An Act of Murder Read online

  After picking up the cake and wine, I immediately went for the bathtub, turning up my Édith Piaf CD as loud as I could so I could hear it through the bathroom door. “Non, je ne regrette rien” (No, I regret nothing) was my all-time favorite French song, and Piaf’s voice seemed perfect for expressing every soul-wrenching experience I’d ever had or imagined.

  It was almost seven o’clock, yet light shone faintly through the blinds on the bathroom window, the stray rays making cool shadows on the warm bathroom wall. Soon it would grow winter-dark and seem like the middle of the night at this time of day, but for right now, I could still imagine it was summer and I had nothing to do but listen to my CD and read the latest Jackie Onassis biography.

  I was pruny by the time I emerged from the tub and donned my fuzzy yellow robe. The CD had finished, and the house was quiet, except for the sound of a whip-poor-will calling from the backyard. I pulled the phonebook from atop the fridge, and several coupons tumbled to the floor. I searched for one from Vinny’s, but the restaurant rarely gave coupons. The food was relatively cheap as it was.

  I called in my order of chicken parmesan and Caesar salad and hurried to get dressed. I checked the TV listing: Rear Window. Oh, this was going to be good.

  Thirty minutes later, I returned with my chicken, piping hot, and poured it onto a large dinner plate along with my salad. Heading into the living room, I balanced the plate in one hand and a wine glass in the other. The cake would be eaten later.

  “Don’t touch it,” I told Dickinson as she stealthily made her way to the coffee table where I had placed the food. She crouched beneath the table, switching her tail back and forth.

  The movie was just beginning, and I placed the plate on my lap and turned up the TV. The chicken was perfect, crispy but not overdone, and the sauce spicy and thick. The bread was hot and soft and drizzled with an enchanting butter-garlic sauce. I took a bite and closed my eyes. God could keep heaven as long as I could keep Vinny’s.

  A loud thud interrupted Jimmy Stewart’s intimate conversation with Grace Kelly, and I jumped. Then I remembered I had left my open container of chicken parmesan on the kitchen countertop.

  “Dickinson, get down from there!” I hollered, my eyes never leaving the television. From below the coffee table, I heard shuffling. Dickinson had fallen asleep on the napkins that had slipped beneath the coffee table and was nowhere near the kitchen. I grabbed the remote control and pressed “mute.” All was quiet, except for the sound of the refrigerator. I unmuted the television and returned to the show, but I was still half listening for the noise. Fifteen minutes later, when Mr. Thorwald began bringing out paper parcels in the middle of the night, I heard the thud again, louder now. This time I stood up, as if standing would make my ears work better. Dickinson still lay under the table, but now she looked up as if she, too, were questioning the presence of someone else in the room. Cats were always willing to oblige a person if it meant personal duress.

  The scene with Mr. Thorwald was even more menacing without the benefit of sound. Silence can be paralyzing under the right circumstances, and my heart was beating louder and louder in my chest. I eventually turned toward the kitchen, picking up my butter knife in the process.

  Despite my efforts to balance all my weight on one big toe then the other, the floorboards crackled and popped with each carefully considered step. If indeed someone were in the room, he or she would already know I was coming from the muting of the TV or the shadows on the wall. I walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light. Nothing. The chicken and wine still sat on the counter; the takeout bag still lay on the floor next to the garbage can. It was probably a squirrel or another cat. There were dozens of squirrels and cats that roamed freely at night in this neighborhood, and that thud had sounded just like the sound Dickinson made when she jumped from the kitchen counter. I bent down to pick up the takeout bag and shove it into the garbage can. As I did, I noticed a shape in the crepuscular light of the back alley.

  I immediately flicked off the kitchen switch, but it was too late. I could see nothing but the yellow floodlights that shone above Mrs. Gunderson’s garage.

  Mrs. Gunderson told me once that lights were the biggest deterrent to thieves. They wouldn’t go near a house with lights. She’d heard it on the radio. “Ladies alone, living by themselves like you and me, should have lights on. All the time. Lots and lots of lights.” We’d had this conversation one day when I mentioned the ever-present lights not only attracted mosquitoes but also kept me awake half the night when my curtain was open to catch the cool nighttime breezes. “That’s silly, Emmeline. Nobody keeps their windows open at night. If they do, they can expect to catch a fever. That’s what they’ll catch.” This despite the ninety-degree weather.

  Now I coveted Mrs. Gunderson’s floodlights. I wished I had installed a pair, at least above my garage in the alley, for I could have made out the shape and determined if it was a man or a woman creeping around my house. The thought brought goose bumps to my arms. Had the person really been so close as to make me believe he or she was in my kitchen? Had the person actually been in my kitchen?

  I shut the shades. Certainly not. Certainly no one would have any business in my kitchen. I had nothing anyone could possibly want. I told myself this as I looked around with new eyes, searching for evidence of an intruder. None existed.

  I pulled a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. There was one thing I had, one thing that made me dangerous: suspicions about Austin’s death. Of course this was it; it had to be.

  I dialed Lenny’s number, and surprisingly he answered even though it was Friday night. “Oh. Hi, Lenny. It’s me, Em.”

  “Ms. Prather. This is something new. I’m starting to wonder if you don’t have a bit of a crush on me,” he said.

  “Listen, I think someone was inside my house just now. I just saw him leave by the alley. Or her. I think he was looking for something.”

  “Jesus, Em. I’ll be right there.”

  “No. You don’t need to come over. I just wanted to say … Lenny?” It figured. He had hung up. So like a man to come to the rescue at the exact time you didn’t need him. I set the phone back on the receiver and looked at the remaining chicken parmesan. There was no use wrapping it up now. It would be gone before morning.

  Instead, I slipped into my sandals, carelessly tossed in front of the door, and rummaged for my flashlight under the kitchen sink. It didn’t surprise me that it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the bread drawer either, which was the other place I stashed it if I was in a hurry. Then it dawned on me: it was on my nightstand. After lying awake one night staring at Mrs. Gunderson’s well-placed lights, I resorted to childish retribution and stuck the flashlight out my bedroom window, shining it directly on what I hoped was Mrs. Gunderson’s bedroom window. Our houses were separated only by a small walkway that entered my backyard. If it was her window, however, she never mentioned it, despite the fact that I repeated the exercise five nights in a row. Sleep deprivation could make a person extraordinarily brazen.

  Just as I picked up the flashlight, I heard Lenny banging on the door.

  “Jeez, it’s open already,” I said, giving it a yank.

  “What are you doing with your doors wide open?” said Lenny, coming in and poking his head in and out of various rooms. “You’re a sitting duck in here.”

  “Yes, do come in. Please, feel free to search my house. Can I get you anything?”

  Now Lenny stopped and looked at me quizzically. “Your hair ….”

  Instinctively, I smoothed a few curls I had been twisting around my fingers during the movie. “I’ve been in the bath.”

  “It’s nice.”

  I felt a ridiculous blush rising in my cheeks.

  He sharpened his gaze. “What’s the flashlight for?”

  “I was on my way outside to see if there were any footprints or any … clues as to who might have been here.”

  Finally he smiled. “You’ve just been dying to use
that word, haven’t you?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “My entire life.”

  “And what’s all this?” he said, gesturing to my coffee table.

  “Dinner,” I said. “Vinny’s. You can have some … after we take a look outside.”

  “Oh my god. Is this Rear Window? Christ. I should have known,” he said, shaking his head. “And the wine! We know what illusions a little red vino can put into your head, rock-star extraordinaire. To think I put my pants on for this.”

  Now it was my turn to glare. “I wouldn’t necessarily call those pants, Lenny. I would call them loungewear. And no one asked you to put them on, Braveheart. I called to tell you that we must have struck a nerve somewhere with our questions. What other reason could there be for somebody to perpetrate such a crime?”

  “Two more words you’ve been dying to use in the same sentence,” Lenny mumbled. Still, he followed me through the house and to the back door. “Have you checked the trees for toilet paper? Everyone’s hating that community service thing you’re requiring for your final project, you know.”

  “Shh. Be quiet,” I hissed as I silently shut the door.

  “It’s a little unheard of in a freshmen class,” he hissed back.

  I made a cutting motion at my throat and flipped on my flashlight. I could see nothing by way of footprints because the ground was dry and hard from the merciless wind that had been blowing lately. Besides, the narrow walkway that ran between Mrs. Gunderson’s house and my own cut a path right down the middle of the backyard for any intruder who might want to escape undiscovered. Still, as I continued toward the garage, Lenny followed close behind me, glancing here and there at passing tree branches for hanging toilet paper.

  I shone my flashlight as far as I could down the gravel alley in the direction the shape had travelled but saw only the yellow eyes of a cat staring back at me from the mass of azalea bushes that billowed out from another garage. In another instant, the eyes disappeared, and I shook my head. “Nothing here.”

  “Was the person on foot?” Lenny whispered.

  I nodded. “I think so. I didn’t hear a car, anyway.” I flashed the light here and there as we made our way back toward the house, directing it in the tree once—just for fun. The back of the house had two entrances: the backdoor entrance, which I used all the time, and the back-porch entrance, which I rarely used. The back porch was small, a tiny square that in the evening grew too hot to sit in. Sometimes, though, in the morning, I would sit out there and drink my coffee, especially in the summer. During the school year, it was too cold, and I never had time.

  I was beginning to open the backdoor when Lenny stopped me.

  “Let’s check the porch,” he said.

  “I don’t know if it’s open,” I said as I reached for the door. It opened immediately when I tried it.

  Lenny came in behind me, quietly pulling it shut. The screen door struck the rubber mat gently—once, twice—and I froze. Here was the thud, thud I had heard from the comfort of my living room couch.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “That’s it. That’s the noise I heard. There actually was a person in my house,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. I felt too sick to speak.

  “Come on. Let’s get inside,” said Lenny.

  We walked into the house, and I grabbed ahold of the nearest kitchen chair. Lenny sat opposite me.

  “This is about Austin, isn’t it?” he said. “He was murdered.”

  I nodded again.

  “I mean, I knew we knew, but I wasn’t sure.”

  I hugged my knees to my chest.

  “What if it was the murderer, Em? In your house—”

  “Well of course it was the murderer. Who else would it be? I think we’ve ruled out my freshmen class,” I said.

  “Don’t be flippant,” said Lenny. “That’s my thing. I’m serious here. Do you think we should call the police?”

  “What would we tell them? That we’ve secretly been asking questions about Austin’s death, and now his murderer is after me? You know it would all come out, and we just can’t chance it. We must be close to something important.”

  Lenny didn’t say anything, which meant he agreed.

  “You’re going to have to be careful, too, Lenny. Who knows? The murderer could be watching us right now.”

  Lenny jumped up and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you have a drink or something?”

  “It’s above the coffee maker.”

  He grabbed two short water glasses and poured us each half a glass of J&B. I could tell he was dazed, so I didn’t say anything more. I just sat there turning my glass under the yellow light of the kitchen. Finally he took a drink and so did I.

  “I don’t think the murderer is watching us. And screw him if he is,” said Lenny.

  “Or her,” I added.

  “Or them,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “I hadn’t thought of that possibility.” Adam and Jared in the back row came to mind, and just as instantly I dismissed them. Actually, I dismissed Adam, not Jared. Jared was mean enough to do something to Austin if he felt threatened. And who knows? Maybe there was someone else in the fraternity who felt the same way. It was a theory worth pursuing.

  Lenny downed the rest of his drink. “Did you say something about Vinny’s?”

  I plopped the Styrofoam takeout box on the table. “Here. It’s probably still warm.”

  He sat down in the chair and opened the box then looked at the empty glass in front of him.

  “You’re pushing your luck here,” I said, taking the bottle and refilling his glass.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I know your state of confusion will be short-lived. I have to take advantage while I can.”

  “My state of confusion? You look positively bewildered.” I finished my Scotch and put the glass in the sink. “Now let’s go over what we have that could be of any importance.”

  “The gloves,” Lenny said, his mouth full of food.

  “The gloves. Right. We know Austin wasn’t wearing them when he arrived at the coroner’s office, and yet they are missing from the theater. There has to be something about those gloves that the murderer doesn’t want found out.” I grabbed one of the remaining breadsticks.

  “Does that mean the murderer thinks you have the gloves?” asked Lenny.

  “Maybe. But how could he be so careless?”

  He took another swig of his drink. “Maybe something went awry, something unexpected.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. If he doesn’t have the gloves, he needs to find them before he’s implicated. So he came here looking for them, or something else. He saw his chance while I was away getting my food; maybe he even knows my routine.” I stood up. “I probably startled him when I returned, and he was still here. When I turned on the movie, he saw his chance to get away.”

  “It makes sense,” Lenny said, rolling a long noodle around his fork, “except for one thing.”

  “Which is?” I prompted when he didn’t immediately continue.

  “Why would the murderer think you have the gloves? I was the one who called the coroner’s office.”

  I walked back and forth across the kitchen. “That’s a good question. I doubt the murderer even knows about the call to the coroner’s office. He’s probably just taking a stab in the dark. He knows Austin was my student, or he knows I have been asking questions about Austin’s death.”

  “Or he knows you better than you think,” added Lenny.

  “True. It’s dangerous to assume it’s someone we don’t know.” I sat down at the table again. “We are going to have to be more careful, Lenny.”

  He shut the Styrofoam lid and pushed it away. “My lips are sealed.”

  Although his eyes were smiling, I knew he was worried. I was, too. This was no longer just about Austin; I had to think of Lenny as well as my other associates. There was still a murderer on campus, and no one was safe until he was found.

&
nbsp; Chapter Twenty

  When the sun rose the next morning, it divided the new October sky in two. On each side were dark gray clouds that threatened rain, and in between was an expanse of blue sky and the blazing sun. I imagined we were a lot like that, divided by dark and light. The person who had killed Austin, for instance, might have been a decent enough person. I didn’t know anyone in town I’d consider inherently evil. Yet there was just enough darkness in that person to make him or her act unconscionably. Maybe it wasn’t darkness so much as self-preservation. Human beings did inexplicable things when they felt threatened. That might have been the case here.

  The sun tore away unexpectedly from the dark line of clouds, bursting into a complete circle of light. For a moment, the porch turned a brilliant white, and a desperate joy crept into my body. Then the moment was gone, and the porch turned dark again. I was left alone with my thoughts and fears. The murderer might have been in this very house—my house. But why? Obviously, he would have remained hidden had he wanted me dead, too. That thought didn’t make me feel any safer. I stood up and decided to get busy and stay busy. Anything else seemed too much like succumbing to fear and death.

  A stack of student papers waited atop my dining room table, and I walked by them several times, sizing them up like an opponent. I had to be in the proper state of mind so as not to grade them too harshly or too leniently. I was preparing myself mentally by doing other chores: I washed my breakfast dishes, glanced through a photo album, and stroked my cat. All the while I was performing these tasks, one phrase Lenny had said last night kept repeating in my head: “something unexpected.” Something unexpected had happened during the murder, and that something unexpected had to do with the gloves. I was certain of it. What I had to do was find that unexpected something or someone, and I had a good idea where to look. After searching our university intranet, I grabbed my coat and scarf and headed for the campus.