Caught Dead in Philadelphia (3 page)

“Please, no.” I heard myself say it, hoped Liza could hear it. “Please—”

Nobody naps on a hearth.

She lay crumpled and small, like a wrecked toy, her mouth half-open, her arms outstretched as if grasping for something to hold on to. Her green shirt was twisted, one jeans leg pulled up, showing a pale section of leg. Her dark eyes stared at me.

But they weren't her eyes. They were mannequin eyes, with no spark, no shine of life.

“No,” I said, near tears. “Please, no!” I bent over her, hoping, insisting it was possible she was alive, almost convincing myself despite the discolored, scraped skin on her temple.

“No!” I screamed, putting my ear to her chest. “Please?” I listened, pressed, begged, found no pulse.

I shook her, shouting, as if I could insist her back to life. Then I stopped, remembering first aid rules. But I shook her once again, anyway, and felt bile rise in my throat as her head wobbled lifelessly. “Liza! Please!”

I stumbled to the telephone, bracing myself against the kitchen counter, fighting off a black circle swallowing me.

I pushed the first number of the police.

She was barefoot when I left. She put shoes on because somebody came here. She didn't fall. She put on shoes to greet somebody.

Somebody had been here. Pushed her. Didn't get help. Watched her die.

I put the receiver on the counter softly and stood in the narrow kitchen, listening.

My heartbeat echoed up the stairway, off the bedroom walls, reaching whom? Who still hid upstairs?

I could see Liza's small foot at the end of the living room, could hear nothing but the ragged edge of my own breath.

Off the hook, the receiver buzzed angrily. I stared at it, frozen, my mouth half-open, listening to the pulsing silence coming down the stairway.

“Help.” My voice was a painful whisper. “Help.”

I left the phone hanging and ran out into the rain. I stood on the front step a second, inhaling the wet air until my lungs again functioned. Then I ran.

Two

I sat on the sofa quietly, watching the two men inspect the fireplace.

The shorter of the two, a slender, burnt-almond man, stroked his thin mustache. “I don't need any lab boys to tell me that's blood on the stone.” He crouched slightly. “Head height. She was a little thing. Maybe five feet two. She would have hit right about here.” He straightened up. “You about done, man?” he asked his companion.

The other one seemed mesmerized. “Hmm?” he said, rousing himself. “Oh. No. Be a while longer. Want to clear a few things with Miss Peppah, heah.”

His voice was gentle, softly Southern. It was nevertheless one voice too many for me, and it scraped across my nerves like sandpaper. I'd already told them everything I knew or knew how to say.

“I told the other officers, the ones here before you,” I began.

“Yes,” he drawled. “Yay-ess. I know.” But he didn't budge.

“Then I'll start questioning the neighbors,” the dark-skinned one said, pulling on an alpaca-lined raincoat. “Not going to be worth anything. It'll just give them something to talk about during dinner. While I miss mine. Your street always this quiet, Miss Pepper? Looks like a damned museum. Ye Olde Colonial Philadelphia. No traffic, no people, no nothing.” He didn't once look at me while he spoke. “Cobblestones!” He snorted as he walked to the door.

“Hey, Ray? After you finish the street, you'll get those addresses, right? I'll be out in twenty minutes or so.” As he spoke, he walked over and settled himself in my suede chair, taking great pains to arrange his long legs.

Ray opened the front door. “How come you white boys get to sit in warm houses, man, and I get to walk up and down in the rain?” And he left, slamming the door behind him.

So. Almost everyone was finally gone. Liza was gone. The photographer was gone, the bluecoats, the man who measured everything, the man who sprinkled everything, and the two who had already questioned me—all the bodies, living and dead, who'd swarmed over and clogged up my house for hours were gone. All except this one, who was making himself very comfortable across from me.

“Don't you mind Raymond,” he said, running his fingers through his curly, somewhat unkempt hair. “He's a man of reg-lar habits, and he dislikes working through his dinnertime. So do I, and, I presume, you don't like being bothered just now. But I do have some questions, so if you'd kindly explain one more time, I'd 'preciate it.”

The slurred voice, the handsome features, the friendly expression, the relaxed and sociable pose didn't disguise the fact that he wasn't making a request, but a demand. Still, I didn't know what was left to say.

“Miss Peppah?” he prompted.

“I don't know what you want. I've said everything already. Several times. I came home and found—”

“Exactly when was that?”

“Around three forty-five.”

“Where'd you go after school?”

“Nowhere.”

“Miss Pepper.” He seemed to remember his accent only sporadically. “Philadelphia Prep is ten blocks from here. The distance could be strolled in fifteen minutes. Why'd it take you forty-five minutes to drive it?”

“What kind of question is that? I stayed in my room awhile after school. Then it was raining. There were barriers up for potholes on Fifteenth Street. My parking lot is two blocks away. Why do I have to tell you this? What does it have to do with anything?”

He shrugged and fixed his pale blue eyes on me as if I were a dull specimen. “Is there anyone who can verify your stayin' after school?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Didn't I say it clearly?”

I tried to stay calm. I had been trying for hours, with varying degrees of success. “I didn't see anybody,” I snapped. “Why are you treating me this way? It was horrible enough finding her. Why are you treating me as if I—”

He loosened the edges of his mouth. I realized he wasn't much older than I was, despite the sprinkle of gray in his brown hair. And he wasn't really fierce looking. It was just that he was very tall, and having the entire force of the law behind him gave him an awesome stature.

“Sorry,” he said in his soft, slow way. “I know it's rough on you. But at the risk of stating the obvious, I'm doing my job. I'm a detective. I detect. They give us a list of questions to ask. If we don't ask them, they take away our badges. So ease up—stop interpreting my motives and humor me.” He sighed and continued. “You say you got home at quarter to four, but we didn't get the call until four-twenty. Why?”

“Mr.—Officer—Detective—sir—”

“Mackenzie. C.K. Mackenzie.”

I am suspicious of people who hide inside little bundles of letters, but I didn't think I should mention it at this time. Anyway, this wasn't a person. This was an inquisitor.

“Why didn't you call the police for forty minutes?”

“I told you. Or somebody.”

He nodded, a Buddha with gray-brown curls, eyes half-closed. “And?” he prompted.

“When I knew she was—”

“Yes?”

“I panicked. I started to call the police, but then I was afraid that whoever—so I ran. To find help.”

Retelling it, feeling the panic rise again, made me stand up and walk around. But my place isn't large enough for serious pacing. I stopped by the front window. Outside its colonial panes, in the dusk and rain, three figures waited. For what? I turned back to Mackenzie and caught him in midyawn.

“'Scuse me,” he said. “You were searching for a phone?”

“It took a long time. Everybody was still at work. Then I found Mrs. Steinman. I was leaving her door, too, because nobody answered. But she's on a walker, so it took her a while. Then I had to explain without scaring her, and she's hard of hearing, so it was slow. And even then, she didn't want to let me in.”

“But you did eventually phone from the Steinman house.”

“Danzig. It's the Danzigs' house. Mrs. Steinman is Elaine Danzig's mother. Lives with them ever since she broke her hip. That was about seven months ago.”

His eyes were closing all the way.

“Sorry. Well. I guess I've said it all. That's where I called, and I waited there for the police to arrive. Then we came here, and that's it.”

He didn't say anything, just slowly heaved himself out of the chair and meandered around. “Yay-uss,” he began, “but not quite all of it.” He reached the kitchen area. “Why did you then try to clean things away in here?” He stared at me from behind the counter-divider.

My cheeks heated up. In ninth grade, somebody told me I would lose my blush when I lost my virginity. Somebody lied.

“Miss Peppah,” he insisted. “Why?” I shrugged.

He walked over to me. “We're talkin' about the scene of a crime.”

“It was a reflex,” I whispered.

All he did was lift an eyebrow, but I felt as if he'd tightened the screws on the rack. “It's my mother, you see. There was cat food and sugar and coffee, and there were police all over the place, and a photographer, a camera, for God's sake….”

Even I was having trouble believing I'd been such a complete fool as to whip out a broom while a battalion of men were painstakingly collecting evidence. “Listen,” I said, with forced casualness, “I didn't want it seen, you know?”

“Evidence of a struggle?” he murmured. “What made you wait so long, though? I mean before you left the house, you could have—”

“No struggle! It was just the camera, that police photographer.” My cheeks were scalding. I took a deep breath and plunged into humiliating honesty. “I regressed. Listen, when I was a kid, my mother convinced me that if I ever wore torn underwear and I was in an accident, the surgeons wouldn't bother saving me, and the rest of the family would die of shame. This afternoon, well, it seemed very important to tidy up.”

“Gotcha,” he said, and he actually grinned, showing a lot of very white teeth. He walked away a pace or two. “You smoke?” he asked abruptly.

“Well, actually, I haven't yet today, but sure, I'd love one.” I could always stop another, less stressful day.

But the only thing he pulled out was a ratty brown notebook. “Ashtray's full,” he said. “All one brand.”

“Liza smoked,” I said.

He nodded. “Anything missing from the house?”

“Nothing I can see. Except my cat. I told the others—I can't find him. I think he got out when whoever…” I pushed the image away.

“Give it some time. Cats come back,” he said. “Nothing else, though?”

I shrugged. “I haven't checked everywhere yet. The others told me not to touch anything.”

“Proceed to touch. Doesn't look like a robbery, anyway. The obvious stuff is still here—TV, stereo. All neat and tidy. Tell your mother I said so.”

We methodically checked through the cupboards and drawers on the first floor. All I can say is that having your drawers examined is as embarrassing as it sounds, and deserves advance warning. I felt especially mortified when my jelly-jar drinking glasses were exposed to his silent scrutiny.

Of course, nothing was missing. Even thieves have standards.

Then we faced the staircase. I knew the other men had checked the house, but I couldn't lose the feeling that something still lurked behind a drape, inside a closet. I followed Mackenzie up the steps reluctantly.

At the bedroom door, Mackenzie lifted one eyebrow again.

I shook my head. “I left it that way, unmade,” I said. I would have again explained, unnecessarily, about Liza's arrival, except I couldn't bear thinking her name, let alone saying it. “What would anybody want to steal up here?” I asked. “I don't have furs.”

“Tape recorders? Jewelry?”

I pawed through the leather box on my dresser. Would even a drug-crazed lunatic covet Jimmy Petrus's junior varsity basketball charm? Or my National Honor Society pin? I was heavy on sentiment, low on cash value.

“There's nothing on the third floor worth taking,” I said, “unless somebody's desperate for lesson plans.” But I was glad he insisted on inspecting it, and I followed him up and stood back as he surveyed my messy desk in one of the two small rooms at the top. He picked up an ancient blurry stencil and read:

“Beowulf,”
he said, putting the sheet down. His back was toward me, but I nodded. “Used to love that poem. Probably directed me toward police work, although his methodology was somewhat primitive, ripping people's arms off and such. But effective. Stopped a crime wave.” He pronounced the word “crahm” and gave it a certain charm.

He looked up at the wall. “How's that part go now? Ah, yes:

“Great stuff,” he added, turning to me. He grinned and I tried, a second too late, to look nonchalant about his literacy.

“Surprised because I'm Southern, or because I'm a cop?” he asked, always yawning through his words. “Which stereotype got ya?”

I clamped my mouth shut.

He grinned. “Ah have known some great English teachers,” he said softly, ushering me out of the room.

The last room is my storehouse. It has a folded rollaway cot and cartons full of clothing I'm sure will come back into style. It also had something making noise inside the closet.

I strangled my scream.

Mackenzie stood beside the closet door and whipped it open.

One nervous cat scampered out.

“Macavity! I've been so worried!” I scooped him into my arms. “He's old,” I explained, stroking his salt-and-pepper fur. “Must be really upset, poor thing. I'll bet he was closed in by the police who were inspecting the room. Accidentally,” I added for Mackenzie's sake.

“Macavity?” the detective said, poking around the cartons. “So you've seen
Cats,
too.”

“No. I, well, yes, but I named him before that.” I didn't know why I felt compelled to continue, but I did. “From the poems.” I wasn't going to let an arrogant cop who remembered
Beowulf
question my credentials.

“Ah,” he said sympathetically. “And then came the hit show, and now ever'body knows about T. S. Eliot's mystery cat, and your pet's name doesn't prove you're better read than anybody else.” He shook his head. “Might as well put the animal to sleep, don't you think?”

I watched the smart-ass cop turn out the light to the storeroom, and I followed him down the stairs. At the bottom, he looked around. “So it wasn't robbery,” he said. “Never thought it was. She was wearing a nifty diamond ring, if you recall.”

I didn't care. I suddenly felt ready to collapse. Even my ears drooped.

“No sign of struggle, if your floor-cleaning story is true. Just the hit on that fireplace stone. Pretty forceful one, I'd say. The lab reports will tell us if the hair and blood are hers.” I shuddered. He ignored me and continued his soliloquy. “So. What do we have?” he asked himself.

“Mackenzie? I want to leave now, please? I have to get away from here.”

He watched me for a moment. “Your fastidious mama, is she nearby?”

“Florida. I have a sister in Gladwyne, though.”

“Fine. But first tell me about Liza Nichols.” He was better at poetry than compassion.

“I worked with her. I don't know her.”

“But she came callin' at 8:00
A.M.
on a rainy Monday?”

“It surprised me, too. But it seemed accidental—she was near here; it was miserable out, so she came. Anyway, I didn't have time to probe reasons. I had to get to school.”