The smoke grew thicker, stinging her eyes and making her throat and nasal passages burn. She renewed her battle with the window, bracing her feet against the floor and pushing with all her might. Still, it wouldn’t budge.
She struggled to calm herself. She had to stay focused on one simple goal — opening the window. First, she picked up the hairdryer and gave the window frame three or four sharp whacks. Jerkily, in stops and starts, the window allowed itself to be raised. But as soon as she took her hand away, it slammed shut, and she had to start over.
She held it open until she figured out the problem. The sash—the pulley of rope that held the window up—was frayed through. Looking around for something to prop it open, she grabbed the hair dryer from its resting place on the sink and jammed it into the gap. As the weight of the window settled on it, a big chunk of the dryer’s plastic case broke off and clattered to the floor.
With a grunt of disgust, she kicked it into the corner. Her eyes were running and sweat was trickling down her face. She leaned out the window to take a deep breath of fresh air. One look reaffirmed her earlier judgment; jumping was out of the question. Directly below—about fifteen feet beneath the bathroom window—a concrete slab was set up for use as a patio in warm weather. White wrought-iron furniture, covered with clear plastic, was stacked against the house.
Her cell phone had just stopped chiming when the Lowrys’ house phone started in. It wasn’t exactly a ring but a muted double rasping sound that reminded her of a hiccup. As it rang, she wondered how long she’d have to wait before Brad got home. She knew from experience that if he was calling, it meant he wouldn’t be leaving the office for a while, perhaps not for hours.
She leaned a little further out and called a tentative, “Help!” To her ears, her voice sounded thin and shrill, verging on hysteria. She waited perhaps a full minute and tried again, this time louder. “Help me! Help!”
The silence persisted, and the knot in her stomach grew. “Help!” she screamed. “Fire!”
She shouted until her throat was raw, her voice frayed and reedy. The only response was the distant cawing of a bird.
The house directly behind the Lowrys’—another grim-looking brick crackerbox—appeared deserted. Trees obscured the houses on either side. She wondered if it was possible for all the neighbors to be out at the same time. She thought about Mr. McGiever and his eagerness to be of help. Where was he?
As she extracted her head from the window, she noticed that the smoke seemed to be growing denser. She took off the towel she was using as a sarong and plugged the crack at the bottom of the door. This seemed to staunch the leak, at least for the moment.
She pulled her dress on, then looked around for something to use in the keyhole. She had no idea how to pick a lock. But if those delinquents who regularly broke into the condo complex could do it, how hard could it be?
There was nothing useful on the countertop or the back of the toilet. She began working her way through the medicine cabinet and the drawers next to the sink.
Here, when she was in no mood to appreciate it, was a treasure trove of information about the Lowrys: four different brands of laxatives, a bottle of diet pills, and several types of over-the-counter uppers—so-called “energy boosters” with mega-doses of caffeine. A jar of petroleum jelly was almost empty, as was a container of thick pink lotion labeled “Itch-No-More.” She also found some peroxide, strawberry-blond hair coloring, and an assortment of nail polish in shades of crimson. An image of Muriel Lowry flashed through her mind: a nervous blonde, given to constipation and a habit of scratching herself with her long scarlet fingernails.
The phone, which had been quiet for a while, started in again. She tried to ignore it, focusing her attention on the cupboard under the sink. At the far back, pushed to one side of the pipes was a shoebox. She lifted it out and took off the lid. It was filled with pill bottles. She stared at them for a moment, puzzled by the fact that none of them bore labels or any sort of identification. Then she put the cover on, shoved them under the sink again, and stood up.
The smoke, temporarily stemmed by the towel at the bottom of the door, was now leaking in at the sides. She went back to the window and leaned out, hoping to spot a trellis or drainpipe that might support her weight. It was a straight drop, without even an awning or overhang to break a fall. As she pulled her head in, something gouged the palm of her hand. She drew her hand away, and there was the answer to her prayers—a jumbo bobby pin.
She separated the prongs and unbent the pin into a straight piece of wire. Then she went to work on the lock. After a half dozen failed attempts, she dropped to her knees and peered into the keyhole. It was completely dark, as if something were blocking the view. She sat back on her heels and, after a moment’s thought, realized it must be the key. He must have left the key in the lock. She could use the bobby pin to dislodge it. Then, when it dropped to the floor, all she had to do was pull it under the door.
She shook out the towel and tried to feed it through the gap at the bottom of the door so it would catch the key when it fell. But the towel, limp and damp, kept bunching up no matter how carefully she guided it. Finally, she gave up.
Knocking the key out of the lock was a little easier. She poked this way and that, and at last, the key gave way and tumbled to the floor. She reached her fingers into the crack under the door—smoke was too thick to risk a look—but there was no key within reach. She repositioned the towel over the crack at the bottom of the door and went back to the window. Since her first cries for help, several birds had appeared in the Lowrys’ tree and seemed to be watching with great interest.
Wearily, she renewed her cries. “Fire!” she croaked. “The house is burning down!”
“Who’s doing all that shouting?” someone called back. “And what’s this about a house burning down?” The voice was female, the accent Irish. At that moment, a woman with bright red hair appeared in the yard below.
Nicole was so happy to see her she almost cried. “The house isn’t on fire.” Her voice was gravelly, unrecognizable from the strain of shouting. “My dinner’s burning, and I’m locked in the bathroom. I’m Nicole Graves. Are you the Lowrys’ tenant?”
“Aye,” the woman said. “McConnehy’s the name—Alice. Hang on up there, Nicole. I’ll switch the oven off and be right along to let you out.” She disappeared into the back of the house.
It seemed a long time before Nicole heard heels clicking up the stairs. “Jesus, what a reek,” the woman called out. “Like the whole house is going up.” When she reached the door, she turned the doorknob, then shook it, rattling the door. “It is locked,” she said, “Now Nicole, tell me how it happened.”
Nicole quickly explained about the intruder, how he’d locked her in the bathroom.
“Are you serious?” Alice said. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“I’m fine,” Nicole said. “I didn’t even get a look at him.” Then she explained about the key and told Alice to look around on the floor for it.
There was a silence, punctuated by the creaking of floorboards. Then the key sounded in the lock, the door swung open, and there she was, a woman with red hair pulled into a careless topknot. She was small, not much taller than Nicole, and rather pretty, with wide-spaced blue eyes.
“That’s a powerful bad thing to happen your first day here, Nicole,” she said. “But you say you didn’t actually see the man?”
Nicole explained the earlier encounter with Reinhardt and her hunch that he was the intruder.
Alice was quiet, considering this. Then she said, “But you don’t know it was him, now do you?”
“I didn’t actually see him in the house,” Nicole said, after pausing to reflect. “But there was something odd about the way he peered in the windows when he thought no one was looking, and he’d been snooping around in back.”
Just then the phone started ringing again. Alice moved aside as Nicole bolted into the bedroom to get it. Only as she reached the desk did she decide that she wasn’t going to answer. Any other husband would have been worried enough by now to leave the office and rush home. If he called again, she’d let it ring. She’d let it ring all night.
Alice appeared in the doorway just as the phone stopped ringing. “I’ll open some windows,” she said. “You’d better check your valuables.”
Nicole looked in her purse. Her credit cards were still there. She went over to the desk and opened the drawer where Brad had put the passports, credit cards, and some £20 notes. It was all there.
“How weird,” Nicole said. “He didn’t take anything.” She looked around at Alice. “Don’t you want to check your room?”
The woman shook her head. “My door was locked, and no one would bother with my things.” She paused and seemed to consider this. “I’m not in the habit of keeping valuables in my room. I like to keep my life as simple as what I can fit in a suitcase.”
“You know, now that I think about it, I didn’t hear him go into the back of the house at all,” Nicole said. “I don’t get it. He wasn’t interested in our passports or credit cards or even the cash we left in here. It’s like he was looking for something else in this room, something he expected to find here.”
“The police should be able to sort it out for you.” Alice shrugged. “We’ll have to give them a ring, you know.”
“First I want to look downstairs,” Nicole said.
In the kitchen, where Alice had already turned off the oven and opened a window, the smoke was thinning. Nicole located some potholders and opened the oven door. Smoke billowed out, and she shut it. The two of them opened the rest of the windows and the door leading to the yard. Then Nicole went back to the oven and, braving the smoke, pulled out the blackened casserole. The heat seeped through the pads as she darted into the yard. She set the casserole down in one of the rear flowerbeds. Using the potholder, she lifted the lid.
The chicken was a crusty black mass and now seemed to be a permanent part of the pot. The little ears of corn had completely disappeared.
She left the casserole sitting in the dirt and went back into the kitchen. Alice was standing at the sink, filling the electric kettle. She turned around and gave Nicole a distracted smile. For the first time, Nicole had a chance to study her. Aside from her pretty eyes, she had a slightly turned-up nose, and lots of freckles. She didn’t appear to be wearing any make-up, but her cheeks and lips were rosy with natural color. Although she wasn’t as slender as current fashion dictated, she was well proportioned and looked fit. She was wearing white nylon slacks, a pink T-shirt and sensible, white lace-up shoes with crepe soles.
The most striking thing about her was her relaxed, friendly manner and sensible, down-to-earth way of expressing herself. Nicole had the feeling that given time, the two of them would become good friends.
“I’m just thinking of what’s happened to you, Nicole. And I don’t want to speak out of turn, but… ”
Nicole nodded, mystified.
Alice studied her a bit longer. Then she said, “It wasn’t your husband who locked you in, was it?”
“Brad?” Nicole gave an incredulous laugh. “He’d never do a thing like that. Besides, I’m certain someone broke in.”
“Broke in,” Alice repeated, almost to herself. “Here,” she handed Nicole a box of tea and pointed at the kettle. “I wonder if you’d mind starting the tea while I take a look round.”
Alice went out the back door to inspect the lock from the outside. Then she walked through the house, and Nicole heard her open and shut the front door. When she reappeared, she said, “It doesn’t look like anyone has tampered with the locks. You know, Freddy keeps this place secured like a fortress. You’re sure you locked up?”
Nicole remembered coming back from the store and finding the back door unlocked but decided not to mention it. “I double-checked the doors before I went upstairs,” she said. “That guy had me spooked.”
“Then someone else has the keys. You’re absolutely certain it wasn’t your husband?”
“I told you,” Nicole said, beginning to lose patience. “He’s at the office.”
“He could have popped back for something he needed.”
“He never does that. I don’t even think he took the key. Once he gets involved at work…”
Alice appeared deep in thought, leaning against the refrigerator and staring into the distance. “You know,” she said. “There are three possibilities: It could have been your husband, but you’re certain it wasn’t. It could have been a burglar, perhaps that chap who came ‘round asking for Freddy. But I’m thinking—maybe it was Freddy himself.”
“Freddy?” Nicole repeated.
Alice nodded. “Frederick H. Lowry.” The way she said this made it clear she didn’t think much of him. “What if he forgot something important and came back for it?”
The conversation was beginning to make Nicole dizzy. “But they’ve left the country,” she said.
“Oh, they told me about their trip to the States,” Alice said.
Nicole stared at her. “But you think he’s still here?”
“No, I suppose not,” Alice said slowly. “It’s only...” Another pause. “You can’t ever tell with Freddy.” Then to Nicole’s puzzled look, she added, “What he’s up to, if you get my meaning.”
Before she could ask Alice to explain, Nicole found herself being ushered to the kitchen phone.
“While the tea is brewing,” Alice was saying, “we might as well put in a call to the police.”
Alice dialed the number. Nicole described the incident to a man at the other end of the line. He promised to send a constable as soon as possible.
By the time they sat down and Alice poured the tea, it was as black as coffee. This seemed to suit her. “Gorgeous,” she said, as she took the first sip. There was also a dish of chocolate-coated wheat-meal biscuits, which Alice had put on the table at the last moment.
Even after Nicole added milk and sugar, the tea was so strong that she could only take small sips. As they sat in companionable silence, drinking tea and munching chocolate biscuits, she studied Alice and was struck, once again, by how much she liked her. There was something profoundly comforting about the woman. Just being in the room with her made Nicole feel calm and safe.
Soon they were rehashing the break-in. When Nicole described Reinhardt, Alice was sure she’d never seen anyone like him visit the Lowrys. “They have very few visitors,” Alice said, “and no social life to speak of.” When she heard about the arsenal of pills Nicole had found, Alice said, “Really?” without a bit of interest.
“You don’t understand,” Nicole said. “There were at least several dozen bottles filled with pills: red ones, blue ones, rainbow assortments—none of them labeled.”
She waited for a response, but there was none.
“I mean,” Nicole continued, “that’s a lot of pills, and if she got them from a pharmacy—you know, a chemist—they’d be labeled, wouldn’t they?” Just thinking about it made her feel anxious. She had a sudden vision of the Lowrys shuttling her new Volvo between the pawnshops in Santa Monica and the seamier part of Venice, swapping components of her home entertainment center for the latest in pharmaceutical highs.
“Now that I think about it,” Alice finally said, “Muriel does have allergy problems. She’s always dosing herself with one thing or another. But I never saw her acting strange, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She was quiet again and seemed to be considering this. Then she added, “On the other hand, I’ve never spent much time with her. Or Freddy. To tell you the truth, I prefer not to know much about them.”
Nicole gave her a puzzled look. There was nothing she didn’t want to know about the people she met, including Alice.
“Let me put it this way,” Alice went on. “Some folk you prefer not to get pally with—especially when you share living quarters.” Her tone was dismissive. “Besides, I’m away a great deal for my work. It isn’t as if I have the opportunity.”
“Mrs. Lowry said you’re a nurse.”
“Home nurse,” Alice said. “Terminal cases. I take over in the last phase. See the family through, lay the body out and all.”
Nicole stared at her, trying to take this in. It was hard to imagine someone as wholesome as Alice laying out a corpse. She swallowed hard and groped for something to say. “I’ll bet that’s a very good field,” she murmured.
Alice nodded in agreement. “That it is. Given a choice, most folks would choose to die at home, close to their own people, the things they love. So I’m doing them a good turn, the way I see it. The money’s grand, and I’m never starved for work.” She yawned and stood up. “Sorry. Finished up a case last night. Didn’t get much sleep. If you’re all right then, Nicole, I’ll just pop back upstairs for a wee lie-down.”
On her way out of the room, Alice stopped and glanced back. “Oh, by the way—I may have a few days before my next case. You said your husband would be tied up with his work. Maybe you’ll let me show you ‘round.”