Murder as a Second Language: A Claire Malloy Mystery (Claire Malloy Mysteries)

by Hess, Joan

  Leslie might be trolling for a husband, I thought, in this case a mail-order groom. As I reached for another folder, I heard the front door open. I reminded myself that I was on a mission of mercy, motivated solely by concern for her welfare. And since there was no place to hide, I was going to have to sell it to Leslie herself. I straightened the folders and hurried out of the office. Leslie stood in the living room, understandably shocked.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “We were all worried when you didn’t come into the Literacy Council this morning, especially after what happened last night. Dreadful, wasn’t it? Poor Keiko has been hysterical all morning, and the students—”

  “Why are you in my house?”

  It was not an unreasonable question. I took a breath, exhaled slowly, and said, “I apologize for sounding like a gibberish monkey. I’m Claire Malloy, Caron’s mother. We met last week when I came in to see about volunteering.”

  “So why are you in my house?” She sounded more curious than angry.

  “As I said, we were worried. My imagination can be overactive at times. I was afraid you were ill or injured and unable to reach a phone.”

  “So you broke into my house?”

  “The doors were locked.”

  “Yes, I’m always careful about that,” she said. “There have been daytime burglaries in the area. I left the window slightly open, didn’t I?” I nodded. “How foolish of me. My house isn’t packed with expensive electronics, but I’d hate to lose my TV and computer—and my grandmother’s silver ice tongs. You never know when you might need silver ice tongs. Come sit down. I’d like to know why everyone is so worried about me.”

  I told her about Ludmila. “I realize you weren’t there last night, but you were scheduled to teach classes this morning. The detectives sent someone earlier to check on you. You weren’t here. It was worrisome.”

  “Or suspicious.” Leslie’s smile was tepid. “Ludmila was very difficult. I don’t know how many times I took her aside after class and warned her that she would not be allowed in my classroom unless she showed respect for her fellow students. Her response was to lapse into Polish and spew out venomous rants. Once she told me I was a slut because I met with one of my private students in my office—with the door closed. I disliked her, but I didn’t kill her. Why would I? All I had to do was ban her from my classes. Gregory assured me that I had the right to do so if I chose.”

  “You have private students?”

  “I can’t live on my pitiful salary at the Literacy Council. I’ve been promised a raise when the finances are healthier, but promises don’t pay the rent. I teach classes on the Internet, mostly prep for the citizenship test, and a class for grad students to be certified in TESOL. Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. I also provide information about the necessary paperwork to extend work and student visas and apply for green cards. I do this from home, but occasionally a local student needs immediate help.”

  Which explained the folders by her computer, I thought, reluctantly giving up my mail-order-groom theory. “Did someone have an emergency this morning?” I asked.

  She grimaced. “I had to go to court this morning. I didn’t find out until I got home yesterday afternoon. I called Keiko and left a message on her voice mail.” She caught my inquisitive look and added, “I’m in the final stages of a divorce. Amicable, but complicated.” She pulled a gold band off her finger and let it clatter on the tabletop. “I haven’t worn this for months, but it seemed appropriate today. I haven’t decided whether to sell it or throw it in a pond.”

  “Divorce can be stressful,” I said.

  “You say this from experience?”

  “My first husband saved me the bother by driving off a mountain road. My second is a keeper.”

  “Good for you.” She stood up. “I’d better make an appearance at the Literacy Council so I can be interrogated with rubber hoses and bamboo slivers. I wish I knew something useful, but Ludmila had more enemies than Keiko has shades of fingernail polish.”

  I hoped I would be ushered out the front door rather than the rear window. As I rose, I tried to come up with a clever way to ask her about her late-night visitor. Cleverness failed me. “Leslie, when I was in your front yard, your neighbor came over and accused me of banging on your door last night at about ten thirty. I assured him that burglars do not case the joint so loudly.”

  “Charles is paranoid that someone will steal his vintage tie-dyed T-shirts,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re asking who came by last night, I might as well tell you. My husband wanted to dissuade me from going through with the divorce. I didn’t want to talk to him, so I stayed in my office.” She opened the door for me. “Let’s have lunch sometime.”

  “Sure,” I said, although I doubted either of us would pursue it.

  I went back to my car and sat. Minutes later, Leslie drove by. Students were walking both toward the campus and away from it as the bell tower began to chime. Ninety percent of them had cell phones plastered to their heads. I tried to imagine how they’d react if they had to entertain themselves with only their thoughts.

  My wry smile vanished when I saw red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror. I turned around and saw a police car parked behind me. An unfamiliar officer, a stocky man with beady eyes, approached cautiously, his hand on the holster of his gun. I stuck my head out the window and said, “Is something wrong, Officer? The only things I might be guilty of are reckless daydreaming and failure to yield to technology.”

  He did not appreciate my wit. “License and registration, ma’am.”

  I was bewildered, to say the least. “Have I done something wrong? This is a legal parking space, and all I was doing was sitting here.” His lips pinched, so I pulled out my registration and insurance card, and then fumbled in my purse for my wallet. “Here,” I said as I handed them to him. “What’s this about?”

  “A citizen reported that you were behaving in a suspicious manner. There have been some—”

  “Burglaries in the neighborhood,” I cut in. “Please explain precisely what I did that can be construed as ‘behaving in a suspicious manner.’ I stopped by to visit an acquaintance. After she left for her office, I returned here and was pondering what to fix for dinner. Feel free to search my car for lock picks, skeleton keys, crowbars, and whatever else burglars need to ply their trade.”

  “You need to come down to the station, ma’am. Please get out of your vehicle.”

  “I most certainly will not,” I said, “until you tell me on what grounds you’re dragging me to the police station.”

  His lips pinched tighter. “I have no intention of dragging you anywhere. Why don’t you get out of your car so that I can drive you to the station? If necessary, I will arrest you for failure to comply with my directive. I’ve been told that our handcuffs are uncomfortable.”

  I bit my lower lip to stop myself from saying, “Do you know who I am?” in a voice so laden with ice that the officer might be in danger of frostbite. However, I had vowed to myself before I married Peter that I would never play the role of Her Ladyship in these situations. “All right,” I said as I got out of the car, made sure it was locked, and allowed the officer to open the back door of his vehicle. The redolence was a revolting miasma of vomit, urine, and sweat.

  “Have you been with the Farberville Police Department long?” I asked pleasantly through the mesh.

  “Couple of weeks. Transferred here from Speevy when my daughter got accepted at the college. She’s gonna live at home so she doesn’t get into trouble.”

  It occurred to me that the officer might get into a spot of trouble at the PD. He was not the only one in peril. Someone might feel obliged to call Deputy Chief Rosen. Or worse, Deputy Chief Rosen would be at the PD. I had a feeling he would not buy my story of stopping by the old neighborhood to drink in the nostalgia. On the day we moved, I’d practically loaded the moving van by myself. One thing would lead to a
nother, and when we got around to breaking into Leslie’s house, it would not be jovial.

  “Officer, would you please pull over for a moment? I’d like to talk to you before we arrive at the police department,” I said.

  “You’re saying you want to talk? Maybe you mean negotiate.”

  “Yes, that’s the word. You see, I have this sort of relationship with—”

  “You want me to run you in for solicitation and attempted bribery?” he asked in a very unfriendly voice. “I don’t know how they do things around here, but no officer in Speevy accepted sexual favors in exchange for dismissing charges. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

  “I said no such thing!” I sputtered, my face hot with indignation. “How dare you accuse me of solicitation! I should sue you for slander, Officer Speevy!”

  “You just do that, little lady.” Snickering, he pulled into the parking lot of the PD. As soon as he opened the back door, I scrambled out and marched toward the entrance. He yelled something at me as I went inside, but I was in no mood for further conversation with him.

  The desk sergeant glanced up at me. I saw the recognition in her eyes as she stepped back, as though my visage adorned a MOST WANTED poster on the wall behind her. “Ms. Malloy,” she squeaked. “Can I help you?”

  “Book her for resisting arrest and stick her in the cage until I write up the report,” said my chauffeur. “Yeah, and do a strip search while you’re at it. I’ll bet you ten bucks she has a record longer than my arm.”

  I remained silent. The desk sergeant licked her lips, cleared her throat, and at last said, “Ms. Malloy, would you mind having a seat on the bench for just a moment? Officer, I need to have a word in private with you. Let’s use the office behind me.”

  That was the last time I saw Officer Speevy.

  6

  A taciturn officer gave me a ride back to my car. Leslie’s nosy neighbor had retreated under his rock. I drove slowly by his house in hopes of spotting something remotely felonious. Alas, there was nary a scrap of litter in the stubby brown grass. I reminded myself that I was not a vengeful person, tossed my chin, and headed to the Book Depot.

  Jacob had arranged the front window with a beach umbrella, a plastic bucket and shovel, a poster that offered half price on “summer blockbusters,” and said books propped on brightly colored beach towels. He was dusting a rack of paperbacks as I sailed by and into my office. I thumbed through a couple of publishers’ catalogs but found nothing that intrigued me. Eventually, Jacob would study them intently, fill out an order form, and, after a shrug from me, order the books online. I was peripheral.

  To my annoyance, I was also on the periphery of the murder investigation. Under duress, Peter had said that I’d never interfered, but we both knew his statement might as well have been written on an ice cube. I couldn’t return to the Literacy Council under any circumstances. Had it been on fire, I would not be admitted if I were carrying a fire extinguisher. If it flooded, there was no point in showing up with a mop and a bucket.

  I did know who had a mop and bucket, though. Toby Whitbream, the indentured janitor, might have been the last person to leave the Literacy Council—with the conspicuous exception of Ludmila Grabowski. Peter would already have that information and would have sent someone to collect Toby, so there was no reason for me to drive by the high school football field on the obscure chance the illustrious quarterback was throwing passes to phantom teammates.

  Everyone who might be involved in Ludmila’s death was unavailable. My attempt to run background checks had resulted in superficial information. To get specifics, I needed to ask questions. At which point I asked myself the obvious one: Why was I so determined to solve the murder? I hadn’t liked the victim, and I didn’t especially care about any of the suspects. The crime itself had probably been an accident. Ludmila encountered someone in the copy room. An argument escalated into a shoving match. Ludmila bounced off the copy machine, smashing her skull. The second party panicked and tried to hide the body. It was a credible scenario, as long as I could concoct a reason for either of them to be in the dusty little room.

  I forced myself to return to the question I’d posed. I tried the high road: Murder was a despicable crime and justice must prevail. I moved along to the middle road: The Literacy Council provided invaluable help to nonnative speakers and promoted community harmony. Caron and Inez were volunteers, and so was I (although I’d been railroaded). The low road was rocky: The glamour of French cuisine was fading fast, and I could read only so much poetry in the meadow before I started stalking field mice.

  Jacob came to the office doorway. “Is there anything I can do for you, Ms. Malloy? Would you like me to fetch you a salad or sandwich from the café up the block?”

  “No, thank you.” I stood up and picked up my purse. “Good job on the window, Jacob. I’ll stop by later in the week.” I went out to my car. Food had more uses than appeasing a rumbling stomach, I thought as I started the car. It could provide an excellent excuse for intrusion.

  I stopped at the grocery store, drove home, and settled down to create a masterful rendition of coq au vin. Once I’d stuck it in the oven, I indulged in a long bath. Afterward, I applied makeup and dressed in an appropriately subdued blouse and skirt. I took the dish out of the oven and let it cool, then transferred it to a ceramic serving bowl with a lid, sprinkled some parsley, and stepped back to admire my work. By now, it was late afternoon, the decorous time to make a condolence call.

  I knew from reading Ludmila’s folder that Bartek Grabowski lived near the college football stadium, a popular area for faculty and retirees. The house was located on a wooded side street but within earshot of Saturday afternoon stadium pandemonium. Clutching the dish, I went to the front porch and rang the bell. Moments later, Professor Grabowski opened the door. He was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, his feet bare, and was holding a highball glass.

  “I’ve seen you somewhere,” he said, confused. “Are you in one of my classes? No, that’s not right. Were you at Pashaw’s party last month?”

  Had my ego been vulnerable, I would have been deflated. “We spoke this morning at the Literacy Council. I’m the one who called your cell phone and left the message about your grandmother.”

  “That’s it!” He smiled at me. “Please come in. I’m afraid I don’t remember your name,”

  “I’m Claire Malloy, a member of the board of directors.” It was true, although hardly as impressive as it sounded. “I came by to express our condolences on the death of your grandmother. This is coq au vin.”

  “How kind of you, Claire.” He took the dish and led me through the living room and kitchen to a screened-in porch. “Please make yourself comfortable on the wicker sofa. May I offer you a glass of wine or something hardier? What would you prefer?”

  “Iced tea, if you have it,” I said. During my illustrious endeavors to solve crimes, I had been met on doorsteps with animosity. Gaining entrance to his house seemed almost too easy. If he was mourning the loss of his grandmother, he was disguising his grief very well. I suspected that the cocktail in his hand had not been his first, nor would it be his last. Maybe it was a Polish tradition to drown one’s sorrow.

  “Here we go,” Bartek said as he put down a glass and sat down across from me. “I often see deer at this time of day. It’s so peaceful here.”

  “But perhaps not as peaceful after your grandmother arrived from Poland.”

  He grimaced. “That is an understatement worthy of a gold medal. She yapped and griped and lectured me morning and night. Luckily, it was all in Polish so I never understood a word of it.” He took a sip of his drink and leaned back. “I pretended I had office hours and faculty meetings every night just so I wouldn’t have to put up with Babcia. I suppose I should shed a tear.”

  “Why did you bring her over from Poland?” I asked.

  “The last of her old friends died. They were sharing an apartment, and Babcia could no longer pay the rent. I was her only living rela
tive, she informed me in a convoluted letter, and therefore had an obligation to take care of her. I fell for it. Of course, I hadn’t seen her for thirty-odd years. I was ten or eleven when my parents took me to Bialystok to meet the family. I remembered that Babcia was brusque, but I didn’t remember being frightened of her. I must have been one dumb kid. Anyway, after I made her flight reservations, I flew to New York to meet her. I could hear her squawking as she went through customs.” He looked down and shook his head. “What an idiot I was. I should have sent her money every month so she could keep the apartment. No, I decided to do the noble thing and take care of her in her old age. My life has been hell for the last year.”

  “Well, it was the noble thing,” I said, “if not the brightest. Why do you think she was so angry at everybody? Could it have been an early sign of dementia?” I figured I might as well be blunt.

  “I thought of that. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a gerontologist who speaks Polish. I finally found a woman in Tulsa and dragged Babcia to see her. I sat in the waiting room. Later the doctor told me that Babcia was angry because she felt isolated, and prescribed an antidepressant.” He laughed. “She might as well have suggested Babcia take up tennis or ballet. Even when Babcia complained about her arthritis, she refused to take an aspirin. She accused me of trying to poison her when I gave her the antidepressants. I did what I could to find ways for her to occupy her time, with mixed results. Did you hear about the senior citizens center?” Without waiting for a response, he took our glasses into the house for refills.