went upstairs to get her mother’s check, then went down to pay the rent. And Pardon’s traveling body was back on the couch, but arranged naturally enough that Deedra thought he was asleep.”
“When did all the others pay their rent?” I asked over my shoulder as I scrubbed my hands at the sink. I thought this show-and-tell time was very strange, but I was enjoying it.
“I’d slipped my check under his door on my way to the station that morning,” Friedrich said. “Norvel’s rent was paid by the church. The secretary mailed Pardon a check, the Reverend McCorkindale told me. Marcus Jefferson says he’d also slid his rent check under Pardon’s door on his way out to work that morning, and Pardon must already have made a trip to the bank right when it opened, because Marcus’s check, mine, and Mrs. Hofstettler’s were credited to Pardon’s account when I called the bank.”
“What about the one the church mailed?”
“Didn’t get to Pardon’s mailbox until the day after he died.”
It would have been typical Pardon behavior to go by the church or up to Norvel’s to ask about the rent, I thought, and raised my eyes to Friedrich’s.
“But Norvel says Pardon didn’t come to his apartment,” the big man said, and I bent back to my work before I realized how strange the little exchange was.
“He’s lying, though,” I said.
“How do you figure?”
“Because Pardon did the vacuuming Monday himself. Remember the way the cord was wrapped? So he must have gone up to find out why Norvel hadn’t done it. He’s supposed to go in late to the church on Monday, after he’s cleaned the apartment building’s halls. The church gets a discount on his rent.”
For the first time since I’d known him, Claude Friedrich looked surprised.
“How do you know all this, Lily?”
“If it’s about cleaning, I know it. I think Pardon told me all that when he explained why Norvel was going to be cleaning the building instead of me.” Pardon had just wanted to talk, as usual. It was fine with me not to have the poor-paying and tedious job of working under a constantly supervising Pardon.
Claude (as I now thought of him) looked at me a moment longer before resuming his running narrative of the day of the landlord’s death. “So that morning Pardon stopped by Mrs. Hofstettler’s to get her check, then went to the bank with three of the rent checks.”
I put together a marinade and popped the strips of chicken breast in the bowl. I had a hankering for stir-fry tonight. I began to brown stew meat in a skillet while I chopped potatoes, carrots, and onions to go in the stew pot. I stirred the sauce for the tortilla casserole. I had some leftover taco meat to dump into the sauce, and a tomato, and after that I shredded three flour tortillas. I handed Claude the grater and the cheese. Obediently, he began to grate.
“How much?” he asked.
“Cup,” I said, putting one on the table by him. “You were saying?”
“And he talked on the telephone several times,” Claude continued. “He called the plant where Marcus works; we don’t know who he talked to, there. Of course, that might be completely unrelated to Marcus. At least two hundred other people work there. About eleven, he called someone in rural Creek County, a pal he went to school with at UA, but the guy is on a business trip to Oklahoma City and we haven’t been able to track him down yet.”
I dumped all the stew ingredients into the slow cooker and got out my wok. While it was heating, I layered the tortilla casserole, including the grated cheese, and popped it in the freezer. Claude’s voice provided a pleasant background sound, like listening to a familiar book on tape.
The stir-fry would provide two meals, I figured, the stew at least three; one night, I would have a baked potato and vegetables; the remaining meal could be the tortilla casserole and a salad.
After I put the rice in the microwave, I began stir-frying the chicken and vegetables. I was hardly aware that Claude had stopped talking. I stirred quickly, conscious only of the quiet content that came when I was doing something I could do well. The rice and the meat and vegetables were done at almost the same time, and I faced a little dilemma.
After a moment’s hesitation, since sharing this meal represented yet another disruption in my formerly pristine schedule, I got two plates out of the cabinet and heaped them with food, then put a fork, a napkin, and a glass of tea in front of the policeman. I set a plate in front of him, then put my own glass and fork on the table and retrieved my plate. I put the soy sauce within reach, added the salt and pepper, and sat down. I gave Claude a curt nod to indicate everything was ready, and he picked up his fork and began to eat.
I kept my eyes on my plate. When I looked up, Claude had finished his food and was patting his mouth with his napkin, carefully making sure his mustache was clean.
“Real good,” he said.
I shrugged, then realized that was not a gracious response to a compliment. I forced my eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” I said stiffly. Never had I felt my long abstinence from society more keenly. “Would you like some more?” I made myself add.
“No thank you, that was a gracious plenty,” he responded correctly. “You finished?”
I nodded, puzzled. I found out why he’d asked in the next minute, when he reached across, took my plate and fork, and went to the sink. He turned on the faucets, located my dishwashing liquid, and began to wash all the dishes stacked on the counter.
I sat at the table with my mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then snapped out of my daze to get up and put away the leftovers in appropriate containers. Hesitantly, I set the now-empty wok by the sink for Friedrich to wash. I wiped the table and counters with a clean rag while he finished, and I swept the floor. Then, not knowing what else to do, I dried the dishes he’d put in the drainer and stowed them away.
The instant we were done with the homely procedure, before I could tense up again wondering what was to follow, Claude stuck out his huge hand, shook mine, and said, “I appreciate the good cooking. I get mightily tired of my own,” and went to my front door.
I followed him as I ought to, but I wrapped my arms across my chest protectively. “Good-bye,” I said, feeling I should say something more, but I couldn’t think what. He gave me a totally unexpected smile, and I realized I’d never seen him like that, his wrinkles deepening as his lips curved up, his gray eyes suddenly slanting as the smile reached them.
“Good night, Lily,” he rumbled, and then went down my driveway to the sidewalk. He turned toward the apartments. He didn’t look back.
I shut the door, locked it mechanically, and went back to make sure the kitchen was spotless before going to bed. I was smiling, I saw in the bathroom mirror. I caught myself actually wondering what Claude Friedrich would be like in bed, and I shook my head at my reflection in the mirror. “You are going to the dogs, Lily,” I said to the mirror. My face in the mirror looked rather pleased at the prospect.
Chapter Ten
The telephone rang while I was putting on my makeup. I blew out a breath of exasperation. I’d hoped with the new workweek beginning, my life would get back to normal.
“Yes?” I said curtly.
“Lily Bard?” asked a faintly familiar voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Alvah York. T. L. and I just happened to remember yesterday that we owed you money.”
“I can stop by this morning at ten-thirty.” I’d be through with my first client by then.
“We’ll be here.”
As I checked my supplies and loaded my car, I wondered if I should ask the Yorks how their granddaughter was doing, or just ignore the subject. I’d feel more comfortable myself just ignoring it, I decided. It was time to get back to my old familiar distance.
As I was giving the Althaus home its weekly two hours (it could have used five, but the two was all the Althaus budget would stand), I thought long and hard about the people in the apartment building. One of those tenants had
