When I sent flowers to Marta Kowalski’s funeral, I considered it the last contact I’d ever have with her. It was my way of paying my respects to the woman who’d cleaned my small apartment twice a month. I’d even skipped the funeral. After all, we’d never been friends. Friendly, yes, because she knew people I knew in the small town. And she also dusted my furniture with a loving hand. A chatty woman, a little too perky for my tastes, she was small and round, with too much powder, too much drugstore perfume, and too many jangling bracelets. Worse—a smug church-going gossip who reveled in the vices of folks I’d never met. When she straightened my messy apartment, I made sure I was out. When she ran a cloth over the leather-bound books on my shelves, her eyes shone, happy. I liked her, I guess. After all, I did send flowers. That says something, doesn’t it?
So I was surprised one night when her niece Karen phoned as I was getting ready for bed.
“Rick Van Lam?”
A good beginning. Not Rick Lam or even Mr. Lam. Not even the way some souls mispronounced it—as lamb. My full name—the way I like it.
“I know we’ve never really talked but we have met. I don’t know if you remember me.” She stopped, drew in her breath, waiting. “Do you remember me? I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I’m Karen Corcoran.”
I did remember her because, well, I remember people. That’s what I do. Pretty, almost waiflike, blond and slender, with razor-thin lips, she was probably in her mid-thirties. I remember that she was wearing a peasant-style dress, too baggy, unflattering, the kind of dress women wear to avoid being looked at.
We’d been at the same party, but some time ago. Somebody’s birthday. An instructor at the college. We’d talked for a minute—she was a little flirty, I thought—and before she drifted away, she’d said we should get together for coffee. I never answered her. Later on, at one in the morning, lonely and a little desperate, I thought I’d approach her. But something kept me away. She stood in a corner, arms folded over her chest, head tilted. Her eyes darted about, unsettled and edgy. Those dusty blue eyes looked pale as old faded paper flowers. She wore her hair long, straight, uncomplicated, and, as I watched her, she pulled at a strand, nervous.
I’d seen her around town, of course. Sometimes when I saw her at a convenience store at night, picking up milk or pumping gas, or when I spotted her driving down Main Street, she wore her hair in a casual ponytail, almost sloppy, with strands flying loose. Even careless—especially careless—she was pretty. Crossing paths, we usually said “hi” or nodded at each other—but that was it. I was always planning future conversations with her, but I held back, afraid I’d be disappointed.
“I remember you.” I was smiling, waiting, happy to hear her voice. “Of course.”
“It’s business.” Matter-of-fact, blunt.
I kept smiling. I felt a flush of pink rush to my cheeks.
“Business?”
“I want to hire you.”
That surprised me. So late at night for such a call. “You need an investigator?”
“To investigate my Aunt Marta’s murder. Marta Kowalski.” A melodramatic pause, calculated. “Murder,” she whispered.
The rawness of her voice alarmed, chilled. I glanced at the clock on my desk. Midnight. Maybe she’d waited all night to get the courage to call. But midnight?
I could hear her suck in her breath, a small cry escaping from the back of her throat.
When I still didn’t answer, her voice gained urgency. “I want to hire you to find her murderer.”
Marta Kowalski, the woman who cleaned my carpets.
“You don’t think it was a suicide?”
A thin laugh, almost mocking. “No, I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Can we have lunch tomorrow?”