Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  When we talk about that night, which isn’t often, we always have shakers of salt in our hands.

  ‘‘Maubi and the Jumbies’’ was originally published in the Fall 1999 issue of Murderous Intent magazine. In 2000 it was an Agatha nominee for Best Short Story and received a Best Short Story Macavity Award.

  Estelle Is Dead

  by Medora Sale

  TEMPTATION

  Kate Brady tossed her keys on the table and began sorting rapidly through a week’s worth of mail. The brightly colored flyers landed in the basket in the hall; everything else, no matter how unpromising it looked, went into the dining room with her. Once she had trashed a check for eighteen hundred dollars because it had come in an envelope that looked like a begging letter. Now she opened everything.

  Bills and financial statements went into a pile. Requests from charities and classier advertising glided into another wastepaper basket. The last envelope was from a university, probably raising funds. She slit it open impatiently, glanced at the single sheet of paper inside, and paused.

  Her hand hovered over the basket, drew back, and set the letter down on top of the bills and statements, to be taken into her tidy little office.

  She disposed of the bills and statements rapidly and efficiently, checking every item, prepared—if necessary— to spend the rest of the day disputing an interest charge or error. She had fended off poverty and evictionfor too long after leaving home to turn careless over money.

  Only the letter remained. It demanded a decision. She was between books. Worse yet, between contracts. An irritating restless lethargy enveloped her, prodding her into useless activity and keeping her from sleep. And yesterday a set of royalty statements had arrived, confirming what she already knew. Sales of her type of fiction—the romantic-sadistic thriller—were falling. People were tired of bodice slashers. She lay awake at night thinking of a long old age and no new income. When that onetime windfall, the film rights to Death on a Double-Edged Blade, had come in twelve years before, her accountant had pointed out that she had better figure on living at least until eighty-five. Forty-seven more years, it was then. She had bought her house, paid cash for it, and started salting away her money. But it wasn’t going to be enough.

  Why ask her—of all people—to come and speak at Sight and Sound: The Windsor Festival of the Arts, surrounded by poets, artists and scornful intellectuals. At least she wouldn’t run into any old friends, she thought grimly. If she went. No, she couldn’t. Still . . . She picked up the letter again. How much were they paying?

  The hotel lobby was small and gleaming with polish on the brass and dark wood. The plump, pretty woman behind the desk greeted her with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend and Kate wondered for a moment if she was. She looked at her again. Not a chance. When Kate had moved to Chicago, this bouncing creature hadn’t learned to ride a tricycle yet. She smiled and checked in.

  ‘‘I almost forgot, Ms. Brady,’’ said the desk clerk. ‘‘There’s a letter for you.’’

  She walked into the dimly lit room, swung her suitcase up on the bed, and dropped her shoulder bag on the floor. She peered into the dimness for a light switch. ‘‘My God, Kate, you’re going blind,’’ she muttered and yanked back the heavy curtains covering one wall. Light flooded the room.

  The window was the width of the room and overlooked the river. From where she stood, she could see all the way upriver to the bend in the east and down-river to the bridge and islands to the west. It was even better than the view from the tiny room in her grandmother’s attic. At that moment, as if it had timed its arrival for her benefit, a lake boat came into view, on its stately progress down from Lake Superior in the golden sunshine. During how many nights of her stormy childhood had the melancholy, reassuring sound of the lake boats’ foghorns lulled her to sleep? Her face softened. Maybe tonight there would be fog.

  She turned and kicked her shoulder bag. ‘‘For chris-sake, Kate,’’ she muttered to herself. ‘‘You’re pathetic. In a minute you’ll be sobbing over this shitty town and all your shitty little friends. Friends. I bet they’re fat as pigs with six kids each, living on welfare.’’

  Then she noticed that she was still clutching the letter.

  ‘‘Dear Estelle,’’ it began. She froze for a second, unable to think, hardly able to breathe. She took a deep breath and started reading again.

  Welcome home! I was thrilled to discover that you had agreed to speak at Sight and Sound. I know you’ll be a great addition to the weekend’s entertainment. I’ve been following your career as closely as I could since we were all in school together. In those days, I admit, I worshipped you from afar. Alas, you’ve been even further from my grasp since then.

  There is so much that I would like to talk to you about, and even more that I would like to tell the world about your varied talents.

  I am writing an article about your life and exploitsfor the Star. If you wish to discuss what ought to go into it, meet me tonight at nine o’clock at the east end of the sculpture garden. There is a bench in between the four pillars standing alone and the plump, self-satisfied gentleman on the horse. A fitting spot, I thought. I will be there.

  You still look pretty athletic these days. It’s not far from your hotel, and you’ll find there’s enough light for walking. E.

  ‘‘Who in hell is E.?’’ she said, crumpling up the paper and then smoothing it out again over her thighs.

  The telephone rang and she jumped like a frightened cat. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said in a cracked, uncertain voice.

  ‘‘Ms. Brady? Kate Brady?’’

  She murmured agreement.

  ‘‘Rob Martin, from the Sight and Sound committee. I hope you had a good trip. Look, most of the others came in yesterday and we laid on a dinner for them. We thought you deserved a good meal as well. How about tonight? Can I pick you up at the hotel at six thirty? Or have you made other plans?’’

  It was like talking to a bulldozer. By the time he gave her a chance to answer, it was too late. She had agreed to meet him downstairs, said she would be wearing black with a red leather jacket, and hung up.

  Rob Martin appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was balding slightly, but that suited his rangy, athletic-looking frame. His smile was friendly, his grey eyes cool and assessing. If he hadn’t been a little young for her, she might have considered him as possible—very possible—light relief during the next four days. She still might, she thought, glad that she had dressed with care.

  ‘‘Where are we going for dinner?’’ she asked, bracingherself for the worst. She couldn’t remember there being a whole lot of decent restaurants around here.

  ‘‘To the Art Gallery,’’ he said, with a quirky smile that—annoyingly—reminded her of someone.

  ‘‘Isn’t that carrying the idea of the weekend a bit far? Do we bring sandwiches and munch as we troop through the exhibits? Or are there benches to sit on?’’

  ‘‘There’s definitely someplace to sit,’’ he said coolly. ‘‘The gallery has a restaurant with interesting food, artistically presented, of course. I thought you might like it. If you prefer a burger somewhere, we can do that, too. But the Art Gallery is just along the street. We can walk there in two minutes.’’

  Kate brooded over the menu, hovering between the venison espiritu and the duck breast vestido de fumar. ‘‘I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting this sort of food,’’ she said. ‘‘It doesn’t fit exactly with my image of the city.’’

  ‘‘Try the venison. It might change your image,’’ said Rob. ‘‘Ms. Brady will have the venison,’’ he murmured to the waitress. ‘‘And I’ll have the duck.’’ He turned back to Kate. ‘‘But haven’t people around here always appreciated good food?’’

  ‘‘Do you come from here?’’

  ‘‘I grew up in a town near London, came here to go to university and never left. What about you? Have you always lived in Chicago?’’

  ‘‘Winnetka,’’ she said. ‘‘It�
��s not quite Chicago. But it’s on the lake as well. I like living near water.’’

  ‘‘So do I,’’ he said. ‘‘Sometimes. It’s fascinating. It has its dark and destructive side, though, don’t you think?’’

  The arrival of the wine relieved her from having to respond to that one.

  Lunch had been a cup of coffee and the venison was superb. She ate everything on her plate except for a sprig of fresh herbs and the flower, and sat back, turning her wineglass around and around, staring at it. ‘‘Why invite me to speak?’’ she asked abruptly. ‘‘Along with the pretentious arty types. My junk doesn’t exactly fit the image. I write ‘bodice slashers,’ as my editor calls them—pink perfumed scary porn— to make a living.’’

  ‘‘We all have to make a living,’’ he said smoothly. ‘‘I suppose someone on the committee likes your books and thinks it’ll be fun to have you on the list. I don’t know. I’m a messenger boy, that’s all—not one of the powerhouses. Why did you come?’’

  ‘‘Curiosity, I suppose,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Killed the cat,’’ he replied with a lazy grin. ‘‘What are you up to tonight? I could take you around to the nightspots, or if you prefer, there’s a poetry reading at the Capitol Theatre.’’

  ‘‘I’d love to,’’ she said, injecting all the sincerity at her command into her voice, ‘‘but after driving all day and eating this spectacular dinner—you know, it really was terrific,’’ she added, in normal tones. ‘‘But I’m going for a walk along the river with a friend. Like I said, I have a thing about rivers.’’

  ‘‘I thought you didn’t know anyone here.’’

  ‘‘He’s from Detroit. I said I’d meet him at eight thirty.’’

  JUDGEMENT

  Kate went back to her hotel room and put on the pale yellow outfit she wore for her daily two- to three-mile walks. It showed off her legs—still one of her real assets—making them look even longer than they were. She flicked a comb through her shiny hair, snapped her pouch with cab fare and room key around her waist, and set off.

  She crossed the broad drive that separated the hotels and the Art Gallery from the riverside park and plunged from light into darkness. Trees blocked out the streetlights, swallowing up the ambient glow of the city and the water. She had forgotten how dark it could be down here and ran down the broad path in a mild panic. When she reached the riverbank, she slowed to catch her breath. The water ran smoothly along beside her, murmuring reassuringly, giving her back her strength and courage. She stretched her legs out and began walking quickly and confidently toward the meeting place.

  She passed the four pillars and looked up the hill-side. There was the wooden bench, halfway up the hill. A figure on the bench was silhouetted in the light from the street above, arms spread out, head tipped back, long legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched out in front of him—the essence of relaxation.

  She stopped dead halfway up the slope and gasped. ‘‘Omigod.’’ It came out between a squeak and a scream. ‘‘Jack! No—it can’t be.’’ She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep herself from saying more. The man looked over at her. The headlights of a passing car swept over his face and she laughed. ‘‘Oh. It’s you. For a minute there, I thought you were someone else. You really gave me a turn. What are you doing here?’’

  ‘‘Waiting for you, Estelle.’’

  ‘‘Sorry. The name is Kate, or Katie, if you must.’’

  ‘‘That’s up there, on the other side of the road. Down here by the river you’re Estelle. Beautiful Estelle Leblanc. You know, in this light you look almost the same.’’

  ‘‘Almost?’’

  ‘‘Lithe, slender, graceful as a deer. And strong.’’

  ‘‘I still am,’’ she protested. ‘‘I haven’t gained a pound in thirty years.’’

  ‘‘Maybe. But you’ve turned from a schoolboy’s fantasy into something nasty, hard and stiff. It’s sad. But no matter. We’re not here to talk about the ravages of time. I saw you that night with Jack, you know. Down there. On the far side of the railing.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know anyone named Jack,’’ she said. ‘‘You’re crazy. And I think I’ve heard enough.’’ She tried to move away and found that her wrist was caught in a grip of steel.

  ‘‘I don’t know how you got him down there on the rocks. Remember how terrified he was of water? But you did, and you pushed him in. I saw you.’’

  ‘‘That’s crazy. Why would I push him in?’’

  ‘‘Because he was hard to get rid of, Estelle. Because you promised to marry him and he believed you. He told me that.’’

  ‘‘That’s a lie. I never said I’d marry him.’’

  ‘‘He bought you a ring—he showed it to me. You accepted it and promised to be his forever. But why say you’d marry him and kill him a month later?’’

  ‘‘I never killed him. He slipped,’’ she said quickly. ‘‘He did. It was awful. It had been raining and the rocks were slippery. I tried to save him but I couldn’t.’’

  ‘‘No—I tried to save him, Estelle,’’ he said. ‘‘You ran away. I jumped in after him, but it was dark and I couldn’t find him.’’

  ‘‘That’s not true.’’ She slumped down on the bench beside him. ‘‘I thought I was pregnant,’’ she said, in a vague, faraway voice. ‘‘My dad would’ve killed me. But I wasn’t, after all. When I told him, he wouldn’t take his ring back.’’

  ‘‘You’d got rid of the baby. Jack’s baby.’’

  ‘‘So? Big deal.’’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘‘You can’t print any of this, you know. I’ll sue you and I’ll sue the paper for all it’s worth. Okay. We were engaged. Then we broke up. Jack drowned trying to rescue his little brother who came to get him and fell in the river. The little brother got out, but he didn’t. Tragic, but by then I’d gone home. That’s what they said. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s the truth.’’

  ‘‘But I’m not a journalist, Estelle. I’m not even on the committee.’’

  ‘‘What are you, then?’’ Her eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘‘Call me an avenging angel.’’

  REVELATION

  A pair of early-morning joggers, their backs warmed by the rising sun and their sweaty faces cooled by a light breeze off the river, saw her first.

  She was lying on a wooden bench near the paved walkway. It was not far from a children’s playground, bright with swings and slides. Birds chattered and quarrelled in the lush, neatly trimmed trees. The dappled sunlight flirted with a patch of dried blood caked in her expensive blond hair.

  Chiselled into the wood of the seat back was the inscription ERECTED IN MEMORY OF JOHN WILLIAM MARTINEAU BY HIS LOVING BROTHERS, EDWARD AND NORMAN.

  ‘‘Look at that.’’

  ‘‘She’s drunk. Leave her be.’’

  ‘‘She might be hurt.’’ The young woman walked over. ‘‘There’s blood on her head.’’ She leaned over. ‘‘Kevin, come here,’’ she said unsteadily. ‘‘I think she’s dead.’’

  A laker, heavily loaded and riding low in the water, slipped downstream toward Lake Erie, indifferent to the lives and deaths of the land-dwellers. The river lapped gently against its walls.

  ‘‘Sergeant, do you think she could’ve been carrying a thousand bucks in twenties in that pouch around her waist?’’ He eased himself into the room, standing more or less at attention.

  ‘‘No, Al, I don’t. She was just out for a walk.’’

  ‘‘Maybe she was looking to buy drugs.’’

  ‘‘I doubt it. Why do you ask?’’

  ‘‘Because there’s a John Doe downstairs. He came into emergency this morning, unconscious, with . . .’’ He pulled a notebook out. ‘‘Nine hundred and sixty-sevendollars on him and a thirty-dollar bottle of scotch, almost empty. He could have bashed her over the head last night and taken the thousand.’’

  ‘‘He hits her over the head, he strangles her, takes a thousand bucks, leaving her the twenty we found in that pouch thing?
He wanted to send her home in a cab, maybe? No, Al, I don’t believe it.’’

  ‘‘The guys who found him in the sculpture garden had a look around. They found blood on a bench near him and down by those horses’ heads.’’

  ‘‘He kills her and carries her body all the way up the river? Why? So she’ll be closer to her hotel?’’

  ‘‘You were the one who said the body’d been moved, Sergeant.’’

  ‘‘Not me. The doctor did. Where did they pick the drunk up?’’

  ‘‘On a bench near the horses’ heads. He’s been there before, they said.’’

  ‘‘We’d better see him. Bring him up when he can talk.’’

  It was not until five o’clock that the committee in charge of Sight and Sound realized they were missing a speaker and began to make serious inquiries.

  At eight o’clock a miserable-looking man, small, thin and dishevelled, was brought upstairs to be interviewed. An ineffectual attempt had been made to clean him up for the ordeal.

  The sergeant looked up. ‘‘Hi, Billy. How’d you get mixed up in this?’’

  He blinked. ‘‘Hey, Paul. How’s it going? You talking about the couple down by the river?’’

  ‘‘Probably. Al? It’s your John Doe. You take it.’’

  ‘‘Name?’’ asked Al.

  ‘‘Billy. Everyone calls me Billy.’’

  ‘‘Full name. Your real name.’’

  ‘‘Oh. William Sampson.’’

  ‘‘We’d like to know how you laid your hands on almost a thousand bucks,’’ said the sergeant, yawning. ‘‘In your own words.’’

  ‘‘It was like this, see. I had half a bottle I was saving from the night before . . .’’

  ‘‘Yeah, sure,’’ said Al.

  ‘‘Let him talk, Al.’’

  ‘‘And I come down to sit on the bench behind those horse heads. It’s dark there and no one’s gonna bother you, mostly. Well—there’s this guy sitting there, staring down at the ground behind the bushes, like, and so I look to see what he’s staring at. There’s a woman lying there wearing light-colored clothes. I didn’t notice anything else about her. I ask him if she’s drunk and he says, ‘Yeah, she is, and she’s sleeping it off.’ ’’