by Norma Huss
Half an hour later, someone demanded, “Who the hell are you?” A tall Viking with a minor beer belly glowered over me.
“Jo Durbin. Who are you?” Even though I hadn’t reacted negatively to his lack of business-appropriate language, he didn’t answer. I added, “Temporary replacement for Mrs. Hemingway.”
“Where is she?”
I didn’t really know she was stashed in that closet. “On vacation. For a month, they say.” He didn’t need any advice to ask someone else. He was through Mr. Talbit’s door. A few minutes later he stormed back to berate Barb for passing on some e-mail.
“All I did was give Mr. Talbit a message,” Barb told him.
“What, exactly, was the message?”
“Oh, I don’t know. ‘I’m out of here. See you in a month.’ Whatever.”
“In those exact words?”
“More or less. Well, maybe a bit more formal. But you know her.”
“Didn’t she say anything about me? My God, we had plans. Nobody bugs out on me. What aren’t you telling me? There was more. There has to be.”
“Sorry. That was it.”
“Let me judge for myself. Show me the e-mail.”
She shrugged. “Don’t have it.”
“You mean it’s gone? My God, woman!”
He kept demanding, Barb explained nothing, and Vanessa took it all in like the cat who ate the canary. Not that Clyde ever ate a canary. He preferred cream, which was why he’s so plump.
Later, I joined the morning coffee klatch. After all, I was involved with a murder, whether I wrote about it or not.
“Who was that angry young man?” I asked.
Vanessa answered, biting her words into snippets. “Aster Yost, company sales rep. Constantly on the road.”
The man who got away? But I certainly sympathized with Vanessa. I knew all about conniving women and straying men.
Barb arched her eyebrows, but merely said, “My, but Asher seemed surprised.”
“He’ll learn,” Vanessa snapped. “What makes him think she’ll treat him any differently than she treated her husband? Once a slut, always a slut.”
“That’s uncalled for. She’s a good kid. A barrel of fun.”
Obviously, Vanessa didn’t agree. But she said no more. Nor did I.
Was Francine a barrel of fun who stole a man and paid the price? Or one who cheated on her husband and paid the same price?
~ ~
“Excuse me, Ma’am.”
I looked up to see a policeman at my desk. He wasn’t there for me, he couldn’t be. Silently, I warned Clyde. He doesn’t like the police any more than I do.
“I’d like to see Mr. Talbit,” he said, and my pulse slowed considerably.
“Could be anything,” I told myself as I ushered him into the inner sanctum. Could be anything, but I knew it wasn’t good when the boss stormed out of his office.
“Call a meeting of the entire work force,” he said. “Immediately.”
Vanessa took over, collecting employees in record time. When the conference room was filled with the curious, Mr. Talbit stood, his face pale as raw pie dough, and made his announcement.
“Francine Hemingway of the Billing Department is dead. Foul play is assumed.”
The collective gasp was audible, with mine one of the loudest. I clamped my hand over my mouth. How had they found her so soon?
Mr. Talbit snapped, “We know she wasn’t at work yesterday. According to the police she died some time on Monday. Cause of death is unknown. Her body was found at her home. May we have a moment of silence in her memory?”
There was no moment of silence. There was immediate noise. Questions. Demands. Cries of, “Oh, my God,” and “It’s not true.” “How did she die?” And more questions.
Mr. Talbit’s pie-dough-face was suddenly overdone, the red juices bursting into his cheeks. His voice rasped, then cracked when he tried to shout over the hubbub. “I don’t know any more. I can’t tell you a thing.”
Still the questions, the wounded cries continued. I, meanwhile, thanked the lucky star that sent me out of that house.
Mr. Talbit walked back and forth in front of us, piling up disjointed sentences. “Work is over for today. The police have questions for anyone who knew Mrs. Hemingway. Don’t leave if you have anything to tell them. But go home. Everybody go home. Everybody else, I mean.”
That’s when the cop stepped forward, but another man, possibly a production manager with a tight schedule, said, “We must go on. I’m sure Francine would want it that way.”
“In a pig’s eye,” someone near me mumbled.
Mr. Talbit was oblivious to any pig comments. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Again he sat, only to stand immediately, this time as a man of calm determination, his face only slightly rosy. “I know this is traumatic, but we have orders to fill. Not a one of our clients gives a damn if Mrs. Hemingway died.”
Stiffly, Vanessa said, “The Billing Department fills no orders.”
People began moving their excited gossip to the door. Maybe they’d wanted to listen to Mr. Talbit’s original orders, or maybe they’d wanted to go forth and ship product. However, neither happened. The policeman, augmented by several others who must have been hiding in the hall, kept us in the conference room. They escorted people off in dips and dabs. We in the Billing Department sat cooling our respective heels till the very end.
Even had he been released, Asher wasn’t about to go forth and sell. He cried on Barb’s shoulder. “You know her,” he said. “She’s too full of fun. Too alive. It’s not true.”
“Knew her,” Barb said, but she nodded consolingly, and patted his shoulder.
“I realized, deep down, there had to be something to keep her away.”
Vanessa took over. “I don’t think any of us can concentrate right now. After we talk to the police, just close up what you’re doing. Poor, poor Francine. To die so young. Asher, dear, I know how this has affected you. To have a loved one taken from you. Perhaps she and I didn’t always agree. But it’s a blow. I’ll truly miss her.”
Asher moaned, “At home? And I was away when she needed me. If only I’d known. We were to meet. She wasn’t there. I didn’t know.”
“It’s a tragedy,” was Barb’s comment. “A beautiful person taken from us. And the police, questioning everyone. Do they suspect someone at the office?”
Asher stopped sniffling. “I knew she liked to party. I was okay with that.”
“Of course you were, dear.” Vanessa was back in action. And Asher returned the interest. Ah, true love. So fleeting. As she rubbed Asher’s back, Vanessa added, “Mr. Talbit, shall we say, appears to share your grief.”
“Yes,” Barb said. “I suppose it’s understandable. They were quite close.” When Asher’s eyes narrowed, she added, “In business dealings, of course.” Vanessa opened her mouth to reply, but Barb continued. “I’m sure the police will want to know that.”
Oh, yes. They had already started damage control.
“Circle the wagons, cowboys,” I murmured so softly only Clyde heard me.
Chapter 6
“MURDER!” the headline screamed. “Forensic evidence rules out accidental or natural death.”
I’d grabbed the discarded newspaper on the way to a back booth at Wendy’s. While my chili cooled, I stared at the black and white image of Francine Hemingway, age 34. Her face was pleasant enough, hardly the face of a swinger, or a slut. A man’s shoulder remained, but his face had been clipped from the snapshot. Probably the husband, Edward Hemingway, address withheld at his request. My sister had obliterated all trace of her second husband in exactly that way. Or was it her third? Myself, I just burned the whole album.
My chili was still too hot. I stirred it, then put my cell phone on the table beside me. My sister would have a barrel of questions when she called.
Real estate was Sylvie’s vocation. Murder was her passion. She followed every case on the Eastern seaboard. Each one was an opportunity to enhance her det
ecting game skills. I was a convenient sounding board. Did I think the police were withholding evidence? Had I ever met the murder victim? Did I think this or that theory she’d formulated was sound? And always, did I know anything else? I’d have to be careful. Hold back, but give her enough to keep her on the trail without admitting any personal involvement.
The spicy aroma didn’t fill my growling stomach. I regressed to a youthful ploy, alternating a spoonful of chili with a slurp of Frosty.
Sylvie’s call came through before my third bite. She was predictable, a virtue, according to her. Naturally she remembered I worked at Abbott Computing Services, and she had questions.
“I replaced Francine Hemingway. How could I know her?” I insisted. “You know as much as I do. I’m just reading about it now.”
“Don’t give me that,” my dear sister replied.
My chili was waiting. I gave in quickly. “Okay. The boss called us all into a conference room and told us she was dead. Killed, but he didn’t know anything else. Then everybody started yakking.”
“Company gossip! Incredibly informative. I love it.”
I took several bites before I continued. “She recently separated from her husband and was dating a company salesman, which pissed off his former girl friend, who was Francine’s supervisor.”
“Oh, yes!” she said in ecstasy. “And there’s more?”
”The boss was either in shock or mad as hell.”
“Aha. A work environment that contributes to the torment.”
“She liked to party.”
“With all the one-night stands that suggests?”
“Could be.” Sylvie sighed with bliss, no doubt imagining public carousing and secluded trysts. I took advantage of the lull to feed my face.
“Classic victim,” Sylvie crooned. “With a jealous lover, the other woman, and a former husband. Lovely.”
Murder was never lovely. “That’s about it,” I said. Actually, that was about it if one didn’t know I’d actually seen the body. I crumbled two more crackers into my chili and turned to the inside of the newspaper.
“Oh, darn,” Sylvie said. “Did you see this? Page eight. ‘Alarm fails. Was the County Library system broached? No, say the police.’”
Lord love a duck! “The article we’re reading is on page six.”
But Sylvie was on a roll. “I helped research that system. We went over everything four-ways-times-Sunday. I just don’t believe it doesn’t work.”
Sylvie was working on security for Queensboro too? Knowing her, she’d want them to fingerprint the library door, then where would I be? Firmly, I said, “Page six. A picture of the Hemingway house.” I swallowed a large gulp of my milkshake to calm myself. “Why do they have to print a picture of the victim’s house, like it did the foul deed?”
“Nothing else to report. You know that.”
At least she dropped the library and its alarm. But she soon found another touchy subject. “The police must have a lead that isn’t in the newspaper.”
“Why?”
“Like it says, anyone with information should come forward. And, get this, they mention neighbors, joggers, sales agents, and any security agency who may have watched houses. Doesn’t that sound like they have a lead?”
“All blowing in the wind.” “Agency,” was the magic word, the word I’d used. The nosy neighbor had definitely gone to the police. “They won’t hear anything.” I, at least, wouldn’t volunteer a word.
“We’ll have to investigate,” she said.
“Investigate? Right now I couldn’t possibly.” I hoped she meant watching TV coverage and reading newspapers.
“Yes, investigate,” she insisted. “Do the leg work, ask the questions.”
“Sylvie, you’ve seen too many detective shows. Stick to those murder games you and your friends play.”
“And I am good at it, right? I always pick the killer before anyone else.”
“You don’t think you have an unfair advantage?”
“I never look at the answers when I set up the clues. You know, you’ve helped me.”
“Not the same,” I said. “Reality isn’t a game with printed tips, most of them red herrings. Reality has no red herrings, only mistakes.”
“Mistakes that could lead to another death,” Sylvie intoned. “Jo, this murder is the one I’ve been waiting for. With your inside track, we’ll be able to learn things the police will never pick up. Delay the homeless book and focus on this. Write true crime. I’ve already put film in my camera. Tomorrow I’ll drive to the murder house, take pictures, and interview neighbors.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
Before she could formulate theories to explain my outburst, I said, “I’m busy, busy, busy with my research. Obviously, you don’t care about that.” A fight might be better than the truth. “Besides, the police have the area secured with yellow plastic tape. They don’t want any sightseers. At the very least, they’ll arrest you for trespassing. They do that, you know.”
“No, they don’t,” she said calmly. “Are you hiding something I should know?”
“I just get so mad at you and your silly games.”
But Sylvie knew my tricks. “That does it. You know something, right?”
“Okay.” My plan was working to keep her involved. Still, the absolute truth was more than I wanted to burden Sylvie with. “I do have an inside track. Barb Girod at work knew Francine Hemingway very well. She can tell me things you’d never learn from neighbors.” Not, of course, anything about a middle-aged woman who entered the Hemingway house.
“Do you know where she lives? I’ll pick you up and we’ll go there right now.”
“It can’t be that obvious. I’ve only met her. Why would she tell me anything unless it’s just a bit of casual conversation? I’ll see her tomorrow at work.” I chugged the last of my Frosty and squished the napkin into my chili bowl. “Got to go. There are fourteen people waiting for tables.”
“Why don’t you come here tonight?” she asked. “We could really discuss this.”
“No. I’ll be there Saturday.”
“Maybe I’ll ask my mystery group to come over.”
“Sylvie, real murder is not a party game.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Bye.”
Before I stood, I read the article she found, the one about the alarm that “misfired” on its first test. Seems some gung-ho company wanted to sell their system to Queensboro. The “misfire” at the library was good enough for the city fathers (and quite a few mothers and children). They didn’t want to be scared awake again.
“Lucky, right?” Clyde didn’t answer, which was just as well. I read further and learned the security firm wanted to hear from any witness.
“I’m dead. They’re offering a fifty dollar reward.” The young couple was sure to come forward. They’d want that reward. I could only hope they’d forget about the woman who came running out of the alley. “Okay, what do we do next?”
As a conversationalist, Clyde didn’t compare to Sylvie. However, he would never insist on a cast of thousands and my personal involvement to find a killer. He had no suggestions of a bed for the night either. I’d certainly not try the library. The Hemingway house was out. There’d been a howling dog near the unlocked car, so that, too, was out. I’d save Mel for a cold or rainy night. My car was in storage. But I had a few keys. One could be useful.
That’s when my phone rang. It was Sylvie.
“You again? Now what?”
“Did you read the second article?”
“The what?”
“You didn’t, did you. They always have a second article, where some reporter ferrets out every possible iota of information about a victim.”
“Look, I really don’t care.”
“The victim was Francine Irving Hemingway. Franny Irving.”
“Should I know who she is? Somebody famous?”
“Jo, eight years ago. Remember?”
&
nbsp; “No.”
“The headlines. ‘One killed, one survives single-car accident.’ The survivor was Franny Irving.”
No, it couldn’t be. “Is that right?”
“Come on Jo. It was all over the news. Victor Barnette, killed instantly. His companion, Franny Irving, clinging to life.”
“I really don’t want to hear it. If you don’t mind. I’m going to disconnect and turn off my phone.”
Of course I knew who Franny Irving was. The floozy who stole my husband Vic and rode with him to his death. So she’d survived the wreck after all. Obviously hadn’t learned a thing. She finally got what she deserved, the gory death she missed out on eight years ago.
But who hated her more than I ever had? Who killed her? The husband, Edward? The so-jealous Vanessa at work? Or even Asher, her new boyfriend?
Or me.
Truth was, I had an excellent motive, or would have if I still gave a hoot in hell what happened to the bitch. Revenge, the police would say. And opportunity. After all, I took her job, I was in her house spreading my fingerprints around. Would they care that I married another rat two years later? The scandal sheets would cite my anonymous “true” story, The White Widow, and have a field day. Never mind that I rewrote an old newspaper article. Never mind that the cockamamie exposé was speculation, based on fantasy, and legally disproved.
“I thought she died in the wreck,” I’d say as six cops hammered questions at me. “It was coincidence that I took her job, that I borrowed her house.”
Right. And just who would believe that?
Chapter 7
Two of my homeless cohorts were in the alley behind an abandoned warehouse. It hadn’t been easy, earning acceptance on the street. Now I was greeted or ignored like any of the others. The two, Ears and Lacy, yelled like a couple of fools.
“It’s mine!” Lacy screeched.
“I got here first,” Ears shouted back at her.
They both wanted the recycle bin—scrawny Ears, with his whiskery chin jutting, his bony elbows poking through his sleeves—and Lacy, stuffed into at least eight sweaters, sweat pants, and a kilt, of all things. They were a gas.