Final Appeal (8 page)

 

 

Michael unlocked his apartment door and ducked inside. His heart was racing, although he was almost certain no one had seen him dash out to get a newspaper from the dispenser in front of the apartment building.

The paper listed a number on the front for people who wanted to subscribe. Michael dialed it and made arrangements to have the paper delivered to Mike Kruger's apartment every morning. Even though Stan had told him to ask for anything he wanted. Michael didn't see anything wrong with taking a little initiative. Then he hung up and stared down at today's newspaper, almost afraid to open it and find out what was inside.

After Toni had left, he'd discovered a damp pair of jeans and shirt in his closet. It was clear he'd been sleepwalking in the rain last night, just as he had feared. Now he wanted to find out where he'd gone and what he'd done.

Michael's hands were trembling as he paged through the paper. The world news could wait, and so could the sports and the business section. If he'd actually done what he feared, it would be in the Metro.

There was an article about a woman who'd been murdered in Westwood, and Michael shuddered. As he read the name of the victim, his face turned white.

The phone book was still open on the coffee table, and Michael forced himself to look at it. Margo Jantzen's name and address were right there in the middle of the page.

It was like the nightmare was happening again, except this time it was real. Michael sank down on the couch and held his head in his hands. The psychiatrist had told him that his nightmare was caused by the hatred he felt for the jurors who'd convicted him. The whole idea had seemed ridiculous, but he'd promised the doctor he'd think about it.

At his next session Michael had told the psychiatrist he was wrong. He didn't hate the jurors. It was true they'd made a mistake, but people weren't infallible, and you couldn't blame them for an honest error. After all, the body of evidence against him had been overwhelming.

The psychiatrist had made one of those nonjudgmental comments like, “I see,” or, “Oh,” and Michael had gone on to explain. It was true that he'd shouted at Carole. And he'd told the bartender at Barney's Beanery that she'd be sorry that she ever left him.

Of course, he hadn't meant that he was going to go back and kill her, but how were the jurors supposed to know that? And the gun, Michael's gun with his fingerprints on the cylinder, had been in the dumpster outside his apartment building. Didn't the doctor agree that all these facts were pretty incriminating? And to make it worse, he had no alibi, none at all. He still couldn't remember where he'd gone after he left the bar. All he knew was that he hadn't killed Carole, but it sure as hell looked as if he had. It wasn't the jurors fault he'd been convicted. It was reasonable for them to reach that conclusion even though it wasn't true.

The psychiatrist had smiled and nodded. They always smiled and nodded when they were about to knock your props out from under you. And then he'd asked a question. What was the dream if not tangible proof of the animosity Michael was harboring toward the jurors?

Michael had sighed and given in. It did no good to argue. But he hadn't believed it. He hadn't believed it at all until now.

 

 

“I don't believe it!” Doris reached across the table to pour Toni another cup of coffee. “That's three cinnamon rolls you've eaten in less than five minutes. Didn't you have any with Mike?”

Toni shook her head. “Mike ate. I was too nervous.”

“You were too nervous to eat? This is serious, Toni. I think you're in love.”

“Really?” Toni raised her eyebrows. “I don't know about the love part, but I
do
like him, Doris. He's got a good sense of humor. Did I tell you what he said about natural foods?”

Doris nodded. “You also told me that his favorite color is blue, he enjoys old movies, his favorite musical is
West Side Story
, and his hobby is reading Shakespeare. It sounds like a line in a high school yearbook. Did he say anything personal at all? Or ask you for a date?”

“No. But he seemed glad to see me. And he asked me in right away.”

“Okay, that's something.” Doris sighed. “Did you wear your cute little yellow sundress?”

Toni put her fourth roll down with a thump. “I'm sorry, Doris. I knew I forgot to do something.”

“You wore that?” Doris pointed to Toni's jeans and T-shirt, and she groaned when Toni nodded. “Well, that explains it. I think it's definitely time for step two, if you remembered to get his phone number.”

“I remembered that. I asked to use his phone and I memorized the number. “What's step two?”

“Dinner at your place. Honey-cured ham, sweet potatoes, spinach soufflé. And lemon meringue pie for desert. He won't be able to resist.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Toni sighed. “But, Doris, you know I can't cook a meal like that.”

“You won't have to. I'll make the dinner and bring it down to your place. All you have to do is look gorgeous and accept compliments.”

“But that's cheating, Doris. And I've never cheated in my life!”

“It's not really cheating if you come up here and help me make it. Now go and call him and invite him to dinner. And then run down to your place and bring back an apron. We've got cooking to do.”

It was a long time before Michael moved. The phone had rung twice before; ten rings each time, but he hadn't felt composed enough to answer. Now it was ringing again, and he roused himself enough to pick it up. It was probably Stan, calling to tell him that he had to go back to Oakdale now that he'd seen the article in the paper, and decided that Michael should be locked up after all.

“Mikey? It's Stan. I'm glad I caught you.”

Michael was so nervous he almost laughed out loud. Why wouldn't Stan catch him? He was supposed to stay right here, behind locked doors.

“Where were you, Mike? I called twice and no one answered. Were you sleeping?”

“No.” Michael thought fast. “But I took a long shower, Stan. That must have been when you called. The cord's not long enough to reach in the bathroom.”

“That's okay. Don't worry about it, Mikey. Normally, I wouldn't call in the middle of the day, but I wanted to get to you first, before you saw the news on the television. One of the jurors who served at your trial was murdered last night. Her name was Margo Jantzen. But the police don't suspect you, so relax. There's no cause for alarm.”

“They—they don't suspect me?”

“No. Two things happened, Mike. Good things for you. A couple of nurses from Oakdale swear they spotted you at the Oakland Airport last night.”

“They do?”

“That's right. Of course, you and I both know they're wrong, but we're the only ones who know that.”

“I've got a double?”

“Apparently. The ticket agent remembers selling you a one-way ticket to New York, and the police in California have called off their search. Isn't that good news?”

Michael swallowed hard. “Yes, Yes, it's very good news. Does that mean I can see you now?”

“Not yet, Mike. They'll still figure you'll try to contact me, so we'd better lay low for a while longer, just until we're sure.”

“Whatever you say Stan, You said there were two good things?”

“That's right, Michael.” My contact at the police station told me there's an important development in the Jantzen murder. She's the juror, remember?”

“Yes, Stan. I remember.”

“Well, they've discovered evidence that she was blackmailing her former employer. They're concentrating on that aspect now, to the exclusion of anything else. They haven't even discovered that she was a juror at your trial.”

“That's wonderful, Stan. Thanks for telling me.”

“What's wrong, Mikey? You sound worried. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine, Stan. It's just . . .” Michael paused for a second. Should he tell Stan about the sleepwalking?

“Come on, Mikey. Spit it out. Whatever it is, I can fix it.”

Michael took a deep breath. “I think I might be sleepwalking, Stan.”

“Is that all?” Stan chuckled. “Look, Mike. Don't worry about it. You used to sleepwalk as a kid, right after we moved into Aunt Alice's place. She was worried that you might hurt yourself, but you never did. And it stopped after a couple of months, when you got used to your new surroundings.”

Michael tried to remember the first few months at Aunt Alice's, but the memories were too vague. “I don't think I remember that, Stan.”

“Of course you don't. You couldn't have been more than three years old. Anyway, you shouldn't let it upset you. It's probably just a reaction to your new environment. Have a brandy or something right before you go to bed, and you'll sleep like a baby.”

“You don't think it's dangerous?”

“I seriously doubt it. If you're still sleepwalking after a couple of weeks, we'll figure something out. Okay?”

“Okay, Stan.”

“I've got to dash off, Mikey. I've a briefcase full of papers to file for your appeal. I'll talk to you at nine o'clock tonight, right?”

“Right.”

Michael had no sooner hung up the phone than it rang again. Was it Stan calling back to say he'd reconsidered? That he thought sleepwalking was dangerous after all, and Michael should go back to Oakdale? His fingers were shaking as he picked up the receiver.

“Hi, Mike. It's Toni. I am calling to invite you to my place for dinner.”

Michael was so surprised it wasn't Stan, his mind went completely blank. Finally, he forced out an answer. “Thanks, Toni. I'd really like to, but—” his mind raced, trying to think of an excuse, “I'm having a problem with work.”

“You mean with your writing?”

“Yes,” Michael answered, remembering he'd told Toni and Doris that he was a writer. “It's my main character. Something just isn't working right.”

“That's too bad, Mike.” Toni's voice was sympathetic. “Maybe you need to relax and get away from it for a while. After all, you need to eat dinner somewhere and it might as well be at my place.”

Michael began to smile. It was true he needed to relax and get away from it, but Toni didn't know that
it
was his anxiety about his sleepwalking. But talking to Toni seemed to make him feel better. It was also true that he had to eat dinner. “You're right, Toni. I'd like to come if you're sure I won't be intruding.”

“Intruding? Don't be silly. We're having ham, sweet potatoes, and spinach soufflé. With coffee and Lemon meringue pie for dessert. We'll eat at six, if that's all right with you.”

Michael's mouth was watering as he accepted her invitation and hung up the phone. If the cinnamon rolls were any indication, Toni was a terrific cook, and he hadn't had a good home-cooked meal in more than ten years.

Just thinking about the meal Toni had described was making him hungry. Michael found a box of crackers in the cupboard and made himself a snack of Brie and crackers. After he'd eaten he felt much better. Stan hadn't been a bit worried about his sleepwalking. And Stan was usually right. He'd go over it one more time to try to see things objectively.

Michael sat down on the couch and went through the whole thing again. The phone book had been open to Margo Jantzen's name. He'd gone out into the rain last night. Those were the facts, but they didn't add up to murder. He'd never done anything the least bit violent while he was sleepwalking as a kid, and he'd checked his damp clothing carefully and found no evidence of bloodstains. It was possible, even probable, that'd he'd walked a few blocks in the rain and then retraced his steps and gone back to bed.

A glance at the clock, and Michael was on his feet. He had to hurry. It was already five-thirty, and Toni had said to come at six. He felt so relieved, he found himself singing an old Beatles refrain while he was dressing in tan slacks, a wine-colored sweater, and a pair of brown loafers. They were bound to be acceptable, even though he had no concept of the current styles. He'd have to remember to check the ads in the paper to see what the well dressed man was wearing.

Michael was about to go out the door when he remembered the dinner parities he'd gone to with Carole. Everyone had arrived with a gift for the hostess. It didn't have to be much. You could arrive with a box of candy, a bouquet of flowers, or a bottle of wine. Almost anything was acceptable, but no one had arrived empty-handed. He couldn't go out to buy candy or flowers, but there might be some wine in the apartment. All he had to do was find it.

There was a shelf of white wine in the refrigerator, but Toni was serving ham. Wasn't there some rule about red wine with meat? If Stan had bought white wine, he'd probably picked up some red at the same time. But where had he stored it?

After a five-minute search, Michael was ready to give up until he remembered Stan's advice about drinking brandy before he went to bed. If he had brandy, there was a liquor cabinet. Was it behind the stained glass doors he'd noticed in the living room?

Michael hurried to the living room, pulled open the doors, and smiled as he saw vodka, gin, brandy, Scotch, and every brand of liquor conceivable. And there were twelve bottles of something called Lafite Rothschild nestled in the built-in wine rack. He grabbed one and headed out the door. He knew nothing about wines. He'd always served beer because it was all he could afford. He'd just have to trust that his brother's taste would please Toni.