Murder as a Second Language (10 page)

Not exactly. “Yes,” I said firmly, “and I'm worried about her. She didn't show up at the Farberville Literacy Council this morning to teach her classes. Have you seen her?”

He still seemed skeptical. “No. The cops were here earlier, looking for her. I've never seen you around here.”

“I'm not a burglar, for pity's sake! I'm a friend of hers. Did you see her last night?”

“Somebody was banging on her door about ten thirty.”

“Did you see who it was?” I asked, doing my best not to sound excited. “Male or female, anything like that?”

“I don't spy on my neighbors. Do you think I'd go out to the front yard so I could see who it was? I don't even know the woman, except to say hello when we meet on the sidewalk. For all I know, it could have been you.”

“Casing the joint? If I were a burglar, I wouldn't announce my presence, would I? Why don't you run along and snoop around at someone else's house?”

We were not destined to be best friends. He walked across the yard of the house next door, went inside, and slammed the door. I fumed for a moment, thinking of all the amazingly barbed retorts I could have used to squelch him like a bug. A grimy little bug. Once I'd cooled off, I went back down the driveway and into the backyard. Leslie had not been a gardener. The grass was skimpy, and large bushes stood on either side of the back door stoop. I knocked on the door without success. I had no reason to think Leslie was home and merely unwilling to answer the door. Although, I told myself, she could be inside, so ill that she couldn't get out of bed. She could be crumpled on the floor with a broken leg or even unconscious. On the other hand, her car was missing, which implied that she'd gone somewhere for whatever reason. One possibility was obvious—she was responsible for Ludmila's death. She might be driving toward Mexico or Canada, depending on whether she preferred searing summers or freezing winters. Or her car could be in a chop shop.

The door was locked, and I was not skilled in the genteel art of picking locks with a hairpin (if I'd had such a thing). I looked at the windows. One was slightly open, clearly an invitation to make sure that Leslie was not in a puddle of blood. I dragged a garbage can under the window, did what I could to secure the lid, and then managed to crawl onto it. I finally made it to my feet, clung to the sill until I had my balance, and shoved open the window. Had the garbage can not flipped over under my weight, it would have been quite a display of ingenuity. As it was, I kicked and squirmed my way across the sill and flopped face-first onto a bed, bounced, and rolled onto the floor. I lay still for a moment, listening for gasps from either Leslie or myself. I decided I was unharmed and, I dearly hoped, alone. Such entrances can be tricky to explain.

Leslie's bedroom was tidy, the bed made and a stack of books aligned on the bedside table. Most people in the act of fleeing don't dally to close drawers or empty the wastebasket. The closet contained dresses, blouses, suits, and a few bare coat hangers. Shoes were in neat pairs on the floor. The only anomaly was one large, worn athletic shoe in a back corner. Leslie had two feet, and neither was apt to fit it. I concluded it had been left by a previous tenant. I declined to examine it, since brown recluse spiders were fond of such residences.

I went out to the hall. The bathroom was as tidy as the bedroom, and there were no splatters of blood in the bathtub or on the floor. Her makeup, toothbrush and toothpaste, and similar items were next to the sink. The living room held no surprises, nor did the kitchen or the small dining room. I returned to the hall and went into the second bedroom, which had been converted into an office. The bookcase held heavy tomes, boxes of supplies, and packages of printer paper. I sat down at the desk and picked up the top folder from a stack of perhaps a dozen. A photograph of a thirtyish, ebony-skinned man had been stapled to what appeared to be a résumé. I noticed that he was from Zaire and was a graduate student in astrophysics at a university in Arizona. I put aside his folder and picked up the next one. It, too, had a photograph, this one of a swarthy man from Egypt. He was working on a degree in mechanical engineering.

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 another, 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.”