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

  I was fascinated. How does she do that on cue?

  “I just broke up with my boyfriend,” Meg sniffled. “It’s his apartment, and he’s got a new girlfriend. She’s moving in next week. I’ve got to find something right away.”