by K. K. Beck
She couldn't resist. She pushed the button, wondering if she'd be buzzed in by the old girl herself, kohl-rimmed eyes and all.
Instead, a nasal male voice crackled out of the intercom. “Yes?”
“I'm here looking for Jennifer Gilbert,” she said, wondering whether she should be coming up with some story to explain why she was bothering the manager.
“Oh my God,” said the voice dramatically. “Come right in.” She leaned on the door while the buzzer droned on for what seemed like a minute, and half fell into the lobby.
A minute later, a thin, elegant man of indeterminate age appeared. His silver hair was short and parted with geometric precision. He wore a cream-colored polo shirt and gray flannel trousers with pleats and cuffs. Instead of a belt, he had a necktie threaded through the belt loops, a style Jane knew Fred Astaire had made popular. To complete the retro look, he was wearing spectator shoes in black and tan.
“I was expecting Alla Nazimova,” she said with a smile.
He smiled back. “A silly little joke of mine,” he said.
“The Garden of Alla.”
“Exactly. Hardly anyone gets it. Just us antiquarians.”
“Those who know we missed the elegance of a superior era,” said Jane, who, although she was an antiquarian herself, and had in fact made a sort of a living singing old Gershwin and Jerome Kern and Cole Porter songs, had never set out to live in the past as completely as the individual now before her.
“Exactly!” he said again. “My name is really Arthur.” Before she had a chance to introduce herself, he came up to her and took her hand, holding it as he peered into her face. “Are you the one who called from Jennifer's office? Maybe you're right, maybe we should check.”
Jane paused for just a flicker, wondering whether to assume the persona of a co-worker. It was too risky. She didn't even know what Jennifer did for a living or what the woman from the office had said over the phone, or if she'd left her name.
“I had an appointment with her,” she said simply. “Is something the matter?”
Arthur looked clearly worried. “Her office called. She didn't come to work today. They were really astounded because she never misses a day, doesn't even take sick leave, and they were worried about her. I told them there wasn't anything I could do. I went and banged on the door, but she doesn't seem to be there. But if she had an appointment with you—”
“Well sort of,” said Jane, lying through her teeth. “That is, she was expecting me.” She'd have to make up some variation on this story if Jennifer was home. “She was looking for a roommate.”
“That's right,” said Arthur. “My God, what shall we do?”
Jane seized on the “we” and started to take charge. “Well, if it's out of character for her to just disappear, maybe we should check,” she said briskly.
“I'll get the passkey,” he said, apparently glad to have a witness. “I've never done this before. It's not really my style, barging in on people. I mean, maybe she just had a terrible hangover or something.” Jane followed him to his apartment door.
“Come in, come,” he said with a welcoming little gesture. She glanced furtively around at the decor. It was a museum of the twenties and thirties. Art deco cigarette boxes, a statue of an alabaster flat-chested female nude embracing a crescent moon, a big vase of calla lilies.
The man Jane had thought of as Arthur Nazimova, although she had presumed he had another last name, now became rechristened in her mind. Arthur, Art for short, Deco dug around in a desk drawer. “Really a quiet girl, not exactly the type to go on a bender or anything,” he said.
Jane stared around the apartment in awe. “What a fabulous collection,” she said.
He beamed. “I started years ago, when nobody wanted any of this stuff,” he said. “Those days are over. Last week I saw an adorable little chrome toaster for fifty bucks. Fifty bucks! Can you imagine? I used to pick up really nice cocktail shakers for five.”
How many cocktail shakers could one person use, she wondered. Her eye ran over a matching onyx letter opener, inkstand and blotter on the desk. And who would use an ink stand or a blotter these days? Art Deco apparently. There was a handsome fountain pen lying nearby.
“All good design this century happened before Pearl Harbor,” declared Art Deco emphatically, his search for the key momentarily forgotten. “There's no need to go any further.”
“And the popular music was so wonderful,” said Jane, humming a phrase from “Embraceable You,” swaying a little and looking around her some more. While she shared his love of the period, there was something a little creepy about living so totally in the past. The telephone was a gangster-style Bakelite plastic model, and a cunning little space heater with a stylized floral grille hardly looked UL-approved, with its frayed fabric cord. In fact, there was nothing of the modern time period at all, anywhere in view.
“Do you have a VCR?” she asked. Then thinking this was impertinent she added hastily, “You'd need one to study the set decoration in old movies.”
“Exactly,” said Art, moving over to an old radio cabinet— walnut with brass fittings—and opening it to reveal late-twentieth-century examples of Japanese electronics. He shuddered a little at the ugliness of it and closed the door firmly. “A necessary evil,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jane. “How did we live without them? Now you can look at all those great old Carole Lombard pictures whenever you want to.” Her body fell into Carole Lombard's debutante slouch, whether unconsciously or not, she wasn't quite sure. Jane feared her years as a stylized sort of vocalist had seriously impaired her ability to behave naturally.
“You belong in this building,” said Art Deco firmly.
“I know I'd be happy here,” she said. “But first we have to find Jennifer, don't we?” It was clear to Jane he had forgotten entirely about Jennifer, and was in danger of having his astral body drift off to some parallel Ernst Lubitsch universe.
“Oh, yes. Jennifer.” He frowned and dug around for the keys some more. “To be perfectly frank, she's never really appreciated this building, or what I'm trying to do here. I mean, she's a sweetie and all that, but I'm afraid she doesn't have much sensitivity to good design.” He held up a key with a smile of triumph. “You'll see what I mean,” he said in a confidential tone. “Those ceramic geese with those blue ribbons around their necks, and fridge magnets with inspirational messages.” He rolled his eyes as much in pity as disgust and made a discreet gagging gesture.
Jane followed him up the hall and around a dog leg to her apartment door. Art Deco banged on it for a while, then called out “Jenn-i-fer” as he inserted the key and they went inside.
There was no answer, just the heavy stillness of somebody's empty house. They went past the small tiled entry hall into the living room. It was the lighting that made it clear at once there was something terribly wrong. A big lamp lay on its side on the rug, casting a huge yellow circle of light, broken by the shapes of a table and chairs, against one wall, and casting the rest of the room into ominous darkness.
Art Deco gasped a little, and Jane looked around the room. There was a small desk by the French doors, and the drawer had been pulled out and placed on the top of the desk, the contents all jumbled up as if two big paws had been stirring them up.
“This does not look good,” said Art with a solemnity Jane hadn't imagined he possessed. “I suppose we'd better check the other rooms. God, I hope she's all right.”
Jane went into a bedroom off the living room. Jennifer was not all right. She lay on her back across the bed, her eyes and mouth wide open, her face purple. The fluttery ends of an orange silk scarf seemed to come out of her neck. Jane realized that the rest of the scarf was drawn so tightly around her throat that it was embedded, hidden by puffy, dead flesh.
Chapter 11
The woman's face was an empty mask of flesh. She was gone. Jane forced herself, nevertheless, to put two fingertips on Jennifer's calf, just on principle, just to be absolutely sur
e there was nothing to be done. The flesh was cold. Jane drew back quickly and stared down at the body.
Arthur rushed from the room, and Jane could hear what sounded like a medicine cabinet door being slammed shut and the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom they'd passed on their way in here.
Jane didn't want to look at her face too long, but she managed to take in other details. Jennifer had a stiff, wavy, brassy blond coiffure that looked matronly. She was wearing a dark green sweater and a challis skirt in a dark green and orange print, an orange picked up exactly by the scarf twisted around her throat. She had a big, squarish body and sturdy legs. One foot was bare—the other had on a bright red fuzzy slipper.
Jane backed out of the room slowly, registering the flowered bedspread, the bedside stand with a remote control for the TV and a copy of Cosmopolitan, the bureau—a big oak thing like you might find in a hotel. Its surface was covered with spray bottles of cologne and knick-knacks—a ceramic owl, an earthenware vase with dried flowers, a metal tree in a lapis-colored shell tub, on which a dozen rings were hanging, a little brass and copper box that Jane bet held earrings.
“We've got to call the police,” said Jane over her shoulder.
There was the sound of running water. “Jesus Christ,” said Arthur from the bathroom. “I just threw up.”
“Maybe you should call from your apartment,” said Jane. “Fingerprints and all that.” She reflected that just a few minutes ago he was pretending to gag at her fridge magnets. Reluctantly, she left the bedroom. She was, she realized in a numb way, repelled yet fascinated by the scene, by the corpse sprawled unceremoniously across that floral bedspread in that banal room. It was all so out of place, so outrageous, so horribly wrong. Dizziness started to overcome her. She tried to fight it back.
She found Arthur again in the hall. There was a fine haze of sweat over his forehead and he looked pale.
“Sit down,” said Jane. “Just sit down.” She led him back into the living room, and sat him down on the sofa. She knew they should leave right away, preserve the scene, call the cops. But Art looked faint.
“If you think you're going to pass out, or anything,” she said, “put your head down.” Somehow, trying to help Arthur kept the horror at bay.
“I'll be all right,” he said shakily. Instead of putting his head down, he leaned it against the back of the sofa. “God, the poor thing. The poor wretched thing,” he said.
Jane knew she wouldn't get to see the apartment again. While he was talking she scanned the living room. All of the objects of the dead woman's life seemed horribly pathetic and pointless.
It was a big apartment, with white stucco walls, and all the authentic period details that gave Arthur such joy: moldings of shiny dark wood, light fixtures of wrought iron, a row of bright orange and blue tiles in front of the rounded fireplace.
On a mantel there was a small ceramic unicorn with a gilt horn and hooves, and an oak-framed mirror with a border of poppies etched into the glass. But there were no books and no pictures. Their absence gave the room a bleak, transitory look.
The furniture was simple and modern-looking. Large stuffed pieces in gray tweed with some vaguely colonial coffee tables that looked like they might have been recycled from Mom and Dad's house. There was a big, Danish-looking striped cotton rug—yellow and gray. It was slightly scrunched up near the entrance to the hall and the bedroom. In the center of it was another red fuzzy slipper. She felt suddenly cold.
“He dragged her into the bedroom,” said Jane. “He strangled her here, then dragged her into the bedroom. Look at the slipper.”
“Oh, my God,” said Arthur. He gazed at the slipper for a moment. “It happened in the building.” He turned his head toward the desk.
“Then he looked for something,” she continued, following his gaze to that jumbled drawer. Next to it was the telephone.
“I'll call,” said Arthur, staggering up.
Whoever fished through that drawer must have found what he wanted. Nothing else had been disturbed.
Arthur had evidently seen a few detective movies in his time. He was holding the receiver in a linen handkerchief. “Christ! It's busy. 911 is busy, can you believe that?” He slammed down the phone, picked it up again and jabbed furiously at the buttons. This time, apparently, he got through. “There's a dead body in my building!” he said. “A woman's been killed.”
Jane walked slowly into the entry hall and looked at the door, which was open a few inches. The varnish around the lock was immaculate. There was also a small wrought iron spyhole. If he came in this way, she let him in. She turned back to the living room where Arthur was saying, “I'm the building owner. Yes, yes, I'll be here. I have the key. All right, all right.”
There was a small table in the hall with an empty letter tray. There was an umbrella leaning in the corner, and on the wall nearby, a grouping of framed photographs. She thought she recognized Jennifer herself in a stiff studio family shot. There was a mother and father, both wearing glasses, a young man in a suit with too much mousse in his hair and, perched precariously on the arm of the love seat where the other three sat, there was Jennifer, recognizable by her stiff, blond hair. She had a round face, a lot like her mother's, and a pleasant smile. Somewhere, that family was going about its business, thinking that Jennifer was all right.
The other pictures were snapshots. An old lady sitting in a wheelchair surrounded by baskets of flowers and looking vaguely pleased. Jennifer again, in a sweater, hugging a cat, and another of Jennifer with a female friend about the same age, standing stiffly on a beach. There were three more snapshots of young women in their twenties, two of which seemed to have been taken in the apartment.
The grouping was asymmetrical. In the space where another picture should have hung, in order to give the composition balance, there was bare wall with a small brass picture hanger.
Arthur slammed down the phone. “I told them,” he said. “I told them she was strangled. The police are on their way. They want us to wait in my apartment.”
“Yes,” said Jane.
“I told them you had an appointment with her, and that's why I went in,” he said. “I guess they'll want to talk to you too.”
He came over to her side. “There's a picture missing here,” she said. “Do you know who it might be?”
He frowned. “No. Those older people are her family, I guess. They live in Spokane. I know she had a brother. And those are some of her old roommates.” He pointed at the pictures.
“I guess she let him in,” she said, pointing to the door.
He turned. “Unless he came in the French doors. Those locks are kind of flimsy, but I hated to change them. They were authentic.” He looked suddenly ashamed. “I never dreamed anyone would...”
He went behind the desk and flapped at some long drapes.
“Don't touch anything,” said Jane; then, thinking she sounded too bossy and sharp, she said, “that's what they always say in the movies.”
“I know, I know. Jesus, it's open.”
Jane went over to his side and slid behind the desk next to him. He smelled of some old-fashioned scent-chypre, she thought. The tall French door, with thick wavy glass in small panes, had a wrought iron handle. The door was open just a crack.
The door led to a small patio. There was a big glazed pot out there with some dehydrated-looking geraniums against a low white-brick wall topped with curly red tiles.
“God,” said Arthur. “Let's get out of here.”
“Yes,” she said.
Still brandishing his handkerchief, Arthur led them out of the apartment and locked up. “I can't believe this is happening. My nerves are shot to hell. We need a cup of tea or something,” he said as they went back down to his apartment. “Or maybe even a cocktail.”
Could she tell this nice man she'd lied to him? Would he find out anyway? Would the police ask her questions in front of him? She felt sick and ashamed.
“Sit down,” he said back in his apar
tment, practically pushing her into a small chair covered in silver satin. He began rattling over a black enamel drinks cart. “Brandy and soda for me,” he said, wielding a silver siphon. “I've got everything.”
“A little Scotch with some of that soda, please,” she said.
“God, I feel horrible dragging you into this,” he said, bustling into the kitchen and emerging with a silver ice bucket and tongs. “An innocent bystander and all. But to be honest, I'm glad I didn't find her all by myself.”
He handed her a glass and patted her on the shoulder.
She took a sip. “What was she like?” she said.
“Poor Jennifer,” he said, sipping his own brandy and closing his eyes for a second. “She was lonely. I could have been nicer.” He sat down.
“We all could have been nicer to everyone,” said Jane. “Don't be too hard on yourself.”