“Hey, come on, Patti...” Gary made a calm-down gesture with his hands. It was too late in the day for this.
“I know as much as any first-year assistant buyer would know, darling—that if you spend a fortune on drive-time and every other kinda prime air time that you can saturate just about anything. ‘Practically,’” he added sarcastically.
“How much are we spending, Patti?” Gary looked up from his hands.
“I don’t believe this!” Patti huffed. “I have a budget. Does anybody remember the budget?”
“Yeah, that’s what the client is gonna wanna know.” Pokey said.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” Patti snarled at Pokey. “But I—”
“Hey, come on, Patti,” Gary said. “Let’s pack it up for today, what do you say?”
“We definitely should pack it up when a little monkey-faced layout artist can tell me how to buy time—”
Gary wanted to reach over and wrap her red floral scarf around her flapping mouth. “Please, stop it, both of you. Pokey, go ahead and knock off for the day.” Pokey shrugged and gestured to Gary in a catch-ya-later-buddy motion that served to further infuriate Patti in its attempt at male confederacy. She folded her arms and glared at the retreating art director.
“God, Patti, why do you let him get to you?” Gary rubbed his eyes and leaned back into his chair. “I mean, what is it between you two? Are you, like, ex-lovers or something?”
“Don’t be revolting. The man’s an ape.”
“Well, stranger things have happened in my experience.”
Patti paused dramatically as she stood up from the swivel chair that faced Gary’s desk. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide and fixed on Gary. Her long fingers groped unconsciously at the loose cotton belt that hung from her waist.
He found himself bracing against her words.
“Gary, I would like to talk with you about something that’s personal.”
“Patti, did you talk to Maggie? You know I have all the women in the office talk to her.”
“I know you do, and I did. She was useless.”
“I see. Well, can it wait?” In his present state, he’d probably give her a thirty percent salary increase just to be able to be in his car and on his way home within the next fifteen minutes.
“I don’t feel it can, no.”
“All right.” He stood up and began packing up his briefcase, hoping this would at least be moving them both in the right direction: out the door.
“There is someone in the office who is making it difficult for me to perform my job.”
“Do you mean Pokey?”
She made a face. “No, I mean difficult in that I find myself distracted as a result of our close working relationship.”
Gary snapped shut his briefcase and looked up at the woman. She was dressed in some awful polyester double knit skirt suit. A tall woman, she nonetheless looked like she was swimming in the bulky material, and Gary was struck by how warm she must be in it. “Let’s continue this in the elevator, shall we?” He nodded toward the door.
She picked up her briefcase at the foot of her chair.
“You know, Patti, these things happen all the time.” He knew he sounded idiotic. “But we’re expected to behave professionally in any case, you know? We need to transcend our feelings and get the job done. I mean, what would the industry be like if we all just behaved according to how we felt at the time? Like, if I hated a particular voice talent but he was the best one for the job, I’d be shooting myself in the foot, right?” I’m blathering, he thought as he jabbed his finger at the down arrow button on the elevator. “So, we all have to, you know, do things and work with people we don’t—”
“Why do you keep implying that I’m having trouble getting along with someone?” Patti’s brittle voice stabbed at the airspace between them with no air conditioner’s hum to buffer its abrasiveness. “I am attracted to someone in our office. I think they may be attracted to me too.”
“Well? What’s the problem?” Gary punched the down button again.
Stupid elevators! Has the building turned off the damn electricity or what?
“The problem, Gary, as I’m sure you know only too well, is that I’m in love with you.”
As Maggie drove down Peachtree Street toward her apartment, she leaned over her Macy’s department store purchases to reach for the letter again.
I think that I will see you in a little time. Did that mean he’s coming to Atlanta? Perhaps he was going to suggest she come back to Cannes? She tucked the letter into her handbag on the passenger seat. Why does he say and think of you? Is that just bad English, or is he some place special that’s made him think of me? She rubbed her eyes tiredly. It didn’t matter. He’d written her. Finally. He’d reached out.
And that was all that mattered.
She pulled into the back parking area of her building and looked up at the darkened structure. Smack in the middle of fashionable, trendy Buckhead, The Parthenon was a throwback to another era. A huge, looming edifice, it looked more like a castle than a honeycomb of modern apartment units. Somber and out of step with its surroundings, it had been an area landmark for over one hundred years. The Parthenon was that curious mix of something so wrong for its ecoclimate and cultural setting that it was perversely viewed as a resounding success.
She glanced up at her apartment window and was glad to see the living room light was on. That meant Elise was awake, she thought, and immediately was struck by the pleasant anticipation she realized she’d been feeling all day long. Elise hadn’t answered the apartment phone all afternoon, and Maggie realized how much she was looking forward to telling Elise about Laurent. Maggie couldn’t wait to tell Elise how mysterious and sweet and sensual Laurent was. From his heavy, expressive eyebrows to the subtle twitch of his full French lips.
Maggie unlocked the heavy back door to the building and shifted her parcels in her arms. She’d stopped for Chinese food on the way back and now the aroma of steamed dumplings and moo shu pork rose deliciously in the air. She hurried down the narrow carpeted hall to her apartment. As soon as she’d entered the building, she heard a rumbling hum of voices coming from the hallway.
Something was wrong.
Later, she would say it was the noise, the sounds of burping police walkie talkies, the velvet mumblings of a gathering crowd that stood on both sides of her apartment door attempting to peer past the lone policeman standing outside.
When she saw the policeman she found herself groping for the least painful option available to her. She had talked with Elise shortly after eleven this morning and then not again the rest of the day. If Elise had reconnected with Gerard, if she had somehow gotten more drugs, if she had…it was hard to think, impossible to imagine why the police would be in her apartment unless…
Before she could push her way to the front of the scrum of people, she saw the gurney begin to make its slow exit across her apartment threshold.
It wasn’t until the policeman snapped his head in her direction and the rubberneckers who surrounded her began to inch away that she realized she had screamed.
Maggie stumbled to the head of the crowd and felt the hands of the policeman come down hard and unrelenting on her arms. But all she could see was the black body bag on the gurney.
“Do you live in this apartment, Miss?”
Maggie still gripped the handles of her shopping bags as the gurney stopped in front of her. She nodded.
“Detective! This woman lives here.”
Maggie felt the policeman’s hands on her relax into a guiding pressure as she was pulled away from the gurney and into her apartment.
Two men not in uniforms stood in her living room. At least four other police officers were in the dining room. Maggie saw that a lamp had been knocked over and a candy dish lay upside down on the carpet. Aside from that, the living room was tidy, each cushion in its place, the smell of Chinese pancakes and plum sauce slowly beginning to mix with the scent of lavender pot
pourri on the coffee table.
This can’t be happening.
Maggie looked into the faces of the two detectives and she could see by their mouths that they were speaking to her, but the volume seemed to have gone down on her world. She staggered to the couch and sank onto it, her heart a heavy weight of emotion. She turned to stare blindly out the narrow French doors that led to the small stone balcony overlooking Peachtree Road. She could see the tips of the lone mimosa tree just outside her apartment, its stubborn, flamboyant blooms unfurled amongst a stand of the ubiquitous Georgia pine, a radiant reminder of nature’s individuality, its irony.
Her eyes, dry and wide, lowered to fall on the Macy’s bag at her feet—her sister’s triumphant homecoming gown. A pretty fuchsia dress with lace tatting at the collar that Elise could now, finally, be buried in.
8
Maggie sat in her living room, her hands folded in her lap. The small travel alarm clock she kept perched on a shelf in the living room bookcase blinked out the digitized time: 9:47. Brownie had shown up thirty minutes earlier.
Elise had been found strangled in the hallway outside Maggie’s apartment.
Maggie watched the older of the two detectives. He was big, like Laurent, a little stoop-shouldered, and she thought he had a kind face. The other one, in the kitchen talking to Brownie, just looked unhappy.
“Miss Newberry?” Chief Detective Jack Burton sat down in a tub chair facing her. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Maggie looked up and knew her eyes must look like two ragged red holes.
“Miss Newberry?”
“Yes?” She could hear the murmur of voices from the kitchen and wondered if they thought Brownie was a suspect.
“I need to ask you now while everything’s still fresh, and I know it’s hard.”
Even though it was well over an hour ago, Maggie could still hear the squeaking sound of the gurney as it began its heavy journey across the worn hall carpet to the front door. The coroner had finished his preliminary, on-site inspection. The rest of his invasions of Elise would be done in the privacy of a sterile laboratory.
“…what time, exactly, would that be?”
She shook her head, bringing her fist to her mouth.
“It’s all right, Miss Newberry. I know how hard this is. Take your time.”
“Could you...could you repeat the question?” she managed.
“The first time you called your sister. When was that?”
“Eleven, or so. Maybe a little earlier. I had a late morning meeting.” A million years ago, a late morning meeting where we all sat around laughing and joking.
“And she was home?”
“Yes.” Maggie looked up at the detective. “I assumed she was home the other times I called too. I figured she didn’t answer the phone because she was resting. She’d been sick.”
“You say she hadn’t been in town very long?”
“That’s right.”
“And she was staying with you until...?” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Until...” Maggie searched for an answer.
“Miss Newberry, the point of my question is to ascertain whether this was going to be a long visit or just a passing through visit.”
“She was back for good.” It occurred to Maggie that she didn’t know if that was true.
“And she flew here from France?” Again, the kind face, the gentle voice. Maggie noticed a slight tic in his lip as he spoke.
“That’s right.” Maggie’s eyes rested on the Macy’s shopping bag still at her feet. Oh, Elise, how could you be gone? We were going to be a family again. She looked into his eyes and found herself thinking: He’s seen this sort of thing a thousand times before. Seen someone, just like me, feel and act just like this. A thousand times over.
“When you came home tonight did you notice anything different or strange at any time? In the parking lot? Walking up to your door? Inside your apartment?”
Maggie shook her head as he spoke. “No. What am I going to tell my mother and father?”
Burton grimaced in an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Miss Newberry.”
Maggie smoothed her damp palms against the cotton fabric of her skirt.
“The coroner will give his report after the autopsy. There’ll be an inquest. Probably next week. Once all the evidence is in.”
“Can you please…tell me what happened?”
Burton sighed as if he’d prefer not to and then relented.
“Neighbors reported hearing raised voices in the hallway at roughly lunchtime.” He shrugged. “It appears she…your sister…answered the door and engaged in the altercation.”
Maggie looked at him, bewildered. Was he saying Elise answered the door and was then strangled on the doorstep?
Burton signaled to his partner to check on Brownie in the back room. “I’m afraid we’ll need to ask you to vacate your apartment for the next three or four days while we take fiber and hair samples.”
Maggie turned away from him. She needed to cry very hard for a very long time.
An hour later, sitting in Brownie’s car as they drove along the immaculate, sycamore-lined road to her parents’ home, Maggie held Brownie’s free hand, her lips pressed together in a grim line. She tried to tell herself that for her parents to have seen Elise in the state she had been in would have been tantamount to a visitation of the horror tale The Monkey’s Paw, where a grief-stricken mother wished her recently dead son back with her again and got her wish only to have something monstrous return to her from the grave.
That would have been Elise, Maggie told herself. With her ruined face and arms, pocked by blunt, used needles, her clothes and skin smelling of sweat and urine, her hair a matted mess of gnarly dreadlocks.
Maggie’s vision blurred as she watched the passing neighborhoods, where houses went for nothing less than four million. Mostly a lot more. The top tier of Atlanta real estate.
Her throat closed, because she knew that even if Elise had been presented to them mad as a hatter, screaming and naked, filthy and profane, her parents still would have wept tears of joy to have her back.
She looked at Brownie and tried to take strength from his solid grip on her hand. Tried to tap into his stoic front, his resiliency. And all she could think as he drove her closer and closer to her mother and father was: if by some miracle, some fantastic cosmic piece of magic, you got the chance to have five minutes with a departed loved one, just five minutes to say I love you, I miss you...
And Maggie knew she had cheated them out of that forever.
Darla Parker picked up the teapot, with its imprint of faded roses, and held it over her husband’s teacup. Her eyes watched him, not her aim, as he sat, face buried in the newspaper. She spilled hot tea onto his sleeve.
“Damn it, Darla!” Gary snatched his soiled cuff away. “What is your problem this morning?”
Darla replaced the teapot and sighed. She folded her hands in her lap.
“First you practically kill me with that stupid whatever it is you left on the stairs—”
“Vacuum cleaner.”
“Look, Darla, don’t start with me today, okay? I’ve got this one day in the week to relax and forget the office and I don’t mean to spend it at war with you.” Gary flapped the newspaper out and returned to the article he was reading.
Darla took a small sip from her own cup and then cleared her throat. Gary threw the newspaper onto the table and covered his face with his hands.
“God, am I having a nervous breakdown, or what?” His voice sounded strained.
“Quit your job, sweetheart.”
He groaned. “Who am I gonna quit to? Myself? I’m the boss, remember?”
“It’s making you miserable, Gary. It’s bad for all of us. I can see it even if you can’t. Quit the job.”
“Stop saying that!” Gary stood, picked up the newspaper then slapped it back down on the breakfast table. “I can’t quit the job! Why not just say move to Alaska? Or get a lo
botomy? Or become a priest? I can’t! I can’t do it! God! Can nobody hear me?” He was turning to leave the room when the kitchen phone rang. Enjoying the dramatic punctuation of its timing, he snatched it up and barked, “Yes?”
Darla slowly got up from the table and began to clear the dishes.
“Hey, Maggie, what’s up? Everything okay?” He turned to catch a glimpse of Darla, but she stood at the sink with her back to him, rinsing cereal bowls and listening.
Gary heard Maggie’s voice catch and he stiffened. God, now what? “What’s happened?”
Darla turned to face him.
“Good God!”
“Gary, what is it?” Darla was at his side now, tugging on his sleeve. “What’s happened? Is she okay?”
“Her sister was killed last night in her apartment building.”
“Oh, my God.” Darla’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She studied Gary’s shocked face, as if she might somehow be able to hear the story just by watching his face.
“Maggie, how?” Gary asked, his voice tense. Darla could hear the kitchen clock ticking as Gary listened and Darla waited. “That’s terrible. She let him in? God, your poor parents. How are they?”
Darla watched her husband frown as he listened.
“Stop it, Maggie. It doesn’t do anybody any good beating yourself up for it. Do you want some company? Do you want me and Darla to come by?”
Darla nodded vigorously at him.
“Okay, well, you know we’re here if you need us. I’m so sorry, Maggie. So sorry for you and your parents.” He returned the receiver to its cradle and stood staring out the breakfast room’s large bay window. From it he could see their eight-year old daughter, Haley, playing with some neighbor children.
“Oh, Gary. Poor Maggie. How awful.”
Gary tore his gaze away from his daughter and looked at his wife. “Maybe you were right, Darla. Maybe this job isn’t such a good thing.”
Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 8