“What?” Beth and I said in unison.
“He wanted all his things sold and the proceeds to go to his girlfriend, Karen.”
“What's so surprising about that?” Donna asked.
“Well, he had a wife.” Beth said.
“And he never signed the divorce papers,” I said. “He never wanted his marriage to Claudia to end. It doesn't make any sense.”
“But this whole thing is weird,” Beth said. “He started writing a book, then switched to the will, then back to a book again.”
“That is strange,” Donna said. “It's like he lacked concentration or something.”
“Yes.”
I turned my attention back to the ribbon, threading a piece of paper into the machine and hit a few keys. As the letters appeared on the blank page, the ink disappeared from the ribbon.
“What are you doing, Patty?” Donna asked.
Ignoring her, I pulled the cartridge from the typewriter and brought it over to the kitchen sink where the light was brighter.
After gently pulling on the ribbon, I held it up to the sunlight and squinted. Yes, I could read what had been typed, and as the letters became words, and the words became sentences, I ground my jaw. The urge to throw the cartridge across the room overwhelmed me, but instead, I set it down on the counter and turned to my friends.
“Whoever typed that note to us did so on this typewriter,” I said. “I can read the ribbon.”
“What note?” Beth asked. “What am I missing?”
“Last night when we went to bed, we found a threatening note under the pillow,” Donna said.
“It told us to be careful, not get too close, or we could be next,” I said.
Beth's eyes widened. “And you can tell that it was written on that typewriter?”
I nodded and crossed my arms over my chest. “Karen had to be the one to type it. She was here. She had access to the apartment to get our keys. Perhaps Charles didn't write the will, but she did.”
“You said Claudia was in here as well, though,” Beth countered. “And what about his friend, Wayne? This apartment has been accessed by a lot of people.”
“But the letter wasn't there until last night,” I replied. “And why would any of them write a will that says Karen gets all his money? It doesn't make any sense.”
“Maybe multiple people have used the typewriter,” Donna offered. “Who is to say that only one person typed up the will and the letter?”
She had a point.
“Besides,” Donna continued. “That letter could have been under the pillow for days. No one ever sleeps on that side of the bed, Patty.”
Another valid argument. We both always slept on the left side of the mattress.
“Let's go talk to Karen and hear what she has to say,” Beth said. “That letter is scary, but we don't know who wrote it or when they placed it under the pillow.”
Donna had recalled Karen mentioning she had an apartment a few miles away in the Sunset District and we were able to verify the exact address in Charles' address book. We debated whether to tell her we were coming but decided against it. Regardless of whether she was involved in Charles' murder or not, she wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. I certainly wouldn't if I was in her shoes.
After the cab ride, we stood in front of the building. My stomach flip-flopped and suddenly my initial anger at the letter fled. In its place, I had a case of the nervous jitters. Confronting a potential murderer with my friends seemed far more dangerous than meeting one with an FBI agent.
“We shouldn't approach her like this,” I said. “I don't want to accuse her of something she didn't do. If she did kill Charles, she'll feel threatened.”
“I agree,” Donna said.
Beth rolled her eyes. “Would you two stop? We're just going to have a little chat with her, not accuse her of writing the letter or murdering her boyfriend.”
“Don't forget she could have typed up that will and left it for someone to find,” I said, glancing up at the unattractive building that had seen better days. “I hate to say it, but this looks like a horrible place to live.”
“Maybe they just haven't kept up the outside,” Donna said, chewing her nail. “The inside could be really nice.”
Beth and I exchanged glances, and I could see she doubted the statement as well. “Let's go in,” I said with a sigh.
I'd been correct—the owners of the apartments hadn't taken care of any area of the building. Cracked, greenish linoleum greeted us in the lobby. Graffiti covered one of the gray walls.
“This place should be condemned,” Donna whispered. “Can you imagine being a woman living alone here? My word, I'd be terrified!”
The elevator had a ripped and yellowing out of order sign hanging from it, indicating it hadn't worked in quite a long time. Thankfully, Karen lived on the first floor. My ankle wasn't having any issues when I walked, but I didn't want to discover if the stairs would set my healing process back. My armpits still ached from the stupid crutches.
Beth knocked on Karen's door.
“Who is it?” she called from the other side.
“I wouldn't answer my door if I lived here, either,” Donna whispered.
“It's Charles' neighbors,” I called. “Donna and Patty. Remember us?”
The door slowly opened and the petite woman with mousy brown hair and eyes stared at us with uncertainty. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm Beth. It's lovely to meet you Karen,” she said as she pushed past the woman without an invitation.
Donna and I filed in. I gave Karen a weak smile which I hope conveyed I was truly sorry for the intrusion.
“We came to talk to you about Charles,” I said as she closed the door. “I hope that's okay.”
“I... I guess so.”
“Can we sit?” Beth asked.
Karen nodded and Donna wrapped her arm around her shoulders. “I'm really sorry about your loss, hon. Charles was a good fellow.”
“Thanks. Why are you here?”
Sitting on the pea-green sofa, I glanced around the studio
