Murder One

12

WHEN BEN ARRIVED AT his upstairs apartment, he found two envelopes tucked halfway under the door. Fan mail from some flounder? More likely death threats from an anonymous member of the Tulsa P.D. But when he opened the envelopes, he was pleasantly surprised. They contained the best of all possibilities: money.

Probably not a contribution to my legal defense fund, Ben mused, as he counted through the bills. Of course—today was the last day of the month, wasn’t it? Time for all good tenants to pay their rent. And Mr. Perry had done so, promptly and invisibly, as always. The man had been in this building the entire time Ben had, and he had yet to meet him face-to-face. Mr. Perry was sort of like gravity; you knew it had to exist, but you never actually saw it.

The second envelope was not nearly as thick as the first. That would be from Mrs. Singleton, Ben surmised. Sure enough, at the back of the woefully inadequate envelope, there was a note: I.O.U. $220. Sorry—short this month. Will pay when can.

Which, of course, would be never. Ben’d been here before. If he could collect all the money that woman owed him, he could probably buy a country club membership. But he understood. Since her husband left her, Mrs. Singleton had been the principal means of support for her twin daughters, one of whom was now in college, and two younger children besides. The room they rented was no bigger than Ben’s; where all those people slept he had no idea. Mrs. Singleton worked in a factory assembling bits and pieces of machinery without even knowing what they were, and in the evenings, she took in laundry for extra cash. Making ends meet was a day-to-day struggle for her.

Ben took the I.O.U. and crumpled it in his hand. The last thing on earth this woman needed were worries about the rent. Mental note: If he ended up doing time on this trumped-up obstruction charge, Mrs. Singleton got the vacant room.

He shoved the two envelopes in his pocket and fumbled for his keys. Becoming a landlord had been an eye-opening experience. He had never imagined himself doing anything like this. He’d never imagined himself having investments, much less ones that actually earned money. And certainly not ones that put him in such direct and intimate contact with other people’s lives. How was it, he wondered, that a person who was so pathetically poor at interacting with others could ever end up as a landlord—and a lawyer? Both jobs immersed him in other people’s problems on a daily basis. Although there was this to say about landlording—it had never gotten him thrown behind bars.

Ben had lived in this upstairs apartment for years before he became the landlord. The original owner, Mrs. Marmelstein, had been a sweet, gentle, elderly woman. A little dotty, yes, even before the Alzheimer’s set in, but Ben had loved her dearly. She’d been one of his earliest friends and supporters—in her own way—after he moved to Tulsa. She meant a lot to him. And in her declining years, Ben had been her principal means of support, both emotionally and financially.

Still and all, no one had been more surprised than Ben when Mrs. Marmelstein left him the boardinghouse in her will. All at once (or as long as it took to clear probate, anyway), he was transformed from a barely surviving attorney to a landed property owner. Actually, the impact on his bottom line was slight, but somehow, it made him feel more substantial, just knowing he owned something real and tangible. It had given him a sense of security, of location, that he had not previously known. It felt good.

Of course, Mrs. Marmelstein had known it would. Which was why she left it to him, God bless her sweet-hearted soul.

“Did they let you out, or are you on the lam?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder and spotted Joni Singleton, one of the Singleton twins—the college student and, at present, Ben’s part-time handyman.

“I’m out on my own recognizance, pending the preliminary hearing on the charges.”

“Oh.” She stood for a good long moment before asking: “Is that good?”

“Well, it’s better than spending another night in the holding cell.” He pushed open his door. “Wanna come in for a minute?”

She considered. “You still got some of those little cheese puff things?”

“Tons.”

“Totally rufus.” Joni glided into his apartment, her overloaded tool belt bouncing around her slender hips. After several experiments, some more successful than others, her naturally curly brown hair had settled at just below shoulder-length, which, if Ben recalled correctly, was exactly where it had been before she started experimenting. She was an attractive young woman, just turned twenty. “Nothing like junk food to comfort a troubled soul.”

Ben walked into the kitchen, retrieved the bag of cheese snacks, and poured them into a bowl. “Something wrong with the house?”

“No big. I fixed that flickering light in the hallway, oiled the creaking back door, and got Mrs. Slotznik’s electricity running again.”

“Sounds like a successful day in the life of a handyman. Handyperson. Whatever. So what’s the problem?”

“It—doesn’t have anything to do with work.”

“School?”

“Nah. Boring, but bearable. Thanks to you.” She gave him a quick wink. “No, it’s boy troubles, I’m afraid.”

“Something wrong with Boomer?”

“Boomer? Ben, get with it. He’s like, three, four boyfriends ago.”

“Sorry. I can’t keep track.”

“My main man these days is Milo.”

“Milo?” Ben turned to look at her. “You’re joking.”

“Why does everyone act like that? It’s a perfectly good name.”

“Yeah, for a cat.”

“Milo is a great guy. Very deep.” She dipped her hand into the cheese treats. “He’s majoring in poetry.”

“Poetry? Can you major in that?”

“Well, literature, then. But he wants to be a poet. I’m not sure he knows how to go about it, though. You’re an educated guy, Ben. You’ve written a book. What do you suggest?”

“I suggest he doesn’t give up his day job.”

“Ha ha.” She twirled a strand of hair absently around her finger.

Ben sat down on the sofa beside her. “I’m sorry. Something’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

She flipped her curls from one side to the other. “It’s just that, well, Milo—he’s really smart, you know what I mean? Like, major major-league smart.”

“Ye-es …”

“And when he talks to me, he wants to have these deep conversations about symbolism and semi—semi—”

“Semiotics?”

“Yeah. That.” Her voice dropped a notch. “I think. So he starts blabbing all this highbrow stuff and it’s way over my head and I think, what kind of dummy must he think I am?”

“Joni, listen to me. You have no reason to feel inferior. You’re as bright as anyone I know.”

“Yeah, maybe, but we both know I wouldn’t be in college if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Joni, all I did—”

“The point is, I can’t talk all that hoity-toity talk. I don’t know how. And I’m not likely to learn.”

“So don’t try.”

Her face elongated. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t try.” He took her firmly by the shoulders. “Joni, you’re a smart, resourceful girl. You’ve got as much right to be at T.U. as anyone. You don’t have to imitate other people.”

“Yeah, but I can’t rattle on about the use of horticulture in Shakespeare.”

“And I’m willing to bet Milo couldn’t rewire Mrs. Slotznik’s electricity.”

“Well, you may have something there …”

“Joni, I’ve known you for how many years now?”

“I dunno. Lots.”

“Right. And I’ve never met anyone who knew you who didn’t love you. Self included.”

She bowed her head. “Aww, shucks.”

“You were a great caregiver when I was keeping my nephew Joey. You did a superlative job of caring for Mrs. Marmelstein when she needed it. Heck, now you’re taking care of the whole house. You’re the most caring person I know. I can promise you Milo will see that. And if by chance he doesn’t—then you need to find someone else who will.”

Joni slowly raised her head a notch and smiled. “Thanks, Benjy. You’re razor.”

“Is that good?”

“The best. If there’s ever anything I can do for you—”

He raised a finger. “Now that you mention it, I’m having a little trouble with my garbage disposal …”

Joni went back to her apartment around eight for dinner. She was ravenous, despite having eaten half a bag of cheese puffs, and she had some studying to do for a test tomorrow.

Which left Ben alone. Again.

To keep himself busy, he surfed aimlessly through the channels on his television, looked over some briefs he’d brought home from work, and fed his enormous cat, Giselle. How could he have lived in Tulsa so long and still be so perfectly, stupidly, alone? Imagine being his age, unmarried, living in a small apartment (even if he did own it now), essentially by himself. Sure, he had friends, coworkers, people he cared about and he believed cared about him—Joni, Clayton, Mike, Jones, Loving. And Christina. Especially Christina.

But when he turned out the lights at night, there was no one else around. No one but his spoiled and totally indifferent cat. What kind of a life was that for a grown man?

He would be the first to admit that when it came to socializing, he wasn’t exactly gifted. More like the opposite of gifted, whatever that would be. Warmth impaired? Fraternizationally challenged? It wasn’t that he didn’t try. He made a real effort. But when all was said and done, other people were a mystery to him. He didn’t get them. And all too often they didn’t get him, either. Which, in a nutshell, was why he was going to bed alone tonight. Again.

He picked up the phone, thinking he would call Christina. But a moment later, he put it down again. What was the point? She probably wasn’t at home, and even if she was, he would end up babbling about work or something. It was pointless. Christina didn’t need him. She was a whirling dervish. In the past few years, while working full-time as a legal assistant, she’d gone to law school, plus been active in her church, the Norwegian Club, and a host of other civic organizations. She had friends all over the city. She didn’t need any lame-o phone calls from him.

Keri? There was definitely something going on there, every time she looked at him. Every time he felt those gorgeous blue eyes burning into his. It had a profound effect on him, one he’d probably best not even think about.

Or was he just being stupid? Sure, she was his client now, but this case wouldn’t last forever. Of course, she was about half his age, but if she didn’t mind, why should he?

What a dolt he was, he thought, as he galumphed off to his bedroom to cash it in for the night. As if she would be interested in him. As if anyone would.

Still, as he turned out the lights and stared, eyes open wide, into the darkness, he had to ask himself—Wouldn’t it be better than this? Wouldn’t anything be better than spending the rest of his life alone in a tiny apartment with a spoiled and—

He felt a furry nuzzling under his chin. Giselle was boring her way into the warm cranny betwixt chest and chin. Which was odd. She didn’t usually do that. She didn’t normally want anything to do with him at night, preferring her own cushioned wicker bed in the kitchen.

What made her come in here today? Did she sense how he was feeling? Did she know what he was thinking?

Don’t be ridiculous, Ben told himself. Next you’ll have her herding sheep or singing like Judy Garland. Still …

The cat snuggled in closer, and at long last, Ben closed his eyes. Someday, he had to take time out from solving other people’s problems and fix his own life. After all, he thought (and these were the last thoughts he had before he drifted away), he didn’t want to spend the entire rest of his life in a small apartment with a spoiled and, well, perhaps not totally indifferent cat.