Murder as a Second Language

by Joan Hess

  He frowned. “Whistler, right? I have no clue. Keep in mind that Babcia almost always spoke to me in Polish. My father was a biochemist and moved here for a postgrad degree. My mother was American. I was born in Philadelphia and studied French in high school. Since I know about ten words in Polish, Babcia and I did not communicate well. Yeah, I saw her shouting at him when I picked her up in the late afternoon. She sputtered and cursed all the way home.”

  “Did she have any friends?”

  Bartek thought for a minute. “There was one old guy at the senior citizens center who spoke some Polish. I don’t know his name. Sometimes they would be playing dominoes when I arrived. White hair, cane, thick glasses with black rims. I had visions of them shacked up in a nursing home, terrorizing the staff, hording denture cream, and copulating like crazy.”

  I willed myself not to share his vision. “Maybe Ludmila confided in him.”

  “Maybe.”

  I was about to ask him about the previous evening when the doorbell rang. Bartek nodded at me, then went inside. I heard voices as he admitted visitors—female voices. I was relieved. It might have been uncomfortable if Peter had come by and discovered me drinking Bartek’s iced tea on the deck. He would not have been diverted by the coq au vin on the kitchen counter. I stood up as Bartek escorted two women out to the deck. He introduced them as a colleague and his secretary. Each was bearing a covered dish, although I assumed the dishes were more likely to be commonplace casseroles than haute cuisine. The doorbell rang again. I patted Bartek on the arm before I slipped through the arriving visitors and made it to my car. I noticed that the majority of them were women. With Babcia out of the picture, Bartek might have become the most eligible man in the department.

  I dutifully picked up a bucket of fried chicken on my way home. Caron and Inez were in the pool, conversing in low voices. I announced my arrival, changed into a caftan, and took the newspaper out to my chaise longue. I was sighing over the sorry state of the country when the girls joined me.

  “Well?” demanded Caron. “What happened?”

  I told them the basic story. “You two are in the clear unless you snuck into the Literacy Council to search the files for lesson plans. The board of directors met and adjourned, but I didn’t see any of them leave the building. Students and tutors were in cubicles. There was a class in session and activity in the lounge. Fifty people could have been there, for all I know.”

  Inez regarded me with the solemnity of an owlet. “So somebody stayed behind after the closing time.”

  “Or came in a few minutes later,” I said.

  Caron gasped. “You mean Toby Whitbream? Why would he murder some old Polish lady? He wouldn’t have paid any attention if she was screaming at him in Polish. I didn’t—not that she screamed at me. She tended to get sort of excited when I didn’t understand her English. A couple of times her face turned so red that I waited for her head to explode. Like I wanted to be covered in blood and brains.”

  “Perhaps Toby isn’t as patient as you,” I said evenly.

  My daughter deigned to overlook my jibe. “She criticized the way he vacuumed, so he waited until she went into the copy room to steal an umbrella from the lost and found, then tackled her. Gee, I wonder why Peter hasn’t figured it out by now. Shall I call him?”

  “It wasn’t raining,” Inez volunteered.

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said, “and it was obvious that Toby didn’t consider the copy room to be part of his nightly routine. The only thing in there that isn’t covered with dust is the copy machine.”

  “Everybody uses it,” Inez said. “Not the students, but the tutors, Leslie, and Keiko are in there all the time. I made copies of some recipes because Graciela loves to cook. Aladino is reading a Hardy Boys book. I make an enlarged copy of each page so he can make notes. I’m sure Caron does that sort of thing, too.”

  “Yeah, all the time,” Caron said. “But there’s no reason to suspect Toby of anything. He’s the starting quarterback this fall. He made some All-American high school football players list last year. Ashley heard that college scouts will be at our games. Is that not cool?”

  “Very cool.” I picked up the newspaper, and the girls went upstairs to Caron’s room. After a while, I began to feel hungry. I set out food and called the girls. Since they had no plans (Joel was visiting his grandmother), we carried our plates into the living room and wept companionably through an old movie.

  * * *

  “At least I don’t have to tutor today,” Caron said as she joined me on the terrace the next morning. “Plus I’m down to three students unless Leslie sticks me with somebody else. Nobody can be more of a pain in the butt than Ludmila. I know I shouldn’t talk about her like that, but every minute with her was like tiptoeing on lava. Well, not every minute. Once she was nice.”

  “She was?”

  “I think, and I might have been wrong, that it was somebody’s birthday. She had some photos of a kid in a silly hat, blowing out two candles. The photos were really old and faded. The same kid with a stuffed animal, another with him asleep in an old lady’s arms. I asked Ludmila if these were of her grandson, but she said no. What she really said was nie, but I figured it out. Just think, my first Polish word. I picked up some other ones, but they’re apt to be obscenities. I guess I could get away with them as long as I don’t run into any Poles. ‘Rhonda, you are a gwizdek!’”

  “What’s the fun in that if she doesn’t know what you’re calling her? She might think it’s Polish for ‘gorgeous model.’ Let’s go back to these photographs. Could the old lady have been Ludmila?”

  “If she’d shrunk six inches and lost a hundred pounds since the photo was taken. Oh, and had a mole on her chin removed—and rhinoplasty. No, Mother, it was somebody else. Ludmila got all teary, though. She started crooning to the picture of the baby. It was creepy.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said. “Do you remember anything else she said?”

  Caron looked at me. “It was in Polish. How much would you remember?”

  “Not much,” I said with a sigh. “Is Inez still asleep?”

  “She left an hour ago. She has an appointment with an optometrist to get contacts. I didn’t know contacts could be half an inch thick. It’s really annoying. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us, and she’ll be tied up all morning. I guess I’ll text Carrie and Ashley.” She trudged inside on her way to the dungeon on the second floor, doomed to several hours of potential solitude.

  I pondered her story about Ludmila and the photos of a young child. Bartek had told me he was her only living relative. From Caron’s description of Ludmila’s behavior, it seemed likely that the small child had not thrived. It might not be relevant, I thought as I sipped coffee. I doubted that Peter, who’d come home at midnight and departed seven hours later, would have given the photos a second glance. He had witnesses and evidence from the crime scene, as well as the ability to run background checks. I had an anonymous old man who spoke some Polish. For lack of anything more promising, I concluded it was time to track down Ludmila’s only friend.

  The senior citizens center was housed in a stark concrete-block building painted beige. Armed with a description that probably fit ninety percent of the male patrons, I charged ahead. The large, open room was dotted with card tables and chairs. Sofas and easy chairs were arranged in front of a TV set. A dozen people were yelling at a game show contestant who was floundering. Their language was colorful. In another corner, a tense game of bingo was in progress. There were a couple of checkers games being waged, and a bridge game in one corner. It was a busy place.

  I went into the office by the door. The woman seated at a desk looked up and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for an elderly gentleman with white hair, glasses, and a cane,” I said. “I don’t know his name, but he speaks Polish.”

  “Why?”

  I’d been hoping for a warmer reception. “A friend of his passed away yesterday. I thought he would want to kno
w.”

  She made a vague gesture with her hand. “If you knew his name, I could check the list to see if he’s here today. In case you didn’t notice, there are at least a dozen men with glasses and canes. I’ve never heard any Polish spoken here.”

  “I know he was using this facility a year ago. I’m hoping he’s still around.”

  “You mean alive?” she said, her eyebrows raised.

  I’d kept that possibility buried in the back of my mind. “Yes, I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “Even if I knew the man, I wouldn’t give you his name. We protect the privacy of our patrons. However, I’ve only worked here for three months, and we don’t keep files on who comes on a regular basis.” She picked up a pen and looked at me. “Now I really must work on these invoices. It’s clear that we’re being overcharged for fresh produce, and I need to get to the bottom of it before we put in next week’s order.”

  I had been dismissed. I returned to the main room and assessed my chances of finding someone more helpful than the woman in the office. The TV viewers were infuriated at the game show contestant; their children would have been appalled at their language. Those playing checkers and bridge were stony-faced. I ambled over to the bingo tables and sat down next to a woman in a bright orange dress, matching hair, dangly earrings, and a half-dozen bracelets on each arm. She had four bingo cards in front of her and a tubular object in her hand.

  “Shit!” she said as the caller announced an apparently ineffectual number. “You’d think there’s a ball with B-twelve on it, but it must be buried at the bottom. Look at this—I can make two bingos with one lousy B-twelve. But no, it’s B-eleven and B-thirteen and B-three.” The caller announced another number, and the woman smacked two of her cards with what I realized was a stamper.

  A birdlike woman at the next table shouted, “Bingo! I win, I win!”

  My newfound best friend put down her weapon. “Now we wait for a ten-minute bathroom break. My name’s Shirley. You’re a little young to be hanging around here, aren’t you?”

  I introduced myself. “I’m trying to find someone who was here last year. The woman in the office wasn’t any help.”

  “Her name is Mrs. Bell,” Shirley said, “but we call her Bela Lugosi. She gets a constipated look on her face if someone dares to ask her the time. She’s lasted longer than we expected. I lost ten bucks when she made it to six weeks. In another week, she’ll have been here three months. Old Carlyle is going to win because he’s a damn fool.”

  “What about Mrs. Bell’s predecessor?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “Do you happen to know who the director was a year ago?”

  Shirley laughed. “Good Lord, no. They come and go, rarely speaking of Michelangelo. Sorry, I was a high school English teacher before I retired. I’ve been coming here on and off for five or six years, but only for the bingo tournaments. We all buy our cards, and the money goes to the winners. Last week I won fifty bucks.”

  I hoped no one on the vice squad retired soon. “Do you recall a short Polish woman named Ludmila? She did not play well with others and was told not to come back.”

  “I encountered her once, and that was once too often. What a bitch.” She looked at the patrons milling around the bingo tables. “Simon! Haul your sorry ass over here. This woman needs information.”

  Simon was lanky and frail, but he moved quickly. “Shirley, still your charming self. If you meet me in the broom closet for a quickie, I’ll give you a dollar. Now if this lady”—he pointed at me—“is willing, I’ll give her ten. She’s a hottie.”

  “Hush, you old goat. Do you remember a Polish woman named Ludmila who was here a while back? She got expelled for bad behavior.”

  Simon sat down with us. “I do. I accidentally brushed up against her butt, and I thought she was gonna rip off my ears. I hid in the men’s room for over an hour, till Farley came in and told me she was gone. I stayed another half hour on account of Farley being such a liar. And don’t ever play checkers with him. Every time I glance away, two or three of his men have hopped across the board like big round fleas.”

  “I was told that Ludmila had a friend here,” I said before we delved further into Farley’s devilish deeds. “A man with glasses, white hair, and a cane. They played dominoes together.”

  Shirley whacked Simon on the arm. “Don’t go whining that you don’t remember. You don’t have any problems remembering every last nickel you won from me playing cribbage.”

  “Let me think about it, okay?” Simon hobbled toward the men’s room.

  “Old goat,” Shirley said with a sniff. “Why are you so all-fired interested in this Ludmila woman? Instead of finding her, you’d be better off hiding from her.”

  “She died Monday night,” I said, “and I’d like to break the news to her friend. Her only friend. I feel sorry for her, in a way. Her old friends in Poland all died, so she moved to Farberville to live with her grandson. He couldn’t stand her, either. Her anger must have come from a painful sense of isolation and loneliness.”

  “That’s all very touching, but she didn’t smack you on the rear end with an umbrella. She bawled me out for blocking the door. I wasn’t anywhere near the door. She was damn lucky I restrained myself.” She curled one arm behind her head and jabbed the stamp at me. “I took fencing in college.”

  Simon rejoined us. “Yeah, I recollect the man. Name was Duke, Duke Kovac, but he wasn’t Polish. One of those other Slavic countries or Russia. He was about the only person she didn’t try to bully. Maybe that’s why he put up with her. God only knows what they talked about, the two of them. He was a regular guy, friendly, helluva poker player.”

  My tummy tightened as he continued to speak of good old Duke in the past tense. I moistened my lips and said, “Is he still alive?”

  “Far as I know,” Simon said. “Not long ago he upped and married a waitress with some ridiculous name like Bunny or Fluffy. Haven’t seen him since, but I got a Christmas card last year. He enclosed a photo of the two of them on a ski slope. His face was redder than a candy apple.”

  I dearly hoped Duke’s health had not deteriorated over the last several months. I squeezed Shirley’s hand, then leaned over and kissed Simon on the cheek. My superior reflexes saved me from his unexpected lunge for my bosom. Shirley was scolding him as I left the senior citizens center with a grin on my face. I had a name. What’s more, I had no reason to share it with Peter. He would merely look at me if I proposed he investigate the cause of Ludmila’s anger. Fingerprints and hair follicles were tangible clues; emotions were irrelevant. I would receive nary a word of praise for my diligence.

  On to the next step, which was hunting down Duke Kovac and his wife. I drove by the Literacy Council, still barricaded with yellow tape. The lights were on inside, and I could see movement in Keiko’s office. One of the cars was an official police vehicle, the other nondescript. Detectives used their own cars. I weighed my chances of being permitted inside and decided the odds were very, very poor. I continued on to the Book Depot, waved at Jacob as I went to my office, and pulled out the telephone directory. Caron had scoffed when I’d used one in the past, pointing out the information was readily available online. I preferred my reading material to involve paper and ink.

  I found a listing for Dusan Kovac, clearly my man (since there were no other Kovacs in the directory). The address was on the mountain flanking the east side of town, where the swankier houses were nestled among vast lawns and flowering trees. Duke must have done well for himself, I thought as I copied down the address. I wasn’t quite sure which winding lane I wanted, so I went into the front of the store. Jacob watched me from behind a thick tome.

  “Will you please pull up a map online that shows this address?” I asked.

  “I would prefer not to.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, struggling to control my temper. Jacob had pulled that nonsense on me in the past, and it was getting stale. “I have no interest in what you w
ould or would not prefer to do,” I said carefully. “I can promise you that if you ever say that phrase again, there will be an ad in the classifieds seeking a new clerk. I’m not kidding, Jacob. I am trying to assist the police by locating a potential witness, and I’m not in the mood to play games.” I stared at him until he blinked.

  “What’s the address?” He moved in front of the computer.

  I read it aloud, and he clicked on this and that for a brief moment. “Here,” he said, “the blinking dot.”

  It would have been rude to chortle at the defeat in his voice. I came around the counter, traced the streets that led up the mountainside, and determined the quickest route. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Anytime, Ms. Malloy,” he said in utter despondency, as if he’d betrayed every member of his family from great-grandmother to newborn nephew. I probably should have lingered to console him, but I was on a mission and dared not break my momentum. It had taken less than an hour to acquire Duke’s name, and a fraction of that for his address.

  I maneuvered through the streets and headed for the mountain. The roads curled this way and that, but there was no traffic. The husbands were at their offices, and their wives at their health clubs. The children who were not at camps were scattered across town for their swimming lessons, music lessons, golf lessons, tennis lessons, and any other lessons their mothers could find to keep them occupied elsewhere. After a couple of spontaneous explorations that led to cul-de-sacs, I found Duke’s house on top of the mountain.

  It was far from modest. I noticed a double garage with a smaller garage beside it. I envisioned a golf cart careening across the immense yard, swerving around the trees and brick-lined flower beds. I parked in the empty driveway and went to the porch. Fingers crossed, I rang the doorbell. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth reverberated inside. I waited a moment and pushed the doorbell again and was treated to the same sonorous melody.