The Enemy at Home

“Where is he?” Nora muttered to no one in particular.

Hunched over the washing machine, she fed the wet clothes—one piece at a time—through the wringer. She had the hose hooked up to the laundry sink and could barely hear herself over the noise from the agitator.

She’d been in a stupor, sitting in the kitchen for twenty minutes before deciding she’d better get busy or go crazy. She’d changed from her church clothes into her blue housedress and then finished collecting the dirty laundry, two wicker basketfuls. She’d taken them down to the laundry room and gotten to work.

There had been several interruptions—including more phone calls from people who had seen the newspaper ad about the apartment. Nora had rushed up the basement stairs each time, thinking it might be Chris. On two of those trips, while by the phone, she’d tried calling Mrs. Landauer’s house. No one had picked up. She’d also run upstairs twice, thinking she heard someone coming through the front door. But she’d been wrong both times.

After one of those false alarms, she’d brought her purse down with her to the basement. With Connie’s scarf, the barrette and the handkerchief in there, she wasn’t about to let the purse out of her sight.

Jane had returned home about a half hour ago. The mother of one of her friends had dropped her off, God bless the woman. Nora had asked Jane to handle the callers about the garage apartment and to let her know the minute Chris came home. Jane had given her two more blouses to wash.

Keeping busy helped Nora put things into perspective. She decided she’d gone a little haywire in her thinking earlier. Maybe her poor mom wasn’t the only crazy one in her family. There was probably a perfectly innocent explanation for why Chris had Connie’s bandana. And yes, he had a barrette that had belonged to Arlene—so what? The two of them had been inseparable for months. Nora had no idea who “M” was. But she was sure Chris would tell her when she asked. He would tell her everything—and she’d know whether or not he was lying.

Her thinking was all fouled up because she’d become obsessed over Connie’s murder. She felt guilty for not doing anything to clear Roger’s name. And if another riveter was strangled, that would be on her conscience. Finding Connie’s scarf hidden in Chris’s closet had simply pushed her over the edge. And she’d jumped to all sorts of crazy conclusions.

She would ask Chris why he had the bandana—just as soon as he got home from wherever he was. The rain had let up a while ago, but he couldn’t be cutting wet grass. He’d probably driven Mrs. Landauer somewhere. Chris had chauffeured her around before. For all Nora knew, the poor old lady might have had a medical emergency and Chris drove her to the hospital.

The washer’s agitator finished its cycle, and Nora hung up some damp clothes. With the sudden silence, she heard Jane upstairs talking to someone. Nora thought her daughter must be on the phone. But then she heard another voice.

Tossing a blouse onto the clothesline, she quickly wiped her damp hands on the front of her housedress and hurried upstairs. She followed Jane’s voice to the family room, where she found her daughter, sitting on the sofa with Joe.

Jane had the family photo album open between them. “He sent us this picture after he joined the navy,” she said, pointing to a photograph.

“You must really miss him,” Joe said.

“Oh, and here’s another one of me,” Jane said, pointing again. “Don’t look, it’s horrible!”

“What’s this?” Nora asked, stopping in the doorway.

Joe looked up, noticed Nora and smiled. “Well, hello . . .”

She was certain it was all quite innocent. But she couldn’t help feeling skittish about the fact that, while she’d been downstairs, Joe had come into the house and gotten very chummy with her daughter. On his first day as her new tenant, he’d entered her home without her knowing.

“I’m showing Mr. Strauss some photos of Uncle Ray,” Jane explained. “Don’t you think he looks like Uncle Ray?”

Nora didn’t answer right away. Considering her stupid infatuation with Joe up until now, Nora didn’t want to think he resembled her brother in the least. But she suddenly saw a vague similarity in their features.

“I’m very flattered,” Joe said. His whole body seemed sort of clenched as he sat there on the sofa with Jane. He smiled at Nora again, but he still looked uncomfortable. “A little while ago, I got back with some groceries and supplies, and Jane was nice enough to help me carry them up to the apartment. Then she wanted to show me some pictures of your brother. I hope you don’t think I just let myself in . . .”

“Of course not,” Nora murmured.

“Can Mr. Strauss come to dinner tonight?” Jane asked.

He got to his feet and gave Nora a contrite look. “Again, not my idea,” he said. Then he turned to Jane. “I told you not to put your mom on the spot by asking her in front of me. And you’re supposed to call me Joe, remember?”

“Okay, Joe,” Jane answered with a giggle.

“I still have some things to unpack. Thanks for your help, both of you.” Heading out of the family room, Joe paused in front of Nora. “I left the tools and the jar of nails and screws on your kitchen table. Thanks again, Nora.” He started down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Nora followed him. “I hope Jane didn’t bother you too much,” she whispered.

“Not at all,” he said under his breath. “She’s very sweet.” He stopped in front of the kitchen door.

Nora opened it for him. “Well, if you ever feel she’s invading your privacy, please, let me know.”

“Will do,” he said, nodding. “Take care.”

“You too, Joe,” she said.

Then she watched him take the short walk to the garage apartment door.

She thought it had been tactful of him not to bring up Jane’s invitation to dinner again. Nora hadn’t really invited him or uninvited him. No doubt, Jane had foisted herself upon Joe and insisted he come over to look at photos of Ray. And no doubt, he’d ended up being shown photos mostly of Jane. It certainly hadn’t been Joe’s idea, like he’d said.

But it still bothered her that in the middle of his moving day, he’d willingly gone along with Jane’s proposal.

* * *

“You didn’t tell me how dreamy he is!” Jane sighed, leaning against the laundry sink. She’d followed Nora down to the basement. “And I still think he looks like Uncle Ray. Why can’t Joe come to dinner tonight? He’s all alone, and it’s his first night in a new place. He could probably use a home-cooked meal.”

“I told you, we’ll see,” Nora said, emptying the washer. “I don’t want you going over there, bothering him. It was very nice of you to help him with his groceries. But before you drop in on him again or invite him into the house, I want you to check with me first. How’s the homework situation?”

The telephone rang upstairs.

“Saved by the bell!” Jane declared, and she ran for the stairs.

“If that’s Chris, I need to talk to him!” Nora called.

After about ten minutes, Nora realized Jane probably wasn’t coming back downstairs—most likely to avoid any further questions about her homework. Nora started washing another load, and with the rushing water, the hum of the automatic wringer and the churning agitator, she couldn’t hear a thing.

Standing over the washing machine, she kept glancing at her purse, on the ironing board where she’d left it. If her hands weren’t wet, she’d probably take out Connie’s bandana, Arlene’s barrette and M’s handkerchief, just to study them again. She’d acted the same way back when she’d had that melanoma scare. She couldn’t stop looking at that mole, and each time she’d tell herself a different story: it wasn’t that bad; no, it was inoperable—certain death. With each look, she bargained with God or told herself this couldn’t be happening or wondered who would end up taking care of her kids.

Looking up from her work, Nora was startled to see Chris coming down the basement stairs. He’d already reached the bottom few steps. It looked like he was trying to say something to her.

Nora turned off the agitator. “I couldn’t hear you over all this noise,” she called out over the dying mechanical din.

“Jane said you wanted to talk to me,” he said, coming into the laundry nook. The ironing board was between them. “What’s going on? Is everything okay? It’s not Dad, is it?”

Nora shook her head. She told herself not to get all accusatory. She took a deep breath. “Where were you?” she asked calmly.

“I told you this morning, I was going over to Mrs. Landauer’s to cut the lawn.”

“In that monsoon earlier?” she asked.

He didn’t quite look her in the eye. “No, you’re right. I never got around to it. She just had me running errands.”

“Well, I called over there twice, and no one answered.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know, one of the errands was driving her to Rhodes so she could go shopping. We were in that stupid department store for at least three hours. She’d walk maybe twenty feet and then have to sit down for ten minutes. It was heinous. We must have gone through the entire store, every floor, and all she got was birdseed for her parakeet. But at least I got paid—ten bucks.” He paused and then leaned against one of the support posts. “Is the guy renting the apartment all moved in?”

“Yes, you might meet him at dinner,” Nora answered. “But I’m still not sure yet if I’m going to invite him over.” She took another deep breath. “Listen, Chris, I stripped your bed and went through your closet for dirty clothes.” She pointed to his plaid shirt, drying on the clothesline. “I was taking that off the hanger and found something . . .”

He stared at the shirt and then gave her a wary look. “What are you talking about?”

She stepped closer to the ironing board and opened her purse. She took out Connie’s scarf. “I can’t help wondering where you got this—and why it was in your closet.”

He let out a nervous laugh and quickly shook his head. “I don’t know what that is . . .”

“Well, I do,” Nora said. “It’s Connie’s scarf. She used to wear it to work. How did it end up in your closet?”

He took a step back and shrugged. “I’ve never seen that before.”

Frustrated, Nora reached inside the purse and took out the barrette and the handkerchief. She set them down on the ironing board. “I found these in your desk.”

“You went through my desk?” he asked indignantly. “Y’know, there aren’t any dirty clothes in my desk, Mom. Don’t I get any privacy?”

“Not when I find my murdered friend’s scarf hidden in your closet!” she shot back. Nora remembered Jane upstairs, and she lowered her voice. “What are these?” she asked, nodding at the rosebud barrette and M’s handkerchief.

Chris heaved a sigh. “I forgot I even had those,” he said, frowning at her. “You must have really dug through every drawer.”

“What are they?” she pressed.

He gazed at the items on the ironing board. “The hair clip belonged to Arlene. She took it off one night in my room and forgot it, so I stuck it in my desk. I think that was one of the last times we got together. Otherwise, I’d have given it back to her. And the handkerchief is Nana’s. Back when she died, I asked Dad if I could have something of hers, and he gave me that handkerchief.”

Nora felt like an idiot that she hadn’t picked up on the fact that the handkerchief had been her mother-in-law’s. And what Chris said about Arlene’s barrette made perfect sense. He seemed to be telling the truth, too.

But there was still Connie’s scarf.

Nora picked it up and showed it to him again. “What about this, Chris? It didn’t just magically transplant itself onto the hanger under your plaid shirt. What are you doing with Connie’s scarf?”

His face turned red. “She dropped it.”

Studying him, Nora shook her head. “Connie wasn’t wearing it the night she and Roger were here, and I don’t think she brought it with her—”

“No, she dropped it outside her apartment—in Queen Anne,” he murmured. “It fell out of her coat pocket.”

“When?”

“The Tuesday afternoon after the party,” he answered, still unable to look at her. “I skipped study hall and went to her place.”

“You skipped school again?” Nora asked, raising her voice.

“Mom, it was study hall. Everybody skips study hall.”

“Well, what in the world were you doing at Connie’s place?”

“I just wanted to see her come back from work, that’s all.” He shrugged. “I wanted to see where she lived. I wasn’t going to bother her or anything. I liked her. She was nice to me at the party.”

“How did you know where she lived?”

“She’s listed in your address book.”

“Did you talk to her?” Nora pressed.

Chris shook his head. He had that sad, lost-lamb look on his face. “No, I chickened out. I watched her from across the street. Once she went inside, I picked up the scarf and—well, I was going to knock on her door and give it to her. But I was worried she’d think I was some kind of weirdo creep, so I . . . I kept it.”

Nora stared at him. He seemed to be telling the truth.

She remembered how hard he’d seemed to take the news when she’d woken him up and told him that Connie and Roger were dead. Chris had been infatuated with two girls, only to have each one come to a gruesome end: first Arlene and then Connie.

The poor kid, Nora thought.

But it still didn’t feel right. “So you’re telling me that you had a crush on Connie,” she said. “And you were following her around . . .”

Chris slouched against the post again. His eyes avoided hers, but he nodded.

“Were you following her around the night she was killed?” He restlessly shifted from one foot to the other. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible.

“So when I ran into you in the hallway late that night, and you said you’d heard a noise outside, you were lying to me, weren’t you?”

He nodded again.

“The truth is, you waited until I’d gone to bed, and then you drove to Queen Anne . . .”

He shook his head. “I walked. I brought the scarf with me. I was going to give it back to her.”

“When was this?” Nora asked.

“I left around nine fifteen,” he mumbled. “I didn’t get to her place until ten—”

“Chris, you’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.”

He looked skyward and nervously cleared his throat. “I got to her place around ten,” he said, more clearly this time. “It didn’t look like she was home. Then I remembered her and Roger at the party saying that sometimes they liked to go to the Mecca Café in their neighborhood. So I walked there, peeked into the window and saw them. I stuck around until they came out. But I was pretty sure they spotted me, so I stopped following them after that.”

“What time was it when you last saw them?”

“Almost eleven.”

“Chris, I caught you sneaking back in at about a quarter to one in the morning. That’s almost two hours later.”

“Yeah, I know, I went to a park near there and just sat for a while. Then I walked home.”

She studied his face, uncertain about his story. “Honey, you must have been one of the last people to see Connie alive—Connie and Roger.”

He nodded glumly. “I guess so.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“Because I figured you’d be sore at me for sneaking out again and then lying to you about it.” He shrugged helplessly. “And it’s not like I really saw anything. I’d remember if there was something weird or suspicious. I couldn’t have told the police anything that would have helped their investigation.”

Exasperated, Nora shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Chris, this—this slinking out until one in the morning on a school night—like it’s nothing. How do you manage to stay awake for your classes? No wonder your grades are slipping.”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just that I can’t sleep at night sometimes, so I go out.”

“You realize how this looks, don’t you?” She picked up the black and pink polka dot bandana. “You have Connie’s scarf. You were sneaking around, following her, watching her apartment. You said you thought Connie and Roger saw you the night Connie was murdered. What if someone else saw you that night? How do you think it looked?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, a sudden, anxious look on his face.

“Chris, I have to be honest with you,” she whispered. “I’m scared. This behavior of yours, I feel like I don’t know you anymore. When I found Connie’s scarf hidden in your closet, I couldn’t help thinking the absolute worst.”

He stared at her as if he didn’t understand.

“Chris, it looked like you were hiding evidence.”

“You mean, you thought I’d killed Connie?” He let out a stunned, wounded laugh. “Is that what you think of me? Are you serious, Mom? Do you actually believe I could strangle and stab someone?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” Nora said. “You’re so secretive lately. And if I dare ask you about anything, half the time when you answer me, I can tell you’re lying.”

He picked up the rosebud barrette. “What about this? Do you think I killed Arlene, too? Is that why you’re asking me about it?”

Nora said nothing.

Chris set down the hair clip, swiped up the handkerchief and shook it at her in his fist. He laughed again. “What? Do you think I killed Nana, too?”

“I didn’t recognize her handkerchief,” Nora admitted quietly.

“But you actually thought I might’ve murdered Arlene—and your friend, Connie.”

“I told you, Chris, I didn’t know what to believe.”

“You’re my mom,” he said. “You’re supposed to believe in me. Am I really such a freak that even my own mother thinks I could be a murderer?”

“Chris, give me a break,” she said. “I’m tired. My brother died last week. I hate to use that as a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, but I’m still kind of a wreck about it. And I’m not over what happened to Connie. It gnaws away at me that the police blame Roger for that—”

“So instead, you blame me,” he grumbled.

“I’m not blaming you. It just looked bad when I found Connie’s scarf—and I got scared. I thought the unthinkable might have happened.”

He just stared at her with a hurt expression on his face.

“Chris, don’t turn this around and get all upset with me when you’ve been so secretive and so dishonest lately. I love you. I don’t think you’re a freak. But you leave me in the dark, and I’m always second-guessing what’s happening with you. I worry about you, honey. And yes, sometimes I think the worst.”

He grabbed the scarf, the barrette and the handkerchief off the ironing board. “Well, I don’t want anyone else thinking the worst,” he muttered. He started to walk away.

Before Nora realized what he had in mind, he’d already marched to the big furnace and opened the trap door. “Chris, wait! No!”

Chris seemed to burn his hand on the trap door handle, but that didn’t stop him. In one pitch, he threw everything into the furnace fire: Connie’s scarf, Arlene’s barrette and his grandmother’s handkerchief. He slammed the furnace trap door shut and then shook out the pain to his hand.

“My God, Chris, what have you just done?”

Her motherly instincts kicked in, and she reached for his wrist to check his hand.

But he pulled away. “I’m fine. It was just a little hot. Now, maybe nobody else will think I’m a murderer.”

“I can’t believe you just did that!” she whispered. “Grandma’s handkerchief . . . Connie’s scarf . . .”

He just stared down at the floor.

“You know, Connie would’ve been flattered if she knew you had a crush on her,” Nora pointed out. “She’d have wanted you to hold on to her favorite bandana. God, how could you just . . .” She trailed off and shook her head at him. All she could think was that he’d just destroyed evidence. Or did he know that?

“If you didn’t want the scarf, fine,” Nora went on. “But did it even occur to you that I might have wanted to hold on to it? She was my friend. For God’s sake, Chris, you do something like that—it’s just what I was talking about. What am I supposed to think?”

He frowned. “I already know what you think of me, Mom.”

She nodded emphatically. “Yes, and this isn’t helping your case one bit.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I wish your father were here—or your uncle. Maybe they could talk to you, because I give up.”

“So does that mean you’re finished asking me questions?” Chris said tonelessly. “Because I’m tired. I’d like to go up to my room and take a nap.”

Nora sighed. She took a moment before answering. “I stripped your bed. If you give me a few minutes, I can make it up for you again.”

“It’s okay, thanks,” he mumbled, turning away. “I can make it myself. I know where the sheets are.”

Nora watched him trudge up the stairs. “Put some ointment on that hand!” she called.

He didn’t answer.

She felt horrible—because she’d hurt him. But worse, because she wasn’t sure she completely believed him. He might not be a murderer, but he was still hiding something.

Nora glanced over at the big, octopus-like furnace. She really wished Chris hadn’t—in a fit of anger—burned those things.

Then again, maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.