The Deadliest Option, page 21
part #3 of Smith and Wetzon Mystery Series
Carlos, looking fresh and crisp in khaki shorts and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, hopped in beside her, brimming over with energy.
“Seventy-first and West End, please,” Wetzon snarled.
“Oh, I see we’re going to be grumpy gus,” he said, leaning over and kissing her cheek.
“I’m not a baby,” she said stiffly. “I’m only going to look in on Ellie. I don’t need a keeper.” She curled her lip at him.
He rolled his eyes. “Quaint, darling, really quaint.”
The cab lurched, seeming to hit every pothole head-on, and she fell against him. “Learn how to drive,” she mumbled under her breath, trying to right herself, but Carlos held on to her.
“My, aren’t we churlish.” He looked at her somberly, eyes brimming with mischief, and said, “Now why don’t you break down and say, ‘Dear, wonderful Carlos. I am so grateful to you for telling me where Ellie lives....’”
Wetzon felt foolish and contrite. Putting her arm around him, she said, “Dear, wonderful Carlos, I am grateful. Tell me how you knew.”
He smiled. “Now that’s more like the Birdie I know and love. I called Dwayne. He was in that jazz class I taught at the Y three years ago.”
“Trust you to be everywhere and know everyone.”
“You know I always say there are only thirty people in the world, darling.” He paused and got serious. “Listen, Birdie, Dwayne says Ellie’s in bad shape—very depressed, drinking. We don’t know what we’re going to find. He’s going to meet us there.”
“Do you mean she’s suicidal, Carlos?”
“Let’s hope Dwayne is wrong.”
“God, Carlos.” She hugged him. “I owe you.”
“Listen, I know this is a stupid question to ask you of all people, Birdie, but are you sure you want to get involved?”
“She asked me to help her, Carlos.”
“I knew it was a stupid question.”
The fare came to four dollars even. “Let me,” Wetzon said, “it’s my deductible.” When she picked at the coins in her change purse to find two quarters for the tip, she saw the torn scraps of paper she’d found in Ellie’s makeup bag. What kind of detective are you, Wetzon, she thought, disgusted with herself. She had a mind like a sieve. She got out of the cab behind Carlos, willing herself to remember the scraps and put them together later.
A tall jogger in shiny gray shorts, wearing a white breathing cone over his nose and mouth, a cap backwards on his head, turned onto West End Avenue from Seventy-first Street, oblivious to traffic, then continued running in a measured pace south toward Lincoln Center. He wasn’t the only one out on the street running either; these joggers were fanatical about never missing a day, no matter rain, sleet, snow, hail, or poisonous air.
Ellie lived in a Georgian-style redbrick townhouse on one of the prettiest streets on the West Side. The houses on both sides of the street were beautifully maintained with window boxes, dense with flowers in spite of the heat, brass doorknockers, and solid oak doors and leaded glass windows. Some were freshly whitewashed with window sashes painted in blue. The street was quiet except for the soft drone of the air-conditioners that hung from many of the windows.
Dwayne wasn’t standing in front of the building waiting for them. “Now what?” Wetzon looked at Carlos, who wriggled his shoulders.
Two identical front doors at street level in a small brick courtyard, each with a grillwork outer door, indicated that Ellie’s building held two occupants. The door on the right stood slightly ajar.
“The one on the left,” Carlos said behind her. And sure enough, when she opened the door she saw E. Kaplan written on the mailbox next to the bell. A bamboo umbrella stand with two furled umbrellas stood in a corner of the tiny space.
“I guess we have to wait for Dwayne.”
“He should have been here by now. He lives only twenty-eight blocks due south, in Manhattan Plaza.” Carlos frowned. “Let’s see if she answers.” He pressed the buzzer, but they heard no responding buzz from within the apartment. He waited, pressed the buzzer again. Nothing. No sign of life. Wetzon jiggled nervously.
They looked at each other, reading each other’s thoughts.
“I’m worried, Carlos. Damnation! Where the hell is Dwayne?” Wetzon rapped on the inner door. “Ellie!” She knocked again, harder.
“Wait a minute.” Carlos turned the brass doorknob. The door opened. Just like when she’d been locked in at Luwisher Brothers. It hadn’t been locked.
Now she was really worried. Maybe someone had broken in and hurt Ellie.
“Jesus,” Carlos said, peering in. The apartment smelled musty; it was dark as pitch. He held out his hand to Wetzon, and they stepped inside. Somewhere an air-conditioner whirred, ineffectively.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” she whispered.
“I’m improvising. Why are we whispering?” He moved forward, pulling her behind him. The outside door slid shut. “Merde. Now we’ve lost our light.”
“I’ll get it.” She went back and opened the door. Daylight brought a dusty haze into the small foyer.
Someone groaned.
“Ellie!” Wetzon cried.
Carlos found the round dimmer button, and pressed it. Nothing. “Uh-oh,” he said.
A faint tremor of fear crept up her spine.
“The fuses must have blown.” Carlos’s voice had lost its usual buoyant lilt.
Not uncommon, Wetzon told herself sternly, when every window has an air-conditioner and the wiring dates back to pre World War II. They edged forward along the wall.
They came to an opening, perhaps an archway. From here the darkness seemed fathomless. A floorboard beneath Carlos’s feet squeaked loudly. He called, “Ellie?” and Wetzon heard the uncertainty in his voice.
Another groan came out of the darkness. The muscles in his back tightened under her hand. The floorboard squeaked again. Why were they hesitating? There were two of them. Thank God, he hadn’t let her come alone. But Ellie sounded awful. “Let’s go to her, Carlos,” she urged in a whisper.
He turned. “Birdie ... ” She could feel his anxiety. “We may not be alone. Caution would be smart. You stay here and I’ll go on. If something happens to me, you run for it.”
“No way! We’ll go together.”
She felt him shrug. He moved forward, but she’d lost his shoulder. Determined, she felt her way along, her fingers touching picture frames, leaving them askew, no doubt. They seemed to be in a hallway leading to a larger room. Carlos stopped abruptly, and she bumped into him with an “Ooof.”
“Wait here,” he said, firmly. “Not one step farther. I’m going back to the foyer to see if I can find the fuse box.”
She looked over his shoulder. It was pitch black. “Okay,” she said. He passed her and she could hear him moving toward the foyer. If she only had a match.... Wait. She had picked up a matchbox at the Oak Bar—or had she? She groped inside her bag and found a matchbox. Clumsily, she tried to light a match by feeling. She’d probably torch herself. She scraped a match on the side of the box and a little flame burst forth. Very pleased, she held it out in front of her and almost dropped it. In the arched entranceway to what seemed to be a huge living room, a body lay spread-eagle on the carpeted floor.
“Ellie!” Wetzon dropped her bag and jumped forward. The match went out. Something crunched under her sandals. It was too dark to see what. She could hear Carlos in the other room, mucking with the switches, but no light.
Ellie groaned again. Wetzon lit another match. “Ellie, I’m here. It’s okay.”
She dropped to her knees beside Ellie and felt a sharp pain in her knee as something cut through her skirt and into flesh. Holding the match higher, she saw the floor was covered with sharp shards of glass. The cut stung. The match went out. She could feel blood burning from her wounded knee. Bending, she touched Ellie’s shoulder, brushing her fingers on clammy stems and flowers, felt the damp clothing, and a surprising amount of sinew. She put her hand out and stroked Ellie’s hair, stopped, rubbed her fingers together and recognized the unmistakably sticky wetness of blood.
“Are you okay?” Carlos called.
“Yes,” she lied. “Ellie, can you sit up? No, wait.” Wetzon rose. Brushing the soles of her sandals along the floor, she tried to sweep the largest slivers of glass away from Ellie’s body. “Okay now, try, Ellie. I’ll help you.”
She lit another match. In the flickering light, she could see Ellie’s pale skin and slim muscular legs. What the hell was she wearing? Shorts. Somehow she’d never pictured Ellie in shorts. Ellie groaned again and rolled over onto her side. Wetzon leaned over to help her.
Porcelain lamps awoke suddenly, spreading soft light around the room.
Wetzon looked down at Ellie, but the figure on the floor wasn’t Ellie. It was Dwayne.
36.
A SCREAM ROSE into her throat and she choked on it. “Good God, Dwayne!” Wetzon squatted beside him, flinching from the cut on her knee. “Are you all right? I’m sorry, what a dumb question. What happened?”
“Birdie?” Carlos called.
“Carlos, it’s Dwayne.”
Dwayne groaned and put his hands on his head. He groaned again and opened his eyes. “The mother crocked me with Ellie’s Baccarat vase.” The floor was alive with pink roses and petals and broken glass.
Wetzon stifled an hysterical giggle as Carlos came racing into the room. He dropped down beside Dwayne, opposite Wetzon.
Dwayne struggled up on his elbows; a limp rose fell from his back. “The fucker didn’t even take the flowers out.” He touched his cheekbones gingerly. “Did he hurt my face?”
“No,” Carlos said. “Good thing your head is so hard. Come on, let me help you up.”
“Should we get an ambulance?” Wetzon looked around the room. No Ellie.
Carlos helped Dwayne to his feet. “Dwayne,” Wetzon said, “where’s Ellie?”
Dwayne tilted like a leaning tower. “Don’t know.” He swayed. “Sofa,” he said, pointing to the overstuffed floral chintz affair drowning in pillows.
“What happened to the lights?” Carlos had his arm around Dwayne and was half carrying him. “Lean on me.”
“The dirtbag must have thrown the main switch,” Dwayne mumbled.
“He did just that.”
“It was dark when I got here. Ellie must have gone out and left the door unlocked.” Dwayne collapsed on the sofa.
“I can’t believe she’d do that.” Wetzon heard the sharpness in her voice. In the back of her mind she heard herself saying the same thing to David Kim.
“Oh, yeah?” Dwayne rubbed his head. “Well, that lady does a lot of things you wouldn’t believe.”
“Forget it, you two.” Carlos spotted the phone on the floor near a side chair. He picked it up, listened, and shook his head. He stared at Wetzon. “Birdie, there’s blood on your knee.”
“It’s Dwayne’s. I think we’d better get him to a hospital.” She was not about to have him start fussing with her. She also had no intention of accompanying them to the hospital.
Dwayne groaned. “Are you sure my face is all right?”
“What I can see is fine,” Wetzon assured him. “I’m worried about Ellie.”
“There’s a phone and the answering machine in the kitchen,” Dwayne said. He started to stand, turned an alarming shade of gray-green, and keeled over.
Wetzon touched his forehead. It was clammy. “Carlos—”
Carlos was on his way to the kitchen. He was back less than a minute later with a clean kitchen towel. “The phone is dead.” He wrapped the towel around Dwayne’s head like a turban. “There, now you look gorgeous. I’m going to go out on the street and call 911 and get an ambulance.”
“No!” Dwayne came to howling. “I don’t want an ambulance.”
“Carlos, I’ll stay with Dwayne and you get a cab. You can take him to Lenox Hill Hospital. They have a good emergency room.”
“Okay, Birdie. I’ll be right back. Lock the door after me.”
She followed him down the hall, disguising her limp magnificently. 1 should never have left the theater, she thought.
After locking up, she went back to the living room, past the squeaky floorboard, and sat down next to Dwayne. She hiked up her skirt and inspected her knee. A nice big tear and plenty of blood. And it smarted when she moved. Where could Ellie be?
“What a mess,” Dwayne said, trying to get to his feet.
Wetzon put her hand on his arm and held him down. “Cool it, Dwayne.” Light came filtering through the wall of curtains along the rear wall and from three large Chinese porcelain lamps.
Dried blood streaked Dwayne’s shirt, which said, SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE. “What a mess,” he said again. He looked at her. ‘You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Every sliver of glass is a hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“The Baccarat vase.”
“Oh.” Wetzon’s eyes skimmed the house-and-garden room, full of chintzes and fat upholstered pieces, set off by a whitebrick fireplace. On the floor near the arched entrance to the room were the remains of the heavy glass vase that had dented Dwayne’s head. Except for the water, some bloodstains, and the shards of glass and scattered flowers, nothing looked ... A chair was overturned near the staircase, and a rust-and-gold geometric oriental rug was lumped up as if someone had tripped over it. A built-in corner china cabinet’s drawers were half open, their contents bulging haphazardly.
“Dwayne—” She turned back to him and saw he’d passed out, his bloody head staining the chintz sofa cushions. Damn. She checked her watch. It was eight o’clock. Smith would be having a fit. Too damn bad. Dwayne moaned. Why wasn’t Carlos back? She got up and went into the kitchen, which was long and narrow with gray granite countertops and white glass-doored cabinets. There was a full pot of coffee in the coffeemaker, and two cups were set out on the counter.
On an open shelf she saw a white telephone sitting on an answering machine. A little light blinked, indicating someone had left a message. She tried the phone, hoping optimistically that it had healed itself. Not even a dial tone. It was dead. Her eyes followed the white wire of the phone to a jagged end. The phone line had been cut.
She returned to the living room with a cool, wet paper towel and took a close look at Dwayne. Color was back in his face. She’d have to go out on the street and look for Carlos.
The doorbell rang twice, and she dropped the paper towel on the sofa and raced down the hall.
“How did you know who it was, Birdie? You just opened the door without checking,” Carlos scolded, spinning her down the hall in front of him. “I have a cab waiting on the street.”
Together, they got Dwayne out and into the cab.
“Come on, Birdie,” Carlos said, pulling Dwayne closer to him to make room for her.
“I’m not coming. You don’t need me. I’m going to leave a note for Ellie and then go meet Smith.”
He looked at her doubtfully, and Dwayne groaned.
Wetzon waved them off and went back into Ellie’s apartment. She wanted to take a quick look around to make sure Ellie wasn’t passed out somewhere, and then she really was going to Baci and have dinner with Smith.
The upstairs space was divided into a front bedroom overlooking the street, with tall windows curtained in sheer white gauze. The walls were papered in a pale gray stripe, the floor covered in pale gray wall-to-wall carpeting. A low queen-sized bed and all the other furniture in the room were in black lacquer, very spare, very sophisticated. The bed was made up formally with a gray-and-white quilted spread. A large armoire stood on the left of the doorway wall, its doors wide open, its contents tossed. Damn.
To her right another door led to a large dressing room, all black and white marble, and further, a huge bathroom sporting a Jacuzzi. Very nice, she thought enviously, opening a door on the far wall of the bathroom and walking into another, smaller bathroom.
The back of the house held another bedroom, a guest room with a four-poster bed and lots of frilly linen, also fully made up with an antique quilt, and a big old teddy bear with one eye and a surprised look on its face. But no Ellie.
Wetzon had just started back down the staircase when she froze. Had Carlos come back? No, too soon. From where she stood she could just barely see the arched entrance to the living room. Hand on the banister, she waited, listening, heart thumping.
Now, clearer, the sound came again, and this time she placed it. It was the creak of the loose floorboard.
37.
WETZON STEPPED BACK up the stairs and flattened herself against the side wall. Her hands shook; she could hear her heart. A tall shadow loomed along the wall below. It couldn’t be Ellie; Ellie would not be creeping stealthily into her own ... the tall shadow merged into a real person.
“Smith!” Wetzon charged from her hiding place and stood at the top of the staircase.
“Oh!” Smith let out a small shriek and toppled into one of the overstuffed club chairs, holding her hand to her breast. “Wetzon, for pitysakes, you almost gave me a heart attack.”
Wetzon limped down the stairs. “Let’s not talk about who almost gave who a heart attack,” she said, giddy with relief. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t wait at that stupid restaurant forever, you know. I hate being stood up.”
“I wasn’t—”
“So I got into a cab and came on over. I figured you might have run into a problem with Ellie.” Her eyes roamed the room.
“But how did you know where to come?”
“The Browns live next door.”
“I’m sorry.” Wetzon sat down on the sofa and flexed her foot gently. “The Browns?”
“You know the Browns, sugar, that nice young couple. They catered my last party.” Smith got up and examined a chalkware dog on the mantelpiece, picking it up and turning it upside down to read the markings.
“I’m still not following you.”
