My First Murder

by Susan P. Baker

  “Did she have any credit cards? Did her mail come here to the cafe?”

  “She never got any mail. The mailman would have delivered it here if she got any. She never even asked if there was any for her. I thought that was strange—that she didn’t get any—but she didn’t. I don’t guess she had any credit cards because they would’ve had to send her a bill, but she never got any.”

  I lit a cigarette and, while I puffed on it, studied a spot on the ceiling for a minute. “What about utility bills or a telephone bill?”

  “The utilities are included in the rent, and she didn’t have no, I mean, any, telephone. She could have used the one in here if she wanted to, but she never did except when I’d ask her to call one of the girls for me if they were late or something.”

  “What did she do with her money?”

  “I don’t know. The pay isn’t that great, but the way she lived she could have saved a bundle. She made better tips than the other girls most days and I don’t charge a lot of rent for the apartment. Maybe she has some money stashed somewheres.”

  “I’ll look for it while I’m up there. Could she have had a post office box somewhere?”

  “Sure, but if she did, I didn’t know about it.”

  “Didn’t she carry any keys?”

  “Yeah,” he perked up, his eyes widening as they looked into mine. “Come to think of it, she used to have a key ring with a key to this place, one to each door upstairs, and a couple of little funny-looking keys on it. I remember because one time right after she started working for me, she laid them on the counter after closing when she was counting her tips. When she caught me lookin’, she snatched them up and stuffed them in her pocket. The next time, it was just the three keys I knew about.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. I hope the cops didn’t find them. Let’s go on upstairs, okay?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was as excited as a girl on her first car date. If I could just find Doris’ keys, I might have a lead. It was a slim chance, but better than anything I’d been able to come up with so far. Carl let me in the back door, which was at the top of a rickety set of stairs in the alley. He went back to the cafe.

  I found myself in Doris Jones’s kitchen. It was small, with a little, white enamel table and two chairs under the window that overlooked the alley. There were an apartment-sized stove and refrigerator, and a few cabinets around the sink. I pulled open the cabinets. They were filled with resale junk. She had a coffeepot set up on one of the counters and a couple of dish towels in a drawer. It could have been anyone’s kitchen.

  The table was sort of half set. Placemats and napkins were in front of each chair. To the side was a small plastic bowl filled with pink envelopes of artificial sweetener, and a set of salt and pepper shakers was over to one side of a napkin holder.

  The bottom drawer of the stove held the pots and pans. Next to the stove were a mop, a broom, and a two-step kitchen stool with a red plastic seat cover.

  The refrigerator was almost empty. The freezer compartment was the same.

  I checked out the bathroom. The towels were J.C. Penney. The gaily-striped shower curtain matched the bath mat and toilet cover. Her medicine chest held no prescription drugs.

  Her living room was furnished with cheap, plastic-covered furniture except for one comfortable-looking recliner that could have been purchased new. It was still in excellent condition. She had a thirteen-inch color television that sat on a homemade bookshelf of green, yellow, red, and blue one-by-ten boards and cinder blocks.

  I took a moment to glance at some of the titles of the paperbacks that adorned the shelves. There was a fair representation of recent best-sellers, but nothing unusual.

  I abandoned the living room and went into the bedroom in search of Doris’ purse. I was mildly surprised at what I found. The bedroom was her haven, I guess, because it was obvious she’d spent some of her hard-earned money decorating it. There was a nineteen-inch RCA color TV on a metal stand. The furnishings matched, the curtains and bedclothes matched, and the floor was carpeted. The floors of the other rooms were cheap tile squares and wood.

  Looking through her chest of drawers, I was again surprised. Her undergarments were Lily of France and Vanity Fair—not inexpensive. She had a drawer full of sweaters and a couple looked like cashmere, but the labels were cut off.

  I searched her closet and found several expensive-looking suits. Again no labels. Her blouses were the same, no labels. I knew she couldn’t hide the labels in her shoes and when I pulled them off the rack and looked, it was just as I thought—she’d had money at one time or another. The problem was that these days her make of shoes could be found in expensive stores in any large city.

  I have to admit it. I was horribly, morbidly curious about Doris Jones. I began to wonder whether that was, in fact, her real name. If she’d gone to all this trouble to hide her past, she had probably changed her name. Besides, a woman like her isn’t named Doris or Jones. It was more likely that her first name would be Ashley or Roxanne. I couldn’t begin to imagine her last name.

  After having a good look around, I went over and sat on the edge of her bed. It was quite possible that the police had confiscated her purse and any papers she had. Most women carried purses, but I didn’t find one. I attempted to think like Doris Jones. If I had no bank account, no credit cards, no identification, would I carry a purse? Maybe not. I might carry my money and keys in a pocket and not be bothered.

  I went back to the small closet, pulled a shoe box from the top shelf, and opened it. Empty, except for the gray paper that came with the shoes. I grabbed a second one. Bingo. A purse. I quickly opened it, but it was empty. Not even a scrap of paper or a book of matches. I searched two more boxes, but they, too, were empty. Beginning at one end of the closet and working my way through to the other, I explored the pockets of all her clothes. There was nothing, not even in her winter coat or parka.

  I left the closet, went over to her bed, and raised up her mattress. You never know. But there wasn’t anything there. I examined the drawers of her bedside table, and although I found a small jar of change, that was all. I was growing frustrated. I knew there was literally a key to Doris Jones somewhere in that apartment. Why couldn’t I find it? I was convinced that the hiding place would be so easy that any idiot could find it. Why couldn’t I? I figured that when she was ready to go wherever it was she went, she wouldn’t have to bother to dismantle anything, so her hiding place would be simple.

  I went back into the living room and sat in her chair. I’d pretend to be her. If I was going to hide money or a set of keys where it wouldn’t be obvious but would be easy to get to, where would I put it? I looked around the room. Books, TV, rug on floor, draperies on windows, sofa, chair, lamp, end table. Having made the full circle of the room, my eyes rested on the books again.

  I went over to the bookshelf and pulled a book out at random. I took it by the covers and shook it. Out flew a dollar bill. I shook it again. Another fell out. I grabbed another book and fanned the pages. There were bills here and there. I’d found where she kept her money.

  One by one I yanked the books off the shelves and looked in the bindings for a key. I came up empty-handed. I knew that she’d hide the key or keys someplace obvious, and suddenly I knew where. I went back into her bedroom and pulled open the drawer where the jar of change was. I emptied the change out on her bed. There, in the middle of a pile of nickles, dimes, and quarters, was a solitary key.

  It was small with strange teeth, but I recognized it as a safe deposit box key. My year as a bank teller when I was in college had paid off. Part of that job was relieving the lady who was in charge of safe deposit boxes.

  The problem now was, what bank? There must be a million banks doing business in Houston, Texas. How was I going to figure out in which bank Doris Jones had hidden something? And if I did figure it out, how would I get into her box? The thought of going to the police with what I’d found never even entered my mind.
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  I scooped up the change and returned it to the jar, the jar to the drawer, and sat down to think again, staring at the key resting in the palm of my hand.

  A sense of hopelessness was beginning to overtake me. I was hot and tired and the apartment air was smelly and stifling I couldn’t turn on the window air-conditioning unit without giving myself away. Forcing myself to get up, I began searching again.

  I opened a small jewelry box that I found on the dresser, but it was filled with costume jewelry and a single tiny gold chain. I was expecting to find something more valuable. Another box contained some scarves and some thin grosgrain ribbons that were knotted at each end.

  I went back to the closet to examine her wardrobe a little more closely on the off chance that maybe she had forgotten something. I scrutinized each item of clothing meticulously. I pulled each sweater down from the shelf and searched it. When the shelf was seemingly bare, I got the kitchen step stool and returned to the closet. Standing on the stool, I examined the surface of the shelf. I was hoping for a clothing receipt, a tag, a label, something taped down to the shelf, anything. But there was nothing. She had covered herself like a pro.

  Stepping down, I sat on the stool and faced the interior of the closet, staring, trying to come up with an ingenious idea. I noticed that the left-hand side of the ceiling of the closet contained an access door to the attic crawl space.

  I got down off the stool and moved it so that I could reach that side of the closet ceiling. I climbed up, my hands shaking with excitement, and reached up over my head. With a gentle shove, the trapdoor moved easily to one side. I climbed a step higher, which is no easy feat for me since I suffer from acrophobia, and clung to the frame of the opening as I stuck a hand inside.

  It was dark up there, and the space was not very large. It would have been possible only to crawl, which is why it has the name it does, I guess, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do so. I groped around, searching for something, anything, so long as it wasn’t furry and didn’t move. And I found what I was looking for.

  I grasped the shoe box, pulled it down with me, and hurried back over to the bed. Removing the top, I found a self carbon of a receipt for a safe deposit box at Dickinson State Bank. It was dated the preceding Monday and had a hand-written notation that said “renewal rent.” Doris Jones’s signature was scrawled across the bottom. Needless to say, I was elated.

  Under the receipt was a letter, but no envelope. It was dated two weeks ago.

  Dear Mother,

  I miss you so much lately that I can hardly stand it. I think about you all the time and wonder what it would be like if you were here to go shopping with me and help me pick out my prom dress.

  Why haven’t you called recently? I miss talking to you. There is something I need to tell you but I don’t know how to do it in a letter. It’s about Dad.

  Anne misses you, too. Every once in a while she talks about how she misses your loud mouth cheering for her at the ball games. Ha ha. Seriously, she is getting so good that her coach says she may make the All-Star team this year. I know she’d like it if you would come home and see her play. Also there’s this boy she likes that calls her all the time. You wouldn’t believe how pretty she is when she’s dressed up.

  Mom, is there any possibility that you could come home for my graduation? Will your “problem” be solved by then? I hope so.

  Please call me at the usual time and place next week. I’ll be waiting by the phone. It’s really important. Don’t forget.

  I love you and wish you were here.

  Love, Catherine

  I read the letter twice before I could look further into Doris’ shoe box. My eyes blurred at the thought of this lady who had left her husband and two children and was hiding out because of some “problem.” It must have been really horrible for her to have left them.

  I laid the letter in my lap and reached for the next one. When I lifted it out of the box, the only item left was a family photograph, the faces staring up at me. There was a man, a woman, and two girls. The man appeared to be in his thirties. He had almost-blond hair, and blue eyes, and wore glasses. He looked very nice. The older of the two girls was standing behind the younger. The younger looked like she was around twelve or thirteen while the older looked closer to sixteen or seventeen. Between the younger girl and the man was a lady with brown hair and brown eyes, and a pleasant, oval-shaped face. She wore a single strand of pearls around her neck and a soft-looking, blue blouse.

  I read the other letter. It was brief and to the point and dated the previous week.

  Dear Mother,

  Why haven’t I heard from you? I’ve been by the phone when I’m supposed to. Please call me at the usual time when you get this.

  It’s real, real important! About Madge!

  Love, Catherine

  I gathered up the letters, the receipt, and the picture, and put them in my shoulder bag. I didn’t want to show them to Carl just yet. I glanced at my watch. It had been two hours since my arrival. It was past time to go before Lon Tyler would remember the woman in curlers had gone into, but had never come out of, the cafe.

  I hurriedly straightened up the mess I’d made in the closet, replaced the stool in the kitchen, gathered up the money I’d left lying on the floor of the living room and stuffed it back into the books, and stuffed the books on the shelves. Once I satisfied myself that everything looked the way it had when I arrived, I let myself out the back door.

  When I went back through the cafe kitchen, Carl was busy cooking. It was the end of the lunch-time rush, which gave me a good excuse not to stop and talk. I smiled at Carl and told him I’d call him later. Then I headed for the door.

  I was just approaching the front of the cafe and slipping on my crazy sunglasses when the door was pushed open in front of me. I was suddenly face-to-face with Lon Tyler, who was packing a large thermos under one arm. I’m afraid I almost panicked, I was so surprised, but my glasses were by then upon my nose and when he uttered, “’S’cuse me,” I merely murmured my assent and slipped out the door.

  My hands and knees were shaking as I pulled the door closed and let the screen door slam shut behind me. I had to restrain myself from running all the way back to my car.

  Really, I scolded myself, if I was going to be a detective I was going to have to learn to keep my cool. When I reached my car I drove as fast as possible out of the neighborhood. The devil himself would have had a hard time catching me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Mavis Davis Productions,” Margaret Applebaum’s high-pitched voice sang into the phone when I called her from my apartment after I got out of the shower.

  “Hey Margaret, it’s me,” I said.

  “Hi, Mavis. Where’ve you been? You won’t believe the calls we’ve been getting to serve papers.”

  “When it rains, it pours. Listen, I’ve been over to Doris Jones’s apartment and found a bank where she has a safe deposit box. I need you to call and see if she had an account there, okay?”

  “Sure, Mavis, but what if they won’t tell me?”

  “No, Margaret, what you do is you don’t ask them if she had an account, you call and say that you are verifying her account with that bank before you approve her credit. You state that she’s trying to purchase something from your company.”

  “What company?”

  “Make it up, Margaret,” I said tersely.

  “Well, what would she be buying?”

  “A TV or something.” Sigh. “You say that she stated on her credit application that she had an account there. Call the bookkeeping department. You just want to verify that she indeed has a checking or savings account before your company opens a charge account.”

  “Oh. Okay. What’s the name of the bank?” Margaret asked.

  “Dickinson State Bank.”

  “Where’s that?”

  It’s a good thing I was not at the office. I swear I would have turned violent. “Dickinson,” I answered. “Remember the little city on
the bayou about thirty minutes from here where they have the Strawberry Festival every spring? Call Information for the number or dig through that stack of phone books that’s stored in the cabinet in the bathroom.”

  “Is that all you want me to do?”

  “Yeah, for now. Has Candy gotten there yet?”

  “No. Remember she had to go to the library today to finish a research paper? She’s gonna be late. You want me to lock up and go pick up those papers to serve?”

  I had a plan, but I wasn’t going to let Margaret in on it yet. I was afraid she’d panic. I needed her to go to the bank with me, but until I could talk to her in person to keep her calm, my lips had to remain sealed.