“Maybe Ben could find out,” Margaret said, turning and looking up at me from her perch.
“Omigosh, Ben!” In the excitement of it all, I had forgotten about him. My head pounded. Benjamin Sorensen, my amour. My big hunk of a man. Sergeant Benjamin Sorensen, HPD Narcotics Division. Who thought we should get married. Who thought I should stay home and have babies. Who wouldn’t like the idea that I was looking into a murder. I glanced at Margaret, then at Candy. “No. I don’t think so. Listen, you guys, you know how Ben is. I think we’d better keep this to ourselves.”
But it was too late.
CHAPTER SIX
It wasn’t an hour later that Ben called up and asked me to dinner. And in order to act normal, I went, headache and all.
I could tell when Ben picked me up that something was wrong. He didn’t say what it was right away, but as we drove to the restaurant, he was silent. I could see him clenching his jaw. When he did that, I knew I was in for it.
I kept trying to catch his eye. I made little jokes, but he didn’t laugh. Normally he has some semblance of a sense of humor. I watched his large face for some sign, some clue to what was bothering him. I reached across the table for his hand, but he pulled it away.
Finally, I came right out and asked him. What the heck, I didn’t have anything to lose at that point. Or so I thought.
“What in the hell do you think you were doing over at that dead woman’s apartment?” he demanded. His chocolate-brown eyes were narrow slits, boring intensely into mine like tiny laser beams. His balled up fists were pressed on the edge of the table. His lips had formed into thin little lines as he gritted his teeth at me.
Hoo-boy! I felt like I’d grabbed a live wire. I’m afraid I reared back in my chair as if slapped. Never had I seen him quite so angry. I was, at first, speechless. For me, that’s saying a lot.
Our dinner dishes having been cleared away, there was no barrier between us, and we stared into each other’s faces for what had to have been a good two minutes. Neither of us spoke. I found that I was holding my breath while my mind was once again racing to find a rational explanation for my presence in the apartment.
“How did you know?” I asked finally, thinking at the same time that the answer was obvious.
“My captain told me,” he said. “Right before he chewed my ass out. He got a call from the homicide captain.”
Jeez. I could just see the chain of events. Lon Tyler told his captain, who told Ben’s captain, who really told Ben, and now Ben was telling me. My inclination was to slip under the table, away from the scrutiny of Ben’s eyes.
“So you got some smart answer to give me about why you were there?” he asked, still with an unpleasant tone of voice. “I already heard about the one you gave Tyler.”
“Gee, honey, I’m just trying to make a living,” I answered in my most pitiful voice. “You know how bad business has been lately.” I cast my eyes down at the tablecloth and slumped my shoulders just a bit as I waited for his response.
“You ought to have a real job,” he muttered in his deep voice, but I could tell that the anger was leaving him. “Who’s paying you and to do what?”
Now was my chance. If I worked it just right, I might be able to find out what Ben knew. I would have to be careful not to step on the police department’s toes, though. I spoke to him in my softest little-girl voice. “I’ve been hired to look into Doris Jones’s background, to find out where she came from before here. I’ve been hired by someone who loved her very much and who just wants some answers to some questions. I can’t tell you who. My client wants me to keep it a secret. They don’t mean any harm. They just want to know about her.”
“I’m not buying that, Mavis,” Ben said in a cynical voice. “It’s true, Ben,” I said as I looked into his eyes as earnestly as possible. They had opened up a bit, indicating to me that the storm was probably over. “They haven’t hired me so much to find out who killed her, but to find out more about her.”
“Why? Is there some great mystery about Doris Jones, the waitress?” He raised one eyebrow at me, skeptical.
“Yes. Ben, I’m telling you the truth. There is a mystery. She showed up out of nowhere last year, and this person simply wants to satisfy a curiosity as to who she really was. She wasn’t your typical waitress. They say that she was sort of hiding out. She was very secretive about herself.”
“This is one of the weirdest stories that you’ve ever come up with, Mavis.”
I shook my head at him. What could I do to convince him that I wasn’t lying? Why did it seem that he didn’t trust me? “It’s true, Ben. You’ve got to believe me.” By this time, I was almost pleading with him.
“If it’s true, why’d they go to you instead of some of the real detective agencies in town?”
“He did,” I answered. “They thought it was a weird story, too, and wouldn’t help. I was their last hope. Don’t you see? I couldn’t turn ’em down. No one else would help.”
“I don’t know, Mavis,” he said, giving me a sideways look. “It smells pretty fishy to me.”
“Ben! This person was devastated at the idea that this woman was raped and murdered! He—they want to do something about it. If she was done away with by a serial killer, they’ll accept that, but they need to know for sure. Even so, they want to know what brought her to where she was when she died. Don’t you see? I have to continue on. I have to find the answers.” I was so angry that I wanted to shake him. What would it take to convince him?
I scrutinized his face. He appeared to be getting angry again, but I didn’t care. I was going to do my job and no one was going to stop me.
Ben’s face turned red as he suddenly exploded at me, pointing his finger almost up my nose. “Mavis, you just can’t go around messing in official police business! We’re already investigating it. We’ve got Tyler and some other men on it. We’ve had an autopsy and found out that she wasn’t raped. She was just strangled.” He stabbed his finger at me. “We’re doing our job. We’ll find out who murdered her without your help! I’m telling you to butt out of it, and I mean it!”
I started to yell back at him, mindless of the fact that we were still sitting in the middle of a reputable restaurant, when suddenly his words sank in. She wasn’t raped. He said she wasn’t raped. I was stunned. Could it be that Carl was right? That she wasn’t murdered by the serial killer? I glanced back at Ben’s face. I could almost see the smoke billowing out of his nostrils. He didn’t realize what he’d let slip. I was excited now, my anger gone, but I couldn’t let Ben know how I was feeling. I had to keep up a facade. I wanted to smile at him, give him my thanks for convincing me that Carl wasn’t a nut, but I gritted my teeth and wrung my hands and pretended I was still fighting. “I don’t think you have the right to ask me not to look into Doris Jones’s background,” I said.
Ben reached out again and I reared back from his finger. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you, Mavis. Keep out of it.”
I slid out of my chair and stood up. The only thing to do at this point was go home. I had to get away from Ben before he realized that the fight had gone out of me. As coldly as possible I said, “I’ll consider it,” and I turned and started walking toward the door.
Ben quickly paid the check and hurried after me. On the way home, we didn’t speak. I didn’t ask him in. I couldn’t. Let’s face it, I’m better at avoidance than confrontation. As he drove away, I wondered whether there would be a continuation of our relationship. But I couldn’t be bothered with that now. I’d think about that tomorrow, like Miss Scarlet. Right now, I had more serious things to ponder. Like, if it wasn’t the serial killer, who murdered Doris Jones?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day I phoned Carl to tell him I was coming over with some good news. Not only did I wish to speak to Carl, but my goal for the day was to get into Doris’ apartment if it killed me. Well, not quite if it killed me, but I intended to take drastic measures.
Knowing that Lon Tyler would b
e lying in wait for me, I ransacked my closet for a disguise. Thank goodness I never let my mother break me of being a pack rat.
I found some old one-inch brush curlers and rolled my hair up in them. Then I covered it with silver hair spray I’d kept from the time I went to a costume party as a bag lady. Over that mess, I tied a madras babushka, a relic from when I was a surfer girl on the Galveston waves. I pulled on an old pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized shirt that could have been my daddy’s, and touched off the disguise with a pair of huge reflecting sunglasses. I only hoped that Carl would appreciate my ingenuity and not question his decision to hire me.
The air was already insufferably hot that morning, and there was no gulf breeze blowing in from the South. The humidity was probably at an all-time high of 150 percent. I was miserable as I drove down the Gulf Freeway. I’d been having problems with the air-conditioning in my car. Some days it chose to work. Some days it didn’t. Today was one of those days it chose to torture me. By the time I reached my destination, I was drenched with perspiration and praying for rain to cool things off. Luckily my hair was in curlers, or the humidity would have made it look like bedsprings.
I parked two blocks north of The Rex so that Lon wouldn’t spot my car, an unforgettable yellow with a black convertible top. When I reached the block on which the cafe sat, I saw Lon, still perched at the corner like a public fixture waiting for a dog to come along and christen it.
I had beaten the lunch crowd so that I could have some time alone with Carl. As I made my way to the rear of the cafe, my appearance drew a lot of attention. I pulled my glasses down and waved at the waitresses as they stared at me. They cracked up.
At the entrance to the kitchen, I stopped. I have an aversion to kitchens; I never want to spend too much time in or near one. Carl was sitting on a stool reading the newspaper. “Hi,” I said, causing him to glance at me. A curious expression formed on his face. It tickled me.
“Can I help you?” Carl asked.
I laughed and pulled off my sunglasses.
“Well, I’ll be,” Carl said and smiled broadly.
“Didn’t recognize me, did you?”
“Nope. What’re you doing in that getup?”
“Fooling the cops, what else? Can we talk?”
Carl shook his head in apparent disbelief as we went to sit at a corner table out of earshot of the others.
“Carl.” I spoke his name soberly after we were seated and, getting his attention, placed my hand on his large forearm. “She wasn’t raped.”
Perhaps I should have eased into that particular piece of news, but I didn’t. I hadn’t expected the reaction it drew. Carl’s head dropped down, his chin on his chest, and he uttered such a loud sob that it startled me. He pulled his arm away and covered his face with his hands for a minute while he recovered himself. Silently, I waited for him to speak.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh and then took a paper napkin from the tin, wiped his face and eyes, and blew his nose. “I’m so glad,” he said hoarsely.
I could tell that he had loved her very much.
Then he said, “You believe me now, don’t you, Mavis?”
“I believed you yesterday.”
“No—no, you didn’t. You were just humoring me and you needed the money, but you believe me now, don’t you?”
What could I say?
“What’s next?” he said.
“I really need to get into her apartment, Carl, but I’ve been warned away. Can you get me in the back door?”
“Sure. Want to go now?”
“In a few minutes. I don’t want that police officer outside to catch me anywhere near here. Does he come in here to eat lunch?”
“Naw. He’s only been coming in later in the day to fill his coffee thermos,” he said. “Free of charge.”
“Good, then we have some time to talk. I need to know more about Doris. What did she look like? Do you have a picture of her?”
Carl frowned at me. “Only one, a Polaroid of all of us here. It was taken after closing one night last year when we had a birthday party for one of the girls. You can’t see Doris very well, but you can have it if it’ll help. Will I get it back?”
I patted his hand. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
Carl got up and went back into the kitchen and then returned with the photograph. It had a tiny hole in it at the top, as if it had been tacked up on the wall. He handed it to me and pointed out Doris. It was a group picture, taken from across the room. Her features were not clear. She was a blonde, of medium height, but I couldn’t discern much else.
“What color eyes did she have?”
“Brown.”
“Did she have any distinguishing characteristics or traits, Carl?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—scars or tattoos or nervous habits. Was there anything unusual about her at all?”
“No. Just the way she talked, like I told you. She always sounded smart, like you—big words. I can’t think of anything else.”
“What would she say? Can you think of anything typical?”
“She said ‘clearly’ a lot.”
“’Clearly?’”
“Yeah like ‘Clearly you can see my point. And one time she said it was ‘incumbent’ upon me to redecorate the cafe to attract a better class of customers.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Carl asked in a tough-guy tone.
“I just … I’m sorry. I just see some humor in your remembering certain words.”
“You asked. Anyhow, I did go home and look them up,” he said, ducking his head.
“I get the picture. I just wish there was something more, something that would give me a clue at where to start.”
“Why don’t you talk to the girls? There’s time before the lunch rush. Maybe they noticed somethin’ I didn’t.”
“Okay.” I was praying for a miracle.
Carl beckoned at the girls and they came over, pulling up chairs around the booth. The three of them were all dressed alike, the same as the previous day, except the uniforms were now blue. They had typical southern names: Mary Sue, Betty Lou and Carol Ann. I was impressed. And envious.
Betty Lou was snide. She immediately pointed out that Doris’ hair was not really blond, that Doris touched up the roots monthly. I didn’t like her, but the information was helpful. Mary Sue and Carol Ann didn’t have much to say. Doris hadn’t made close friends of any of them, but had been nice in a standoffish kind of way. Mary Sue said Doris was a good listener, that she let them cry on her shoulder, but never confided her problems in them.
When they’d gone back to their side of the room, I asked Carl what Doris did on her days off.
“Day off. She always worked six days a week with Mondays off.”
“What did she do on Mondays? What did she do this past Monday? That was the night she was killed, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Last Monday she went somewheres and came back around six and ate dinner with me. Afterwards she went back upstairs and I never saw her again until I found her body on Tuesday morning.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She always went somewheres. Every week. Shopping, I guess.”
“Did she own a car?”
“Nope. She’d take the bus. Or sometimes she’d borrow my car, but not too much. The bus comes by a couple of blocks from here, and she’d walk over and catch it.”
“Where does that bus go?”
“Downtown, but she could get transfers and go anywhere in Houston she wanted. There’s even a bus down to Galveston a couple’a times each day. I know ’cause my sister catches it sometimes to go down there to see one of my brothers. She could be going anywhere, Mavis. She never told me.”
“Well, would she come home with anything? Groceries or clothes or anything?”
“Sometimes, but there’s a grocery store not far from here. She’d go there and pick up things every now and then during the day betwee
n lunches and dinners if she was working split shift. She couldn’t have needed much. I let ‘em eat two meals here.”
“You don’t have any idea where she’d go on Mondays?”
“I told you, no. Sorry. She kept it to herself,” Carl said, shrugging.
“Where did she bank?”
“I don’t think she did. I’d cash her checks for her.”
My First Murder Page 4