Julia assured them both that she would be there, refused their offers to help with the remaining dishes, and walked them out to the sidewalk. She watched the departing pair and wondered how the world would get along without widows. They taught school, ran companies, counseled teenagers, raised funds for hunger missions, for libraries, for hospitals, for historic and literary and civic organizations. Her friends were bright, dedicated, compassionate, efficient, hardworking people. All sublimating like hell, Freud might think. Maybe. But when you thought about the babies dying of preventable diseases in India, or the twelve-year-old prostitutes stumbling into Father Ritter’s underfunded haven in the West Forties, or the old people right here in Brooklyn slowly dying of malnutrition because they couldn’t buy decent food, the motive made no difference. The work had to be done. And along with the heartbreaks and frustrations came the warmth of being needed and the joy of being with friends.
Right at the moment, though, the work that had to be done was cleaning up.
She had just put the pots in to soak when the bell rang. Drying her hands, she went to the front bay to look out the window. It was Maggie Ryan, lanky and vivid in a bright blue blouse under a tweed jacket, inspecting the underside of the brownstone stoop. With a pang of premonition, Julia went to let her in.
“Well, if it isn’t Bonesy!”
“Hello, Mrs. Northrup.”
“I suppose I should ask you in.” Julia retreated along the hall to the apartment door and motioned Maggie to the sofa. “There’s still some coffee,” she added grudgingly.
Maggie said, “Thanks, but I don’t think this will take very long.” She sat down with the grace that was always surprising in such a tall angular person. “Nice new plants.”
Julia sat erect in the chair. “Pauline McGuire’s. She’s visiting her son-in-law who pays her rent. Now, what is it?”
“Three things. First, we’re going to buy the house.”
“So you think.” Damn. Damn and hell.
“Second, we know that we can claim that we need this space for our own use, and try to get you evicted.”
Julia bowed her head. Silly of her to think that bright young people wouldn’t know that. Yet, foolishly, she had clung to the wan hope that they would be ignorant of their rights. She said in a low voice, “I’ll fight it, you know. I went through every step when Pauline was evicted, and I know the ropes. And my son is a lawyer.”
“No need to bother him, Mrs. Northrup. We admit we don’t need it and we’re not going to try to evict you. Please try to believe me. Once we own the property we’re willing to sign a lease or whatever you want that will guarantee your right to stay here.”
“Once you own the property. It’s a long way from here to there. And anyway, I don’t know many leases that are better than rent control.”
“We could model it on rent-control regulations. Make it good for, say, thirty years.”
Julia could not afford to believe her. She said sourly, “The papers will crucify you, you know.”
“Oh?”
“For throwing out a ninety-eight-year-old widow.”
Maggie laughed. “Fifty years, then!”
“You think it’s funny.”
“Mrs. Northrup, I’m dead serious. Look, I know it’s hard to get used to the idea when you’ve fought against it for so long. But we signed papers yesterday, and so did Lund. It’s as close to inevitable now as these things ever are.”
“You can still get out of it, somehow. You won’t like it here. I’ll play the radio loud and throw garbage in your windows.”
“Do anything you want that’s allowed in the rent-control regulations.”
“And before you move in I’ll pour cement into all the upstairs drains. You won’t want it then.”
The deep blue eyes darkened. “You said you didn’t have a key to the upstairs. How will you get in?”
Drat her. Julia mustn’t forget that this young woman was bright as well as audacious. Talking to her was more dangerous than talking to Brugioni. “I’ll get in through the broken windows, of course. Did you think I’d leave any glass in the place?”
“Oh, of course. Silly of me.” But she was still regarding Julia a little too thoughtfully.
Julia said, “Well, then, Bonesy, I think we understand each other. Any more good news?”
“No. The rest is bad.”
“Oh?”
“I thought I’d give you some time to prepare. We have a piano, and a dog.”
“St. Bernard?”
“A little black cocker named Zelle. Nick also has a guitar, and I have a flute.”
“And your best friends are probably the Rolling Stones.”
“How did you guess? Also, one of these days we’ll have children. It won’t be a quiet household.”
Julia was silent. Despite herself, she was attracted. She told herself sternly that it was impossible. They’d change their minds, just like the people who had promised Pauline she could stay and then promptly evicted her. With children, especially, they would decide they needed more room, and bounce her out. The disposable woman. Parker said, three be the things I shall have till I die: laughter and hope and a sock in the eye. Well, laughter and hope were fading fast.
And yet the impossible picture appealed to her. Tall good-natured Maggie, a baby, a little dog. Nick up there playing Irish songs on his guitar, a strong and reassuring presence when there were noises in the night. And Julia was in the picture too, winsome, tweaking the baby’s cheek or patting the dog while Nick’s warm eyes smiled at her. Silliness. This was a worn-out brownstone in Brooklyn, not a rose-covered cottage in Pleasantville USA.
She stood up and walked to the window. Across the street, a red-haired girl, teenaged, was staring at the house. Half the neighborhood had walked by this weekend, tourists gawking at the scene of the crime. Madame Tussaud’s chamber of horrors, starring Julia Northrup. Because the ugly facts remained: she was a widow, living alone, soon to be evicted. And, Brugioni’s sweetness notwithstanding, a prime suspect in an unsolved murder that stuck in the craw of the NYPD. Those were the facts. Babies and guitar music and a warm Irish landlord were foolish dreams.
Maggie said, “I’ll go now. I just wanted to give you a chance to get used to the idea before we move in.”
“Thanks,” snapped Julia. “I’ll buy the cement tomorrow.”
Maggie grinned, and was gone.
Julia moved automatically to the door and, unseeing, fastened the bolts and chain. Not Jersey, anyway, she decided fiercely. There had to be someplace around here. She’d ask Benny to keep his ears open. They might be able to throw her out of her home, but never out of her neighborhood. She’d sleep in Fred-Law’s park first. A snug little bench on Prospect Park West. A fashionable Gold Coast address.
She went back to the kitchen to finish scrubbing her pots. And for the second time was interrupted by the bell.
It was Maggie again. But this time her arm was around the red-haired teenager that Julia had seen across the street. The girl was sobbing. Julia hurried to open the door.
“What we need,” said Maggie, “is some Kleenex and some coffee.” Without taking her eyes from the girl, she guided her to Julia’s sofa.
Julia produced the requisitioned coffee while Maggie fetched tissues from the bathroom. “Here, dear, blow your nose,” the older woman coaxed. The young redhead obeyed meekly. She was a pretty creature, long luxurious hair, freckles, not much over a hundred pounds.
“Now drink your coffee,” Julia instructed her.
She took a deep breath and swallowed a little, the big sad eyes glistening above the rim of the cup. “Thank you,” she snuffled. She was clutching the cup in both hands. Julia noticed that she was wearing a wedding band and an engagement ring with a huge fake stone. She sat almost primly in her flared jeans and hiking shoes and L.L. Bean windbreaker jacket that clashed with the gaudy ring.
“Better?” asked Maggie.
The girl nodded. “I’m like really down. Sorry.�
�
“Everything will be okay. I’m Maggie Ryan. And this is my friend Mrs. Northrup.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Julia said, “What’s your name, honey?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Amy Burns.”
“Have you had any dinner, Amy?” Maggie asked smoothly, not even a flicker to show that she recognized the significance of the name.
“No, I’m not hungry,” said Amy, and snuffled again.
“Sure. You’ve had a terrible shock,” said Maggie, taking some coffee too.
“I never wanted him to leave. He had to, I guess, but I didn’t like it.”
“He probably didn’t like it either.”
“No, he didn’t. But he said he had to. It was the only way to like get ahead, in his business.” She pushed back a long strand of hair.
“He was a waiter, wasn’t he?”
“A waiter? No! He was an actor!” Amy stared accusingly at Maggie. “You mean you didn’t know him? Then how come you said you did? You won’t go to the police, will you? Curt said not to go to the police! If you’re a friend—”
“We won’t go to the police, Amy,” said Julia. “Not unless you want us to, or Curt wants us to.”
Amy’s big eyes shifted from one of them to the other, back and forth. Finally she said, “Curt won’t want you to.”
“Well, don’t you think he wants them to catch the murderer?”
Amy repeated obstinately, “Curt won’t want you to.”
Maggie looked straight at Julia and said viciously, “Curt’s a numbskull.”
“He’s not!” said Amy hotly.
“Of course he’s not,” said Julia soothingly, darting a glance at Maggie to confirm that this was the right response. “He’s a good friend, right?”
“Yes!” Amy turned to her gratefully. “And he’s like really smart.”
“I don’t see anything smart about him,” snorted Maggie.
Julia turned on her in indignation. “He knows a lot more about it than you do!”
“Yes!” Amy agreed. “He knows what’s going on around here! He thinks someone was jealous of Denny because he just got this terrific part everyone wanted. You know how it is in show business!”
“That makes sense,” murmured Julia sympathetically.
“Denny was doing so well.”
“Not in show business!” exclaimed Maggie. “Nobody makes money in show business! Not for years!”
“Well, Denny did,” said Julia.
Amy nodded vigorously. “Yes! He sent me hundreds of dollars a week ago! It wasn’t easy. And he had to be away a lot, that was bad. But he said last time that it wouldn’t be long. He did Curly in Oklahoma! at our school, he was really good. And he was onto something big, he said. He meant this part he just got, I guess.”
“Probably,” said Julia.
“And then this happened.” She dabbed at her nose, then glanced fearfully around Julia’s comfortable room. “Was it in here?”
“No, honey, it was on the top floor, in an empty room. No one was living up there.”
“They just like lured him up there?”
“Maybe. The police are trying to find out, but of course they don’t have much to go on. They think he was a waiter.”
“That was only part-time.”
“I know, honey. But I wondered if they should know he was an actor, so they’d understand the motive.”
Amy turned to Julia earnestly. “But Curt thinks he can find out more by himself, because the guy who did it will feel like safer if the police aren’t asking around. He might tell Curt something, you see. Then later Curt can tell the police a lot more.”
“I see,” said Julia.
Maggie sneered. “That’s really not very bright of you, Amy. How do you know Curt is telling the truth? You don’t, do you?”
“Of course he is!” Amy looked a little frightened of Maggie.
“It’s stupid!”
“No, it’s not,” said Julia. “Curt’s a friend. But he knows if the police are investigating, everyone will clam up.”
Amy responded eagerly to Julia’s TV jargon. “That’s exactly right! So you see, you mustn’t tell them.”
“We won’t,” Julia promised. “Not until you or Curt says it’s okay. We want the guy caught too.”
“Yes.” Amy took another Kleenex. “We were only married six months, you know. Dr. Burns died—his dad—and we had to postpone the wedding, of course. And my parents—well, we had to keep it a secret.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Julia. “And you had to live apart a lot.”
“Yes, we were only together for like a couple of months. And my dad was so—Anyway, Denny decided to join Curt in New York. But he was so good. He came to see me, and brought money. Especially at the end.”
“Was Curt making money too?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, hesitating. Julia’s charms were wearing thin. Maggie attacked again.
“Of course Curt was making money! He’s probably a rich banker with loads of expensive things. Probably has an apartment on the Upper East Side!”
“He does not! He plays drums and he lives—” Amy stopped suddenly, seeing the trap.
Vitriol dripped from Julia’s voice. “Bonesy, get out of here. You’re upsetting her.”
“Upsetting her? I’m trying to help her!”
“Well, you’re not helping! Get out!” She turned to Amy solicitously. “Here, honey, have some more coffee.” Maggie glared at them, banged her coffee mug down on the bookcase next to the door, and slammed out.
Amy accepted the coffee distractedly. “Curt’s nice, really,” she reassured Julia.
“Of course he is. She doesn’t know him, and you do.”
“Yes. And Denny liked him a lot. They were best friends in high school back in Winston. Denny’d trust Curt with anything.” She snuffled. “Oh, God, I can’t believe he’s dead! He was just getting started and already had this big job. He’d had to put it off, you know, when his dad died. Had to help his mother like close the office and everything. Heavy stuff. And now—I just can’t believe it!”
Julia put her arm around Amy’s shoulder. “It takes a while, honey. Took me a couple of years, and even now I miss him. Don’t be afraid to cry.”
Amy began to bawl. Julia held her tenderly and felt fury at the murderer who had killed this sweet youngster’s husband.
A husband who had been onto something big. What? And what did it have to do with Artie Lund’s place?
But before she could figure out a way to work the conversation around, Amy jumped up. “Oh, God! I’m supposed to be at Curt’s in twenty minutes! I’ve got to hurry!”
“Do you want me to call a cab? Where are you going?”
But it didn’t work. Amy said, “No, no, it’s all right. The subway stops near there.” She gave her reddened nose a final swipe before opening the door.
“Sure, honey. Come back anytime.” Julia locked the door behind her, frustrated that the much-praised Curt’s last name or address had not surfaced. She went to the window and watched Amy run toward Seventh Avenue. And, as she suspected, a rangy woman in tweeds, dark glasses, and a scarf emerged from beside a stoop and followed.
She finished scrubbing her long-neglected pots, but hadn’t started on the mugs when the phone rang. “It’s Bonesy the Bad Policeman reporting to headquarters,” said Maggie breezily. “Did Amy tell you Curt’s last name?”
“No. She just cried.”
“Yeah, poor kid. But you’re such a wonderful good-policeman, I’d hoped that she might let something slip.”
“Denny and Curt went to high school up in Winston. And Denny helped his mother after his dad died. But we don’t need character references. We need clues.”
“We sure do. I tracked her to what’s probably his building, but only last names were posted. No Burns, but then Denny was visiting Curt, right? So I’ve got him narrowed down to one of about fifty possible names.”
“Drat. Still,
knowing the building is a start.” Julia knew without asking that Maggie was as excited as she was about this new knowledge. “I take it he doesn’t live on the Upper East Side.”
“No, it’s a medium-sleaze block not too far from Union Square. Could be worse.”
“We know he’s a drummer, probably from Winston.”
“Right. And he hung around with an actor. Or a would-be actor. Wish we could tell the cops.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“Hey, we promised her! But Nick knows a few things about actors. I’ll ask him to nose around a little.”
“You think Denny really got a big part?”
“No. Anything’s possible, but my feeling is that Denny or Curt invented the part to account for money that was earned some other way.”
“Maybe so. Do you think Curt killed him?”
“A lot of people might have killed him. Including Amy.”
“I know, I know.”
“Including you,” observed Maggie.
“Of course. Or you. We’ll all have to be careful.”
“Right. I’ll see you soon. Keep your doors locked.”
“Caroline Sweeney’s Great-Aunt Lizzie kept her doors locked. When the burglar came, he slid down the chimney.”
“Must have been a right jolly old elf.”
“He was a skinny twelve-year-old. She boxed his ears, scrubbed him down, and sent him on his way.”
“Admirable Aunt Lizzie. I’ll let you know if Nick discovers anything.”
“Tell him to be careful.”
“Okay. And think about what we talked about.”
Julia drew a long breath. “I won’t grovel,” she said bleakly.
“Jesus Christ, woman!” flared Maggie. “The day you start groveling, we will evict you!” And the receiver crashed in Julia’s ear.
8
Julia hung up, mind and heart at war. I am old, and good and bad are woven in a crazy plaid, said Parker. How could she decide what to think about this brash young woman who suddenly loomed so important in her life? Was she good luck or bad? Well, if bad, hoping and trusting too much would make it worse.
There was still some daylight left. Julia decided to go hunting again. She knew there was probably nothing left to find after the police search. But there was always the chance. She changed to her old skirt.
Murder Unrenovated Page 11