Killer Chameleon (7 page)

I glanced down. Granted, I'd lost some weight over the last month, worrying that my backside would strain the seams of that blasted wedding suit Janeece had talked me into buying. But “little” is not a term I'd ever associate with my one hundred and thirty-something pounds. Even my height wouldn't qualify. I was five-six, and that's average in anyone's book.

Determined not to eavesdrop, I returned to the guest room. I had to figure out which box was missing or go nuts. Rifling my desk, I found the detailed list I'd made of what was in what. It was supposed to make unpacking simpler. The boxes were numbered as well as labeled, most on all four sides. One or two near the bottom, of course, were not, their marks facing the wall or the one adjacent.

After checking off the numbers of those I could see, I grabbed the top layer of the first stack, moved them to the floor to get to those on the bottom, in the process dropping one. Fortunately, it wasn't marked “Fragile.”

Clarissa appeared in the doorway. “What was that? Are you all right?” She still held the phone to her ear. Evidently her conversations with her sister amounted to telethons.

“Fine. Just lost my grip on this boy,” I said, nudging it aside. “Trying to figure out which one is missing.” I waved the list.

“Nothing serious,” Clarissa pronounced into the phone and backed out. “Trying to solve the mystery of a missing box. She's so organized, just like you. Has a list of the things.”

I turned the bottom one around, checked off its number.

“Ask her what?” Her voice drifted back down the hall, and when she didn't return to ask me whatever, I tuned out.

At the end of the exercise, the only one left unchecked was the carton with the contents of my desk drawers. Granted, I wouldn't need them any time soon, but it was the principle of the thing.

It occurred to me that I should check the tea kettle. I hadn't heard the whistle, but it was past time that the water should have come to a boil.

I found Clarissa in the kitchen, the table set for two with plates, flatware, and all. “Sit yourself down,” she ordered. “The barbecue's in the microwave. I was just waiting until you finished.” Punching in the time, she pushed start and stood back to make certain it would. “Um, how'd you and your list make out?”

I explained the problem. “I'll give Duck a call later. Maybe he put it in the storage room off the balcony. Can't imagine why he would, but it's the only place left to look. I don't have the key or I'd do it now. By God, if he took that box to the Dumpster with the stuff of his he threw out, I'll sue his pants off. All my financial records are in it.”

Clarissa stiffened, then turned to watch the window of the microwave as if she could see what was going on under the lid of the bowl. “So it's just one box? And you're sure it's not back at your place? Or still in your car or something?”

“Positive. It was in that room the last time I was here two weeks ago. I think I'll have Lemon Zinger.” I got up and poured the water in both cups since Clarissa seemed to be determined to babysit the barbecue. “I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation with your sister.” She stiffened again, and I rushed to explain. “When I came to ask you whether you wanted tea. You've been a teacher? Clarissa? What's wrong?”

She hadn't moved but her olive complexion had paled a couple of tints. A pudgy hand covered her mouth, and she turned away.

“Uh . . . I'm not feeling very well. I've . . . I've got to go.” She rushed out of the kitchen.

I followed her to the living room and watched, concerned, as she wrestled her shoes onto her feet. She pulled on her coat and grabbed her purse, her hands trembling.

“Is there something I can do to help?” I asked. “Would you like a ride home?”

“No. No, thank you,” she said, bustling to the door. “Tell Dillon he won't have to pay me for today. Maybe I can come back tomorrow. I . . . I'm sorry, I just . . .” She gave up on whatever she'd intended to say and turned to fumble with the deadbolts.

“Here,” I said, coming to her rescue. “I'm sorry you aren't feeling well. It was nice meeting you.”

Her hazel eyes widened, and she emitted a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper. “Yes. Yes. Nice to meet you too.” She practically ran to the elevator. She pushed the call button, then, not waiting, shook her head and took the stairs.

I stood in the doorway, wondering. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked about her having been a teacher, although I couldn't imagine why. I rewound my mental tape, trying to figure out what I'd said wrong. One thing I was sure of. Clarissa wasn't sick. Something I'd said had pushed her button, the one marked “Panic.”

5

“YOU SURE YOU WOULDN'T LIKE A LITTLE
pick-me-up in your tea?”

Gracie Poole hovered over me, a bottle of Jim Beam in one hand, a delicate cup and saucer in the other. My stomach was still feeling iffy, but I'd had to agree to have some Constant Comment since it seemed so important to her. Now that I saw that she used more than sugar, cream, and/or lemon in hers, I understood now why she'd been so insistent. And it wasn't even noon! I'd known Gracie for several years and never suspected that any of the empty liquor bottles I saw going out with the trash on Tuesdays were hers.

“No, thank you, Gracie. It's a little early for me.”

“Oh, well.
Chacun à son goût
.” She sat down opposite me, a butler's tray coffee table between us, and poured a splash of the bourbon into her cup.

I found myself a little disoriented by her apartment. The floor plan was a duplicate of my old unit, but that's where the similarity ended. Our building was itself a senior citizen, built in the forties by someone trying to harken back to an even earlier day when high ceilings, deep-set windows, fireplaces with marble surrounds and mantels, and hardwood floors were de rigueur. Gracie had taught art history for forty years, and her love of the Old Masters formed the basis of her decor. Prints of Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, van Gogh, you name it, filled her walls ceiling to floor in frames that had probably cost more than the prints. Miniatures of well-known statuary served as her knickknacks, although in my opinion the six-foot-tall replica of Michaelangelo's
David
in the corner was a bit much, certainly more masculinity than would be good for my libido.

Fortunately, Gracie's living room furniture, while ornate, with gracefully curved arms and legs, was a dark wood upholstered in a neutral fabric, leaving all the prints and the thick Oriental area rugs to supply color in the room. Even her draperies, which swept to the floor under matching pelmets, and must have cost a mint, were a pristine snow-white. The effect was stunning and I liked it immensely. The only other contribution to color was her complexion, a delicate pink that matched the rosebuds on her cups and saucers.

“Gracie, you have to have the most beautiful apartment in the building,” I said, with genuine admiration.

“Well, it's home.” She patted her lips with a white linen napkin before folding it neatly across her lap. It seemed to disappear, since the pleated caftan she wore was also white. “Now. You're interested in the members of my little class who were here yesterday.”

“Yes. You can understand why.”

“Of course, Leigh. I'm so sorry about what happened to you. You must have been terrified. Lord knows the sight of all those policemen bursting into the lobby terrified us. It took a whole bottle of my Jim Beam to calm everyone down. But I'm sorry, I'm not comfortable giving you the list I gave to the policeman. It's one thing to give it to him since he asked for it in his official capacity. But you're no longer a member of the police force, so I simply can't. Privacy issues, you understand. But I can assure you, none of my students would do anything so vicious.”

“You know all of them well?” I asked, disappointed but determined. More than one way to skin a cat.

“Well enough. Most of them have been with me since I started teaching at the Seniors' Center, and that's been six years. Some come and go because of their health, a few have died, but there's still a nucleus of a good dozen that are regulars.”

“So no one new?”

“In my class? No, but as I told the nice young man last night—such a gentleman—several of my students did not come alone. I won't use their last names, but for instance, Willa's sister, Mary, came with her because Willa doesn't drive any longer. Ina and Phyllis invited friends. I did tell them they were welcome to do that. What I'm saying is that there were a number of faces I didn't recognize. I'm past the age where I remember names of people I'm meeting for the first time, so I couldn't add those to the list. But some of the students were still here when the officer came up, and they supplied those names they knew. I gave the detective a list of the ones who had left and a description of whoever came with them.”

“And all the unfamiliar faces were accounted for? As far as who they came with, I mean.”

“Well, no, I wouldn't say that.” Gazing into the middle distance, she tapped the rim of her cup in thought. “There was the man in the Santa hat. He was a stranger to me, but he had a conversation with Neva, so I assume she knows him. And a teenager, a lovely girl. Georgia Keith. You can understand why I'd remember her name, so close to that of one of my idols. The granddaughter of someone on the fifth floor, according to Phyllis. They were untangling tinsel together. Phyllis is good with young people. Oh, yes, and the woman with the lovely accent. Jamaican, I think. I'm not sure how she was connected to anyone. Perhaps a friend of the Winstons.”

That would be easy enough for me to follow up. Libby Winston and I had become cozy over loads of laundry, and I knew all my fifth-floor neighbors well, so I could track down whoever Georgia Keith belonged to.

An hour and a half later, the only person I'd managed to identify was the man in the Santa hat.

“Al?” Neva's broad face beamed. “He's Cholly's brother-in-law, the only one in his family I can tolerate. Lord, they're snooty. Al's a minister, teaches at Howard's School of Religion.”

I'd checked on him out of curiosity more than anything else.

None of the neighbors on my floor who were at home laid claim to the teenager. I'd have to catch the others once they came in from work. Which meant calling them, I reminded myself. By this evening, I'd be in Southwest D.C. at the condo, not here.

I returned to Janeece's, set about finishing the rest of the packing, and was trying to find the end of the tape on the roll when the phone rang. My morning had been interrupted by two wrong numbers and one heavy breather, so I admit I answered with an attitude. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Leigh. I must say you do sound out of sorts.”

Oops. “Grandmother! Hello!” I curled up on the futon, wondering how long it would take me to get used to having grandparents. I cleared my throat, realizing it felt a bit prickly. “I'm sorry. I was losing a fight with a roll of packing tape. How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Elizabeth Ritch was, if nothing else, proper, as my Nunna would say. “I won't keep you, dear. Is there any possibility you could come to see me sometime today? It's quite important and really shouldn't be put off any longer.”

“Is something wrong?” Two trips to Ourland/Umber Shores in two days? We're talking eighty-something miles round trip and fifty minutes each way in non–rush hour traffic. I really didn't feel up to it, in fact was feeling worse by the minute. I was definitely coming down with something.

“No, nothing's wrong,” my grandmother was saying. “In fact, it might be something to your advantage. Wayne and I had planned to inform you before your wedding, but as it's been postponed twice already, he and I felt it might be best if we take care of this matter now. Of course, if you're too busy . . .”

It's time I admit that my paternal grandmother and I got off on the wrong foot the first time we met. I hadn't particularly appreciated her high-handed manner, and she didn't like me, period. A truce had been declared since then, but I still had to count to ten occasionally and accept the fact that she was not and never would be a warm fuzzy like Nunna and Duck's mom.

“I am busy, Grandmother, but I'll try to get there before the day's over. I just can't tell you what time.”

“That doesn't matter. I won't speak for Wayne—his sessions with the physical therapist seemed to last all hours—but I'll be here. Thank you, dear. You won't regret it. I look forward to seeing you. Good-bye.”

I replaced the phone, bent over forehead to knees, and moaned, then sighed and sat up. She was, after all, family, something I'd longed for since I was five. Family meant obligations. It was time to count my blessings.

I got up and returned to my labors, but only managed to get two boxes packed when I had to accept the fact that I had indeed overdone it with all the furniture shoving this morning. Not only did my knee ache, everything did. The Constant Comment I'd had with Gracie hadn't done me any good either. Any kind of tea with little under my belt tends to leave me feeling queasy.

Or perhaps I should have eaten more of Clarissa's barbecue, but once she'd left, I'd tasted only a couple of forks of it. It had been every bit as good as it smelled, but I simply hadn't wanted any more and had put it back in the refrigerator. Now my stomach bubbled. This did not bode well. I downed a couple of Tums and stretched out in the den, my makeshift bedroom.

I didn't even realize I'd been asleep when I was awakened by Janeece-type sounds in the apartment. I rolled over, checked the clock. Three-fifteen? It was awfully early for her to be home.

“Janeece?” Getting up was a struggle. And the room seemed much cooler than earlier. Shivering, I opened the door of the den and stuck my head out. “You decide to take another half day off?”

The living room was empty but her coat lay half on, half off the futon, her purse upside down in front of it on the floor. She must have been in hurry because she was usually a damned sight more careful about her clothes, especially her Burberry.

“Janeece?”

The toilet flushed, explanation enough. While I waited for her, I checked the thermostat. Seventy, its normal winter setting. Perhaps the heat was off in the whole building. Still fully clothed, I felt chilled to the bone. I jacked it up to seventy-five to see if it would come on.

A groan from behind me made me spin in my tracks. Janeece leaned in the door of her bedroom, her usual rich bronze complexion more like charcoal-gray. “Hey, roomie,” she said, wiping her mouth with a facecloth. “Better keep your distance. I am one sick puppy, probably picked up the bug that's making the rounds in my office.”

I heard the thermostat click and a whoosh of heated air from the vent washed over me. “Too late, home girl. I think I've got it, too. Or it might have been the chili. Whichever, it looks like we're in this together.”

She came in and slumped into the easy chair. “God, I'm so sorry, Leigh. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the chili. I was feeling kind of icky yesterday, but what with all that running around in Baltimore, I had other things to worry about. Now I've given it to you.”

We commiserated with each other, comparing aches and pains until nausea sent her scurrying to the bathroom again. I didn't really feel queasy so much as empty and preferring to stay that way—which sounded like a smart idea.

Once she was done, I found the thermometer, determined that my temperature was inching toward 102 degrees, and counted myself lucky that I hadn't packed any sleepwear yet. I filled a carafe of water for Janeece, who was back in the john again, and left it on her nightstand. I filled a thermos for myself, put on pajamas, and went back to bed.

It was dark outside when the dream in which I was knocking on Duck's door with all my worldly possessions in hand segued into reality. Someone was pounding at ours. I grabbed my robe, slid into my slippers, and hurried to answer it. The fact that Janeece hadn't budged meant she had to be in bad shape. Normally she answered doors and phones as if she knew Mr. Right was calling and didn't have time to waste.

Duck was about to knock on Neva's door when I opened ours, his expression a cross between anger and anxiety. One look at me and the anger was gone.

“Aw, babe, you're sick?”

I nodded, tempted to belabor him with a list of my ailments: sore throat, temperature, et al., but decided against it. It would take too much energy.

“I thought maybe you'd changed your mind about moving in and were too chicken to tell me,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Let's get you back to bed.”

“Sorry,” I croaked, surprised at how hoarse I'd become. “I should have called but I fell asleep. And I'm contagious, Duck. So's Janeece. I think she's sicker than I am. You should leave.”

“Bull.” He peeled me out of my robe, sat me on the side of the bed, and removed my slippers. “I'm immune. I never get sick.” It had been years since he'd last had a cold or the flu so I didn't bother to argue. He looked particularly hale and hearty at the moment. The man exuded health. I wanted to snarl at him.

He palmed my forehead and pronounced me feverish, asked if I'd eaten, what if any medication I'd taken, and in general lifted my spirits and made me downright soppy. He cared.

“You just relax,” he ordered. “Dr. Duck will take care of you. Janeece too. Where's your key? I'm going out for supplies.”

I wasn't certain what his definition of supplies might be but didn't care either. The fact that he was coming back was all that mattered. Normally when I'm sick, which isn't often, I want to be left alone to wallow in my misery. The fact that I found myself welcoming his company showed me just how much he meant to me.

He went to check on Janeece, left the apartment, and returned a while later laden down with cough syrup, zinc lozenges, tissues, hot soup from my favorite restaurant, ginger ale and crackers to soothe my roommate's tummy, and a single red rose in a bud vase for each of us. If my cousin the minister were in hailing distance, I'd marry Duck on the spot in my jammies and with a tissue stuck up my nose.