Shakespeare’s Landlord

Chapter Nine

My bruised side ached more and more as Saturday dragged by. I moved through Mrs. Hofstettler’s apartment like a snail, but she was having one of her bad days and didn’t seem to notice. I wondered what it would be like to feel this way many days and to know for a certainty it would last the rest of my life.

I made my statement at the police station, sitting bold upright and taking shallow breaths. The man who took it down was a detective, I had to assume, since he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He told me he was Dolph Stafford and that he was mighty glad to meet me. He glanced at me out the corners of his eyes, and I saw pity in his elaborate courtesy. I knew he, too, had heard my old story, which I dragged around with me wherever I went, like the albatross around the Ancient Mariner’s neck.

As I drearily went through the details of the Ken doll and Norvel’s attack, I pondered an old problem. Now that my past was out, should I move? Before, the answer had always been yes. But I’d been in Shakespeare for four years now, longer than I’d been anywhere since I was raped. For the first time, I wondered if I might not just weather it out. The thought crossed my mind, and in crossing, it stuck there. When Dolph Stafford dismissed me, I went home to lie down, finally giving in to the pain. I’d just have to go grocery shopping Sunday or Monday.

My reluctance to go to the store wasn’t wholly due to the pain. I knew by now the story about Norvel’s attack would be all over town, and I just didn’t want to encounter sympathetic looks or horrified questions.

Carrie Thrush had slipped me a few sample pain pills when I’d left her office. Normally, I’d think twice before taking Tylenol, but I was positively longing for whatever relief the pills might bring.

Swallowing two of the capsules with some water, I was just about to leave the kitchen to ease myself onto the bed when I heard someone knocking at the door.

I nearly decided to ignore it. But it was the brisk kind of rap-rap-rap that tells you that the caller is both impatient and persistent. I was already peeved when I got to the door and looked through the peephole, so discovering the caller was my sometime employer the Reverend Joel McCorkindale did not make me any happier. I shot back the bolt reluctantly.

The minister’s “happy to see you, sister” smiled faltered as he took in the scratches on my face and the awkward way I was standing.

“May I come in?” He was wisely settling for dignified sympathy.

“Briefly.”

Taking that in his stride, McCorkindale stepped across the threshold and surveyed my tiny domain.

“Very nice,” he said with great sincerity. I reminded myself I must be careful. Sincerity was the Reverend McCorkindale’s middle name.

I didn’t offer him a chair.

This, too, he absorbed without comment.

“Miss Bard,” he began when he’d taken measure of my attitude, “I know that you and Norvel Whitbread have had a personality conflict”-here I snorted- “ever since you’ve had to work together at the church. I want you to know I’m extremely disturbed that he was so stupid last night, and I want you to know Norvel himself is very, very sorry he frightened you so badly.”

I had been looking down, wondering when he’d get through blathering, because my bed seemed to have acquired a voice and it was calling me louder and louder. But now I looked up at Joel McCorkindale.

“I was never frightened,” I said. “Mad, yes. But not frightened.”

“Well, that’s… good. Then, he’s apologetic for having hurt you.”

“I beat the shit out of him.”

The minister flushed. “He is definitely a sad sight today.”

I smiled.

“So, cut to the chase,” I prompted.

“I have come to ask you, most humbly, if you would consider dropping the charges against Norvel. He is repentant. He knows he should not have been drinking. He knows it is wrong, very wrong, to hold grudges. He knows it is against God’s commandments to harm another person, much less a woman.”

I closed my eyes, wondering if he’d ever listened to himself.

The bad thing was, I reflected as McCorkindale expanded on Norvel’s mental anguish, that if I hadn’t had my little life-altering experience, I might be tempted to listen to this crap.

I held up a hand, indicating for him to stop.

“I am going to prosecute him to the full extent of the law,” I said flatly. “I don’t care if you ever hire me again. You’ve known he was drinking again for weeks; you had to have known. You know whatever convictions he expresses are going to vanish when he sees another bottle. That’s his religion. I have never been able to understand why you kept him on when that became apparent to anyone who cared to look. Maybe he has something on you. I don’t know and I don’t care. But I will not drop charges.”

He took this well, like the shrewd man he is. He looked off to one side thoughtfully, turning something over in his mind.

“Lily, I have to tell you some members of our little church have felt the same way about you. They’ve wondered why I haven’t let you go. You know, Lily, you’re not everybody’s cup of tea.”

I felt an intense desire to laugh. The medication was undoubtedly kicking in.

“You’re a mysterious and violent woman,” McCorkindale prodded further. “Some people have wondered out loud to me if you should still be working in Shakespeare, or at least at our little church.”

“I don’t care if I work at your little church or not,” I said. “But I’ll tell you, if I catch you pressuring my employers to fire me because I’m ‘mysterious and violent,’ I’ll sue you. Anyone who cares to can look up my past. And as for violent, present me with a list of fights I’ve started, or times I’ve been in jail, and I’ll be real interested to read it.”

Ashamed of myself for offering even that much defense of charges that were indefensible, I waved the minister out of the door and locked it firmly behind him.

My bed was screaming now, and I never could ignore a scream. I floated down the hall and didn’t even register the painful process of lying down.

When I woke up, there was a note on my bedside table.

I’d have to admit, were the Reverend McCorkindale to chance by, that this did scare me.

It was from Marshall.

“I came by at six to take you to supper in Montrose,” the note began, in Marshall’s tiny angular handwriting. “I knocked for five minutes, and then you came to the door. You let me in, walked back to your bed, got in, and went back to sleep. I was worried till I found the little envelope with ‘For Pain’ written on it. Call me when you wake up. Marshall.”

I read it over twice while I recovered from my flash of fear.

I looked at the clock. It read 5:00. Hmm. I rolled over somewhat gingerly to exit the other side of the bed. I peered between the blind slats. Black outside. It was five in the morning.

“God Almighty,” I said, impressed with Dr. Thrush’s medicine. I took a few steps around the room, and I was pleased to discover that I felt much better after my long rest. The worst of the soreness seemed to be gone. It worried me that I’d let Marshall in. Had I known it was Marshall? Would I have let just anybody in? If so, it was lucky that no one else had knocked. Or had they?

Suddenly anxious, I went through the whole house. Everything was exactly as it had been the day before; the only addition was Marshall’s note and the pill envelope, still containing two capsules.

After I stowed the remaining pills away with great respect, I made some coffee and wondered what to do with the day. Sunday is my day off, not because it is a church day, but because it is the least desirable day of the week to clean, from my clients’ standpoint. And I feel I deserve one whole day off every week. Usually, I clean my own house or mow my lawn in the morning. When Body Time opens at one, I walk in the doors. I often stay for two hours, then come home to cook for the week. I rent movies from Rainbow Video (“Cinema across the Spectrum”), and every once in a while I call my parents.

Since I’d risen so early, and since all week had been unusual, somehow none of this sounded appealing at all.

After I had skimmed through my big Sunday Little Rock paper, treading my difficult reading path around stories of battered wives, neglected children, and starving, abandoned elders to arrive at those I could actually read (which pretty much boiled down to escaped dangerous pets-this week a boa constrictor-politics, and sports), I dressed in a gingerly way, hoping the bending wouldn’t wake up my side. To my pleasure, the terrible ache did not return; there was a certain amount of tenderness, and leaning in some direction was painful, but nothing nearly as bad as it had been the day before.

All right, then. I’d just quell those rebellious feelings I had, this discontent.

My house needed cleaning.

I put on my rubber gloves with what was very nearly pleasure. It crossed my mind to call Marshall, or to drift through the dawn to his house and share his bed again. But I put those thoughts aside; I was in danger of counting on him, of thinking of my life as substantially changed. I found myself wistfully staring at my gloves and thinking of the pleasures of sex with Marshall, of the wonders of his body, of the excitement of being desirable.

But I began serious cleaning.

It is a small house, which never gets very dirty anyway, and I know it very well. In an hour and a half, by the time the rest of the world was waking up, my house shone and I was looking forward to a shower.

The quiet tap on the back door came as I was about to step in. With a curse, I wrapped my white terry robe back around myself and padded quietly to the door. I looked through the peephole. Marshall looked back. I sighed, not knowing if I was glad to see him or sorry that he kept raising my expectations. I unlocked the door.

“If you don’t stop this,” I said flatly, “I’ll think you really like me.”

“Hi to you, too,” he said, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “Are you conscious this time?”

“Why don’t you get in the shower with me,” I said over my shoulder as I went back to my hot running water, “and find out?”

As it turned out, I was fully conscious.

As he kissed me while the water ran over us, I had a terrifying feeling that I wanted to save this moment, that it was precious. I knew the fallacy inherent in planning on anything lasting, I knew the degradation I’d undergone had altered me permanently, and I was afraid.

Afterward, I loaned him my terry robe and I put on my bright, thin one, and we watched an old movie on cable together. I put a bowl of grapes between us on the love seat, we put up the footrest, and we had a pleasant time appreciating the actors and laughing at the plot. When the movie ended close to noon, I got up to return the grapes to the refrigerator. Through the open blinds of the living room window, I observed a vaguely familiar red car driving by very slowly.

“Who’s that, Marshall?” I asked sharply, the outside world coming back with a rush.

He was on his feet quickly and stared out the window.

“That’s Thea,” he said. His voice was tight with controlled fury.

“She’s driven by other times.” It was the car that had passed the day Marshall was kissing me in the carport. I’d seen it several times over the past few days.

“Shit, Lily,” he said, “I’m sorry. I wish the divorce had already gone through. No judge would believe, with her sitting there looking so southern belle, what she’s capable of.”

I was still staring out of the window, lost in thought, when the Yorks walked by. Alvah and T. L. were holding hands, moving rather slowly, and wearing everyday clothes. They were missing church, an unheard-of occurrence.

But I was not as amazed as I might have been days ago. This past week had been full of atypical behavior on the part of almost everyone I knew, including myself.

Pardon had somehow talked himself into getting killed.

The upright, churchgoing Yorks had been derailed by the rape of their granddaughter.

Norvel Whitbread had shown his true colors after two years of being smarmy.

Tom O’Hagen had cheated on Jenny O’Hagen.

Deedra Deane had seen a dead body.

Claude Friedrich had been careless with a report.

Carlton Cockroft had exercised and revealed a wholly unexpected interest in his neighbor.

Marcus Jefferson had gotten to entertain his son in his own apartment.

Marie Hofstettler had had an interview with the police.

The Reverend Joel McCorkindale had visited me in my home.

Marshall Sedaka had taken a personal interest in one of his students.

One of his students had taken a personal interest right back.

Someone had rolled a body into the arboretum.

Someone else had deposited handcuffs where I would find them; killed a rat; left a painted Ken doll on my car hood.

“Overall,” I said, turning to Marshall, “it would be hard to top last week.”

“We can give it a shot,” he suggested, and was surprised when I laughed.

“Let me tell you what happened last Monday night,” I said, and for the first time I told Marshall what I’d seen when I was out walking.

“You saw the murderer?”

“I saw the person dumping the body.”

Marshall thought my story over. “I can understand why you didn’t want to tell the police,” he said finally. “With your cart being used. And since they didn’t arrest anyone yet, you might be putting yourself in danger.”

“How so?”

“The killer might think you had seen more than you actually saw,” Marshall said. “At least, killers always do in the movies. They’re always coming after the person they think knows something, whether or not it’s true.”

“Yeah, but that’s the movies. This is Shakespeare.”

I suddenly realized what I’d said and I laughed. Marshall looked at me warily; I had to explain.

“Lily, I think the sooner the police arrest someone for this, the better it’ll be for you.”

“No argument there.”

“Then we can concentrate on finding out who’s playing these tricks on you and Thea.”

There was something in his voice that alerted me. “Has something else happened to her?” I asked.

“She called me about six this morning. Someone came to the back door and spray-painted ‘Bitch’ across it.”

“Is that so.” Marshall looked a little surprised at my lack of horror.

“So, Marshall, did you come over here to enjoy my company or see if I was gonna walk back up in my yard with a spray can in my hand?”

Marshall closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lily, I think if you were mad at Thea, you would challenge her to fight, or ignore her for the rest of your life. I can’t imagine you sneaking around in the dark spray-painting a woman’s back door.”

But I wasn’t so sure he believed that down to his bones. Hadn’t there been a moment, a flicker, of something else-of relief-when I challenged him?

I sank down in the armchair and looked at him intently. “I don’t know if I’m at fault, if I’m being overly prickly, or if Thea has undermined your confidence in your own judgment so much that you can’t trust your own instincts.”

Marshall was not quick to respond, and I was glad. I wanted him to think about this.

“Maybe both,” he said finally. “Come on, it’s almost time to work out.”

As I pulled on my ancient gray sweatpants and a dark blue T-shirt, I pondered the fact that he was quite willing to have sex with me even though he hadn’t exactly given me a rousing vote of confidence. Did that mean he was so delighted with his returned virility that he just didn’t care whether I was tormenting his wife?

Dealings between men and women are all too often like picking through a minefield, I thought with some disgust. Marshall was out in the living room waiting for me. He’d walked over in workout clothes, blue sweatpants and a maroon Body Time T-shirt.

It was strange that I could stand in the hall and watch Marshall stretch that wonderful body and feel a wave of lust, that I could love the way he didn’t flinch at the horrible story I’d told him. But still, I drew back from him from time to time.

This was one of the times.

We didn’t talk much on the way to Body Time in my car, but the prospect of doing something I enjoyed with Marshall, who also enjoyed it, made me feel more relaxed.

Janet Shook was on the treadmill when we entered. Her eyes widened. She clearly was adding two and two in her head. I waved casually. Marshall exchanged a few words with Derrick, who’d opened for him, and then we mapped out our workout. It was legs days- not my favorite-but doing legs was not so bad with company.

It was very convenient and pleasant having Marshall there to take the weights on and off and spot for me; it was equally pleasant being able to return the favor.

People who before had only nodded to me came up to speak, since I was with Marshall. Of course, everyone knew him. And I found that they knew who I was, too: They all called me Lily. Though my scratched face got some sideways glances, no one mentioned Norvel Whitbread.

This, too, was pleasant, but I found that after greetings had been exchanged, I had nothing to say. I just listened as they chatted with Marshall. Marshall is a kind of community clearing house. Everyone who approached him had some piece of gossip or news to relate and seemed to feel free to speak in front of me. I wondered why.

I found, as the second gossiper in a row referred to it, that I had a reputation for being closemouthed. It surprised me to think that people thought of me at all, but I should have remembered: In small towns, there is no such thing as an invisible life.

Despite twinges in my side, I had finished leg-pressing three hundred pounds when Brian Gruber, an executive at the mattress-manufacturing plant that was one of Shakespeare’s larger employers, drifted by in the course of his workout to murmur quietly in Marshall’s ear. Marshall listened grimly, doing a lot of curt nodding. This was so definitely a man-to-man talk that I did an extra set so they could finish. After all, Marshall had said my quads needed work.

When I was through, I just lay there and panted. Brian wandered away to do bicep curls while Marshall added a twenty-five to each side of the leg press for his set, looking thoughtful and grim. He didn’t meet my eyes as I made way for him. I reached for my sweat towel and began dabbing at my forehead.

Damned if I was going to ask.

Marshall slid into position. He put his feet up on the push board, aligned them carefully. He pushed a little, taking the pressure off the relief bars, which he flipped to the side simultaneously. Then he bared his teeth in a snarl of effort and began his set. Maybe he was trying to make me feel equal; three hundred was my top weight, and I knew Marshall could do double that. I waited stonily till his set was over and he’d flipped the bars back into place. He beckoned to me to crouch down where he lay.

So, here came the bad news.

“Brian just heard that Thea’s been telling everyone at her church that she’s going to put me through the wringer as far as property goes. But he also told me the same thing you did-that she’d been having overnight company, which’ll count against her in court.”

“You’ve been having company, too.” I watched his face go blank.

I stood up and covered my face with the towel as though I was bathed in sweat, when in fact I’d cooled down. I had to get my indifferent face back on. I felt a strong inclination to pick up my workout bag and leave without a word, but that would be cowardly.

I shifted so my back was to the leg press, and I stared at a pretty teenager who was having the time of her life showing Bobo Winthrop how hard it was for her to bench-press two ten-pound dumbbells.

Bobo looked over at me, his eyes widening as he took in my marred face. His mouth formed the words You okay? I nodded. Then the girl on the bench said something to claim his attention. I looked in another direction so Bobo wouldn’t meet my eyes again and feel obliged to come over to talk to me.

I felt hands on my shoulders, and I twitched like a horse trying to dislodge a fly.

“So, I’ll just have to find some other toehold,” Marshall said calmly. He began to take off the twenty-fives he’d added.

“Leave them on,” I said. I slid into position, braced my feet, flipped the braces to the side, and began to push.

I managed five reps before I could tell that serious pain was just around the corner.

To finish up, we did three sets, thirty each, of lunges and leg lifts in the aerobics room. When we sat up after a short rest, I said what I thought he was waiting for me to say. “I don’t think we should see each other until you’re really divorced. Thea is unstable; she’s in trouble at work and at home. There’s no point making things worse for her, which will only make it worse for you in the long run- your property settlement and all.”

“I don’t want a sick woman like that dictating what my life will be like,” Marshall said. He meant it, but he was also relieved. I could hardly blame him; I’d worked hard for what I had, too.

“Then there’s the trick-playing thing,” I went on after a calculated pause. “I can’t go on being scared every time I step out of my house that someone’s going to put something on my doorstep or leave something on my car. Maybe if we don’t see each other for a while, that’ll let up. If it’s the same person who’s playing tricks on Thea, it’s someone who has serious feelings about you; maybe he, or she, will let you know about those feelings if I’m not around. You can deal with it, and I’ll be clear of it.”

“I don’t know what to say, Lily,” Marshall said. “I don’t want to lose you now that we finally…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, and got to my feet, ignoring the reawakened pain in my side. “We’ll see each other in karate class, and here sometimes.” I left before Marshall had to think of something else to say.

As I drove home, I became aware that I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in years: disappointment.

No sooner had I turned the corner to Track Street than I saw the police car at the curb outside my house. Leaning against it was Claude Friedrich, as solid and immovable as if he had all the time in the world.

I made a sudden decision to go grocery shopping, and after checking the traffic behind me, I backed up before Friedrich could see me and reversed my direction in a convenient driveway. I didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, least of all the all-too-perceptive Friedrich.

I hadn’t been to the store without a list in years. Sunday is the day I usually cook ahead, and my little freezer was almost empty.

The last time I’d been in Kroger’s, I’d been shopping for myself and for the return of the Yorks… Hey, they’d never reimbursed me for the groceries, or for the work I’d done last Wednesday. I hated the thought of bothering them, knowing how devastated they were by the trial of their granddaughter’s assailant, but if they felt better to the extent of being able to take a walk, they could pay me.

I was trying to remember all the ingredients of my favorite tortilla casserole when a cart slammed into mine. I looked up sharply and realized the anger rolling around inside me had found an excellent focus, here to my left, wearing a modest shirtwaist dress and loafers.

The woman pushing the other cart was Thea Sedaka. Thea had bumped my cart on purpose; the stare she fixed on me aimed at contrite but never made it past loathing.

It had been a long time since I’d seen Thea this close. She was as pretty as ever. Tiny and small-boned, the future ex-Mrs. Sedaka has a sweet oval face outlined with shoulder-length dark hair cut to frame it perfectly. Thea had always made me feel like a hulking milkmaid to her dainty princess. I’d never known if the effect was intentional or a result of my own touchiness.

Now that I had the inside scoop on Thea’s character, I could see how she achieved my displacement. She looked up, far more than she actually needed to, to make me feel even taller, and she pushed her cart with a little frown, as if it was almost too heavy to manage.

Thea’s dark green dress was covered with teeny-weeny flowers in a sweet pink; nothing splashy or florid for Thea. She curled her lip at my workout clothes.

She guided her cart until she was at my side, right in the middle of the canned vegetables. I watched her lips curve in a venomous grin, and I knew she was about to say something she hoped would be painful.

So I beat her to the punch.

I leaned down to Thea and said with the widest smile I could stretch my lips into, “Drive past my house one more time and I’ll have Clause Friedrich arrest you.”

Thea’s expression was priceless. But she snapped back together quickly.

“Marshall is mine,” she hissed, reminding me vividly of my seventh-grade school play. “You’re trying to break up a happy marriage, you home-wrecker.”

“Not good enough,” I said. “You’d better warn Tom David to find another parking place.”

Once again, Thea was disconcerted. But being Thea, belle of Shakespeare, she rallied.

“If you’re the one leaving those awful things at my house”-and here she actually managed tiny tears- “please stop.” She said this just loudly enough for an older lady who was comparing soup cans to absorb her meaning and then eye me in horror.

“What things?” I asked blankly. “You poor little gal, has someone been leaving things on your doorstep? What did the police say?”

Thea turned red. Of course she hadn’t called the police; the police, in the person of Tom David Meiklejohn, had already been on hand.

“You know,” I said, with as much concern as I could muster, “I’m sure Claude would station someone outside your house all night if you think there’s a prowler.” The older woman gave me an approving nod and ventured down the aisle to compare the prices of tomato sauce.

I hadn’t said anything insincere in so long that it actually felt refreshing and creative.

Thea had to content herself with a low-voiced “I’ll get you” and a flounce as she laboriously pushed her cart toward the meat counter. A very weak finale.

I left the grocery store with several bags, and I managed to feel almost like myself when I got home.

Damned if the chief of police wasn’t still there. He’d just moved his car, probably to its parking space behind the apartments, but he’d returned his body to my carport. I pulled into my driveway and unlocked my trunk. I would not be kept out of my own home. Friedrich uncrossed his arms and sauntered over.

“What is it with you?” I asked. “Why do you keep turning up here? I didn’t do anything.”

“I might think I wasn’t welcome if I didn’t know better,” Friedrich rumbled. “Your face is looking a lot better. How’s the side?”

I unlocked my kitchen door and pitched in my purse and workout bag. I went back to the car for the first two bags of groceries. Friedrich wordlessly gathered the next two and followed me into the kitchen.

In silence, I put the cans away in the pantry, stowed the meat in the refrigerator, and slid the juice containers into the freezer of my side-by-side. When all that was done, when the bags were folded and put under the sink in their designated place, I sat down at my plain wooden table opposite Friedrich, who’d seated himself, and said, “What?”

“Tell me what you saw the night Pardon was killed.”

I looked down at my hands. I thought it over carefully. My goal in keeping quiet had been to keep the police from asking questions about my past. Well, Friedrich had done that anyway, and been too trusting of his subordinates; my past was out, and the results hadn’t been as dreadful as I’d always thought they would be. Or maybe I had changed.

If only Claude Friedrich was here to listen to me tell it, and I didn’t have to go down to the police station again, why not tell him the little I knew?

And maybe Marshall had spooked me a little, with his “woman who knows too much” scenario.

Friedrich was waiting patiently. I would feel much more comfortable in this big man’s presence if I had nothing to conceal; he would then drench me with his warm approval. My mouth went up at one corner in a sardonic grin. This ambience was undoubtedly what made Claude Friedrich such a good policeman.

“I’ll tell you what I saw, but it won’t make any difference,” I told him, making my decision abruptly. I looked him in the eyes and spread my hands flat on the table. “That’s why I didn’t see the need to tell you before.”

“It was you that called me that night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It was me. Partly because I didn’t want him to lie out there all night, but mostly because I was scared some kids might find him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this to begin with?”

“Because I didn’t want to come to your attention. What I saw wasn’t important enough for me to risk you calling Memphis, getting the story about what happened to me. I didn’t want people here to know. And yet it’s happened, anyway.” And I looked him directly in his eyes.

“That’s a mistake I can’t make up to you,” he said. “I regret letting that report sit around on my desk, more than I can tell you. I’m taking steps to minimize the damage.”

That was as much apology as I’d ever receive; and really, what more could he say?

I shrugged. My anger against him deflated gently. I had known all along that someday it was inevitable that my past would block my path again.

“What I saw was someone wearing a raincoat with a hood, wheeling Pardon over to the arboretum,” I said flatly. “I don’t know who it was, but I’m sure it was someone from the apartments. I figured you already knew that, since Pardon’s body appeared and disappeared so many times. Gone when Tom O’Hagen paid his rent, back when Deedra paid hers. It had to have been hidden in a different apartment, though I can’t imagine why anyone would move Pardon’s corpse around.”

“How was the body moved over to the arboretum?”

“It was in some garbage bags, one pulled on from the feet and another pulled on from the head. Then it was loaded in my garbage-can cart and rolled over there.” I felt mad all over again when I thought of the use of my cart.

“Where are the garbage bags?”

“Gone to the incinerator.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“My fingerprints were on them. I checked to see if Pardon was dead.”

Friedrich gave me the strangest look.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Start at the beginning,” he rumbled.

I began with my walk. Friedrich’s eyebrows went up when he realized I walked by myself in the dead of night quite frequently, but he said nothing until I had given him the whole account.

“Do me a favor, Lily,” he said finally.

I raised my eyebrows and waited.

“Next time, just call me to start with.”

It took me a moment to realize he was joking. I smiled. He smiled back, no great big grin, but companionable. He was letting that warmth wash over me, and I was enjoying it just as much as any other suspect who’d just come clean. Why not? I thought, forgoing scolding myself for being a chump. I was prepared for Friedrich to take his leave, but there he stayed, seemingly content at my clean, bare kitchen table.

“So,” the policeman said. “Happening in the same time frame, we have the murder of Pardon Albee and the strange persecution of Lily Bard and Thea Sedaka. Thea never called us in, officially. But Tom David said a few things to Dolph, who figured he better tell me. I like to know what’s going on in my town. Don’t you think it’s strange, Lily, that so many unusual things are happening at the same time in Shakespeare?”

I nodded, though I had my own ideas about the “strange persecution.” Moving quietly, I gathered my cutting board, a knife, and a package of chicken breasts. I began to skin and debone the chicken.

“The Yorks were gone on Monday. They returned that night late,” Claude said. I worked and listened. “Mrs. Hofstettler was there all the time, but she’s partially deaf and sometimes almost immobile. Jenny O’Hagen was at work, and Tom O’Hagen was sleeping. When he got up, he played a round of golf at the country club. He came home and went upstairs to pay blackmail to Norvel Whitbread, who was home from work ‘sick.’ Then Tom went down to pay his rent. You were unlocking the Yorks’ apartment. When Tom found Pardon’s door open, the body wasn’t there, but the furniture was not in its usual order. An hour and a half later, Deedra came home from work, went upstairs to get her mother’s check, then went down to pay the rent. And Pardon’s traveling body was back on the couch, but arranged naturally enough that Deedra thought he was asleep.”

“When did all the others pay their rent?” I asked over my shoulder as I scrubbed my hands at the sink. I thought this show-and-tell time was very strange, but I was enjoying it.

“I’d slipped my check under his door on my way to the station that morning,” Friedrich said. “Norvel’s rent was paid by the church. The secretary mailed Pardon a check, the Reverend McCorkindale told me. Marcus Jefferson says he’d also slid his rent check under Pardon’s door on his way out to work that morning, and Pardon must already have made a trip to the bank right when it opened, because Marcus’s check, mine, and Mrs. Hofstettler’s were credited to Pardon’s account when I called the bank.”

“What about the one the church mailed?”

“Didn’t get to Pardon’s mailbox until the day after he died.”

It would have been typical Pardon behavior to go by the church or up to Norvel’s to ask about the rent, I thought, and raised my eyes to Friedrich’s.

“But Norvel says Pardon didn’t come to his apartment,” the big man said, and I bent back to my work before I realized how strange the little exchange was.

“He’s lying, though,” I said.

“How do you figure?”

“Because Pardon did the vacuuming Monday himself. Remember the way the cord was wrapped? So he must have gone up to find out why Norvel hadn’t done it. He’s supposed to go in late to the church on Monday, after he’s cleaned the apartment building’s halls. The church gets a discount on his rent.”

For the first time since I’d known him, Claude Friedrich looked surprised.

“How do you know all this, Lily?”

“If it’s about cleaning, I know it. I think Pardon told me all that when he explained why Norvel was going to be cleaning the building instead of me.” Pardon had just wanted to talk, as usual. It was fine with me not to have the poor-paying and tedious job of working under a constantly supervising Pardon.

Claude (as I now thought of him) looked at me a moment longer before resuming his running narrative of the day of the landlord’s death. “So that morning Pardon stopped by Mrs. Hofstettler’s to get her check, then went to the bank with three of the rent checks.”

I put together a marinade and popped the strips of chicken breast in the bowl. I had a hankering for stir-fry tonight. I began to brown stew meat in a skillet while I chopped potatoes, carrots, and onions to go in the stew pot. I stirred the sauce for the tortilla casserole. I had some leftover taco meat to dump into the sauce, and a tomato, and after that I shredded three flour tortillas. I handed Claude the grater and the cheese. Obediently, he began to grate.

“How much?” he asked.

“Cup,” I said, putting one on the table by him. “You were saying?”

“And he talked on the telephone several times,” Claude continued. “He called the plant where Marcus works; we don’t know who he talked to, there. Of course, that might be completely unrelated to Marcus. At least two hundred other people work there. About eleven, he called someone in rural Creek County, a pal he went to school with at UA, but the guy is on a business trip to Oklahoma City and we haven’t been able to track him down yet.”

I dumped all the stew ingredients into the slow cooker and got out my wok. While it was heating, I layered the tortilla casserole, including the grated cheese, and popped it in the freezer. Claude’s voice provided a pleasant background sound, like listening to a familiar book on tape.

The stir-fry would provide two meals, I figured, the stew at least three; one night, I would have a baked potato and vegetables; the remaining meal could be the tortilla casserole and a salad.

After I put the rice in the microwave, I began stir-frying the chicken and vegetables. I was hardly aware that Claude had stopped talking. I stirred quickly, conscious only of the quiet content that came when I was doing something I could do well. The rice and the meat and vegetables were done at almost the same time, and I faced a little dilemma.

After a moment’s hesitation, since sharing this meal represented yet another disruption in my formerly pristine schedule, I got two plates out of the cabinet and heaped them with food, then put a fork, a napkin, and a glass of tea in front of the policeman. I set a plate in front of him, then put my own glass and fork on the table and retrieved my plate. I put the soy sauce within reach, added the salt and pepper, and sat down. I gave Claude a curt nod to indicate everything was ready, and he picked up his fork and began to eat.

I kept my eyes on my plate. When I looked up, Claude had finished his food and was patting his mouth with his napkin, carefully making sure his mustache was clean.

“Real good,” he said.

I shrugged, then realized that was not a gracious response to a compliment. I forced my eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” I said stiffly. Never had I felt my long abstinence from society more keenly. “Would you like some more?” I made myself add.

“No thank you, that was a gracious plenty,” he responded correctly. “You finished?”

I nodded, puzzled. I found out why he’d asked in the next minute, when he reached across, took my plate and fork, and went to the sink. He turned on the faucets, located my dishwashing liquid, and began to wash all the dishes stacked on the counter.

I sat at the table with my mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then snapped out of my daze to get up and put away the leftovers in appropriate containers. Hesitantly, I set the now-empty wok by the sink for Friedrich to wash. I wiped the table and counters with a clean rag while he finished, and I swept the floor. Then, not knowing what else to do, I dried the dishes he’d put in the drainer and stowed them away.

The instant we were done with the homely procedure, before I could tense up again wondering what was to follow, Claude stuck out his huge hand, shook mine, and said, “I appreciate the good cooking. I get mightily tired of my own,” and went to my front door.

I followed him as I ought to, but I wrapped my arms across my chest protectively. “Good-bye,” I said, feeling I should say something more, but I couldn’t think what. He gave me a totally unexpected smile, and I realized I’d never seen him like that, his wrinkles deepening as his lips curved up, his gray eyes suddenly slanting as the smile reached them.

“Good night, Lily,” he rumbled, and then went down my driveway to the sidewalk. He turned toward the apartments. He didn’t look back.

I shut the door, locked it mechanically, and went back to make sure the kitchen was spotless before going to bed. I was smiling, I saw in the bathroom mirror. I caught myself actually wondering what Claude Friedrich would be like in bed, and I shook my head at my reflection in the mirror. “You are going to the dogs, Lily,” I said to the mirror. My face in the mirror looked rather pleased at the prospect.