had a flash of what might have finally prodded Pardon Albee into “doing something” about Deedra.
“Did you want me to come back on my regular day?” I asked. Perhaps Deedra didn’t want my services anymore. I clean Deedra’s apartment on Friday mornings. That is prime time, since everyone wants a house clean for the weekend, and I half-hoped Deedra would fire me.
“Oh…oh, yes. Listen, really, let’s just forget all about that conversation we had last week, about the door. I left it unlocked, okay? I just remembered it later. I’m sorry I even thought you might have done it. You’re just the most reliable…” Deedra’s voice trailed off, a phony smile pasted to her face, where it looked quite at home.
AS I WALKED down the sidewalk to my own house, I wondered if Pardon had indeed been in Deedra’s apartment the week before. What would he go in there for? What would he have found if he did?
If he was looking for trash on how Deedra lived her private life, he’d have found plenty. In her top dresser drawer, Deedra keeps some pornographic pictures some lover had taken of her in exotic lingerie and some of her naked. I certainly hadn’t wanted to know this little fact, but Deedra expects me to do her wash and put it away during the afternoon I spend cleaning the apartment, and that drawer is her lingerie drawer. Deedra also keeps some erotica and some ghastly magazines actually stuck under the bed (where I am obliged to vacuum), and of course the sheets are always a mess. There are probably other “incriminating” things there, too, things Deedra’s mother might be interested to know about.
Would Pardon Albee actually have dared to call Deedra’s mother, the very proper Lacey Dean Knopp?
By God, that would be just like him.
FIVE MINUTES AFTER I had entered my own house, the doorbell rang. I checked my peephole and opened the door.
My visitor was surprising but nonthreatening—my seldom-seen neighbor, Carlton Cockroft. I’ve spoken to Carlton only three or four times a year since I bought the house.
There is something very “edible” about Carlton. He always reminds me of hot chocolate and caramels in the winter, or the coconut smell of tanning lotion and the tang of barbecue in the summer. Carlton is in his early thirties, like me. He has black hair and dark brown eyes, a cleft chin, and thick arched brows. He smells good. He is maybe four inches taller than I am, about five ten. My neighbor is polite, busy, and heterosexual—and that is the sum total of my knowledge.
“Hello, Lily,” he said, his voice pleasant but not cheerful.
“Carlton.” I nodded in greeting, then opened my door so he could step inside.
He looked very surprised, and I realized I’d never asked him in before. He looked at the room very quickly and didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, quite unlike my assured visitor of the day before.
“Have a seat,” I said, taking the wing chair.
“Lily, I’ll come straight to the point,” Carlton began after he’d settled himself on the love seat. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. He was wearing an unremarkable plaid shirt in navy blue and white, pleated blue jeans, and Reeboks; he looked informally prosperous and comfortable.
I waited for him to come straight to the point. Most people seem to think you should respond when they tell you they’re about to do something, but I’ve always thought it more interesting to wait and see if they actually do it.
He kept his eyes on me for a moment, as if expecting something from me, sure enough.
I made an open-hands gesture—okay, the point?
“I saw you out walking the night of the murder.” He waited for me to shriek in alarm. “I got up to get a sinus pill.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“Lily, that puts you in a bad position. I didn’t tell Friedrich, but he asked me an awful lot of questions about you. If anyone else saw you, I’m afraid he may even suspect you of having something to do with
“Did you want me to come back on my regular day?” I asked. Perhaps Deedra didn’t want my services anymore. I clean Deedra’s apartment on Friday mornings. That is prime time, since everyone wants a house clean for the weekend, and I half-hoped Deedra would fire me.
“Oh…oh, yes. Listen, really, let’s just forget all about that conversation we had last week, about the door. I left it unlocked, okay? I just remembered it later. I’m sorry I even thought you might have done it. You’re just the most reliable…” Deedra’s voice trailed off, a phony smile pasted to her face, where it looked quite at home.
AS I WALKED down the sidewalk to my own house, I wondered if Pardon had indeed been in Deedra’s apartment the week before. What would he go in there for? What would he have found if he did?
If he was looking for trash on how Deedra lived her private life, he’d have found plenty. In her top dresser drawer, Deedra keeps some pornographic pictures some lover had taken of her in exotic lingerie and some of her naked. I certainly hadn’t wanted to know this little fact, but Deedra expects me to do her wash and put it away during the afternoon I spend cleaning the apartment, and that drawer is her lingerie drawer. Deedra also keeps some erotica and some ghastly magazines actually stuck under the bed (where I am obliged to vacuum), and of course the sheets are always a mess. There are probably other “incriminating” things there, too, things Deedra’s mother might be interested to know about.
Would Pardon Albee actually have dared to call Deedra’s mother, the very proper Lacey Dean Knopp?
By God, that would be just like him.
FIVE MINUTES AFTER I had entered my own house, the doorbell rang. I checked my peephole and opened the door.
My visitor was surprising but nonthreatening—my seldom-seen neighbor, Carlton Cockroft. I’ve spoken to Carlton only three or four times a year since I bought the house.
There is something very “edible” about Carlton. He always reminds me of hot chocolate and caramels in the winter, or the coconut smell of tanning lotion and the tang of barbecue in the summer. Carlton is in his early thirties, like me. He has black hair and dark brown eyes, a cleft chin, and thick arched brows. He smells good. He is maybe four inches taller than I am, about five ten. My neighbor is polite, busy, and heterosexual—and that is the sum total of my knowledge.
“Hello, Lily,” he said, his voice pleasant but not cheerful.
“Carlton.” I nodded in greeting, then opened my door so he could step inside.
He looked very surprised, and I realized I’d never asked him in before. He looked at the room very quickly and didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, quite unlike my assured visitor of the day before.
“Have a seat,” I said, taking the wing chair.
“Lily, I’ll come straight to the point,” Carlton began after he’d settled himself on the love seat. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. He was wearing an unremarkable plaid shirt in navy blue and white, pleated blue jeans, and Reeboks; he looked informally prosperous and comfortable.
I waited for him to come straight to the point. Most people seem to think you should respond when they tell you they’re about to do something, but I’ve always thought it more interesting to wait and see if they actually do it.
He kept his eyes on me for a moment, as if expecting something from me, sure enough.
I made an open-hands gesture—okay, the point?
“I saw you out walking the night of the murder.” He waited for me to shriek in alarm. “I got up to get a sinus pill.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“Lily, that puts you in a bad position. I didn’t tell Friedrich, but he asked me an awful lot of questions about you. If anyone else saw you, I’m afraid he may even suspect you of having something to do with
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