Real Murders

commit themselves to coming right away-now that was amazing! When I was off the phone and Teentsy put a plate with country fried steak, potatoes, and green beans in front of me, I suddenly saw the bright side of being a resident manager. “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” I said weakly, and dug in. Calories and cholesterol did not factor in Teentsy’s cooking, so her food was absolutely delicious with that added spice of guilt.

Teentsy and Jed Crandall seemed delighted to have someone to talk to. They were quite a pair, Teentsy with her bountiful bosom and childish voice and gray curls, and Jed with his hard-as-a-rock seamed face.

While I ate, Teentsy frosted a cake and Mr. Crandall-I couldn’t bring myself to call him Jed-talked about his farm, which he’d sold the year before, and about how convenient it was for them to live in town where all their doctors and kinfolk and grandchildren were. He sounded unconvinced though, and I could tell he was spoiling for something to do.

“That sure was a nice young man we saw you with last night,” Teentsy said archly. “Did you two have a good time?”

I was willing to bet Teentsy knew exactly when Robin had brought me home. “Oh, yes, it was fine,” I said in as noncommittal a voice as I could summon.

I glanced around their den and kitchen area. Mine was lined with books; Mr. Crandall’s was lined with guns. I knew next to nothing about firearms, and was fervently content to keep it that way, but even I could tell these guns were of all different ages and types. I started wondering about their value, and from there it was a natural leap to being concerned about my mother’s insurance coverage of these units; what would her responsibility be in case of theft, for example? Though it would take a foolhardy burglar to attempt to take anything away from Jed Crandall.

Thinking of hazards and security in general led my thoughts in another direction. I looked at the Crandalls’ back door. Sure enough, they’d added two extra locks.

I laid down my fork. “Mr. Jed, I have to talk to you about those extra locks,” I said gently.

Yes, he had read his lease agreement carefully. His tough old face went sheepish in an instant.

“Oh, Jed,” chided Teentsy, “I told you you needed to speak to Roe about those locks.”

“Well, Roe,” her husband said, “you can see this gun collection needs more protection than that one lock on the back door.”

“I can appreciate how you feel, and I even agree,” I said carefully, “but you know that if you do put on extra locks, you must give me a key, and you have to leave the locks in and give me all the keys if you ever decide to move. Of course I hope you never will, but you do have to give me an extra set of keys now.”

While Mr. Crandall grumbled on about a man’s home being his castle, and it going against the grain to give anyone else keys to that castle-even a nice gal like me-Teentsy was on her feet and rummaging through a drawer in the kitchen. She came up with a handful of keys immediately, and began sorting through them with a troubled look on her face.

“Now I’ve been promising myself I’d go through these and throw away the old ones we didn’t need, and since we’re retired I should have all the time in the world, but still I haven’t done it,” she told me. “Well, here are two that I’m sure are the spares for these locks… here, Jed, try them and make sure.”

While her husband tested the keys in the locks, she stirred the others around with a helpless finger. “This looks like the key to that old trunk… I don’t know about this one… you know, Roe, now that I think about it, one of these keys is to that apartment next door that that Mr. Waites rents now. I know you remember Edith Warnstein, she had it before him. She gave us an extra key because she said she was always locking herself out and it was always when you were at work.”

“Well, when you find it, just bring it over sometime,” I said. Mr. Crandall handed me his extra keys, which had proved to be the right ones, and I thanked Teentsy for the delicious lunch, feeling even more guilty that they’d fed me and then I’d “invaded their castle.” It was hell being conscientious, sometimes. I felt much better when my departure coincided with the arrival of the plumber. Judging solely by his appearance-two-day beard stubble, bandanna over long ringlets of black hair, and Day-Glo overalls-I wouldn’t have trusted him with my washer, but he hefted his tool bag in an authoritative way and actually wrote it down when I told him to bill my mother’s company for the repairs, so I left feeling I’d performed a service.

I almost literally ran into Bankston on my way out the Crandalls’ patio gate. He was hefting his golf bag, and looked shining clean, right out of the shower. He’d obviously been out at the country club having a few rounds. He looked surprised to see me. “The Crandalls having plumbing problems?” he asked, nodding towards the plumber’s truck.

“Yes,” I said distractedly, after glancing at my watch. “Your washer and dryer okay?”

“Oh, sure. Listen, how are you doing after your troubles of the past few days?”

Bankston was being nice and polite, but I didn’t have the time or the inclination to chitchat.

“Pretty well, thanks. I was glad to hear that you and Melanie are getting married,” I added, remembering that I did owe something to courtesy. “I didn’t have the chance to say anything the other night when we met at my place. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Roe,” he said, in his deliberate way. “We were lucky to finally really get to know each other.” His clear eyes were glowing, and it was apparent to me that he returned Melanie’s strong feeling. I was a little envious, to tell the truth, and bitchily wondered what two such stolid people could have to “really get to know.” I was also late.

“Congratulations,” I repeated sunnily, and pretty much meant it. “I’ve got to run.” I rabbited away to my place to put the keys to the Crandalls’ apartment on my official key ring, and though I needed to hurry back to the library, I took an extra minute to label them.

I would’ve been late anyway.

I drove north on Parson Road to get back to the library. The Buckleys’ house was along the way, to my left.

By sheer coincidence, out of all the people who could have been driving by when Lizanne came out that front door, it was I. I just glanced to my left to admire the flowers in the Buckleys’ front yard, and the front door opened, and a figure stumbled out. I knew it was Lizanne by the color of her hair and her figure and because her parents owned the house, but nothing about her posture and attitude was like Lizanne. She slumped on the front doorstep, clinging to the black iron railing that ran down the red-brick steps.

God forgive me, half of me wanted to continue on my route to the library and go back to work, in blessed ignorance; but the half that said my friend needed help seemed to control the car. I pulled in and crossed the street and then the lawn, dreading to reach Lizanne and find out why her face was so contorted and why there were stains on her hose, especially at the knees..

She didn’t know I was there. Her long fingers with their beautifully manicured nails were ripping at her skirt, and her breath tore in and out of her lungs with a horrible wheeze. There were tear stains on her face, though no tears were coming now. From her smell she had vomited recently. The slow, sweet, casual beauty had vanished.

I put my arm around her and tried to forget the sour smell, but it made my own stomach begin to lurch uneasily. The Crandalls’ delicious lunch threatened to come right back up. I shut my eyes for a second. When I opened them she was looking at me and her fingers were clenched instead of restless.

“They’re both dead, Roe,” she said clearly and terribly. “My mama and my daddy are both dead. I knelt down to make sure, and I have my own daddy’s blood on my clothes.”

Then she fell silent and stared at her skirt, and knowing I was inadequate, could not rise to this ghastly situation, I let my thoughts trace what they were good at: the pattern, the terrible impersonal pattern that real people were being forced to fit. This time it was Lizanne plus dead stepmother and father plus broad daylight plus bloody demise.

I wondered where the hatchet was.

“I just walked to the back door to eat lunch with them like I do every day,” she said suddenly. “And when the door was locked, and they wouldn’t answer, I unlocked the front here-this is the only key I have. They were-there was blood on the walls.”

“The walls?” I murmured stupidly, having no idea what I was going to say until it came out.

“Yes,” she said seriously, asserting an incredible truth, “the walls. Daddy is on the