Canary (19 page)

Newt didn't look at her as he walked swiftly out of the room. Clarisse stared after him and then knit her brow when she detected movement in the crack of the open door. Someone was moving out from behind it. Clarisse got up and crossed to the doorway just in time to see a woman wearing a turban of white terry cloth and a second white towel wrapped around her body dart across the hall. Clarisse briefly saw the woman's profile as she disappeared into the locker room.

Although her hair was covered and she was not in her usual costume, Clarisse was certain the woman was B.J.

Clarisse crossed hurriedly into the locker room. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

Several of the women from Newt's self-defense course chatted idly and laughed as they finished dressing, while others moved about on the other side of the room in the steam-clouded shower stalls. Clarisse passed down a row of lockers past the stalls and looked into a short hallway leading to the steam room. The metal door of the room was closed, and the small window to the right of it was fogged over, but the interior was illuminated by a murky yellowish light. Clarisse opened the door of the steam room and stepped inside. She held the door ajar behind her until her eyes adjusted to the uneven play of light on the clouding mist. There seemed to be human shapes along the bench against the back wall, but when she could finally distinguish the depth of the room, these proved to be only shadows, and Clarisse realized that she was quite alone.

In turning to leave, Clarisse let go the door. It snapped shut with a click of the latch.

Clarisse pushed her hand against the metal door. It would not give. She swiftly traced her hand down one side in search of a handle. There was none. Clarisse pressed both palms flat against the hot, sweating metal and shoved hard at it, but the door was unmovable despite the force she exerted. She went over to the small pane of glass and wiped vapor from it. She saw no one in the exterior hall, and a bend in the angle of it prevented her seeing into the locker room. Clarisse shouted and banged her fist against the glass.

Steam hissed louder, and the room grew more oppressively humid. Mist thickened. Clarisse stepped back to the door and banged her fists against it. She kicked the door. It rattled but would not give.

The door flew unexpectedly open, and a startled Clarisse tumbled out into the arms of Millie, the receptionist.

“What the hell—” Millie exclaimed.

Clarisse pulled back and took a deep gasp of cool air. She pushed aside her lank wet hair and then pressed her face into her upturned hands.

“Don't throw up!” Millie cautioned. “The maid's already gone for the day, and I'd have to clean it up. Sit down. Put your head between your knees.”

The sudden change in temperature made Clarisse shudder. “Somebody locked me in there,” she blurted out.

“Yeah, I know. They put this broom handle in the door.” Millie pointed at a large push broom on the floor. “Sometimes these women can be worse than a bunch of high school jocks,” said Millie, shaking her head. “Always playing practical jokes.”

“It wasn't a practical joke. Somebody tried to kill me.”

“Sure,” Millie said.

“I could have died in there.”

“One time I saved this boy's life in a swimming pool,” Millie said. “The MDC police gave me a lifesaver's medal.”

“Where's Newt?” Clarisse asked sharply.

“He went home. Are you okay now?”

“Was he alone?”

“You want an extra-strength Tylenol or something?”

“Just tell me if Newt left with B.J. or not!” Clarisse demanded.

“B.J.? You mean Betty Jordan? Even if my name was Betty Jordan, I wouldn't go by the initials B.J.,” remarked Millie. “You think she knows what those initials stand for?”

“How long has she been coming here?”

Millie thought a brief moment. “Since last May, I think.”

“How often does she show up?”

“I'm not supposed to talk about our clients.”

“Of course you're not,” Clarisse said, “but if you do tell me what I want to know, I promise I won't sue the spa for allowing me to be locked in the steam room and suffer physical and psychological trauma. Now, how long has Betty Jordan been coming here?”

“Since May. She takes all her classes from Newt. She comes in twice a week just to use—” Millie's voice halted.

“The steam room?”

Millie nodded slowly.

“Would I be too far off guessing this is one of her steam days?”

“Yes, but—” Millie began, confused.

Clarisse walked away from her toward the locker room. “Thanks for saving my life,” Clarisse tossed back over her shoulder.

A
T NINE-THIRTY THAT EVENING
Clarisse swept into Valentine's office above the barroom, banged the door shut behind her, and announced, “Somebody tried to kill me this afternoon—I think.”

Valentine glanced up from his newspaper. “Who is somebody, and did they or didn't they?”

Clarisse threw herself into one of the two wingback chairs facing the desk. She crossed her legs, rearranged her skirt, and folded her arms. Sitting in his swivel chair, Valentine was framed by the two-way mirror overlooking the barroom.

“‘Somebody' is B.J. I think she had some help doing it.” Clarisse paused, took a breath, and then said reluctantly, “Newt…”

Valentine raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Clarisse detailed for him her visit to the Universal Women's Health Spa.

“After it happened, I came directly back here to tell you, but when you weren't here, I decided to have a nice quiet dinner at the Club Café and think things over. Where have you been all day, anyway?”

“Maybe it
was
just a practical joke, like the receptionist said.”

“It was no joke, Val. I told you, B.J. was eavesdropping outside the door when I was talking to Newt.”

Valentine put his newspaper aside. “So obviously you're thinking B.J. killed Ruder and Cruder? Clarisse, she may be strong, but could she kill two men, both of them bigger than her?”

Clarisse shrugged uneasily. “Newt and B.J. were together the night of the murder. The building where Ruder and Cruder were killed is only a block away from Newt's apartment.”

“We've established that. Have you done any work on motive?”

“Not yet,” Clarisse admitted. “But remember, Newt knew other necktie victims. Jed. He had a date with All-American Boy. He knew the Shrimp, too.”

“I knew all those people, too; at least by sight. So did Niobe, and Sean.”

Clarisse leaned forward. “What earthly reason would Newt have to be so defensive about B.J. when I questioned him about her?”

“How would you react if someone asked you specific questions about the last time you had sex?”

“Okay,” Clarisse conceded, “you have a point, but Newt has never been one for discretion, especially as far as his sexual exploits go. Also, I'd like to find out just how well those two knew each other. Now, Newt told us he'd talked to B.J. in the bar a few times, but the receptionist told me she's been going to the spa for months.”

“Maybe Newt didn't talk to her at the spa for a long time. She may have been going there for months, but how long has she been taking classes from Newt?”

Clarisse paused a moment before replying. “I think Newt still has some questions to answer. I think we should talk to him, and to B.J. If they won't give us what we want, we'll go to the police.”

“I love how you so casually interchange ‘I' and ‘we',” Valentine remarked dryly.

“You are going to help, aren't you?”

“Yes, of course, but you realize that if we're wrong, Newt will never speak to us again, and Niobe will quit her job.”

“I'll feel worse if somebody else gets murdered and you and I haven't done anything to prevent it.”

“Who do we grill first? Newt or B.J.?” Valentine asked.

“Newt,” Clarisse said without hesitation, “just because he's closer. B.J. lives in Cambridge, near Porter Square—I looked it up in the telephone book.”

Valentine picked up the telephone receiver and punched the intercom button connecting to the bar. He swung about in his chair to look through the two-way glass at Sean answering the phone next to the cash register.

“Sean, something's come up, and Clarisse and I have to go out for a while. Would you mind working a little double-time until we get back? We shouldn't be more than a couple of hours.”

Sean glanced up toward the window and nodded agreement to Valentine's request.

“For Niobe's sake,” Valentine said as he hung up the telephone, “I hope our suspicions are wrong.”

“You never did tell me what you were up to today,” said Clarisse.

“Same thing you were—snooping around in things that didn't concern me.”

“Really?” Clarisse asked in a delighted voice as they left the office. “Where did you go? What did you find out?”

Valentine locked the office door behind them. “Remember Newt's leather wristband, the one that just happened to slip off his arm and fall in the hibachi yesterday?”

“The one the carpenter
supposedly
found.”

They moved down the stairwell.

“I decided to talk to his carpenter friend myself,” Valentine said. “I went to that building today. I pretended I was interested in buying one of the condos. I got them to let me look around. I found the carpenter Newt knows.”

“And—” Clarisse urged anxiously.

“The carpenter didn't know anything about it. He said he hadn't given anything to Newt.”

“Do you think the carpenter was telling the truth?”

“He had no reason to lie.”

“Then why would Newt make up a story like that?”

“Good question.” They reached the first floor, and Valentine followed Clarisse out to the street. The evening was warm and windless, and the last vestiges of twilight showed in a deep indigo sky free of clouds. They decided to walk to Beacon Street, a quarter of an hour away.

When they got there, they saw that Newt's apartment windows were lighted, but he didn't answer his intercom when they pressed the buzzer.

“Want to try Niobe?” Valentine asked.

Clarisse nodded and pressed Niobe's bell. “We're here to see Newt,” Clarisse declared when Niobe responded, “but he's not answering.”

“I'm not his secretary,” Niobe answered sharply. “I'm not his doorman. He's home. Ring longer.”

They rang twice again, then buzzed Niobe again, who unlatched the door without speaking.

As they mounted the stairs, Valentine and Clarisse found Niobe beating on Newt's door and shouting, “Turn that stereo off, you lying two-faced sneak!”

Loud rock music issued from Newt's apartment.

“You're sure he's here?” Clarisse asked.

“Who else in the building would play a record five times straight through at top volume? He always bangs the door shut when he goes out, and he hasn't gone out.” She fished a key out of her pocket. “He doesn't know I have a key. He changed the locks when I moved out, but I bribed the locksmith. Just in case I ever have to gather evidence for our divorce case.”

She pressed the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door.

The hallway door opened on to the long living room of the apartment. The dim room glowed with the failing light of the sky over the Charles. Newt sat motionless on the couch, staring toward the back windows overlooking the river.

Niobe, in a long breath of imprecations against Newt's rudeness, marched across the carpet and pushed the stylus gratingly across the turntable. Newt did not protest. In the sudden silence, Clarisse flicked on the light. Then they were able to see the dark silk necktie wound tightly about his neck and Newt's glassy, sightless stare.

Labor Day

“O
KAY,” VALENTINE SAID
as he pushed the door all the way open, “what's the crisis
this
time?” He stepped over the threshold onto the gravelly surface of the roof of Slate.

Clarisse sat, arms folded, on the low brick wall dividing Slate's roof from that of the adjoining building. She wore a dove-gray sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves, a pair of blue jeans, and dark gray Adidas running shoes. Her hair was covered with a red bandanna. She was staring toward Boston's Back Bay. It was past six o'clock, and the days at the end of summer were noticeably shortening. The lowering sun reflected blindingly off the dark glass walls of Hancock Tower.

Clarisse said nothing when Valentine came over and sat down beside her.

“You called me up here so you could give me the silent treatment?” he asked.