Maid of Murder

Chapter Fifteen

I tried Carmen’s cell phone number but only got her voice mail. A quick rap battered my door. I peered through the peephole and saw just the crown of Ina’s white permanent.

“India Veronica Hayes, you open this door to an old woman.” Her head bobbled aggressively. “I’ll get louder. I’ll wake up the whole street from their Sunday naps.” More quietly, she added, “And anyway, Dearie, I’m your landlord, so I have a key.” She waved my apartment key over her head where she knew I could see it. It dangled from a three-inch-wide blue glittered shamrock.

I opened the door. “Home invasion, Ina?”

She sniffed. “What’s that unbelievable racket I heard through my wall?”

Ina had changed from her Sunday morning green suit into pink capri pants and matching tank top.

The loose skin under her upper arm waved as she shook her index finger at me. “What on earth is going on over here? First, I see you peel out of the driveway without waving hello, when Juliet is in the car with me of all things. Then, I overhear you screaming like a crazed banshee. It was all I could do not to come busting in here when all that yelling was going on.”

Ina shuffled further into the room. I shut the door behind her. Wouldn’t want to wake those Sunday nappers. She perched on the edge of the rocking chair, feet dangling above the floor.

“Spill it,” she ordered. “Man trouble got you, honey? I tangled with some of that in my day. Tell me the problem, Ina has the answer. I’ve been on this earth a lot of years, and I’ve learned a thing or two about handling a man. How do you think I managed not being saddled with a husband and a screaming brood of my own?”

Ina took a breath, and I jumped in. “It’s Mark.”

“Oh, I see. It’s about Olivia, is it? The accident was a terrible thing. Juliet had all the juicy gossip about it. And did she ever lord that over me, seeing how my tenant was at the scene of the crime yesterday and neglected to tell me the biggest news flash since Stripling got city-wide sewer.”

The migraine threatened to resurface. “I didn’t deliberately not tell you.”

Ina blinked, probably trying to digest the double negative. She’d placed me on the defensive and retarded my grammar.

“Is that why that bloody Englishman was over here yesterday? About Olivia?”

“Yes. I don’t have time for this. Mark ran off.”

Ina cocked her head to the side and her face softened. “I’m sure he’s fine, lassie. Maybe he went over to the hospital to visit Olivia.”

“Olivia’s dead.”

Ina covered her mouth like a heroine in a silent film. My phone rang. Irritation replaced the horror etched on her face. She scowled when I picked up the phone.

It was Carmen. “I’ve had about enough of your cryptic voice messages, India. What’s this about Mark?”

With Ina listening opened-mouthed, I told Carmen about Mains’s visit after church and finding Mark in my apartment. For once, Carmen listened without interruption.

“Okay, first relax. Mark’s probably at his office taking his frustration out on that five-hundred-dollar calculator of his. Try not to worry.”

“He was livid.”

“He needs time to cool off. You can’t canvas Stripling trying to find him. He wouldn’t—he won’t do anything stupid. Mom and Dad are at the Chaulkers for the afternoon. Wait until they get home. The last thing Mark needs right now is them on his case. He obviously wants to be alone, and you know as soon as Mom finds out she’s going to be all over him. I’ll call Mom and Dad later in the afternoon.”

Carmen’s strategic planning provided me the illusion of safety.

“How are you?” Sisterly concern inflected her words.

I choked for a second and turned away from Ina, who was still on the edge of her seat. Her expression was equal parts concern and barely contained excitement.

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No, don’t bother. Ina’s here.”

Carmen laughed. “I’m sure she’s doing her best to comfort you.”

“Of course.”

An hour later, when Ina realized I wasn’t going to rush out the door in search of Mark or take her other suggestion and visit the mourning Blockens, she stomped out the door, claiming that she was missing a program about Irish folk singers on the public television station.

The remainder of the day, I floated around my apartment, starting a multitude of pursuits, but finishing nothing. I tried to read a novel, but the words blurred on the page. I started to tidy my bedroom, but after making my bed, I dropped a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and gave up. I picked up one of the dozens of half-full sketchpads that decorate my apartment and etched thumbnail sketches on the thick paper. The poor renderings frustrated me. I ripped the page out of the wire-ring notebook and threw it into the small hallway. It bounced off my studio’s door. I didn’t enter the studio or upright the toppled easel and painting. I’d simply shut the door.

I hoped all afternoon and into the evening that Mark would call. He never did. My mother eventually rang and chastised me for not calling her at the Chaulkers. She agreed with Carmen that Mark needed time alone, although I knew she was dying to counsel him. I went to bed early, hoping that Olivia would call in the morning to tell me she’d found a miracle self-tanner or a ridiculous hat for me to wear during the wedding. Or even a golden dress.