Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  Two policemen stood next to the body, their hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes wary.

  Elizabeth got out her camera and began snapping pictures. She got a close-up of the side of Dupont’s face, where a small round bullet hole made it obvious he had been shot.

  Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed—became charged with electricity—and Marino strode in. The policemen hovering over the body straightened up and threw back their shoulders as he approached.

  He stopped and smiled when he saw Elizabeth. She felt her heartbeat speed up and quickly turned away and busied herself with her camera. Her fingers became clumsy all of a sudden and she dropped the flashbulb she’d taken from her case.

  She bent over to retrieve it from where it had nestled in the thick Oriental carpet and at the same time Marino bent to pick it up as well. Her hand brushed his briefly, and she marveled at the feeling his touch evoked. She’d never felt like this before—not with Phillips nor any of the other boys she’d dated. And she had no idea what it meant. But she did know she didn’t trust the feeling. She’d read enough books and seen enough movies to know that love at first sight was rarely, if ever, lasting.

  Elizabeth took a few more pictures while Kaminsky questioned the policeman who had been first on the scene.

  Marino took over then and began barking questions at the two policemen.

  “Who called it in?”

  “A neighbor,” the shorter one said. “At first, he thought it was a car backfiring, but his wife thought it sounded like a gun. They argued about it and in the end decided to ring the station.”

  Marino bent over Dupont and examined the bullet wound. He straightened up and turned around again. “No signs of a struggle and it doesn’t look like he tried to run, so maybe he knew his killer.”

  Marino glanced around and pointed to the empty glass on the sideboard.

  “Looks like he had company.”

  “So you think he was expecting his killer?” Kaminsky said.

  Marino shrugged and wiped a hand over his face. “Who knows? That glass might have been left there at any time.” He went over to the sideboard and sniffed it. “Smells like whiskey, and the glass is still wet on the bottom. So a recent visitor, then.”

  He pointed at the two policemen. “I hope the neighbor is still around.”

  The policeman nodded. “Yes, I sent them back to their apartment. It’s an elderly couple, and the guy wasn’t looking too good. Neither was the missus. I didn’t want neither of them fainting on me.”

  Marino nodded.

  Kaminsky slipped his notepad and pencil in his pocket and walked over to Elizabeth. He bent his head toward hers.

  “Let’s see if we can talk to the neighbor. Oughta make a good story,” he whispered.

  Elizabeth gave a last glance at Marino, but he was bent over Dupont’s body again and didn’t notice her leaving.

  The door to the apartment next door was open a crack. Kaminsky rapped on it sharply.

  An older man came to the door. He was short with thick, white hair and was dressed in a suit and tie as if he was about to go out or had just come in.

  An elderly woman appeared behind him. She, too, had white hair, which was in a twist and she was wearing a day dress in flowered crepe. A pair of eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck. Both were pale and trembling slightly.

  Kaminsky doffed his hat and introduced himself and Elizabeth.

  “You’re from the paper?” the man said in a gravelly voice that sounded rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

  “Yes. Can I ask you a few questions? You heard the shot next door,” Kaminsky went on without waiting for an answer.

  The man nodded his head. “We weren’t going to call the police, but I’m glad we did.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. Her voice was high-pitched and wavered slightly. “I insisted.” She shot a look at her husband but he ignored her.

  “Did you know your neighbor?”

  “Not really,” the woman said. “He hasn’t been here long. We’ve passed each other in the hall. He’s always been very polite.”

  “Quiet,” the man added. “Never hear anything from next door, which was why we were surprised when we heard the shot. Of course, we didn’t realize it was a gun at first.”

  “Did he get many visitors?” Kaminsky looked up from his pad.

  The man and woman looked at each other. “Not that we know of.”

  “It looks as if someone visited him tonight,” Elizabeth said. “Did you hear anyone go past your door?”

  The couple looked at each other again. “You wouldn’t hear anything. The hall’s carpeted,” the man said.

  “Did you hear anyone knock?” Kaminsky said.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Do you mind if I take your picture?” Elizabeth held her camera up.

  They stood next to each other, posing as if Elizabeth was taking a mug shot and not a photograph for the newspaper.

  Finally, Kaminsky thanked them, and he and Elizabeth turned to leave.

  * * *

  —

  “Looks like that puts the kibosh on Dupont being our killer,” Kaminsky said when they were back outside on the sidewalk.

  The snow had stopped and what little had accumulated had turned to slush.

  “Could there be two killers?”

  Elizabeth shivered. It had been warm in Dupont’s apartment, making it seem even colder now outside.

  “I suppose. Dupont’s the kind of guy who makes a lot of enemies.”

  “Women, you mean?”

  “Sure. Men, too. I think it was a man who was in Dupont’s apartment tonight. Most women don’t drink whiskey neat. Not that I haven’t met a few who can knock it back as well as any guy, but the odds are it was a man.” Kaminsky stopped to light a match. “Could have been a lover. They had a spat and bang.” Kaminsky blew out the match. “But I think it’s too much of a coincidence. Frances and Dupont knew each other. And now they’ve both been murdered. There has to be a connection somewhere.”

  Kaminsky blew out a stream of smoke. “Then again, that Stockwell woman claims to have seen Dupont go into the ladies’ room after Frances, so maybe he did kill her and there’s no connection at all.”

  “Unless she was mistaken and it wasn’t Dupont she saw.”

  “True. It sounds like she was somewhat…preoccupied at the time.” Kaminsky flicked a long snake of ash from his cigarette.

  “Or, Dupont might have followed Frances into the ladies’ room, they argued and he left. And someone else went in after him and shot her.”

  “Maybe your friend Gloria’s paramour.”

  Elizabeth was getting tired—it had been a long day and they’d done a lot of walking. Her affected leg was beginning to drag, and she was having trouble keeping up with Kaminsky. She was relieved when Kaminsky stopped to stub out his cigarette.

  “I suppose it could have been Teddy,” Elizabeth said. “It fits with the tuxedo rental receipt the police found in the ladies’ room.”

  Kaminsky laughed. “Good thing I only have to write the story and you only have to take the pictures,” Kaminsky said. “And we can leave it to the police to untangle this mess.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth was so tired when she got home that she nearly stumbled over the threshold to the apartment—something she hadn’t done since right after her bout with polio. Jones looked at her in concern but didn’t say anything as he took her hat and coat and put them in the closet.

  “I haven’t missed dinner, have I?” Elizabeth said.

  “Mr. Adams dined at his club and Miss Rose doesn’t feel well,” Jones said.

  “Oh, dear. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”

  Rose was prone to chest infections so Helen insi
sted on keeping her inside in cold weather and was constantly fussing about drafts.

  “Miss Rose has been caring for Mrs. Adams. I’m afraid she may have worn herself out.”

  “I must go to her,” Elizabeth said, turning down the hall toward Rose’s bedroom.

  Rose smiled when Elizabeth walked in. She was lying on the flowered chintz chaise longue in her room, her head propped up on a pillow and her legs covered with a lap robe. A book was splayed open on her knees.

  Elizabeth knelt next to the chaise and took Rose’s hands in hers.

  “You’re not well. Shouldn’t you be in bed? Should we get the doctor?”

  Rose shook her head. “No. I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll be fine by morning, I promise. Please don’t fuss.”

  Rose had barely finished the sentence when she began to cough—long, drawn-out hacks that left her limp and white-faced.

  “We need to phone Dr. Krause,” Elizabeth said, getting to her feet.

  Rose put out a hand to stop her. “I’ll be fine. There’s no need to worry. But please, could you look after Mother tonight?”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth bent and squeezed Rose’s hands. “You get some rest now.”

  Jones was waiting outside Rose’s door. Elizabeth could tell by his expression that he was worried.

  “Mrs. Murphy has some cream of chicken soup and homemade biscuits for your dinner,” he said, walking alongside Elizabeth. “Would you like me to set a place for you in the dining room?”

  “No, please don’t bother. I’ll eat in the kitchen.”

  “Very well,” Jones said as he held open the green baize door to the kitchen for Elizabeth.

  The kitchen was warm compared to the hallway, with steam rising from the large pot on the stove and heat leaking from around the edges of the oven door.

  “You must be starving,” Mrs. Murphy said, her round face red from the heat.

  She bustled over to the cupboard and took out a bowl and a plate.

  Elizabeth pulled out a kitchen chair. A feeling of contentment washed over her. The kitchen was redolent with delicious odors—the savory and yeasty scents from the soup and biscuits and the faint underlying fragrance of vanilla and butter.

  “Excuse me,” Jones said as he left the room.

  Mrs. Murphy slid a bowl of cream of chicken soup in front of Elizabeth along with a warm, crusty biscuit and a small crystal dish with curls of butter in it.

  Elizabeth sniffed the fragrant steam and felt the knots in her neck and shoulders begin to relax.

  Mrs. Murphy leaned against the counter. “I’m worried about Miss Rose,” she said, pleating the fabric of her apron with her fingers. “You know how easily she takes sick.”

  Elizabeth patted her lips with her napkin. “She says she’s fine—only tired—but I’m going to call Dr. Krause if she gets any worse.”

  Guilt stirred in Elizabeth. If she weren’t working—if she’d been home—Rose wouldn’t have had to take care of their mother all by herself. And maybe she wouldn’t have gotten sick. Was she being selfish for wanting to have a job?

  Elizabeth picked up her soup spoon. “How is Mother? I must go in and see her.”

  “Mrs. Adams has had a difficult day,” Mrs. Murphy said. “She was restless and couldn’t get comfortable. Miss Rose took care of her as best she could, but nothing was ever quite right. Poor thing, I imagine she’s in pain.”

  The swinging door opened and Jones stuck his head into the room. “Mrs. Adams is calling for you, miss.”

  Elizabeth put down her spoon, set her napkin next to her bowl and scurried from the kitchen.

  Her mother was propped up on pillows wearing a lacy pink bed jacket. A copy of Woman’s Day was on the floor beside the bed and Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” played softly on the radio.

  “Elizabeth, darling,” Helen said when Elizabeth approached the bed. “My magazine has slipped. Could you pick it up for me, please?”

  Elizabeth bent and retrieved the copy of Woman’s Day and handed it to her mother. She noticed the remains of a cup of tea on the nightstand.

  “Shall I bring you some more tea?”

  “That would be splendid. Mrs. Murphy made a pound cake today. A slice of that would be lovely, too. And if you wouldn’t mind toasting it with just a smidge of butter.”

  “Certainly. Are you comfortable? Can I fluff your pillows?”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Elizabeth settled her mother back against the pillows then retreated to the kitchen for the tea and cake.

  Finally, she was able to collapse on the sofa in the living room, her legs curled under her, a book lying open on her lap. A fire crackled in the fireplace, the flames leaping and dancing hypnotically. Elizabeth felt her eyes closing, and her book slid from her grasp.

  Her mother’s voice rang out from the bedroom. Elizabeth startled sending her book crashing to the floor with a thud. She jumped up, smoothed her skirt and hurried to her mother’s room.

  “Darling,” Helen said, “would you mind turning off the radio? The program has changed, and I don’t care for Brahms.”

  Elizabeth stifled a yawn as she switched off the radio.

  “And I’ve finished my cake and tea if you could take the dishes back to the kitchen for Mrs. Murphy to take care of.”

  “Certainly. Is there anything else?”

  “I think I’ll try to get some rest now,” Helen said, reaching for the bedside lamp.

  Elizabeth closed the door gently behind her and carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen. Mrs. Murphy was about to turn out the kitchen light.

  “I’ll take care of those,” she said, her hand still on the light switch.

  “No, you go on. I’ll wash these up,” Elizabeth said, placing the plate and cup in the sink and turning on the water.

  Elizabeth finished washing the dishes and decided to go straight to bed. She creamed her face, put her hair up in pin curls and climbed under the covers. She was drifting off to sleep when she heard Rose coughing. The sound nagged at her and invaded her dreams, leaving her tossing and turning during the long restless night.

  * * *

  —

  It wasn’t yet morning. No light filtered through the crack in the curtains. Something had woken Elizabeth. She listened in the darkness, propped up on one elbow. It was Rose. She was coughing again—deep rumbles with barely any breath between them.

  Elizabeth put on her robe, slid her feet into her slippers and tiptoed down the hall. The apartment was silent save for Rose’s coughing—the only other sound was the hiss of steam in the pipes.

  Elizabeth was surprised to see a crack of light beneath Rose’s door. She eased it open. Rose was lying on the chaise longue, still dressed in her clothes from the day before. Her face was pale and her lips had a bluish tint.

  Elizabeth rushed over to her. “Rose, we must get Dr. Krause.”

  Rose’s eyelids fluttered partially open as if that small exertion was almost more than she could manage. This time she didn’t argue with her sister.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” Elizabeth said, bending down to remove Rose’s shoes.

  “I’m sorry.” Rose lifted a hand and let it drop. “I couldn’t manage to get up. I’m sorry to be such a bother. Especially with Mother needing so much attention.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not a bother.”

  Elizabeth helped Rose out of her clothes and pulled a flower-sprigged flannel nightgown over her sister’s head before tucking her under the covers. She felt Rose’s forehead.

  “You’re burning up. I’m getting you some aspirin and then I’m calling the doctor.”

  Elizabeth went into the bathroom and found the tin of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. She filled a glass with cool water and brought them to Rose. While Rose swallowed the pills, she went out to the hallway
to the telephone. She glanced at the clock sitting on the table—nearly five a.m.

  Despite the early hour, Dr. Krause answered his phone on the second ring with no trace of sleep in his voice. He promised to be around within the hour.

  Rose was sleeping fitfully when Elizabeth went to check on her, so she took a few minutes to take a hurried sponge bath and get dressed. She was brushing her hair when she heard the front doorbell ring.

  Jones was showing Dr. Krause in when Elizabeth got there. A crack of light showed beneath her father’s study door—he’d been sleeping on the daybed in there to avoid bothering Helen—so Elizabeth assumed he, too, was up.

  Elizabeth showed Dr. Krause into Rose’s room and waited anxiously outside while he examined his patient.

  He was tucking his stethoscope into his pocket when he emerged.

  “I’m afraid it’s pneumonia,” he said, pulling a prescription pad from his pocket. He scribbled on it briefly, tore the sheet off and handed it to Elizabeth. “This should help clear it up. But the most important part of the cure is rest. It’s imperative that she not exert herself.”

  “I understand,” Elizabeth said, taking the prescription from the doctor.

  He gave Elizabeth a kindly smile and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry too much. Your sister is young and strong and that’s in her favor. She should make a full recovery.”

  Elizabeth let the doctor out and went to check on Rose. She was sleeping, her face flushed and her breathing steady. Elizabeth tiptoed out of the room. Despite the doctor’s reassuring words, she was worried. Pneumonia claimed too many victims for her to become complacent. She would have to take extra good care of her sister.

  Chapter 17

  Before Elizabeth left for work, she looked in on Rose again and made sure Helen was comfortable and had everything she needed—at least for the moment.

  Elizabeth was putting her hat on when Mrs. Murphy came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I hope Mother will be okay while I’m gone,” Elizabeth said.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Mrs. Murphy reassured her. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Adams, and I’ll be sure to look in on Miss Rose as well. I’ve ordered a nice stewing hen from the market, and I’m going to make her some chicken soup. That will soon set her right.”