Murder On The Mind, Page 3

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  “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. . . .