Greg frowned. “Sharon, why do you live in such a weird building?”
“No, listen. Molly claimed it was a perfectly sensible arrangement. She said a wife has a duty to cook for her man and keep his clothes clean, but that there was no reason to be driven completely crazy on account of him. She may have had a point.”
Greg continued up the stairs. “I’m glad I didn’t marry someone like Molly,” he said over his shoulder. “And remind me to quit pursuing you, if that’s your way of thinking.” At the top, he added, “Not that I’ve had much luck with my pursuit lately.”
“No, you haven’t.”
He turned to face me, frowning. “Sharon, isn’t it time we made peace?”
I felt all my defenses rise against him. “Right now we have other things to think about.” As I spoke, I glanced at the stairway to the third floor, where yet another officer held back a group of residents. On the top step stood a gaunt, hatchet-faced woman with gray-streaked black hair pulled back in a bun. Mrs. Neverman, a close friend of Molly’s. Her dark eyes were wet and shimmering in the light of the orange bulb on the landing.
Greg’s gaze had followed mine. He dropped a hand onto my shoulder. “Shall we go in?”
The door to the second-floor front apartment stood open, a shaft of light falling across the turquoise carpet in the hall. A hum of voices came from within. I hung back. Greg guided me forward, and reluctantly, I stepped over the threshold.
Just inside, on the little telephone stand that Molly had found at a garage sale and lovingly refinished, lay a bag of groceries, its contents spilling over onto the floor. The phone had been knocked off the hook. I stepped around a package of frozen lima beans and went into the living room, where lab technicians were at work.
Molly’s sheeted figure lay in the center of the room, on a blue rug. Greg went over and lifted a corner of the covering. Her face, beneath her coif of white hair, was deeply purpled. I could see the mark where something — a wire? a fine cord? — had bitten into her throat.
I nodded and turned away. “It’s Molly.”
Greg came up behind me. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Was it robbery, do you know?” My voice was thick and shook slightly.
“A very strange robbery, if that.”
“How so?”
“I’ll show you.” He led me to the bedroom. The drawers of the dresser had been pulled out, lingerie and stockings scattered on the floor. “Whoever it was went through the closet and the kitchen drawers, too,” Greg said, “but he didn’t touch the jewelry box or the TV, or a metal lockbox sitting right out in plain sight on the desk.”
“A robbery with a specific purpose, then.”
“Very specific.”
We went back to the living room. “Did you find the murder weapon?” I asked.
Greg picked up a plastic evidence bag from the end table. I started when I saw the coiled length of white drapery cord. It looked like the extra segment I had cut off when I’d threaded the rod for my new curtains just the other day. Of course, all pieces of cord looked alike. Mine was probably still lying on the coffee table where I’d left it. Or was it? And if not...
Greg frowned. “Papoose, are you all right?”
“Yes. No. Oh, this whole thing is so...” I gestured helplessly and started for the door. In the hall of the apartment, a sudden rush of tears stung my eyes and, to cover it, I knelt to examine the spilled groceries.
“Looks like she came in from shopping and surprised her killer,” Greg said.
A cash register receipt bearing the imprint of the Albatross Superette lay among the apples and oranges and cracked eggs. I pointed to it. “That’s the ma and pa store down the block. Their prices are high, so I don’t shop there much, just for things I forget to pick up at Safeway. But Molly didn’t have a car, and I suppose she had to buy most of her groceries there.”
Greg grunted. “That’s the plight of the urban poor. Forced to pay rip-off prices for the sake of convenience.”
“Well, I don’t suppose your average neighborhood grocer’s volume is high enough that he can afford to charge less either.” Gingerly, I poked the frozen lima beans. The package was beaded with moisture but still firm.
“You know the time of death yet?” I stood up.
“Just a range. After six, before ten. We’ll have a better idea after the postmortem.”
“Will you let me know?”
“Sure. But why the interest?”
“Let’s just say this hits pretty close to home.”
“I understand. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow afternoon.” With a wicked gleam in his eye, he added, “It’ll give me a chance to continue my pursuit of you.”
I made a face at him and started out. His voice stopped me.
“What’s that noise?”
A faint growling, obscured until now by the activity around us, came from the living room.
“Oh, Lord!” I exclaimed. “It’s Watney!”
“Watney?”
“Molly’s cat.” I went back and dragged the fat black-and-white cat from under the sofa, receiving a long scratch for my efforts. Once out, the creature burrowed into my arms, head tucked into the crook of my elbow. “I’d better take him down to my place.”
Greg nodded. “Talk to you later.”
I carried the cowering animal downstairs and through the dwindling crowd, hefting him with difficulty while I fished out my keys and opened the door. Inside, I released him, and he made a beeline for the main room.
I followed, turning on a table lamp as I entered. In the bed by the window of my combination living room and bedroom was a woman-sized lump with a shock of wheat-colored hair. My friend, Linnea Carraway. A wine jug stood empty on the floor beside her, the sweet odor of sauterne permeating the air. Linnea exuded its aroma.
Not only had she passed out, but she’d done so in my bed.
With a flash of annoyance, I put my hand on her shoulder and shook her. She didn’t respond.
Alarmed, I felt for her pulse. It was steady. Linnea was merely suffering the effects of drinking over half a gallon of cheap wine.
I let go of her arm, resisting the impulse to pinch her. The stereo was still on, faint crackling noises coming from its speakers. I flipped the switch off and eyed Watney, who was inspecting the sleeping bag on the floor, where Linnea should have been.
Conscious of my stare, the cat flattened himself and disappeared under the bed. I decided to leave him there and get some sleep. As I slipped into the bag, telling myself I should pretend I was on a fun camping trip, a sudden thought hit me. I got back up and went over to the coffee table between the matching easy chairs.
The length of white drapery cord was gone.
2
I crossed the street toward the Albatross Superette, morning sun warm on my shoulders and a sense of guilt hot at my heels.
Linnea hadn’t stirred as I dressed hastily that morning. I knew I should have awakened her to tell her of Molly’s murder; it would be far better for her to hear of it from me than from the TV news or someone like Tim, the manager. Still, after a restless night on the floor, I was in no shape to face her probable hysterics, and I’d taken the coward’s way out.
Or was that the real reason I’d slunk out of my own apartment without so much as a cup of coffee? What about that length of drapery cord which, I was sure, had traveled from my place to the scene of Molly’s death? How do you ask your best friend if she, by any chance, wandered upstairs in a drunken stupor and strangled an old lady? How on earth can you even think such a thing?
I shook off the thought and opened the door of the Superette, sniffing the aroma of coffee from the big urn the proprietor always kept going. The little store was empty. I stepped inside, taking in the familiar Coca-Cola and bubbling neon beer signs, the worn green-and-white linoleum and battered freezer chests, the racks of potato chips and neat pyramids of fresh fruit.