Murder My Past

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Murder My Past Page 9

by Delia C. Pitts


  “Stevens, I’m not here as a tourist and I’m not with the police. I’m here on my own account.”

  He cringed, fearing a legal gambit. “Yes, the police told me you were connected to that poor woman. Her husband, they said.”

  “Former husband.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. That has to have been such a devastating experience, finding her like that.”

  “Thank you. Yeah, it was.” I paused a beat, while he slurped coffee to cover the quiver in his lower lip. “I wanted to check your memory of the night before the death. Did anything stand out to you. Did you see anything that struck you as strange or uncomfortable?”

  Stevens turned the mug 360 degrees, examining the Continental Regent logo. “It’s funny you raise that. The police asked me about the day itself, the day she died. Everything I remembered: where I’d been; who I’d seen. All that. But they didn’t ask about the day before.” He shrugged at the mysterious ways of cops.

  “Something stood out to you? Something different about the day before the murder?” Using the blunt word made Stevens’s eyes jiggle. He stopped their dance with a tap to his eyelid.

  “Yes, not a big something. Probably not important.”

  “What was it? No telling what’s important and what’s not.”

  “Well, I remember seeing your wife–ex-wife–talking at the entrance to the gift shop. Around two when I took my afternoon break. She was with a tall man with a red beard and curly red hair.”

  Gerry Keith. “How do you know it was Annie and not another woman?”

  “Your wife is–was–a striking woman, Mr. Rook. And, well, um… there weren’t many people of her description in attendance at that conference…” He drifted over the obvious.

  “You mean, she was one of the few African Americans in the crowd. Right?”

  “Right. Just a handful.” He gulped as embarrassment flushed his jowls. “And she was so beautiful, she was hard to miss. Or forget.”

  “How did they look, Annie and the red-headed man? Friendly, angry, distant, professional, cozy?”

  “They looked cheerful. Lots of smiles. Like old classmates at a reunion.”

  “Kissing, hugging? Like that?” The words gritted between my teeth and I raised the coffee mug toward my face.

  “No, nothing like that. Just heads thrown back, wide eyes, easy laughs. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course. But they seemed comfortable, happy. Until she showed up.”

  “She?” I figured the little sprite Sarah Anastos had broken into the enchanted scene between Annie and her suitor, Gerry.

  “Yes, a new lady arrived at the gift shop and spoke to them. I don’t know what she said, but your wife and her friend pulled apart, like they’d been disciplined by the principle for rowdy behavior in the school cafeteria.”

  “What did this new woman look like?”

  “A white lady. Older than your wife. By ten, maybe fifteen years. Plain face, no make-up. With blonde hair chopped in spikes around her head. She wore a shiny blue pants suit and a white blouse with a frill at the neck and buttons down the front.” Stevens touched his own tight collar and strained shirt placket to illustrate the look.

  Images of Pearl Byrne’s prim, dated style jumped in my mind. This was the new information I was after. The payoff for this painful interview with Stevens. Maybe Pearl knew something or saw something that might help me crack this case. What had she said to Annie? To Gerry Keith? “You were too far away to make out their conversation, I guess.”

  “No, I couldn’t hear anything. I was across the lobby. Maybe 150 yards away. It was like a silent movie. The whole encounter took a minute, three max. I wouldn’t have remembered it at all, except that same blonde lady was with you the next afternoon, insisting I take you both up to Room 1823. To find out why your wife wasn’t answering the phone. Some strange coincidence, right?”

  “Yeah, strange.” I studied the dregs of my coffee until the tears dried under my lids. “One more question. When you entered the room, when we found… found the body. Did you see a laptop or tablet anywhere?”

  “No.” He squinted as he recalled the scene. “I didn’t see a computer of any kind. Is your wife’s missing?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I can ask the cleaning staff if they know anything about a laptop.” Stevens glanced at his watch, then tucked his arm below the table, as if the impatient gesture was rude.

  I took pity on the harried manager. “Time for me to shove off. You’ve been more than generous with your time.” I handed him my business card.

  “I hope I was some help. I don’t think I was… but, maybe…”

  “You helped. I don’t know how much yet. But you helped.”

  The next morning’s commuter train ride to Poughkeepsie demanded little: stay vertical and focus on my questions for Pearl Byrne. I wanted to find out what she’d said to Annie in that encounter outside the hotel gift shop. I hoped she might tell me about Annie’s planned presentation, the one derailed by her murder. If Pearl could offer insights into Annie’s relationships with Gerry Keith and Rick Luna, I might find more evidence pointing to their involvement in her death. I didn’t think Pearl was the killer. She’d led me to Annie’s room. And her horrified reaction to the discovery there seemed genuine. Pearl would have to be an ice-cold psycho to pull off that level of deception. My gut said Pearl was in the clear. But this visit could let me rule her out. And rule in someone else.

  Riding against the commuter horde gave me room to sprawl across two seats for the trip north. Outside the hustling train, the scenery was industrial: flat gray buildings trimmed in amber brick; a shroud of parched August brown weighing on the canopy of trees escorting us from the city. The streets slogged like streams of black tar beside the train tracks.

  I’d phoned for an appointment, but ducked telling Pearl why I wanted to see her. When she agreed to meet, the crack in her voice said she thought we needed a round of mutual comfort. Maybe we did. So, I’d dressed for the pity party: black trousers, fresh from the cleaners, and a summer-weight shirt, also black. No tie, but to lift the gloom, my socks sported white baseballs on a field of blue, Pearl’s favorite color.

  The taxi driver had no trouble finding the offices of Maid for You, Pearl Byrne’s cleaning service. Four blocks down the main drag, three-quarters around the traffic circle, another three blocks to a dingy remodeled garage on a quiet side street. I could have walked from the train station, but sacrificing the cash to avoid the sweat was worth it. No reason to start our talk with a lathered collar and a screaming foot.

  Two powder-blue station wagons were angled on the cement apron in front of the building. The company name was painted on the side of each vehicle: sunny yellow letters dabbed over the crossed handles of a broom and a mop above a foaming bucket of suds. The same logo swung on an oval sign above the entrance. I was in the right place, a certainty reinforced by a cheery girl with blonde ringlets who stood from a metal desk to greet me when I pushed through the glass door. She said she was Pamela and Ms. Pearl was looking forward to my arrival. Three women in pale blue mechanic’s overalls, their ponytails tied with yellow bandannas, lounged on metal folding chairs in front of Pam’s desk. Rolled sleeves exposed the women’s bunchy biceps and red wrists. Their cuffs floated above bare ankles and Converse sneakers. I guessed they were the squad waiting for their next assignment. The three shifted on their squeaky chairs and stared at me; no smiles, just harvesting data. Shoes, belt, buttons on my shirt. Pam giggled and twiddled a curl behind her ear. I pinned eyes on the door beyond Pam’s desk.

  Pearl Byrne flung open the door. “Oh, you are scary prompt! I like that, Mr. Rook. Please come in.” She blocked the entrance, so I had no choice but to step into her arms. Sinking into her doughy embrace felt good, like a reunion. The soapy scent rising from her neck was as I remembered from that gri
m day in the Continental Regent hotel: clean and warm with vanilla. Tangled with the sweetness was a new smell, powdery ash. We hugged for a ten-count. Then she snuffled against my neck, patted my back, and pulled away. She pointed toward four upholstered arm chairs enclosing a low round table. The furniture sprawled in front of her aircraft carrier-size desk.

  I didn’t know whether to call her Pearl or Ms. Byrne. Death made our connection as intimate as it gets. But I hardly knew her. In the dismal circumstances, I stuck with a narrow smile and skipped using a name. “Thank you for making time to see me. I know you’re busy.”

  “Everyone’s busy. I’m not special.” Pearl wore a blue-and-white striped shirt stuck into the elastic waist of dark pants that bagged at the knees. Hiding her beautiful legs like that was sad, but I coped.

  When I’d dropped into the flowery brocade of a chair, Pearl walked toward a cabinet pressed against the high window beside the desk. Two large white crocheted doilies protected the counter’s wooden surface. More lacy circles festooned the low table at my knees. On one of the doilies was a clear glass ashtray. Gray cinders pyramided in the hollowed block.

  Pearl caught me staring at the ashtray. She smiled in thin apology: “Picked up that bad habit in high school. During my days as a teen terror.”

  “I did too. The tough guy stance looked cool.”

  “But you ditched it?”

  “After Iraq.”

  She tapped a bone from a pack of Camels on the desk. “Smart.” A match flickered toward the cigarette dangling from her mouth. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker. I can ask Pammy to bring you some if you’d like.” She lifted a large army green thermos from the doily and tipped it toward me. “Or you can try some of my fresh lemonade. Icy cold, squeezed this morning, laced with local honey and dabbed with strawberries for color.”

  “You had me at icy cold. Thank you.” A splash of rye for an improvised whiskey sour would have been nice, but I didn’t ask and Pearl didn’t offer.

  After I murmured phrases of awe and gratitude for the virgin lemonade, she recited the recipe. Then we savaged the brutal August heat for a few more sentences. I needed to get to the point of my visit, but couldn’t come up with a graceful transition. So, after a third gulp of lemonade, I dived in without elegance.

  “I wanted to check your memory on a few facts about the hours and days before Annie died.” My longest sentence of the visit ended on a rough note.

  I didn’t know how she’d take the change of subject. To my surprise, Pearl’s mouth curved upward, her eyes crinkling in gratitude. “You know, the police were so curt, so matter-of-fact about those horrible things. I never got the chance to talk about it. And of course, no one up here wanted details of a death. My neighbors, workers, friends from church. Not even the priest. No one wants to hear about death.” A plume of smoke curled toward the ceiling. She knocked her cigarette against the ashtray. “I can’t blame them, really. You feel as though you’re infecting them, spreading a curse if you keep talking, don’t you? Everyone wants you to lay those thoughts to rest, leave them in the past, bury them where they belong.”

  I watched a drop of condensation skid past the pink liquid in my glass. I swirled the tumbler once, then set it on the low table. “When was the last time you saw Annie? Do you remember?”

  “I do.” Pearl sat forward until her knees bumped against the table. “She was so bright then, gleaming and polished, like a shiny ornament on a Christmas tree or the figurine on the hood of a fancy car.” A gasp halted her memory. “Oh, that doesn’t sound right at all. As if Anniesha was some engraved idol or fetish. She wasn’t. A totem, I mean. Or an abstraction. Anniesha was the liveliest person I’ve ever known.”

  Tears streamed over splotches of red on her white cheeks. My gut was right: Pearl was no killer. She stubbed out the cigarette, then struggled from her chair. She circled the desk to retrieve a tissue box from a lower drawer. Dropping the box on the table, she swiped a wad of Kleenex over her eyes. “You asked when I’d seen her last?”

  “Yes. Was it in the hotel?” I could have specified the gift shop. But I kept the question open-ended to avoid steering the response.

  “We’d made plans to meet at two on the afternoon before our presentation. We wanted to review a script we’d drafted, run through the division of labor, and sketch answers to questions we thought the audience might pose.”

  “Where were you going to meet?”

  “Neither of us knew the neighborhood at all. Never been at the Continental Regent before, so we didn’t know any restaurants or cafés nearby. We decided it would be easiest to meet in front of the gift shop in the hotel lobby.”

  “And did you see Annie there?”

  “Yes, she was already at the gift shop when I arrived.” Pearl glanced toward the window, avoiding my eyes.

  “Alone?”

  “No. Not alone.”

  “Who was with Annie?”

  “She was talking with that professor, Gerald Keith.” A deep sigh, as if the man’s name caused aches to ping in her chest. Pearl pressed her lips into a line bisecting her round face. “I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you: I don’t like him much.”

  Stern damnation from this gentle woman. Blazing hellfire in a few measured words. Teamsters unloading their filthiest terms couldn’t match her ferocity. I nodded and rubbed my damp palms against the rough cloth of the arm chair. “You’d met Professor Keith before?”

  “Yes, he’d visited me here at my office. Brought that little girl with him too.”

  “Sarah Anastos?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Scrawny red-headed thing. Stuck on Professor Keith like a chickenpox blister, she was.” Dissing Sally Anastos returned a spark to Pearl’s bleary eyes.

  I tilted my head at the neat disease imagery, but kept Pearl on track. “When you saw Annie and Keith at the gift shop, how did they seem? Cool? Chummy? All business?” Repeating the questions I’d posed yesterday to hotel manager Brock Stevens kept me from grinding my teeth in rage.

  “Oh, they were friendly alright. Plenty cozy. Leaning close into each other, his hands hovering over her shoulders, her fingers fluttering above his vest. If you want to call that chummy, you’d be right on the mark.” As she snapped the last word, her tone was cool and tart; the honey stayed in the lemonade.

  “What did they do when they saw you?”

  “Jumped like I’d caught them plotting some grand intrigue. I laughed; the shock on their faces was just that funny.”

  “Shock? How do you mean?”

  “Surprise mixed with guilt. Once upon a time, when I was twenty years younger and fifty pounds thinner, I used to teach seventh graders in a parochial school. I’d see that same look on the sweaty faces of those little cherubs at least once a day. A portion of shame, mixed with a bit of wonder, topped with a frosting of pride. Children are funny creatures. Adults too, I guess.”

  “That’s how Professor Keith looked? With Annie?” I stuffed my hands into the crevices next to the chair’s plush cushions. Hidden, the fingers curved into fists.

  Pearl stroked her glance over my face, then pushed the box of tissues to my side of the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Mr. Rook.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Pearl absorbed my lie without challenge. She refilled my glass from her thermos bottle. “I’d like to show you something, if I might.”

  “Sure.” A change of subject was good. As welcome as the cool lemonade drizzling down my throat.

  Pearl fished a small laptop from the center drawer of her desk and set it on the table between us. “You know how Anniesha and I worked on our presentation before we arrived in New York?”

  I shook my head. The movement spiked the pain that had been gathering at the base of my skull. I jabbed fingers into tight muscles along my shoulders, but the ache spiraled.

  “We did it ov
er video conference calls. You know, those apps where both parties log in. Like Zoom. Split screens allowed us to exchange documents, review tables, draft PowerPoint slides together. It was exciting. Her in Miami, me here, but we were working together as if we were in the same room. Made me feel modern and tech savvy working online with Anniesha like that.” Pearl tapped the keyboard then swung the screen in my direction. “I recorded our meetings.”

  On the screen Annie’s face sprang to life. She wore a pink polo shirt with a green palm tree stitched on the collar. Glistening skin, rosy gloss on her lips and cheeks. Bright teeth, slanted black eyes brimming with humor under those thick bangs. She’d brushed her hair into a loose ponytail which draped over her left shoulder. Pearl poked at a key to lift the mute. Annie’s voice seared my veins. Seeing her, hearing her like this, was a fresh reminder of how Annie had been my home, my energy, my strength when I was young and whole. She laughed into the camera, teasing about some grammatical error on a slide: “And you’re supposed to be the English teacher? Shame on you, Miss Pearl!”

  The two women chirped for a week. I didn’t hear a word of the exchange. Watching Annie’s face was all I could manage. A buzz invaded my ears, humming until their conversation dwindled to a drone. My fingers cooled, vague pains pricking under the nails. A dark halo squeezed the edges of the screen, then collapsed like the pupil of a sun-blinded eye. The unexpected encounter with Annie’s vibrant, living form had driven from my mind all the questions I had planned to ask Pearl.

  The buzzing stopped when Pearl patted my forearm. “You alright, Mr. Rook?” Her fingertips tapped my sweaty skin from wrist to elbow.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Another lie, but her smile deserved the effort. “Thank you for sharing that.”

  “I thought you’d want to see her again. To remember Anniesha the way she was. Before...”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

 

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