Murder in the Marketplace (6 page)

“So all the apartments are two-bedroom?” I remembered that Jenifer downstairs had said she had two bedrooms.

Curtis nodded. “All the same—two bedrooms, one bath, impossible kitchen, not enough closets. But the price is right. It’s even better if you have a roommate, like Jenifer. But I can’t live with anyone else.”

“Is Jenifer’s roommate female?” I caught myself. “Never mind. I’m gong down there after I finish Bill Aronson.”

“Jenifer’s a cute little thing,” Curtis said fondly. “But so young. Still expects the best of everyone. Her roommate is different—into one of those strange religions, and even less fun than she used to be. I hope she doesn’t really convert Jenifer.” He got up when I stood. “We chat at the mailbox sometimes,” he confided, his loneliness more apparent. “Nice girls, really, both of them. Catch Wanda chitchatting, or even letting her little boy talk. I invited him to play catch one day, and you’d have thought I had ‘Man-Boy Love’ tattooed on my forehead. Honestly!”

I got away at last, wishing I had met Curtis under other circumstances. He would make a good friend. I went back across the upstairs walkway and knocked on Bill Aronson’s door. There was no answer. I could still smell the onions, but the man with the spatula was lying low. I knocked a third time. A curtain twitched in the living room. Still no answer.

When I turned away, Curtis was standing in his doorway. “What did I tell you,” he crowed. “He’s holed up in there, but he won’t come out. Well, what do you need to know? I’ll tell you about Bill, and what I don’t know, I’ll make up.” He raised his voice on the last few words. The curtain twitched again.

“Thank you, Mr. Hall.” I raised my voice a little, too. “We are supposed to ask the neighbors for information if people won’t speak to us.”

Bill Aronson’s door banged open. “You don’t speak for me, pansy.”

“Speak for yourself then, Bill.” Curtis winked at me and went into his own apartment, shutting the door.

“Why are you doing this?” Bill Aronson scowled at me. “I value my privacy. I don’t want the government poking its nose into my personal business.”

I had been trained to answer this with exquisite courtesy and a whole page full of statistics, boring the listener into acquiescence. Tactful courtesy is not my strong suit.

“If you think the government doesn’t already know a lot about you, Mr. Aronson, you’ve got another think coming.” I waved my register at him. “Your name and address are here already. The IRS knows how much money you make and where you make it. Would you like the Census Bureau to have to activate that file? The FBI probably knows if you make trouble, and Social Security and Medicare know about your health. State and local agencies have their hands out to the federal government, and the government is going to look at the census data before putting any money in those hands. Do you want more potholes because your illusory privacy is so important? Do you want fewer schoolbooks, less mass transit, longer waits in the emergency room? Fine. You’ve got it. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go on to someone who wants to be counted.”

I stomped down the stairs before Bill Aronson could do more than sputter. The trouble was, I didn’t really believe what I had said. I also don’t want the government to know too much about me. I don’t want to be in anybody’s database.

Jenifer Paston’s apartment was silent, except for the puppy; I could hear it whining inside. There was no response to my knock; either both of the women were out, or else they were also refusing to answer the door. After the shouting match with Bill Aronson, everyone in the building must have known the census taker was here.

I knocked harder. The door, improperly latched, swung open a little way. The puppy’s desperate clawing opened it further, and he bounced out and jumped up on me, licking at my knees, whining and writhing in a frenzy of welcome.

“Jenifer? Miss Paston?” I pushed the door open wider, but didn’t enter. We were not allowed into people’s homes unless specifically invited. The puppy’s invitation didn’t count. “Your dog’s out.” The puppy had run into the parking lot, then back to paw at my knees again. “You’d better come and get it.”

No response. The puppy finally squatted right beside the door and let go, with an expression of mingled shame and relief.

I picked him up when he started to dash away. The wiggly body was hard to hold onto. His fur was soft and silky. After a moment he licked my face.

I tucked him under my arm and stood in the doorway. “Miss Paston?" The drapes were drawn; making it gloomy inside, not like Curtis’s light, glowing room above. There was a sofa with its back to the door, facing a wall unit that held a TV and stereo equipment. The carpet was a muddy green shag. The puppy slipped out of my grasp and ran behind the sofa, and then out again, barking aggressively at me.

Hesitating, I stood in the doorway. “Miss Paston?” A car pulled into the parking area behind me, and I turned, hoping it was Jenifer or her roommate.

A woman got out—tall and nicely dressed, with shoulder-length blond hair and a tight, controlled face. It was Clarice, from SoftWrite. Of course, it made sense that she was Jenifer’s roommate. The motherly way she’d pressed the aspirin on the younger woman came back to me.

Clarice strode over, clutching her keys defensively. “Can I help you?” Her voice made it clear that the only thing she wanted to help me with was leaving as soon as possible.

“Hello, Clarice.” I held out my hand. She didn’t take it, maintaining her grip on the keys.

“Do I know you?”

“I was at SoftWrite this morning, doing temp work.”

“Oh.” She peered past me at the open door. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m also a temporary census taker,” I said. “Jenifer was here this afternoon when I started this section of the register. She didn’t feel well, so I came back this evening to talk to you.”

The puppy bounded out of the door and jumped at her.

“Down, Barker.” She pushed him impatiently. “Where’s Jenifer? Why is this dog out?”

I shrugged helplessly. “It was like this when I knocked. The puppy came barreling out and I tried to put him back. I didn’t go in.”

Clarice pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. “Jenifer?”

“Look, the questions only take a few minutes.” I moved a little closer, hoping she wouldn’t shut the door in my face. “I already got most of the information from Miss Paston.”

“Jenifer?” Clarice Jensen flicked on the light. “Jenifer? Are you—” Her voice ended in a strangled gulp. She leaned on both hands, propped on the sofa back. I couldn’t see what she was looking at. The puppy was growling softly; it pranced around the sofa corner, carrying something in its mouth. A well-chewed terry scuff, the kind Jenifer had been wearing earlier.

“Oh, my God.” Clarice’s voice wavered and broke. “Oh, my God. She’s dead.”

Chapter 6

Clarice sobbed with abandon, draped over the sofa back. I hesitated, on the brink of just fading away, and then went around the sofa, wondering if Jenifer was really dead. She was flat on her back between the sofa and the entertainment center, as if she were just having an impromptu snooze. Her clammy arm seemed to point reproachfully at me. I noticed how peaceful she looked, still wearing the old bathrobe I’d seen her in earlier. The puppy pranced beside her, shaking her gnawed-up slipper and growling ferociously.

A brown plastic prescription medicine bottle lay on the floor next to Jenifer’s flaccid hand. It appeared to be empty.

I knelt and put two fingers on that thin, pale wrist. It was cool to touch; I couldn’t detect a pulse. I couldn’t think well enough at the moment to calculate how long it would take to die from an overdose of prescription pills. The pill label faced the shag carpet; I didn’t turn it over.

“Stop touching her!” Clarice came flying around the sofa as I stood. She pushed me and I teetered, afraid to fall over onto Jenifer.

“I’ve stopped, okay? I just wanted to see if there was a pulse.”

“She’s dead,” Clarice repeated tonelessly, her eyes wide with the horror of it. “Can’t you see? She’s dead. Get away from her. Get away!” She wheeled and grabbed for her purse. I was thankful she’d dropped her keys; she might have raked my face with them. I tried to edge past her, but she was blocking the space at the end of the sofa.

“Excuse me,” I said while Clarice rooted frantically in her purse. “I could call the police for you.”

Clarice turned back, a can of Mace in her hand. “Don’t move. Don’t even think of—”

I ducked, putting my clunky black census briefcase up to guard my face. “Look, I got here just before you did. She’s been dead for a while—she’s cold.”

“Cold. Cold and dead.” Clarice dropped the Mace after one short blast. She sank onto the couch, crying gustily.

I looked around for the phone, my eyes burning from random Mace droplets, and called 911. I tried not to touch anything, from some befuddled idea that it would be bad. I went back into the living room and stood there, uncertain what to do. I wanted to split. Getting mixed up with dead people leads to trouble, in my experience. But there was a live woman there, too, and she was obviously incapable of handling things.

She was holding that cold, limp hand in hers now, and batting at the puppy, who tugged playfully at the sash of Jenifer’s robe. I cleared my throat, and she rounded on me.

“What do you want? Can’t you see—”

“I called the ambulance.” I didn’t intend to stay around if the only use I had was to be yelled at. “I’m very sorry.”

She swallowed. “Thanks, I guess.” The puppy climbed on her, and she thrust him off angrily. “Get away, Barker. You’re impossible.”

“He’s a cute little fellow.” I snapped my fingers, and Barker gamboled over to me, tongue lolling out.

“Jenifer’s.” Clarice teared up again. “She wanted him—said she’d take care of him. Now what will I do? Why did she do it? Why did she . . ." She was sobbing again.

"Look, I suppose it
is
suicide.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wished I could call them back.

Clarice's thoughts weren’t running on the same track as mine. “Accident, you mean? Maybe. I didn’t even know she took medication.” She reached for the pill bottle.

“Better leave everything just as it is.” There was a sound of sirens in the distance.

“What? Oh, yes, I suppose, so.” She looked vaguely around. “Is that the ambulance?” She made a horrible sound. After a moment I realized it was a giggle. “What good is the ambulance? All Jenifer needs is a hearse.”

The sirens came closer. I felt worse and worse about being there for the discovery of a fresh dead body, being questioned, having the events of the previous fall raked up again. Several murders had been committed then in the name of greed, and though I’d been the one to benefit, I’d lost a couple of people who were important to me. This scene was bringing it all back too freshly.

“Look,” I said. “I’ll show them where to come. And then I’ll take off. You don’t need strangers around.”

She just nodded, still clutching Jenifer’s hand. The puppy pawed at her skirt, and she angrily knocked him away. “Stop it, Barker.”

He yelped a little. “I’ll take care of the dog for a few days, if you want.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew I was going to say them.

“Fine.” She pushed him toward me. “It gives me the creeps, the way he licks her like that. And he’ll howl all night.”

I picked up the wiggly little body. The sirens were deafening now. Clutching Barker and my black briefcase, I went out into the parking lot to direct the paramedics.

The sirens had brought people out of their apartments. I waved my briefcase, and the paramedics charged past me. Curtis leaned over the railing of the upstairs walkway. “‘What’s happened?” He had to shout over the noise.

“It’s Jenifer. Clarice probably could use your help.”

He bounded down the stairs. “Is Jenifer hurt? Why do you have Barker?”

I didn’t want to be the one to tell the bad news. “Clarice can’t take care of Barker right now. Do you want him?”

Curtis reached to pat the puppy, who growled at him. He backed away. “Heavens, no. I’m a cat person, anyway. They can tell, I guess. Take him, by all means, if Clarice doesn’t want him. Do you think I should go in?”

“Maybe just be ready to help.”

“But what happened?” He craned to look through the doorway, where paramedics were seething around.

“Overdose, it looks like.”

“Oh, poor Jenifer. Poor Clarice.” Curtis seemed genuinely distressed. “Now, why would she do such a thing? I’ll see if Clarice needs anything.” He disappeared into the apartment.

I wanted to disappear, too. Bill Aronson’s curtains were drawn all the way open; I could see him standing back from the window, a dark, eager shape. The doors and windows of the apartment building across the courtyard were also full of gawkers.

Awkwardly clutching puppy and briefcase, I walked through the courtyard and onto the sidewalk. My bus was parked half a block away. I didn’t know if the police were called about a suicide attempt. But if they were, I wanted to be long gone when they arrived.

I pulled away from the curb just in time. A squad car cruised up the street, lights flashing but no siren. I drove on, threading the residential streets that led to El Camino Real. Just as I turned onto El Camino, a battered Saab turned off. I pretended I didn’t notice, but Drake would have seen me. He saw everything when he was really looking, and in cases of suspicious death, he really looked. I was lucky he didn’t pull me over right away. But he knew where to find me later.

At least this time I wasn’t a suspect. Jenifer had committed suicide, and although people might go to any lengths to avoid the census, I didn’t think I had anything to do with her death.

If it was something more sinister than suicide, any suspects would have to be found closer to the crime. Clarice could perhaps provide motivation for Jenifer’s actions. I pictured her in the hot seat, being grilled by the detectives. Better her than me.

But Drake, I remembered, had a kind of weakness for the females he questioned. Luckily this was suicide, not murder. Clarice wouldn’t really need to arouse his chivalrous instincts. I found myself being glad of that.