Murder Unrenovated
Title page
Copyright & history
Dedication
Murder Unrenovated
About the author
Murder Unrenovated
Maggie Ryan, 1972
by P.M. Carlson
The Mystery Company
Mount Vernon, Ohio
MURDER UNRENOVATED
Copyright © 1987 by Patricia Carlson
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Grateful acknowledgement for use of lines of verse by Dorothy Parker is made to the Property of the Estate of Dorothy Parker and the NAACP. Permissions granted by Joyce H. Knox, Associate General Counsel of the NAACP.
PRINT ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-28-7
EBOOK ISBN-13: 978-1-932325-31-7
Cover design by Pat Prather
Cover art by Robin Agnew
Author photo copyright © by Kathy Morris
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam Books first edition: January 1988
The Mystery Company Smashwords/epub edition: June 2013
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The Mystery Company, an imprint of Crum Creek Press
1558 Coshocton Ave #126
Mount Vernon, OH 43050
www.crumcreekpress.com
For
Lalar May Jones
and
Mary Olive McElroy
Shining examples both!
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From Seasons such as these?
— King Lear, Act III, Scene iv
1
Naked, delicate, lovely, Nancy Selden came back into the bedroom. The pale early sunlight slanting across her fair hair and skin made her look fragile, almost evanescent. She noticed Len’s rapt eyes on her and smiled hesitantly. “Len,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”
“You’re what?” Len Trager sat up abruptly in the bed. She didn’t answer, just reached for her hairbrush, watching him. He swallowed. “You’re going to have a baby?”
She bent over to brush her misty blond hair down away from her head. “I said I was pregnant.”
“Oh.” It was too early; he couldn’t think yet. He ran a hand through his own rumpled hair and said, “But we were careful.”
“Yeah. Doctor said it was ninety-six-percent effective.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He tried to think what he should say. It was so early. He stood up and went over to the bureau to pull out his clothes. Pregnant. Nancy pregnant. Her small body swelling, filling. Because of him, because of their joy in each other. A baby. Goddamn. Len felt ridiculously virile, powerful, helpless, tender. And frightened. He didn’t know how to be a father. What the hell was a father, anyway? Not Len Trager.
The shirt he was holding was not the one he wanted. He dropped it back into the drawer and began digging for the right one.
Maybe not a baby. Maybe an abortion. Probably an abortion. Nancy was just beginning to get some good assignments at work. She’d been given the graphics for the Maclntyre fall catalog. Eyes shining as she told him the news a few weeks ago. And now, somehow, pregnant.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He shrugged. He was proud, astonished, depressed, intensely confused. What would this mean to them? But it was her decision. He said, “I guess someone has to be in the four percent. We hit the jackpot.”
“I guess so.” Coolly, she was pulling on pantyhose, blouse, skirt.
“You’re sure about it?”
“They gave me the test results yesterday. I’ve been trying to think how to tell you.”
“Nance.” He stepped around the bed and hugged her. She rested a moment in his arms, then pulled away.
“What do you think, Len?”
“I don’t know. What are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?”
“I just wondered,” he said humbly. Her career, her body, her life.
“You think I should do something?”
“No. I don’t know. I mean, it’s not up to me.”
“It wasn’t spontaneous generation, buddy.” She turned away, wriggled her feet into her pumps, and brusquely picked up her shoulder bag.
He followed her into the little entryway. “Nance, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”
“How the hell should I know?” She was jerking her coat from the front closet.
“Wait, Nance, you haven’t even had your coffee.”
“It’s late. I’ll get something on the way to work. Maybe.”
“I just want to help.”
She paused in the doorway, fretfully. “Well, I’ll see you at dinner.”
The door closed. Damn. But he couldn’t blame her for being upset. His own mind was staggering, and it wasn’t even his decision. Len shaved, pulled on his clothes, and poured himself some orange juice. She was right, it was getting late. He made some instant coffee, gulped it while he tried to tie his necktie, and hurried out into the chilly April day.
Automatically, he bought a Times, drove the twenty blocks to the office. Nancy was pregnant. Goddamn. What should they do?
It was her decision, of course.
Joyce Banks Real Estate occupied the first floor of a converted brownstone near Flatbush, in one of Gordon Banks’s buildings in Brooklyn. Inside, it was clean and understated, earth tones and white walls and plants. Small, but with desks for all of them and a separate office for Joyce that could serve as a conference room. Renata was already there, wearing a mauve granny dress and platform shoes, her round face in the horn-rims bent over her typing. “Hi, Len. What’s happening?”
He wished he could tell her this amazing thing, that somehow, against all odds, he and Nancy had created a life. Instead he put down his unread paper and said, “Nothing much. The city’s still skidding into bankruptcy. And Muskie’s quitting the Presidential race.”
“Didn’t think he’d last long.”
“How’s your brother?”
Renata grimaced. “Grouchy. It’s a bad trip.” Her sixteen-year-old brother, Tony, never the steadiest of young men, had managed to get into a high school brawl last week and had suffered a broken leg.
“Did you find out who did it?”
Renata had been voluble in the past about the vicious hoods who had attacked Tony and how she would leave no stone unturned to find them. But now she shrugged vaguely. “Oh, we’re still asking around.”
“I thought the insurance people wanted to know.”
“They want to know your whole life history. God, I wish spring would come.”
“So do I,” agreed Joyce Banks fervently, closing the door as she entered, elegant, as always, removing her fur-trimmed camel coat to reveal a navy-blue suit with a gold stickpin on the lapel. She was a tall woman in her forties, a onetime swimming champion and Olympic medalist, with blond hair swirled professionally around an intelligent, dimpled face. Gordon Banks, her husband, reputedly picked up six figures a year from various investments.
But Joyce was energetic and ambitious in her own right, and had used her Brooklyn roots effectively to build her real-estate business into one of the leaders. Today, though, she added, “It’s hard to sell when it’s cold and gloomy.” Edgy for Joyce.
Len said lightly, “Go into the space-heater business.”
“We’d do volume,” Joyce agreed absently. “Well, at least it’s not rainy. Maybe it’ll warm up enough so I can have the party outdoors Sunday.”
“You’re an optimist,” said Renata, tugging the sheet from her typewriter and squinting at it.
“That’s one of the tricks of the trade, being an optimist,” said Joyce. “You and Nancy are coming, right, Len?”
“Sure.” Joyce’s parties for clients and business associates, at her penthouse or the Bankses’ Westchester estate, were not to be missed, and this one was also an unofficial celebration of her fifteenth wedding anniversary. “By the way, Joyce, I had a thought about the Marshall corporation.”
“Yes?”
“Yesterday morning you mentioned that they were after that Fifth Avenue parcel Chet’s group put together. But yesterday I was showing that laundry on Seventh, and the tenant there mentioned that the next four buildings all belong to Rosenzweig.”
“Really! And he’s talking about getting out of real estate! Len, you dear, I’ll get right on it.” She smiled her dimpled Esther Williams smile and disappeared into her own office.
Len sat down at his desk. God, he hoped she’d make the sale. Joyce was fair; she’d give him a small percentage. He could use it, if there was a baby. And maybe Joyce would trust him with a few of the more expensive properties in the future.
The other agents arrived: Pete Cronin, who handled most of the rentals; Karen Weld, gloriously copper-colored from two weeks in Florida; and Fred Stein, a thin graying man with the quick nervous air of a squirrel. He left almost immediately to meet a client. As he went out he held the door open an extra moment to admit a chunky middle-aged couple. The man had thinning dark hair and a blue blazer. The woman, with a puffy hairstyle that made her look taller than the man, wore a fifties-style cashmere wrap coat.
“Hi, Mrs. Lund, Mr. Lund,” said Renata.
“Renata, old kid! Have you sold my place yet?”
Len stood up and reached across to shake Lund’s hand. “We’re working on it.”
“But the card’s not even in the window!”
“We have to rotate the cards. Give everyone a chance.”
“It’s been eight damn months! And only one offer!”
“Loretta, dear!” Joyce sailed from her office and leaned down to kiss both Lunds on the cheek. “How are you, Arthur?”
“Hurting, Joyce, hurting. We need our cash. I’ve got to unload that place! These short-term loans are eating me alive.”
“I know, I know,” Joyce soothed. “But I’ve told you, we just can’t get your price with the old lady there.”
“God, that old witch!” Lund’s rosy nose twitched with rage. “If it wasn’t for her—see, the place is in good shape! Well, sort of shabby, maybe, but I fixed the plumbing Monday.”
“I know, I know.”
“And cutting the water supply didn’t get rid of her anyway. She just hauled water from her church while the pipe was out. That old hag’s impossible!”
“Absolutely impossible,” echoed Mrs. Lund.
Joyce said smoothly, “Well, I hope you’ve learned never to get involved with rent-controlled tenants again, Arthur.”
“How was I supposed to know her son was a lawyer?”
“Arthur, dear, you just aren’t ruthless enough. You’ve got to stick with it till she leaves.”
“She’ll die first. Look, I don’t want to face a lawyer, Joyce. It’s a good solid place. Other places are selling that are a lot shabbier.”
“Arthur, Loretta, just look.” Joyce scooped up Len’s newspaper and opened to the real-estate ads. “We started your ad again. Here. ‘Park Slope, four-story brownstone, fireplaces, details.’ Last time it got calls. They asked, is it in good condition? We said, sound and solid, needs a little cosmetic work. They asked, is it delivered vacant? All but the garden apartment, we said. Rent-controlled? Well, we said, um, yes. That’s when most of them hang up. A few looked. And you know what she’s like, Arthur. She’s ragged and she smells, and the first thing she says is, ‘I’m never moving out. My son is a lawyer.’”
“God. How could someone like her raise a lawyer?” Lund, mollified by the sight of the ad, was more morose than angry now. “Damn old biddy. She used to be so nice.”
“She was always a little strange. But sharp,” his wife reminded him.
“Well, we’ll keep trying.” Joyce folded the paper and handed it back to Len. “But I have to tell you the truth, Arthur. Get her out, or drop your price fifteen percent.”
“We can’t afford to drop it that much. Listen, she pays the rent on time. Do you tell them that?”
“Yes. But they’re savvy, they know what that means. She’s not giving you any excuse to evict her. Listen, I was wondering. Have you called the health department? You might be able to hassle her on the garbage.”
“Joyce, honey, I’ve tried that. Got the inspector, didn’t even tell her we were coming.”
“Not wise, Arthur, if her son is a lawyer.”
“Made no difference,” he said glumly, prodding at the tray of paper clips on Len’s desk with a stubby finger. “When we got there it was like Better Homes and Gardens. Neat as a pin, her in her Sunday best, smiling and nodding and offering the inspector a cup of tea. I could have throttled her.”
Joyce wisely changed the subject. “How’s your new place?”
Loretta brightened. “Oh, it’s wonderful! Thanks so much for finding it for us! It’s just that we really need to renovate the kitchen, and we can’t...”
“I know, I know, Loretta. We’ll bring you any offer we get.”
Lund shook his head. “Damn old biddy. I’ve offered her a thousand bucks to move. A thousand!” They went out into the chilly April sunshine.
“He’ll never get rid of that one,” said Len.
“Oh, don’t give up. She’s declined a lot already, if she used to be as sharp as he claims. That lawyer son of hers will put her in a home soon, I imagine.”
“Lucky you ran the ad again. Quieted them down.”
“Actually, I figured if anyone called, we could show them the St. John’s building too. I promised Abernethy I’d push harder. It’ll look like a bargain after they meet Mrs. Northrup.” She went back into her office.
Len turned back to the paper, skimming it for news that might lead to prospects, to deals, to financing. But his mind kept shifting back to Nancy and her astounding news.
The cruellest month. Especially this year, when the damp and cold had lingered on for weeks. Early for his appointment, Nick O’Connor thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered across Central Park. He was a burly, balding man in a turtleneck, with clear brown eyes that were a little melancholy today. Despite the thin sun, it was chilly. Not many people in the park now. And why should they be? By now there should be magnolia and dogwood and cherry blossoms. Instead there was only a pale green haze on the bushes, a faint promise of foliage to come. Proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, was passing them by this year.
Footsteps sounded behind him. He glanced sideways as a lanky young woman in a trench coat drew even, blue eyes vivid under a red beret, a red scarf bright at her throat. She waved a cigarette at him and asked in a husky voice, “Haben Sie Feuer?”
“Ja.” He glanced around. There was an old man pottering along the next path; a young couple disappeared around the bend ahead. He decided to risk it. He pulled out his lighter and said, “Agent Forty-two, I presume?”
A curt nod as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Come wit’ me, pleess, Twenty-nine.” She plunged down one of the tangle of paths that wound toward Olmsted’s lake, briskly leading him among rocks and woods to the footbridge. His melancholy evapor
ated in the energy of those lively eyes. The right Promethean fire.
“Silence!” she warned abruptly, grinding out the cigarette on the asphalt walk across the slatted wooden bridge. She stepped closer, seized his upper arms, and suddenly tucked a leg behind his knee, jerking him off balance. As he stumbled back she pressed the heel of her hand to his jaw and fell onto him, guiding his fall. Grappling, they tumbled together down the rocky bank in a flurry of twigs and last year’s dry brown leaves. They ended in the sheltered shadow under the bridge, hidden now from anyone on the forsaken paths.
Nick found that somehow, on the trip down, he had been expertly unbuckled and unzipped. Now, with a wriggle, Forty-two straddled him, flipping her trench coat into more appropriate folds. The warm thighs were naked already. She smiled at his surprise and murmured, “An agent should be ready for anyt’ing, Twenty-nine.”
“I’m ready.” Nick’s voice was husky too.
“Mmm. So you are.”
A little later, relaxed now and almost demure, she leaned against his shoulder. Nick smoothed back a black curl from her forehead. The beret had long since fallen off.
“What brings you here, Forty-two?”
“You mean other than lust?”
“Well, you don’t usually spend your coffee breaks tricked out like a flasher, accosting innocent spies in the park.”
She grinned. “I saw you starting across the park looking blue, and had a sudden uncontrollable urge to stalk you through the paths of darkest Berlin.” She bounced to her feet, clapped the beret back on, then dodged further under the bridge and turned her back, suddenly engagingly modest, to pull on her pantyhose. Nick found himself grinning foolishly at her back. Her quick glance caught him. “My maidenly blushes amuse you?”