by Carly Winter
“I mentioned him as well,” I said. Although, I hadn’t remembered his name, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise.
“And the demonstrators outside… they became so violent! If one of them knew Charles was a veteran, they could have taken advantage of the chaos and slipped in the building, killed him, and left without being seen.”
I nodded and drank my wine. Apparently, Mrs. Wilson and I thought very much alike. “I also mentioned Charles’ girlfriend, Karen,” I said.
“Really? Why?”
“They were asking about who I saw coming and going from the apartment,” I replied with a shrug. “I just gave them the names of people I knew.”
“I did the same, Patty.”
“So, who do you think did it?” Donna asked, setting down her glass and rubbing her hands together.
Mrs. Wilson smiled and took a sip of her wine. “Well, I don’t like to gossip, dear, especially not about the dead. It brings bad luck.”
“It’s not gossip,” Donna said. “It’s… it’s conjecture. An educated guess based on what you know about Charles and the people in his life.”
“I couldn’t. It’s disrespectful.” Mrs. Wilson shook her head.
“We won’t say anything,” I interjected. “Like you, we live alone, and frankly, I’m a bit rattled that our neighbor has been killed. I just want to know who you think I should avoid if I see them.”
“Yes,” Donna said. “We don’t want to find ourselves in a dangerous situation. So please… who do you think killed Charles?”
Chapter 7
Mrs. Wilson stared at us over the rim of her glass while she sipped her wine. “Oh, heck. How can I resist such two beautiful girls? You know, when you sit next to each other like that, you remind me of salt and pepper shakers.”
Donna and I exchanged glances, and I realized Mrs. Wilson was speaking of our hair. With mine being black and Donna's being light blonde, I understood the comment.
“Tell us!” Donna squealed.
“Okay, but I'm trusting you girls not to mention my thoughts to anyone else. Do you understand?”
We both nodded obediently. My heart raced as I waited for her to give her opinion.
“I believe it was his wife,” she said quietly.
“His wife?” Donna asked, obviously disappointed. “Really?”
“Yes. She's an absolute shrew.”
“Tell us about her,” Donna said.
“Well, she and Charles moved in right after my husband died. That was three years ago, bless his soul. Anyway, after they were settled, I went over to introduce myself. Charles had just been discharged and was kind to me, but I could tell he wasn't comfortable in his own skin. He was jittery, as though he perpetually drank too much coffee. That's the only way I can explain it, but it was much more than that. Something much deeper in his soul besides caffeine. It was never said to me, but I do believe he was having trouble assimilating back into regular society. I imagine coming from the jungles into an apartment wouldn't be easy.”
Donna and I nodded in agreement. I listened intently as Mrs. Wilson continued.
“Claudia seemed pleasant enough in the beginning. A tall girl with a blonde bob and a nice disposition. She was always smiling, always had a kind word to say. I'm sure Charles' issues didn't make life easy for her.”
“His friend, Wayne, said that Charles suffered from nightmares,” I said.
“When did you see Wayne?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Earlier today.”
Mrs. Wilson lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “He's a nice man, but you know he's a marijuana dealer, don't you?”
“Yes. He told me that and also said the drug helped Charles with his sleeping issues.”
“Well, it didn’t work very well if you ask me,” Mrs. Wilson said. “It scared me to death, but I never said anything. I'd just lie in bed and pity the poor fellow. He sounded as if his soul was being ripped from his body.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Donna asked.
“What good would it do, dear?” Mrs. Wilson replied with a shrug. “He’d simply be embarrassed, and he couldn’t control it.”
We all sipped our wine, almost as if we were having a moment of silence for Charles and the demons that haunted him.
“Anyway, the man suffered and Claudia became... different. I heard her yell at him many times.”
“About the screaming at night?” Donna asked.
“No. Other things. She called him lazy. Told him he was good for nothing. Maybe a year and a half after they moved in, she told him she was tired of working two jobs and supporting him. That he needed to find work.”
“Well, that's understandable,” Donna said. “I'd be upset too if my husband sat on the couch all day while I worked.”
“I never asked, but I don't think he could hold down a job,” Mrs. Wilson said, tapping her head with her pointer finger. “He wasn't right up here.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Oh, my goodness. One day, maybe a year ago, they had a huge fight that went on for what felt like hours. I heard glass breaking, things being smashed in the apartment. Frankly, I came close to calling the police.”
“Why didn't you?” Donna asked.
“Well, I probably should have. All I heard was Claudia, though. Charles was a man and could certainly protect himself from her. I felt it was best to ignore the whole horrible episode.”
I tried to imagine calm, friendly Charles in such a relationship, but it was difficult. Love definitely appeared to do strange things to a person for him to put up with such barbaric behavior from his wife.
“After that, I didn't see Claudia,” Mrs. Wilson continued. “A few days after the incident, Charles apologized profusely for her outburst and said it wouldn't be an issue any longer as Claudia had left him.”
“That's really a sad tale,” I murmured. Perhaps it was the wine, but I found the whole scenario absolutely heartbreaking.
“Yes, well, Claudia filed for divorce a few months later. Right around the time you girls moved in, if I remember correctly.”
“The police said they found the unsigned divorce papers,” I said. “I had no idea he was even married.”
“I don't know this as fact, but it appeared to me Charles didn't want a divorce,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I think he hoped Claudia would one day come back.”
“What about his girlfriend?” Donna asked. “Karen?”
Mrs. Wilson shrugged. “Perhaps someone to warm his bed? I don't know, dear.”
“I don't understand,” Donna said. “What does a bad breakup have to do with Charles dying? Why do you think Claudia killed him?”
“Well, Charles' grandfather died a few months ago and left him quite a bit of money. Charles actually brought me flowers after he'd been notified, and he said he'd never have to work again. He also offered to take me out to dinner, but we never got around to it. The man had his issues, but overall, he had a good heart.”
“And what about Claudia?” I asked. “Did Charles tell her about the inheritance?”
“I'm not sure, but I wouldn't doubt it. If so... well, you understand why I think she killed him.”
The pieces of the puzzle slowly started coming together. Charles had come into money but hadn't signed the divorce papers for whatever reason. It didn't matter. He wasn't divorced when he died. Most likely, Claudia was the beneficiary of any estate Charles had. If there hadn't been a will, then most certainly by law.
“Do you know how much he received from his grandfather?” I asked.
Mrs. Wilson shook her head. “I don't. He said he'd never have to work again and he wanted to thank me for being such a good neighbor.”
“He never brought us flowers,” Donna said with a huff. “Were we not good neighbors?”
“Charles had a much longer history with Mrs. Wilson than he did with us,” I said. “If he didn't like us, he never would have watched Ringo.”
“Oh, he loved your kitty so much!” Mrs. Wilso
n said. “He adored that cat and appreciated you girls allowing him to watch him while you were on your travels. Don't think he didn't value your friendship.”
Donna rolled her eyes, obviously wishing she had flowers instead.
“So tell me, where have you girls been off to?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “Anywhere exciting?”
“Not for me,” I replied. “Before I was hurt, I went to New Mexico and then onto Dallas, where it poured rain. But Donna just got back from Paris.”
“Oh, my word!” Mrs. Wilson exclaimed, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “How thrilling! Tell me everything!”
As Donna spilled the details on her short, but utterly fantastic trip, Mrs. Wilson sat in rapt attention while my mind wandered.
It sure seemed Claudia had a good reason to kill Charles, especially if he had enough money where he'd never have to work again.
But as I recalled the brutality of the crime scene, I wondered if a woman would be capable of such atrocities. Not only mentally, but physically as well. Could Claudia be strong enough to overpower Charles and lodge a knife in his stomach?
Or maybe she didn't have to subdue him with physical strength. Perhaps she'd romanced him with promises of getting back together in order to lower his defenses, and when she got close enough... BAM. Knife into the stomach of the man she had proclaimed she loved.
So very deceptive and cold, but definitely a possibility.
Personally, I couldn't imagine committing such a crime.
“What did Claudia do for work, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked, interrupting their conversation.
“Jeez, Patty,” Donna said. “Way to ruin my story. I was about to tell her about my kiss at the Eiffel Tower.”
“I'm sorry. I was just thinking about Claudia. I know she left Charles, but do you really think she disliked him enough to kill him?”
“Well, after the fight I heard, I'd have to say yes,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Now, I'd like to hear about this kiss. How romantic!”
That night, I allowed Donna to sleep on the bed and I took the couch. There were two reasons: first, my foot felt much better propped up on the arm of the comfortable sofa. Second, she had a flight to catch and would need to use the shower before dawn. While she got ready, I hoped to keep sleeping.
My wishes were quickly dashed the next morning when I heard her moaning and groaning about a headache. Mrs. Wilson, Donna and I had finished off the bottle Donna had brought over. After coming home, she’d also drunk the one she and I had opened earlier in the day.
“I'm never drinking again,” she said as she stumbled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. “I'm sorry to wake you, but I need coffee.”
“No worries. I was up.” And I also knew she'd be partying once she arrived at her final flight destination.
She rummaged around the cabinets until she found the aspirin, then downed the pills with a gulp of coffee. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
I sat up as she brought me a cup. “Where are you off to today?”
“To Boston, and on to Florida. I'll be gone a couple of days.”
“I'll probably miss you,” I said. “I'm hoping to be back at work by then.”
We sat in silence as we drank our coffee and the sun rose, casting shadows in the kitchen. Raindrops began to hit the window, and Donna sighed. “I hope my hair doesn't frizz.”
“I'm sure it'll be fine once you get in the air.” Before then, I wasn't so sure because she did have a bit of natural curl in the blonde locks, and they did tend to kink in the San Francisco rain. Which meant she had the frizzies quite a bit.
“Ugh. I better get moving and finish packing,” Donna said, checking the clock. “Could you please call me a cab?”
I gave her a thumbs up and when she walked back into the bedroom, I reached for the phone to make the call for her.
“Ten minutes!” I yelled when I hung up.
“Thanks!”
My thoughts had turned to the murder numerous times throughout the night, and I just didn't believe a woman could kill a man like that. Possibly, if pushed hard enough, women were capable of committing murder. But a knife in the stomach? It seemed so... barbaric to me.
But who had killed before and probably had experience with hand-to-hand combat? Wayne. If Charles owed him money and he'd been a little out of his mind from smoking marijuana, perhaps he'd used the skills he'd learned while serving in Vietnam.
It was something to consider.
“Okie-dokie!” Donna said as she emerged from the bedroom carrying a small suitcase. Her navy-blue uniform hugged all her curves. “Are the bags under my eyes too bad?”
I lied and shook my head. Whoever did the stew inspections would let her know the truth. “You look great. Have a fun flight.”
“Always!” she sang as she sashayed out the door.
Standing, I put a little weight on my foot and was thrilled when I didn't have the shooting pain, but I grabbed my crutches anyway. No sense in overdoing it. I poured myself some more coffee, then sat down and watched The Morning News with Mike Wallace. When the show ended, I wished I'd never turned it on. The state of affairs was depressing.
With a sigh, I decided what to do with my day. Maybe read a book? Perhaps I could convince Mrs. Wilson to play some cards.
Promptly at nine, a knock sounded on my door. I teetered over to the door on my crutches.
The tapping came again. “Just a minute, please!” I yelled, then muttered, “so impatient.”
I opened the door and my breath caught in my throat. The man grinned as I brought my hand to my mouth. It took a second
d for me to put a name with the handsome face, but then I blurted, “Mr. Coffee?”
Chapter 8
His smiled faded as his brow pinched in confusion. “I'm sorry?”
Dang it! He'd told me his name on the plane when he'd looked at my ankle, and of course, I couldn't recall it. “You're the person who helped me up when I tripped over that man’s foot on the plane,” I said. “You drank a lot of coffee.”
His face lit up in recognition. “Of course. I thought I recognized you. Patty was your name.”
“Yes!”
Once we'd recovered from the shock of the coincidence, I wondered why in the world Mr. Coffee was standing in the hallway outside my apartment. Running a hand over my hair, I wish I had been better prepared for his visit. I hadn't even brushed my teeth.
“You're Patricia Byrne?” he asked.
I noted he carried a green file folder. “Y-yes. What can I do to help you?”
What was his name? All I remembered was Mr. Coffee.
“Well, my name's Bill Hart,” he said, pulling a badge from his jacket pocket.” I'm a special agent with the FBI.”
I stared at him a moment, wobbling on my crutches, almost falling to the floor. The FBI? What was the FBI doing darkening my doorstep?
“You look a little pale,” Mr. Coffee said. “Are you okay?”
As I struggled to remember his name—darn it! He’d just told me!—I nodded absently, not feeling okay in the least bit. “What... why... why are you here?”
Did it have something to do with the airlines? The FBI dealt in national affairs, right? Had I done something illegal? I tried to think of my more recent flights, and nothing stuck out to me.
“May I come in, Ms. Byrne?”
I glanced from his badge back to him, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. “What's this about?”
“Your neighbor's death. Unfortunately, I have to ask you a few questions since you were the one who found him.”
My shoulders slumped in relief that it wasn't me in his crosshairs, but then guilt washed through me. I shouldn't be pleased about Charles' death. “Yes. I suppose so. Please, come in.”
I shut the door behind him and motioned for him to sit on the couch, but I realized my blankets and pillow still littered the cushions. “I'm sorry about that,” I said, trying to hustle over and remove them. As I leaned over to
grab the blanket, my crutch fell and I almost lost my balance. Mr. Coffee grabbed my elbow and righted me. “It's fine,” he said. “I can take care of this myself. Please, take a seat.”
After hopping over to a chair, I fell onto the cushion. Instead of pushing the blankets aside, he folded them neatly and stacked them on top of one of the pillows, then set the other in front of me on the coffee table. “I don't want to tell you what to do, but you may be more comfortable with your foot elevated.”
“Thank you,” I said, setting my leg on the pillow. “I appreciate your help.” Then, realizing my manners, I asked, “Would you like some hot tea? Maybe a coffee?”
“No thanks,” he said, taking a seat. “Hot tea is… well, I can’t say what I think of it in mixed company. I’m not a tea drinker.”
“I can make coffee if you like.”
“Really, I’m fine. Thank you.” He opened his file folder. “As I said, I'm with the FBI and we're investigating your neighbor, Charles Bernard.”
“Why is the FBI involved?”
“We believe it may be tied to a national investigation.”
Interesting. “What national investigation?”
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“Why is that?”
I probably shouldn't be questioning the FBI on why they could or couldn't divulge certain information, but my curiosity had definitely been piqued.
“Well, it's... it's a matter of security.”
“National security?” I asked, my mouth agape. “I find it hard to believe that Charles Bernard had anything to do with a breach of national security!”
“And why is that?”
I was about to say because my life was so boring, I simply couldn't have a neighbor that the FBI had interest in. “I... I don't know. He just seemed so... normal.”
But I realized my mistake there as well. Charles had been anything but normal. A married vet without a job who had come into money and who had a girlfriend and loved to babysit my cat? No, normal did not describe Charles at all. Perhaps chaotic would be a better word.