The Case of the Lady in Apartment 308 (2 page)

He said, “Clean first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good attitude. Keep it.” He used his master key on the apartment down the hall. Since the apartment wasn’t Elinor’s, he opened the door and stood aside as she entered. The apartment was furnished.

Ed looked at it with clear eyes. “It’s a little stolid.”

“Drab.” She was turning her head. “The walls should be a light yellow.”

He looked at the walls. She was right. “If…when you move back into the other apartment, I’ll paint this one yellow for you.”

“I can paint it.”

He thought she would find it an interesting object to paint. She would label it something like Abandoned Room or No Home To Go To or something like that. It was depressing when he thought of living in the drab place day after day.

Having it cleaned wouldn’t make it livable. He’d have to take another look at the other empty apartments. Maybe paint was what they really needed. The rooms were neat and tidy—shipshape—but they were drab.

He looked at the brown-haired woman with her blue, blue eyes. And he looked at her soft, blue printed suitcase of quilted cloth. She was a lady.

What was a fragile lady doing in a drab apartment building in Peoria, Illinois? He asked, “Where do you live?”

“Here?”

He smiled. But his husky voice went on and asked, “Where were you brought up?”

“Here.” She shrugged.

He leaned back his head to nod one slow, serious time and said, “A real native?”

“Yep.”

“I was an incident on a trip and I was born in Petersburg, Illinois, the heart of the Lincoln country.”

“A Republican.” She said that rather flatly.

“Yep.” He echoed her own method of agreeing.

“You’ll learn.”

His grin came slowly and his dark brown eyes sparkled unduly. “Teach me.”

“I would doubt there is anything left for you to learn.”

He sobered. “I’m not that old.”

“You’re that positive. You don’t need directions.”

“Guide me.”

She put back her head and laughed aloud. It was a scoffing laugh, not an alluring one. She was not trying to lure him. How rude of her.

He didn’t want to be lured. He wasn’t in any position to take on a woman permanently.

He said, “I’ll help you bring your things down here. You can have this key. I’ll trade it for Elinor’s keys.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“She’s like an old cat. She’s already landed on her feet. She’s probably in another apartment and has already changed the locks.”

“She did that?”

“She did.”

Marcia held out her hand. “Give me all the keys to this place.”

Even as he took them off his ring, he was saying, “I don’t snoop. And I never did change the locks back on Elinor’s place. Any other rent collector would have. I wasn’t smart enough. I thought she was indigent until I realized she had two men living with her.”

“Her sons?”

“I would seriously doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She smoked cigars.”

Marcia frowned as she considered. “Does that mean that cigar smoking men aren’t fathers?”

“I would never have thought you were the picky type. You seemed pliant and kind.”

“It’s all facade.”

He smiled as he looked down her body. “There’s nothing wrong with—”

But she’d already caught herself and said, “I’ll need paper to line the drawers. Are there any roaches?”

He put his hand to his chest in such a way that his elementary school play director would have gasped in admiration. He exclaimed, “Roaches? Here?”

She gave him a sideways look from disbelieving eyes and retorted with some sarcasm, “I’ll keep track.”

“You’re the type that drives own—rent collectors crazy. I’d bet you get up in the night and sneak into the kitchen and turn on the light—just to check.”

“Yes.” She dismissed him.

She went into the bedroom and inspected the clean mattress as she set her Vera Bradley bag on its expanse. She tested the empty dresser drawers, the bathroom and, finally, the kitchen.

Since the kitchen was the last place of note, Ed figured she wasn’t any kind of a cook.

What difference did that make?

None.

Being a man of his word, Ed helped her carry the rest of her bags to the other apartment.

As they were gathering up the last of her things from Elinor’s place, she asked, “What colors are you planning for this apartment?”

“Green? Blue?”

“White.”

His face held a distasteful look. “White?” He scrunched up his mouth as if he’d bitten into a sour grape.

She added. “The woodwork, too.”

He looked at the worn carpet. It was gray.

On cue, she said, “It needs to be red.”

He flinched just the slightest, uncontrolled wince. He repeated the word flatly, “Red.”

She took her much smaller bundle and left the dull apartment. Her leaving made it duller, and Ed followed her out into the hall, closing the door.

He told her, “There are stores along Blake Street down the block. One sells work gloves.”

“I saw it.”

She was really kind of snotty.

She had no other comment to make. They walked in silence to her temp apartment. At her door, she put her things inside, turned back, took his burden and said, “Thank you.” Then she disappeared inside her den and closed the door.

He heard the bolt slide into place.

He was barred from entering.

Well, he didn’t
want
to enter her place.

It wasn’t hers. She hadn’t paid any rent.

What was he doing encouraging a female to take over a whole apartment when she hadn’t even made a down payment? Well, she had. It was just that she’d
said
she’d made a double down payment on a “paid up” apartment.

That Elinor had some real questions to answer as to her conduct.

He really didn’t think Elinor would understand anything about proper conduct.

Well, then, what about Marcia Phillips? Of what sort of conduct was she capable?

Why would he want to know? And just what sort of misconduct did he have in mind? She’d given no signals, at all, that she’d be interested in any co-conduct with him.

Co-conduct wasn’t a real expression. Co-horts was a word, and co-respondents, and then there was cohabitation.

What would it be like to cohabit with Marcia Phillips?

It was probably the recent indifference of the females he’d known and considered that had led him to speculate on this little wren who had landed in his cage.

It wasn’t a cage; it was an apartment building.

He couldn’t consider anything with any woman while in his unemployed circumstances.

Ed did the rest of his rounds in the four-story apartment building. He didn’t check the third floor again. He did look down the hall as he went on down the stairs, but her door was closed.

She ought to keep it that way.

T
he rest of the day, Ed didn’t hear one peep out of the intrusive woman. Not one. Ed had listened.

Marcia Phillips could have asked for cleaning equipment, or she could have inquired where what was in the neighborhood.

She could have wanted help in putting her things on top shelves. She could have thought of something if she’d wanted his attention. She hadn’t asked for one single thing. He didn’t see her again for the rest of the day.

What had she had for supper?

It wasn’t any of his business.

Ed tidied his tools in the apartment basement’s locked stockroom. With the day done, he fiddled needlessly. He looked around and knew full well it was time to go home to the compound.

He smothered the need to go check on his new renter. Actually, she wasn’t yet a renter, she was a freeloader.

Ed’s mouth turned down. His eyes flinched to recall he’d committed to buying some of her paintings. She was probably one of those artists who splash, throw the paint or dribble it on great canvases…or wood…Or apartment floors.

Actually…how did Ed know whether or not she’d paid one cent to the wily Elinor?

If the woman knew Elinor, she might be kin to the woman and just as wily.

Marcia probably
was
kin to that deadbeat woman. She’d moved in—having been told by Elinor that the new rent collector was a pushover for anything Marcia could dream up.

No way. Nuh-uh. Not Edgar Hollingsworth.

Somehow Ed was home, back at the rusty ironfenced compound. Not remembering any of his walk, he looked around at the shadows cast by the setting sun. It was a beautiful place.

The great, protecting oak was a wonderful tree only about two hundred years old. That was young for an oak tree. Its branches stretched out and the lacy shadows were eye-catching as they splotched the stepped and deliberately askew concrete string of buildings.

Ed thought the woman architect who’d planned that compound had been a genius, far ahead of her time. But what pleasure it must have given her to have seen it built.

The fact that he could realize the visual pleasure of such genius would make him too critical of Marcia’s
artistic efforts. Ed’s back muscles shivered to think of what all awful stuff the woman could concoct.

In the compound, there were fifteen separate abodes. None of the entrances was in sight of the next one. All had windows overlooking the river. That had taken skillful planning.

Since each unit had a basement, it had been easy to individually install furnaces which carried air-conditioning in the string of double-walled, connected houses. His remarkable buy sometimes tapped on Ed’s conscience. No one had wanted it.

Even the lawyer who arranged the buy for Ed was envious.

“How could that jewel go unnoticed? Back in the grove of trees that way, no one paid it any attention.”

Ed had.

Ed and his brothers had been Eagle Scouts, and they always looked at everything. There had been times when Ed had envied the freedom of other guys, but he did recognize the training his dad had given him.

His father knew how to take care of things. He taught that to his children. Because of his dad’s training, Ed had a wider view of living. And he knew how to handle just about anything.

Well, not that new renter. She could be a problem. What if she just roosted there the way Elinor had? What would he do then?

He’d coerce his mother into routing her out.

What a cowardly thing to think about. His mother was mush with girls. She only routed males. Ed could handle males. He’d had enough practice in that from his older brother.

Once he was complaining to his parents about an aggressive fellow student who taunted and sneered at their second son. Even before he was finished, his mother said impatiently, “Ignore him!”

His dad hadn’t said anything at the time, but later he’d gotten the boys together, along with two of the neighbor boys, and he said, “Ed’s got a problem. Help him solve it.”

They’d done it by tagging along with Edgar and crowding the several males who’d been crowding him. After that time, Edgar grew in height and muscle, and there was no longer any problem.

The muscle came from all the things the brothers had to do at home. Their dad cheerfully worked their socks off. They never had any idle time that Ed could remember.

Their mother taught them to cook. Since they all liked to eat, they endured the cooking. Gradually, they became quite skilled.

Edgar would respond to his mother’s complaints about him still being single, “But you taught me to cook! Isn’t that why men marry? To get somebody to cook for them?”

And his mother would complain to his father in disgust, “He’s your son. Do something about this!”

His father would reply, “He’s still young and tender. Let him harden up a little. He needs a little shine.”

His dad hadn’t made that reply lately. Just last week his dad had said, “Well, he’s only two years older than I was when you trapped me.”

And his mother had turned and lifted her nose at her husband. “I was engaged to another man.”

“I’d told you all along that he wasn’t suitable for you. You’d have led him by the nose and become so spoiled that no one could have tolerated you!”

She’d smiled in a smug way. “That’s what you say,
now.”

His dad lifted his gray eyebrows. “I was young and green. I didn’t know I could lure a woman away from such a good catch. You surprised me.”

His mother laughed in a throaty manner that Ed hadn’t known mothers could use with husbands.

Ed stood there by the rusted gate and watched the approach of one of the tenants. He was older than Ed’s parents. His name was Rudolf Smith and his nose was red.

Rudolf had lived in the compound so long that he could tell Ed where everything was threaded or hidden. On those kinds of communication, he told it…endlessly.

Rudolf asked, “Something wrong? Nobody’s mad at you, you can come on inside.”

And Ed replied kindly, “I’m just enjoying the leaf shadows on the white cement of the place.”

Rudolf looked around. “It’s pretty.”

“Any problems?” Ed enquired.

“Nope. Just watched you standing out here like you’d sold the place and were taking one last look.”

Ed laughed enough. The old man was very blunt. His sour comment was a high compliment because it said Rudolf liked the shadows cast on the compound just the same way Ed did. Rudolf wasn’t a casual chatterer.

It had been Rudolf who said Ed ought to up the rent in the compound. Coming from that parsimonious man, the advice had been a sobering surprise.

Most of the residents had been there a long, long time.

Ed had called a compound meeting to hear any protests, but they’d all agreed. Only one couple was grudging, and they had the best income.

Rudolf had risen and growled, “With all the repairs Ed’s made, we owe him.”

Since it was Rudolf saying that, the raise in rents passed by a full, somewhat reluctant vote. They’d really had it easy for a long time.

It had been unexpected in Edgar’s scheduling. So he took Rudolf over to the apartment house and had him look around and tell Ed what he thought about the setup and rentals.

Very seriously, Rudolf had advised, “Get it slicked up a little. It’s really dead boring. When you’ve
spruced it up, it’ll look better and you’ll get more renters.”

So Ed hired Rudolf for piecework and advice.

Rudolf loved it. He carried home all the tidbits of gossip to his wife. It had been a long time since he’d had a separate life from her, and they both enjoyed the stimulation of the gossip.

That evening, when Rudolf agreed the shadows were nice on the cement at the compound, he also said, “Amy says to come by for your supper. She made too much again.”

That was always their excuse to share a meal with Ed.

Several times, Ed had noticed that Amy had had to add a can of sweet potatoes or slices of cheese to the meal because she hadn’t expected company. She did that slyly and never turned a hair.

There are just people in this world who are interesting and very precious. And Ed’s return meals to the Smiths were really very well done. Besides a mother’s basics, a man of thirty-seven has had time to accrue talents.

Near the apartment house was the store strip Ed had mentioned to Marcia. While there were dress shops, the strip was made up mainly of old, surviving neighborhood businesses. There was a Laundromat, a select ma-and-pa grocery, a videotape rental, an elegant
flower shop and a drugstore where stamps were sold and there was a postal pickup.

Beside the bank, there was the small library branch that Ed was using so well. They could find any book needed even if they had to send clear across the country to another library to find it.

The people who lived around there flocked to The Strip, as it was called by then, and they all visited and knew one another. They even smiled and said hello to strangers.

It wasn’t a unique place. Such strips were all over the country. It was what had helped the residential area to survive. That and the river being so close by. While the houses might not be top-drawer posh, they were upper level preserved. And the whole area was convenient.

There were a lot of people living around there who had boats docked at a pier about six blocks down from the compound. Even Rudolf had a boat. Predictably, it was a putt-putt. No wild, roaring speedboat for Rudolf.

It was two days before Ed got up the courage to go deliberately to see how the new parasite was doing in his building. He climbed easily to the third floor and started down the empty hall—and the door to Elinor’s old apartment was open.

Curious, cautious, he went over and pushed the door wider. There was a painter squatted down,
painting the bottom of the wall. The whole floor was covered with canvas.

He was painting the walls…white.

White!

Ed cleared his throat and opened his mouth to give a marine sergeant’s roar, when she turned her face to him. It was a she. Such fragile features were under a billed, paint-splattered, rigid cap.

She wore big glasses. She had no makeup on. But her coveralls were stiff with paint. She looked like a dribble painting by Jackson Pollock. He would have envied her splatters.

Ed bellowed rather loudly, “Who put you in here? What the
hell
are you doing, painting this…whi— Marcia? Is that you under all that paint?”

“Yes.” She went back to painting.

Slowly the dawn broke in Ed’s brain. “You’re a
painter?”

“Yes.” She didn’t glance around.

“I thought you meant pictures!”

“No.”

“Now, just a minute.” While he was speaking loudly, his voice tried to be reasonable. “You can’t paint this room white. It’ll look like a hospital.”

“No.”

He was stern. “I will not have this apartment painted a stark white!”

“I like it. I’ll live here. I want it this color.”

With some superiority, he assured her, “White isn’t a color.”

“To me, it’s a background. I want it white.”

He imparted wisdom: “Most renters want a cream color. It goes with anything.”

“So’s white.”

He scowled at the painter who did walls and not canvases. “It’s my apartment house.”

“Oh?” She turned her head and gave him a paintspeckled glasses evaluation. “I thought you were the rent collector.”

“I also rent out the apartments. If this is painted white, and you take off in the middle of some night, how am I to get this place rented again?”

She went back to painting. “There will undoubtedly be someone who is as discerning as I who will love having clean, white walls.”

He repeated, “It looks like a hospital.”

“It won’t.”

There is nothing more irritating to a man than a positive woman who doesn’t agree with him.

How could a shorter, lesser-strengthened portion of humanity have the guts to counter him? Women are a God-given man’s burden. Dealing with women is what cancels out men’s sins.

Ed looked at the flaw in the universe that had lighted on his territory and thought: To hell with it.

He turned and walked out of the room into the hallway and went on down the hall toward the stairs. It was only then that Ed realized he’d retreated.

No. He was giving her time to review her flaws and apologize.

He narrowed his eyes as he considered that a light green would look even better painted over that white wall. It would be okay.

Ed saw the white walls the next day. She was on a ladder—where did she get the ladder?

In some shock, he asked, “Where did you get the ladder? The last time I saw it, it was in the basement, locked in the toolroom.”

“Rudolf freed it.”

“He doesn’t have the key.”

She turned big, serious eyes to his—and it was rather overdone—as she said, “Do you suppose that Rudolf would pick a lock?”

“No.”

She turned back to what she was doing and enlightened the creature by the door, “He did. I showed him how.”

“You can pick
locks?”

“Readily.”

“So that’s how you got in here that first day to paint.”

She shrugged. “The key man wasn’t here.” She gave him a censoring look that identified him as the recalcitrant.

Her voice touched the words marvelously as she finished, “I dislike sitting, waiting and twiddling my thumbs.”

He could understand that.

And as he was adjusting to her being logical, he realized she was hanging drapes! Orange ones. Orange! And only that one wall was painted.

He had the audacity to mention his surprise. His voice squinched up just like his face as he said, “Orange drapes with a white wall?”

Since it was obvious that was exactly what she was doing, she saw no need to comment in confirmation of his observation.

He questioned, “Corduroy? In summer?”

She instructed with some impatience, “You can’t see through it.”

He nodded in thoughtful, slow bobs.

Not even looking at him, she said, “Hold this.”

He just went right on over and reached up easily and held the corner of the drape. And he got to watch her from another point of view.