A.R. Winters - Valerie Inkerman 01 - Don't Be a Stranger

by A. R. Winters

  She waved her arm, indicating the perfectly polite crowd. They were all beautiful people. Nobody had a hair out of place, and even if some of them had criminal tendencies, they would most likely be inclined toward sophisticated, profitable crimes. Not the type of crime that a PI looks into.

  I thought I heard loud footsteps coming from upstairs, and I looked up just in time to see Jerry run over to the second-floor landing. His hair was a mess, his eyes were wild, and the top button on his shirt was undone.

  “Quick!” he yelled.

  The party-goers all turned their faces upward, and stared at him in surprise. The conversation died down, and a hush fell over the room.

  “Somebody call 911! Esme’s been shot.”

  Chapter Four

  The room began to buzz with confusion and concern.

  “Is this a joke?” someone was saying. “What’s going on?”

  The guests looked at each other with surprise and disbelief, but nobody attempted to dial 911. This was a nice party, with nice food and drinks and conversations. People just didn’t get shot.

  I heard a few murmurs of, “Is she ok?” and I frowned, wondering the same thing myself. How serious were her wounds? Would she get to the hospital in time? It was annoying to see everyone standing around without dialing for help; I wanted to call 911 myself, but my phone was lying uselessly in that big bowl of switched-off staff cellphones.

  Jerry walked down the stairs rapidly and Carly walked up to meet him just as rapidly. They put their heads together in intense conversation. Everyone watched them, curious, and after a few minutes, Carly moved away and up a few steps.

  She clapped her hands for silence, and I watched Jerry start to slink down the stairs.

  “I am going to call 911,” Carly said. “There’s no need to panic. The party’s still going, and we can still have fun. Don’t worry about it.” A few people started to walk toward the stairs, and Carly added, “But I don’t think anyone should come up.” She caught Jerry’s eye and motioned him back upstairs.

  The two whispered, and the guests put their heads together and buzzed in low, worried tones.

  I watched as one of the guests finally pulled out a cellphone. He looked like a no-nonsense man – tall and lanky with grey hair and a thin mustache – and he dialed and spoke into his phone. Beside him, a plump woman in a black dress waved her arms, trying to convey some message – probably that he shouldn’t be the one making the call – but he ignored her and finished the call.

  Everyone knew that help would be one the way soon, and nothing went back to normal.

  I tried to circulate, and pass on a few more shrimps, but the guests had lost what little appetites they’d had before. Jerry stood guarding the top of the stairs, dissuading anyone from trying to go up.

  People whispered and glanced at each other suspiciously, before heading discreetly toward the door and making their excuses.

  “We’re so sorry, we’ve gotta leave,” they murmured to Carly. “Fabulous party. Just remembered we left the stove on.”

  I caught Lisa’s eye and gave her a smug look. I was a PI. I had something to investigate. This party wasn’t as criminal-free as she’d thought.

  By the time the cops arrived, almost all the guests had left. Only a few people – those who really loved Carly and her husband, or were trying to extract huge favors from them – stayed behind. Even Lisa and Mellie had given me quick hugs and strange looks, and said their goodbyes.

  When it was clear that I didn’t have any work to do, I tried to go upstairs to talk to Jerry. But he shook his head at me, and I turned back to see Carly watching me through wary eyes. Right. Not a good idea.

  I headed back into the kitchen, where I ate about twelve of the toothpicked shrimps, and waited to hear when I could go home.

  Chapter Five

  The paramedics arrived at the same time as the cops.

  Catering staff and guests huddled into two separate groups near the base of the stairs, and everyone watched the paramedics go upstairs.

  A few minutes later, a clean-shaven, young-looking policeman emerged at the landing. He looked at us with a somber expression and said, “We don’t want to alarm anyone, but I’m afraid she’s suffered from fatal ballistic trauma. We’ll be sealing off the bedroom until the initial crime scene investigation is concluded.”

  The guests glanced at each other unhappily – it was unbelievable that someone had actually died at this party. And judging from the impatient looks on many of the remaining guests’ faces, quite a few of them were thinking that the start to their weekend had been ruined.

  I thought back to meeting Esme. I remembered what I’d said, and what she’d said. How she’d thrown back her head and laughed. She’d punched Jerry playfully. And then later, I’d seen her and Jerry standing around and chatting.

  What was going on? I looked at the remaining guests. Surely whoever had killed her had already left. Unless they were feeling particularly confident, of course.

  The guests were, in turn, eyeing the catering staff suspiciously.

  Of course, the murderer might’ve been someone from the catering crew. It was understandable that the partygoers would prefer to think that someone from the staff was behind all this, rather than someone who might’ve been their friend. Someone they might’ve been chatting and laughing with just a few minutes ago.

  I tried to put my investigative muscle to use. What had I noticed when I’d done my tray-in-hand laps around the room? Nothing particularly suspicious jumped out at me. As far as I remembered, everything had seemed normal. People had been standing around, talking and laughing. People had been having drinks, eating, enjoying themselves.

  Had I seen anyone go up the stairs? Not that I could remember. Maybe someone had entered the house from outside… but that would’ve noticeable. I certainly hadn’t seen any outsider come in.

  I glanced at Jerry. He was sitting near the bottom of the stairs, head in hand, and I felt sorry for him. Poor guy – he’d just lost a friend, and he’d been the one to find the body. Of course, I wasn’t sure how close they were as friends, but he sure looked miserable.

  A uniformed policeman approached him, and Jerry stood up and glanced at me. I smiled and gave him a quick nod, and watched as he disappeared into a room with the policeman.

  The police asked us all to stay back and give them our statements while our memories were still fresh. A couple of well-dressed women rolled their eyes at each other, but nobody protested. One by one, we went into empty guest bedrooms with police officers, until it was my turn and I told a uniformed policewoman what I remembered of the night.

  After I was done, I added, “Sorry I couldn’t be much more help.”

  She smiled politely. She didn’t seem to be too disappointed by the lack of facts, but I was starting to feel depressed about Esme’s death. How could she have died with the party in full swing downstairs? None of us had realized what was happening just a few feet away.

  Chapter Six

  It was a relief when Jerry and I were able to finally leave the Hamptons and head back to our tiny, two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West side.

  I’ve lived there for almost four years now. I got a bargain because I’d signed the lease during the Manhattan real estate crunch, and because the building is pretty run-down, as is the apartment itself.

  I would’ve loved to hide the boring brown rental carpet and white plastic Venetians with fabulous, stylish furniture, but the best I could afford were thrift-shop steals and fortunate curb-side finds.

  The comfy grey sofa in the living room was a curb-side prize and a real feat of achievement; I discovered it at six a.m. on a Saturday morning and had to sit on it for two hours, to prevent other dirty-look-giving neighbors stealing it away from me while I waited for my friends Alex and Gary to wake up and come help me carry it upstairs. But in the end, we got it inside (and I had to buy the guys steak dinners – which they probably deserved, considering that they had managed to maneuver it up
four flights of stairs).

  The two high-backed wooden chairs adjacent to the sofa were also curb-side finds, but those I’d managed to bring upstairs by myself. The small, square coffee table, which manages to be an improbably shiny white, is from Ikea – a cheap splurge I indulged in soon after I moved in, and when I still had a regular paycheck.

  The round, wooden table and the four matching chairs that live near my kitchen (in a space far too small to call a “dining area”) are thrift-shop finds. I’ve sourced nice, dark green curtains from a fabric store, and a few vintage movie posters, so now the place feels like home. Once in a while, I’ll think of getting a potted plant, but then I’ll be visited by the Ghosts of Potted Plants Past, and I resist.

  Of course, the best things about my apartment are the ones that Jerry brought with him – pots and pans and all kids of cooking gear that now fill my kitchen cabinets. He even has his own stand-alone butcher’s table with a wooden top that he uses for chopping and food prep – all of which means that I get to eat yummy home-cooked (or at least Jerry-cooked) meals quite frequently.

  The drive home took us almost an hour, and by the time we got inside, I was ready to hear Jerry’s version of what happened. Before he could protest, I poured us each half a glass of red wine, and handed him his glass. I pulled out a chair for myself at the kitchen table and looked at him expectantly.

  He sighed. “Do we have to? Now?”

  “I’d really like to know.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No, now.”

  Memories are often unreliable by the time the morning comes. My curiosity was overwhelming, but I would’ve let Jerry go to sleep if that’s what he really wanted. I felt bad for him – but still, I was relieved when he pulled out a chair opposite and sat down.

  “Did you notice anything?” he asked me. “Did anyone?”

  I shook my head. “That’s what’s so strange. We were all just there. Standing around.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t even hear anything. I don’t think anyone did.”

  “Well. The bedrooms are all pretty far away from the hall. And there were lots of strange noises, you know, laughing and talking. All that could cover a gunshot.”

  I frowned. “But still. And if there’d been an intruder, wouldn’t she have screamed? Like if she saw someone coming in through the window?”

  Jerry nodded, and took a sip of his wine. “It’s terrible.”

  “How did you find her body anyway? What were you doing up there?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I was just, um, there.”

  “You took a break?”

  “Something like that.”

  I raised one eyebrow.

  “Ok,” he said finally. “There was a lady involved.”

  “Oh no.”

  He shrugged. “It just happened. We were in there–”

  “You were in the room?”

  “Not quite. Ah. We were in, like, a big closet. With the door closed.”

  “Inside the room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you told the cops all this?”

  “Of course. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway – what happened was, my lady friend and I were, um, getting a bit friendly. If you know what I mean.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I always know what you mean. Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who asked. Anyway – we were having fun, then suddenly, we heard voices.”

  “In the room.”

  “Yeah.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Ew.”

  “Hey, it’s not like we kept going!”

  “Oh.” I felt a little better. Not much.

  “So, we froze, and there were voices, arguing. There was a woman – who must’ve been Esme, and there was someone else. I don’t know who.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Couldn’t tell, really. Could’ve been either.”

  “Ok. So, then?”

  “Well, they argued, then we heard some soft bangs. Like, bang. Then bang, bang.”

  We looked at each other seriously and I pursed my lips. I didn’t like the sound of this – I hated knowing that whoever killed Esme must’ve known her pretty well. Well enough to argue with her. I hated the thought of poor Jerry stuck in that closet.

  “Of course,” he added, “I hadn’t known then.”

  I nodded. “So what’d you do?”

  “What could I do? I buttoned up my shirt and tried to look ok, then I opened the door a crack. There was nobody there, so I opened it and looked around – and there was Esme.”

  I felt my heart sink. I’d known how his story would end, but I still felt terrible.

  “So then you ran out?”

  Jerry shook his head. “No, I had to give An– my lady friend time to go downstairs and act all innocent, and then after about ten minutes, I came out.”

  “Oh no.” I felt sick. “You just stayed in the room that entire time?”

  “What could I do? I would’ve called 911 myself, but you know how Maria made us all turn our cellphones off and drop them into that big bowl.”

  “What if–” I stared at him in despair. “What if she was still – what if…”

  I couldn’t make my lips form the words. My brain was somehow muddling up the ends of those sentences and I didn’t even want to think it.

  Jerry shook his head. “I checked her pulse. I checked her wrist. And her neck. And I tried to feel her breathing. After I was alone, I tried to give her mouth to mouth but I was too scared to push her chest because she was bleeding… so much blood.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were unseeing and blank and lost in the memory.

  Impulsively, I reached out and squeezed his arm. “You did your best.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t want to get An– my friend – in trouble. She’s married. Pre-nups and stuff.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Why can’t you–” I wanted to tell him to keep it in his pants. But that would be mean, and it wouldn’t achieve anything right now. “But this lady,” I said, “Whoever she is. She’s going to have to tell the cops what happened, right?”

  Jerry looked down at his wine shiftily. “I’m not sure. I mean, she can’t let anybody know. And it’s not like anything actually happened. We didn’t even have time to–”

  I stuck my fingers in my ears. “Lalalalalala. I’m not listening. Lalala.”

  Jerry rolled his eyes and I put my hands back down.

  “Why don’t you grow up?” he said.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “You first.”

  I snorted. “Whatever.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes and then I said, “You know, it’s not your fault.”

  Jerry nodded glumly, and finished the rest of his wine in one big gulp. “Anyway. That’s my story.”

  I looked at him seriously. I wasn’t sure what to say – it was the second time tonight that my brain had chosen to take a quick nap.

  “How ‘bout you?” Jerry said. “See anything – anyone – suspicious?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think anyone did.”

  Jerry scrunched up his lips and eyebrows into a weird facial shrug, as if to say, “It’s just how it is.”

  As he rinsed out his glass, I said, “It’s been a tough night for you. Sure you don’t want any dessert before you go to sleep? How about some of my yummy ice-cream?”

  I was referring to my emergency stash of Fudgesicle bars – I saved those for the times when I was feeling exceptionally down, and normally, I never, ever, shared them.

  Jerry made a face. “Blech. You know those taste just like sweetened plastic. All artificial flavors and high-fructose cane sugar.”

  “Yeah,” I droned, “they’re not gourmet enough for you.”

  Jerry smiled tiredly. “Thanks for offering
me one, though. I know how much they mean to you.”

  “You still owe me for the one you stole when you thought I didn’t keep count.”

  He raised his hands. “I told you I’d get you a new box.”

  “Sure. You said that about a gazillion days ago. You won’t like me when I run out of ice cream.”

  Jerry shook his head, and I watched as he trudged off toward his bedroom.

  I sighed, and thought about having one of the Fudgesicle bars myself, but decided not to. I hadn’t been out for a run in the last three days, and with all the eating and sitting around I’d been busy doing, my mid-section wasn’t looking all that great.

  It was time to call it a night. I had a vague sense of unease, but I figured that was normal, given everything that had happened at the party. Someone must’ve seen the killer creeping upstairs, and the cops would probably solve the case in a few days.

  I thought back to my brief conversation with Esme and Jerry again. There had been nothing at all suspicious in her manner – nothing to suggest that she might be the target of a killer.

  And that, I thought in my naiveté, was the last I’d hear of her death.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday afternoon, Jerry and I were both at home. We’d been to Esme’s funeral the day before; it had been heart-wrenching and miserable, and both of us had rushed straight home.

  Today would be the umpteenth day in a row that I had no work. I’d called my old mentor, Leo, on Monday, to see if he had any extra work I might be able to do, but he didn’t. Then I’d checked in with my parents, who lived in Madison, Wisconsin, and pretended that I had a big infidelity case that I was working on.

  I hated to lie to my parents, but it was a better alternative to admitting the truth – that I thought maybe my whole life was one big mistake. Maybe they were right; maybe I should’ve stayed back in Madison. I could’ve taught elementary school, and suffered the loud, inattentive kids during the day, and then gone home to my husband. Who’d probably have been the guy I went out with on two dates in high school – Joseph Karsten – who’d work at his dad’s auto dealership.