My First Murder

by Susan P. Baker

  Monday morning I connived for three hours at the University of Texas till finding out that Doris Jones was really Elizabeth Anne Reynolds of Fort Worth. She had been a partner in the law firm of Spencer and Reynolds. Her home was in Arlington, Texas. She had been a member of the alumni association until last year. I took down her office and home addresses before I left.

  After that, by a long-distance call to Carl, I okayed a trip to Fort Worth. Carl also informed me that a “great big cop” was looking for me. That would be Ben. I immediately felt better except that Carl told him that I really was in Austin.

  Lastly, I made contact with a panicky Margaret. It seems that Mavis Davis Productions was finally in demand to produce. She’d had calls on several subpoenas, a background investigation, and a home study. After numerous monotonous minutes of encouragement, I convinced her that she was capable of doing the work all by her little self, told her my plans, and cut loose.

  By Monday noon, this young woman—or so I keep telling myself—was headed north on Interstate 35. It would take approximately four hours to make my destination. Less if I ignored that ridiculous double-nickel law, which I could hardly resist doing. After all, there were some areas where it was legal to do sixty-five. Not that I drove as slowly as sixty-five.

  The questions were spinning around and around in my brain, and the adrenaline was flowing again. My foot was like lead strapped to the accelerator as I left the true hill country behind and aimed for the soft slopes of northern Texas.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At a convenience store on the outskirts of Arlington, I bought a street map of the Fort Worth-Dallas area. It had been years since my childhood visits to Six Flags Over Texas, an amusement park slightly smaller than Disneyland, way before Interstate 20—which runs from Fort Worth, through Arlington and some other bedroom communities, to Dallas—was finished. Even though I roughly knew my way around, I didn’t want to waste precious time on wrong turns.

  The second thing I did was say a prayer. Then I gathered up my nerve while I was still getting a rush and drove, almost straight, to the Reynolds’ homestead.

  Situated in a small, exclusive subdivision just a leap from the new interstate, the house was a split-level ranch style on about a half-acre lot immersed in maple trees and lots of other greenery. It would have fallen in the $100-to-200-thousand range by Houston standards. I was suitably impressed.

  I parked across the street and surveyed the area for a moment. I and my poor little Mustang felt shabby and out of place. In that neighborhood we were like a solitary blemish on an otherwise clear complexion. With my luck, if I lurked too long, the neighbors would call the police.

  Finally, I forced myself out of the car and approached the front door, my fingers crossed. If my luck held, the family would still live there. My palms became sweaty the minute my finger pushed the doorbell. I waited. My eyes swept the portals of the adjacent homes. No one made an appearance. Nor did anyone open the door in front of which I was standing. I rang again and waited. Nothing. Talk about frustration. I’d gotten all nervous over nothing.

  Well, I had two choices. I could wait or I could go see her partner. I chose the latter. When I got back into the car, I looked up the office address in Fort Worth and headed west.

  It was almost four-thirty when I reached the address of Spencer and Reynolds. Surprisingly, the building was in what I’d normally consider a lower-class, but-not-quite-sleazy, neighborhood in the older part of town. I’d been expecting something on par with the house I’d just left. The building at least predated the Korean War, and possibly World War II. The foyer’s ceiling was more than twenty feet high and hanging down from it was an old crystal chandelier. The walls were paneled halfway up with what appeared to be mahogany. The floor was cracked marble.

  The elevator wasn’t working, so I climbed the dimly lit stairs to the fourth floor. There was very little activity anywhere. I was not at all at ease during my ascent. The building was in a bad state of disrepair and appeared to have very few tenants. When I finally found the suite of offices listed on the law school alumni form, they were vacant.

  I searched up and down the hall until I found a talkative young lady who reminded me very much of Candy. She told me that the previous year the building had been purchased for renovation. All tenants were being forced to move. Did she know anything about Spencer and Reynolds? No, just my luck, she had been hired only recently.

  My first inclination was to borrow a chair and sit down for a good cry. I was tired and thirsty. I hadn’t stopped for lunch and my stomach was growling at five-minute intervals. I felt sticky and uncomfortable. But I wasn’t defeated. I thanked her and descended the gloomy staircase.

  Back out on the street in the declining north Texas sun, I spotted an antiquated drug store catty-comer from where I stood. I crossed over to it and went inside in search of a phone book. It appeared to be a mom-and-pop operation. Mom, who was behind the soda fountain, directed me to a real, genuine, wooden phone booth, like the kind Superman used. It was in the back of the store, hidden behind a magazine and card rack. Superman wouldn’t have needed directions because of his X-ray vision.

  I slipped inside and closed the door. The light came on, exposing unique inscriptions and wood carvings, probably left by the neighborhood youth corps, but the phone book was mostly intact. I sat down and flipped through it, letting my fingers do the you know what.

  Spencer and Reynolds no longer existed, but Vernon Spencer, Attorney at Law, did. I copied down the address and replaced the book. Glancing at my watch, I didn’t have much hope of catching him in the office, so decided to stop at the fountain for a Coke.

  Mom was a short, elderly little lady with blued hair who appeared to be in her early seventies. She wore a full-length apron over her flowery, shirtwaist dress. I smiled at her as I put my briefcase on her counter and seated myself upon one of the stools that was permanently bolted down. I let my shoes fall off and clatter to the floor and put my stockinged feet up on the ledge.

  “We’re about to close,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I just … thought … nevermind.” I reached for my briefcase in disappointment. I was really thirsty more than anything else, but it could wait.

  “You look tired.”

  “Yeah. It’s been a long trip,” I said as my feet groped around for my shoes.

  “Where you from?”

  “Houston.”

  “Just get here?”

  “A little while ago.”

  “Nonstop trip?”

  “Yes. Well, I drove up from Austin this morning.” I turned to leave.

  “Well, sit down then. I’m not in that big a hurry. Just like to close around five or so, before dark, you know, ‘cause it’s not that safe around here then.”

  “Thanks. Sure you don’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t offer if I did. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. What can I get for you?”

  “Just a Coke would be fine.” I sat back down and let my shoes slip off again.

  She chuckled. “You’re hungry I’ll bet.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I can wait.”

  “How about a nice club sandwich, a glass of milk, and a piece of my homemade apple pie. I still have a slice left.”

  I grinned at her when my stomach rumbled. “That would be great if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No bother. I’d just throw the pie out or take it home for my husband. I bake fresh pies every morning ’cause everybody around here loves ‘em. You just sit there and relax, and I’ll have it all up in a jiffy.” She turned her back on me and went down the way a bit and began pulling out all the fixings from an old refrigerator at the end of the bar.

  I took a moment to look around. It was as if I’d stepped back into the thirties. There was a room off to one side with a caged window and lettering that said PHARMACY. I could see a bald head bobbing around behind the packages of medications that were piled up on the shelves. I took it that Pop was
the pharmacist.

  The walls were lined with shelves of small gift items, perfume, and makeup. There were a few small wooden tables and chairs in the back near the phone booth. My eyes swept back to the counter that displayed real soda fountains and red-topped gallon jars of what used to be penny candy. I watched while Mom popped a cone-shaped paper cup into a metal holder and pulled a handle. She filled the cup with water and came back smiling as she placed it in front of me.

  “That’ll get you started,” she said. “Nothing like a cold drink of water.”

  I gulped it down. She was right.

  “Whatcha doing up here in our neck of the woods?” she called over her shoulder as she began putting the sandwich together after she pulled the toasted bread from a small toaster oven.

  “Checking on somebody,” I called back.

  “You a police woman or something?”

  I hesitated, then decided it couldn’t hurt to tell her. “Sort of an investigator.”

  “Oh. Well, isn’t that nice. You make your living that away?”

  “I’m trying. I do a lot of stuff like serving subpoenas and doing home studies for adoptions and child custody cases. This is my first case like this one.”

  She came over and placed in front of me a large white plate piled high with a triple-decker sandwich and potato chips. “There,” she said, pleased with herself. Then she pulled some napkins from a metal container and set them beside the plate, shuffled back to the refrigerator, poured me a tall glass of milk, and brought it back. “Eat up.”

  I took a huge bite and closed my eyes as I began chewing. I knew she was watching me, but I couldn’t help it. It was just what I needed and I intended to enjoy it.

  “So who’re you looking for? Anybody I’d know?”

  With my mouth full, I stared across at her and held up one finger. When I’d swallowed, I said, “This is great. Thanks so much. I’m not looking for anyone. Well, I am, but I’ve found him, or I will if the address in the phone book is accurate. I’m checking on someone though.” I took another bite.

  As I chewed, Mom pulled up a tall wooden stool and perched on it as she stared across the counter at me. “So who’re you checking on? Or is it not proper to ask?”

  Again I had to finish chewing. Then I took a gulp of milk that was so cold it made my teeth hurt. “Elizabeth Reynolds.” I wasn’t prepared for the look of shock that flashed across the old lady’s face. I almost choked on the third bite. Her eyes got large and the skin tightened across her wrinkled face as she grimaced.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Did you know her?” I asked after a lot of rapid chewing and swallowing.

  “Oh, yes. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Elizabeth, good and bad alike. She grew up here. She used to come in here when she was a little girl. Her parents lived just around the corner.”

  “Really? Are they still there? Can you give me their address?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. They passed on a few years before Elizabeth disappeared.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “She was an only child. Born late in their lives. She came as a big surprise.” The old lady smiled then, a twinkle in her eye. “A good one though. They raised her with as much energy as if they were twenty years younger. She died. Elizabeth’s mother, I mean. And six months later, he followed her. Elizabeth was heartbroken.” She shook her head at me. “Elizabeth was like a daughter to all of us around here.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  “Why? Do you know where Elizabeth is? Have you found her?”

  I carefully avoided answering. “Tell me, Mrs….”

  “Newbold.”

  “Mrs. Newbold.” I held out my hand toward her. “My name is Mavis Davis.” We shook. Her hand was soft and frail, but she took mine firmly. “Did you know her partner? And her family?” “Oh, yes. I didn’t like him much. The partner, I mean. Vernon Spencer.” She practically spit out his name. “She met him in Austin at law school. She talked him into coming back here and going in with her. She’d always sworn that she was going to come back to the old neighborhood and set up practice when she got out of school. I didn’t believe her, but she did. Right across the street in the old Barham building.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was there before I came here, but the office isn’t there anymore.”

  “Spencer moved practically right after Elizabeth left. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. He didn’t belong. He was after big money, he was, but not content to wait for it to come to him. You know the type I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I never liked him. He didn’t have the time of day for us from the very beginning. He wouldn’t even come in here for lunch like Elizabeth did. Always took his downtown or someplace fancy somewhere. Like him. Fancy-pants sort of person with big ideas.”

  “What about her husband? Did you know him?”

  “Sure, and the kids, too—two of the most beautiful girls you ever saw. He’s a local boy. They were high school sweethearts. They got married right after graduation and Elizabeth put him through school and had the babies while he got his education. He’s a professor at the university in Arlington.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s an all right sort, I guess. Nothing special to my mind.” I had the impression that no one would be good enough for Elizabeth as far as Mrs. Newbold was concerned, but I didn’t say so. I took another bite of my sandwich while I thought about what she’d told me. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around and saw an old man approaching the counter area.

  “Newey, this is Miss Davis. She’s been asking about Elizabeth Reynolds,” Mrs. Newbold said by way of introduction. “This is my other half, Miss Davis.”

  I smiled, and swallowed, and held out my hand toward the old man. He was not much taller than she was. He was dressed in a white shirt and navy slacks and peered at me through a pair of bifocals. He shook my hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “What about Elizabeth?” He eyed me suspiciously, his brow wrinkled. “You know her?”

  “Not exactly. I’m checking on her background.”

  He perched on a barstool a couple down from me and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “For what? Why’re you asking about her?”

  I glanced from Pop to Mom. Her face had grown serious, and she was studying me. I knew if I was to get any more information out of them, I was going to have to show my hand. I inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh. They seemed like nice people who were concerned that my presence might not be in Elizabeth’s best interest. I didn’t know what to say except to come right out with it. I tried to be as gentle as possible, but how do you break news such as murder gently? I guess I’ll never figure that one out. I looked back at Mr. Newbold. “I don’t know how to tell you, but I’ve been hired by someone in Houston to look into Elizabeth’s death.”

  Mrs. Newbold gasped and clutched her chest. And Mr. Newbold quickly trotted around the length of the counter and held her to him. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his shirt. He stood there, eyes closed, letting out sharp breaths of air. God, I hated that.

  I sat there, watching them, bowing my head, and then watching them again. I’d lost my appetite and pushed the plate away. I swallowed the remainder of the milk. I lit a cigarette and got up to look for an ashtray. I wandered around the store while they clung to each other. Finally, I brought the ashtray back from one of the tables and sat back down, waiting for one of them to speak.

  “You gonna be all right, Mama?” he asked her as he pulled back and looked into her face.

  She nodded and reached for a paper napkin. She wiped her face. “Let’s close up.”

  Neither of them would look at me.

  He let go of her and went to the front door. He pulled the shade down and turned the dead bolt with his key.

  She got up from the stool and pushed it off to the side. Then she looked at me. “You finished?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’ll rinse
these things out. Then you’ll come upstairs with us and tell us all about it.”

  “Yes.” I felt like the grim reaper.

  The three of us went up the stairs at the back of the store. Their home was a two-bedroom apartment. They took me into the living area and sat me down in an old armchair covered with a handmade afghan.

  I told them what I knew and showed them the pictures. Mrs. Newbold wept some more. Mr. Newbold cleared his throat a lot. When I was through, Mrs. Newbold went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee for them, tea for me, and returned with a tray full of fruit and sandwiches.

  “I think you’re right, Miss Davis,” Mrs. Newbold said when she was situated on the sofa next to her husband. “It wasn’t any serial killer.”

  “Please call me Mavis.”