“Dora Lee,” says Manning, pulling out his notebook and uncapping his pen, “may I ask how long you’ve lived here?”
She screws her face in thought. “’Bout a year.”
“Is there a Mr. Fields?”
“Pfff,” she dismisses the memory with a jerk of her head. “Dead. Long dead. Packed my bags and moved north from Memphis. Not sure why—bored, I guess.”
“So you live here alone?”
She beads him with a get-real stare that asks, Do you see anyone else?
Manning grins, jotting something in his notes. He asks, “Were you and Cliff Nolan … friendly?”
She smirks. “Let’s just say we traveled in different circles.”
Manning crosses his legs at the knee and leans forward in thought, searching for his next question. “Did you think of him as a good neighbor?”
“Hell no!” Her coy manner has evaporated. Her eyes are fierce. She’s ready to unload something. “Snotty little tea-drinker didn’t give a shit for his neighbors. All that damn music at all hours—canons and gongs, all that yelpin’ they call singin’—I warned him more than once!” She needs a smoke now and fidgets in her pockets for cigarettes and lighter. But the pack is empty, so she scrunches it in her hand and hurls it to the floor.
Manning and David eye each other, unprepared for the outburst, trying not to laugh. Then she stamps to the table between them and yanks open a drawer. She snatches out a fresh pack of Camels and zips open the cellophane. As Manning glances down at the clutter within the drawer, she slams it shut.
Fuming, Dora Lee lights a cigarette, draws a long drag from it, and paces across the room. When she turns back, smoke shoots from her nose as she tells them, “He always played that highbrow music way too loud, and it was even louder than usual that night.” She throws up her arms in exasperation. “I’m glad he’s dead! I coulda killed him myself!”
Manning’s brows instinctively rise. Seeing this, she stammers, “I … prob’ly shouldn’t say that, Mark.” She snorts. “I mean, just wanted to have a little peace and quiet. I was mad enough to kill the little weasel, but of course I didn’t.”
He lets it pass. Rising from the chair, he turns a page of his notebook and says to her, “When I was in the hall last night, I noticed that you opened your door to see who was out there. Do you try to keep an eye on things up here?”
Happy to shift the discussion away from the murder, she tells him, “A woman’s got to look out for herself. Can’t be too careful these days.”
“That’s true,” Manning mumbles, “so true.” He takes a step closer to her. “I’m wondering, Dora Lee, if perhaps you noticed anyone in the hall on the night Cliff was killed. Did you see anyone enter his apartment?”
She takes a puff. “Sure did.”
David, sensing pay dirt, pulls out his pad to take a few notes of his own as Manning continues, “Do you know who it was?”
“Never saw him before. Sort of tall—well, taller than Clifford, but that ain’t sayin’ much. Only saw him from behind, never got a look at the face.”
Now Manning is pacing. “That’s not much to go on. Did you hear what he sounded like? Can you remember any conversation?”
“Over that ‘music’—you nuts?”
Manning stops pacing and turns to her. “How was he dressed? I mean, shabby like a bum, sporty like a college kid …?”
“No,” she steps toward Manning, wagging the cigarette in front of him, “he was more like a salesman. Dark suit, maybe.”
“This was Monday night, right? Do you recall what time?”
She sucks her Camel, thinking. “Right around ten. The news was on.”
Manning nods. “That would fit. What time did he leave?”
“That damn music was blarin’!” She’s getting worked up again. “Louder than I ever heard it. It was bangin’ so loud, I never even heard the shots. I pounded on the wall and made a few choice threats, but it did no good. That caterwaulin’ didn’t stop for over an hour. The caller was prob’ly gone by then. Didn’t hear anything else that night”—she snorts—“or ever again, for that matter.”
Manning pauses, looking at his notes. He stabs a period with his pen. “Have you told all this to the police?”
“Yes.” She exhales wearily. Then she leans close to Manning and tells him, under her smoky breath, “All except that part about how I coulda killed him myself, if you know what I mean.”
He nods confidentially. “This has been helpful, Dora Lee. I only wish you’d seen more.” Then he nods to David, signaling that they’re ready to leave.
As David rises and pockets his notes, Dora Lee says, “Awful sorry, Mark, but there wasn’t much to see. There was nothin’ special about the man at Clifford’s door—except, of course, that there was a man at Clifford’s door.”
Huh? Manning looks at David, who asks, “What do you mean, Dora Lee?”
She laughs. “Well,” she explains, coughing, “most of Clifford’s callers were of the female persuasion. Especially at that hour. Especially when the music got loud.”
Manning and David again look at each other, exchanging a shrug. It’s time to go. “Thank you,” Manning tells the woman, “we appreciate your taking time for us.”
“Hell, Mark”—she extends her hand, a big, beefy mitt of a hand, crunching his knuckles—“anytime.” She walks both men to the door and opens it. “If you think of more questions, just ask.”
David glances over his shoulder into the apartment. There’s a quizzical look on his face. “Actually, Dora Lee, I’ve been sort of curious …”
“Yeah, sweetie? What?”
His glasses flash toward the bedroom. “It’s that, uh …”
“Elvis?” She laughs, coughs. “Why, that’s my costume—for my act. See, I do this impersonation? And folks seem to think it’s pretty good, and I been workin’ a lot of church fund-raisers lately. Maybe you heard, the Christian Family Crusade is openin’ a fancy new hotel here in Chicago, the Gethsemane Arms, and I’m booked for a nightly show there next month.”
“Really?” says Manning, struggling to appear interested. “We’ll try to catch it.”
Dora Lee beams. “You just let me know when, and I’ll getcha a good table.”
“Thanks,” the guys tell her. “We’ll let you know.”
As they pass by her on their way through the door, she takes aim at David’s plump, muscular rear and gives it a hearty slap. He stops and turns to her, stunned. She leans, croaking into his ear, “Feel free to pop back up and see me anytime!” She breaks into laughter and thumps the door closed. Then the apartment reverberates with the explosive hack of another coughing jag.
The two reporters retreat down the stairs, David trying not to laugh. Manning lags behind him by a couple of steps, immersed in his thoughts, sorting through what he has seen and heard. When they at last pass through the vestibule and emerge into the hot shade of the building’s canopy, David blurts, “She’s nuts!” He has found the whole experience uproarious, but he’s had to restrain himself till this moment. “Did you see that Elvis getup?”
“That’s not all I saw.” Manning smiles, but he’s too preoccupied to fully appreciate David’s hilarity. “When Dora Lee opened that drawer for cigarettes, I noticed something peeking from a batch of old Christmas cards and other junk—it was the muzzle of a pistol.”
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About the Author
Michael Craft is the author of more than a dozen novels and three stage plays. He is best known as the author of the popular Mark Manning series, set in the Midwest, as well as the Claire Gray series, which takes place in Palm Springs, California. Three of Craft’s novels have been honored as national finalists for Lambda Literary Awards. His latest mystery novel, The MacGuffin, features a new protagonist, architect Cooper Brant.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Michael Craft
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
978-1-4804-3396-0
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Flight Dreams Page 31