“I’m Doris Wilson, dear. Nice to meet you.” She smiled happily as she took my hand. Her gnarled fingers gripped more strongly than I expected.
“Was Martha a good neighbor?” I asked, then kicked myself for using the past tense. I peered at Mrs. Wilson. Maybe she wouldn’t catch it.
“Was? Oh dear. Are you telling me she’s moving? When Ken left, I thought she might move to get away from the memories, you know? Then she didn’t and I thought she was going to stay.” Mrs. Wilson sighed. “The nice ones always leave. Sergeant Major Wilson was in the army for many, many years and the nice ones always got reassigned just when we got to know and enjoy them. Or we got reassigned. Are you a real estate lady come to check over the place?”
“No, no, not at all,” I hastened to assure her. “I was just asking a question.”
Mrs. Wilson absently twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “She’s a very nice person. Smokes like a lot of foolish young people, but she’s nice. She never hesitates to come over if I need help with something like climbing on the step stool to get a special dish off a high shelf. Oh my.” She looked distressed. “If Martha moves, I would be very sad.”
A faint ringing sounded and Mrs. Wilson went on point like a bird dog taking the scent. Her nose actually quivered. “That’s my phone.” She turned eagerly toward her unit. “Nice to meet you, uh—” She gave up trying to recall my name. “I’m sorry Martha’s not home.”
As soon as her white door closed behind her, I elbowed Martha’s door all the way open. In spite of Mrs. Wilson’s assurances that “they” went out the back door, I called, “Hello? Hello? I’m coming in.”
And I did, pushing the door not quite shut behind me so I could make a quick exit if I needed to. I paused in the hall, listening. The house had that empty feel to it and I decided it was quite safe to look around a bit.
I could just imagine Curt’s reaction if he’d been here. “Merry, what are you doing? This isn’t your house. You can’t just walk in.”
Then there was Mac’s way of seeing things. I knew he’d say, “Good initiative, Kramer. I’m proud of you. What’d you find?”
As to William, I didn’t think he’d see my walk-through as breaking and entering. I wouldn’t touch anything and I certainly wouldn’t take anything.
All in all, I felt good to go.
Martha’s living room looked like it came from an IKEA catalogue, all blond wood and bright cushions. Several inexpensive but attractive framed posters of colorful gardens hung on two of the walls; a flat-screen TV hung on a third over a long entertainment center. Two tall windows looked out on the small front lawn and the parking lot, filling the fourth wall.
Cat stuff was everywhere—pillows sporting cats lined the sofa, two stuffed cats sat in one of the chairs, ceramic cats sat on end tables amid framed photos, a calico fabric cat lay beside the magazine basket. And when I glanced at the gardens on the wall again, I saw they all had cats sitting among the blooms.
I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Wilson if Martha had a live cat or two who needed care now that their owner was dead.
The only jarring note in the room was the disarrangement of the cats and the framed photos that sat in groups on the end tables and the top of the entertainment cabinet. Martha smiled out of several pictures, standing arm in arm with people I didn’t know. In three of the many pictures the same young man stood with Martha, his arms wrapped around her. Ken? If so, he didn’t look dirty or smelly to me. In fact, he looked pretty good to me. An adorable little girl with blond ringlets grinned from a frame that had been knocked over. A niece? A friend’s child? A couple who must be her father and stepmother sat in a rather rigid studio portrait. Beside them a ceramic cat that was washing an extended back leg lay toppled on its side.
On the floor, beside a stone cat sitting with his tail curled about his paws, lay a picture, facedown. Much as I was dying to see the photo since you never know what might be a clue, I didn’t touch it. I hoped William would appreciate my discipline.
In the neat, white kitchen a copy of today’s Philadelphia Inquirer lay on the table, opened to the puzzle page. Someone had begun working the Sudoku with a mechanical pencil that had a very worn eraser. The only other item not tucked away in a cupboard was a small glass with orange juice residue in the bottom. The back sliding glass door stood open, the screen pushed to the side.
Can you say escape route? I was willing to bet this was the swishing sound I’d heard when I first arrived. I gave a little shudder. I had scared someone off, someone I was very glad I hadn’t met, given today’s circumstances.
I peeked in the single bedroom where a faux brass bed stood, neatly made and covered with an Amish quilt in shades of blue and yellow. Blue and yellow curtains hung at the windows and once again everything was neat as could be—except for the night table whose drawer was wide open. An alarm clock and a book lay on the floor beside the toppled bedside lamp.
I looked in the bathroom last and there the mess left no doubt that someone had taken things or at the very least been looking for something specific. The medicine chest had been emptied into the sink, its door left gaping. Bottles, toiletries and a box of bandages lay in a heap; the toothbrush holder lay on the floor.
I wondered which one of Mrs. Wilson’s they had made the mess.
I went back to the kitchen and stared at the open sliding door. Hot, humid air poured in, melding with the crisp air-conditioning. The view out the door was the backs of another five-condo unit, separated from Martha’s by a row of conifers that had grown both tall and thick. I wondered if people were at home in those units and if one of them had looked out at the right time to see who had run from Martha’s place.
I stepped outside and felt my ankle turn again. At this rate I’d be walking down the aisle with a cane.
I looked down at the concrete slab that passed for a patio and saw I’d stepped on the edge of a book. I bent and picked it up without thinking. I grimaced, but the damage was done. My fingerprints were stamped on the red leather cover with or over someone else’s, someone besides Martha.
I grabbed my shirttail and held the book in it. Using the material to protect the pages, I riffled through it quickly. It was a diary or a journal, the kind with all blank, lined pages. Its pages were more than half filled with a pretty, straight up and down penmanship. By the dates marking each new entry, I could see Martha wrote in it frequently rather than daily. When I glimpsed the name MAC, I knew it was time to call William and grabbed my cell.
I’d just pressed the 9 of 911 when the glass door on the powder-blue unit slid open, and Mrs. Wilson stepped out.
Without a thought, I dropped the journal into my purse. No way did I want her to see it and ask questions about it, maybe even demand I leave it here. It was something for William’s eyes only.
I needn’t have worried. She didn’t see me. Her eyes were red, and she kept sniffing and wiping her nose with a crumpled wad of tissues. She stood staring at the conifers for a few minutes. Then she took a long, shuddering breath.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked.
She jumped and turned, her eyes wide and fearful. Her hand came up to cover her heart when she saw it was only me.
“You scared me out of ten years,” she gasped. She patted her chest rapidly. Then as fear fled, I could see suspicion replace it.
“What are you doing here? Why are you in Martha’s house?” She began to move slowly backward toward her door. “I never saw you here before.”
“Sure you did.” Maybe she wasn’t as sharp as I’d thought. “We talked out front.”
She shot me a scathing look. “I know that. Before today. And you shouldn’t be here. No one should be here. Martha’s dead.” It was a wail. Clearly she’d cared for Martha. “I called the