Of Mice and Murderers

by John Stockmyer

  Paired down to what the old "Dragnet" show would have called "Just the facts, Ma'am," two threads ran through the Bateman puzzle: Wednesday night and Bateman Hall.

  Considering that the Northland was normally a quiet backwater of Kansas City, a lot of weirdness had been happening on Wednesday nights. In the criminal category, that's when both the janitor and Ms. Ogden had been murdered. In the non-criminal -- but odd -- sub-group, Wednesday was the only night you could see the "ghost light." (At least according to Dr. Calder, who Z had no reason to doubt.) Of passing interest was the rumor that Wednesday was the night Lucas Terbrugghen stayed home to drink, an increasingly sensible thing to do considering recent events.

  So much for right-out-of-bed thoughts.

  Entering the Happy Hollow's lunch room for a late breakfast, Z choose to sit on a badly sprung booth in a purple-paisley nook near the kitchen, the only other "customer," a waitress in clunky shoes, the thick-legged woman having a cup of coffee while paging through the morning paper.

  Slack time.

  After breakfast and before the luncheon crowd.

  His waitress delivering his breakfast (Z having Diet Coke and "Eggs Peculiar",) a quick reflection of what he'd seen down the tower vent firmed up his opinion that the "ghost light" came from deep within the building.

  Since Bateman Hall was the school's drama building, a light that was powerful enough to travel three floors had to mean high-watt theater lights -- kliegs or a carbon-arc lamp, the kind used in early movie projectors and World War II search lights. (No matter what Professor Calder thought, classroom lights didn't have the punch to "climb" floor after floor of ventilator shaft.)

  Thinking "stage" lights, the name Terbrugghen came to mind, the director so linked to Bateman Hall that Dr. Calder had described the old ruin as "Lucas' building."

  To the Wednesday night "follies," Z could now add his own piece of detective work: the discovery that, on the night of her murder, Beth Ogden had been in her bedroom putting on perfume. Rushing downstairs to let in her director/lover (or someone else she knew intimately,) the unknown guest had let Missy out, Ms. Ogden rushing outside to retrieve her cat.

  An important final fact had fallen into place when Johnny D had convinced Bob Z that the "smoke man" was not an operative of the mob.

  The mob-Monet distraction put to rest, Z's would-be assassin had to be someone Z was threatening to unmask in the Victor-Ogden-ghost light case, moreover, someone who knew that Big Bob Zapolska was investigating the murders.

  Continuing to play with his mysterious eggs, Z itemized the people who knew he was a player.

  Ted Newbold.

  Though Z had called Ted to ask about Ms. Ogden death, he doubted if Ted would tell anyone of Z's interest in the lady's demise. The last thing Teddy wanted was for Captain Scherer to discover that Ted was Z's pipeline to police department business.

  Dr. Calder.

  The professor had hired Z to investigate the Tommie Victor killing.

  Lucas Terbrugghen.

  The director had been so "broken-up" about Ms. Ogden's death that Calder had told Terbrugghen that Bob Zapolska might be investigating the matter.

  Did Newbold, Calder, and Terbrugghen complete the list? Or had these worthies spread "the word" to others?

  Time for a follow-up round of questions, starting with ....

  Had Ted shot off his mouth on this matter?

  Normally, yes.

  This time, no.

  Terbrugghen ... doubtful.

  Leaving Dr. Calder. The Doc already admitting he leaked Z's involvement in the Ogden killing to Terbrugghen, had Calder told others that Bob Zapolska was poking around?

  Breakfast over, rested for a change -- nothing as sleep-inducing as being confident you'd not be murdered in your bed -- Z drove to the office.

  Eleven o'clock.

  Not late considering last night's meeting in the graveyard, followed by the "ghost light" search, followed by the tinkering he'd done out back of Bateman Hall, followed by the post-midnight precautions he'd taken to make sure no one followed him to the Happy Hollow Inn.

  Z took off his coat, laying it across the front desk; pushed the rewind button on his answering machine.

  Whir. Beep.

  "Z, this is Susan." Even though Susan's voice was being filtered through the scratchy play back of the old machine, he knew immediately something was wrong. Her rich timbered sound was ... off. "I don't quite know what to say, Z, but ... I think someone's been in my apartment. I tried to get you at your place this morning, but couldn't. I'm at work now. Would you please give me a call sometime this morning"?

  Beep.

  Without waiting for the start of what was clearly a second message, Z pushed the off button. Nothing like Susan being plaintive to get his attention.

  Z's adrenaline up, he forced himself to take deep breaths until he was calm enough to reason the situation through.

  A break-in. Happened all the time. Even North-of-the-River.

  For the moment -- with Susan safe at work -- things were under control. For the future, he'd check the deadbolt he'd put in at her apartment. If necessary, install additional security.

  There was also the possibility Susan was mistaken ... though not much chance of that. Susan was anything but a flighty female.

  Now calm enough to keep from alarming Susan even more, Z leaned forward, picked up the phone, and spun the dial.

  Susan asking him to reach her at work was just another indication of how upset ....

  "American Insurance," said a slippery-bitch voice. "Here, only to serve you."

  As concerned as he was about Susan, American Insurance's standard greeting irritated him. Since when had insurance companies been in business to help anyone -- but themselves!?

  "Susan Halliwell."

  "One moment." He was impatient with the time it took to ....

  "Susan Halliwell, Correspondence."

  "Z. Got your message."

  "I'm alright now, Z. I was just a little upset when I couldn't get you this morning."

  "Anything missing?"

  "Nothing I saw."

  "Tell me."

  "I got home late last night after an office function at the Golden Ox. It's called a bonding dinner. The company just started doing that so I don't know if I told you about it."

  "No." Bonding dinner. A sticky term for a get-together; just the kind of low-class/high-class/no-class jargon to be expected from an insurance company.

  "Anyway, from my class at Maple Woods, I went to the apartment, changed, then drove to the restaurant. It was a nine o'clock dinner so I wasn't too late. I got home after midnight, dead-tired. Went right to bed. No problems. But this morning ...."

  "Did you lock up?"

  "I can't remember."

  Z almost said that the deadbolt couldn't be expected to work if she didn't use it -- but caught himself in time.

  "Locking the door's so automatic," Susan continued in a defensive rush, "that half the time when I'm sure I've forgotten to lock up, I haven't."

  "Always good to check. ................ But I know what you mean," he continued, filling the unpleasant silence from Susan's side of the phone with what he hoped sounded like an apology for giving unasked-for advice. Susan didn't like to be lectured -- except by college instructors. "What tipped you?"

  "It was when I was about to get the milk out of the fridge this morning. I'm sure that someone ... moved a couple of items in there. The milk was too far back on the shelf. Little things like that."

  "Last night, you were tired. Could you have moved things ...?"

  "No," she said quickly. "I came home and went to bed. Didn't open the fridge."

  "Had a friend over, maybe. Someone who used the icebox?"

  "No."

  Though Z was relieved to hear that Susan hadn't had a "friend" over, his brain was starting to wind up like a hand-cranked siren. "Nothing missing" was not necessarily good news.

  "Touch anything?"

  "Would a de
tective's girl mess up the evidence?"

  "Good. I want to see the apartment. I'll pick you up. Eleven-thirty?"

  "Right."

  It was unlike Susan to let him dictate activities that included her. For all her talk about being "alright," she was still scared.

  "Goodbye."

  "'Bye, Z." Relief. Affection.

  Hanging up the phone, Z reflected that he'd only seen Susan this cooperative once before: when her maniac husband was threatening her. She'd been afraid then, too.

  The living room smelled like Susan. Delicious.

  Looking professionally cute in her long, gray notched-collar coat, Susan had just let them into her too-modern apartment.

  Today, she wore an adorable, bright blue schoolgirl hat over her mop top of shiny black hair.

  While Susan looked around with a practiced eye, Z squatted at the door to check the deadbolt. ... No sign of tricks being used on the lock.

  Standing, he took off his gloves and stuffed them in his pockets. No sense thinking about fingerprints. At this time of year, even honest people wore gloves.

  "The living room's OK," Susan said, looking back at him. "And there was nothing out of place in my bedroom or I would have noticed it when getting dressed this morning."

  Unwinding her white scarf, stuffing a length of it into her pocket (the rest trailing down a curvy thigh until the fringe brushed the top of her shiny black boot,) Susan led him past the square fireplace into the kitchen.

  "Nothing out of the ordinary here, either," Susan said, looking the small space over carefully.

  There was rather little to get out of place in a kitchen, of course. Stove fastened down. Steel sink build it. Small, but heavy, cast iron patio table.

  "That leaves the refrigerator," he said. "Show me."

  "OK."

  Opening the small refrigerator's door, she pointed. "I always put the milk on the top shelf to the left and at the very front because I seem to use milk more than anything else. In cooking. For breakfast food." He'd heard Susan's views about keeping much-used items in what she called "prime space."

  Susan holding the door open for him, Z bent down to get a look inside. Tried to remember what he'd seen when he'd gotten something out of Susan's icebox, but ... couldn't. The milk had been shoved quite a ways back on the chromium grill.

  It was then, sticking his head in the fridge to get a better look at the milk carton, that he knew something was wrong, something other than the position of the milk.

  Concentrating, closing his eyes, he sniffed.

  Yes.

  The icebox smelled ... funny.

  Z opened his eyes to see what was causing that odor but found nothing to pin it on. No "left overs" going bad. No open sardine can improperly wrapped in plastic. Even an open box of smell gobbling baking soda in the back.

  "Smell anything ... funny ... in there?" Z stood up and stepped out of the way so Susan could bend down and sniff.

  "I don't think so ... Maybe, now that you mention it .... An aroma like ... vinegar?"

  Only if all acids smell the same to you, Z thought.

  Susan getting out of the way, he bent down again; took another whiff, delicately.

  Warmed up, the odor would be even sharper, stronger.

  Thinking about that stench being intensified, Z believed he might have registered something similar recently.

  He sniffed again.

  It certainly wasn't the oily reek of the gunk the "smoke man" had dumped down his fireplace. And yet, in the back of his mind, the two odors were associated.

  Strange ....

  But back to the present.

  Z hated what he had to do next.

  "Susan. This may be because of me."

  Standing, shutting the refrigerator door, he turned to look down at her, Susan peeking up at him from under her broad-brimmed hat, her blue eyes trusting.

  "Something I should sit down to hear?" Said in a weak imitation of her rich, low voice.

  "Nothing to worry about. I'll take care of it. I just hate telling you."

  "Probably not as much as I'll hate hearing it," she said, her generous full-lipped smile a little crooked.

  "Someone was here."

  Susan's face lost color.

  "When was the last time you ate at home?"

  As what he was saying sunk in, Susan gripped the curved back of the nearest steel-mesh kitchen chair. Leaned on the chair back to steady herself.

  "I guess ... breakfast yesterday morning." Susan squinted her eyes like she sometimes did -- as if trying to see into the distance. When she concentrated like that, kitten-whisker-lines feathered the outside corners of her dark blue eyes. "For lunch yesterday, I had a salad at Mary's Sandwich Shop right across the street from American. I came home after work last night, but just to get my books. Left for Maple Woods. After class, I was back here to make a quick change into something more formal. Didn't eat anything. Went right to the bonding dinner. And I didn't get anywhere near the kitchen after I got home last night. I just came in and hit the bed."

  "Didn't go to the bathroom?"

  "None of your business." Though Susan had gone pale enough for him to see her blush, he'd gotten her to smile -- which was the idea.

  The smile faded. "If you know what this is all about, tell me."

  Did she really want to know?

  "It's not serious. You can relax."

  Susan didn't give much of an impression of someone relaxing. At that moment, she looked more like a little girl who'd just been told the big needle in the nurse's hand wouldn't hurt.

  "I'm on this case. Someone's following me. Maybe linked me to you. This man wants to ... discourage me. My guess is, by upsetting you. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

  Susan smiled wanly. Nodded.

  "For now, throw everything away." He pointed at the refrigerator. "Just in case."

  Looking frightened again, Susan dragged a chair out from under the filigreed iron table, scraped the small but heavy seat around, and sagged down on it.

  "It's not that bad," he continued. That it probably was that bad, was the best reason he could think of for lying to Susan.

  "We dump this stuff while I'm here to help."

  Susan nodded, folded her hands in her lap, demurely.

  "After that, I'll drive you back to work. I'll pick you up. Take you to night school. Wait for you. Then take you to this romantic place I've found where you'll spend the night. After we ditch the food, pack an overnight case."

  Susan was still nodding.

  A wild idea struck Z that this was the time to ask Susan to quit her job, drop her class, and marry him.

  Just a stray thought, one that was unworthy of him. Big Bob Zapolska didn't take advantage of frightened ladies. Part of the Zapolska Code.

  "Tomorrow or the day after, you come back here without a worry in the world."

  "You wouldn't ... lie to me, Z ... to make me feel better?"

  "No." To make her feel better, he might not tell her everything -- which was well within the parameters of the Zapolska Code.

  "Can you let me know more about the case and about the person ...?" She pointed to the refrigerator.

  "Soon."

  "Just a night away from home ...."

  "Two nights, maybe. But that doesn't matter. What does is I'll protect you."

  "I know." Said with the first hint of a genuine smile since he'd plucked her from the sidewalk in front of American Insurance. The kind of smile to make a man proud.

  With Susan settled down at last, they carried the food to the trash bin in back of the Bircane parking lot -- liquid items, jars, paper wrapped packages, twist-tied plastic bags (even Susan's non-refrigerated edibles) -- Z then taking Susan back to her job.

  Susan safely at work, Z "burned rubber" to beat the trash truck to the Bircane apartments, Z wanting to have a solitary look at the food he and Susan had just thrown out. And sure enough. As he was poking through the industrial-sized trash bin, taking out, then sniffing each - di
scarded - package without interference from the odors of the rest, he found what he'd suspected. That it was the milk that had been contaminated.

  Emptying a small pickle jar, Z transferred some milk into it, capped the jar and put the container in his pocket. A chemical analysis of the jar's contents might tell him something.

  Finished at the Bircane, a flying trip to his apartment to refrigerate the milk-in-jar, and he was back to his office to wait for Susan to get off work.

  Sitting at his desk, rubbing his bad knee, Z decided it was time to call Calder to see who else the good doctor had "spilled the beans to" about Z tackling the Tommie/Beth case.

  And yet ... something seemed to be ........

  Yes! It was that -- because of his concern for Susan's safety -- he'd failed to play the second message on his phone recorder!

  Pushing back, prying himself up with his good leg, he took the short limp to his imaginary secretary's desk to poke the answering machine button.

  Beep.

  "Mr. Zapolska? This is Hugh Calder. Just wanted to know if you'd heard about last night's power outage on campus. If you want to talk about it, give me a ring. Goodbye, and thanks again."

  With Calder inviting Z to call, this was the perfect time to "capture" what Z hoped would be the last "puzzle piece."

  Sitting on the outer office desk, he dialed the college; got switched around as usual, only to discover Dr. Calder had gone home.

  A good memory for numbers, Z dialed the Doctor's Liberty address. ........ "Hugh Calder, here."

  "Z."

  "Hear about the power failure?"

  "Yeah."

  "It must have happened soon after we left the campus, don't you think?"

  "Yes." Soon after you left the campus, Z thought -- but didn't say. "I got a question."

  "Shoot."

  "Did you tell anyone but the director I might be working on the Ogden death? Or working on the Victor case?" Silence. Calder thinking.

  "No."

  "Keep it that way. I'd appreciate it."

  "You got it. Anything else I can do?"

  "You got Terbrugghen's address?"

  "I can get it from my copy of the faculty directory. Give me a minute."