Angel of Mercy (12 page)

Morris Kaufman was an inch or so shorter than his wife and much thinner, but his face was sallow and his eyes a tired, dull brown.

“With her friends, she’ll never be alone. You see how those busybodies are here night and day, mooching,” he kidded. Faye didn’t laugh.

“Friends,” Tillie said. “All they do is make a mess.

My apartment doesn’t always look this bad, Faye. But with Morris so sick…” Faye understood.

“I’ll ask Susie to stop by and clean up a bit for you.”

“Will you? Thank you. She’s such a delight whenever she comes to see us. Isn’t she, Morris?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Never mind all that. You better start following your dietary restrictions, Mr. Kaufman.”

“You should listen to her, Morris. She knows what she’s talking about.”

“I’m listening. So tell me,” he said, leaning toward her, his breath stale from his last cigar, “you had a visitor today?”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you what he listens to—he listens to the walls,” Tillie Kaufman said. Faye reddened.

“I had no visitors, Mr. Kaufman, and I don’t like being spied on.

Don’t do it again,” she warned.

“See,” Tillie said. “I told you you just heard her television set.”

Morris Kaufman shrugged and smiled conspiratorially. Faye glared at him. Then she wrapped up her blood pressure cuff and stethoscope and marched quickly to the door of the Kaufman apartment. Tillie followed.

Still turning, Faye looked back in Morris Kaufman’s direction. “Take him to the doctor and have him prescribe some stronger medication for the high blood pressure. He could have a stroke any moment.”

“You mean it?” Tillie said, alarmed. Faye paused, deciding whether or not to continue and punish her old neighbors. The fury inside her was like a fist closed so tightly it would never open. It made her stomach ache and sent a ring of fire around her heart. “Yes,” she said firmly.

“Oh God. Morris,” Tillie Kaufman muttered. She turned to go back to her husband.

“What’s the matter?” Susie asked as soon as Faye closed the door behind her in their apartment.

Without answering, she went into the bedroom. She looked at her bed and the stethoscope and then stared at the wall between her apartment and the Kaufmans’.

She hated those thin walls, but he had no right to put his ear against them and listen to her while she…

She brought her hands to her face. Sick as she was, Mommy had heard her moans through the walls, too.

Mommy had gotten out of bed and come to the door, and when she looked in and saw Daddy…

Would she ever forget that ear-shattering scream, the way her body folded to the floor while she clutched at her broken heart?

“What’s wrong?” Susie asked, coming up behind her.

Faye lowered her hands and took a deep breath.

Susie didn’t know; Susie never knew.

“That Morris Kaufman,” Faye replied and nodded toward the wall. Susie understood.

“You had someone here?”

“Yes.”

“And he listened in?”

“Yes. Elderly people can be so insensitive,” Faye said. “Unless they’re dying or suffering.”

Susie nodded, her eyes suddenly growing smaller.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “maybe he’s taking the wrong pills.”

Faye stared back at her. She understood what Susie was saying.

“Tillie would like you to stop by when you get a chance and tidy up their place.”

“Okay.”

Faye looked at herself in the mirror and then Susie stepped up beside her and smiled. Their smiles were so much alike, they seemed to have the same face.

She could hear her sister’s thoughts. It wouldn’t be too difficult for her to substitute a decongestant for his blood pressure pills, an antihistamine that when taken liberally would raise his blood pressure.

Then he wouldn’t be listening to things that weren’t any of his business.

The Palm Court apartment complex was a property on the north end of town, where it could be very windy at times. Consequently, the rents were cheaper and the tenants were lower-income people and retirees who could economize and afford to spend a season in Palm Springs. From the superintendent, a short, stubby bald man with small gray eyes, Frankie learned that the Murrays had been coming to the Palm Court apartments for the last five years. He called them two of his regulars. While he spoke, he worked an unlit cigar in his mouth, savoring the tobacco juice.

“Nice couple, got along with everyone, hated to call me to fix something. Whenever they did, Mrs. Murray would apologize like crazy.

I told them, it’s my job.

Don’t hesitate to call, but they were the sort who never wanted to impose. A lot different from most of my tenants. Some will call in the middle of the night if a door squeaks, know what I mean?” Frankie nodded.

“They make a lot of friends here?”

“Not really. Most of their friends live in other areas in the desert.

I do have another elderly couple in He who were their closest friends in the complex, the Stuarts.”

“Did you notice anyone visiting him the day or night before he was found?”

“I wasn’t here that day. Went up to Hot Springs to visit with my cousin and didn’t learn about Sam Murray’s death until I returned in the afternoon. I didn’t even know the old lady died.”

“Point me toward He,” Frankie asked. He followed the walkway around the building and knocked on the door. The desert winds had started up, kicking sand and dust around. The sky had thin, wispy clouds brushed across the sea of light blue, but the roar of the wind made it seem as though he were about to encounter a hurricane.

Mrs. Stuart, a small blue-haired lady in her early seventies, opened the door cautiously and peered through the opening, the chain lock still in place.

“Yes?”

Frankie showed her his identification.

“I’d like to ask you and your husband about the Murrays,” he said. “I understand you were friendly.”

“Just a minute.” She closed and opened the door to let him in, stepping back just enough to permit his entry, her eyes still full of suspicion.

“My husband went to the supermarket,” she explained.

Frankie thought she had the sort of aged face to which still clung what had once been youthful beauty.

Her eyes, although revealing the sort of paranoia he frequently saw in older people, were still quite blue.

She was an elegant woman, concerned about her appearance, dressing herself in her jewelry and hair combs even though she would only spend the day in her apartment watching television.

He looked around the simple apartment with its thrift-shop furnishings and simple decor. The windows had slim wooden blinds and flower-print curtains, but the ceiling showed evidence of an occasional leak. He took out his notepad and smiled at Mrs. Stuart.

“That’s all right. Maybe you can help. Were you surprised to learn Mr.

Murray had committed suicide?” he asked.

“Me, not so much, but my husband still can’t get over it. It’s made him sick.”

“You knew Mrs. Murray was sick?”

“Sick,” she said disdainfully. “Everyone we know these days is sick.

She was a diabetic, but she didn’t watch her diet. Every year they returned, she looked worse and worse to me. I gave her many a lecture, but older people can’t shake their old habits as quickly as younger people.”

Frankie smiled at her reference to the Murrays as old. What was she, a spring chicken?

“Did you or your husband see Mr. Murray after his wife passed away?”

“Of course. We went right over.”

“How was he taking it?”

“He was very upset. He was concerned that she had died here and he would have to ship her body back East.”

“So he was planning on doing that?” Frankie asked quickly.

“Why shouldn’t he plan it? That’s where they had their plot.”

Frankie nodded.

“And he didn’t say anything to you or your husband about killing himself?”

She sat down on the sofa.

“He said he wished he was dead, too. My husband was worded, so he went back to stay with him, but he didn’t stay long.”

“Why not?”

“He was asleep and the maid said she would stay there, maybe even spend the night.”

“The maid? What maid?”

“He had a maid come… to help with things right afterward. Dorothy was a stickler when it came to keeping her place clean, so Sam got it in his head that he better get a maid. People do funny things when they suffer deep grief,” she said, reaching back into her pool of wisdom.

“Did you or your husband know this maid?”

“No. I think he got her from some agency. Most people here don’t have maids. These aren’t big apartments and it’s an expense they can’t afford. When I can’t clean for myself, we’ll check into a home,” she added dryly.

“Do you remember this maid’s name?”

She thought a moment and then shook her head.

“You think your husband might remember?”

“Maybe.”

Frankie thought a moment.

“Do you know how Mr. Murray killed himself?” he asked. She grimaced.

“I heard he used her insulin.”

“That’s true. He also took some sleeping pills. Dilantin. Could you have given him some sleeping pills?”

“What?”

“I mean, only to help him sleep.”

“No, I didn’t give him any pills. My pills are all prescription pills.

You don’t give someone else your prescription pills. They have to get a prescription from their own doctor. We’re old, but we’re not stupid,” she added bitterly.

“I’m sorry. I had to ask.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said and stared wistfully at her hands. “This will be our last season here. We got to find someplace else. It’s too depressing now.”

“Can I have your phone number? I’d like to call your husband later and see if he remembers the maid’s name.”

She gave it to him and then got up to show him out.

After she opened the door, her eyes brightened as if she just had realized the possibilities.

“The police don’t think Sam killed himself?”

“What do you think, Mrs. Stuart? Why did you say you weren’t as surprised as your husband?” She shrugged.

“You can’t help thinking about yourself and what you would do. Poor Sam. He woke up, looked at his four walls and decided he was too tired to go on.

You’re still a young man,” she said, “but when you’re older and retired and you’re doing the same things day in and day out with the same person and you have only yourselves you get tired, especially when you find you’re alone.”

Her words drilled deeply into his own self-awareness as her eyes filled with tears. How true was the prediction? What was he more afraid of… living with a time bomb in his chest or retirement?

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I hope you find a brighter, more cheerful place to stay next year.”

“If it’s near the Fountain of Youth, I’ll let you know,” she replied.

He laughed. “Please do.”

He left and considered going home for lunch just to reassure Jennie, but he wanted to spend more time on this. He decided to call her and tell her he was having lunch with Charlie Porter, the only other member of the Palm Springs Police Department who came close to him in age.

Charlie was a patrolman who had never developed interest in plainclothes. He did find him at the station and they went to their favorite Mexican spot, a small hole-in-the-wall on South Palm Canyon.

After lunch he called the Stuarts and spoke to Mr. Stuart, who remembered the maid’s name was Susie.

“I don’t remember her telling me her last name.”

“What did she look like?”

“Pretty girl. Not too tall, not fat.”

Frankie smiled. With that description, he would go far.

“Do you remember the color of her hair?”

“I think it was brown, maybe light brown. I don’t think it was black.

Hey, when you get to be my age, you don’t look at girls the same way.”

Frankie laughed.

“Anything else you can remember about her?”

“No, I don’t… oh, wait. Yes, she limped when she walked.”

“Limped?”

“She wore something on her leg… not a bandage… a metal contraption.”

“A brace?”

“Yeah, a brace.”

“Okay, that’s very helpful, Mr. Stuart. Your wife told me when you went back to see Mr. Murray, he was asleep.”

“Yes, and the maid was straightening up in the kitchen. She said she would be there awhile longer and if there were any problems, she would call me. But she never called and… well, you know the rest, I guess.”

“I do. I might come by to see you, Mr. Stuart.”

“I’ll be here most of the time,” he said sadly.

“Thanks.”

Frankie began by looking up every cleaning agency listed, but none of the agencies had any Susie working for them and certainly not a young woman wearing a leg brace. Perplexed, he sat back and wondered how to follow up this lead. A short while later, Rosina returned from her stakeout at the car wash with Derek.

“You’re still here?” she asked with surprise.

“Nolan and I have come to a sort of truce for the moment,” he said.

Then he grew serious.

“Did you know the Murrays had a maid at the apartment the day before Mr.

Murray was found?”

“A maid? No.”

“I’ve been trying to track her down. All I have is a first name, a skeleton description with one big identifying characteristic.”

“Which is?”

“She wore a brace on one leg and limped.”

Rosina smirked.

“A handicapped maid. Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?”

“And you found -all this out by…”

“Questioning a neighbor. It’s called follow-up,” he kidded. “Anyway, I’ve called every agency listed and no one of that description is employed by any of them.”

“Sounds like a lot more follow-up is required.”

“Yeah, well… it will keep me from thinking about my immediate future, I suppose.”

“What does Jennie say about all this?”

“I haven’t exactly…”

“Told her everything. She better not ask me. I tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” Rosina warned. Frankie rolled his eyes.

He gazed at the clock.

“I’d better get home. My son and his wife are driving in from L.A. for dinner. If you come up with any ideas as to how I can locate this limping maid…”