Confess, Fletch

Twelve

Fletch listened to the old elevator creak and clank as it climbed to the sixth floor.

The door to apartment 6A opened. A miniature poodle preceded a woman on a leash. It was immediately obvious the woman was tipsy at one-thirty in the afternoon. While Fletch held the elevator door, she rummaged in her purse for her key. The dog watched Fletch curiously. Apparently satisfied she had her key, the woman slammed the door.

“Watch,your step,” Fletch said.

The woman tripped anyway.

He pushed the “L” button. They sank slowly.

“You the man taking Bart’s apartment?”

“Yes,” Fletch said. “Name of Fletcher.”

How could the woman not have heard of the murder next door? Some drunk.

Fletch patted the dog.

“When did Bart leave, anyway?”

“Saturday,” Fletch said. “Sunday. He’s using my house in Italy.”

“Oh,” the woman said.

Fletch wondered how far she could walk the dog.

“That couldn’t be,” she said.

“What couldn’t be?”

“I saw Bart Tuesday.”

“You did?‘

“Tuesday night. At the place right up the street. The Bullfinch Pub.”

“What time?”

She shrugged. She was tired of the conversation.

“Drink time. Six o’clock.”

“Are you sure it was Tuesday?”

“He wore a tweed sports jacket. I knew he hadn’t just come from the office. Thought it odd. Pretty girl with him.”

“What did she look like?”

“Pretty. Young.”

The elevator clunked to a stop.

Fletch opened the door.

“Are you sure of this?” he asked.

Passing him, she said, “I’m in love with Bart.”

Thinking, Fletch watched her walk unevenly across the lobby.

He caught up to her at the door. He put his hand on the knob to open it.

“Did you speak to Bart Tuesday night?”

“No,” she said. “I hate the son of a bitch.”

He trailed her through the door.

“That’s a nice dog you have there.”

“Oh, that’s my love, Mignon. Aren’t you, Mignon?”

On the sidewalk she extended a gloved hand to Fletch.

“I’m Joan Winslow,” she said. “You must come by sometime. For a drink.”

“Thank you,” Fletch said. “I will.”