Armstrong spread wide his hands. “Well, there you go. Nothing set George off faster than the thought that someone else was moving in on a woman he considered to be rightly his. Unfortunately, he considered all women to be rightly his.”
Ben made a few notes in his pocket pad. Some of this was new information, and it was sparking a few ideas he hadn’t considered before.
“Anything else that’s relevant? To either murder?”
Armstrong shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. If I do think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I want to help if I can. I just heard from your secretary yesterday afternoon—this all comes as a surprise. Let me think on it for a while and see if I remember anything more.”
“Thanks.” Ben pushed himself out of the chair. “Oh. There’s one other thing I wanted to ask. I almost hate to, but”—he swallowed—“you know, both corpses were … disturbed. After they were killed.”
“Yes, I know. The smiles.”
“Do you have any idea what that means? Where it comes from?”
Armstrong lowered his head. “No. How could I?”
“I just wanted to—”
“There is one story, though. I don’t know that it relates, but—” He stopped, started again. “I mentioned my father. He was a drunk, he beat us till we bled. And he used to make us smile.”
Ben took a step closer. “Excuse me?”
“He was a petty tyrant. He didn’t have anybody else to push around, so he took it out on us. He ordered us to smile. I don’t know why. Maybe it was his way of pretending we were all one big happy family. You know, by forcing these fake Ozzie and Harriet smiles on our faces. All the time. Like when we’d sit down to dinner. ‘Smile!’ he’d bellow. Or when he came to kiss us good night, long past midnight, with that disgusting smell of whiskey on his breath. Even after he beat us. He’d hit us so hard we were barely conscious, then he’d order us to smile. ‘You will smile!’ he’d shout. ‘You will!’ ”
Armstrong’s hand pressed against his forehead. “I could always manage to plaster that fake smile on my face, no matter how much it hurt. But George couldn’t. Or more accurately, wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give our father that satisfaction. He could beat George till he bled, but he couldn’t make him smile. So Father would beat him some more. Beat him till he was senseless. But he never made George smile.”
Armstrong’s head rose, and Ben could see traces of tears in the corners of his eyes. “Poor George. Is it any wonder he ran away from home? Any wonder he got hooked on drugs, the only thing that could make him forget?” He brushed the moisture from his face. “I like to think that, for a while anyway, George found a little bit of peace. A little bit of happy.” His eyes clenched shut. “Until someone took all that away from him. Until George had the misfortune to run into someone who truly could make him smile.”
Chapter 37
BEN MET CHRISTINA back at the office and provided her with an update on his day. Afterward, they stopped by Ri Le’s for takeout and headed back to Ben’s place.
As they stepped inside the main corridor of the rooming house, Ben saw the light on in Mrs. Marmelstein’s apartment.
“Looks like she’s still up,” Ben said quietly. “I’d better check on her.”
“Couldn’t we eat first?” Christina implored. “My tummy is crying out for Szechwan noodles.”
“In a minute.” He knocked quietly on the door. “Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben.”
“Come on in.”
He entered the small apartment, Christina close behind. Mrs. Marmelstein wasn’t in the living area. His nose told him to turn the corner, pass the Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and the twenty-four volumes of the Warren Commission Report and enter the kitchen.
“Fixing a late-night snack?” Ben asked.
She looked up, her face a mixture of dismay and despair. She was wearing a blue print dress, but the dress was overlaid with her underwear, all balled up and backwards. She was wearing socks with sandals. Her lipstick was a thick red smear across one side of her face.
“I just wanted a little breakfast. But I can’t get these fool eggs to scramble. I put in the milk and I stirred and stirred. I don’t understand it.”
Breakfast? It was practically bedtime. Ben took a few steps forward and looked into the frying pan. He saw the mixed and stirred residue of three eggs, shells included. Small wonder the eggs wouldn’t scramble.
“Mrs. Marmelstein,” he said gently, “I’m no cook, but I think you’re supposed to throw away the shells.”
“The shells,” she echoed. Her voice was a wispy nothing, caught in the air then quickly swept away. “I—” She stopped, either unable or unwilling to complete the sentence. As Ben peered into her eyes, he saw the dawning of the realization of her mistake. And the utter humiliation that followed.
“You know,” Ben said quickly, “I hate it when that happens.” He lifted the frying pan off the stove and turned down the heat. “I must’ve done this a thousand times. Any more, I just stick to Cap’n Crunch.” He opened the cabinet under the sink and poured the sticky remains into the trash.
“Those were the last eggs I have,” Mrs. Marmelstein whispered.
“Tell you what, Mrs. Marmelstein. Christina and I picked up some Vietnamese on the way home. There’s more than enough for you, too.”
She shook her head sadly. “I couldn’t—”
“Please.”
“No, I mean it. I couldn’t. Too spicy for me.”
“Oh. Well, I think I have some eggs in my refrigerator. Why don’t you let me get you some, then I’ll come back and—”
“No,” she said, wandering out of the kitchen. “That’s kind, but all of a sudden I feel very tired.”
Ben nodded. She was sundowning, he realized. At times she could still be perfectly rational. But after the Alzheimer’s kicked in, she had no idea what she was doing. “Why don’t you let me help you get ready for bed, then?”
“No, no, that wouldn’t be right.”
“Or Christina could do it. She knows all those girl-things, don’t you, Christina?”
Christina forced a smile.
Mrs. Marmelstein drew a hand to her bosom. “Thank you, no.”
“I hate to leave you here alone. Did you call that number I gave you?”
She looked at him sternly. “Benjamin, I’m an adult, not a child. I do not need anyone to take care of me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but I still wish—”
“Benjamin, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get ready for bed.”
It was evident to Ben that his clumsy charity had served only to embarrass her. “If you need anything, call me, okay? You have my number. Or just let out a yell. I’ll hear you, I promise.”
“Good night, Benjamin.”
“Good night, Mrs. Marmelstein.” He escorted Christina to the door and left the apartment.
Ben noticed that Christina ate with great vigor, as usual, but didn’t speak a word to him, which was most unusual.
“Is something bothering you?”
She eyed him with great irritation. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know what your problem is.”
“I’m worried about Mrs. Marmelstein.”
“So am I. So why are you being hostile to me?”
“She needs help.”
“I know that! I’m trying to find a home—”
“You know that isn’t what she wants.”
“She needs someone to look after her.”
“She wants you.”
The room fell silent.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Ben said finally.
“I do. It would be difficult. Incredibly difficult.”