Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  “Yes, ma’am. I am.” I sprinkled a frosting of Texas sugar on my words.

  She measured me, a slow trip down my body, her eyes clouded with cataracts, but still sparkling like river water. “I can tell you where you should look. If you want to know, that is.”

  “Yes, I do want to know. Mrs. …”

  “I’m Queen Esther Monroe. You can call me Queen. Been a long time since I needed the Missus anymore.”

  “Queen, anything you can share would be much appreciated.”

  “Well, come and sit here on the glider and I’ll tell you what Carolyn told me.” She patted the green cushion next to her thigh and I sat down. The two-seater was a tight squeeze, but we managed. Queen pushed the glider as we talked. Slow and easy, like the rhythm of her speech.

  “Carolyn told me she’s been walking around to visit her old house. The one she lived in before she got stashed away in the center here. I don’t think it’s too far from here. So that’s where you ought to check. If you want to find her. That’s where she’ll be. If she wants to be found.”

  Queen patted my knee to make sure I’d understood her message. I thanked her for sharing these insights. This would be a big help in finding her friend, I said.

  The old woman’s nose crinkled in disgust. She spit on the cement floor of the porch. “Oh, Carolyn Wiley’s not my friend. Not since they brought her in here and trimmed off that stringy braid. Hair twisted down past her waist when she arrived here. But they showed her. The conceited high-yaller cow. They took her and cut off that braid the first day. Now she’s got short hair like the rest of us. No, Carolyn Wiley’s not my friend. Not the least little bit. What gave you that fool notion? I can’t stand the stuck-up bitch.”

  The sudden shift startled me; I hiked my shoulders to fend off a quarrel. As I did, Queen fingered the top button of her dress, then pushed it through the button hole. Below pink roses dotted on the blue dress, the scalloped neck of her white slip lay over her flat chest and collar bones. “Hot enough out here for you, young man?” Then the next button was undone, revealing a fine dusting of white talcum powder on her coal black skin.

  I stood from the glider and thanked Queen again for her help. As I slipped down the stairs to the car, a blue uniformed attendant appeared on the porch to bring the scattered old woman an iced drink and rebutton her dress.

  I’d twice driven down the street Carolyn Wiley had lived on and not spotted her either time. But on Queen’s advice, I tried a third run, this time on foot. I parked at the corner and walked toward the address in the middle of the block. A white panel van and a muscular pick-up truck were stationed in front of the house. My view of the steps was blocked.

  I crossed to a few yards from the house. At the top of the tall run of steps, I saw a hunched figure, her thin arms clasped around her knees. She wore a pale pink seersucker shirtdress with red piping along the collar and short-sleeve cuffs. Pearly buttons matched her white mop of hair. Her skin was burlap-colored over sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. With her narrow eyes and cracked pink lips, Carolyn Wiley looked like her photograph. I slowed, approaching her the way I’d walk to an anxious mare in an open field. I held my hands loose at my sides and fixed a mild expression on my face. I needn’t have been so careful.

  Mrs. Wiley greeted me with a radiant smile. “Carl, is that you? What kept you so long? I’ve been waiting forever for you to get home from work.”

  Her grin bloomed into a laugh as her black eyes jumped with delight. I was her absent son returned from a day in the office. I fit myself into her storyline and returned the wide smile. No use challenging her story or denying it. Maybe I’d learn something useful. At the least, I’d avoid hurting her.

  “Sorry for the delay. Traffic was horrible. All that construction downtown tied it in knots.” I kept my comments generic. I knew nothing about her son, so offering too many specifics might spoil our developing relationship. “Have you been waiting here long?”

  I wiped my brow and looked up from the foot of the staircase. She shook her head and waved knobby fingers at me. “Come on and sit a while, Carl. I’ll tell you all about my day.”

  I joined Mrs. Wiley on the step and she grasped my fingers in hers. Her grip was strong. But her hands felt bony and cold, like touching an injured bird’s wing.

  “So good to see you, Carl. I missed you, dear. So much. I can’t tell you how much. But I’ve been watching these boys working on the house. They’re doing a good job, I’ll tell you that. Real sharp, these boys, real sharp.” Her watery eyes focused on my face. She whispered: “They’re nice boys, but they’ve hidden my beautiful braid. I’ve come to find it. But they’ve hidden it someplace inside the house.” She stroked fingers along her nape, fluttering the short spikes of silver hair.

  As if summoned by her complaint, four Black men emerged from the basement apartment. Three solid types in overalls followed a wiry man in a khaki shirt and jeans into the sunshine. The crew leaned against the red pick-up truck, chatting in low tones and looking at me. After they reached some consensus, Khaki-shirt stepped forward and signaled for me to come to the curb.

  Though we were well out of earshot of Carolyn Wiley, the man spoke in a whisper. He cast anxious eyes at her with each sentence. “You related to her or something?” His dark face tensed with worry.

  “No. I’m a friend. I’ve come to take her home. Has she been here long?”

  “Yeah, today was the longest. She comes around here quite a bit, sometimes twice a week. Usually sits for fifteen minutes on the front steps like she’s doing now. Never says nothing much, just hello and like that. But today she was here for an hour, then went away, then came back again. Just sitting the way she is now.”

  Carolyn’s connection to the house sparked my curiosity. Why did she insist on returning to the site week after week? What was its hold over her? “I hope she hasn’t been a nuisance to you fellas. You know, she used to live here, decades ago.”

  “Yeah, she told us that. With her son Carl, she said. We were hoping you might be Carl.” Lines on his forehead eased and his mouth opened wide. “No, no problem for us. We’re just worried about her. Real nice old lady. Always polite-spoken and friendly. If she comes at lunch time, we give her a sandwich and a can of Coke. She said she prefers the bottles but she always finishes off the can anyway. Just pecks at the sandwich, but she loves her some Coca-Cola.” He looked over his shoulder at Carolyn and shook his head. He seemed more miserable than Allard Swann when confronting the dilemma of caring for this distracted and willful old woman.

  He offered a hand and I gripped it. “Thank you for looking out for her,” I said. “She’s Mrs. Wiley, by the way. As you can tell, she’s not all there. She lives in a nursing center a few blocks away. But every once in a while, she gets the urge to go home. And that’s when she shows up here.”

  Carolyn Wiley’s mental incapacity was none of his business. But he’d helped, so I owed him an explanation. Offering facts was a good way of getting more. This man could tell something about the house that Carolyn still thought of as home. I wanted to learn why this place continued to draw her to it after so many years.

  “What’re you all doing here? Remodeling?” Not a huge leap, but the easiest way to get a man talking is to ask about his expertise. Professional pride defeats privacy every time.

  “Yeah, it’s a complete renovation of the basement. Used to be a space for the kids, I guess. Like a playroom or rec room. Ping Pong table’s still down there. But it’s already got direct access to the street. Right under the front stairs, see?”

  He pointed toward the black iron picket fence separating the lower entrance from the sidewalk. Next to a small window with bars across it, a red door below the main staircase led to the basement. “Now the family wants to make it into a full apartment. Separate like, so they can rent it out.”

  “You’re gutting the space?”

  “Ye
p, demolition down to the studs.” He unfolded a grimy red handkerchief and rubbed it over his brow. “We’re knocking out non-structural walls, opening up the rooms as much as possible. Lowering the floor a couple inches. New kitchen, bathroom, hardwoods, sheetrock, wiring, plumbing, HVAC, paint, everything. It’s gonna be real nice when we get finished.”

  “And the family that owns this place? Where’re they?”

  “Boss said they are off in Martha’s Vineyard or Block Island. Or some other fancy place like that until mid-September. Must be nice.” He laughed and wiped the handkerchief over his nose until the cloth was dark with sweat. “They take off for the summer and then when they get back, the work is done. Like magic.”

  “No muss, no fuss.” I spanked my hands together and brushed them, whisking away all renovation worries in a flash.

  “Yeah. For them. We got all the muss and fuss we can handle,” he said. We chuckled in working-stiff solidarity.

  “I appreciate you looking out for my friend. If Mrs. Wiley comes around again give me a call and I’ll come get her as soon as I can.” I pulled a Ross Agency business card from my wallet and scribbled my cell number on the back.

  He took the card and scanned the front. The glossy black surface with its staring eyeball outlined in red and green always got plenty of attention.

  “You a detective or something?” His downward grimace and wide eyes said he was impressed.

  “Yes. We help people who get in trouble. Like Mrs. Wiley here.”

  “Well, sure hope I don’t have to call you again, Mr. Rook. But I’ll hang onto this just in case.”

  He stowed the card in his breast pocket, buttoning it closed. “I’m Darrell Peete, project foreman. Just so’s you know.”

  “Nice to meet you, Darrell. Call me Rook.”

  We shook hands again, an alliance in the making. Later, I wondered why I hadn’t given Darrell the phone number of the Swann Center so he could contact them if Carolyn showed up again. I knew the answer: I’d done it for her. By taking Carl Wiley’s identity, even for a few minutes of play-acting, I’d taken charge of his mother’s welfare. I wouldn’t surrender that duty without good reason. She was my case now, my third: Annie’s murder; Dreamie’s disappearance, Carolyn’s fog-enveloped secrets. The lives of these three women braided together in my imagination, their troubled pasts heavy with loss and mystery. These were my cases to crack, mine to fix.

  I climbed the stairs and took Carolyn Wiley by the fragile knob of her elbow. She fluttered a wave at Darrell and his boys from my car on our ride to the Swann Center. They waved back, like she was the Homecoming Queen.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  The next morning, I sprawled in bed, staring at the harsh white sky blistering Manhattan. A few birds with open beaks sailed by the window, panting in desperate search for a shady ledge. As I tracked their flight, a sheen of sweat rose on my chest.

  I should have rolled into the office, typed a paragraph on my rescue of Carolyn Wiley, and scrounged through the agency’s pending files for another assignment. Brina the girlfriend was willing to give me space to grieve. But Boss Brina expected me to resume the routine of our detective life. Saddle up, strap in, move on, man up. She wouldn’t blast all those macho phrases for cutting the cords of past traumas. But I could hear the words in her voice, low and warm like a brutal rhyme. Campaign slogans whose power came from repetition: Saddle up, move on. Come on, how long? Not happening, not yet. I wasn’t there.

  I padded to the kitchenette and shook the last crumbs of cornflakes into one bowl. Into the second, I scraped a lump of canned hash for the cat. Herb flattened his ears to protest my morning laziness. Then he switched his thick yellow tail in warning: Herb wanted me out the door too. He expected to claim the chair next to the window for his own lounging agenda. But after I poured milk for us both, he okayed the new set up. I told him I had to make several phone calls. I needed the privacy of my apartment for the next one on my list. I didn’t want the pitying ears of Brina and Norment Ross eavesdropping on my conversation with the hotshot of Miami, Ricardo Luna.

  Repeating my last name greased the telephone hop through the administrative maze of Rook Cleaning Services. After the third dazzled secretary gasped and cooed at the chance to speak with the real Mister Rook, I reached the vice president for marketing and sales.

  The last time we’d met, I slapped his mug into center field. But if Rick Luna was expecting an apology, he didn’t sound pissed when I failed to deliver one. “Thank you for checking on us, Rook. Things were really rough here last week. I’m not going to lie. The first days without Anniesha were rocky.”

  “I’m not surprised, Rick.” I smoothed my voice to match his creamy Caribbean vibe. Pearl Byrne’s words flooded my mind. She’d urged me to strive for compassion. To see things from Rick’s perspective. You’ll find mercy flows in both directions, she promised. Her observations pushed me to consider erasing Rick from my suspects list. I wasn’t there yet. But I was open to changing my mind. Even if he was cleared, Rick still might have useful information for my case. I wanted to know what he remembered of Annie’s last days at the hotel.

  Luna continued, gushing. “Everyone loved her. The girls thought of her as a mother, a leader, and a role model. We can’t imagine how we’ll go on without her.” He blew his nose, then snuffled, sipping the air to regain his composure.

  Clichés dribbled from my tongue. “Annie was a star, that’s for sure. But she’d want you to carry on, keep the business thriving. The company is her legacy and she’d count on you to keep it going.”

  He gurgled like a ballad. “It’s so kind of you to say that. I’ll let everyone know you called to express your condolences. It will mean the world to our girls.”

  I felt better for doling the sympathy, as Pearl Byrne had expected. The warmth spreading in my gut wasn’t caused by the blazing temperatures. Maybe I’d thank her someday. But, now that I’d tapped the empathy vat, I had other aims in mind. “Rick, do me a favor.”

  “Sure, anything you need, just ask.”

  “Tell me about that last day at the hotel. The night before Annie died.”

  “I told everything to the New York police when they phoned last week. Then I did a second round with Miami-Dade cops two days ago. Can you believe, they even took a DNA sample, filthy freakin’ bastards!”

  “I know. But I’m trying to fit together the details. Learning as much as I can about that night will give me peace of mind.” This was truer than I’d ever reveal to Rick Luna. With the phone and eight hundred miles between us, I could freely wipe my eyes as long as I stifled the tears in my voice. I didn’t tell him I was investigating the murder. I wanted him focused on his memories, not my reasons for asking.

  With my prompt, Luna sketched the events leading to our evening of drinks in the Argent Bar. He’d hit several famous department stores on Fifth Avenue, window-shopped the small boutiques in between, and slipped into the shadowed nave of Saint Patrick’s cathedral to cool off. I didn’t care about the upkeep of his wardrobe or his soul. But I let Luna’s self-involved narrative skitter along for three minutes without interrupting. Until he returned to the Continental Regent hotel. That was the story I wanted.

  “Did you see anyone noteworthy in the lobby when you got back?”

  “Noteworthy? You mean, like famous? Like a celebrity?”

  “Like people you or I know.”

  “Oh.” He deflated, then dug up the reply. “I did see that awful thing from the university. You know, the girl with the shrieking red hair.”

  “Sarah Anastos?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. When she turned up an hour later to meet us in the bar, I was shocked.”

  “Why shocked?”

  “Because she looked totally different.”

  “How?”

  “When I saw her at six in the hotel lobby, she was dressed lik
e a street orphan. Filthy black t-shirt with threads dangling over her stomach. Torn black leggings for that spider-on-a-web look. And those godawful black sandals with thick cork soles and two leather straps. You know, the clunky ones teachers and hippies wear. The girl looked pathetic.”

  “But when she joined us in the bar, she wore silver spike heels and fancy satin pants,” I said.

  “I know! Right? High glam! How she found the time to clean up her act, I can’t imagine. But thank God, she did!”

  I figured Sally Anastos had pulled the quick-change stunt with clothes stashed in the hotel. Had she stored an overnight bag with a friend at the convention? I nominated her idol Gerry Keith for the honor, but didn’t share my guess with Rick. If Sally was sharing a room with Keith, did that eliminate the possibility he had slept with Annie before she died?

  Wound up about the Anastos clothing disaster, Luna rattled on. “I suppose the man she was talking with in the lobby didn’t care what she looked like. He seemed totally into her even if she dressed like the inside of a trash can.”

  “Who was Sally talking to?”

  “How do I know? Never saw the poor fool before or since.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Look like? He was another academic type, like her. Short, pale, and spotty. Wire-rim glasses, stringy brown hair, and a poser beard.”

  For sure, not the elegant Gerry Keith. “Could you catch what they were saying?”

  “Catch? As easy as catching the clap in high school. They were shouting. Not screaming, but almost. He wanted her to come with him. She wanted to stay at the hotel. He grabbed her wrist; she jerked away. He grabbed again. She pushed.”

  “Any names?”

  “I heard her say, ‘Piss off, Colin.’ But that’s all.”

  During our lunch after Keith’s brilliant lecture, Sally had mentioned plans to meet a colleague named Colin Spiegel. Could there be two academics in New York with that hybrid name? Had to be the same man.