Murder on the Mind (2 page)

“A logical place for them. Or maybe he’s psychic,” she offered offhand. The top dishwasher rack rolled out, glasses clinking.

Silence. I could imagine Richard’s stony glare.

“I’ll call UB Medical Center tomorrow,” Richard said. “See if I can find a doctor to treat him.”

“Then what will you do with him?”

“Nothing. He’s here to recover.”

“What if he wants to go back to New York?”

“Then he can go.”

The dishwasher door closed.

“Bull,” Brenda said. “You want him here. You want to turn his life around, remake him in your own image. But he’s your brother, not you. For years he’s made his own life without you. He’ll need to make his own life again. Don’t be disappointed when he no longer needs you.”

Trust Brenda to be pragmatic.

“Want sausage or linguine for dinner?” she asked.

Tiptoeing back to my room, I closed the door. I leaned against it, closed my eyes, unsure what I was feeling. Panic came close.

Yeah, I was different.

I stretched out on the single bed in that shabby little room and thought about what happened.

After six months of unemployment due to downsizing, I’d been about to resume my career as an insurance claims investigator. Until the mugging.

Ten days later, I was four hundred miles away, in Buffalo, New York, moving in with my older half-brother and his live-in-lover. Broke and dependent on their kindness, I was lucky to have somewhere to go.

Dr. Richard Alpert hadn’t changed much over the years. Silver now mixed with the dark brown hair around his temples, and in his full mustache. New lines creased his face, but along with the brains, Richard had the looks and, as sole heir, he now possessed the Alpert family fortune.

The flight from LaGuardia to the Buffalo-Niagara International Airport had taken fifty-seven minutes. With my skull-pounding headache, it felt like fifty-seven hours. Brenda Stanley, the pretty black woman behind the security barrier, waited for us. At thirty-four, a year younger than me, Brenda’s an old soul whose eyes reflected the depth of her compassion. After a quick kiss and embrace with Richard, she turned to me.

“Jeffy Resnick, you look like shit. You need to gain ten pounds, and I’m just the one to fatten you up.”

She was right about the weight loss. Ordinarily I’m just an average guy. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a respectable five-eight in height. More comfortable in denim than a suit and tie. Now my jeans hung from my hips. A sling hid the lightweight summer jacket—the only one Richard could find back at my apartment. A knit cap covered my partially shaved head.

Brenda frowned and, careful not to press against my broken arm, gently hugged me. She stepped back. “You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

“Brenda,” Richard admonished.

“Well, I know how it is when the old man and the kid get together.”

Because of a twelve-year age difference, Richard and I had never been close. Our reunion in the hospital in New York days before had been rocky. We’d called a truce. Now to see if we could live with it.

“We’re not fighting,” I assured her.

“Good. You two get the luggage,” Brenda said. “I’ll bring the car around. Those parking lot thieves are gonna hit me up for five bucks. Highway robbery,” she muttered, already walking away.

“Come on,” Richard said, and started off, following the overhead signs to the baggage carousel.

“Why don’t you marry Brenda and make an honest woman of her?” I asked, struggling to keep up.

“I’ve been trying to for years. She says it would break her mother’s heart.”

“Marrying a rich, white doctor?”

“It’s the white part that’s the problem.”

Richard had filled me in on the most recent details of their lives. I’d met Brenda only once several years before, when they’d come to Manhattan on business. I liked her right away. They had been colleagues at The American Patient Safety Foundation, a think tank outside of Los Angeles, where Richard evaluated new medical equipment. Brenda was a registered nurse and his assistant, although neither she nor Richard had worked much with patients.

Budget cuts ended both their jobs, and they moved back to the old homestead in Buffalo. With the inheritance, Richard didn’t need to work and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do next. He seemed quieter, more introspective—if that was possible. I’d have to ask Brenda later.

We arrived at U.S. Airway’s baggage carousel, already in motion. Suitcases, boxes, golf clubs, and skis slid past the already thinning crowd. Richard patted his pockets.

“They’re in your wallet.”

“What are?”

“The claim tickets.”

A quick look in his wallet revealed the missing claim checks. Richard eyed me suspiciously. “Jeff, you were inside the terminal when the skycap gave them to me.”

Was I? I shrugged. “Lucky guess. But you don’t need them in the Buffalo airport. C’mon, let’s go home. I’d rather barf in familiar surroundings.”

* * *

“And on your right is the Vietnamese grocery store,” Richard announced, sounding like a tour guide. He’d been giving a running commentary since we’d pulled out of the airport, while Brenda drove the streets like a native.

“Where’s the snow?” I asked. It was, after all, March, and Buffalo is famous for chin-high drifts.

“It melted,” Brenda said. “But it’ll be back.”

Shrunken, dirty mounds of the stuff still littered the edges of parking lots and streets. I took in the seemingly endless ribbon of strip malls. “Video stores, head shops. Looks a lot shabbier than I remember.”

“That’ll change in a heartbeat,” Brenda said. Sure enough, we approached the Grover Cleveland Golf Course, crossing the city line into Amherst, the suburb where Richard lived. The neighborhood dated back to the twenties, the houses built and maintained by old money.

Brenda turned right into LeBrun Road, driving slowly, letting me digest the neighborhood changes. As she pulled into the driveway and parked the car, I got a good look at the house. The three-story brick Tudor looked the epitome of good taste. A gray slate roof and leaded bay windows overlooked the winter-matted carpet of lawn and the privet hedges bordering the sidewalk.

Richard retrieved the luggage from the trunk, letting me soak in the house. My nails dug into my palms.

“Come on inside,” he called, sounding jovial.

“Can we go around front for a grand entrance?” I asked, taking my duffel from him.

“Sure.” Brenda took out her key, leading the way.

I’d lived in that house during my teens and had never been through the front entrance, always using the back door, feeling like the unwanted guest that I was.

Inside the great oak door, the freshly waxed marble foyer shone, reminding me of a mausoleum. Brenda didn’t like housework. They must’ve engaged a cleaning service. The house had been empty for years since Richard’s grandmother’s death. And though they’d been there for three months, the furniture in the living room was still shrouded in sheets.

I set the battered duffel on the polished floor and looked up the grand staircase. “Where am I bunking?”

“Grandfather’s room,” Richard answered.

Tension knotted my gut. “Your grandmother’s probably turning over in her grave since Brenda moved in. You put me in the shrine, she’ll positively spin.”

“It’s not a shrine,” Brenda said. “I’ve been redecorating.”

“Well, plant me somewhere before I keel over. Those pills don’t put much of a dent in these headaches.”

I picked up my duffel, forcing myself to follow Brenda up the stairs. Richard brought up the rear. With each step, a weird heaviness expanded through my chest. It was dread, wasn’t it? Or maybe I was having a heart attack.

I paused near the top, dizziness sweeping through me. I leaned heavily against the banister.

Richard took the duffel from me. “You okay?”

I gave the barest of nods, forcing myself up the last step. My vision dappled, nausea churning inside me.

Brenda stood by the open door, like grande dame Leona Helmsley in one of her old Queen of New York ads.

I paused at the threshold.

Déjà vu
.

I’d been there before.

But of course I’d been there. I’d lived in a room down the hall for four years.

Anger boiled out of the room before me. A vivid memory struck: Mrs. Alpert’s blue eyes blazing, her lips clamped into a thin, purple line.

It was her anger.

Panic gripped me. I backed away, nearly crashing into Brenda.

“Jeffy, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t go in there.”

“Jeff?” Richard said.

“I can’t stay in there.”

Although she’d been dead for years, Old Lady Alpert’s lingering presence was attached to her dead husband’s bedroom. I tried to step forward, but my legs wouldn’t move. A wall of betrayal stopped me.

“Jeff?” Richard repeated, his voice sounding wobbly.

I ignored him. “What about my old room?” I asked Brenda.

“There’s no furniture—”

“Curtis’s room?” Curtis Johnson, Mrs. Alpert’s chauffeur, had lived in a room off the butler’s pantry.

“We don’t have sheets for a single bed,” she said.

Hardly able to breathe, I stumbled away, groped for the banister, and smacked into the wall, setting off explosions in my broken arm. I nearly tumbled down the stairs, collapsing on the bottom step.

Hunched over, I cradled my arm to my chest, rocking in rhythm with waves of pain. Tears of frustration, anger, and shame burned my eyes.

Richard brushed past me, crouched before me. “Jeff, what’s wrong?”

I couldn’t look him in the eye.

Brenda sat beside me, her hand resting on my shoulder. “You don’t have to go in there, Jeffy.”

Couldn’t catch my breath—couldn’t face her. “Sorry, Brenda. You went to a lot of trouble—”

“We’ll fix you up with something. I’ll hop over to Kaufmann’s and get you some sheets and a lamp. They’ll be yours—nobody else’s—and no bad vibes attached to them, either,” she said, as though reading my mind. “Come on. You’ll feel better after a nap.” She pulled me to my feet.

I couldn’t look at Richard—not yet. Brenda took my hand and led me through the house, winding through the kitchen and butler’s pantry.

The door to Curtis’s room squeaked open, a friendly, welcoming sound. Curtis taught me to play gin rummy and poker. He’d been a good friend to a lonely teenaged boy. The walls of his room were beige, in need of fresh paint. An old, iron single bed with a white chenille spread was pushed against one wall. A battered maple dresser sat next to the empty closet. The bathroom housed a narrow shower, toilet, and a small sink. Though it resembled a cheap hotel room, the place embraced me.

I sat on the bed and shrugged out of my sling. Brenda took my jacket, hung it in the closet. I avoided Richard’s physician’s gaze.

“I don’t know what came over me back there. I’m okay, Rich. Really. And the room is fine.”

Richard set my duffel down. “You sure—?”

“Yes,” I said, forcing a smile. “This’ll do fine. Besides, you said my stuff will be here tomorrow. Bug off, will you, before I fall on my head and you make me go back to a hospital.”

Richard looked ready to do just that, but then dutifully backed away.

Brenda stepped closer, squeezing my hand. “Welcome home.” She kissed my cheek, closing the door behind them.

Silence.

My chest ached from the strain of suppressing so many emotions—fear topping the list. I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the bed, covering my eyes with my good arm.

Richard’s ancient, nasty grandmother was dead. She couldn’t reach out and grab me from the grave. I squeezed my eyes shut to blot out the memory of her hateful glare.

And then there was the dream. . . .

CHAPTER 3

The dark figure was back, stalking its prey with a calculated viciousness. Terrified, the white-tailed buck ran blindly across a field of short-cropped hay.

I watched the hunter pull the cross-bow’s trigger, let the arrow fly. It hit with a smart thwack, ripping through the deer’s heart. The buck ran ten yards before dropping in the snow.

Confident, the hunter strode to the kill, hauled the animal onto its back, crouched down. The wicked knife flashed in the waning light as the hunter gutted the carcass.

Sensations pummeled me. Startled fear, helplessness, and an overwhelming sense of victory. But the mix of emotions didn’t gibe; the deer was goodness crushed, while the stalker radiated a sense of triumph, as though evil had been destroyed, instead of the destroyer snuffing out an innocent life.

I killed time putting away the clothes and toilet articles Richard had packed for me. Running out of things to do, I headed for the kitchen.

Brenda was alone at the counter. I took a breath to steady myself before entering.

She looked up from the sausage she tended on the stove. “Feeling better?”