Blood on Their Hands (Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics) Read online

  I tried not to flinch. “No. How drunk were they?”

  “Theys was so drunk they couldn’t even pull the cork.” She giggled. “Bill was gonna push it in, but she didn’t want no cork in her wine. No way.” The fingernail stabbed me again.

  I rose, gripping the Merlot. “I’ll just open this. Go on.”

  “’Bout time.” She drained her cup and pushed herself to her feet with the other hand, then followed me into the kitchen. “Anyways, the guys went down for another beer. Me, I needed to freshen up and all. You know how that sea air just melts your makeup.”

  I nodded, twisting the corkscrew.

  “Jenny had that bottle between her legs, yanking on that cork for all she was worth. Told me she was used to showing guys up.” Susie’s burp turned into a sob. “That, um, yeah, that...” She whimpered, “I never saw her after that.”

  The cork popped, and wine splashed, burgundy spots pooling in the stainless steel sink. I just stood there. Susie, drunk as a skunk and telling the same tale as Greg. Was it true? I refilled her cup and set the bottle down.

  A few more sips, and she started bawling in earnest. No amount of coaxing would turn off the tears. Fearful of my own, I gave her a dishtowel and headed for home. It’d been a long day.

  After I arrived, I carried the boxes from the garage into my living room, without a care for the dust or grime they’d leave on my light blue carpet. I settled into my high-backed reading chair and snapped on the pole lamp. My stomach rumbled. Hours had passed since supper was due. In spite of that, I grabbed a handful of photos from one of the boxes. Some things were more important.

  An hour later, I gave in and made a plate of cheese, wheat crackers, and a sliced apple that had softened over the last week. The boxes held mostly pictures. Pictures of Jenny and her friends, their kids, their dogs. Just pictures. Some loose, some in envelopes, some in albums. Some feces I recognized, other I didn’t. On the bottom of the first box, I found a long, flat, sealed envelope. Was opening it an invasion of privacy? Do the dead even have privacy? These things were mine now, right?

  I tore the sealed edge and extracted the contents, a photo—a professional one of Jenny in all her dark-haired glory, eyes challenging the camera. I flung it onto the pile and dashed to the bathroom for a tissue. In the mirror, my eyes lacked her daring; they flooded with tears. Three tissues later, I carried the box into the living room.

  I sorted through the mementos next—a cookie jar shaped like a Victorian House, a large black velvet jewel case, a couple of books. The books were hardcovers, autographed by their authors—all of them women—a couple feminist tomes and several mysteries. I opened one. The bookplate declared, “This book belongs to Jenny Solgani.” Underneath, a crowd of flowers alternated hues of pink. I closed my eyes for a second, remembering her love of fresh bouquets. Then, I closed the book and set it on the carpet.

  I opened the jewel case. On a raised flap, a string of pearls hung, the outline of luminescent lips, shining like Jenny’s one conceit—her perfect teeth. I clasped the pearls around my neck. More tears flooded my eyes, and the box careened off my lap and bounced hard on one of the books, falling open and scattering its insides.

  Another envelope—a small one. Having won the battle once, I didn’t fight it again. I ripped open the flap. More photographs, black-and-white ones from a self-developing camera. The first showed a strange close-up of a man sleeping. He lay on a carpet, instead of a bed. The background was dark, and I studied the picture closely before I could figure out what bothered me about it. He lay in what I assumed was a shadow.

  Blood! It was a pool of blood!

  On the back, Jenny had written a date and a name that I didn’t recognize.

  Five photos later, I found someone I did. The man hung from a tree in a heavily wooded area, his tongue lolling from his mouth, his pants shaded with offal.

  My husband.

  How could she have gotten photos like this? From the police? But they wouldn’t let a civilian...

  I dropped them and covered my eyes with my hands.

  Jenny? My friend Jenny? Bits of conversations skipped through my mind:

  “We all need a guardian angel to look out for us.”

  “He wasn’t the greatest husband, Barb,” Jenny insisted. “Admit it.”

  “Look how well you’re provided for now.”

  “I’m here for you whenever you need me.”

  I uncovered my eyes and stared at the lamp. This was reality, this electricity, shooting into this bulb, glaring on these snapshots. I hugged myself with trembling hands, then grasped the arms of the chair and raised myself unsteadily.

  I retraced my steps to the car and lifted the trunk—suddenly that ski hat I’d found earlier had turned into a ski mask, the clothesline, a rope. Jenny never played softball. The ball and glove were props. And the bat was a lethal weapon in the right hands.

  Her hands...

  I shuddered. I should call the police, give them the photos. I started back toward the house, impelled with an urgency I couldn’t understand, my feet flying beneath me. I stopped dead at the doorway.

  How could I turn in my best friend? My own guardian angel. She was right. My life had improved one hundred percent after my husband died. How could it matter now what she’d done? They were all gone. All dead and buried. How could I sully her reputation with her friends or in my daughter’s eyes? Without giving Jenny the chance to defend herself?

  After banging the door closed behind me, I dashed to the bedroom and lunged onto the bed. The tears came with racking sobs. It was all too much. I couldn’t absorb anymore, and I felt guilty for my part in it. The Jenny I knew had disappeared. Had I ever really known her?

  Mel’s was crowded now, mostly guys with protruding bellies, staring at the TV. Mel’s wife asked me what I wanted to drink, a false smile pasted on her face under worried eyes. More bad news about the daughter?

  I needed hard stuff to deal with my own troubles. Vodka. She dealt me a coaster and dipped a glass into the sink of ice. As she poured orange juice into the vodka, the ice crackled. I stared at the TV like everyone else in the bar.

  “Come to interrogate me some more?” a familiar voice asked.

  Greg.

  I barely looked at him. “No.” Mel’s wife handed me my drink, and I clutched it like a lifeline.

  “So what’d you find out?” He pressed a green bottle to his lips and took a swig. “Was I right?”

  “I didn’t find anything,” I said. My eyes felt dead. “Nothing.”

  “Here’s your chance to ply me with liquor.” He placed his empty bottle on the bar and pushed it away to show he was ready for another.

  I laughed, a short bark that barely passed muster. “Let me guess, Susie?”

  He smiled. “It was worth a try. A guy gets mighty thirsty on dry land.”

  “I don’t have the energy to trade barbs.” I sipped at my drink. Couldn’t he tell I wanted to be alone? But then, why had I come to Mel’s? Seeking some semblance of community? I needed voices, clinking glasses, even the bing of the basketball machine.

  I turned to him, touched his wrist to get his attention away from the door. “What do you do when you discover something about a friend that you never wanted to find out?”

  He sighed. “Damned if I know.” Another beer arrived, and he snatched it up like a shipwrecked sailor offered a glass of fresh water. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down with each gulp. Finally, he took a break. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you...that night was a haze. I could almost think...Bill...was gone for a moment. But it’s impossible.” In the dark, his eyes gleamed. “I just don’t know. I guess we’re both in the same boat. Pardon the pun.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. Accident, suicide, murder? Murderer. Jenny, anyway. I should drop it. Even if Bill...and Greg’s not sure. Jenny’s crimes would come out in any investigation. I couldn’t do that to my friend.

  The door opened, and I checked out t
he newcomers in the mirror. Susie and Bill. Oh no. I took a gulp of my drink. Get out of here now, I told myself. But not a muscle moved. Instead, I followed their reflections as they passed the bar. Susie walked stiffly. Either she hadn’t had enough to drink yet, or too much. I couldn’t decide which. Bill led her toward a booth. A lock of hair swung away from her face, and I saw a dark spot high on the cheekbone. Makeup covering a bruise! Her awkwardness caused by a beating, not liquor. Memories of how to walk while minimizing pain caused me to straighten my own shoulders. I downed the rest of the screwdriver.

  Suddenly, I knew. Jenny was on the boat that night for Bill. She must have feigned an attraction to Greg to get close. Bill was the one who was supposed to wind up drowned. She’d called it a good way to die and, in the struggle, had been the one to fall overboard.

  Greg finished his beer and put his empty bottle on the bar. He stuffed one hand in his pocket and came up with his keys. “Gotta go,” he said, his eyes focused on Bill and Susie. With a quick glance, I saw her flinch at Bill’s touch. Greg mumbled something and headed out the door.

  I should go too. I turned back to the TV, but a piece of me kept staring at Bill’s reflection. I didn’t feel hate or revenge. Just a calm certainty, filled with daring.

  I had finally made sense of it all. Why Jenny had sent me on this adventure through her life. No marble guardian angel for her. She wanted a real one, watching, waiting, ever ready, just like her.

  I kept my stony eyes fixed on Bill.

  The Cranbury Road farm stand carried lily of the valley. Jenny would love to have those dainty, fragrant flowers planted on her grave. I wouldn’t need the rope, bat, or gun she’d left for me. Only a plan. Lily of the valley had a wondrous side benefit—every part of it was poisonous.

  The Day of the 31st

  Henry Slesar

  Austin Howard’s birthday was a month away, but his wife still hadn’t decided on his gift. He would be thirty-seven. Not exactly a milestone, but Delores wanted the gift to be special.

  “It’s the same old problem,” she told her sister Libby on the phone. “He’s the Man Who Has Everything.”

  Libby frowned. She was anxious to get to work. Colonial Trust was expecting bank examiners, and they were notoriously punctual. What if they arrived and the manager wasn’t there?

  “Get him a gizmo,” she said. “How about a handheld computer? Or a laptop?”

  “A laptop! Libby, you’re a genius! Uh-oh, here’s the man himself.” She hung up as Austin came down the stairs, trying to button his jacket and juggle an attaché case at the same time. Paul Manners, his lawyer and closest friend, was already in the driveway. A car horn beeped twice.

  Despite his haste, Austin stopped and caught his breath at the sight of his wife. She had grown more beautiful in the three years of their marriage.

  “You’re sure about no food?” she said. “Not even a yogurt?”

  “It’s a breakfast meeting,” Austin said.

  “Morning, Mr. Howard.” It was Hattie, their maid, all dressed up in her new seal coat.

  “Where you off to, Hattie?”

  It’s Thursday, Mr. Howard. My sister is coming in from White Plains. We got a lot of chit-chatting to do.”

  Outside, the horn beeped again. “Hattie, do me a favor. Tell Mr. Manners to keep his hands off that horn.”

  Hattie turned to his wife and said: “Mrs. Howard, I put the laundry that didn’t get finished on top of the ironing board. And that food delivery’s ten o’clock.”

  Hattie opened the door and Paul Manners was on the doorstep, an expression of disapproval on his lined but handsome face. “Now I know why Austin’s late every morning. He can’t tear himself away from you.”

  “You got that right,” Austin grinned.

  Five minutes later, heading for the city with his friend at the wheel, Austin said, “How much luck can one guy have, Paul?”

  “Don’t ask me. Not much luck in my comer.”

  Paul and his wife were estranged. He worked six days a week and suffered from indigestion.

  “I get scared sometimes,” Austin said. “Too many good things in my life, the gods get jealous.”

  Back home, Delores was stretched out on the sofa flipping through a magazine when the back doorbell rang. Willy Lauber, the delivery boy, was outside, the morning sun burnishing his blond hair. He was a handsome kid, but there was a vacancy in his sea-blue eyes.

  “Hi, Mrs. Howard.” He hauled in the four boxes of food she had ordered for their dinner party.

  “Hattie said you were going to deliver around ten. It’s not even nine.”

  Willy stared at the kitchen tiles. “I thought I’d come early because of...well, you know.” She looked at him blankly. He said: “You want me to put the milk and stuff away for you?”

  “No, just leave them on the table.”

  Still not meeting her eyes, Willy said: “It was really something, driving over here...knowing I was going to see you.”

  Delores wasn’t sure she heard him right.

  “I kept thinking how it was going to be. When I rang the bell and you saw me. I wondered if you’d act just like always, or you’d be...different.”

  He put his hand on her arm.

  “Willy, don’t do that.”

  “Nobody’s home, right? You said you’d be alone.” His grip tightened, and he pulled her toward him. He was boyishly slim, but his hands were strong.

  “Stop this, Willy,” she said. “Let me go.”

  “We don’t have much time.” Now he was trying to kiss her, and Delores felt the first tremor of panic.

  “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t tease, Mrs. Howard, they’ll expect me back at the store... Where do you want to? You want to go upstairs, to your bedroom?”

  He kissed her fiercely. She struck his face, hard, and Willy looked surprised.

  “Let go of me! I’ll scream—I’ll scream loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood! Someone will call the police!”

  In alarm, Willy clamped a hand over her mouth. “You stop playing games, Mrs. Howard! You stop that now!”

  But the panic had become hysteria. She hit his cheek with her fist. He seized both arms and yanked them behind her back, pushing her against the table. She saw the kitchen knife out of the comer of her eye and snatched it up.

  Willy saw it at the same moment, and tried to wrest it from her. In the struggle, the point of the blade entered her lower back, and she shrieked in terror.

  Willy looked startled. He could think of only one solution. He used the knife again, and then there was a blessed silence.

  The police were still there when Austin arrived home. Paul had dropped him off at the top of the hill; Austin enjoyed the quarter-mile walk to his front door.

  But where was Delores? She always spotted him trudging down the dirt road, stood in the doorway with a mocking smile at his “exercise” routine. But the door was closed, and the windows of the house brightly lit, brighter than usual. And then an even more puzzling fact: Libby was there. She ran out to greet him. She wanted to talk to him before the police did.

  They didn’t let Austin see her body. They didn’t ask him any questions about his whereabouts.

  “You see, we know what happened,” a burly officer said gently. “This kid could have drawn us a picture, the way he left things. Food all over the place. Didn’t go back to the grocery, just took off.”

  “Who? Who?” Austin said hoarsely.

  “Kid named Willy Lauber,” the man said. “Delivery boy. He told a friend of his what he did. Says it wasn’t his fault.”

  Libby, her face streaked with tears, stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth.

  A uniformed cop came in and said something in a low voice to the plainclothes officer. Austin’s hearing had suddenly become acute. He heard every word. They had found Willy Lauber. He was in the police vehicle outside in the driveway.

  Austin said: “I’ve got to get some air.”
r />   He was outside before Libby realized what he was doing. She saw him approach the prowl car, saw him fling open the door and drag out a startled, terrified boy with golden hair.

  It was two months before Austin saw Willy again. The bruise on his neck—the remnant of Austin’s thwarted attempt to strangle him—hadn’t quite faded.

  Willy wore a suit this time. His hair was carefully brushed. Beside him, David Lenrow, his defense attorney, looked scruffy and nervous. Lenrow hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom in years. He was the bottom of the barrel, but who else would want the hopeless task of defending Willy Lauber?

  Claymore, the prosecuting attorney, called only one witness, the police officer who had arrested Willy. His name was Briggs.

  “I arrested him at his house, or rather his uncle’s house. He was sleeping.”

  “Sleeping. In the middle of the day.”

  “I had to shake him awake. There was blood all over his clothes. Then he apologized for what he did.”

  “What do you mean, ‘apologized’?”

  “He said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’”

  “Did you ask him what ‘that’ was?”

  “Yes, sir, he admitted killing Mrs. Howard.”

  David Lenrow had a witness, too.

  “We would like to call William Lauber to the stand.” The buzz was louder than a beehive. It had been assumed that the defendant would not testify.

  “Why?” Austin whispered.

  Paul shrugged. “Probably to show that he’s dimwitted. Get the jury ready for an insanity plea, or incompetence.”

  Willy took the oath. He smiled slightly when he put his hand on the Bible. He seemed to enjoy the spotlight. Paul’s theory was that he saw the trial as a movie or TV show. Now he was playing a starring role, and loving it.

  Lenrow asked his name, his age, his occupation. Willy gave him straightforward answers. Then Lenrow asked: “How well did you know Mrs. Howard, Willy?”